I was a bit disappointed by the lack of reviews last chapter. I don't know if it was a slow chapter or what, but after these next few chapters, I think the main plot is going to start to peak through. Just hang in there.
Here's chapter nine!
Things were uneventful.
Calm, almost.
Christine spent most of her time with Gustave, reassuring herself that Erik wasn't going to swoop down and at any moment steal her son away again. She knew Gustave noticed her unusual attachment to him, barely trusting herself to leave his side for more than an hour.
A few days later she planned to attend her first rehearsal. Christine had originally been given a month to rehearse, yet being tied up with Gustave's disappearance had left her no time to let alone think about practicing.
"You really gotta go?" Gustave had whined, staring down at the chessboard before them. The two of them had taken to competing in chess games when there was nothing else to do, and she found that Gustave was unsurprisingly good at the game, beating her in almost every round.
"I'm afraid so," she smiled sadly at her son, moving the only rook piece she had left horizontally. "Performing on closing night was the entire reason I signed up for this in the first place, love."
"Can't you just practice at home?" his blue eyes were wide, and she almost said yes. Almost.
"Maybe later on. I need to meet my coworkers, at least. Teamwork is very important in a production like this, Gustave."
And while she wanted nothing more than to stay home and forget the entire aria altogether, they desperately needed the money.
Thus was why she now stood at the foot of the opera house, her hands clutching the red folder with the song she was to be performing anxiously as she looked up at the wide, daunting doors.
This is your chance, her mind whispered. You can turn and run away now. Raoul will never know the true reason why for you can simply tell him that you felt too unwell to sing. He'll understand.
She felt a little ill, gulping a bit at the thought. More than anything, she was afraid of running into Erik again. The last thing she wanted was a confrontation on her first day of practice. Was she really such a coward? They desperately needed the money, and Erik had made no sign of retracting his offer. "What other choice do I have?" she said to herself, gulping.
Christine grabbed the handles and swung open the doors.
Immediately she realized that there was no sign of Erik. What had she expected? For him to be waiting right behind the door? She let out a nervous laugh, finding her way through the halls. There were a few other actors and workers chatting to one another, barely noticing the nervous Frenchwoman as she strode past.
She turned a corner. Still no Erik.
Christine soon arrived outside of the auditorium. Dimly, she realized, this was the first time she had ever seen the house and stage, and she suddenly found herself worrying that this was where she would find Erik.
As quietly as she could, she opened the entranceway. The only sound she made was the slight creaking of her feet on the wooden floor. She took a few steps into the aisle, examining the performing hall.
The plush red seats were lined on both sides, looking delightfully comfortable. The middle aisles were covered with matching vermillion-colored carpeting. Overhead was a chandelier even more magnificent than the grand chandelier from the Opera Garnier, bright and luminescent enough to keep the entire room from being enshrouded. Her breath was taken away by the sheer size of the thing.
Christine finally looked upon the stage. A small group of people was gathered in the center, and in the orchestra pit were the musicians, all tuning and practicing on their assortment of instruments. She was filled suddenly with an entirely different kind of apprehension. It had been so long since she last sang-how did she know she was still good enough?
"Ah, Mrs. de Chagny!" an unfamiliar voice called from the crowd. She turned to fully face the man as he jumped down from the stage, skipping the stairs entirely. "How nice of you to make it! Your family is doing better, I presume?"
Better? She thought, confused, yet nodded automatically.
"Good, good. You have a lot to catch up on! I'm Roscoe Turner, the conductor." he held out a hand, and she shook it, transitioning the folder from one hand to the other. She had nearly forgotten she was holding it.
"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Turner." she grinned. Blushing slightly as she stumbled over the words 'Pleasure," Christine knew her English was broken and all around terrible. That said, she was still glad she had taken the time to memorize a few words and common phrases.
Mr. Turner was a tall man, though not anywhere as tall as Erik. He wore a clean-cut suit and had slicked-back blonde hair. His hazel eyes were bright with enthusiasm, and she found that she immediately liked him. His cheerful smile and attitude were contagious.
"Well, I'd like to show you around, but I'm afraid I have to work with my orchestra down there," he stepped back, glancing at the musicians still practicing a variety of songs. "Instead, I suppose one of the other members can show you to your dressing room. He turned to the stage, preparing to wave to one of the nearest members when a familiar face popped out from one of the wings up on stage. "Wait!" Meg called, rushing over.
