A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :-) I'm glad you all are enjoying the story so far. I really hate breaking away from Erik and Christine, but it is indeed a necessary action that must be taken (at times, at least). I'm really trying to make these chapters longer, but lengthy chapters have never been my forte. :( Sorry for any disappointments...
Chapter Nine
At night, the Opera House was something most fearsome.
When the last of the candles had been purged of flame, and the very dregs of the stagehands had retreated to repose or drink, the Opera Populaire was rent into a feral thing. Shadows twined along the walls like black spirits, snuffing out any hope of light. Creaks and moans prevailed those who dared tread lightly. All the while, creatures, both mysterious and known (for who could deny the distinct sound of a rat's claw upon stone, or a bird's beak upon wood?) were likely to be heard, but those that one couldn't quite identify—the ghostly, heart-wrenching melodies that wafted up from the pit of the earth—inspired a chill shiver, indeed. Perhaps those reasons alone were why many never ventured past rehearsal times. Or perhaps the reasons were something far more deadly.
Madame Giry made her way up the stairs, her gaslamp tucked within the shell of one pale, steady hand. She drew up the black wool serge of her skirts as she darted across the hall. A number of loges hugged the right: this geography she knew, for she had been in this region of the Opera House countless times before—and as she made her way to the infamous Box Five, she paid no heed to those indistinguishable sights and sounds—shadows, rats, birds, melodies.
She pushed aside the thick curtain of the box and stepped within. Hovering near the banister, she reeled round and placed her lamp upon the single side table that resided there. Her movements were slow and languid. Drawing the hood of her cloak down below her chin, she twisted the knob upon the gaslamp till the fire burgeoned into a bright sphere of yellow; shadows leaked along the deep creases of the crimson drapes while the light bounced off the edge of the table, probing groping fingers into the blackness.
As she straightened, stiffened, sighed, Madame Giry's heart leapt at the sight of two unblinking eyes fastening upon her from behind the edge of curtain.
"M-Maestro," she said, flattening herself against the balcony railing; she prayed this sudden movement came off to him as fluid rather than gauche; collected rather than sporadic. She dipped her head in a form of acknowledgment. "Good evening."
"Is that so, Madame?" the voice replied, low and rumbling and perhaps a bit deriding. "Is is truly such a 'good evening'?"
"I'm not sure I know what you mean," Madame Giry replied, her palm flattening out against the severe line of her somber basque.
Those eyes blinked once, twice, as if assessing her for any iota of ignorance. The curtain shifted and rustled as the Phantom slid out from behind it. "Do not put up a ruse of stupidity, Madame. You know what vexes me." He paused before adding, "And you're late."
Madame Giry shifted, agape. Who was he to accuse her of ruses, while he hid behind the mask? "It has been quite the hectic evening. Rehearsals had to extend far past their usual conclusion—"
"I'm aware. But it is well beyond midnight. Those rehearsals ceased an hour ago."
"I had private matters to attend to, Maestro," Madame responded, her lips quirking in terseness. With a bout of growing unease, she ignored the blaring fact that they had been conducting these nightly meetings for years now, and any tardiness on her part did little to please the ghost before her. She was rarely late.
"Matters with the damnable Vicomte?" his voice took on an irked edge.
"No," Madame Giry said. "I haven't seen him for hours."
"He was here today?" After her measured silence, he hissed, "Why was he here, woman?"
Her hand fluttered to her throat as her eyes traced the dazzling columns of the nude architecture twining around the house of the theater. Her voice stuck in her throat.
"Answer me!" he roared. His eyes narrowed behind the white outline of the mask.
She jolted. "He is our patron."
"'Our'," the Phantom spat the word back at her. The corner of his lip drew upward in a curve of a sneer. "I refuse to resign under that imbecile's name."
"He is the patron of this establishment," Madame Giry stated, folding her hands. "He has the right to come and go as he pleases, would you not agree?"
"No," the Phantom growled. "That fool hasn't half a clue about theater—or the arts, for that matter. He is a bumbling nuisance that uses precious oxygen for those who are truly deserving of it."
"He has good intentions."
The Phantom studied her, aloof and unmoving. "And just what are his intentions?"
"He endeavors in a valiant quest to find Christine Daae."
At this, the twin flames of the Phantom's eyes ignited till they seared the dark flesh of night—a bitter, pulsing rage battered against the veil of his bright irises. "What?"
"I said, 'he endeavors in a valiant quest'—"
The Phantom waved her words away till they suffused in the silence. "I heard you the first time!"
