Thank you all readers and reviewers! I love you all. Special thanks go to: MJ, phantomluver, Hero Sis, Writer, and trueurbanite, as well as all of those who reviewed the epilogue and have continued on with this from "Desire". I hope this does not disappoint.
Also, a lot of this chapter was inspired by stephanie bean's wonderful phic "No End to Longing". Please check out her stuff, it really is quite amazing.
disclaimer: I own nothing.
chapter 1
November 3, 1872
It was barely dawn, and a muffled silence still hung over the cold streets outside where the autumn stillness vied for attention over the winter's premature assertion of power, manifested through the intricate spider webbing of frost that marked many a window.
It was early yet, but Father Donnelley could not sleep. So, he paced the halls of the small church, meditating in the solace and aloof yet welcoming silence the sturdy stone building offered.
He jumped at the sound of a muffled bang, nearly tearing the hem of his newly-earned priest's cassock that trailed on the ground. His blue eyes were round as he surveyed his surroundings a little absurdly, before realizing that someone had entered the church from the back door.
Intrigued, he made his way to the lower level; they made it a practice to keep their doors open and available to all, no matter what hour, but never before in his memory had they received such an early caller…
He made it to the bottom of the staircase in time to hear the familiar swish of heavy red fabric; whoever had come had cloistered themselves in the confessional booth.
He sighed, then made his way over to the other side of the booth, situating himself, lighting a few candles so as to see what he was doing. Once ready, he slid the grille to one side, muttered the prayer, and cleared his throat to signal to the penitent to begin.
He blinked a little stupidly as rapid, barely audible French floated through the partition of the wooden booth and into Father Donnelley's ears. He sighed inwardly, regretting the intrusion, but knowing it was necessary…
"Ma'am?" he asked quietly, his Irish background asserting itself as he spoke.
The flow of the French stopped.
"I'm sorry, Ma'am, but do you speak English? I can't hear your confession if I'm unable to understand you."
A sort of question came from the other side of the partition.
"Do you speak English?" he asked again, slower this time.
"N-not very well," she replied, her words broken and heavily-accented.
"Wait here," he said, placing an infuriating amount of emphasis on the two words, before standing up and exiting the booth, in search of Father Moreau.
-----
I wasn't deeply religious, not like my mother; never have been, never will. Unlike my fellow Catholics, I detested the traditions, the specialized prayers, the strict ceremony of it all. At this point in my life, however, I had nowhere to look for answers, good, solid, dependable answers, ones that didn't set my head to spinning endlessly, as had become the norm.
So, I waited—more than a little impatiently, I'll admit—for the good priest to fetch someone who could understand me; for, though I had already been living in Brooklyn for a few months, I had only picked up a few select phrases of English. He tutored me every chance that he had, and I could understand it well enough, of course, but for some reason I just couldn't wrap my tongue around the pronunciations. As a result, he and I were usually very snappish after the increasingly-brief lessons—he frustrated at my apparent less-than-aptness as a pupil, I perplexed and a little envious of how the language came so easily to him.
He made everything seem so simple. But, for some reason, he was always so critical about himself and how he did things—something I found very endearing, though I'd never dream of telling him that. I stood in awe of his genius, his vast bank of learning that put my humble studies to endless shame, yet he always asked my opinion concerning the broadest spectrum of things imaginable.
I always answered him truthfully. I considered it the most vicious cruelty on my part if I lied to him, even about the simplest of things. Not because of the religious implications of it, no; but the more time I spent with him, the more I came to realize how very fragile he was. He could tear someone to shreds with his thin, strong hands; he could outsmart the most renowned thinkers of his day; his emotional self, however, was very delicate. He lived for praise—mine especially. It wasn't long before I realized what sort of power I wielded, what sort of harm I could do him if I so chose—and shied away from the thought. He had suffered more than enough pain—I would do as much as possible to prevent any from befalling him ever again.
I suppose you could say that I sheltered him. In a way, yes, I did. He preferred it, really; he preferred the solitude, the literal and figurative shadows that concealed him from the ominous glances and opinions that pressed us from all sides. But, I ask, how is it possible to shelter an individual whom already has witnessed so much? He repeatedly brought up the point that he was old enough to be my father, and, though I made light of it, he was right. "With age comes experience," they always say, and never before had they ever been so correct—in the time I had been alive, he'd already traveled most of the world, was an accomplished architect, musician, and God only knew what else.
I was startled from my thoughts by the sound of someone approaching. I waited, tense, alert, and nearly cried for joy when I heard a very hoarse voice begin speaking my native French—I hadn't heard anyone but Erik speak French for nearly six months, and it was a most welcome change.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…"
Such a ponderous list I have accumulated since I have last done this! Longer, I think, than any of mine before. Then again, it has been a rather long time.
"Over two years have passed since my last confession, and I accuse myself of the following sins: it has been nearly three years since I have last heard Holy Mass…"
I'm not quite sure when, exactly, I stopped attending Mass with my mother. I had never really enjoyed it as a child, having to sit still and hold my tongue while a strange man in an even stranger robe stood before the throngs of people, speaking about things I could rarely comprehend; it got a little better as I got older, of course, but when it came time, I only became confirmed at her insistence.
She never said it, but I always knew I was a great disappointment to her. Now, I realize, that part of the reason why I was so irrevocably sullen as a child is because of this sense of disappointment I felt from her. I had been my father's pride and joy, but after he died and we took up residence in the Opera, my mother was never truly the same. It seemed to me that something was always missing, and, as a result, the softer, tender side of her grew cold and bitter as the years went on.