"Can I show her around, instead? Mrs. de Chagny and I know each other."
"I don't see why not," Mr. Turner shrugged. Christine smiled at her friend.
Meg grabbed her hand quickly, leading her up on stage and back through the wings. The talented ballerina was wearing a light pink leotard with matching tights, having seemingly raced over from ballet rehearsals. As soon as they were a good distance away from the others, the extroverted blonde leaned over. "Is Gustave safe?" she whispered, her eyes wide. "I hadn't heard from you since your last visit."
Christine exhaled. "Yes, he's fine. Erik…" she glanced up and away from her friend. "Erik returned him a few nights ago. Out of seemingly nowhere, as well. The only explanation he gave was that 'he came to his senses.'"
Meg looked puzzled. "Do you really think he's telling the truth? What if he simply returned Gustave so you were indebted to him?"
She looked down at her clasped hands.
"I don't think that's why."
The two women turned down to a hallway full of dressing rooms, yet Meg led her to the final one, turning the door and leading her in.
Christine's breath hitched as her eyes rested on the tall, wall-length mirror resting in the back. She must have faltered in her steps, for Meg gave her a curious look. Christine forced herself to step further into the room, walking straight up to her reflection. Although the only eyes she could see were her own dark brown, she could easily visualize a different pair, bright and amber, glistening with emotions far deeper than she had ever imagined.
"If not that, do you think he… Erik simply thought it was the right thing to do?" Meg's voice broke through her thoughts.
"What?" Christine moved away from the mirror, facing the ballerina instead.
"Returning Gustave. What if Erik simply realized it was the right thing to do?"
"Oh. Maybe," she murmured, looking down at the folder, opening it enough to catch a glimpse of the title. Love Never Dies.
She paled.
Meg shrugged, turning towards the door. "Well, I guess it's not important. After this whole thing you can head back home and never see him again." she glanced up at the clock on one of the walls. "Cripes! I'm gonna be late. Good luck practicing, Christine." Her friend closed the door.
Yet Christine's mind was far away from Meg's departure, instead thinking back to the night with Erik and Gustave.
Never see him again, Meg had said.
For the life of her, Christine could not understand why that thought filled her with apprehension.
XXxxXX
It was much later when she finally felt as if she had a good handle on the song. Her voice was indeed nowhere near perfection, just as she had worried, but it wasn't abysmal.
At least, to her, it wasn't terrible.
Christine let out a sigh of exhaustion, collapsing on the nearby couch. Briefly, she was reminded of her old lessons back at the Opera Garnier, but she shoved the thought away as quickly as it came. There was very little similar in her arrangements, she told herself.
The dressing room truly was beautiful, if not a little eerie. The walls were a soft shade of red, and the plush white carpet underfoot looked as if she could comfortably sleep upon it. There was a large dressing screen in the corner, a desk (with a small mirror attached) as well as the sette she now lay on. He truly had thought of everything to make her new dressing room home-y, as so it seemed. She tried not to look at the mirror.
Christine departed around an hour later. The air was crisp with the impending fall, and a few early leaves crunched beneath her heel. She had chosen to walk back to her hotel room since it was rather nice out.
When she stepped into the living room, Gustave was plopped in the middle of the couch, nibbling on a biscuit. He perked up when she entered. "Mama!"
Christine smiled as he leapt off the seat, racing forward and wrapping his arms around her waist. She pressed a kiss to his forehead. "How was your day?" she asked as he tilted his head to look up at her.
"It was pretty boring," Gustave admitted, stepping away to plop back down on the couch. "I played chess with Papa for a little bit, but I think he got frustrated 'cause I kept winning."
She softly laughed. "Well, you are quite good at chess, dear." He brightened at her compliment.
She joined him on the seat, and for a while she was just comfortable sitting, hugging her son tightly. A few minutes of peace and quiet were much appreciated. However, Gustave eventually got antsy.
"But Mama," he whined, wriggling from her embrace. "Today was your first day of rehearsals-what was it like? What is the theater like? Is it pretty? Does it have a chandelier? What does the song you're singing sound like, is it pretty? Do you get your own dressing ro-"
"Gustave!" she giggled, interrupting him. He was spouting off more questions than she could count. He simply grinned back, enthusiastically waiting for her to tell him all about her day.