Madame Giry's lips twisted up into a wry smirk, which faltered and then vanished at the unraveling sight of him; on a norm, she would have indulged in her trifling efforts to irk him. At the kindled vision of him now, however, she knew it best to restrain. She cleared her throat. "I didn't reveal anything that would endanger your position."
His shoulders relaxed somewhat. "And what of Christine? What did you tell him of her?"
"I gave him enough to send him away blindly."
His body melded into contentment. "Good."
Madame Giry edged a bit closer, standing upon a precipice of courage. Or perhaps impertinence. She couldn't be certain. "And...what of Christine?"
The Phantom straightened, adjusting the lapels of his waistcoat. He glanced toward the light, then winced. "Turn that lamp down. That light is far too bright."
Madame Giry did as told, flexing the knob down so that the light haloed about them in a distant gleam. She pressed her hands, which she found perspiring and trembling, to her skirts and drew them down in a long beat of silence. "Meg has been rather worried about her friend, hounding me with questions over the disappearance. I don't think I can quite go along with answers of silence any longer." Madame Giry's voice constricted as she pressed, "What of Christine?"
"She is under studious and watchful care," the Phantom replied, huskily. His voice barely breached the wall of quiet.
Not nearly satisfied but knew she shouldn't persist, Madame Giry nodded slowly and stiffly. The movement was much like the immutable machine work of the wheeled contraptions—velocipedes—she'd rarely seen creaking about below the skirts of women at the Parc Monceau. She'd taken scant trips there, more often than not with Meg in tow, when her schedule (and salary) had allowed. There, they'd sit upon the banks of the lake, silently observing, and secretly envying, the finery of the women who'd pass by, each of their subjects twirling parasols and giggling impishly. Thinking of the voluptuous, billowing gowns of the society ladies, of the humble pastels and then the much bolder hues, her mind wandered to La Carlotta and a dread flooded her bones.
"There is something that you must know...about La Carlotta," Madame Giry whispered, swiveling back round from the sputtering lantern. As his brow raised in question, she swallowed roughly and said, "It seems your little prank from the other day was not enough to scare her—La Carlotta is rumored to return."
As her imposing ally's hands curled to fists, she said, "She is threatening Christine's recent stardom—but that shouldn't come as any trouble, considering that everyone thinks that Christine has gone missing."
The Phantom's glare hardened, but he ignored her quip. "If they think that squawking diva could possibly be of any value—"
"The managers are threatening to replace Christine." Madame Giry fixated him with a glower.
He addressed her, his eyes wide, his jaw slack. His fingers clenched and unclenched, as if deciding which position to take. Recovering himself, he strode forward till they were mere inches apart. "Tell them that if they go ahead with such a foolish decision, they will regret ever having step foot in the Opera House."
"With all respect, Maestro, I do think that it is perhaps going to take more than a verbal threat to stop the managers."
His fist came crashing down upon the banister, sending a violent report across the theater. "You will tell them!"
"...Yes, Maestro."
He lashed back round, the black of his cape whipping about his legs like a gale in a maelstrom. "I shall compose a number of letters, which you shall deliver to the managers. Within, they will find detailed instructions. Should they be ignored, I can assure you, Madame, that I will take actions."
An acute silence stretched taut before them. Madame Giry took up her light, brightening the wick till it radiated a steadfast sphere of light. She swung it ahead of her, level at her chin, and took to the threshold. She stopped, stooped her head, and inhaled. From her peripheral, she noticed the Phantom had slunk to the balcony, gripping it in both hands with the tenacious intent of a swordsman readying for a conflict; nay, conflict was too tenuous a word. A battle. His fingers flexed and twitched, his head low and mouth compressed.
Madame Giry squared her shoulders, steeling herself. She stuck the lantern out before her so that it blazed a brilliant inferno across the dark wall of his back. "My most skilled ballerina, Eloise Travere, had to be dismissed from the corps de ballet due to an injury to her foot." She paused for a moment, wavering over her words. "She was the best of her set, a valuable asset to the group. To the entire production. Do you know anything of the details of her unfortunate injury?"
There he remained, stiff and motionless, reigning above his Opera House with the vicious glower that raked across the night. Not a sound wrenched from his lips.
Yet his silence was answer enough.
With a heavy sigh, Madame Giry pulled up her hood, drew back her lamp so the light dared not touch the Phantom, and fled from Box Five.
A/N: I always enjoy writing the Madame Giry/Phantom dynamic.
As always, reviews are appreciated!