A commemoration of the day I first began this story... And the exorbitant happiness it has brought me since. Much has changed, but you have always been constant. May we continue to move forward, and learn, and grow, and love, together. You are dearest to me of all the world (and all its wonders).
For my brother, for he is a bottomless wealth of inspiration from which I constantly draw. Thank you.
Also, thank you to my reviewers, as always! Your kindness motivates me endlessly.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera. If I did, we'd have seen a better Love Never Dies.
Important Note: Translations of the French used will be given at the bottom of the chapter. Merci!
Dear Madame Giry,
I am in need of 47 yards of
the costume department's
finest white silk. 28 yards
of silk taffeta of the same
colour would be greatly
appreciated. If any
embroidered net can be
found, please be sure to
add that to the pile.
You wouldn't happen to
have any ivory buttons,
would you?
Your Obedient Servant,
O.G.
Meg hobbled into the room and dropped an enormous pile of white cloth at the foot of Erik's desk chair with a huff. The stack came up well past the dancer's knees. Erik rose from his desk, his eyes lighting up with a wicked glint.
"Eeeexcellent," he crowed, kneeling to sift through the pile. "Thank you," he added quickly to answer Meg's sarcastically jutting hip.
"Mom wants to know how many ivory buttons you need."
"Oh, I don't know... A dozen at least for the bodice, and if there are any extras, I'd love to have two on the sleeves..."
"What on earth are you making?!"
A warm smile passed over Erik's face as he glanced over at the mannequin he kept opposite the organ, which had Christine's head upon its shoulders. "I have a project, remember?"
"YOU'RE MAKING A FUCKING WEDDING DRESS, AREN'T YOU."
"Maybe."
"WHY?!"
"I want to."
"HAVE YOU ANY IDEA HOW CREEPY THAT IS?!"
"Quit yelling at me! I just want to create this. Something for her. Something tangible, something that... Maybe someday... She could..." He lowered his eyes.
Meg sighed. "Do you even have her measurements?
Erik nodded. "Waist 27, bust 35, hips 32."
"WHAT DID YOU DO, MEASURE HER IN HER SLEEP?!"
"COSTUME DEPARTMENT, MEG!"
"Oh."
"I'm not THAT creepy!" He stood up to examine a length of eggshell-colored silk in the light. "Do you think this complements her complexion?"
"OH, FOR FUCK'S SAKE." Meg threw her hands in the air and stalked back out the way she came.
Erik smirked beneath his mask, and shook out the expanse of cloth.
Alexandre stood with averted eyes and trembling hands, which were balled into fists at his sides. Before him stood his best friend, the son of the man who had gotten him into the theatre department.
"She can help me," Duront insisted, oblivious to the expression on Alexandre's face. "If I know she's waiting for me, I can give up the alcohol for good."
Alexandre closed his eyes. "It wasn't so easy for you before."
"I didn't know her before."
Duront's friend flinched. "You love her."
A silence passed between them. Alexandre opened his eyes.
"I'm not sure yet," Duront hedged, "but she makes me incredibly happy. She's the only one who really, truly seems to get me. I just want to spend all of my time around her."
"The only one who seems to get you?" Alexandre repeated in furious disgust. "We've known each other for ten years, Duront! Ten long years! Why don't you tell her about your substance abuse, and then see how much she 'gets' you?!" And with that, Alexandre spun on his heel and left his best friend alone for the first time he could remember. He ran from the small practice room without looking back, and kept running until his body hit the door of the dormroom he shared with Duront. The impact sent a shudder through the doorframe. He fought to force his key into the knob with blurry eyes, and, when it unlocked for him at last, he turned around to face the hall, half hoping and half afraid.
No one had followed him.
No one cared.
Alexandre burst through the door, and broke.
"I heard Monsieur Lefevre has a mistress far away, and he'll be leaving next month to run away with her!"
"I heard he threw a man in the Seine, and has to escape the cheif inspector by fleeing to Australia!"
"Australia! That's ridiculous!"
"It's the ghost, that's why he's leaving!"
Hushed whispers of "The ghost, the ghost!" rippled fervently through the group of ballet girls just as a flustered-looking Meg entered the break rooms.