"For starters," she began, "It wasn't that eventful. I talked with the conductor, his name was Mr. Turner, and he was quite nice. A friend of mine, Meg, showed me around the opera house, and yes, I got my own dressing room."
Gustave's eyes grew wide with excitement. "When can I see it?" he gasped.
"Soon enough. Maybe I'll take you some time, perhaps in a few days. How does that sound?"
He nodded eagerly, and she continued describing Erik's opera house.
"It's not that big, but made specifically for the Prima Donna of the theater, so it was a bit larger than the others. It was rather pretty," she murmured.
They lapsed into a warm silence before Christine glanced inquisitively at the clock. "Say, where's your father?" Raoul had been supposed to watch Gustave while she was gone, yet she had seen no sign of him since coming home.
"Oh," Gustave took another bite of his biscuit. "He went for a walk right before you came home. I think he is tired."
I can't blame him, she thought, suppressing a yawn herself.
She was almost about to suggest that he head to bed when Gustave spoke up once more.
"Um, Mama, since Papa's gone… do you think you could tell me more about you and Papa's past?" he glanced down nervously at his small fingers. "You don't talk about it much."
Christine gulped, knowing full well that this conversation had been bound to happen sooner than later. "Well…" she furrowed her brows, trying to think of the best way of going about this. What happened ten years ago was nothing short of traumatizing for all the parties involved-how does one explain to a child all that had occurred?
"It's very, very complicated, what happened. I-I... It's rather difficult to explain."
Gustave didn't reply, simply sat and tilted his head up patiently.
"Erik and I used to be good friends. He was my vocal instructor when I was a child, you know."
Gustave's eyes grew wide. "Erik taught you to sing?"
"Indeed. And then, after my debut as Elissa in Hannibal, your Papa came in. He recognized me in the performance."
Memories of that eventful night came back in a torrent. A young Raoul holding the bouquet of flowers, his grin wide and proud. She could suddenly recall the excitement she had felt, looking up into his bright, blue eyes. "Little Lotte," he had asked, stepping forward. "Where is your red scarf?"
"For a while, your father courted me, but Erik got angry once he found out, and one night there was a big fight between the three of us."
Christine exhaled slowly. For ten years she had tried not to think of that entire time period. Ten, long years.
"Erik did not like your father very much. They...fought quite a bit, and neither approved of each other. One night, both got fed up. I had performed in Erik's opera as the lead, Aminta, and it...things did not go over well."
'Go over well.' Her entire statement had enough sugarcoating to make even Gustave's own sweet tooth queasy. 'Twas quite a feat.
Christine couldn't bring herself to mention the obvious. She had chosen Erik, but he had let her go. When she had returned the second time, he had simply left her. After that, she had been told he was dead. Christine's nails dug painfully into her palms.
She remembered the tension down below the Opera house, the intimidating glare of Erik's amber eyes as he forced her to choose. Raoul, staring up at her pleadingly, the Punjab lasso wound too tightly around his neck.
The rough, and at the same time soft feel of Erik's malformed lips against hers. And then again, the second time, with a response. His hands cupping her face tenderly, hesitantly as she chose him.
Those two kisses-she had never felt as at ease as she had in that moment.
"Erik then told me to marry Raoul, I mean, your father." A short pause, followed by, "And so I did."
Thankfully, she was spared before she could accidentally release too much information by Raoul's arrival. The front door opened and he stepped through, looking mildly surprised as his eyes met hers.
"Christine," he said simply. She nodded back, unsure of what to say without sounding terribly awkward.
Fortunately, he settled down beside them, flexing his hands upon his knees. "How was your first day? What is the song like?"
She answered him, relieved for the first calm and not-uncomfortable conversation they'd had in a while. "Rehearsals weren't as exciting as you would think. All my coworkers are nice, and I get my own dressing room to practice in. It's all rather nice." She didn't miss the flash in his eyes at the mention of her dressing room, yet continued anyway. She lay a hand on his for reassurance.
"The aria I am to sing is quite beautiful, called Love Never Dies. I can't wait to show it to both of you, you know."
"And I can't wait to hear it," he replied, the corners of his lips upturned in a slight smile.
XXxxXX
It was barely past midnight, and Christine Daae could not see a thing.
