A/N: Thank you! :) And now…
LI
"You don't have to see him yet if you're not ready," Arabella suggested quietly. "Mention the evening rehearsal. Say you are weary and need rest. He'll understand."
Even as Arabella offered plausible excuses, Christine rejected each one and shook her head. "I want to get this over with. There is so much I have to confront in my life. At least I can put this behind me."
"Christine?" Raoul knocked a second time.
Arabella's gaze was sympathetic as she moved to let him in.
"Arabella- wait!" Christine gripped the curved edge of the vanity table. "You will stay? If I make a blunder in the story you created I might need you to give me aid."
"Of course." Arabella offered the barest trace of a smile for encouragement, evidently as uneasy as Christine, before opening the door to her cousin.
Raoul swept in with all the aplomb of a captain who had just reigned victorious in battle and found a family member who'd been held prisoner by the conquered enemy. Closing the distance before Christine could think of what to say, he dropped to one knee in front of her, grabbing both of her hands she held clasped in her skirt.
"Christine, my dear, you had us so worried! Where have you been? Are you alright? You look pale. Have you been ill?"
Arabella turned aside, casting her attention away from them and to the patterned rug. Christine could not prevent her anxious eyes from wandering to the full-length mirror.
Was he there now, spying on them…?
You must swear to me never to seek him out again. Never even to see him again when you are above. If you do, if you go back on your word, I will kill him.
The Phantom's words came back to haunt her, brutal in their clarity. She snatched her hands from Raoul's, holding her fingers at her stomach.
"I'm fine, Raoul, really. You had no need to worry."
"No need?" he repeated in sheer disbelief, wincing at her curt rejection of his touch. "You disappeared from the opera house in the night – from a locked room. No one knew where you had gone or where to find you!"
"Madame Giry knew," she insisted. "Had I known you would learn of my absence, I would have had her send a message informing you of my plans, so that you wouldn't be concerned. But I had no idea you left England or that you would come to France searching for me."
Her words came stiff, her tight clench on her fingers also a clue to what a bad liar she truly was.
"Where have you been these many weeks, Christine?"
"With a friend of Madame Giry's. A – a teacher of voice. He taught me what I needed to know to sing in the opera."
He looked at her in growing suspicion. "I am well aware that you have a beautiful voice, I have been most fortunate to hear it. But why should they hire you to sing the lead when they never heard you?"
"Never heard me? What do you mean?"
"We were told you would not sing for the audition."
"I asked for a private audition, later," she said impatiently, "away from the chorus. Madame granted it. She heard me sing."
"As did the Phantom."
"Wh-what?" She blinked then swallowed at his grim words, her mouth suddenly dry. "I don't know what you're talking about, Raoul."
"The Phantom of the Opera. The fiend that many of the cast said took you."
"I don't know why anyone would say such a thing." She glanced at the long mirror then at her hands before forcing herself to look into his eyes. Clear and blue, they now held nothing but concerned confusion. "I made the choice to go, Raoul. I had no other choice."
"You were forced?" He surged to his feet as if ready to search the entire opera house, stone by stone. "That beast forced you to go with him?"
"No, I didn't mean that," she hurried to say. "I chose to stay with my teacher. No one forced me. I was afraid they would learn who I was. And what I did. I had to hide - there was no other choice!"
"Raoul, let her be," Arabella interrupted softly. "It is as I have told you."
He turned his attention to her. "You are not concerned in the slightest? After all the devastation you have heard the Phantom has caused? And now he is singling Christine out to be his star!"
Christine took a steadying breath. "How did you reach that conclusion?"
"One of the little dancers – Jammes – told me of a note that was read aloud to the managers and all the cast in the theatre, after yet another disrupted rehearsal from the Opera Ghost, stating he had found a new lead. Since you are now in the title role, it doesn't take a genius to deduce the facts. That villain picked you!"
Genius…villain…teacher…lover…
Christine shook her head a little, forcing it away from the trap of dwelling on Erik and what he had become to her.
"I told you, Raoul, Madame hired me, with the managers' approval. I don't know about any Opera Ghost making a demand for me to sing." She swallowed nervously, wishing the lie away. But to keep everyone safe, there was little she could do except fabricate a story.
