Teacher of Music, Part Twelve
By Allison E.L. Cleckler

"Mystery after gala night!"
The Phantom of the Opera, Act One Scene Eight

Buquet's death was ruled a suicide. The performance was temporarily halted--again--to cut the body down and call in the gendarmes. Once they arrived, the go-ahead was given for the performance to resume while the detectives investigated backstage as discreetly as they were able. While Christine and her colleagues put on their game faces and Carlotta gave in to histrionics in her dressing room, the body and the noose were examined, key eyewitnesses interviewed when available, and the catwalk from which Buquet had dropped was looked over. The performance closed to heartier applause than it deserved, and the audience was quick to exit. Those who had yet to be interviewed took their turn and then also beat a hasty retreat as if Buquet's spectacular death had lent a cursed air to the Opera House.

The reviews in the next mornings' papers largely focused on the tragedy, painting in lurid detail the event for those who had not been present. Some critics took the time to puzzle over the frog that had mysteriously taken over Carlotta's beloved golden throat. As for the remainder of the performers, it was generally agreed that the singing had been lackluster and the energy listless.

In all the furor and excitement, the whispering voice in boxes Five and Nine were forgotten.

My dear managers:
Please accept my sincere condolences for the tragedy that interrupted last night's performance. Of course, I am not speaking of Carlotta's quite humorous fit of croaking. Your cast is to be commended for the effort they put forth in the wake of Joseph Buquet's ill-timed suicide.
In light of this event, I am willing to accept an extension on the payment of my salary. However, I expect to be paid in full at the conclusion of next week. Your dallying and ineffectual attempts at trickery sorely inconvenience me, and it does not do at all to anger your resident Ghost.
I remain sincerely yours, gentlemen,
O.G.

"Now what?" Firmin growled.

André simply raised an eyebrow at him. He was just finishing up his morning read of the newspapers and had not been paying attention to what the other man was doing.

In response, Firmin brandished the now-familiar black-edged letter at him, and André mentally winced. "This is becoming tiresome. Quite tiresome. I am at my wits' end. Have you any more brilliant ideas, André? I refuse to be swindled!"

André's mind had actually been occupied by other matters, namely the previous night's performance, but he decided it would be better if he didn't let Firmin know that. "I do," he said slowly. "But I highly doubt you would be amenable to it."

Firmin eyeballed him.

Sighing, André folded his last paper and set it atop the stack on the corner of his desk. This wasn't going to be pretty. "I propose we simply pay the money."

Firmin's face abruptly turned a mottled shade of dark red. "What?"

André held up his hands in supplication. "Please, hear me out. Suppose this villain playing Ghost only wants the mere twenty thousand francs?"

"The mere--" He gestured sharply with his hands again, and Firmin subsided. "Perhaps if we grant his wishes and pay him this once, he'll have what he desires and will no longer trouble us. I know you will agree there is a slim chance of that, but at this juncture, I hardly know what else to do."

Firmin's jaw worked for a long moment. Finally, he sat back in his chair with a long-suffering sigh. "As I said, I am at my wits' end. It pains me, but—I agree." Both of André's eyebrows went up in surprise. "If anything, it will buy us a month of blissful silence from the fiend. But this will be the only time I give in, I assure you. Any more demands, and I'm calling in the Sûreté."

A crisp early winter afternoon found Christine flagging down a carriage, headed for the Giry household. Ever since Meg had befriended her when she was the timid new member of the corps de ballet, both women had insisted Christine celebrate her birthday with them rather than spend it alone. This year was no exception, especially since she was turning that landmark age of twenty-one. Meg had even hinted that there might be guests joining them. With that in mind, Christine made sure to wear her best dress and spent a little extra time pinning back her hair so that no strand was out of place.

A few weeks had passed since the tragic opening night of Il Muto. Christine was still performing as the Countess; rumor had it Carlotta was only just gaining the courage to even speak again. But as the production had only a dozen performances left, the company thought it highly unlikely that she would stage a grand return before the Opera's season ended for the year. Superstitious as she was, Carlotta probably believed her role was cursed. She would wait until the new year to sing again.

That suited Christine just fine. An opera house free of Carlotta was an opera house where she could walk without fear of being heckled or abused.

Monsieur Reyer continued to teach her, but at the same time he seemed to be holding her at arm's length, as if he were taking great pains not to touch her. Neither he nor Christine ever once mentioned what had transpired between them during that first disastrous performance.

That did not mean Christine, at least, had forgotten it--not by any means. In fact, she found herself thinking about it quite often. She honestly had no recollection of how she had come to be in her teacher's arms before the sound of Raoul calling her name had jolted her back to reality. She could not say who had moved first, whether Reyer had pulled her against him or she had fled to him herself. Perhaps it had been a mutually spontaneous thing born of shared horror. All she could remember was Raoul blurting her name and suddenly Reyer's arms, her buffer from the sight of Joseph Buquet's purple face, were gone. Raoul had quickly pulled her away, even as the managers were surging past to attempt to calm the audience, and Christine had only a moment to glimpse Reyer's white face staring after her before he was lost in the surging crowd.