"Meg! Meg!" they cried. "Tell us about the ghost again!"
Meg's face twisted. In her younger days, she used to tell stories about Erik to her friends in the corps de ballet. It had been fun then, seeing their wide, terrified eyes begging for more. But the more stories they demanded, the more tedious it became. Erik had assured her it was fine, that it even helped his reputation, but Meg had just become bored with it... However, now a new sort of light was in their eyes, brightened with the fever of fear and mystery. Perhaps she had missed this game, if only a little.
"Tell us, Meg!" breathed Catherine. "Tell us why Monsieur Lefevre is leaving!"
Ah, it made sense now.
"YES," Meg cried, causing the dancers to jump back in startled delight. "It was the OPERA GHOST!" She spun around dramatically, and her friends huddled about her in a semi circle, some sitting, some murmuring in excitement, all expecting a story. Meg skulked toward the curtains, her eye on the rope holding one side away from the window. "With his burning eyes a hellish yellow, he STALKS about the Opéra Populaire..." She dashed the rope from the curtains, plunging the room into darkness and quickly tying a noose just the way Erik had taught her, "...Searching for VICTIMS to HANG!" She whipped forth the impromptu noose, shaking it at the ballerinas, who screamed at the sight in the shadows. She threw back her head and cackled evilly, prancing back to her story-telling spot. "He is here at every moment, watching... Waiting..." Swaying the rope slowly back and forth, she approached the dancers with a dangerous stealth, "... For the RIGHT MOMENT to STRIKE!" She swung the end of the noose out, earning more shrieks from her audience. The thrill of performing added fire to Meg's heart, evident in her hushed, passionate voice and catlike movements. "Monsieur Lefevre- bless his soul- tried to REASON with the OPERA GHOST!"
"Oh no!" they gasped amongst themselves.
"The INFAMOUS OPERA GHOST tried to WARN him!" Meg cried, throwing her arms wide. "But we all know what happens when those WARNINGS go UNHEEDED!"
"The lasso, the lasso!" they hissed to one another.
The storyteller dropped her voice to a deadly whisper. "That's right," her breath sang, and what little light broke from beneath the drawn curtains caught her every feature in wicked flame. "The LASSO!" And with a mad lunge she cast the rope upon the corps de ballet!
Wild screams were hurled at every wall as the dancers leapt up to throw the noose off of themselves. Above every shriek rang Meg's laughter, delighted and cruel and triumphant.
"How do you know so much about the ghost?" asked one lass, a younger one with curly red hair.
"Because I have seen him," she revealed in a darkened tone, leaning forward as if confiding a great secret. "In these very halls, I have seen him." Every dancer found themselves drawn to her magnetic words as if by gravity, or magic.
"Is he as ugly as they say?"
"He is a monster!" Meg's cry shattered the intensity to reveal a new state of electrified excitement which buzzed throughout the room. "A monster with a face as wicked as his heart, clad in black from head to foot, black to match his soul! He would have killed me if I had not kept my hand at the level of my-"
The space was abruptly flooded with light from the gas lamps on the walls. Madame Giry stood at the doorway, one hand on the lamp dial, the other on her iconic cane. Her stern gaze seemed to burn into each of the ladies' downcast eyes.
"We must be wary of the Opera Ghost," she stated in her commanding voice, returning her hand to the cane. "He is to be respected, and obeyed."
The energy had died with the darkness, and now the group scattered like rats, in all different directions. Only Meg stayed still until all the girls had gone.
"Sixteen. He wanted sixteen of those buttons." Why did Meg feel sick to her stomach?
Madame Giry's stony expression did not waver as she turned the lights out, and left.
