A/N: Thank you! And now, a moment you've all been waiting for…

XVII

.

In a dark, shadowed part of the theatre rarely visited and used only for storage, the formidable creature known by all as the Phantom of the Opera swept through the door, like a wraith ruling the watch of the night.

The edges of his cloak fluttered about his tall, lean form as he approached, and Madame Giry jumped with a little start at the unexpected sight of him, putting a hand to her black-clad bosom in a futile attempt to calm her racing heart.

He moved so silently she had not heard his footsteps in the corridor. He well deserved the title of Ghost!

She did not know his true name, no one did. She knew nothing about him or where he hailed from. It was thought he garroted Buquet's brother, though some called it an accident, but many were the "accidents" of the men who searched for him and found his traps; not all leading to death, thank God for that. Only one of those unfortunates had met their maker, though many had come close. As she'd done numerous times, she questioned her disturbing lack of principles that greed should have so influenced her decision three years ago, when the Phantom first made his presence known to the theatre.

He had entered her office late one night when worry prevented sleep, shocking her with his sudden appearance then too. She had been doubly astounded to learn he'd been watching her and knew of her troubles. Monsieur Lefevre had been having a difficult time with his partner, who later quit, forcing Lefevre to assume sole management. At that time, the theatre had been undergoing problems, financial and otherwise, and she worried about her future and Meg's should they be forced to close. The Phantom's proposition to act as his aide for a fourth of what he demanded from the managers per month provided too great a temptation, since her salary had been cut.

She soon witnessed his genius in the arts and learned to look the other way when she opposed his extreme and shocking methods for obedience. She assumed he must have been a great musician once, an eccentric composer, who found himself on the wrong side of the law and was forced into hiding. No matter. He had made a vast difference that could not be ignored. The managers took full credit for the turnaround, to no surprise, but it was the Phantom's commands that vastly improved things. Over the years, in helping him, she grew not to fear him. But she did not trust him. Moreover, his standard conduct of lurking in the shadows, often eavesdropping, and moving so wretchedly silent disturbed her, and as he came to a stop across from where she stood, towering head and shoulders above her, she addressed the issue.

"Monsieur, it would help if you would announce your presence and not tread about on cat's feet."

The likeness fit. Her superior had the lean, quiet grace of a nocturnal panther on the prowl and the appearance of one. Hair black as night. Eyes that burned. His every movement deliberate and lithe. A man steeped in mystery and deep shadows …

"Then I would not be the Phantom, would I?"

She drew her brows together in displeasure at his cavalier response.

Or perhaps the devil…

The devil's thoughtless manner. An angel's superlative voice.

Reminded of her task, she began, "About the new girl, Christine Daaé…"

"Yes?" he snapped.

"She cannot sing. Why did you drop that note ordering me to keep her here?"

"I sense that she has hidden qualities I wish to explore."

She frowned at that. "She cannot dance either."

He chose to ignore her hidden reference, his mouth quirking in cynical amusement at the dismal memory of the dark-haired beauty attempting to catch up with the orchestra for her audition, and stumbling in her weak finish.

"I do not require a dancer."

"And I cannot hire a young hopeful with little talent for the needs of a professional chorus. I gave her the position of a cleaning woman instead."

"So I heard," he said dryly. "I have no objection."

She looked up at him in puzzled suspicion. "Just what plans do you have for the girl, monsieur?"

"My plans for Mademoiselle Daaé are not your concern. But when the time is appropriate, I will need your help."

She gave a resigned nod and he brought a folded parchment with a red wax skull from beneath his cloak, offering it to her. She took it.

"That is for La Carlotta. I have heard that her absence from the opera lasted no longer than the time it took to indulge her vanity of buying another expensive trinket to wrap around her wretched neck." He scoffed in disdain. "Would that they would choke her and spare us the trial of enduring another one of her performances. Tomorrow I will have another note for the managers. I will deliver it in the usual manner. Expect it five minutes after the morning practice begins."

"After?" She regarded him in surprise. "Not before?"

