A/N: Thank you for all the lovely reviews. And thanks to Maq for the suggestion in your review- I liked it, I took it. And now …
Part III - Wings to Soar
XLIX
.
Madame Giry opened the door to her office and exhaled a breath of frustration mingled with relief to be finished with the morning practice. The moon must have been at its apex last night. The girls had been utterly obtuse and unruly, the most rebellious of them outdoing themselves in their mischief to rile her calm sensibilities. She needed a moment's peace, but in the insanity of this mad opera house she doubted that she would know any fragment of serenity for long.
True to all thought, as she moved to light the lamp on her desk, the darkness came alive in one corner of the room – a shadow that shifted, darker than the rest. She jumped in shock then pressed a hand to her heart when she realized the cause and understood the identity of her unannounced visitor.
"Maestro?" she queried nervously. "I did not expect you…It is so dark. I should light the lamp."
The Phantom made no response from the chair in which he sat, only waved his hand for her to proceed. She struck a long match and set flame to wick, afterward replacing the glass globe over the top. Mellow golden light filled the immediate area, slightly illumining his unsmiling features.
She took a deep breath for calm and asked the obvious when he remained silent.
"You wished to speak with me?" Three years in his service and she still could not discern the workings of his mind or understand the methods he chose to relay them. Yet who else but a Ghost would enjoy waiting in the pitch black of darkness and very nearly scaring her unwary soul out of its skin?
"I wish to know, how my … pupil is faring since her return?"
She noted his hesitation before acknowledging Christine and wondered why he chose not to use the more familiar term of "wife" or even call her by her Christian name.
"As well as could be expected."
"That is rather vague."
"Perhaps you should ask her yourself, monsieur. Given our conversation this morning, I am certain that Christine would welcome a visit from her husband."
He stood so suddenly to his feet that she took an unconscious step backward, reminded again of his feral power that seemed to overshadow all within his vicinity. He did not advance, but the flame from the lamp behind her illuminated the hypnotic gold of his eyes, making them seem to glow. She had never before seen eyes as brilliant and alive, at the same time as dangerous and deadly as those behind the black leather mask.
"Will you now tell me how to conduct my business, Madame?"
His question came low and smooth, a velvet touch to the senses. His voice, too, was a weapon, as deceptive to the listener as it was beauteous. Beneath that quiet, melodious tone the threat of violence often lurked. He never had laid a hand on her, but the record of "accidental" injuries and deaths linked to him could not be disproved, and she now regretted her small chastisement in light of his foul mood.
"I only meant that she was troubled to find herself in new surroundings. I didn't know what to tell her," Madame stated. "She seemed not to be aware of why she should even be at the opera house."
He curtly nodded and directed his attention to the items on her desk. "She will adjust to the new routine in time, if she hasn't already done so." He flipped through a stack of papers.
Madame withheld her contrary opinion of his offhand assessment. "She asked to use the dressing room for her boudoir."
"It is now her private sitting room."
"She means to sleep in it. As a bedchamber."
His eyes flashed to hers. "She means to what?"
"She wants to use it -"
"I heard you the first time, Madame. There is no need to repeat the information." He scowled and began to pace. "Why would she make such an absurd request?"
Madame gave no answer, under the impression that he questioned not her but himself. In the dim lighting she watched his expression change from curiosity to suspicion to aggravation with each thought that locked into his mind, and she wished she could be privy to their full disclosure.
He directed his keen stare her way. "What did you tell her?"
"I saw no reason to refuse such a simple request. I needed to divert her from her original intent. When I came into the room, she was attempting to use a chair to break through the mirror door."
The Phantom gripped the outer edge of his cloak near his thigh and swiftly turned his head away so his aide could not see his blatant shock.
The little fool. For what purpose had Christine attempted to destroy the doorway into his world? To expose him? She could do that with the flicker of her tongue if she so desired, in relaying all she had seen and learned – but then, the reminder came to him – there was the boy.
Christine had shown a gentle heart and earnest concern for Jacques' welfare. For the lad alone, she would not relate the Phantom's secrets, of that he was certain. In all likelihood she had engaged in the tantrum only to vent her fury, still enraged by his deceptions, of which she had every right…
He expected no less than her absolute outrage.
"She has asked to speak with you," his aide said, interrupting his rueful thoughts.
"No."
She barely uttered the words before he delivered his quiet retort.
"No? But – what shall I tell her?"