"Why should he pick you, a newcomer to the troupe, out of all the other seasoned chorus – and why should you suddenly be willing to sing? I have tried for years to ask, persuade, even beg you for one song to entertain friends – but each time you refused."
Christine straightened her spine, all nervous hesitation falling away from her as angry disgust now charged her words. "Can you not be happy for me that I again wish to sing? Does it matter how or why I have decided to take back the dream that Erik and I once shared?" Seeing his pained wince at the mention of her dark Angel, she spoke more carefully. "Being in the theatre revived that part of my soul I thought had died. Being here gave me the desire to sing and share my music again."
That part was no lie; she had sung on an empty stage before she even knew of Erik's existence at the theatre. Upon recalling the curtain that stirred at the end of her poor aria and his later admission to hearing her sing, she now wondered if her heart had sensed her soul mate there and her spirit had compelled her to reach out to him through her voice.
"I am pleased," Raoul said, his manner now one of gentle remorse. "I have wanted you to find that part of yourself again for some time. But the Phantom also heard you sing, Lotte. He has singled you out and obviously is watching you. I don't like it. He's evil and dangerous, skulking about unseen. I have heard stories of his exploits that would terrify you, and I cannot ensure your safety while you remain. Perhaps you should not even be in this opera, and this whole plan was a mistake."
"No, Raoul. I made a promise to sing."
"Then stay with us at the hotel."
"I wish to remain here."
"But why?"
Christine's solemn gaze strayed to the mirror. She wondered again if he spied on them now, if he even still cared enough to spy on her, before she had the good sense to look back to her lap so Raoul wouldn't notice where her attention so often strayed.
"It would be easier for me to stay here."
"But not safe. Not from all I have heard."
"The rehearsals start early and go on all day –"
"My driver can bring you to and from the theatre as needed –"
"With no proof to support anyone's stories of the Phantom's exploits and Christine back here with us, I really think we should just let the matter go," Arabella interrupted the quiet argument, much to Christine's relief. "I mean really, cousin. Disappearing from a locked room? You didn't actually believe that a ghost took her, did you? Christine's story makes so much more sense."
He did not return Arabella's tight laugh.
"The Phantom is no ghost, but a man, Arabella. A demented excuse for a man who has created trouble for the past three years. I don't like the way things are running in this theatre, since the Opera Ghost made his appearance – accidents, traps behind the walls, kidnappings – and while I'm in charge, I shall do all within my power to end his reign of terror."
"Christine speaks correctly…"
Shocked to hear a new voice boldly enter the conversation, Christine lifted burning eyes from glaring holes through the lap of her skirt and looked toward the open door. Both Arabella and Raoul also turned.
Madame Giry walked inside, unruffled by their shock to see her there.
"Madame, do you often enter into private conversations?" Raoul asked pointedly.
"Monsieur le Victome, the door was ajar." She gracefully motioned to it. "If the matter warranted privacy, I should think a closed door would do better to prevent unwanted visitors, whose sole purpose to be here is to keep the theatre running in a timely and proficient manner for our patrons – no?"
Christine stifled an amused giggle at Madame's apology that held the double-edge of chastisement. Raoul frowned, clearly not pleased for what he felt an unwarranted criticism. Idly Christine wondered if in being the Phantom's aide the woman had learned tricks of stealth and eavesdropping from her furtive employer. No matter, she felt grateful for Madame's unannounced presence, having struggled mightily not to speak in Erik's defense. To the Vicomte's knowledge she was never supposed to have even glimpsed the Phantom – and she had been very close to lighting into Raoul, who relentlessly seemed bent on speaking ill of Erik.
"Christine's story is correct," Madame repeated. "She was hidden away and in training. I felt the arrangement best. But I assure you, monsieur, that she is safe under this roof, perhaps the safest one in the theatre."
"Exactly how much of our conversation did you overhear?" Raoul demanded.
"Enough to know my actions were not unwarranted." Madame looked directly at Christine. "I expect you on stage in precisely one hour in full costume for the third act. You will sing Aminta's lament. Do not be late."