"Vezzoso e bello," Christine muttered beneath her breath. She glanced from her music to write the lyrics in her journal, a fountain pen pinched between her fingers and her shoulders hunched over a desk. The Angel had given her a new aria, and she wanted to have the lyrics memorized by that evening's lesson. "Va, Godendo" was a lovely, springy piece that seemed to suit her perfectly, right to the highest note. She loved the bright pieces which made her want to dance, and she felt that her teacher knew she did. That's why he always gives me the prettiest ones, she thought, charmed and almost smug. Her repertoire since meeting the Angel of Music had vastly increased from the little songs she used to sing with her father. The Angel had given her confidence. The best she could do in return was to work her hardest on the music he gave her. That always seemed to please him. But the thought abruptly occurred to her... Was there something else she could do to make him happy? Something besides music? I don't even know that much about him, she realized, startled. She imagined herself asking the Angel that night, and icy shards of fear collected in her stomach. It seemed too much of a risk. But then, what was she risking? Her head hurt, and Christine decided to think about it later. She resumed her work. "Lieto al mare correndo va..."
Yes, this was it. On his knees, Erik tossed some blue prints, a lamp shade, and an emergency candelabra over his shoulder to reach waaaay under the bedroom desk he never used to grab his sewing machine and drag it out. With a big gust of air he blew off the dust and brushed away the grime in order to read the name: Wheeler & Wilson. Oh, yes. This'll do.
Meg breezed into her dormroom, where Christine was still busily writing down lyrics into her worn red journal full of songs and monologues.
"Rehearsal in ten," Meg reminded her, opening the closet.
"Oh!" Christine dropped her pen, splattering ink on the page, and pushed away from the desk to don her costume.
"Can you believe the show opens two weeks from tomorrow?"
Christine closed her eyes and wagged her head. The Gala night was too fast approaching, as was the month's end. In three weeks, the show was still imperfect; it seemed as if Madame Giry was never happy, and Piangi's strong point definitely was NOT remembering blocking. But of course the instrumentalists were perfect. The instrumentalists were ALWAYS perfect.
"I feel like if we can't get the Lover's Lament scene right, Mom will have our heads."
"I hate that scene," Christine said abruptly.
"Why?"
"It's... I don't know. She sings too much. Those high notes she sings with the male dancer, she never gets the right support. She breathes from her chest, and she's supposed to breathe from here." Christine placed a hand on her abdomen. "It's as if she never trained with a professional. She's supposed to BE a professional and I bet she doesn't even know what her diaphragm is! Lover's Lament is worse than Think of Me. She forces the poor man to follow her lead when it's all about surrendering who you are to who you truly love, even though you can't be together. She has no idea about the power in silence, and Lover's Lament just really grates on my nerves because no one's got the gall to tell her she doesn't have the heart of a singer... What?"
Meg was looking at Christine with her face twisted in shock. "I think that's the most you've ever spoken aloud."
"I'm passionate," she puffed, sitting on the bed to lace the boots she'd wear to the dressing rooms.
"How did you know all that? We've been taking the same classes together for as long as I can remember and I didn't know half of that." Meg held her breath, wondering if Christine would tell her the truth.
She blushed deeply, and muttered that she'd picked it up from books and listening to directors.
Meg sighed.
If you walked into Erik's lair, you would not find Erik. Erik was buried under so much paper, and cloth, and lace, and pencils, that he could not be seen. In fact, the only clue that Erik existed in there at all could be detected by the hushed, irritated muttering which fluttered the edges of paper near his face, and perhaps, if you were really quiet, the scratches of pencil on paper. He wasn't entirely sure how he ended up under a pile of pre-wedding dress, but there he was, shifting through mismatched patterns that he liked and scrawling new ones as he pleased. Making notes and adding on notes and trying not to tear the pattern paper and pinning swatches of silks and embroidered net. There was no way he'd make it to Christine's rehearsal today. Her loveliness would last forever, he reasoned to himself, and this dress needed to be finished by the month's end. It had to be sleek and chic and magnifique, and it had to be bold and completely unique. His main problem was design. He'd spent God knows how many years pent up beneath the opera house; the last semblance of non-theatrical wear he'd seen had been in the 1860s at the latest, and he hadn't exactly been invited to many wedding celebrations to know much about bridal style. But he'd seen A Midsummer Night's Dream and The Marriage of Figaro enough times to conjure up an idea of what he wanted, and what he thought Christine might like. He couldn't see the dress in his head yet, finished and perfect, but he could see her. He could see her wild curls and sweet, blushing smile. It made his grasp on reality weaken around his heart, as if allowing it to beat more distinctly in his chest.