She supposed he was ashamed of having overstepped the boundaries he'd set for himself as her teacher. Christine wanted to tell him she hadn't minded, and had indeed welcomed the comfort he'd given her. But in her mind, she could see his face closing up in disapproval at those words, so she kept them to herself.

"Christine!" Madame Giry exclaimed warmly when she arrived, greeting her with a kiss to both cheeks. It was a depth of affection the woman rarely displayed to anyone besides her daughter, and Christine felt humbled by it. "A happy birthday to you, my dear. Do come in--you're just in time, Meg was about to lay out tea."

Allowing her to take her cloak and gloves, Christine went into the sitting room, where she was immediately caught up in an effusive hug by the conservatory kid. Joseph Arsenault was right behind him, a little more dignified in his bearing but no less pleased to see her. And, to her great astonishment, Monsieur Reyer was sitting in a wingback chair by the fire. He didn't rise to greet her, only gave her a nod with one of his fleeting half-smiles, but Christine was so surprised and pleased to see him that she completely overlooked the breach of etiquette.

So these are the guests Meg spoke of, she thought, and found herself suddenly glad that she'd taken such care with her appearance.

Meg bustled in then with the tea tray, and Christine quickly turned her attention to her friend as she'd realized she was beginning to stare at Reyer. "Christine, welcome!" Meg said happily, setting the tray down on a low table in front of the sofa and rounding it to embrace her. "Come here, sit down." She steered Christine to the chair opposite Reyer while the others took places on the sofa. "Now that our guest of honor is here, everyone must wish her a happy birthday."

"Happy birthday, Christine," Joseph and the kid chorused dutifully. Reyer said nothing, only looked on with a faintly amused expression on his face.

Meg was clearly enjoying taking over her mother's duties as hostess, which left Christine to wonder when she'd found the time to learn how to be so wonderfully domestic. After the tea was poured and everyone sang their well wishes--everyone but Reyer, who obstinately refused to join in the tune and instead dryly wished Christine his best for the year ahead--the younger Giry stood to arrange a small pile of packages on the end of the table nearest Christine. "These are for you," she announced with great ceremony.

"You've all brought me something?" Genuinely flattered, Christine looked at each of the men in turn and they all nodded, even Reyer. "Oh, you shouldn't have."

"Don't be silly," Reyer said from his chair, which he seemed to be using as a kind of fortress against the merriment of the others. "What did you expect? It would have been rude to come empty-handed."

That was what he'd told himself, anyway. He'd been surprised when Meg had approached him with an invitation to celebrate Christine's birthday--he hadn't even known the date was approaching, much less that anyone would want him around to help celebrate it. His first instinct had been to refuse, but Meg had an impish habit of getting her way, and he supposed he would have to endure another lecture on his 'reclusive lifestyle' from Madame Giry if he didn't come. So he'd grudgingly accepted the invitation on the spot to forestall the nagging. Then he'd realized with a sensation akin to panic that he would have to bring something for Christine. Reyer couldn't remember the last time he'd bought a gift for anyone; the toe shoes didn't count in his mind, as they'd been an apology, not a present. Birthday gifts needed to have meaning, needed to be personal, but he didn't want to be too forward. He was her teacher, after all, not her paramour. After spending half a day fretting at the market, he'd finally seized on something simple and mundane but useful, and had been relieved to put the matter out of his head.

But now he was here, with his gift on the bottom of the pile on the table and Christine sitting across from him, and he felt uncomfortable. His stomach was unsettled; he decided it was the tea. Meg had probably put too much sugar in it. This, he said to himself, was precisely why he was not in the habit of attending parties.

Christine smiled at him in amusement and reached for the topmost package. It proved to be an ornate silver hair clip from Madame Giry. The second package contained a little locket necklace. Meg had bought herself a matching one, she explained, and the lockets could each hold a snippet of hair so they would always have a part of one another wherever they went. Christine hugged Meg tightly, feeling tears prick at her eyes. Truly she was blessed with the dearest friend a person could ever ask for.

"That one is from us," the kid said as Christine picked up the next package, gesturing to himself and Joseph. They were both watching her with great anticipation. "We hope you like it."

Pulling the paper away revealed the two had gathered all the reviews of Hannibal they could find and put them together to form a little scrapbook of sorts. "Thank you!" Christine exclaimed, reaching out to clasp their hands. "This is so thoughtful… I wasn't able to buy all the papers myself. Thank you so much!"

They beamed happily at her. "You're very welcome," Joseph replied, smiling. "Think nothing of it."

"I think everything of it," Christine countered warmly, and the kid went pink around the ears.