"After." The new managers were apt to be more alert to hear and obey his wishes if their pathetic practice was again interrupted. Idiots, both of them. Yet for some, no amount of practice made a difference. He scowled, thinking of the current diva, who had long outlived her usefulness on stage. "Be there to receive it."

She gave a short nod.

With no word in parting the Phantom turned from her and strode from the room into the thickest of shadows leading to his home, still intensely shaken from his encounter of less than an hour ago.

Christine Daaé could not sing?

He had just heard her!

And she possessed the pure tones and clarity befitting of an angel. Like divinity granting a petition, her emotive voice had quietly reached deep into the black core of his twisted soul, disturbing what dark torments he kept imprisoned there. The incident greatly unsettled him, then and now, and rapidly he brought his thoughts to that morning.

For all her talent, her subjugated manner and lack of spirit perplexed him. Her meek replies to Madame's questions were in direct opposition to the audacious courage she had shown to undertake the impromptu audition, without requesting a requisite warm-up and with so many watching. A foolish endeavor by any standard. One that proved she was nothing more than an amateur in the dance, and a very green one at that ...

But why lie about possessing such a voice?

Deep in thought, he wended his way through his hidden corridors beyond the walls and remembered her strange behavior that evening. Even with no one present in the theatre, to her knowledge, she had appeared hesitant to sing once she did begin. It did not take an accomplished maestro to realize her voice was sadly out of form but held a rare quality separate from any other he'd heard inside this theatre or out of it. And then, the unthinkable happened, and the spirit he had thought absent surged to being in her song as before his eyes she had burst into life …

… almost immediately to wilt again.

He frowned at the memory as he approached the staircase leading far down to his dwelling below. She had appeared to be singing those lyrics as if they were her own to bear, the suffering in her voice palpable. His lips twisted in a scowl at the thought.

No matter her desolate behavior, the Phantom had made his decision.

And he would not be refused.

.

xXx

.

Christine gave the huge rug that hung over the rope another wallop with the wire rug beater and coughed at the thick cloud of dust she raised.

"Christine - there you are!"

She turned to look. Meg hurried toward her, every nuance of her expression glowing with excitement.

"Did you hear what happened at this morning's practice?"

"I've been busy all day beating rugs," she said with a grimace of dissatisfaction. She had not yet mastered the art of finding Claudette's good side, and three hours of sleep after having violently scrubbed the stage into the earliest hours of morning did not benefit Christine. After the incident in the theatre, she decided it must have been a trick of the dim lighting when no one came forward at her query after the curtain moved. Nonetheless, she had hurried through her task then practically ran through the empty corridors to the safety of her bed.

Meg gave the large square of dirty tapestry a disinterested glance and grabbed her arm.

"You must hear this. The whole theatre is abuzz. Come along. It's too dusty to talk here."

"I don't want to get in trouble for leaving my task." The work may be dirty and thankless, but the need to hide was vital, and this was the only post she could obtain in the theatre.

"You are allowed breaks. Did Claudette not tell you? And really, this won't wait!"

Not taking no for an answer, she pulled Christine with rug beater in hand back inside the opera house and down several corridors, at last through a set of painted double doors that led into a dressing room.

Christine studied the beautiful rose-decorated area. The room was one of ostentatious luxury, elaborately decorated in dusky pink. A huge gilt-framed mirror carved with cherubs and roses stood mounted against one wall, framing her bedraggled image, the first she had seen of herself since she arrived. With a wry grimace, she impatiently worked to tuck a long curl back into the inadequate net.

She coughed, the dust still tickling her throat. Meg grabbed a bottle of wine nearby, pouring some into a glass.

Christine watched with little interest, shocked when she then offered the glass to her.

"It's alright," Meg said. Everyone shares and drinks off everyone else. Besides, La Carlotta won't be back until tomorrow morning. And you sound as if you could use it."

An understatement, certainly. Grateful for the refreshment, Christine nodded her thanks and took the glass, sipping the rich dark wine that still had a chill to it. The taste of the burgundy was sweet, coating her throat and soothing the itchy-dryness caused from hours of raised dust.

