A/N: Thank you for the reviews – you guys. lol You make me chuckle and shake my head (with a very wicked grin)…
LV
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Five minutes before the hour she was summoned to appear, Christine hurried through empty passageways of the forgotten east wing, the echo of her footsteps hollow on the flagstones.
Meg had led her through this area on a second nocturnal tour three nights ago – perhaps a foolish desire for Christine to ask to see these abandoned corridors of infamy, but her curiosity had been too great. According to Meg these rooms were rarely used anymore, except for storage. Despite its lavish décor, the theatre had known financial difficulty, and the previous managers installed the newest mode of gaslighting exclusively in the foyer and theatre for their guests, leaving the rest of the opera house in the dark ages of torchlight and candles. It made sense that the Phantom would choose to lurk here, the eerie halls abandoned and unlit. Even the rough walls of pale rock glowed like something from a ghostly tale.
Holding a torch to light the way, she came to an arched door, Meg having told Christine it led to the old chapel. With her hand at the latch, Christine drummed up courage to face whatever new challenge he would put to her.
She did not fear him. Even in his fits of rage, he had never physically harmed her. That was not the type of hurt she dreaded. Only Erik could rend her heart and wound her soul, and she resolved to remain composed and not again become prey to his as yet unexplained thirst for revenge.
Opening the door, she noticed a set of stone steps twisting downward and took them. She was almost to the bottom when she heard the heavy door close above her.
Startled, she whipped around, the flame of the torch fluttering from her swift action.
"Erik? Is that you?"
When no answer came, she nervously retraced the spiral of steps to the door. No one had entered, but the door would no longer budge. Had he locked her inside? Her heart hammering within her breast, wary of what state of mind she would find him in, she had no choice but to resume her descent.
The gentle glow of firelight shimmered on the wall as she took the final curve and stair. She gasped to come upon a chamber with candles lit all around. Oil paintings of angels decorated the walls, their muted earthen colors of moss-green, antique gold, and faded blue giving a peaceful ambiance to the room, as did one window of stained glass crafted in the image of an angel. Yet at the moment she felt anything but relaxed.
It had been eight nights since she'd last seen him underground, eight nights that might as well have been a small eternity.
"Erik," she spoke to the empty room, then cleared her throat to push away the unease. "Are you there…? It was you, wasn't it? You locked me in this chamber! Are you trying to frighten me...?"
She turned in a circle and spied an alcove. Certain that must be where he was hiding she approached the shadowed darkness. Thrusting her torch inside, she found the space empty. Just when she thought she'd been the brunt of a cruel joke, a gentle wind blew, causing the candles nearest her to flicker.
She stared at them in confusion, her heart skipping a beat to remember a similar occurrence in her dressing room.
"Christine…"
The quiet timbre of his voice coming so suddenly from behind, a dark velvet lure to her senses, caused her bones to melt and damp heat to trickle between her thighs. Just the mere sound of his voice robbed her of the ability to think, to breathe, leaving her in want, and her pulse raced at the thought of what the coveted sight of him might do to her. She could not let him see her in this state, could not let him witness the control he had over her. Pressing her hand to the wall, she sought the strength to resist him, and turned –
He was not there.
She stared in confusion. "Where are you?"
Seeing a nearby brace on the wall, she slipped her torch inside it.
"I am here," he said at last. "Where is not important. You seek further guidance. I will help you."
Christine let out a faint disbelieving laugh as the quiet echo of his words filtered through the room.
"You mean to hide from me then?"
He did not respond and she stamped her foot in exasperation, clenching her hands at her sides. "Damn it, Erik, answer me this minute and stop this ghostly pretense! I have never known you to be a coward."
The gauntlet of challenge thrown, she winced suddenly to realize where she stood. Her tongue had grown as crude as a stagehand's. In this place of tranquil worship, surely it must be a sin to speak with anything other than quiet reverence.
"Madame…" His tone came darker, but no less soft. "You would do well to remember that I am your teacher, and you are my student. I have brought you to this forgotten chamber of worship, to instruct you further in what you must know for the opera."
At least he addressed her with the proper form of address so had not completely forgotten their wedded state, though his note had given her cause to wonder.
"Why here? You have never liked to step foot inside sacred buildings."
"There is less chance of being overheard in this chamber. This wing is seldom visited, especially in the late evening."
Except by the occasional ballerina aspiring for a midnight tumble with the Phantom, she bitterly added though refrained from airing the words.