Soon. The word had taken on new meaning. He'd been hoping for this for years, and yet somehow, the day had come too soon. Maybe if he'd had longer to plan, he would feel more prepared by Hannibal's opening night. But now he was pressed, terribly pressed; the wedding dress had to be done, the lair cleaned, his best cloak and fedora perfectly proper; he'd have to ask Meg for help.
Ah, Christine, he thought, buoyant. I wonder if you're as fine today as always?
Sure enough, Madame Giry had wanted to work on Lover's Lament. The ballet chorus (both males and females for this number) held back a grimace as Carlotta strutted downstage, nose upturned, her arm rounded in front of her as if her walking counted as graceful dancing (which it didn't). The dance instructor's son, Sergei, held himself with that rare self-confidence which does not come off as self-righteousness; his almost gentle demeanor was so opposite his father's that no one would have guessed their relation, had it not been for their identical gray-brown eyes.
"Ladies," barked Madame Giry. "Find your partners. You've had time enough to stretch, we will be beginning the scene from the end of Elephant's March! I expect you to remember your exit when La Carlotta begins her aria." She banged her cane on the stage. "Go!"
"And gentlemen," Monsieur Vincents, the head male director, interjected as the company dispersed to take their spots, "be mindful of the repeat! Remember, the first sequence contains a three-step-turn, the second, a grand-jeté! I will be watching carefully!"
Christine swallowed hard as she faced her partner, a tall, muscular man (for certainly his physique couldn't allow for him to be called a boy) with a slow, twisting grin and a lazy glance which always seemed to start at Christine's feet and never quite make it up to her eyes. She really, really hated this scene, and not only for Carlotta's singing. She shuddered as her partner put a rough hand on her waist, and the music began.
Instantly Christine began dancing as if in a trance. Her body knew the movements so well that her mind didn't have to; she felt her partner lower her into an arabesque penché, and barely registered the pas des chats across the stage. As revolting as her partner was, she had to admit he was a well-trained dancer. The movements were simple enough to let her mind wander, and Christine found herself watching Meg. She was in the arms of a boy (for his youthful face graciously declined the identification of man) who was obviously very passionate about his work, concentration written in his intelligent eyes and hands gentle yet firm, like the beginning of a thunderstorm. Christine liked him, but Meg wouldn't even look at him. Her eyes were following something else, snapping straight to it after every fouetté en tournant. After a while, she noticed Meg's partner doing the same thing. Carlotta began singing. Christine watched as Meg looked, and her partner looked, then Meg then her partner and Monsieur Vincent's son singing and Meg breaking into a rapturous smile as Christine bent into a fish dive and Carlotta hit a high note and a carbon arc lamp came crashing to the ground amid the screams of the Corps de Ballet.
"He's here!" one shrieked.
"The Phantom of the Opera!" they chorused.
Christine stumbled back in horror as the prima donna began wailing and the stagehands began stamping out the flames and Meg, her closest friend, Meg, flew to the arms of a man she'd never met. Meg's dance partner was watching the couple too, but Christine never noticed him, and he never noticed her, because they both ran from the stage in opposite directions.
Her! Of course he runs to her! Alexandre knocked a heavy three-legged stool prop out of his way as if it were nothing and stormed through the wings to a door that led to the outer hallway. He raked his hands through his hair and fumed.
Of course he would run to her.
Christine's feet flew down the familiar halls with wings that knew their way through every twist and turn of the Paris Opera House. Christine herself did not know what she was doing; no, that was a lie. She just told herself that. She knew exactly what she was doing. What she did not know was why she was doing it. She ordered herself not to leap over the last four stair steps and not to charge across the hall and not to burst through that last oaken door, but she did not listen to herself, and the old abandoned chapel was suddenly surrounding her, flooded with unfitting light through the stained-glass window.
"Angel!" she called.
Erik's head jerked up. Was he hearing things again? Must be. He turned back to his design sketch.
"Angel!" Christine's voice came again, more demanding this time. Erik frowned. It'd be hard to concentrate if Christine took up much more room in his head than she already did.
