Author's Note: I do not own Phantom of the Opera.
15
Back on the rooftop, the Phantom whipped around just in time to see the terrified teen dart out from behind a statue and whisk back into the opera house, her ashy blonde ponytail bouncing off the back of her blue shirt.
Mademoiselle Abbots, his memory reminded him. The girl whom he had saved from Buquet. Also the girl who he had seen gesturing dramatically along to his admonishments when he spoke from behind the chandelier. Her rose lips had perfectly copied his warnings, even though he knew that there was no way she could have seen him, let alone have known what he was planning to say.
She had seen him. She had watched him weep for his love's betrayal, witnessed him losing control and screaming his challenge at the stars. And she had called Christine a tart. Even in his anguish, the Phantom could not help but laugh at her choice of words. How accurate: an angel turned tart and that ridiculous fop of a Vicomte – a match made in heaven. Or in hell.
But the fact remained that young Ms. Abbots knew more than was wise. Down in his lair at that very moment was her sketchbook, lying open on his desk, open to an eerily detailed portrait of his deformed yet smiling face. The matter of the hanging was also troubling; she had seemed horrified when Buquet had died, but not surprised. And though she knew he was a murderer, she had not told anyone. The Phantom sighed and rubbed his forehead. His experience told him not to trust her, but his intuition told him otherwise. Whatever the case, he decided, young Abbots would make a much better set manager than that fool Buquet.
Author's Note: I know, that was short, but I won't leave you lovelies hanging for long. Thanks for everyone who has favourited, followed, or reviewed, and a special little acknowledgement to Scarlet, Paula, and E-man-dy-s who guest reviewed. Get accounts you three! ;) Anyway, feel free to drop me a line and review or PM with questions, comments, and critiques.
Thanks all!
Tierney