"You will tell her nothing."
"And when she asks yet again to see you and speak with you, as she no doubt will? What am I to tell her then?"
"I said…" He whirled to face her, his cloak snapping about his legs, and took a few steps to close the distance with his index finger held up to make a point. "You. Will tell her. Nothing. Not of this meeting with you. Not of any future meetings we have. Not of my refusal to speak with her."
"You wish me to lie to the girl?"
"If that's what it takes. To Christine Grendahl, it will be as if I no longer exist."
"You are her teacher," she argued. "Surely you cannot mean to separate yourself entirely from her?"
"It will be an arrangement to her benefit, I assure you. She will not suffer long if she suffers at all."
The Phantom clenched his hand into a fist at his side, wishing to dull his own pain. It was what she wanted, to dwell in this world, above, and he would damn well learn to live without her in his personal Hades. He had done so for over four bloody years.
"But monsieur – "
"Cease to argue with me, Madame! That is not what I pay you for. She has eclipsed my expectations of all that is needed to sing my opera. She has no further use for my coaching, though you must instruct her daily to practice her vocal exercises. As for any awkwardness she yet exhibits, that is your responsibility."
The Phantom moved away and stood with his back to her, like a shadow again trying to blend into darkness.
Madame stared hard at him, noting the slip he made. Considering that she had not informed him of the less than stellar practice on Christine's part, she was certain he had been a silent observer that morning – and hardly as disinterested in his protégé as he would have her believe.
Had they quarreled? That would account for the distance he forged. In which case the situation would likely smooth out within the next few days, once they'd each had time to calm down. Both were creatures of tremendous spirit and passion. Even in the short time she had observed Christine, she could tell this. And the new diva was in love with her teacher. Madame had seen it shining from her eyes on the night of her wedding, when Christine assured her that she acted by choice and not coercion. That the Phantom had been struck with the same heartfelt emotion, Madame might have cause to doubt – if not for his current terse behavior and the intense way he stared at nothing when speaking of his absent bride. Through all of his outward efforts not to seem moved he showed instead just how deeply Christine affected him. Their anger would diminish, the need that brought them together would expand until distance was no longer an option – she had experienced and witnessed enough lovers' spats to be assured of an imminent reconciliation.
Just how long the opera house would be subjected to the bitter fallout of their unknown misunderstanding and curt distance was the true concern.
The Phantom snapped his cloak to the side, his steps as always lithe but charged with an undercurrent of ill-contained energy. Much like Christine had behaved during her tense rehearsal. As if both might explode from the wealth of feelings that stirred inside them.
"We will meet, once a week on the night of the last performance." He issued the directive as he again turned to look at her. "You are to keep me informed of her every movement. I want to know who she sees and where she goes."
"I'm to be a spy, then?"
At the clear disapproval in her tone he scowled. "You would prefer to cease working for me? The monthly stipend I give you no longer holds appeal?"
Placing the drugged wine in the dressing room and devising plans to get Christine there – not knowing Meg had unwittingly aided in the plot of abduction – had been the worst of all he instructed Madame to do. Keeping an eye on Christine was trivial in comparison.
"Very well, monsieur, I will do as you have said."
"See that you do. As for the rest of the opera, see to it that Monsieur Reyer discharges that pathetic excuse for a second violinist. He has failed to realize that such a prized instrument should not be sawn at with all the finesse of a lumberjack to a log, but the bow should instead touch the strings in a lover's caress…" He picked up the top paper from the stack with notes about the musician and sent it carelessly floating to the floor. The second paper he read then snorted. "Carlotta's days at the opera house are numbered. No matter what foolish little schemes she tries to devise against me, she cannot win, despite her frequent whining to the managers. However, I shall be most eager to put her in her place if that is what she prefers. Unless she agrees to participate in the chorus, she must go," he growled, impatiently crumpling the paper in one hand and throwing it down. The third paper he held a long moment, set it carefully back on the stack, then turned. "That is all for now. We will reconvene in a week's time."
Without further ado, the Phantom walked to the wall and pressed his gloved hand against the planking. To her astonishment, it gave way, and he whisked through a crevice of darkness a shoulders' breadth in size – which soon became solid wood again without evidence an aperture had ever been there.
She blinked, stunned by his rapid departure through a secret entrance she never knew existed, and wondered how many concealed doorways besides the mirror and her office were scattered throughout the opera house.