"Come to me, strange angel!" Her voice rang unmistakably.
"Shitfire," Erik hissed, and he leapt up, casting layers upon layers of dress fluff and butcher paper off of him. He was going crazy, he must have been, but that was Christine's voice and he'd be doubly damned if he didn't answer. He started running.
"Angel of Music, Friend and Teacher, Bless Me with Your Presence!" Christine sang.
Erik's Persian slippers made no noise on the concrete floor as he dashed through the hallway leading to the chapel. I'll have to wear these more often, he thought.
Christine sat where she was with a huff, tucking her pointe shoes under her and fixing her white costume sleeve.
"Angel?" Erik almost had to work to maintain his voice's silky steadiness. He was out of breath.
"Angel!" Christine perked up. "I knew you'd come."
"What is it, ma cherie?"
"Erm..." Christine hadn't thought this far ahead. She tugged on her skirt, still sitting. "Where were you, just a few minutes ago?"
Erik blinked, stunned. Why had he been on her mind? What had made her think of him? Why was she here? What was she thinking?! "I was wandering, child. No where, yet everywhere."
"I didn't... Interrupt anything, did I?" Erik watched her bite her lip. She always did that when she was nervous or worried or concentrating very hard. It was cute, and distracting. What had she just asked?
"No, my flower, nothing at all." Suddenly, it hit him. MEG MUST HAVE TOLD HER ABOUT THE WEDDING DRESS. He was glad Christine couldn't see the black fury that passed over his expression. He hadn't been wearing a mask when he left the lair.
"Oh, okay."
"Why?" His answer was too quick.
"Well..." There she goes, biting that soft-looking lower lip again.
"Yes?"
"One of the stage lights fell today."
"Were you hurt?"
"No, it fell near La Carlotta."
Oh, good. "I see."
"It's just... Everyone always... I mean, you remember how you told me not too long ago that you were the... The Phantom of the Opera?"
"Yes." Was his heart still drumming from the run over there, or something else?
"When bad things happen, they blame you. The corps de ballet blames you, I mean. So I was wondering..."
"Whether they were correct?"
"Yeah."
He sighed. Lying to Christine was an unattractive idea, but even worse was the idea of being truthful. "It is only rarely me who causes calamities about the Opéra Populaire. Today I was not at rehearsals. I was-" do NOT say 'designing bridal fashion' WHATEVER YOU DO "- wandering."
"Okay." Her expression cleared, and she smiled. "And you heard me call you?"
"Do I not always?" he inquired, amazed just by her presence. Oh, but to touch her...
"You do." Her smile scrunched up the corners of her eyes charmingly before settling into one of pleasant normalcy, as if she were talking to someone in her parlour and not an invisible ghost-like "angel" behind a wall who gave her singing lessons most evenings. "How are you?"
Me? "Quite passable, my dearest one. Yourself?" Were they actually having a normal conversation?
"I'm well, thank you." She rocked back and forth in her sitting spot, hands on her knees. "What's your favorite opera, Angel?"
"Oh, my. That is a very complicated question." Erik took a seat himself on the piano bench, and launched into his response. Christine watched the empty wall with unwavering fascination, and soon joined the discussion, at which point it became a debate over productions of Faust and whether the Merry Wives of Windsor could be compared to Carmen. The sun fell, and the moon found Christine laying on her back, conversing with an opera ghost who rested the back of his head on the key hood of his piano. They had rounded to the progression of technological advances in theatrical production and expansion of ballet in European departments when they began talking about something they'd never touched on before: themselves. Favorite colors and flowers and have-you-evers. A place you want to visit and the best place you've ever been and would-you-rathers. Christine started reciting names of constellations she knew, and Erik felt that she knew the night so well that she for certain knew his heart, as they were one and the same.
"Angel?"
"Yes?"
"Why do you not reveal yourself to others? Why only me?"
"My dear, the world is full of many faceless people. You are one rare enough to wear your heart in your eyes, and it's there that I can capture your voice and help you make it beautiful."
"I know what you mean about the faceless people. Sometimes I feel dull-witted, but sometimes I feel like the only person in a room full of people who is truly..."
