A/N: Thank you for the lovely reviews! :) And now...
Chapter XLV
.
Christine woke with the same expectation as when she'd gone to bed. Christmas Day! And the Phantom had actually given his permission to skip practice so that she could prepare a special dinner. Last night he had not rebuked her for taking Jacques to visit his sister. Would marvels never cease?
Momentarily she wavered, uncertain if she possessed the skill to undertake such a monumental task alone. After being a bit of a braggart to him - what possessed her to do so, she could not imagine - this meal must equate excellence, if for no other reason than to salvage her pride. Recalling his rare praise of her vocal abilities, she certainly expected no commendation for her cooking, even should it rival the king's fare. But it was important to her to try. She assumed her desire that he find pleasure in the meal stemmed from a wish for acceptance - to be treated as a capable individual with talents other than those found in her voice.
Christine selected a simple dress in design to wear, a magenta silk with wide pagoda sleeves and minimal edging in taupe filigree lace, then tied her hair back with an ebony velvet ribbon. Out of habit, she reached for the scrap of black silk beneath her pillow, tracing it with her fingertips. Today would be most difficult, Christmases shared betwixt them holding numerous fond memories. Erik had been a veritable bundle of gloom on the holidays, but especially at the Yuletide she made it her goal to spread cheer and elicit his smile. Most of the time she succeeded and often suspected his surly attitude all a sham, that deep down he had enjoyed sharing the season with her as much as she did with him.
How strange that she now wished to do the same for the man who abducted her in a perverse variation of his own Don Juan.
Once more she reminded herself that those days with Erik were ended but never lost, safely tucked away inside the deep pockets of her heart. She'd been given a new life, one she did not ask for but must accept, and with a reflective sigh, she quit her chamber and set her mind to the task ahead.
The main lake room was darker than usual and empty, with few candelabras lit. She wondered if she again arrived too early. Taking a lit candle from its holder, she set flame to the candles in the kitchen, also lighting a torch in its sconce.
The chamber was eerily quiet, the sluggish lap of the lake all that broke the silence. Looking toward the ethereal pale mist, she shivered at the thought of ghosts and trolls and ogres, and brought as much light as she could to her corner. Such gothic horrors did not belong to this celebratory day, and she determined to block those frightful images from her mind. Hopefully the true "ghost" of these caverns remained in as genial a mood as he was last night…
Or was it still night?
Curiously, she glanced toward the staircase that led to his chamber for what must be the fifth time. The pull to investigate grew until she could no longer resist. As quietly as possible Christine crept to the second landing. Her heart pounded so hard she imagined she could hear its reverberations. Her mouth went dry and she hesitated on the top step.
Did she dare…?
She shouldn't do this.
Was he inside…?
She should retrace her steps to the kitchen. If he was in bed, surely he wasn't wearing a mask.
The realization intrigued her rather than providing the deterrent needed. She was more than a little curious to see the man who held her prisoner, saved her from death more than once, and married her in a detached pact of one-sided convenience. The memory of his dire threat and what he would do to her if she should ever again attempt to rid him of his mask gave her pause - but then, it wouldn't be her fault if she should happen to glimpse his face while he was without the covering, would it? If he should awaken, she could offer the excuse that she was on her way to the boy's room.
Warmth rushed to her face at another thought.
What if he was indecent?
She had seen him as nature clothed him. Once. At a distance and in shadows, but she had defied stiff prudence and not looked away, more curiously fascinated than overly self-conscious. In all likelihood he wore a nightshirt, unless he was impervious to the icy chill, but even if he did not, his form would be concealed by bedding. His face, however, would not.
The memory of her success in hiding her presence from him on that moonlit night whetted her desire to see his features - in slumber, when vulnerability painted a softer image. Rage would not be there to mar her first true glimpse of him because he would never know she was there. Only a peek and she would leave before he could awaken. The desire to have her curiosity satisfied increased until retreat no longer presented an option.
Using every precaution, she slipped around the corner into his bedchamber.
The room lay in thick darkness, the circle of her weak flame unable to shed enough light to reach the heavy velvet bed curtains. Her heart resumed its heavy throbbing as she moved toward the bed and put her hand to the partition, took a faint breath, then slowly nudged aside the drape.