Things got better after Christine came to us, of course, but even then I was jealous. Everything I couldn't do, it seemed that Christine could, and she earned a substantial amount of my mother's praise.
"Jealousy, Father. I'm afraid I've always had a problem with it, but, as of late, it has become terrible."
"Of whom are you jealous?" the priest asked.
"My childhood friend. She is like a sister to me, but the odds have always seemed to be in her favor."
"What sort of odds, my child?"
"You see, I grew up dancing ballet, back in Paris. My mother was the ballet mistress, and cared for all of us in the corps. My friend, after becoming orphaned, came to us, and my mother might as well have adopted her."
"Orphaned? That is hardly something to be jealous of."
"Not that. My mother loved her more than me."
"Did she ever tell you this?"
"No, Father. But I could sense it. Also, I…well, I learned to live with it, but I soon became jealous of something else…"
How could I forget that first night Christine disappeared? I wasn't worried at first…perhaps the handsome Vicomte had noticed her at last. Still, though, I decided to sneak into my mother's room and steal her ring of keys to practically all of the rooms in the vast Opera Populaire…
Christine's dressing room was empty and dark, as well as a little smoky from the extinguished candles. I called her name in a rough whisper a few times before venturing forth.
I distinctly remember my puzzlement at the light behind the mirror; was it a practical joke? A mere quirk of the designer, left untouched and unnoticed until now? Or was there something more sinister at work? My blasted curiosity got the best of me, and I pushed the pane aside, rolling with little resistance on well-oiled tracks.
A powerful wave of sickness overcame me as I stepped into the damp corridor and looked at the back of the pane, realizing I could see into the dressing room. Someone had been spying on Christine! The thought repulsed me. How long had this been going on? She couldn't have been aware of it, she would have told me… The sudden of image of the alcohol-saturated Buquet staring at Christine with his bulging eyes came to me unbidden, and I had to fight the impulse to gag.
Now infinitely more wary than I had been when I first entered the room, I stepped, slowly, down the corridor. The way the drops of water echoed in the otherwise dark silence indicated to me that this strange hallway had been constructed of stone. I longed for a light; my eyes were growing rapidly tired of squinting, but I began to get the feeling that the stone used was not quite the same as the one that made up the rest of the Opera.
I was so intent on my discovery, so caught up in the notions that it presented, that I missed entirely the subtle squeaks of a few rats; I happened to see something move out of the corner of my eye, causing me to scream, even more so when I realized what they were.
My nerves were already strung out so tight that I jumped nearly a full meter into the air when I felt the cold hand on my shoulder. But, as I soon found out, it was nothing more than my mother, steering me back to safety…
"But, Maman, Christine has gone missing!" I protested angrily once we were inside the dressing room. I glared accusingly at the elaborate mirror that hung on the wall opposite me, now looking normal and as it did every day, all traces of the mysterious light gone.
"Even so, that is no excuse…Meg, you could have been killed! How were you to know what was behind that mirror, or down that corridor?" she said, and I had to acknowledge that she had a point; even so, I was intrigued and a little distressed at her seeming lack of concern for the real victim of the moment.
"But do you not fear for Christine? What if—what if, as you said, she is dead, this very minute? We are not helping her by talking—" I replied, impassioned, and strode back over to the suspicious mirror.
My mother's response was to grab me firmly by the upper arm. Spinning me around to look at her, she whispered, harshly, "She is not in any danger. If you breathe even one word of this to anyone, Marguerite, I swear…" She sighed then, releasing her hold on me, wiping her hand wearily across her brow. "I am only trying to protect you, le petite. Please, don't make this any harder than it already is."
"You know who has her?" I asked, incredulous.
She swept out of the room then, but the look in her eyes as she turned from me was unmistakable.
That night was my first official brush with the Phantom of the Opera.
"An…an admirer, of sorts."
"Romantically inclined, I presume?"
"Yes, Father. Also, I…I lusted after him. Many times."
"Are you married?"
"Yes, but I wasn't at the time."
"And what of him? Is he married?"
I smirked in triumph, realizing the irony of it all. "Yes. To me."
The priest coughed suddenly; he wasn't expecting that, I knew. "I see. And, these sins, were they of thought, word, or deed?"
I blushed. "Thought. Mostly."
"'Mostly'?" I imagine he raised an eyebrow at that.
"Deed. Twice…no, a few times before we were married. I don't remember."
"Anything else, my child?"
"A lie…I told a lie to protect him, the one I mentioned."
"Protect him?"
"Yes, Father. He…he was at odds with the law, for several things."
"Did you participate in any of these crimes?"
"No, Father. I did, however, help him leave the country."
"Can the affects of the lie be remedied?"
"I told those who I lied to the truth before I left, in the form of a letter, but I'm not sure if they informed the authorities."
"It is good you have done this, my child. Though lying stains the tongue, revealing the truth is a step towards redemption. Have you anything else to confess?"
"No; for those sins that I mentioned, those of my whole life, and any that I have forgotten, I am deeply sorry, and ask for pardon and penance…"
-----
After completing my penance—which was, I thought, minimal, compared to what I had done—I wrapped my coat around me and stepped from the church, the door closing behind me, cutting me off from the warmth and leaving me in the cold of the street. The sun had risen, but the frost still nipped, and I shivered—not only because of the cold, but also because I knew Erik would be angry if he knew where I had been.
Taking a deep breath to steady myself, the cold air biting into my lungs, I walked down the street, back towards the small apartment that I now called my home, back towards the strange man that I now called my husband.