"Alive?"
"Exactly. Some people don't seem to understand emotion; they are entirely close-minded."
"The people who are close-minded are just unworldly. They have not seen enough of the Earth to awaken their spirit and open their eyes."
"Can you imagine trying to live like that?"
"No," Erik breathed. "Music and beauty are what dominate my existence, and if I was indifferent, if I could not sense the raw might of art at its most primal form, life would not be worth living."
Christine nodded. "Music is my very core. Take that away and there is nothing."
"Christine?"
"Yes?"
"Why have you never told anyone about having an angel of music?"
She paused. "Well..."
"Is it because you fear being mocked?"
"Not really. It's more that... You're my secret. I keep you from everyone. People say that secrets are bad, but I like having this secret, because I'm such an open book that you're the only secret I have." She thought for a moment. "Maybe I'm just scared that if I tell someone, they might find a way to take you away from me, or turn it into a bad thing... I don't know. Do you want me to tell people about you?"
"No," Erik whispered. "I like being your secret."
Christine beamed.
"Christine left rehearsals early today. Did you drop that stage light on Carlotta?"
"Nope." Erik lay on the floor, belly-down, chin in hand, scribbling dress designs and littering the floor with crumpled rejects, a bafflingly genuine smile on his face.
"Too bad. That would've been GREAT."
"So you don't know who did it?"
"No, Buquet wasn't around, so they formally blamed it on weak application of something technical or another, but informally everyone blames you." She laughed.
"Excellent! I'll have Carlotta spooked out of the Opera Populaire by Hannibal's opening night for certain!"
"Is that what you're planning?"
"Yes, and I need your help."
"If it involves kicking Carlotta off her throne, I'm in."
"It will, but first, I need your expertise in a much more difficult, life-altering matter."
"What?"
"I can't come up with a wedding dress design to save my life."
Meg sighed. "Well, look, you've already got this much." She pointed to the bodice pattern Erik had to his right. "That's a good one, only you have got to alter the neckline a little bit if it's going to look..."
"Magnifique?"
Meg looked at him like one might look at someone who insisted that singing gospel music at three in the morning was a brilliant idea. "Not quite. Anyways..." She picked up a few crumpled pages, smoothed them out, and scrutinized them. "This skirt is good. Draw the bodice pattern you've got on a clean sheet of paper," she ordered.
He did so.
She tore the first sketch in two, severing the skirt from its unremarkable corset. "Here," she muttered, fitting it underneath Erik's recent drawing of the pattern corset. "And add some sleeves like this," she said, taking Erik's pencil and sketching.
"Oh, and ruffles on the-"
"Gotcha."
"If I change the neckline so it's..." He took the pencil back and scrubbed out the bowl cut, replacing it with something newer, something a little more...
"Magnifique," Meg murmured.
"What's that, Meg? What did you just say?"
"NOTHING."
"No, I'm certain you said SOMETHING-"
"Oh, shut up."
Erik laughed. "That's my little Meg."
"Yeah, you know, I'm beginning to regret this 'lifetime of servitude' thing."
"Too bad." He sat up and slung an arm around his best friend, holding the sketch up to the light.
"It's perfect."
Please review! Xoxo
*Grand-jeté: a "great leap".
*Arabesque penché: when you dip really low and your foot is straight in the air.
*Pas des chats: "step of the cat"; basically leaping sideways, bringing your feet up high before landing.
*Foutté en tournant: one of those fancy spins that seem to last forever, and your foot goes out and back in and the momentum keeps you spinning.
*Fish dive; not French, but deserving of a definition. An extremely difficult bend between two dancers in which the lady is lowered almost to the ground, the male supporting her weight completely, with one of her legs in the air and the other around him. If you're going to google-image it, type the word "ballet" after it, because otherwise you'll just get pictures of fish.
*Ma cherie: "my dear".
Author's Note: Erik's views on faceless people are originally the writings of Anna's brother. Anna promises to ask the next time she borrows his brilliance, and hopes he'll forgive her just this once for stealing. She really wanted this chapter to be a surprise. Joyeux Anniversaire.