Christine de Chagny sat on a large flat-faced rock overlooking the beach at Perros-Guirec. As it had so many times in the past, the combination of the sea salt air and her red scarf billowing around her calmed her, grounded her.
And she had something else to ground her now, too.
She studied the blue diamond ring on her finger. The gold wedding band.
A grateful smile settled on her lips.
She'd been married little over a month now. Married to a man with eyes bluer and brighter than the diamond she stared at now.
Meditating on such ridiculously maudlin and wonderful thoughts took her mind off the black mourning gown she wore and why she wore it.
The sound of footsteps on the sand behind her didn't make her jump so violently anymore. She knew that it was Raoul.
She turned to see him approach her, the man living sunlight on this darkening evening.
Without saying a word he sat beside her on the rock, rubbing her arm.
They stared silently at where the sunset dyed the water a deep maroon on the horizon.
"How are you feeling, love?" He asked at last.
She laid her head lazily on his shoulder. "Oh, a little better, I suppose." She fiddled carelessly with the loose threads on her scarf. "Better now that the crowd's gone away."
Raoul was quietly amused at what his introverted wife deemed a "crowd": Mamma Valerius's funeral had only been attended to by a very small portion of her surviving family, about ten in all. The old woman had insisted in her will on being buried in Perros next to her husband in the same cemetery Christine's father rested in. She also dictated that she'd hate a mob at her funeral and only wanted a select few. Her sister Idalia, deeply senile now, often interrupted the ceremony by asking wherever the waiter was with her hot chocolate.
Madame Valerius left the house in Perros to Idalia but with the stipulation Christine should take over once Mamma's older sister passed. Her home in Paris she left to Christine, along with the rest of her fortune, except enough to keep Idalia comfortable in her waning years.
Tears stung Christine's eyes as she thought how she'd never had the chance to really say goodbye to her foster mother. She'd written to her after she and Raoul arrived and married in a private ceremony in Perros, and she received a lovely long letter from the old woman sending her love and high hopes for her beloved adopted daughter's future. She hoped to join them soon.
A month later the telegram arrived from the doctor announcing that Madame Carina Valerius had died peacefully in her sleep.
Raoul worried about the cumulative effect on Christine. She still suffered nightmares about the events in Paris with the Phantom, and those memories combined with the loss of Madame Valerius – the only living reminder of her father and her past outside Raoul – lent Christine a numbed air.
He hoped to distract her by showing her two letters in one envelope. "Little Meg has written. Madame Giry, too. Both express their regrets about not being able to come to the funeral."
Christine smiled sadly. "I've been expecting that. I don't blame them. They can't leave Paris, can they? Because of the police."
Raoul didn't answer, just rest his chin on top of her head. "Oh, Raoul," she sighed. "I feel it's all my fault somehow. I'd hate to think because of me the Girys are in trouble…."
"Hush now, you're not to blame. You're the one who saved everyone's hide if you ask me. Anyway, Madame Giry is a fighter, and our Flibbertigibbet shouldn't be underestimated either. They'll be fine, my love." He handed her one of the letters. "Meg says there's a special postscript for you at the back of the page."
Christine glanced over it. Then her smile reached her eyes. "Oh, that sweet thing. She explains briefly what she's been up to at the opera house – apparently she's turned herself and the ballet corps into seamstresses – and says she'll never mention him to me unless I give leave, but that he's fine and agrees to keep living."
Her eyes brimmed now with tears. "That dear Meg. I wish she was here…." Christine felt faintly rueful as she thought of her friend. In truth, she missed her painfully, more than she expected she would. Christine realized now that she – well, she couldn't say she ever took Meg for granted, but during everything that happened - the whirlwind romance with Raoul and the tragedy with the Angel - Christine had not sought out or thought of Meg as much as she maybe should have.
It was only now, away from her for the first time in three years (not counting the six months she spent with Raoul), that Christine felt the painful loss of her faithful friend by her side. She missed her support, her sweetness, her kind eyes and mischievous smile.
Once everything sorted itself out in Paris, Christine would invite Meg here, to the lodgings she and Raoul were renting.
Once everything was sorted….
Christine shivered and a tear escaped her.
Her Angel.
Her poor lost Angel of Music.
Thank God he'd agreed to live.
Thank God he now had the chance to maybe someday find happiness.
But….
In the meantime, what about her own nightmares, her fears someone was watching her?
She was still plagued by vague paranoia, and she feared how that might affect her marriage, her very life. She knew that the Angel would never stalk her again, and she felt overall more at peace about everything, but emotionally…emotionally there were still heavy traces of the old fear. That fear was proving a habit she could not yet fully break.
"Whenever all the memories of the past, of Paris become too much for me," she said in a faraway voice to Raoul now, "I think of that music box in the Phantom's lair. I've told you about it before, haven't I? The papier-mâché monkey with the velvet lining. The figurine of lead. It…I can't describe to you what comfort I take from thinking of it. Because…because…." She struggled to find the words. "Because it seemed to make the place so human. Jolly, even. When things threaten to become too dark around me, it reminds me that even there, beneath that black labyrinth, in that place of darkness, there lived a little papier-mâché monkey clanging his cymbals together to that silly little tune from Masquerade."