Christine still did not trust herself to speak, much less sing, but gave a slight nod to show that she understood. She also understood that Madame now knew more about her dilemma than she had wished to say.
"I think perhaps that is our cue to leave," Arabella suggested to Raoul.
"Yes, of course…" Raoul said irritably as if he wished to stay, looking as if he did not believe a word spoken. He continued to study Madame Giry, who to her credit did not flicker one eyelash, her petite frame erect, her manner composed and in control.
Raoul expelled a heavy breath and turned to Christine.
"My dear, forgive me if I upset you. That was not my intent. I am only concerned for your welfare, even more so while you remain in this bizarrely run theatre."
Madame did not show any indication that she received his slight and Christine sighed, weary of the topic.
"You didn't upset me, Raoul. I understand your concern, and I'll be fine. Madame Giry has been a tremendous help to me."
He actually had offended her, speaking so harshly of Erik. Yes, she was still furious with the cold-hearted beast of an Opera Ghost, and felt no compunction with insulting him aloud for what he had done in deceiving her – but she detested hearing others attack him, especially when they did not even know him!
Raoul continued to look unconvinced. "Tonight. We'll talk more tonight."
"No, Raoul. I don't think that's a good idea," Christine sent another swift glance to the mirror. "It's my first night back, and it's all been rather a lot to deal with."
"Tomorrow night then. I'll collect you after your last practice."
"I really don't think I should leave just yet. I only just returned and have much yet to learn."
"Surely you are allowed a few hours away from the opera?"
Christine looked at Madame Giry half in question, half in silent appeal for her aid.
The woman glanced from Christine to Raoul and gave a stiff nod. "Once rehearsals are concluded, the rest of the time is Christine's to spend as she likes."
Christine inwardly scowled at the accommodating words that favored Raoul's plan. She tried to think of some way out of this predicament, beginning to feel invisible for as much notice as her preferences were given.
"Excellent," Raoul smiled and grabbed his hat from where he had tossed it on the dressing table. "We shall return for you at seven o'clock tomorrow evening for supper. The three of us have much catching up to do."
"Raoul, please – I'm really not sure this is wise, not at this time –"
"It will be alright, Christine," Arabella cut in with a smile. "We shall talk again tomorrow, when you're well rested." She gave her an intent look before they left, as if to reassure her that she would keep the secret she had been entrusted with and help in whatever way she could.
But Arabella didn't know everything.
No one did.
x
From the corridor, before the door closed, Christine heard Raoul quietly order Madame Giry to keep a close eye on her and inform him immediately if anything went amiss by sending a messenger to the hotel where he stayed if he wasn't in the theatre.
Christine drooped in exhaustion, settling her elbows on the surface of the table and dropping her chin into her palms. Alone in the sudden heaviness of dark silence, she stared glumly at her reflection. All day, she had yearned for peace, to spend time alone with her muddled thoughts, to try to sort them in a way that would make sense of what happened. As the hours progressed, other troubles only added to their weight.
She finally had the peace she craved, but this solitude felt far from tranquil.
Feeling somewhat unhinged by the magnitude of all that occurred in less than twenty-four hours, she wondered how and why Erik, the Phantom, had put her in the midst of such a frightful, impossible chaos of confusion, secrets and lies.
More of his unmerited revenge?
She turned on the chair to stare bleakly into the long mirror.
"Why have you done this to me? Why are you always so cruel? What did I ever do to deserve this!"
Even the secretive smiles of the carved golden cherubs in the thick frame seemed to ridicule her.
"Are you even there?" she asked in a half whisper, staring at her rapt reflection. "I tried to resist, but was outnumbered. Do you hear? Please, don't hurt them because of my ignorance with how to handle the situation … must I beg it of you? Do the years we once shared mean nothing to you at all?"
As it so often was, silence became her only answer…
And for the first time since he brought her back, she hoped he had not been there to hear.
Suddenly a chill whispered against her exposed flesh, making the fine hairs on her neck and arms stand on end. In the gloomy stillness, the steady flames from the trio of candles near her side flickered with a sudden gust of wind.
