A/N: Primmadonna28- Thank you for the review! :)
Today marks the last day of summer for me, meaning that tomorrow I'll be starting my senior year of high school. I don't know if I'll be able to update as often during the school year, but I'll try my hardest! Thank you guys for sticking with me, and to those that are recently following/faving, welcome aboard!
Now (finally), an Erik/Christine chapter…
Chapter Ten
She knew she was dreaming.
Why, then, did she persist in the realm of make-believe? Why did she let her eyes stay firmly shut, her mind darkened by the curtain of sleep, her mind immobile and helpless to dream's grip?
And as she watched herself walk along a hazy arm of sand, which yawned far beyond her span of vision, she couldn't wrest herself free of the dream. To her left flank, a thrumming ocean. To her right, a simpering boy. She watched herself cock her head to the right, where the pearlescent dawn spilled over the rocks and crags beyond, and face the lad who had stopped to truly look at her.
They went on like this, residing in a bleak silence, until a black gale came and wrenched her scarf away and out into the dregs of the sea. The boy shot past her, shucking off his shoes, shedding his little coat. Her heart lurched as drove himself brazenly within the salty clutches of the waves, becoming no more than a part of the ocean that thrashed and hammered at the bank.
Then in a series of twitching, half-suspended images, the waves curled like battered pages from the fringes of the horizon. The sky lost its color, its feeling. The dawn fell away, plunging her into a pewter enigma. A pall of black clouds bled across the sky, shoving and pushing against each other till they formed the facade of a leering mask.
The waves toppled over one another, gaining precious momentum, heightening the girl's fear. A scream (a feral, crackling thing) wrenched past her lips to crest on the waves until it was swallowed by the alloy of screeching wind and unfeeling water.
And still, the boy didn't surface.
The girl lunged toward the shore, but could go no farther than the soupy sand beneath her feet. A howling tempest clawed at her wild hair, at her skirts, till she wore gnawed holes of dour gray wool. The suggestion of sharp waves pressed on, and still she screamed his name, though she knew the dream was but a nightmare.
When she did indeed wake, it was with an instinctive jolt.
Christine laid there, her eyes wide, probing the gloom. She sat up stiffly, drawing her knees to her chest, and ignored the stab of hot, angry pain that radiated across her palm from the bandaged wound upon her hand. A candle had been lit in her slumber, and a sickly ball of light illuminated a small portion of the bedchamber. Her eyes, rapacious and indeed deprived of light, devoured the feeble gold flame with the fervency of a half-starved wolverine. She let the light enter. Let it sear her vision, her core, till she was sated.
A low clearing of the throat caused her to leap again. This time, she clutched at the fringes of the bed, at the duvet that spilled and tumbled over like waves.
Waves of the callous ocean, laced with innocent blood…
Christine glanced to the threshold; there was that pallid half mask, glaring at her from the swath of shadow. She pressed the curve of her spine against the headboard and watched her host (if he could truly be called such a generous title) slink in. With a flicker of shock, she noticed that his hands were not barren. Instead, he carried with him a gilded tray, which he softly and deftly slide across the side table for her to peruse.
She gazed upon the contents: a tawny crepe sprawled across the platter, bulging with edible contents unknown. Christine glanced to the Phantom, who had been watching her with an unwavering expression of curious intensity.
He waved his hand at the selection in a flourishing gesture, saying, "It is a crepe, mademoiselle, stuffed to the brim with egg and Mornay sauce. It is not poison."
After a swallowed bite of the food, she ventured, "So you are a head chef, then. Or perhaps only a sous chef?"
The crease on his upturned brow deepened in amusement.
"Ah, so you are only a mere scullery maid," Christine continued on, holding the crepe aloft. "Well, then, you've quite the culinary talent for such a low-ranking employee."
"A scullery maid? That is quite the insult toward my expertise." The Phantom's mouth quirked upward, if only for a second, into a vague smile. "I had the kitchen prepare it." At the tilt of her head, he said, "I've an accomplice above that follows through with my more elaborate cuisine-related demands." He gesticulated far off, beyond the bedchamber. "I've a food reserve set aside for simple fare."
As she nodded in silence, Christine's eyes wandered back to the dish before her. "Do you remember, then?"
"Remember what? I beseech clarity, mademoiselle."
She turned up her face to him, her dark eyes stretched wide in nostalgic wonder. "When I was but twelve years old, and Meg and I snuck into the kitchen to steal the crepes the chefs had prepared for the wretched La Carlotta...and I had simply adored the thought of the crepes, the texture, but it tasted rather bitter with that awful guilt in my stomach. So I confessed to you, and though you scolded me for my wrongdoing, I distinctly remember that you and I shared quite the laugh at besting Carlotta." Christine's mouth parted, and she whispered, "Do you remember that?"