Raoul marveled at his wife's beauty, her spirit. As she spoke an odd light played in her expression, making those dark eyes sparkle warmly.
He couldn't help but crush her to his chest, laughing noiselessly at the surprised little sound she made.
It wasn't quite a lustful embrace – though both parties had come to thoroughly enjoy their conjugal rights – but it was both playful and achingly sincere.
He kissed her curly head. "You're my monkey music box," he announced, squeezing her.
Only he could make her laugh this way, like that graceless donkey from years ago. "My word! I don't know what to say."
He shrugged, raising his eyebrows. "I'm a romantic at heart, that's all."
She swatted him as he tickled her sides. She settled herself back into his arms. A few more quiet moments and then she said, "Have you written Roberte back yet?"
Laverne's letter had been the first to reach them soon after they married, full of the expected vitriol. She denounced him, saying she was in touch with her lawyers to disinherit him.
Yet now, only a day earlier, a tearful letter came from Roberte, Raoul's second sister. She missed her little brother, and was trying desperately to appeal to Laverne. If Roberte succeeded in softening Laverne to the extent of agreeing to speak to Raoul, wouldn't he agree to speak to her as well? Roberte wasn't promising any magical solutions, but she'd try anything.
However, Raoul shared his eldest sister's bullheadedness. He was on the verge of writing back that he would not deign to compromise with a woman who spewed such hatred at his wife, and that he was undoubtedly better off without such a millstone around his neck as Laverne.
Yet Christine's hand stilled him. Just as he was the only one who could make her laugh, she was the only one who could chip away at his ironclad stubbornness. She soon convinced him not to be too hasty – not to abandon family so easily, as she knew the pang of losing her own.
"Yes, I just sent a reply back." His face was grim. "I agreed to speak with Laverne, nothing more. But I doubt we'll get anywhere. Laverne will never agree to these terms."
Christine felt sad yet secretly relieved. She'd never met Laverne, but Raoul's descriptions were enough to make her frightened of the woman. She felt sure she'd never withstand the older woman's scrutiny.
Holding Raoul's hand, Christine reminded herself that it didn't matter. Raoul loves me, so who cares what the rest of his family thinks?
She glanced up and saw a look she easily recognized on his face. She couldn't easily name it, though…it was sort of a fierce meditation, an eagerness for the future, maybe….
"Something on your mind, dear?"
"Hm? Oh, I was just thinking…" He squinted toward the horizon. "About what to do with ourselves now."
Christine said nothing, just waited. She was so glad she had Raoul. She always dwelt so much – too much - on the past, while he thought of nothing but the future. He kept her looking forward while she reminded him not to forget what came before.
He spoke again. "You know…I hope you don't think me insensitive for saying this, but…when I helped the police organize the defense of the opera house…."
"Yes?"
"Well…I mean, I was very tense and worried for you throughout, of course…."
"Darling, please don't worry about offending me. I think I know what you're trying to say." She stroke his hand. "You enjoyed it, in a way. Working with the police. Is that it?"
He gave her a rueful and guilty smile. "Does that make me a rogue, Christine? Finding enjoyment at such a time?"
Her own smile was faintly impish. "Maybe. But I love you anyway." She pecked him on the cheek. "Go on, dear."
Confessing his enjoyment seemed to release a tension he was holding in. He visibly relaxed, his arm around her a tad looser. "It's just…I've come up with a vague plan that I think might do both of us a world of good. A change in scenery."
"Oh?"
"When was the last time you were in Uppsala, Christine?"
This question surprised her, and brought a wave of nostalgia. "Why, I haven't been back since I left at age ten!"
Raoul's voice was very quiet and even. "Would you like to go back again someday?"
Father. Sweden. Tears studded her eyes, but it was a genuine answer she gave in a voice husky with emotion. "Yes."
"I'm glad to hear that. Because I've been reading up on law enforcement in Sweden, in such cities as Uppsala. Apparently there are a lot of good people working to keep Sweden safe, but it's all a bit decentralized. They're working on changing that. Well, I've always been an organizer at heart, and now I have a taste for police work. Maybe I could help them, in my own way. I don't feel comfortable living off your inheritance from Madame Valerius, Christine. Maybe if I can wrangle a reference from the fire marshal and a few others in Paris…."
Christine's eyes were ecstatically bright. "You could…? We could…?"
Raoul laughed. "How would you feel living in Uppsala with a husband in the polisen? No promises, of course, it's just an idea. But what do you think?"
She could say nothing, but her little squeak of mirth as she threw her arms around his neck, almost knocking him off the rock, was answer enough.
Yet waiting for them when they arrived back at their lodging was a letter from Paris's law enforcement that had nothing to do with references.
The de Chagnys had been summoned back to Paris. The date for the inquest was set.