Curious, she moved to the desk to pick up the piece of paper he had discarded to the top of the stack. The parchment held notes about Christine with a rough sketching of her in costume for the final act.
Madame sighed and glanced at the wall through which he had disappeared.
Perhaps it had been a coveted mixture of survival tempered with greed that first convinced her to consent to this bizarre arrangement, but that was no longer the case. In all the time she provided aid to the formidable Opera Ghost of secrecy and shadow, not once had she seen a shred of humanity or true emotion, which aided her distrust of him – not once, until his marriage to his abducted bride. As the priest had spoken vows of commitment over the wedding couple, she had seen the shine of tears in the Phantom's eyes that held within them a measure of disbelief, as if he had not considered the moment truly possible. Immediately he had blinked away the moisture and vulnerability, but in that moment, as much as she once feared him, Madame felt an empathy for the Phantom. That empathy had blossomed into a maternal interest for his welfare that she would never have believed possible.
It was for him as well as for the troubled Christine that she must serve as mediator, in an attempt to redirect the molten feelings each held bottled within for the other and save them from themselves – before the entire opera house became privy to their impassioned explosion.
A dire task and one she did not covet. Just how she was to go about doing so without further stoking the fires of the young diva's bitter rage at his sham of cold detachment – all the while not mentioning any knowledge of his whereabouts or actions to Christine – that was the true challenge in this absurd spectacle the Phantom had produced.
Madame shook her head in weariness and poured herself a tall glass of wine to attain whatever serenity she could seize, wondering if things would ever achieve any degree of normalcy in this theatre.
Mon Dieu…
Their clandestine lives were far more shocking and complex than the workings of the most scandalous opera! Yet were they to put their experiences on stage and to music, not a soul in the audience would believe it could be true.
.
xXx
.
For all the good that Christine attempted upon the stage, her months below in learning the blocking of the Don Juan and the basic choreography for each act might have been a snippet from a forgotten dream.
She groaned softly at the memory.
She had rushed forward when she should have tarried, stumbled once when she too swiftly turned, and could not fail to miss the hushed giggles of scorn behind the palms of the cruelest of dancers. No one had laughed outright for fear of becoming the focus of Madame Giry's stern discipline or the light swat of her ever-tapping black cane, which had found its way to a couple of the ballerina's legs in reprimand during the stretches and warm-ups.
"She may have the voice of an angel, according to the Ghost, but she has the grace of a skinny blind cow." The insult was delivered near the end of her first abysmal rehearsal, in a muted tone only Christine could hear.
Lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders, she had again approached her starting position and with grim determination forced all foolish thoughts away from the heartless captor of them – her Machiavellian abductor of the past two and a half months. She had tried to concentrate on the fictional opera, though contrary to her wishes, all of it reminded her of the last several weeks below, especially since it was his opera. Meg had offered an encouraging nod and smile, and that small token of kindness helped to ease some of Christine's tension, though any resulting improvement was hardly considerable.
Grateful to escape further snide remarks from the chorus, Christine now walked along the corridor that took her to her dressing room that would double as her bedchamber. Ignoring the overt stares of rude curiosity from the majority of the workers and the lewd stares of others, she started in alarm when someone grabbed her elbow. Growing up at The Heights with her sadistic cousin had conditioned her to act on impulse, and she swung about with her hand raised to strike back.
"Wait – Christine! " Meg shrieked in surprise, instantly dropping her hold and taking a step back to avoid being struck in the face. "It's only me."
Remorseful, Christine dropped her arm to her side. "I'm sorry, Meg. It's a natural instinct."
"Natural? You must have had a difficult life," Meg sympathized. "Did you deal with many hardships while growing up?"
"There were a few," Christine said vaguely, not accustomed to being so candid about her life to those who were still more strangers than friends. She liked Meg but wasn't certain the expressive ballerina could be trusted. And Christine must be careful what she said and to whom, being a fugitive of a murder. She no longer had cavern walls of darkness and obscurity to conceal her from the public eye.
More upset by her circumstances than she cared to admit, Christine turned back to the corridor. Meg fell into step beside her.
"I'm pleased that you've returned to us," she said cheerily.
Christine offered a sidelong glance and what she hoped passed for a polite smile.
"How long do you plan to remain above?"
A good question, and she felt that much more frustrated that she could give no real answer. "I don't know."
