Chapter Twenty
The afternoon sun shone hot and bright as Alana made her way to the church, carrying a few of the pages of sheet music Erik had given her. Since the morning, she'd been unable to sit still; all she could think of was receiving that reply from her letter to Madame Marguerite. Waiting to find out the condition of her father was unbearable.
But as soon as she placed her fingers on the shining white keys of the church piano, a sense of peace came over her, and though she struggled to play through her songs on her own, in time she became completely absorbed in the music. While she played, and later practiced her singing, she felt she could almost hear Erik's voice, coaching her and encouraging her the whole way through, as if he were really there.
After she'd sung the last note of one of her songs, she was startled to hear the sanctuary door open.
"Alana?" Her cousin stood in the doorway on the other side of the room, looking astonished. "Is that you?"
"Yes," Alana answered, slightly embarrassed that Cerise had walked in while she was singing. "I was just practicing."
"Incredible," Cerise marveled, walking down the aisle toward her. "That was practice? Alana, I stood outside the door for a full ten minutes, just listening to you sing. You're amazing." Her eyes glowed with praise.
Alana stepped back, stunned. "Oh, no, I'm not, I still have a lot to learn…"
"Don't be so modest, cousin," Cerise said. "You're wonderful. And what's this?" She noticed the sheet music at the piano. "You play, as well? My, someone's accomplished!"
"Oh, no," Alana stammered. "I'm only just learning to play. I can scarcely play anything."
"Well, there's no denying you can sing. You simply must join the choir! Once everyone hears you, you'll be getting all the solos!" Cerise said excitedly.
Alana didn't know what to think. She'd seen the way Erik's eyes brightened when she sang, and she'd also been corrected by him if she made a mistake. He knew she wasn't a perfect singer. "I'm not all that good, Cerise," Alana said. "When I have lessons…"
"Lessons? But who's teaching you?" Cerise asked, confused. "You can't be having lessons here…you only just arrived!"
"Erik's teaching me." Just saying his name out loud set her heart racing.
"Oh. Well, he must be an excellent teacher, though you're obviously naturally talented. Come on, Alana, we have to go at once to Mother and tell her you want to be in the choir! You do want to, don't you?"
Alana thought of what Erik would say…he would like her to take this opportunity to practice even more and perform for others…it would help her grow as a singer. She felt it was something he would approve of. Maybe he would come and see her sing with the choir on Sundays. She smiled at the thought, then turned to her cousin and said, "Yes, I think I do." She took up her pages of sheet music and left with Cerise.
When they came outside, they saw a very fine carriage-but not quite as elegant as the one she had ridden in yesterday-stopped in front of the house. Still, Alana knew at once that it belonged to the Comte de Bellamy.
"Oh. My. Goodness," Cerise whispered. "What's he doing here?"
"I don't know," Alana said, every bit as surprised as her cousin.
A man in servant's clothes stepped out of the carriage, carrying a little white envelope in his black-gloved hand. He went to the door. Meanwhile, Alana and Cerise were crossing the street, and got to the man before he rang the bell.
"Excuse me, mademoiselles," the servant said, turning his head and tipping his hat to them. "Which one of you is Mademoiselle Alana Valjean?"
"She is!" Cerise exclaimed, pointing to Alana before she could stutter out a reply.
"Ah. Very good. This is a note to you, from my lord, Comte Damien de Bellamy. He wished me to tell you that he regrets not being able to deliver it in person." He handed her the envelope and stepped back. "I humbly ask, mademoiselle, if you would be so kind as to read it now, so that I may return to him with your reply as soon as possible."
"Oh, yes, of course," Alana said, opening the envelope and pulling out a small piece of fine stationery.
Mademoiselle Alana,
It was a pleasure to be in your company yesterday afternoon, and I hope you enjoyed yourself as much as I did. I am writing to you so that I can know for certain whether to expect you and Monsieur Erik (forgive me, I do not believe I know his surname) back again on Wednesday afternoon. It would be an honor to have the two of you join me. Regrettably, my other friends are unable to attend, but I see this as a wonderful opportunity for the three of us to become better acquainted. Perhaps I could give you a grand tour of our fair city. What say you?
Eagerly awaiting your reply.
Damien.
