The day of Christine's wedding dawned, and Antoinette had yet to make any mention of their mysterious follower to her companions. How could she? If one watched Christine closely it was plain that she was frightened enough as it was. Haunted enough by shadows thought to be passed. Brought once more to present, Antoinette wasn't certain the young woman's nerves would hold.
"What a mess. What a bloody mess."
She kept the words muttered, not wanting those around her to hear. The madam had been given the charge of overseeing the finishing touches on decorations, delicacies and the other fine details that must be perfected in the wee hours before the bride tread the aisle. Meg was of course helping her friend prepare.
Antoinette was just about to move from the front yard into the receiving room when a flash of color clashed the corner of her vision. A color she was certain did not belong in any of the flower arrangements she'd ordered.
"What is that?" She demanded, her voice harsh enough to hiss.
The youth holding the object responsible for her ire froze.
"These'd be th-the flowers, madam." He stammered.
"Roses?" Antoinette questioned. "Red roses? I assure you boy the only time roses were mentioned in preparation for this wedding was the insurance that they would not be present!"
She searched the offensive bouquet for evidence this was anything more than a florist's mistake. Black ribbon, a note…anything.
"Take them away at once." She dismissed the lad and strode away—not into the receiving room but farther into the grounds. A vague restlessness pulled at her—anxiety, fear, irritation all bundled up so that her body felt as though it were stretched like a string on a violin.
"You are done here—by your own admission. Your spectre days finished. Haunt me if you must—if you like—I of all people at least deserve it. " Her voice was raised, defiant in its accusation. "Monsieur Phantom, Opera Ghost—I know your name." Though she was shouting, her last sentence dropped sharply to a whisper.
Abruptly she stopped, putting her hands to her face. What was it she was doing, shouting to the air like a lunatic. This wasn't an opera house filled with darkness. It was a field with scattered trees full of sunlight, shadows barely dappling the ground. Was it this final happening that would finally throw her into insanity? She'd—she' d be damned if it was.
Her reverie was interrupted by a light, masculine voice.
"Madame Giry? Madame, are you all right?"
She removed her hands from her face to see none other than the groom to be standing a few feet away, a questioning expression on his face.
"I am fine, Monsieur. Tis nothing but—but…" She grasped silently for some placating phrase.
"What is wrong?" His voice was sharper this time. Why the devil had ever told him her own, private knowledge in the first place.
"It's just my daughter. She gets herself into enough trouble when I can keep my eye on her. Here, its impossible to even know where she is."
"She isn't with Christine?"
"I…I hadn't thought of that monsieur. Thank you, I will go look for her there."
Praying the vicomte would leave it at that Antoinette strode quickly in the direction she had come. Less than a quarter of an hour later she was sitting down calmly with Meg and Christine, smiling and listening to their inane chatter as she tried to drown out her macabre thoughts in the closer reality of the present.
Incredibly, the wedding progressed without a single hitch worth commenting upon. Perhaps the priest was a bit dour, the bride a bit pale-faced, and the cake a bit dry—but of all the things Antoinette knew could have gone wrong, the actual occurrence seemed a paradise by comparison.
And there wasn't a single incidence of an unwanted appearance by a rose. Nearly every other flower that came in shades of white and pink was strewn from the gate, down the aisle, to the very top of the roof—but no roses.
Perhaps that was why, after the joyous couple had left for their honeymoon, she let out a decidedly shrill gasp as she shut the door to her temporary room and turned to discover she was not alone. Her hands reflexively flew in front of her—not quite at the level of her eyes but leaning more in that direction than not. Her shock, and the icy fear still rippling across her skin kept her silent as she stared at him.
"The roses were not my doing."
His first statement initially caught her at a loss until her sense caught up and put it in perspective.
"Of—of course." She breathed.
"I have given up, Madame, rest assured. I have learned what I cannot be, what I cannot have."
His voice sounded strange, and Antoinette realized the huskiness in it was from tears. She couldn't bring herself to move, and yet a small part of her still felt compassion for the plight of the man before her. It was a small part though—the rest of her drew up, preparing to weather whatever blow he was about to deliver.
He stared at her silently for long moments and she watched the emotions raging within his eyes. So plain to see, and so poignant—always underlain with that desperation that arose with proximity to Christine. She found herself unable to drop the locked stare, and it wasn't until the phantom lifted a hand to his masked face that realized she'd been holding her breath and had let her hands drop. She moved them now to finally push herself away from the door.
"What is it you want, Erik?" Her voice was weary now. She was weary of this continued haunting, exhausted from the fear—from the thrill—that he lurked behind every door and circumstance.
It was his turn to inhale sharply. "Do not speak that name."
"Why? It belongs to you." She refused to let the return of the ice to his tone cow her.
"You will regret it."
"Will I? Why? Did you bring a rope? I suppose you could make do with the drapes." She snapped back.
She stood at the window—not closed as she had left it, but open. Something she should have noticed the moment she opened her door, Antoinette noted sheepishly.
"You're returning to your home tomorrow morning—departing at 9 o clock I believe. My carriage will be following yours—I trust you'll make the appropriate accommodations with your driver. "
She moved away from the window, unsure how to respond. She didn't know exactly what he meant. "You will be travelling—stopping—with us, then?" She questioned.
There was, of course, no one to answer.