Vexed with this new twist on his game of lurking cat to trapped canary, she stepped forward in appeal, though she had no idea where he stood. His voice came in waves crashing then receding all around her, at one moment undulating rich with sound in front, in the next coming soft as a whisper from behind. Another of his magic tricks, no doubt.
"Erik, we must talk."
"While we engage in these lessons, you will address me as your teacher."
She blew out a breath at his rigid, implacable tone. "Very well then, Maestro, there are many things I wish to know and want to say –"
"With five days until your debut we must concentrate exclusively on the opera." His tone brooked no refusal. "There is time for nothing else."
She blinked. "But surely, we cannot just pretend these last months away, as if nothing ever happened, when we both know it did!"
She heard the trace of his audible sigh, not angry but strangely sad, and turned in that direction.
"The past is no more than shadows of a forgotten time. Shadows belong to the darkness and should remain there."
Her mouth parted in disbelief at his reply. "But the light of revelation can sweep the shadows away, as if they never existed. Not everything should remain in darkness. Some things need to be said –"
"There is nothing you have to tell me that I don't already know."
She doubted that but didn't argue the point, instead expressing her own.
"There are many things I wish to know –"
"I had understood that you wished for guidance. Was I incorrect in that assumption?"
"You know you were not. You heard what I said in the garden that night. Otherwise you wouldn't be here now."
Her words held a ring of victory, even as she lowered her head in defeat. She knew him well enough in his current guise as the Phantom to realize that he would not yield and might abandon her if she persisted.
"Then let me be what you need to excel. Let me teach you and be what destiny has ordained for us in this moment of time: let me be your Angel of Music."
His voice, his words were of the softest silk, wrapping around her soul. This was not a command disguised as a choice, so prevalent with him. This was a request. He was not the boy she remembered, now a stranger, this Phantom. But at times like now, rare and fleeting, she saw glimpses of Erik's gentle spirit. And yet it did not matter what mask he chose to wear. God help her, she had grown to love the dangerous man of dark mystery who dwelled in shadows too.
If she was patient, perhaps once the night of her opening was behind her, he might allow time for full disclosure. For now, it was enough that he had answered her plea and come to her, even if he chose to remain hidden. She still felt insecure of her ability to sing in a professional capacity, still so much in need of his guidance.
"You have always been my Angel…" she whispered, her eyes lighting on the tall painted one set back in a shallow niche, well lit by candelabra descending in a stair-step pattern on each side. A railing of stone stood at her waist, guarding the small enclosure and setting it off from the rest of the room. She walked to the middle of the stone ledge, where an opening was, large enough for only one person to walk through. "…I would have it no other way."
From behind the chapel wall, the Phantom inhaled an unsteady breath as she seemed to look right at him. Shaken, he pushed briefly away from the two eyeholes that a previous voyeur had bored into the painted wall of an angel's sash to spy on those inside. The passages behind walls of this old wing were narrow and led to the part of the opera house still in use and a secret door down to his lair. But no hidden entrance led into the chapel, the wall of stone between them a true barrier to Christine and the main reason the Phantom had chosen this place to resume their lessons.
She was a vision of enchantment in the candlelight, her glossy curls wild and rippling down her back, her haunted eyes dark and shining. Her dress was of blue velvet, the same that she had worn on their last night together, and he could imagine the feel of each sensual curve beneath his hand that had skimmed the soft material during their passionate aria, could imagine later, the softer flesh beneath with her lying beneath him in her bed…
He closed his eyes to the memory, to the very sight of her, his body trembling with the need to gather Christine in his arms and kiss her senseless. To beg her forgiveness and plead for her love, to implore that she might at least try to love him as a man and forget that he was no more than a monster.
He bared his teeth against such futile hopes. God, he was pathetic. Each time in this infernal week that he struggled to harden his feelings against her, a recent memory of her sweetness pierced through the darkness he desperately tried to build, a chink of her light revealing a fraction of his shadowed heart. There, in the deepest chamber of that foul organ, he struggled to keep his feelings for her buried deep. He had thus far failed and now felt helpless to resist her beauty, even if only through watching her…
Perhaps she truly had changed; perhaps she was no longer the thoughtless girl who in her ignorance once betrayed him to die. There were moments, warm and evanescent, in these last eleven weeks, that could lead him to believe it. But he feared to become vulnerable to her charms, only to have her deny and betray him a second time. The anguish would be ten times worse now that he had gained such intimate knowledge of his beautiful songbird.
Mesmerized by the sight of her lips gently parting, he gasped when her tongue slid along their fullness to moisten them in a nervous gesture. Desire, hot and potent, flared to life inside him.