Cerise read over Alana's shoulder as she looked at the letter, and Alana could tell that her cousin could scarcely contain her excitement. She read through the letter about three times, admiring the beautiful handwriting, thinking of Damien as he wrote it. It would certainly be nice to have a chance to speak to him without his condescending, gossiping friends there. And to have Erik meet Damien…that would be wonderful. Maybe the two of them could be friends. Poor Erik, she thought, Having someone else to talk to would do him good. He and Damien already had something in common-they'd both fought in the war. Wednesday could be the perfect chance for them to get to know each other…but she wasn't sure Erik would agree to come.
Alana looked up at the servant and said, "You may tell the Comte that I would be delighted to join him on Wednesday, and that I thank him for the invitation. But please, also tell him that I am not certain Monsieur Erik will be able to attend."
"Very well, mademoiselle," the servant said, bowing. "I will tell him."
"Thank you, monsieur."
"You're most welcome!" he said, with a rather surprised smile.
Once they got inside the house and had gone to Alana's room, Cerise took both of her cousin's hands in hers and said, beaming, "Oh, you are the luckiest girl I know, honestly, Alana!"
Alana laughed. "It's nothing to warrant this kind of excitement!"
"Nonsense," Cerise said. "More than likely, it will just be the two of you on Wednesday. How does that not warrant excitement?"
Alana gave her a wry look. "There's nothing going on between Damien and me."
"That's what you think," Cerise said, blue eyes sparkling. "I saw the way he was looking at you yesterday."
Alana stepped back, her cheeks burning so hot it hurt. She looked at her cousin and though the other girl was smiling, she detected a hint of jealousy in Cerise's face. She felt sick to her stomach; it was obvious that Cerise liked Damien very much. "Do you really think…"
"Oh, I can scarcely imagine it!" her cousin continued, "Having a Comte fall in love with you just after you arrive in Paris! Now I know why they call this the city of lovers…"
"He's not my lover, Cerise!" Alana interrupted, startling herself with the intensity in her voice.
Cerise stopped talking for a moment, wide-eyed. "So you don't…like him?"
"Of course I like him. He's a wonderful, kind man…"
"But you don't like him that way." The other girl looked utterly confused, yet relieved. "Why ever not? He's got to be the handsomest man you've seen in your life! At least, he is to me."
"Well, you are right about that," Alana had to admit.
"So how is it even possible that you don't like him?"
Alana was about to answer, and then realized she couldn't. If she were being completely honest with herself, she would say that Damien seemed to be the kind of man she had dreamed of finding. But at the moment, she didn't have feelings for him. Maybe it was the fact that she barely knew him. Maybe the two of them were from walks of life that were too opposite one another. Or maybe…
She could feel her cousin staring at her, looking thoughtful.
"Oh." Cerise said mischievously. "I know why. It has to be."
"What?" Alana was getting nervous now for some reason.
"You don't have feelings for Damien because you already have feelings for someone else."
Alana felt herself blush. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You're in love with that mystery man of yours." Cerise ran her hand over the pile of sheet music on the desk in Alana's room. "Erik."
At the mention of his name, Alana's cheeks only burned more.
Cerise clapped her hands together. "Oh, that is romantic. In love with the mysterious man who saved your life…"
Alana couldn't believe the other girl was saying these things. They were things she had thought about, many times when she was alone, or sometimes even with Erik. But it was a waste of time to feel that way. "Erik and I are not lovers either, Cerise. Just last night when I saw him, he told me I was a good friend to him. And, might I add, he emphasized the word, friend."
"Last night? You saw him last night?"
Oh no. She'd said too much. "Well, yes…"
"But you were here. And he never came to the house…"
"I left. He and I went to the church ."
"What on earth for? You've got a lot of explaining to do, cousin." Cerise sat herself down on the bed and looked at Alana expectantly.
"He's giving me music lessons, remember?" By now Alana was having trouble hiding her exasperation with the other girl. This conversation was extremely uncomfortable.
"In the middle of the night?" Cerise looked unconvinced. "Come now, don't you think that's a little suspicious? Risqué, even?"
"It's just Erik's way. He doesn't go about in the daytime."
"Why not?"
Alana sighed. "He just doesn't."