The interior was too dark to see, and she had a dim impression of a coverlet draped over a form. She craned her neck, bringing forth the candle for illumination, and peered closer.
"Why are you here?"
Christine swung around, startled at the unexpectedness of his deep, clipped words coming from behind. Her abrupt motion extinguished the flame, though somehow she managed to keep hold of the candlestick. Pitch blackness enveloped them, and she fought down instant terror to be absent of all light, not to mention caught by the Phantom. The only saving grace was that in such darkness she could not witness the fury that made up his expression.
Silence thickened until she could stand it no longer. "I heard a noise." She justified that a small white lie might smooth the path and make the day tolerable whereas the truth would destroy any civility she hoped to regain. "The cat, I think." When he gave no response, she needlessly added, "Mozart…"
A burst of light ignited from a corner of the room and she sucked in a breath, turning in surprise toward the steady flame of the candle he'd lit. How had he moved so silently and assuredly in the dark?
"And you thought to find Faust in my bed," he dryly finished her explanation.
It did sound foolish that she would investigate within the closed curtains of his bed, but she had dug her way into this pit of a lie and must see it through. "Yes, that's where the sounds came from."
"Sounds?"
"Mozart was wailing. I thought he might be hurt."
"Wailing?"
She drew herself up at the wry suspicion in his tone.
"Yes, wailing."
"I see."
Those two words held a wealth of hidden meaning, more than she was willing to uncover at the moment.
Before she could attempt to extricate herself in some sort of graceful exit, he moved toward the curtains and flung one aside. The fasteners screeched on the metal rung in protest.
"The wailing cat is not here."
"Well, no, of course not. Not now," she said in haste, backing to the entrance. "Likely he scampered away from all the ruckus." She put her wick to the flame he just lit. "I must begin the meal, or we'll be eating at midnight."
"Madame," he said before she could fully execute her escape.
Slowly she faced him.
"I covet my privacy, just as you do. Never again investigate where you have no right."
"I told you, the cat -"
"Wailed." He covered the distance between them and she held her breath. "Did you hope to catch me unaware?" His voice was a whisper of a silken threat. "Perhaps without my mask?"
"I wasn't thinking." She found it difficult to reason, much less breathe, when he stood so close. Damn his genius, she should have guessed he would perceive the truth. "I thought you were up and about - and you were, weren't you? I just, I assure you, I won't make the same mistake twice."
"See that you don't. You wouldn't care for what happens as a result of such an ill-conceived lapse in judgment."
In the dim light, his eyes held hers with controlled fire. Something other than anger flickered in their golden depths - dread? remorse? determination? - but he pivoted and left the chamber before she could define its source.
Christine waited a moment to catch her faltering breath, then also left, hurrying past where the Phantom took a seat at the organ and making a direct line for the kitchen without once looking his way.
She had been a fool to thwart his orders, and remembered his threat of indefinitely closing her off in a chamber devoid of all light. This past week in his company, sharing their meals, she had grown somewhat comfortable and lax in her judgment. Like Pandora, Christine wished to unleash the forbidden mysteries that beguiled her. Unlike the misfortunate Grecian, she had been saved from committing the dangerous blunder and enduring the Phantom's frightening punishment.
She would not make the same mistake again.
Quickly she tied on a full apron and retrieved the items needed in three trips, spreading them on the table. She lit the fires in oven and stove, readied ingredients for the pudding, then sat down to prepare the goose.
On occasion she felt the Phantom's eyes turn her way and watch, though not once did she meet his gaze. She still felt rattled that he caught her spying.
She had never been a good liar, not like Erik, who always endeavored to deceive those in authority when trouble came their way for a misdeed done. He had often taken the fall for her misbehavior, and Christine was horrified the first time he owned to a childhood offense she committed. Later, he told her that old Joseph's beatings with a strop were feeble compared to the gypsy's strong lashes, and to be shut up in the stable, alone, was a luxury compared to being locked in a cage with a constant parade of strangers that mocked and threw things at him. She wasn't sure she entirely believed his claims, but it had been the first of rare moments when she learned of the troubles he once lived as a small lad. Erik told her that his true punishment would have been for her to become the recipient of the leather strap or that her intense fear of darkness be realized in the closed stable. Of course, several times when they had not managed to escape to the moors, both were punished. But they had been together, and afterward he had held her…
Christine looked toward the Phantom. Typically rigid in stature yet elegant in grace, his form was now slouched over at the organ bench, his head held in his hands. She wondered with a shock what caused such a change. Sensing her stare, he straightened and turned his head to look. A pronounced shine was in his eyes, catching the light of the candles, though his expression was composed.