"Maestro…?"
"We must begin."
She looked to her left where he had thrown his voice, taking a few uncertain steps in that direction.
The reprieve he purposely created, to gaze upon her profile instead of her face, proved minimal. No matter which way she turned, she was an enticement to his senses.
"Your scales, if you please," he instructed tersely...
For the opera must go on.
Christine gave a little start as he struck a guiding note on his violin, the melancholy sound drifting in the air all around her, but obediently she began to sing.
xXx
Raoul bent over a table in the private anteroom of the hotel and ran his index finger along a wavy line of the faded map Professor Arnaud had brought with him.
"It is rather crude, my apologies," the elderly bewhiskered gentleman said, "but to my knowledge, it is the earliest map existing of Paris."
"No apologies are necessary. These…" Raoul was intent on the faded scribblings as he pointed to three circles, "are the only known entrances to the tunnels? How far do the tunnels reach?"
"In my sole expedition beneath the earth, I did not get far before the rock broke above my head and caused a small avalanche, a force of nature." He patted the side of his game leg with his cane. "With this, I am no longer able to search the caverns, but I have heard stories, rooted in the ancient legends of the Gauls, that they extend east and west to the boundaries of Paris, perhaps beyond that. An entire underground city of natural rock chambers, stairsteps and passageways on many levels, with bottomless pits, springs, even an underground lake."
At the mention of water, Raoul bitterly recalled the trap into which he'd fallen weeks ago and wondered if the professor had also been a victim of the Phantom and not a force of nature as he assumed. Raoul had entered the narrow passageway beyond the theatre walls, unexpectedly found two years ago and revealed by an anonymous note, later shown to him by stagehands, who had warned that he shouldn't step foot past the barricaded enclosure. Three of their number were once badly injured, another losing his life in the traps. His fear for Christine and eagerness to capture the Phantom led Raoul to tear away the boards long nailed to the secret entrance.
Armed with warnings of what to avoid, he'd found a crawlspace that led down to the caverns but had gone no more than a hundred yards before becoming victim to a trap. Fighting for his last breath, he had clung to the moss-covered grate pressing down on him. In the moment before the water could close over his head it suddenly rushed out through a gap that magically appeared in the wall. He escaped, finding his way back to the theatre, but when he returned to the crawlspace to attempt a second invasion, he found it blocked with a boulder impossible for one man to move. And no one else would dare enter the feared Opera Ghost's hidden passageways to help roll it away.
The blueprints of the theatre had shown a warren of corridors beyond the walls. For what purpose they were included in the design of the building he'd been unable to discover, but he had not yet learned of another entrance leading to the caverns.
A distant clock chiming the hour broke him from frustrated musings and led him to realize how late it was. He sighed and rolled up the map. "May I keep this temporarily?"
"Oui, Monsieur Vicomte, of course. I am only too happy to help."
Both men exited the chamber. The concierge stood near, his dark eyes intent on Raoul. The professor left for the hotel exit, and the concierge approached. Raoul warily eyed the abhorrent little man, his first encounter with the unfortunate Giselle and this scoundrel trying to peddle off the young maid as merchandise returning to his thoughts.
"Monsieur le Vicomte," the concierge greeted, "I trust your stay with us has been pleasant and everything is to your satisfaction?"
"I have no complaints." He made to walk past, but the concierge hurried up beside him. Raoul turned in surprise.
"Pardon, Monsieur, I could not help overhearing – you are searching for the masked man of the opera house known as the Phantom?"
"You know of him?"
"The fiend stole my niece two years ago. From under this very roof."
Raoul's interest sharpened. "The Phantom abducted your niece?"
"Oui, and I have not heard from my Jolene since that night. I fear what he has done to her."
Raoul considered the alarming words, the behavior consistent with the masked menace, since Raoul still believed that Christine had been abducted and was protecting the Phantom, though for what absurd purpose he could not begin to guess.
"I have heard that you seek volunteers to help in your capture," the concierge continued. "I wish to help, and there are others under my supervision who would do the same. I wish to see the Phantom hanged as much as you." A violent flash of anger darkened his eyes.
Although aid was appreciated and needed, Raoul did not trust this man and withheld an immediate answer.
Light feminine laughter, familiar to him, captured Raoul's attention. He looked toward the lobby in shock. The bright glow from the massive chandelier's many globes highlighted the woman who stood below animatedly talking to a well-dressed gentleman in black tails.
"Excuse me," he said distantly to the concierge, moving past him.