That had been the first thought to flash in her mind as she stepped carefully through the streets of Paris, the only overhead light being from a few windows. There was no moon.
That to account for, it took her over two hours longer than usual to find the Palais Garnier. The entrances were still closed off, but she entered in through the side, a small door more commonly used by cast members to escape larger crowds. Jerking on the handle, she was mildly surprised (and relieved) to find it unlocked. A small part of Christine had worried she would not be able to even get into the opera house, but it appeared all her worries about that aspect were for naught. Closing the door as quietly as she could, she gulped nervously. Christine was no fool, she was well aware the hardest part of her task was yet to come.
The echo her feet made as she padded through the halls sounded very loud to her sensitive ears, cringing at every creak she made as she passed along.
How desperately she wished to be able to slink through the corridors silently, like a cat. She had always been a little more on the clumsy side, and that aspect of her personality was certainly making a reappearance now.
Christine bit back a yelp as she nearly tripped over her own foot, stumbling around the corner. Straightening herself once more, she looked up to find herself at a dead end. Her brows furrowed in confusion as well as annoyance. Had she made a wrong turn somewhere? Christine could have sworn she was going to right way…
"Lost, Mademoiselle?" A very, very familiar voice echoed from behind her. Gooseflesh rippled along her arm at the mere sound.
Gasping, Christine swiveled on her heel to try and catch sight of the Phantom. The hall that she had ventured in from was still pitch black, unwilling her eyes to even glimpse the masked man.
"N-no," she managed to gulp out, so caught up in her surprise at being able to actually find him. Christine, though, was not lost. She was perfectly understanding of where she was going and what she was doing.
He went silent at her response, and she could only guess what he had discerned from her statement.
"Then what brings you back to this humble establishment at this hour? It is rather late, Christine."
God, the way her name sounded when murmured caused thoughts that had to be sinful to blossom within her mind. Was it possible to make a simple title, a name sound like a prayer?
"I…." her voice faltered once more. All of her fervor, the adrenaline that had boosted this midnight crusade in the first place, left her body in a wave. She was left standing in the hall, feeling very small.
"Well?" his voice grew stronger, demanding a response. She shivered involuntarily, though not in fear.
"I came to see you, ange."
Once more he ceased speaking, and the corridor was filled once more with silence. Christine glanced around, still yet fruitlessly searching for that familiar amber pair of eyes in the darkness.
Eventually, though, the quiet that hung heavily was too much, and she began to worry that he had left her. No! She thought, desperately. Not after she had traveled so far to seek him out.
Just as she mustered up enough courage to once more speak, he replied.
"No…" he murmured. "Not Angel. I am merely a man, Christine."
A desolate, broken and deformed man. The words were unspoken, but they floated on the tips of their tongues.
"I know," was all she could think of to reply with. "I've known for a while."
His masterpiece, Don Juan Triumphante came to mind from that statement, as well as a small blush that painted her cheeks accompaningly. Yes, a small part of her had always known that was wasn't an angel, but instead merely a man.
She recalled the feelings and emotions he had stirred upon that stage, as well as the haunted look in his shocked eyes when she had lifted the hood, and then the mask from his face, exposing him to everyone in the auditorium. He had been at his lowest, most vulnerable point, and she had caused it.
Christine felt a small sound echo from behind her, and she turned once more to stare up into his glinting amber eyes. They stared down at her with narrowed suspicion as one of his gloved hands clasped hers. She could feel his breath fan her face as they neared, and her gaze flittered over momentarily to take in the right side of his face. He wore a different mask now, one that was dark black. She felt an odd and unexpected feeling gather in the pit of her stomach… disappointment? Had she expected him to go maskless? Had she wanted him? She was so utterly confused, she did not know what she wanted anymore.
"Tell me, Christine," he said, his curled leather enveloped-fingers brushing her chin. Even through the material, she could feel his warmth radiating from his palm. She instinctively leaned into his touch. "Why have you truly come here?"
She did not stutter as she gave her response, not anymore. Her words were hushed, her breath quickened as her eyes met his, their gazes both unwavering.
"I think you already know."
It was not the first time that Christine woke up with a tear-streaked face, choking back a cry. Nor would it be the last.
Please review! Reviews keep me motivated to dispense the chapters out faster.