So, this was the diva's dressing room … Christine was not surprised, since from the little she'd seen of her outfits when not in costume the lead favored pink. At least the decor wasn't a brassy red-orange, like her hair.

"He sent another note this morning, not long after practice started," Meg blurted, unable to contain her news any longer, "though with the way Maman kept glancing up at the flies before practice, I'm sure he must have been there the whole time. This makes three times in as many days – first, at your audition, then the next day with the statue he toppled. And now this. He's never made his appearances so frequently."

Christine did not need to ask who. Even had she not known, it was evident by the sparkle in Meg's eager blue eyes. She wondered, not for the first time, if like the other dancers Meg also wandered the corridors late at night.

"He wrote that he was planning a new opera – his opera – and that he had another singer lined up for the lead! Oh, La Carlotta was furious. She went off into an Italian rant, speaking so fast, even her aide couldn't understand her. I wouldn't have been surprised to see smoke come out her nostrils and flames shoot from her mouth - the old dragon." Meg giggled. "He didn't say who would be singing, but he wrote that when the time was appropriate, he would reveal his new star, that she had been blessed with an angel's voice."

"An angel's voice?" From the little Christine had heard, she couldn't imagine the chosen would be anyone in this theatre.

"Yes. There were the usual threats if the managers chose not to comply – nothing detailed, just that they would dearly regret it. Each of the girls in the chorus is wondering if it could be them he's chosen to replace La Carlotta, but no one there has a voice like he described, so I doubt it. The way he wrote of her singing attributes, she sounds like a heavenly being and not mortal at all!"

Intrigued, Christine also wondered. Wryly, she lifted her brow and took another sip of wine. "Perhaps this unknown star has her Angel of Music to guide her, though the Phantom you speak of sounds more like a devil!"

"Angel of Music?" Meg looked at her queerly and Christine explained.

"When I was little, my papa told me a tale about a child named Little Lotte who wished for the Angel of Music to come down from heaven and guide her, so that she would become a famous singer." Christine shrugged and took another drink. "I once believed in such nonsense, but it was only a fairy tale."

"Do you wish you could sing?" Meg tilted her head curiously.

The question made Christine uncomfortable, and with a little noncommittal shrug, she posed a question of her own. "About this Phantom person, why do the managers not simply contact the local constable to be rid of him?"

"Oh, but they did! Lefevre - one of the older managers - sent for the gendarmes, but none of them could find him and the inspector said they had better things to do with their time than to hunt for a ghost. Since Lefevre and his partner were new then, I think the inspector thought it all a stunt for publicity." Meg toyed with the bottle of wine, running her fingertip along the label as if in curiosity, then set it down. "When news of his exploits leaked out, even with the accidents and other disturbances, ticket sales improved. It seems the audiences have also been hopeful to catch a glimpse of the Ghost, though I think it's more than that."

"More?" Christine finished the rest of her glass. "Aren't you going to have some?"

"Non. I drink wine only with my supper. I'll wait."

Meg poured more into her glass.

"To answer your question – and let me go back a bit first - at the beginning, the managers - all of them - two have come and gone you understand - well, they all balked at his demands. Accidents happened as he warned. So they began to follow his orders, which always turned out for the best. Making the opera better, bringing in higher revenue. They didn't want to pay him at first either – 20, 000 francs a month is what he asked!" At Christine's apologetic shrug, Meg added, "trust me, it's a lot. Sometimes they follow his demands, sometimes they don't. The new ones have chosen not too. Honestly, he has proven his genius in running the opera. I'm not sure why any manager would refuse him – especially with his latest most pressing demand to rid the theatre of La Carlotta!" She giggled again.

Christine nodded and drank half her glass. The room felt warm and she realized just how tired she was. It had been another exhausting day. Likely Claudette would have yet another task for Christine to accomplish before she could fall into her cot.