"I imagine you must miss him, your husband," Meg whispered, as if the statement needed clarification. "If I was newly married I wouldn't wish to leave my bridegroom for any reason under the sun." Meg giggled.
Not that Christine had been given a choice. Either when living in shadows or being forced back into the light.
They reached the floral-painted, rose-colored double doors of the dressing room, and she turned to the bright and bubbly dancer. "I don't wish to be impolite, but I would prefer to be alone for the next few hours, Meg. It was a rather exhausting night."
"Oh. Alright." The girl's eyes gleamed wider in wicked amusement, and she let out another impish giggle. "I imagine your farewells must have been very tiring indeed."
To allude to an ardent parting had not been Christine's intent, however correctly Meg had guessed the reason, well one of them. At the memory of her passionate encounter with Erik, never far from the boundary of all conscious thought, Christine's skin flamed with inner heat…along with a twinge of embarrassment at the brazen twinkle in Meg's eyes. How could the girl read her so shrewdly? Was Christine so transparent?
"Yes, well… the journey from below is quite taxing."
"Is it far to travel there?"
"His home – our home – is levels beneath the earth. It is quite a long walk," she added, remembering when he led her to the theatre blindfolded. The same night as their wedding.
"Beneath the earth?" Meg's eyes widened in fascination. "How astounding. I didn't know, though I'm sure Maman must have. Well, at least you won't be required to make such a tiring journey every night."
"I suppose that's true."
"Don't look so sad, Christine. I'm sure you have no cause for concern. He's come above before to visit, and now he has an even greater reason with you as his wife. Tell me, though, however will you stand it?"
"Stand what?"
"With someone as thrilling as the Phantom to attend you, how can you stand any length of separation from him at all?" Meg instantly was contrite. "Never mind. I shall plan some fun diversions to keep you entertained."
Had it been anyone but Meg speaking so boldly about Erik, Christine would have been jealous, but she'd grown accustomed to the girl's idealistic chatter and could forgive her for being awed by the enigmatic Opera Ghost. She gave up any attempt to make the evening sound less than it was, when in truth it had been so much more. To her, it was a night of drastic change and instant revelation – when she had lain in the Phantom's arms that she thought never would hold her, and she had become the woman she was sure she never could be…and it was the night she tore away his mask and found the man she thought never to see again.
"Never", it seemed, was an inconstant word, as fleeting as a storm in the turbulence of time, a transient uncertainty in and of itself. In life, there were no guarantees of forever. But now she understood - "Never" also did not apply.
She would see him again.
Of all she had learned that was the truth she held closest to her heart.
Despite the enigma he had become, she knew Erik better than any person existing. At present, he was behaving true to form, as in their past – running to hide and rethink his strategy after his plans crumbled to dust. She had taken him by surprise, unveiling his weakness and gaining a triumph when she hadn't even known there was a war to wage – and clearly she'd upset whatever plans he'd had for her. Why he would even play such a silly and hurtful masquerade she could not begin to understand. Surely he wasn't still upset over what she told Berta! It frustrated her to no end to have so much she wanted to tell him, so much she needed to know, and not be given the immediate satisfaction.
"Christine? Where did you go?" Meg put a hand to her arm, snapping her from her thoughts. "Your skin is so pale, it's white. Are you unwell?"
She was surprised her cheeks weren't splotches of crimson as much as she burned with indignation at his unjust cruelty toward her.
"I'm fine. But I should rest. I'll see you at the evening practice."
"Evening?" Meg repeated in surprise. "Will you not be at the afternoon session?"
"Your mother said she must work with the chorus and I'm not to appear until the final practice. I'm to sing then."
She winced at the thought of all those scornful eyes upon her, waiting for her to fail.
"Oh, I see. Well, that will give you plenty of time to recover – to rest your voice and anywhere else you might need it. All due to your long, tiring journey, of course."
Meg grinned slyly, all mischief and giggles again. A tiny smile played at the corners of Christine's mouth despite her best effort to remain straight-faced.
"Oh – go on then. Away with you! Does your mother know what a wicked-minded daughter she has?"
Christine shooed her out and closed the door, reassured by Meg's departing laughter that she wasn't the least bit offended. There was a strange familiarity in Meg's forthright teasing, oddly a comfort after all the strain Christine endured, but once she turned and glimpsed the mirror door, any scrap of cheerfulness faded.
Frowning at her image, she moved into the room and intently scoured the glass, her gaze so heated she was sure she could melt her reflection and see through to the other side. Oh, how she wished that were possible!