"Monsieur –"
"We will speak of this later."
His eyes never left the laughing woman. She wore a silver dress that gleamed with a soft luminescence, complementing her fair skin, and as she turned at the sound of his step, he noticed the gown had brightened her eyes to light gray.
"Raoul, there you are," Arabella greeted with an enthused smile, "I was beginning to think I would need to send the staff in search of you."
He flicked his eyes to the man behind her then again looked at his cousin. "I did not wish to trouble you. I had important business. I assumed you would be waiting upstairs."
"If I'd done that, I might starve," she said with a careless little laugh.
"And you are?" Raoul asked the man since Arabella had obviously forgotten about introductions and the stranger seemed unable to look away from his cousin.
"Sir Reginald Cavendish, the Marquis of Newcastle. I'm an old friend of your father's. Upon my arrival this evening, I met your charming cousin and learned you are both staying here, as am I."
"Isn't that wonderful, Raoul?" Arabella said happily. "I have been trying to convince Lord Cavendish that he must join us for supper. His recent travels took him through Bordeaux, where your parents are staying. He was also a guest at Westerly Manor and was just telling me of a recent hunt in which the wily fox misled its pursuers. Most amusing."
"Ah." Raoul summoned up a congenial smile. "Of course you are welcome to join us. I should like to hear more of this escapade."
At the trace of falseness in his tone, Arabella shot him a queer look but immediately returned her smiling attention to their new guest. "How long do you plan to stay in Paris, Lord Cavendish?"
The three walked to the dining area. Raoul could not explain the vice that clenched his midsection since he'd come upon the pair so easily conversing or why he disliked the jovial older gentleman on sight.
"I suppose the answer to that, dear lady, is dependent on if I find anything of merit to hold my interest to keep me here."
"Have you been to the opera? My cousin is a patron at the opera house, and a new one opens this weekend. A good friend sings the lead, and I must tell you, she has a voice befitting an angel. Most impressive."
"You are acquainted with an opera singer?" Rather than sound horrified by the prospect, he appeared fascinated. "I confess, I'm tone deaf so have not attended many an opera."
"Nonetheless, I feel it might be worthy of your consideration. It is a most unusual opera, this Don Juan Triumphant. Many call it The Phantom's Opera – the composer is a reclusive musical genius. The story alone would hold your interest."
At Arabella's glowing recommendation, Raoul frowned and turned his thoughts back to the looming opera that was fast becoming a bane to his existence. He must try and speak with Christine again after rehearsals tomorrow.
If only she would listen.
xXx
Christine nervously looked toward the door and lowered her voice. "You shouldn't be here. This is the third night this week. People will talk."
Raoul studied her in surprised confusion. "Lotte, you lived in my home for two years, despite all foolish town gossip. I hardly think a few short visits to your dressing room can compare."
His blank expression led her to believe he spoke without rancor. His outlook of his visits were that they were harmless enough, thus everyone should share the same opinion. She inwardly groaned from frustration. Was his heart truly so pure not to see how easily his visits could be misconstrued? Or had hers grown so blackened that she alone saw the contradiction? Once, in England, she gave no heed to guarding one's reputation, thinking it trite and silly if it interfered with her desire for adventure. Many were the nights she had innocently fallen asleep beside Erik in the loft or they roamed the moonlit moors, without oddities like chaperones to hinder them. To some degree, she still did not care – thespians and singers were all assumed to have tawdry reputations – but she did care who might hear about the rumors of scandals. Of course, she couldn't tell Raoul that.
She forced herself not to look at the tall mirror on the opposite wall, doubtful her dark Angel was even there, if he had been before, and the realization made the rhythm of her pulse increase.
She really must put an end to this.
"No one here knows our history or knows me. This is also my bedchamber, and I have no wish to become the brunt of further gossip."
He frowned. "Has someone spoken ill of you? You have only to tell me their name and I'll see to the matter."
She twisted on the stool to face him. "No, Raoul, that is something you must not do. If I'm ever to fit in with the rest of the cast, I cannot have you always fussing over me." Seeing him wince and knowing she had wounded his feelings, she gently touched his sleeve. "Please understand. It's not that I'm ungrateful for your concern, but I'm a grown woman."
A married woman, though of course she couldn't tell him that either. And it infuriated her that her name had been linked with the Vicomte's in the latest outrageous tittle-tattle, a number of the chorus assuming them to be secret lovers.
"I am trying to understand, Christine. I don't wish to upset you, only to protect you. I still don't think you're safe here."
"Raoul, please. Not this again. I told you, I'm fine."