"Yes," he sighed out, his voice drawn far away at a distant shore she had no means in which to reach. "I remember…" After a second or two, his eyes scintillated with remembrance and delight as he said, "Carlotta was quite irate when she had to settle with the company's days' old stew for supper."
"She was more so irate when she discovered her dish had been occupied by a most disagreeable toad," Christine chirped, allowing herself another bite of the delectable crepe.
"Ah, yes. The toad. That was entirely my doing. I thought she might desire a companion that mirrored her likeness."
Christine laughed breezily. "I pitied the toad."
"So did I. He was a martyr to us all."
They remained there for a moment, suspended in comfortable silence, while smiles threatened and the gray clouds from earlier scattered and faded.
The Phantom cleared his throat, shifted his weight. "In reference to the she-devil…she has returned to take your place."
Christine stiffened. The dismal clouds returned, tenfold.
"I have also sent up a number of notes in reference to this, among other things, and it is within the best interest of everyone that my demands go heeded."
"What...what did the notes say?" she whispered.
"The details are superfluous," he replied. "In short, they were amiable...detailing how this theater is to be run."
"Who did you address the notes to?"
"The managers, La Carlotta herself, the Vicomte…" he noticed the change of emotion across her gaze; he scowled darkly and said, "You spoke of him in your sleep. You called out his name."
"Did I?" Christine blinked, stupefied. With a shudder, flashes of the dreams came back, crashing down upon her memory like the very waves that consumed Raoul.
"It was quite vexing, hearing that irritating name being spoken. I had to cease my composing because of it."
At the accusing glower he fixated her with, Christine felt a surge of shame sweep across her neck, her cheeks. He stared at her fixedly, as if working an imaginary spike of blame and rage through the worried skin between her widening eyes.
"What's the matter with the Vicomte?" Christine rasped, careful to stray from using the familiar name.
"He's a bumbling fool without a shred of knowledge of the arts, with an insatiable credence for his blind justice," the ghost before her replied smoothly. "He does not belong here. He's not suitable for this theater...or any of its members…"
He continued to glare at her once more. Christine felt any modicum of her confidence shrivel and dangle sadly within her chest. Trembling, she set down her plate.
"You shall take back your rightful place as prima donna," he urged, fleeing from the other subject as quick as the motion of a switch on a railroad. "But we've only a small matter of time to prepare you. Until then, you shall remain here, where we can focus on your vocal training and stage presence. I found it quite lacking whilst Hannibal."
"What was so very errant with my performance, my infallible Maestro?" Christine asked, her irritation spiking. She hadn't done so bad, had she?
His brow quirked, but otherwise he revealed nothing more. "There was a stoop to your shoulders I found rather distracting, your cadenza was far too staccato, and you desperately need an added strength behind your voice." He pursed his lips, then added, "And you hardly moved. You were no more than a doll."
Fuming, she took up a pillow in her fist, squeezing till her hands quavered with unrestrained wrath. "It was my debut! I was frightened, and I had little time to prepare!"
"An actress must always be able to utilize the skill of improvisation. The theater is an ever-changing craft." His eyes traveled the length of her form, and with a smirk he said, "Yes, my dear, your improvisation needs refinement."
She hurled the satin bolster at him, where it reeled past his head in a colorful whirl of garish maroon and vermillion.
He merely turned to watch, aplomb, as it whistled beyond. He pivoted back to her, smirking frostily. "...Much refinement."
"Why are you suddenly so cruel and cold? One moment, you're healing my wounds," she held up her bandaged palm, "then the next, you're taunting me with bitter words and an unfaltering sneer." She shuddered back onto the duvet, glaring up at him from beneath her fan of dark lashes. "This isn't my Angel of Music."
"Precisely. I'm no angel."
"Tell me, then, what's got you so capricious and cool! There must be something that's a bur to you. Before, you were so very…very..."
"Charming? Seductive?" he finished wryly.
She parted her lips, whispering, "Warm."
With a sigh laden with a kaleidoscope of emotion, his shoulders slumped till they caught an irregular band of curving shadow, highlighting the broadness of his chest, the narrowness of his waist. "It's because of the mannequin." He strode forward a few steps, moving as if liquid, and clasped his hands behind his back. "It is because of your reaction alone."
"When I fainted?"
He nodded brusquely.
"But I don't—"
"The mannequin is merely representative of...of eternal devotion, your eternal devotion to music. From your faint, I had assumed you'd been repulsed by such implications." He swallowed roughly, averting his stare.
"But the mannequin...it looked so soulful and real..."
"Exactly. The expression was meant to convey that very devotion to song."
Not entirely convinced, Christine allowed herself a nod and took up the crepe again. "Very well, if that is all it is about."
With a bow, he turned from her, yet paused to hover in the wide arch of the threshold. "We shall begin practice tomorrow, at dawn."
And so he left her again, alone and with that same feeling of helpless wondering.
A/N: Reviews are always appreciated!