Christine rose halfway out of the chair, her heart beating fast with hope and dread –
"Erik…?"
A swift knock from behind startled her into giving a harsh indrawn gasp that came out as a strangled yelp and she swung her attention from the mirror to the dressing room door as it opened.
A thin young woman wearing a simple gray dress, with her light brown hair wound in a heavy coil at the back, entered and bobbed a little curtsey. "Bon Jour, Mam'selle. I am Charlotte. Your hairdresser."
Her mind elsewhere, she barely followed the introduction, still gripping the dresser with both hands, her back now to it. "Charlotte, did you feel anything…peculiar when you came in?" Christine's tense gaze lit on the three extinguished candles and the smoke slowly curling to the ceiling.
"Pe-culiar, mam'selle?" Charlotte shook her head as she covered the distance. "What is – pe-culiar? I speak petit English." She held her hand up with the pad of her thumb nearly pressed to her index finger.
And she spoke little French. She might find this state of affairs somewhat amusing if it wasn't so damnably frustrating.
"Something out of place. Odd. A breeze – does this room have drafts?" Perhaps there was another way into his tunnels besides the mirror door. A crack in the wall hiding the secret corridor? She recalled the iciness of the soft gust of wind, the chill of which she had felt nowhere within the opera house and only inside his caverns.
Charlotte shrugged, as if she did not understand.
"Yes, alright. Never mind." Christine intently glanced at the mirror's pane, which appeared not to have moved an inch. "You have come to dress my hair for the rehearsal?"
"Your hair. Oui." Charlotte gave her a wary smile and Christine sighed and sat down, again facing the trio of mirrors and giving the French woman access to do her job.
In the quiet that ensued, while Charlotte worked with an iron rod she heated in a flame to style her unruly locks into a more tame profusion of springy curls, Christine fluctuated between thinking there was a draft coming from a hidden crevice and wondering if he had been there and actually heeded her continual pleas to speak with him. She supposed she would never know, and that was the most maddening knowledge to bear.
Lost in thought, she did not immediately notice Charlotte step away.
"Feen-ished," the girl said with a smile.
Christine studied her well sculpted curls, partly held back with a dark green velvet ribbon. A chill having nothing to do with any mystifying breeze shivered over her flesh.
It was time to get into costume and make her singing debut.
If ever she wished for a secret passage to open up and swallow her whole, it was now.
.
xXx
.
"No, no, no – that will not do! The ribbon is all wrong and the hair is too coiffed." A quick tug and the long strip of green material was pulled from Christine's glossy curls. Loosed from their containment, they fell in appealing ripples about her rosy cheeks. "She must look like a wandering gypsy, Charlotte, not a lady with a maid. Est-ce que tu me comprends…? Therese, pay attention – the skirt will need taken up another few inches to show her ankles so that the audience can see them well, like so … and just where are her anklets?" She snapped her focus to the quiet new diva. "Did they not provide you with anklets to wear? The bells from the anklets are important to the story. Mon Dieu! Must I do everything in this place …?"
Madame Giry's severe words in a mix of both English and French sailed high to Box Five where the Phantom somberly stood behind the crimson velvet drape and watched her critical appraisal of Christine's costume for the third act. The inept hairdresser and seamstress gave nervous nods and brief answers to each brusque directive, but the Phantom barely paid them heed, unable to take his eyes off the star attraction.
One day without her – not even that – and he felt that he had to fight to remember how to breathe. Having experienced the full knowledge of Christine, now knowing what it meant to be intimate with his intoxicating songbird, had only cemented the bond that for four years he worked so hard to sever. He had been a fool to give in to her feminine allure and was twice as damned to rebuff her now.
But he had no choice...
This was what she wanted. What she asked for, since the first day he'd brought her to his hidden tomb.
The flames of the stage lights glimmered over her porcelain skin and highlighted dark curls with bronze and gold, causing her to glow, like an earthly angel. She was the epitome of beauty, the fire again returned to her eyes, her feisty spirit renewed like a barely contained current that he could discern even from this distance.