"At least change your mind and have supper with me."
Christine barely refrained from screaming. Her nerves were so taut a throbbing little ache had started behind her eyes. They must have been having this argument for the better part of a quarter hour. She couldn't recall him ever being so dogged, or perhaps she had forgotten his tenacity. At The Grange, during her convalescence while in her apathetic state, she had allowed both Raoul and Arabella to think and choose for her, like a little child incapable of the ability to reason. But she had grown strong of mind since those dark days and even stronger these past months, again wishing to make her own decisions.
"I cannot go with you," she said once more. "The opening is tomorrow night – tomorrow night, Raoul. I must meet with my teacher for practice."
"Surely he has no wish to see you starve! This is the third night you've refused to go to supper." He eyed her slender form doubtfully. "I sincerely hope you're looking after your needs since you refuse to let anyone else see to them."
"Of course. But I'm not supposed to eat before a performance."
"This is only a practice session. I fail to understand why you must be so strict when you dine. Yet I can wait if I must."
"No, Raoul. No." She looked full into his eyes. "My teacher is strict. He strives for excellence and expects the same, and I have no wish to disappoint him." She took a relaxing breath. "Besides, I prefer late meals so I can enjoy them and rest afterward. My training goes on for hours and is very exacting."
"I should like to meet him, this mysterious teacher of yours."
This wasn't the first time he made the request, but thankfully they'd been interrupted before she could answer. Now he looked at her, his expression expectant.
"I'm sorry, he wouldn't agree to a meeting. He's a genius when it comes to the arts but prefers his solitude. He doesn't mix well with crowds."
"I am only one man."
"Raoul, please!" Christine set her hairbrush down on the dressing table with a little more force than necessary. "I cannot push him to meet you if he does not wish it. Now, I shall see you tomorrow night at the opening."
At her abrupt dismissal, he sighed. "Calm yourself, Christine. I did not mean to upset you." He rose from the chair he'd placed near her. "I'll go. But I will see you at the celebration gala after the performance. I am quite confident you'll outshine them all."
Accepting his parting kiss to her cheek, she smiled in gratitude, feeling badly for her brusqueness when he was only exhibiting his concern.
x
The moment the door closed behind him, Christine donned her cloak and raced to the chapel, darting in and out of shadows to remain unseen on her flight to the abandoned corridors. The way was dimly lit for her, as her teacher had done in the past five nights of their practices.
She closed the heavy door behind her and hurried down the spiral stairs, barely making it into the small chamber before Hades' voice thundered from the darkness in which he hid.
"YOU'RE LATE!"
She flinched at his words that shook the air like dual snaps from a whip's lash.
After the awkward tension on the night he first brought her here, they had passed additional practices successfully, the Phantom a teacher devoted to his calling and Christine eager to learn the wealth of his expertise. Because of his initial order for silence, nothing was said of their life together outside this small chamber with its faded, forgotten angels, as if the past three months, even the last four years never existed – as if their entire association never existed. It was as if they were two strangers brought together for one purpose alone, the success of the opera, both of them playing a different masquerade of genteel illusion and formal pretense. But one no less painful.
It was easiest to forget while she sang, and she had devoted herself to that cause, pouring herself into becoming Aminta. The dark lulls that came between – periods of heavy silence where forbidden words were muffled before they had a chance to form – were the most difficult to bear. He scolded and instructed her, but often, too often, she recalled that same mesmeric voice whispering seductive enticements in her ear, his lips warm against her skin…
With so many chaotic feelings boiling beneath a veneer of emotional unconcern, Christine felt as if the shell holding her together must soon crack and she would splinter into jagged fragments like a broken china doll.
The chamber was considerably cold, his tone dark, the strain that filled the atmosphere weightier than at any time during the past five lessons.
Only one more night … she could survive this one more night.
"Have you nothing to say?" he insisted, his tone soft and dangerous.
"I wasn't aware that you required an explanation. I had understood that you preferred me to keep my silence on anything not related to the opera."
"Your punctuality is related to the opera."
She sighed at his brisk rejoinder. "I apologize for my tardiness, Maestro. It won't happen again." As she spoke, Christine wondered as to the authenticity of her declaration and if their lessons really would now conclude after her debut. She could not bear them to end and could not bear them to continue…not like this.
From behind the wall, the Phantom suspiciously narrowed his eyes, noting the spirited quirk of her chin. Her curls were in wild disarray and she stood breathless, her bosom rising and falling as if she'd run the distance. A becoming flush of rose tinted her dewy features, and he wondered if the insufferable boy put it there.