"Are you there spying now? You beast… Answer me!"
Grabbing a small pillow from the chaise she threw it the short distance to the mirror.
"You truly are despicable… loathsome and cruel…"
Her intended string of quiet insults toward her unseen tormentor – who in the moment she despised as fiercely as she loved – halted at a soft knock on the dressing room door.
x
Her heart elevated to thud at her breasts.
Erik?
With little breath or conscious thought, Christine wiped the beginning of tears from her eyes and hastened across the room, throwing the door wide.
Immediately she was drawn into a warm, relieved hug. She quenched a surge of disappointment not to see his familiar masked face, but managed muffled words of welcome in a soft blue linen shoulder that smelled of lavender, followed by a smile for her dear friend.
"Christine, thank God you're back. I confess I was so worried when you went missing! And then to come to the theatre and be told you had returned – I had to see for myself."
Arabella held Christine's upper arms and surveyed her critically from head to toe, as if searching for something amiss.
"You appear unscathed, and for that I am immensely grateful. He told me he would return you to us, but I couldn't be certain he was telling the truth."
The soft words pierced through the quiet calm that had settled over Christine, and she gripped Arabella above the elbows in a tight hold, eliciting a shocked exclamation from her friend.
"That's right – you were with him!" Without delay, she pulled Arabella inside and shut the door, turning the key. Swiftly she again faced her. "You must tell me what happened that day. What did he tell you?"
Arabella blinked in mild astonishment, taken aback by the sudden determination that hardened Christine's demeanor.
"It's him, isn't it."
The words were not a question.
"Him?"
"The Phantom – your Erik. The gypsy boy you grew up with at The Heights. It's him."
Hearing the low words stated so confidently and surprised by Arabella's astute reasoning, this time it was Christine who was taken off guard. She could only stare for numb seconds, her mouth parted in shock. Unwanted tears again glazed her eyes.
"How did you …"
"How did I know?" Arabella finished when Christine went silent, afraid to say more than she should. "I wasn't entirely sure until now. Oh, my poor dear …" Arabella took her hands and led her to the chaise, where both sat down, facing each other. "Your hands are like ice! You must tell me what has you so upset. Did he hurt you?"
"Yes." Christine nodded then thought twice and shook her head. "No. Not like you think. It's all so confusing and complicated and so damnably frustrating." She pulled her hands from Arabella's and gripped them in her lap in frustration, her fingers and thumb circling her naked ring finger.
"You can tell me anything, Christine. I won't tell a soul."
"What of Raoul?" she asked warily, still on her guard. "Does he know?"
"He tells me very little with regard to his investigation, but he knows nothing of my suspicions. Nor did I tell him of my meeting with the Phantom."
Christine was surprised and grateful to hear it. "It must remain that way," she whispered as though they might be overheard. "Raoul must never know."
As angry and hurt as she felt by Erik's boorish conduct, Christine was still loyal to the memory of the boy she once knew and the man who twice saved her life in his dark tunnels. She could not and would not risk him being discovered by those who meant him harm. And from what she'd overheard in her short time at the opera house, he had countless enemies. Jacques was only an innocent in this and did not deserve …
Jacques was not his son!
Her eyes flew open at the delayed knowledge that hit with such impact she sucked in a breath as if she'd been struck in her midsection. Quickly she rose and took a few steps away, her back to Arabella.
"Christine! What's wrong?"
"Nothing, it's…nothing. I…" With shaky hands she smoothed her palms down the front of her skirt, trying to appear nonchalant as she slowly turned back to her friend. "I only just recalled something expected of me, but upon further consideration, I realize the matter has been dealt with." She attempted a careless little laugh that sounded more like the sad croak of a frog and put her fingers to her throat. "Don't mind me, Arabella. My mind is a trifle murky. I didn't get much sleep last night."
Did his cruelty know no bounds?
Jacques had been yet another lie of the many he had forced her to consume in his practiced game of deceit to wound her.
Arabella looked at her in sympathetic confusion. "It's a wonder you attain any slumber at all, dwelling in a theatre that seems never to sleep – but Christine, would it not be better if Raoul knew the truth?"
"No!"
Christine forced a calm she did not feel. "No, Arabella, I'm quite certain that would be a grave mistake. The situation is far more dangerous than if the Phantom were only a stranger. Erik is no longer a wild gypsy boy with little means – he's the Phantom of the Opera and has indescribable power, more than you know. Due to that, and all we've been through in England, he's twice Raoul's enemy."