He could sense her frustration with their poking and prodding by the tightening of her full lips and the clenching of her hands, her nervousness by the abrupt movements of her head to look in another direction, as if she heard an unexpected sound that startled her. Those wide dark eyes suddenly turned up in his direction, and he surreptitiously narrowed the gap of the velvet curtain he gripped in one gloved hand, shielding his presence so she would not see.
He could not let her see. The only way he could give her what she craved – to live above in the light, away from him – was to keep his distance.
She had been an innocent; in his ignorance of the truth he destroyed that. She was still guilty of deceit in the start of their war, in England, to gain the wealth and status she desired, to be rid of him. Yet regardless of her past sins, he could no longer include her in his scheme of revenge against those who opposed him, and had granted her the sole wish for which she pleaded day and night. The insufferable Vicomte had not been guilty of molesting her, that much was evident by her incessant and disgusting defense of the boy, and though the Phantom would no longer interfere in her affairs above ground, he would be damned if he would so readily release her from her wedding vows…
…was already damned to hurt her again by his refusal to do so.
A paradox his logic viciously countered – to keep up this pretense of the sham of their marriage bruised whatever heart he had left, a heart he no longer recognized. But he could not let the arrogant boy take Christine entirely from him.
He clenched the curtain hard at the thought, angry with himself that with all his tricks of magic, he could not wave his hand and forcefully destroy the powerful bond he felt to her.
Last night, he had returned to his lair after delivering her to the dressing room. Unable to enter her old chamber and face the memory of all that so recently transpired there, he ordered Jolene to take Jacques and gather Christine's things in a trunk, bringing it to him on the wheeled cart. Once he left the trunk in her dressing room, he departed, but not before standing over her unconscious form and drinking in the close sight of her one last time, not daring to tarry long lest she awaken. He had given her the drug, hopeful it was enough to make her forget what she must, all that was left but not enough to keep her asleep for long. Once he returned, he paced in his home for hours, unable to sleep, to eat, even to compose or play. Cursing himself thrice over, he again found his way behind the walls of the theatre, this time to confront Madame, and tried to put into cold words of distance what his heart mocked and defied. She had looked at him askance, no more believing his sudden lack of interest in his little songbird than he believed it himself.
An hour ago, pathetic wretch that he was, he approached the mirror, only for a glimpse to assure himself that she was alright, and heard the last of the preposterous conversation between the blasted de Chagnys, Madame, and Christine – as if the boy thought he could best him, even catch him! The Phantom soon heard her address him in hurt and angry tones, pleading for the boy's life – damn it all – had almost confronted her before the intrusive hairdresser arrived – but had come to his senses and swiftly and silently pivoted on his heel to leave.
Had no choice but to leave...
If he had stayed, if he had confronted her, he might have taken her back to his dark dungeons to remain forever.
He could not make the mistake of lurking behind the mirror door again.
She had burrowed beneath the barrier erected around his heart, weakening his defenses then obliterating them entirely in her utter surrender to him the previous night. But his rare act of mercy, to let her go, stemmed from more than trying to offer what morsel of contrition he could give for her discovery that a deformed beast had taken her virtue.
She withheld the exclusive prize of her heart, and he did not wish for her pity. Did not want even the outward expression of her penitence for her childish cruelty in what she'd done to him – his ongoing multitude of crimes far surpassed her old betrayal, and surely, she had not intended his demise, no matter that she'd set the wheels in motion with her razor-edged words. Once he thought she must have wanted him dead, but he simply could not bring himself to believe she'd grown so heartless. These past months in his caverns he had seen the nurturing, caring side of Christine that had only enhanced over time. Indeed, she was little like the vain and selfish girl he'd known at The Heights. Something had changed her ...
Even if such an unlikely phenomenon were to occur that she could come to care for him – as the disfigured creature she once knew and had pushed outside her heart and not only as the mysterious masked Phantom with whom she had been intrigued and lured – he did not deserve a fragment of that love. He was loathsome. Within and without. His hands stained with the blood of the just and the unjust.