"Monsieur?" she whispered so softly she could barely hear herself.
He opened his mouth to speak then shook his head. His clear distress over whatever mystery ailed him brought a twinge to Christine's heart, surprising her that she should feel sorrow for his pain.
The Phantom stared at his protégé, the only woman who held the power to destroy him and lay waste to his plans, as indifferently as she plucked the feathers off the goose, as slyly as she had tried to pluck away the masquerade which kept him protected. And God help him, despite her duplicity, he still wanted her. Still desired her with every wretched breath that kept his lifeless heart in a state of beating, though it seemed an eternity since he felt alive.
Like it or not, Christine was vital to his existence, a part of what composed his blood and soul. In these four endless years, no matter his struggle to forget, nothing had changed…
Though it took only one brief, excruciating moment to end all he hoped would ever be.
He still heard the taunts of the murderous scum who would have finished him off and left, thinking he had. The vicious words echoed inside his mind, constant reminders of Christine's brutal deceit. Barbs of cutting truth that a beast could never hope to possess such a beauty. Other cries from those whose lives he mangled, pathetic wretches slain in Persia, fused with those taunts and proved them true.
In angry disgust, he returned his attention to his notes. He could not allow her curiosity, which had never waned, to best him. If she learned the truth, all would be ruined.
Var hälsad, sköna morgonstund
som av profeters helga mund
är oss bebådad vorden!
At the sudden sweet sound of Christine singing a carol beloved to her from her parents' homeland, the Phantom began to relax, his anguish for the moment eased. Her angelic voice never failed to soothe his tormented spirit.
Du stora dag, du sälla dag,
på vilken himlens välbehag
ännu besöker jorden.
At the sudden beautiful melody of the Phantom accompanying her on his pipe organ, Christine stopped in surprise.
"How…?"
"I'm a composer." He forestalled her question of how he would know the Swedish tune, not wishing to initiate another interrogation into his identity. "Composers know many songs. Do you wish to proceed?"
She nodded and continued the sacred carol her father once taught her, and the Phantom played on.
Unga sjunga med de gamla,
sig församla jordens böner
kring den störste av dess söner.
Four more stanzas, and Jacques appeared. Christine greeted the boy with a hug then set him to work plucking out feathers. When she again looked up, the Phantom had gone.
.
xXx
.
Arabella hurriedly dressed and left her bedchamber to wait in the sitting room she and Raoul shared. Within minutes he left his room, the presence of his cloak over his arm making her frown. If he thought he would sneak out and treat this day like any other, he was sorely mistaken.
"Raoul," she said as she watched him fiddle with one sleeve. "You're not actually going out again this morning, are you?"
Noting her presence for the first time, he glanced up then down again. "Blast, should have brought my valet. These cuff links will be the death of me."
Arabella sighed and moved to take his exposed sleeve, better securing the gold clasp bearing the de Chagny crest. "You'll need new ones, the point is wearing thin." He muttered his thanks and made as if to move away, but she kept firm hold of his hand. He looked at her in surprise.
"Have you forgotten the day?"
He looked somewhat confused before his brow cleared. "I would deduce from your behavior it must be Christmas?"
"Yes, though the gargantuan tree placed in the foyer last evening didn't produce even a hint of a clue?"
"I confess, I've been rather caught up in the hunt for Christine."
Arabella hesitated on whether to speak. Ever since she arrived at the astounding conclusion that the notorious Phantom and Christine's Erik were one and the same, she spent the days rejecting the bizarre theory, then at the next turn, believing it must be true. She had come to no absolute judgment, but if indeed Christine had her lover back she was certainly in no danger.