She picked up the last package, which was obviously Reyer's gift by process of elimination. It felt a bit lumpy in her hands, and holding it up, she asked teasingly, "Is this a practice gown to match the toe shoes?"

"No," he said, surprised she remembered them. He did, of course, but they had been his penance for a grievous breach of manners. He had no way of knowing that those toe shoes, their purpose spent, now occupied a place of honor next to the mirror on her vanity at home.

Still smiling, Christine undid the string and paper--and then her mouth fell open as a brightly-colored scarf spilled onto her lap.

She thought fleetingly of the scarf Raoul de Chagny had rescued from the Brittany sea, but mostly she remembered Sweden, the homeland she hadn't seen for half her lifetime now. How they traditionally patterned their clothing in the same bright colors to combat the long days of winter darkness. She hadn't known that Reyer had been aware of her heritage, and she couldn't even begin to imagine where he had found such a scarf to purchase. Looking up, she saw he was watching her keenly over tented hands. "It's lovely," she breathed, fingering the material gently.

"It is Swedish in style, is it not?" He knew perfectly well that it was--that was why he'd settled on it for a gift, recalling that Madame Giry said Christine had been born in Sweden--but she didn't have to know that.

Christine nodded, and impulsively wound the scarf around her neck. She didn't know if he would consider it appropriate for her to hug him, or clasp his hand as she had done with Joseph and the kid, or simply say thank you, since he was habitually skittish around displays of affection. But remembering that Reyer had taken to keeping her slightly distant, she decided to honor that by simply saying "thank you", though what she really wanted to do was throw her arms around him. For his part, Reyer responded to her thanks with a brief but genuine smile, and nothing else.

After the tea was finished and cakes were eaten, the group ventured outside to the gardens across the avenue for a stroll. Joseph was quick to offer his arm to Meg; Christine linked hers with the kid's, which made him flush pink about the ears again. That left Reyer to walk with Madame Giry.

"I didn't expect you to come," she said, after a few minutes of what he considered to be companionable silence.

"Hmm?" Reyer had been watching Christine's scarf flutter in the breeze--she was still wearing it, and one end was trailing over her shoulder in a vivid band of color. "Oh. And why not?"

Giry smiled. "You're hardly the social sort. You know this."

He bristled. He'd actually begun to enjoy himself somewhat, at least as much as was possible for him, so of course Madame Giry would have to spoil the mood by needling him on the woeful state of his social life. Perhaps one of these days she would finally comprehend the fact that it was really none of her business. If he chose to be a social butterfly or coop himself up in his flat for the rest of eternity, it was his business and his alone.

"Meg asked me," he said shortly. "And I knew I would never hear the end of it--from the both of you--if I refused. Besides," he added defensively, "contrary to what you may believe, I do enjoy going out on occasion."

They watched as, up ahead, Joseph picked a leafy sprig from a low-hanging tree branch to tuck behind Meg's ear. The kid, not about to be outdone, immediately liberated a larger sprig from the branch and presented it to Christine. Laughing, she kissed him on the cheek. Reyer scowled.

"Wherever did you find that scarf?" Madame Giry inquired placidly.

"At a market; where else do you think?" She was beginning to annoy him. What did it matter where he'd bought the damned thing? And why did the blasted woman insist on overanalyzing every little thing he did? She'd been at it even more so since he'd taken on Christine as a student, behaving like a doting mother wary of ill intentions towards her daughter. It occasionally made Reyer want to scream. Giry wasn't the girl's mother and he didn't need her to be his minder, the meddling busybody; he had no intentions at all towards Christine, and certainly not the kind she'd want to slap him with her time-keeping cane for. Thankfully, though, Madame Giry seemed willing to let his answer slide, and resumed watching the foursome on the path ahead with an air of contentment. Reyer mentally sighed in relief and allowed himself to relax slightly.

"I know she's very happy you came," Giry said after a moment.

Reyer rolled his eyes to the heavens. "Thank you for that enlightening piece of information," he shot back sarcastically. "I couldn't have inferred that for myself at all." Truth be told, he hadn't taken much notice of her reaction to his presence, other than that she'd smiled at him as she always did when they met nowadays. He supposed he ought to be glad that she'd wanted his company, though the idea that she would--that anyone would--was a little foreign.

Madame Giry only smiled, having taken no umbrage at his response, and Reyer scowled again. Ahead, the young foursome broke out in laughter at some shared joke, and Christine glanced back at Giry and Reyer. Reyer automatically nodded at her, his scowl giving way to a more pleasant expression, and she smiled back at him before turning away to giggle in Meg's ear. The trailing edge of her scarf sailed on behind her, bright in the autumn sunlight, as bright as the light in her eyes, so different from the timid, unremarkable girl he first knew.

Then it occurred to him that he was mentally waxing poetic over her--not over her voice, over her--and the unease in his stomach returned.