"Would it be alright if I sit down for a bit do you think?" she asked Meg, even as she laid the rug beater down on a table and sank to the silk-covered chaise. It softly cushioned her hips. She hadn't felt anything this nice since leaving The Grange.

"Oh, stay as long as you like. No one will be back in here until tomorrow. I should go though. I have things to do that Maman told me to tend to…." Meg hesitated when Christine brought her legs up and leaned her head back against the cushion, her arm resting with the wine glass upright beside her. Her other arm she draped over her closed eyelids.

"Will you be alright here alone?"

"Mmm? Oh. Yes. I just need a bit of a rest. Five minutes at most."

"I'll lock the door behind me then, so no one disturbs you. There's a skeleton key on the dressing table when you wish to leave."

"Mmm …"

Meg closed the door…

…just as the glass fell from Christine's limp hand.

x

She had dropped her wine.

The foggy realization came to her from a great distance. Her eyelids felt weighted down, her body not her own. Meg had left. She had to clean the spill before it badly stained the rug. Christine groaned softly, moving her arm from her eyes and forcing heavy eyelids to open.

The room was darkened, the candles extinguished.

She drew her brows together. How had the flames gone out? The candles were not burned down. They still stood tall in their holders. What breeze would come inside a locked room? She realized then that she could see the candles, when she should not be able to…where was the dim light coming from?

Confusion turned to bewilderment as Christine noticed what appeared to be an iridescent mist billow throughout the room.

Smoke…?

Fascinated, she stared at the delicate bluish-white wisps that gently floated around her. Even the thought of a possible fire could not compel her limbs to move at their normal speed, and sluggishly she rose to sit. She smelled nothing burning but her heart gave a mad lurch when she noticed the mirror …

... that now glowed with muted light.

And a cloaked, hooded figure stood inside the glass.

Christine blinked. She must be dreaming. She glanced toward the double doors behind her but no one stood there. The reflection came from within the mirror!

"I am your Angel of Music …"

Her pulse quickened as the most beautiful and unearthly voice caressed her ears, soft and riveting…

Angel of Music.

She WAS dreaming!

Her mind could not seem to think logically and catch up with any other part of her to move, either to hasten from the room in crazed flight. Or step toward the mirror in meek submission….

The silver glass impossibly evaporated as she stared. The dark robed figure held out his arm, unfurling a black-gloved hand in her direction. A hood shielded his eyes to the tip of his nose, and beneath she glimpsed a hint of a strong, lean jaw and arresting mouth as he lifted his lowered head slightly higher. The breadth of his shoulders was great, for it must be a man to be so tall and imposing. He seemed to take up the entire mirror! And the voice … had been a man's voice …

… or an angel's.

Dear God, nothing made sense. She could not think. Could not reason. She could only feel … and so strangely …

"Come to me, Angel of Music …"

Transfixed by his magnetizing presence, Christine slowly rose from the chaise, certain she lived within a dream so nothing could harm her. This had to be a dream; dreams made no sense. Soon she would awaken, and the enchanted room would be like it was before.

Her dazed eyes never left his darkly majestic form, her mouth softly parting in awe. Moving forward, her limbs felt as though she walked through water though the mist that swirled around her was vaporous.

At last she came to within a short distance of where he loomed and took the shallow steps upward. Her breathing unsteady, she slowly placed her trembling hand into his large open palm. His fingers and thumb curled around hers, closing her hand entirely within his grasp, and a little shock of electricity tingled through her blood even with the leather glove he wore. He stood immobile as he drew her closer through the mirror that was no longer there, closer still, until scant space separated them and she could feel the heat of his body envelop hers ...

Surely angels were cool to the touch. They should not bear such intense warmth to their beings that would make her feel so strangely dizzy.

Barely able to take in a breath, she looked up from the wall of his chest …

…into eyes that burned golden within the sockets of a black mask.

Christine's lashes fluttered closed as she slumped in a dead faint in his arms.

xXx

A/N: I had to do my own mirror scene based on ALW's- I just loved it in the movie (and you had a hint it was coming in the prologue of this story)… ;-)