He had defied all who lived at The Grange to find and be with Christine then left her there against his own desires, to receive a physician's care. Twice more he was seen on the grounds, peering into windows and spying on Christine - even coming to the door - but the doctor had said to keep his patient calm, and Raoul ordered Arabella not to speak of Erik's presence if Christine should ask. That had been over four years ago, and she never felt right about withholding such information from her friend, even if it had been in what she falsely assumed her best interest. No one could have known at the time that Erik would be presumed dead little more than a day after Christine's return to The Heights. In Christine's effusive praise and desire to talk endlessly of him that one night after their return from France, Arabella had seen just how deeply Christine cared for the young man, causing guilt to settle like a rock in her chest.
She would not fail her again.
Madame was not the least bit worried, and now Meg adopted that attitude. Christine had sounded content, and "the Phantom" assured her return…
"Arabella?" Raoul drew her out of somber contemplation. "You wish to discuss something? I really must be going."
"No, you must not. For Heaven's sake, Raoul, it's Christmas Day!"
"I'll return this afternoon. I arranged to meet with a man who has blueprints of the opera house. That monster must live somewhere beneath Paris, and by jove, I'll find a way into his hideout."
No, he would never understand what Arabella assumed to be true.
"Raoul - sit down. There's something I must tell you. I would have told you last night, but I was bone weary and unable to wait up."
He drew his brows together in confusion but did as asked and nodded for her to go on.
She hated to lie when in a pickle and had shirked the shameful habit after she left the ladies academy. But he left her no alternative, and she didn't have the strength to tie him to the chair to listen, much less comprehend, nor the ropes to do it.
"I visited the opera house yesterday and spoke with Madame Giry."
His brows lifted in surprise. "Oh?"
"Yes, and I managed to persuade her to tell me more. You see..." She took a deep breath, delving into the fabrication she earlier created. "Christine isn't missing as we thought. She's hiding."
"Hiding?" He slapped his palm to the chair arm. "What the devil are you talking about, Arabella?"
"She was almost discovered - by a man who knew her father. She told Madame of her situation, and knowing Christine is a friend of ours, Madame helped her find a place to stay until it's again safe. She's actually in training."
Arabella cleared her throat, wondering if it was a greater sin to deceive on a holy day. Had she still believed in Father Christmas, she would surely get a lump of coal in her stocking. Though as cold as the day had dawned that might prove beneficial.
"It seems that she had a private audition. Those who heard were amazed by her voice. Madame arranged for lessons with a private tutor to prepare her for the next opera."
"And what of this Phantom we are told took her?" he asked suspiciously.
"Raoul, really." She gave a little laugh. "A ghost that abducted a mysterious young woman, newly arrived, is far more exciting a tale than Christine leaving on her own initiative in the night. Madame Giry couldn't very well tell the true reason, and the corps de ballet took it into their own heads to provide one suitable for the theater." She borrowed the explanation Madame had given.
"Why did Madame Giry not share the information with us? She knew that we helped Christine get to France."
"That, I cannot say. She didn't tell me." She felt Madame was shrewd enough to cover for Arabella and embellish the lie if needed.
"I must speak to her."
"Of course, but not today." Arabella blocked his exit, ready to place her palms to his shoulders and try to hold him down if she must. "Wait until the festivities are done. The point is, Christine is in no danger."
He gave a grudging nod, clearly undecided.
"Let them enjoy their Yuletide celebration," she persuaded. "You can wait one day. And perhaps we might take a page from their ledger and do the same."
A grin teased his lips. "You sound as excited as a child."
"Hmph. By your standards, it is considered infantile to wish to indulge in the Yuletide?"
"No, of course not. But you take it to extremes."
She paid his little taunt no heed. "I hear they're serving in the dining room," she suggested hopefully.
"Next you'll be begging me for sleigh rides as you did your first Christmas at The Grange."
She smiled sweetly. "If there was enough snow on the ground, perhaps. However, Christmas dinner will suffice for now."
He chuckled and mused over the matter. "Very well. Put on your prettiest frock and I'll take you to the dining hall. Good God, but it's cold in this room." He just seemed to notice the frigid air and looked at the bleak hearth. "The maid hasn't been in to light the fire?"
"Perhaps she has the day off."