"And you're sure he has the most honest of intentions, sneaking off with a young woman in the middle of the night?" The mischief and excitement was gone from Cerise's face; now concern was written all across it. "Wearing a mask, no less! Papa told me what little he knew about him last afternoon. Why does this Erik wear a mask? What's he hiding? Can you really trust a man like that?"
"He wears a mask because his face was badly damaged during a battle, and he doesn't want anyone to see it. And there's nothing wrong with his intentions…I'd trust him with my life," Alana said firmly.
"Would you trust him with your heart?"
The room had gone all cold. Alana's throat hurt, and her eyes stung. Inside, her heart had that heavy feeling again. "He's in love with someone else." She forced herself to say it, the words like an icy stab to her chest.
"Oh," was all her cousin said, and Alana nodded slowly, numbly, making herself maintain her composure. "I think…" Cerise began, "I think you really do love him. I can see in your eyes."
She hated feeling like this, had never imagined it could be so painful. "But it's just a waste, isn't it? He loves someone else."
"Oh, come here." Cerise stood up and pulled Alana into a hug. "Dear cousin," she said softly, "don't trouble yourself over such things. After all, time changes everything. Maybe, Erik will realize that the one he really loves is you. But if he doesn't, there's still Damien. I've known him…well, not really…but I know what he's like. And I know that he fancies you, Alana. You could always give him a chance."
They stepped back, and in spite of herself Alana smiled. "I couldn't do that, Cerise."
"Why not?"
"Because I know how much you like him."
Cerise's jaw dropped, and for once she was speechless.
"I told you I'd put in a good word for you, and I shall, when I see him on Wednesday," Alana said with a grin.
Cerise beamed at her. "You really are the best, Alana. It's a terrible shame that we went so long without being able to see each other."
"It is," Alana said, trying not to think about how much easier life could have been if she'd had someone like her cousin by her side when Una had passed away. She would never have had to feel so alone in the world.
"Well, we're together now," Cerise said, giving Alana another quick hug. "Thank the Lord for that."
"Amen!" Alana said, and they both laughed.
The cousins spent the afternoon with Amélie in the garden out back, weeding and watering. Alana had agreed to join the choir, and both her aunt and Cerise were excited by the news.
"Would you girls mind helping me pick some of those herbs over there?" Amélie asked, wiping her brow and shading her eyes from the hot sun.
"Not at all." Alana and Cerise said, beginning to pick the herbs. As she worked, Alana began softly humming the song she and her mother had always sung when they were in the garden together.
"Remember me to one who lives there…"
"…he once was a true love of mine." Cerise and Amélie joined in, and soon they were all singing together, verse after verse. Their voices rose and fell with the song in perfect harmony, and it almost seemed to Alana that her mother was there too, singing with them in her clear, sweet voice.
"Una loved that song, didn't she?" her aunt asked after all the herbs were picked, smiling sadly.
Alana just nodded. After a moment like that, words were hard to find.
"Do you know what? Singing it reminded me of something, just now." Amélie got to her feet. "Cerise, would you mind bringing these things to the kitchen? There's something I need to show Alana."
Her aunt led her to the library. Uncle Raimond looked up from his desk, strewn all over with books. "What's going on?"
"I'm looking for something of Una's," Amélie explained. "I was hoping you could help me find it in this…mess." She looked disapprovingly at the cluttered shelves and furniture piled high with books and papers in disarray.
Raimond seemed oblivious to his wife's disdain for his lack of organization. "I think I know what it is you're looking for." He got up and reached for something on the top shelf. He pulled out a gigantic volume and handed it to a confused Alana. It was very heavy, and she had to set it on the desk.
"What on earth?" she asked. "This belonged to my mother?"
"Yes," Amélie said. "She brought it here once to show it to me, and left it behind by mistake. It was placed on a shelf and forgotten until just now…I do wish I'd returned it to her."
"Don't worry. It's all right." Alana turned her gaze onto the book. "But what is this?"
"Open it and see," Raimond said, he and his wife smiling at each other.
Alana ran her hand over the soft burgundy velvet cover, unmarked, and opened the book. She flipped through the first pages. "What? It's…blank."
"Keep looking!" Amélie told her.