Had she been honest about her disgust with his face four years ago, he would have stoically accepted it, not having believed then or now that anyone could surrender their body or love to such a scarred and deformed creature with half a face. She had given him hope he never once dared to claim, taunting him into a vulnerability he fought with every ounce of reason as she blossomed into a voluptuous, beautiful goddess of a woman, making him burn with love and lust for her. She had given him glimpses of treasure, toying with him, allowing him to touch and taste and explore – then had callously snatched it all away, casting him into absolute darkness where he had almost died from bullets that she might as well have shot into his flesh. Fettered with chains of hatred and despair, the nightmares having fed his rising need for vengeance, he soon found himself trapped into a life beyond torments of any hell he could have imagined …
Strangers in another land, demons in their own right, had tortured him, feared and shackled him – trying to break his spirit and shatter his mind – later to become his prey.
But a careless Little Angel had wrought the most damage, the worst suffering endured, because from the time they met as children, she alone captured his heart.
And though she had thoughtlessly and recklessly torn it in two, he was without all hope, for it was still hers to hold.
"Do you wish me to stand here or walk while I sing?"
Every taut sense of sight and sound riveted on the slight figure beneath as her apprehensive voice filtered up to him. He cursed himself for falling back into the snare of dwelling in the past and waited with expectancy, his gloved hand anxiously widening the gap of curtain a fraction. Silently he encouraged her to sing, knowing she had the ability within if she would only have faith in herself.
What had happened to destroy that, to so shake her confidence in her gift?
She smoothed her hands nervously down her hips and the flounces of her bright gypsy skirt and took a small step forward, her eyes fastening to a point amid the darkened tiers of chairs.
Only to imagine a life empty of you
Where would I be, what would I do?
Only to imagine a life far away
If you would ask, just once, I would stay
A life filled with hurt and regret I must live
Just once, to hear three words,
My life I would give
Come to me … never forget … forever stay true,
Turn not away, and I'll come to you …
The melancholia of Aminta's lament, not his greatest work but his one concession to her humanity for a brief span of a scene, rose in crystalline perfection as Christine immersed herself into character and sang as if her heart was the one wounded, the wet shine in her eyes evidence of her despair. The haunting words, sung from her lips, echoed in the deepest regions of his tortured soul and for several wretched heartbeats the Phantom could almost believe that she sung to him alone, words that he would wish to hear…
"Brava!"
Boisterous applause erupted from within the darkened theatre once her final notes sailed away on a wistful plea. The Vicomte strode from the back of the theatre and down the aisle to the stage.
Like the crash of an icy wave, the Phantom was awakened by harsh reality and drew the chill of stern indifference around him as a cloak. He glared as the musical infidel climbed the steps to the stage and took her hands she still held clasped frozen beneath her chin in a beseeching act, unscripted – one she had implemented during the final part of her aria.
Of course, she had been singing for her Vicomte, just as Aminta had sung for a lost love, not Don Juan. She must have seen the intrusive boy loitering in the background. The Phantom had heard and seen enough of their pathetic conversation to realize they'd had a spat. The imbecile now offered a public show of support, praising her voice so all could hear, but the Phantom had heard his idiotic persuasions for her to leave the theatre, and the opera, and knew that was his ultimate goal.
The insipid fool. Let him try…
During Christine's song, the Phantom had focused solely on the beauty of her voice, her face, her form, his mind then and now cruelly reminding him of those exquisite features unclothed, untried, and arching upward for his touch –
…before she realized who and what he was.
Briefly he closed his eyes to regain composure and rid himself of last night's image and the subsequent confrontation, when she had expressed to him just how loathsome he was to her.
Many from the chorus had drawn closer to center stage from the outside fringes, the expressions of stark disbelief on their awed faces a satisfaction, and the only triumph he would attain.
Yes. An angel's voice…
With the devil for her teacher.
He must work once more to eradicate her from his soul. Until then, must remain concealed in shadows and within his dark Hades, where he belonged. Never completely absent from her life, but not so that she would know of his existence. He was her manager, once her instructor. She was the star of his opera, even if she was no longer his little angel to challenge and adore. He could not abandon her entirely for the sake of the production.
But she need never know he was there.
xXx