"Even if that were so, the hotel establishment wouldn't put their guests in a position to fend for themselves. For what I'm paying, someone better arrive soon. If I had the wood or coal at hand I'd make the bloody fire myself."
"I imagine she's only running late."
At least Arabella hoped that was the case and their inhibited young maid hadn't found herself on the wrong side of a cupboard door, as had been her excuse last time.
.
xXx
.
With the goose almost fully plucked, Christine let out a relieved breath. The boy had taken to playing with the discarded white feathers, blowing them from his hand and eagerly watching them float to the surface of the lake. He broke into a giddy smile and ran toward the entrance leading to her room. She turned her head to look.
With mingled feelings of relief and regret, she watched the Phantom enter followed by Jolene. This was what she wanted, what she asked for, and she would not think of what went on before. She smiled at the girl, perhaps not as warmly as in weeks preceding, but still genuinely glad to see her free.
"Happy Christmas, Jolene."
The girl met her eyes while in the clasp of her brother's exuberant hug. Christine envied the maid, all her own loved ones dead, but it was still gratifying to see brother and sister reunited.
"Happy Christmas - or, as we say in France - Joyeux Noël." Jolene's words were tentative, her manner uncertain as to how she would be received. She approached the table with the boy. "How may I help?"
Glad for another pair of hands, Christine put the girl to work. Jacques again busied himself with blowing feathers, until the table was surrounded with them and Jolene motioned for him to sweep them from the stones. With a pout of dissatisfaction, he did, dumping them in a discarded box, likely as toys to play with later. The Phantom distanced himself from all of it, though he occasionally glanced in their direction.
When the time came to stir the pudding, her past successes emboldened her, and Christine approached him where he sat at his organ in deep concentration, jotting notes on vellum. She touched his shoulder to gain his attention. He turned his head, instantly drawing back from the contact. With a small frown, she dropped her hand back to her side.
"My apologies for disturbing you. In my household, we had a tradition. Each member took a turn giving the pudding a stir while making a wish."
"That seems rather foolish."
She bristled at his disdain. "To you, perhaps. But it's a long-held custom, all throughout England."
"And now you live in France."
"I take it you do not wish for a turn then?"
"Empty wishes never brought me anything I wanted. Why should I engage in such a vain practice now?"
"Very well." She moved to go then hesitated. "I don't suppose you have any trinkets I could stir in?"
"Trinkets?"
"Coins. A thimble. Something small. Silver preferably." She recalled the tokens Berta stirred in as a surprise to the bearer who received a bit of silver in his portion. A thimble for thrift. A coin for wealth. A tiny anchor for safe harbor…though at such short notice, coins were likely all that was available.
"For the pudding?" he mused.
"It's part of the tradition. I thought Jacques might enjoy receiving a treat all his own."
"I have something to give him."
At her clear astonishment, he crossed his arms over his chest.
"Is that such a surprise?"
She supposed it wasn't, since Jacques was his son, but sensed he wasn't as immune to the festivities as he insisted.
"Dinner won't be for some time. I must tie the pudding in a cloth and set it to boil for several hours while the goose roasts."
"I'm in no hurry."
"Well then." She lingered, not really sure why, before moving back to her preparations.
Jolene had shed every bit of her unease and was in a talkative mood, speaking of Christmases past. Christine reasoned that a week in a chamber alone had made the girl into a magpie of vocabulary, not that she minded. She preferred that to long gaps of uneasy silence often experienced with the Phantom.
As Christine gathered ingredients for a mince pie, she watched the Phantom gift Jacques with a small knife, sitting beside him on the shore with a block of wood and showing him how to whittle. Her first concern eased - that the boy was too young for such a dangerous tool and might cut off a finger - when she noted how strong and steady his hands were. Like his father he seemed to possess the inborn skill to wield a blade, and her heart beat a little faster at the easy smile the Phantom gave Jacques in praise for an instruction accomplished. It made him seem far less formidable, almost boyish, and suddenly she wished she could be the one to make him smile like that. Sure the heat of the kitchen had temporarily caused her to take leave of her senses, she forced her concentration back to her task.