Curious, Alana kept thumbing through the pages until she glimpsed something colorful. She stopped on a page and stared in amazement. There, against a pale blue background, was a gorgeous picture of…no, they actually were flowers. Amaryllis, lilies, primroses, orchids, poppies, and sweet alyssum were all artistically woven together with magnolia leaves. "Pressed flowers," she realized. Beneath the arrangement, written in a lovely, familiar hand, were the words, A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever.
"Aren't they beautiful?" Amélie came closer to look at the page. Alana nodded enthusiastically, and her aunt smiled. "There's more."
Alana looked through pages and pages of the pressed flower arrangements, with their brilliant colors and sayings, proverbs, or messages to other people written below them. Each one was stunningly beautiful.
"Una told me that she made most of these as a girl growing up in Scotland. She had a garden full of blossoms, and she also loved going up to the hills to find the wildflowers that grew there. Some of the flowers in this book are extremely rare, and I've never seen them anywhere else. They're all yours now. She would have wanted you to have them."
"Thank you so much for showing me these." Alana gave her aunt and uncle a hug, and then took the book and went to her room.
Looking through the book made her feel as though her mother were in the room with her. She could picture her placing the flowers together, could hear her voice reading out the little verses she had written there. Many of the arrangements were dedicated to her mother's friends and family, many of whom Alana had never met. There was one made up of differently colored roses and dedicated to her father Andre. She turned to a page that had no flowers, just a tasteful arrangement of four different herbs…she soon realized they were parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. And beneath it was a little poem, penned by Una herself, when she was just a young girl.
When sorrow and bitterness fill your days,
These parsley herbs will take them away.
When strength is gone and heart is cold,
Sage will mend you, this I'm told.
Faithful love, and memories many
Will ne'er be forgotten by those with rosemary.
Fear and terror can be kept at bay,
For thyme, in time, can chase it away.
In days of darkness, these four herbs
Are said to cure life's many hurts.
True or not, this may be
But it's truly the Lord who sets us free.
In Him we find forgiveness, peace,
And Strength greater than any grief.
As she read Una's poem, tears came to Alana's eyes. Even as a child, her mother had been inspiring, full of life, love, and wisdom beyond her years.
She missed her so much.
Finally, Alana came to the very last page that held a pressed flower arrangement. Verbena and pink carnations were entwined with snowdrops and lilies of the valley in the most beautiful display she had seen yet. The top of the page was dated April 14, 1853. Alana gasped. That was only ten days after she had been born. And then she saw what was written at the bottom of the page beneath the flowers.
To my darling Alana:
You haven't been here long, but I can't imagine life without you. You are the most precious blessing. I pray that your life will be a happy one, that you will never lack in anything. And know this, my dear little girl: Life is not always easy. In your days, you may encounter fear, and injustice, and isn't a rare thing in this world. But through everything, the dark and the light, even if we must be parted, you may rest in knowing that your mother will always love you. You will forever be in my heart, and I will be in yours. Wherever you go, I'll be there.
Love always,
Mother.
Tears streamed down Alana's face now as she read. This was something she had been needing for so long. She was so grateful to her aunt for showing her this book; as she read these words she felt closer to Una than she ever had since she died. Her hands went to the gold locket around her neck, and she rose and opened her window, looking up at the blue sky above. She wiped her tears away and smiled as she thought of her mother-an angel now, really-looking down on her from somewhere beyond the sky, smiling back at her with all the radiance of a thousand suns.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The night and day seemed to drag on forever, as Erik sat alone in the Giry apartment. He just lay there on the couch until the morning, unable to sleep at all. During the day, while Antoinette and Meg were gone, he paced the floor for hours, thinking. Every part of him wanted to go to the house where Christine lived, but he couldn't risk venturing outside while the sun still shone. Someone could recognize him. Then he had a terrible thought: what if he went to Christine, and she turned him in? She wouldn't…she couldn't…could she?
He couldn't know for sure.
She had betrayed him before, but at her father's grave, she had stopped the Vicomte from killing him. And surely, she wouldn't betray him a second time.
Maybe it was time to go back to the beginning. Maybe if he retraced their steps together, reliving their past experiences, he could erase the mistakes he'd made before, and Christine would choose him.
Oh what nonsense. You can't rewrite the past.
But he had to try something.
And so he took a pen and paper and began to write a note.