And ten times more deadly, she thought with a grimace, remembering the horrid water trap and how Erik was ready to let the Vicomte meet his death without a shred of unease or a scrap of remorse.
"I suppose you're right," Arabella sighed. "Though I don't relish the thought of continuing to lie to my cousin."
Christine narrowed her eyes in cautious regard. "You won't say a word? You said you wouldn't tell."
"Christine, please don't fret. I respect Raoul, but I made you a promise. Anything you tell me in confidence will remain a secret between the two of us. I swear it."
Christine relaxed, for the first time grateful that Arabella knew the truth. The burden had been horrible to bear when she thought she had no confidante who was aware of both his identities, and could commiserate and understand all of what Christine suffered.
"What will you tell him? Once he learns of your return, Raoul will immediately come to see you and demand answers. Of that I'm certain. I'm surprised he's not here already."
"I'll think of something." Christine waved the niggling prospect away, at the moment not wishing to deal with fabricating stories to appease the Vicomte.
"You should know, so that our accounts don't differ, I told him that you saw someone who knew your father and you confided in Madame Giry about what happened to Henri. She then planned your disappearance and you were secreted away, in training."
"Did you? Brilliant..." she said distantly, her gaze again lighting on the mirror. "Better than anything I could have come up with. As you know, I was never that good at deceit."
Not like some people who preferred a life built in the midst of a masquerade.
"What happened to you, Christine," Arabella prodded gently. "You seem so different."
Christine's laugh came brittle. "Do I? Well, I suppose that's to be expected." She lifted her hands in confusion. "I don't know where to begin."
"Start with the night you disappeared."
Christine gave a faint nod, looking into the mirror and again wondering if he was there.
"I was resting, where you sit. The Phantom came for me, into this room…," She waved her hand around the area without revealing the mirror as the doorway, "… disguised as my Angel of Music. I didn't know he was Erik then. Though his eyes, those magnificent eyes, like shimmering flames beyond the mask - I should have known. No, I must have known. I fainted, you see..." She inhaled a short breath, remembering, and gave a shaky laugh. "I was weary, it was late. I thought I was dreaming …"
Her voice grew lower, stronger, as she ceased speaking to Arabella and addressed the unseen corridor beyond her reflection, though she wondered if her indifferent tormentor was there to hear.
"He played a masquerade with me these many weeks – or rather – he played his cruel game of pretense against me. For what purpose, I don't know. The Phantom was the only name by which I knew him. He would tell me no other. Daily, he played his games of deceit and manipulation, lies topped upon lies. And he composed his music…Oh, God, his music…"
Her tart words ended on a prolonged, wistful note. The lines between her brows faded as she remembered his beautiful chords, his seductive, rich voice, the manner in which she always felt so attuned to his stirring compositions, as if one with their maker, and the passion of their incomparable duets…
"He taught me to sing. I married him."
Arabella gasped in shock, and Christine broke from her trance-like focus on the mirror and turned to look at her friend. "I did, Arabella. I married him without knowing the full truth of who he was."
"Why would you do that?"
"I … don't know."
"You don't know?"
But she did. Yet she couldn't speak of his dark threats or the cold, clinical bargain they made – especially not the reason for it, to save Raoul. Even in confidence, there were things she would not say that could turn Arabella against him. And she needed her for an ally.
"I thought him only the Phantom," Christine continued more softly, touching her wedding ring through her bodice where she'd hidden it on a black velvet ribbon. "I didn't know he was Erik – not until last night, and then only after … only by accident. There were times I suspected it all a ruse, but when I confronted him – even directly asking him if it was so – he staunchly denied the truth, until eventually I came to believe the lie."
Again she inwardly berated herself for being so quick to succumb, so gullible to fool, no matter how convincing his persuasions.
She again sank down to the cushion and told of her agreement to stay below, without mentioning the children. She omitted the worst moments of her entrapment, also keeping hidden the contained passion that last night had exploded between them and fused them as one. Such occasions were sacred, between her and Erik alone. She could never tell another living soul of the intense hunger he had fired within her blood, nor of the enriching fulfillment that came from being one with him.
Hearing herself speak aloud of her time beneath the earth made the situation more real and less of an illusory imagining. The cloud of shocked disbelief that had earlier glazed her reasoning and muddled her mind – to discover that her beloved Erik, alive and not dead, was the dark and brooding Phantom of the Opera – had slowly begun to dissipate over the course of the day.