The hours fell away, at times accompanied by the Phantom's beautiful music, and at last the meal was laid. The aromas were delightful, but anxiously Christine waited for his reaction before taking a bite from her plate. He had exchanged his usual mask for his dinner mask, his mouth easier to see, and she felt a little jolt of relief to watch his lips tilt up at the corners. She held her breath until at last he looked at her, as if realizing she waited for him to speak.
"My compliments. You have done well."
His words were gold, a gift to receive, and she returned his smile.
Eagerly they dined, and Jacques dug into his portions as she'd never seen him do before. Once the desserts were served, he gave something of a squeal, and startled Christine looked toward him. With an elated smile Jacques held up a silver coin…that he'd just unearthed from his plum pudding.
Surprised, Christine swung her attention to the Phantom. His expression gave nothing away. He had not once gone near the bowl while they stirred, had not even approached the kitchen. His eyes flicked to hers and he read her baffled expression.
"Magic."
Her heart gave a little thump. Even that one low word he made sound mysterious and sensual, bringing shivers along her skin.
"Will you…" Jolene seemed hesitant to speak, "Will you tell me of Christmas in England? I've only ever been in France."
The request took Christine by surprise, and she looked at the Phantom to observe his reaction. His attention on his meal, he continued to eat his mince pie as though he'd not heard the maid. Tentatively Christine touched the subject of past gatherings, becoming bolder when he did not order her to stop. Before she knew it, she spoke of Erik.
"Then…Erik was part of your family?" Jolene sounded confused. Small wonder with what she had unearthed about Christine's most treasured secret.
"Something like that." Christine fiddled with her fork. The Phantom concentrated on his food, what little she could see of his expression unreadable. "My father took him in when I was very young. We grew up together."
"Like brother and sister?" she sounded surprised. "He was adopted?"
"Not exactly." Christine fidgeted in her chair, darting another careful glance to the Phantom who had yet to pay her heed. "My father was his guardian until he died, when I was twelve."
"Erik was your playmate then?"
"He was." Her voice grew still with the memories.
"So you grew up together," she said in a wondering way. "How long's it been since you last saw him?"
"More than four years."
"And you've not heard from him since?"
"Jolene," the Phantom's voice came quiet but equipped with a blade of caution. "You should put Jacques to bed now. It's later than usual."
"The dishes -"
"Can be washed upon your return."
She hesitated. "Will you take me back to my cell afterward? I mean…" she nervously cupped her hands in her skirts, "It's much colder there, and I'd like another blanket."
The Phantom's eyes remained on the candelabrum, where they'd been for the last few minutes. Its cheery glow seemed misplaced with the inner chill that penetrated the gathering since Christine first spoke.
"Your punishment is at an end. You may return to your room tonight."
Relief eased the girl's taut features. "Merci, monsieur."
His eyes flashed to hers. "I presume we are clear on what will happen if you betray the location of my lair to anyone again? There will be no cell. You will find yourself without a home, with only the clothes on your back - and absent of your brother's company."
"I-I understand. Happy Christmas." She awkwardly rose, taking the boy by the hand and leading him away. Oblivious to all that occurred, Jacques remained cheerful, eager to be with his sister.
A veil of static silence settled after the pair disappeared to the back chambers.
"Tell me more…of this Erik."
The Phantom's low words came as if compelled from the depths of his soul, the name uttered like a curse, and Christine looked up in shock. His eyes burned into her, full of a brewing fire she didn't understand, his jaw carved in stone. He despised it when she spoke of Erik, had expressly forbidden it, and evidently she'd been correct that he was displeased by her visiting old memories aloud. Jolene's curiosity had frustrated him - and now he wished to know more?
Was this a trap designed to cause her torment?
"I would rather not," Christine said defensively, loath to subject herself to the sting of his tongue at the conclusion of such a festive day.
"You had no reservations to discuss the boy with Jolene. Why do you not wish to speak of him now?"
His manner was deceptively calm, the angry suspicion a deadly poison laced in the undercurrent of his tone.
She tightened her hold around the stem of her goblet. "I've said all I wish to say on the subject."
"He came to your home and became a playmate. You grew up together. Was he anything more?"
She gritted her teeth in silence.
"Was he. Anything. More." At her continued refusal to respond, he slammed his hand on the table. "Tell me, damnit!"