It had only been a day, but it seemed like a year had passed since he'd seen Alana last. As they headed to the sanctuary, Alana seemed unusually cheerful. She was telling him about a book of her mother's that she'd been given, full of pressed flowers, something he didn't think he'd ever seen before. Her hazel eyes shone as she spoke of the woman and her book, and he could see how glad she was that she had found it, and how much she had loved her mother.
"How happy for you," he said, lacking anything better to say. "Your mother was a good woman, was she not?'
"The best," was Alana's emphatic reply.
Erik nodded, trying to maintain his composure. Everything had gone numb all of a sudden, and bitter memories flooded his mind. A harsh voice shouting at him over and over and over again, hurting like the stinging slaps that rained down on his face. Cruel words creeping beneath his skin, whispering lies-or were they truths?-deep into his soul. No, not now. No more flashbacks. Not now. Not ever.
"Erik, what are you looking at?"
Alana's voice jolted him back to reality; he was sitting in a church with a beautiful young girl, such a contrast between what was happening now and what was going through his head. "…nothing." Was all he said.
"Oh. All right." She paused for a moment and set her sheet music on the piano. "You know, I've never heard you say anything about your mother before. Where is she now?"
He just shook his head. "I don't know. I don't want to talk about her." He closed his eyes and fought off the painful flashbacks. "Let's get on with the lesson."
"Scales, then?" Alana was looking at him, and it was obvious she wasn't thinking about music either. Concern for him, as usual, was written all over her face, and there was something else there too, something he didn't recognize. But in time both of them pushed all other thoughts aside, and they were lost in the music together.
Erik's pocket watch read two o'clock when he left the church. Shrouded in his black cloak, he was invisible in the dark empty streets as he made his way back to Parc de Seigneurs. But instead of stopping at the Marquis' house, he walked past it, moving between the trees that surrounded the Parc, keeping out of the sight of the soldiers who patrolled the streets here.
The night was dark, and he couldn't see the stars. The only light came from the street lamps standing at every corner.
At last, he came to the house at the very end of the Parc. It was not quite as spectacular as the Bellamy house, but it was as tall as the old trees that flanked it, and it was beautifully designed. What made this particular property stand out from the rest, though, was the massive iron fence that surrounded it. It must have been at least twice his height, with solid metal bars close together, almost completely obscuring the front garden from view. The giant fence was unsightly, the only eyesore in the entire Parc. But the address was correct. This was where the Vicomte de Chagny lived. Where Christine lived.
Behind these prison walls.
He had to find a way inside. Erik moved closer to the fence and peered between the metal bars. Two hulking watchdogs were stretched out by the front door, asleep. He hadn't planned on entering through the front, but he wondered if there were more watchdogs on the grounds. He would have to be even more quiet now.
Erik went around back, and took in his surroundings. He was standing beneath several tall trees, one of which had branches that just barely reached over the fence. He pulled himself up into that tree, and for the first time he was able to get a clear look at the house and garden. The grounds were immaculately cared for, with countless flowers blooming here and there, amongst topiaries and ornate, sparkling fountains. It was a beautiful place, really, but marred by the ugliness of the iron fence.
He edged along the branch that hung over into the garden. There were no dogs on this side, and the windows of the house were darkened. All was still. He let himself drop off the branch, and after a second of freefall, his feet landed on the grass with a thud. His pulse quickened, the sudden sound ringing in his ears, but nothing happened, and he knew no one had seen or heard him. He stole quickly across the garden, trying to come up with a plan. What was wrong with him? He always had a plan, but tonight, he was clueless, and had no idea what would happen.
Erik paused, his back against the wall of the house. He wiped the cold beads of sweat off his forehead, and waited until his pulse slowed, making himself focus on the task at hand. His gaze fell upon a fairly tall tree that stood nearby, growing past the second story of the house, its branches not too far from a large balcony.
Soon he was climbing up that tree, balancing his weight carefully on the smaller, narrower branches beneath his feet. The limbs didn't grow as close to the balcony as he would have liked; he was going to have to jump. He balanced himself firmly on the branch he stood on, looked with a calculating eye at the balcony ahead of him, and then he leapt.