"In some ways, he has changed so much," she ended her quiet account. "I suppose the years have changed us both. In other ways he remains as steadfast as the earth and as wild and changeable as the wind, blowing hot then cold, one moment a tempest, then as gentle and sweet as a breeze – but in one matter – throughout all of our years and most recently our weeks shared together – there is one truth, one constancy that I cannot challenge. Can barely even face…" Christine blinked back a sheen of bitter tears and forced herself to say the next words. "It is to my great distress that I have loved twice in my lifetime – two men – who I now know, beyond all shadow of a doubt, are one and the same being! And that faithless man of darkness and disguise has left me, not once – but twice!"
"Left you?" Arabella regarded her in gentle puzzlement. "Did he not tell you that he would bring you back here, or explain why he never returned to The Heights? Perhaps he had good reason?"
She shook her head, remembering little of what was said during their last confrontation. She had given him almost no chance to speak, spouting her accusations with angst and anger, though at her hazy recollection he had not been forthcoming with any information when she demanded it of him. Only telling her it was "for the best."
Christine frowned at the recollection. "I…I collapsed, from the shock of discovering Erik there." She omitted mentioning that he had drugged her. "When I came to, I found myself here." She waved a hand to include her surroundings.
"How much you have suffered!" Arabella put a comforting hand to her shoulder. "And you learned the truth of his identity only last night? I cannot even begin to imagine what you must have felt. Did he not tell you of his plans to bring you above either?" she asked again.
"There had been some mention of it in past weeks," Christine said evasively, "but I cannot help think that had I never discovered the truth he would have prolonged my stay below." He had told her when she asked him, on the eve before they consummated their marriage, that she was not yet ready to go above. She doubted he had changed his mind so quickly.
The memory of lying in his warm embrace and the discovery of what it meant to become his woman made her physically ache to revisit those pleasures again. Disgusted with herself, Christine stood and moved to the dressing table. Picking up her hairbrush, she attacked her snarled tresses. She wished to feed her fury, not dwell on anything that might make her soften her attitude toward him.
"I will grant the favor of your request and concede to your wishes to keep the full extent of my 'wicked nightly trysts' from your knowledge…"
His caustic words of days ago came back to haunt her, fueling her objective.
The unfeeling cad. Bedding all those women - bedding Jolene! Sadly, in recalling the girl's words coupled with the familiarity between the two, she knew that was no lie, no matter how she wished it so, and she wondered just how many women he'd taken to his bed. He certainly hadn't seemed to regret her absence these past four years … wandering empty corridors … having trysts with dancers …
"Would you prefer to speak of something else?"
Christine ceased with ripping the brush through her hair and snapped her gaze to Arabella's image in the looking glass. "Why would you ask such a thing? I want to talk about what happened."
"Really? You look ready to commit murder."
She would dearly love to tear out every strand of their hair by the roots. Once bald, the slatterns would certainly lose whatever appeal they held for him.
How dare he tell her again and again, day after day and night after godless, lonely night, that she possessed no outward allure, often making her think she repulsed him! She had certainly proven him wrong and ended that cruel little game of dishonesty – he had been unable to get enough of her…
Or maybe she would claw out their empty hearts instead.
"CHRISTINE!"
She released her death grip on the brush and turned. "What, Arabella? There's no need to yell."
"You frighten me when you get that stony look in your eyes and they flash so darkly - as if you're about to do something quite reckless and wild. Tell me that I'm mistaken and I only imagine it."
Her imagination had proven to be quite sound, not an imagining at all. Not a foolish whimsy created by a guilt-ridden mind, like he tried to make her believe…
Erik of The Heights.
Phantom of the Opera.
From that very first day she found herself as his captive, deep within her being she had recognized truth and seen beyond his masquerade. How could it be otherwise? Her soul knew its mate, even if her mind had been tricked into believing a lie.
Carefully she set down the hairbrush and faced her friend.
She would not be dismissed, denied and ignored a second longer. This was a new year and a new beginning. No matter what title he chose to go by, there was only one name of import to her that she now possessed. Regardless of how she attained it, she was his wife, and that would never change. In this, the term "never" would remain a constant.
She would see to that.
"I want you to take me to the entrance you found that leads into his tunnels, and I want you to take me there now."
.
xXx