She glared at him, unafraid, as apprehension to say too much gave way to scorn for his tyrannical behavior. "We were one another's confidantes. There was nothing we kept from one another and nothing we wouldn't share."
He narrowed his eyes behind the mask. "Meaning?"
She rose and faced him across the dubious barrier of the table. "Meaning exactly what I said - nothing." She held to the edge of the table to maintain balance while her bones seemed to melt from the intense flame of his eyes.
"He was nothing to you then?" he wryly suggested.
Her laugh was brittle. "As usual, you think the worst. But do not worry, monsieur. You have no reason to fear him coming to look for me as the Vicomte did. Erik is dead. He is dead, do you hear? And I wish never to speak of him again. At least grant me that one courtesy."
It was the first time Christine had ever made the words audible. After having long accepted their truth, she didn't expect such gut-wrenching pain, as if her scarred heart had again been bludgeoned with her tight admission. She relied on every bit of inner strength to remain impassive and not break beneath the weight of his intrusive gaze. Somehow, she managed to curb her rising tears.
A gleam in his eyes like pained remorse made her inhale a soft, confused breath, but he lowered his head before she could be certain of its existence.
"If- if there is nothing else, I must put the food away," she whispered.
He curtly nodded. "Then you may retire for the night. Jolene can take care of the rest. I expect you here early to resume your training." He rose from his chair, pivoted on his heel and headed for his organ.
Christine made quick work of stowing away the remainder of food in the cold box then hastened to her chamber. Oddly the tears she had earlier quenched made no reappearance, the ache of losing Erik tangible but not fierce as in months past.
She readied for bed and pulled Mozart on her lap. Idly she stroked his sleek fur and looked about the room. A thin rectangular box wrapped in red ribbon and parcel paper caught her eye.
Curious, she released the cat, which instantly made a bed at the foot hers, and collected the mysterious package. Slipping off bow and paper, she removed the lid, her eyes going wide at the simple elegance of the emerald pendant nestled within. A thought made her uncomfortably warm - had he delivered the box while she'd been in the bath chamber, or had it been there all along? Moving aside the delicate chain of gold links, she withdrew a handwritten note on a snippet of stiff parchment.
A diva customarily drips with jewels when on display before her public. It is a sign of distinction. Consider this gift an accoutrement to that.
The note was unsigned but had no reason to be. She knew the giver, both husband and teacher, and therefore his prerogative to present her with expensive trinkets and her obligation to receive them. Still, she wished the cold, stiff words held a trace of sentiment and that he'd given her the pendant with no strings of duty to goad him.
Foolish, and she had no idea why the lovely token of a diva's lot should make her heart ache more deeply than the memory of Erik heartfelt gifts.
Tracing her finger along the beveled oval, Christine recalled what she learned of the emerald during her travels and how the gem was purported to bring healing to the bearer. With all she had suffered in her short lifetime, she would need a garment composed of them.
Lying down to sleep, she found her mind to be her accuser. She had only wished to bring a sense of goodwill and instead left them both in a wretched state. Perhaps she should have kept the peace and answered his questions about Erik, as she had done for Jolene.
But to tell of how dearly she once loved another man, a gypsy, who others considered beneath her class could have brought nothing but further heartache, in all likelihood the Phantom's cutting scorn, and she could not have borne that. Could not listen to him heap insults and ridicule on her poor Erik, as he so often did to everyone else.
Somehow, she would mend the rift she caused. Before sleep overtook her she realized they would begin work on the final act tomorrow. She would give her utmost to be his despised Aminta and do all he said with regard to his opera, with no further arguments or criticisms. After all, he had given her back the will to sing.
She owed him at least that.
.
xXx
A/N: And so, the tension mounts, growing thicker, but we all know what happens when unexpressed love goes too long buried and passion burns strong with no outlet - kaboom. ;-)
Swedish carol Christine sang- translated:
All hail to thee, O blessèd morn!
To tidings long by prophets borne
Hast thou fulfillment given.
O sacred and immortal day,
When unto earth, in glorious ray,
Descends the grace of Heaven!
Singing, ringing, sounds are blending,
Praises sending unto Heaven
For the Savior to us given.
Again, many thanks for your interest in this story. Your comments are like gold to me. :)