For a single moment, it felt like he was flying. The wind had picked up, and it seemed to push him along, his cape billowing out around him like a strange set of wings. But then there was the hard stone of the balcony beneath him, and Erik's heart beat faster yet again. He dared to glance at the doorway to the room that opened out into this space. The door stood ajar, revealing a large, well-lit and finely decorated room. He couldn't see anyone there, but he didn't want to take any chances. Hurriedly, he pulled the envelope from the inside of his jacket. He was searching for the perfect place to leave it when he suddenly heard a sound from inside the house like the opening and closing of a door.
Immediately Erik backed into the corner, out of sight of whoever was inside. He kept listening, and picked up the faint sound of footsteps coming closer. He glanced upwards. Luckily for him, the roof was just a short leap up from where he stood. He pulled himself quickly onto the roof and moved back a ways. Lying flat against the slate underneath his cloak and the cover of darkness, he was near invisible. He clutched the envelope to his chest as he waited to see who would come out onto the balcony.
He heard her before he saw her.
That sweet, clear soprano voice that had been inside his head since the first moment he'd heard it.
Instantly he knew she was singing "Think of Me," the first aria she'd ever sung in front of a full audience. One of his favorite songs of all time.
And then, she came out onto the balcony, and Erik's heart melted.
There she was.
Seeing her, hearing her, was like a drink of water after being lost in the desert, like a feast after a famine. Now that she stood so near, he realized how much he'd truly missed her. His chest felt like someone had stuck a knife through it. He wanted to leap down from the roof and take her in his arms, bring her away from this place, but he knew he couldn't just yet. He lay there, quietly, looking down on her and listening to her sing; the notes of her song seemed to dance through the night air.
She was so beautiful. Her dark curls were loose, tumbling down the back of an exquisite blue gown studded with jewels. Christine was standing near the balcony's edge, looking out at the garden, and up at the night sky with its invisible stars, hidden by the dark clouds. Then, she turned, and he could see her face. Skin like porcelain. Deep brown eyes. How he loved her.
But there was something wrong. Her eyes held a great sadness. She stopped singing, and knelt on the stone, bringing up her hands and hiding her face. From the rise and fall of her shoulders, he could see she was weeping. His heart broke for her.
Then he saw her wipe the tears from her face, and she rose to her feet and looked again to the sky.
"All I want is freedom, a world with no more night…"
Erik's fists clenched. The words she sang now filled him with pain, reminding him of one of the worst nights of his life, when he'd stood on the roof of the Opera House and watched Christine fall in love with another man. For a moment, he considered tearing up the letter and throwing the pieces into the wind, but he refused to let it go, holding it close to his heart.
"Christine?" called out a familiar voice. The sound was like a rush of poison entering Erik's veins. The world around him started spinning, his fists clenching and unclenching as violent thoughts of rage filled his mind. He was seeing red, and he wanted to see more. He wanted to see the Vicomte's blood spill out onto the stone, wanted to laugh as he watched him die.
But something was holding him back. A voice somewhere beyond the rage, telling him to stay where he was. To be calm. There has been enough blood. The last thing you want to do is take another life.
And so he just lay there, wrestling with his thoughts, as he watched the man he hated most in all the world come out onto the balcony.
"What are you doing out here so late?" he asked, bewilderment all over his face. As it usually was.
Christine hesitated for a moment, glancing out beyond the garden walls. "I was just…thinking."
The Vicomte laughed. "Little Lotte thought of everything…"
"…and nothing," she muttered distantly.
"Come with me, Christine," the man said, putting his arm around her. It was all Erik could do not to scream with rage. He wanted to leap down from the roof and throw the Vicomte off the balcony. "I can see you're tired. You need rest. Besides, this night air isn't good for you." Christine nodded slowly in agreement and she went off with her husband, disappearing from Erik's sight.
He heard the door close behind them, loud and hard, like it had been slammed shut in his face. Then he waited for what seemed like forever, until he felt certain it would be safe to move. He slowly inched forward, and dropped the envelope, watching it flutter to the balcony, landing directly by the door. Immediately, he jumped down from the roof and into the nearby tree, climbing down into the garden.
This time, he would not be able to climb a tree and over the fence. He would have to pick the lock on the back gate. After shooting a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure the watchdogs were far away, he took a pick from inside one of his jacket pockets and fiddled with the lock until it opened. He pushed the gate forward slightly, almost cringing at the expectation of hearing a terrible creak. But it was silent. Obviously the gate was a new construction. He moved through the gateway, locked it again, and closed it. The lock came back into place with a hideously loud clank. Immediately the watchdogs started barking, and he heard them running across the garden towards the gate.
But by the time they got there, the Phantom was long gone.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
"What's wrong?" Raoul was asking her, though she could scarcely understand or hear a word he said above the melodies in her head. The music filled her thoughts day and night, and she could think of little else. She wanted to be a part of it, to be completely consumed by that world, and yet it terrified her more than anything.
"I don't know…" she said, unsure of what to say. "I suppose…maybe I just miss things."
"Like what?" Raoul raised an eyebrow suspiciously. Lately, he hadn't seemed quite himself either, always on edge, and he wouldn't let her out of his sight for a minute.
"I miss my old life, at the Opera House…" she trailed off a little as the memories came rushing to her. "My friends, dancing, singing…"
"But you have all those things here," he said, rather confused, a bit offended even.
"I know," Christine said. "And I love it here. Honestly I do. But I can't help but think of all those days…and nights…" she stopped mid-sentence again, her thoughts far away.
"You would do well to put those memories out of your mind," Raoul told her. "I can see they're upsetting you. And all I want is for you to be happy." He pulled her close and wrapped her in his arms. She buried her face in his shoulder.
"Will I ever be free of him?"
She couldn't stop the words from coming. Raoul held her even tighter and said softly, "You will. I know it. And maybe sooner than you think."
The thought filled her with relief, and utter despair. Raoul let go of her and said, "Wait right here. Rest a while. I'll bring you a little chamomile tea, and then we can both try and get some sleep tonight." There was a smudging of purple under his eyes. He was weary as well.
Christine sank into a velvet armchair, staring at herself in the large mirror that hung on the wall above an old mahogany bureau. She hardly recognized herself anymore. She looked beautiful, with her expensive clothes and jewelry and cosmetics, but she felt as though she were looking at a different person. She gazed for the longest time into the mirror, searching for something beyond the surface.
Her heart stopped when she saw a glimmer of white in the reflection.
But then there was nothing. She got up and ran to the mirror, looking at every inch, pushing and pulling at it. But it was simply a pane of glass in a gilt frame, and there was nothing there. She turned her attention to the room itself-nothing was different. And then her eyes strayed to the balcony.
There was something on the ground that hadn't been there before.
Probably just a piece of rubbish, blown in by the wind, she thought as she went to the door for a closer look She opened the door and bent down to pick up what was not a piece of rubbish, but a small, white envelope.
Suddenly, she heard a faint clang, like the closing of the gate. She ran to the side of the balcony and looked out into the garden. The dogs had started barking furiously and were barreling towards the gate, but there was nothing there but silence and darkness.
Perhaps it had been nothing.
Perhaps it had been a ghost.
In her current state of mind, she half expected the envelope she held to bear the ghastly red skull-faced seal she and many others had come to dread, but this one was totally unmarked. With trembling hands, she opened it, pulling out a slip of paper and unfolding it. The lamps burning in the room behind her gave her enough light to read the words.
Angel of music, how I've fallen.
Now life is naught but darkness.
Angel of music, I betrayed you
With my evil and lies.
Forgive me now love, I beg you.
I'm tormented by my own sin.
When you left me in the shadows,
Did you forget me then?
Angel of music, I'm a monster.
But please know that one thing is true
All that I did, be it good or evil
Was done because I love you.
You are my angel of music.
Forgive me, my angel of music
I need you, angel of music.
Return to me, angel of music.
As Christine's eyes moved across the dark lines of hastily penned words, she knew immediately who had written them. She could hear the Phantom's voice in her head, smooth and deep, but breaking with emotion. She could feel his despair, his self-loathing and loneliness. And she could feel the love he still had for her. Christine longed to read the letter over and over again, but she quickly went inside and hid it in the bureau, and none too soon, for just after she'd closed the drawer, Raoul came into the room with a cup of tea on a porcelain saucer, smiling at her.
Inside her heart was breaking, but a smile spread across her face as well, and she sat and sipped the tea with him. They talked of pleasant things and laughed, while beneath her calm façade Christine's world was in chaos.
The Phantom of the Opera was here…and not just inside her mind.