He clenched his hands pressed to the wall and impatiently waited until she could again breathe.
"We have wasted much time," he snapped. "Proceed with your scales."
Refusing to let his hostile mood affect her, Christine bit back tears and lifted her voice, following his direction. They moved from scales into simple exercises then into her solo of the third act. Some nights he played his violin, other nights she sang without accompaniment. Tonight her voice was all that wavered through the chamber, waver being the operative word.
"STOP!"
Fully expecting his censure, she closed her eyes and waited for him to continue.
"That was written to be a cadenza to capture and delight the audience, comparable to a fluid ascent of chiming bells," his fierce whisper surrounded her in the dark cloud of his displeasure. "You have made it into the mournful call of a warbling pigeon! Have you forgotten all that I taught you? Your stance is reprehensible. Stand taller! The diaphragm is a necessary tool to those singers who take their profession seriously. Use it to breathe... Is this nothing more than a game to you, Madame? I thought your greatest desire was to sing. Must I remind you that the opera opens tomorrow night?"
"You have no need to remind me – but you are mistaken, Phantom. I'm not the one who plays on a carousel of never-ending games!"
"Are you so sure of that?"
Breathing hard, he clenched his gloved hands he held pressed to the wall, never looking away from the opening or Christine, who whirled to face him, her expression wounded and angry. In his mind's eye, he could see that idiot's hand resting at the curve of her shoulder in reassurance as he sat so near Christine at her dressing table. See the revolting kiss to her cheek. Nor had she made any effort to repel his advances. He could have gladly strangled the boy.
Christine bowed her head and rubbed her temples.
"Shall I start over then?" she whispered.
"What you should do is desist in defying me," he said, just as hoarsely, cursing his own pain. This was a mistake; yet he felt compelled to continue.
Her head shot up. "What do you mean – I have done everything you asked."
"Not everything," he bit out, his anger rising on another wave. "You choose to entertain callers in your dressing room when you should be resting before your practices."
"Entertain?" Shortly she laughed, again massaging her temples. "Surely you jest."
"You keep company with the fool you were warned to avoid. Three times now! I do not find that one bit amusing."
"You have put me in an impossible position," she said just as bitterly. "If I refuse to see the Vicomte he will become even more suspicious than he is and think you're to blame."
"I can take care of myself, Madame. But do you deny that it is your desire to see the de Chagny spawn?"
She shook her head in disbelief. "You wish me to be completely without friends?"
"Friends," he spat in mockery as if the word were laced in poison. "Is that what you call it? How touching."
He span a whole new meaning into the word, and she winced.
"Yes – we are friends." She lifted her hands in appeal, her attention going to the angels on the walls. They looked down on her with silent disapproval. "Why do you still hate him so much -?"
"You have to ask?!" He laughed harshly.
"Yes, yes I do. Is it because he's the patron here? Can you not find some path of compromise between you? Why must you always be so unforgiving?"
"Forgive me if I find it distasteful to surrender all of what is mine!"
Her heart gave an erratic thump at his sardonic words that seemed fraught with a deeper meaning, then fell as he continued –
"I rebuilt this opera house from the ruins it had been fast approaching. It was my tireless efforts that saved it, the Don Juan is my opera that I penned – yet that fool and those idiot managers take all the glory and make me out to be no more than a villain. As if I would wish to destroy three years' worth of hard work. I want this opera house to thrive more than they do!"
"The Vicomte doesn't know that – or anything about you really. And he doesn't deserve your everlasting wrath. He is no virtuoso, but he wants this opera house to succeed too. Can you not just end this war, once and for all?"
"I intend to do precisely that," he replied, his voice potent, beautiful and menacing, like a velvet-tipped arrow thrust through her heart. "Your precious Vicomte has done everything in his power to attempt to destroy me, to attempt to 'capture' me, and now he wishes to abolish my opera! But I will never allow it."
"What in God's name are you talking about?" she insisted, turning in a circle to look at each of the four walls, wishing to know where he stood. "How would he even do that? Why would he do that?"
"HE DESTROYED US!" he growled. "And yet you defend him!"
"NO – YOU DESTROYED US!" she cried. "And I still don't know why!"
She stood in angry desperation, tremors shaking her entire body.
"Do not push me beyond my limits, Madame." His voice came deeper and hushed, rumbling through her soul. "I have told you, if I'm to remain your teacher, the past is to be left alone."
A resentful laugh quivered from her lips twisting into a sob that felt wrung from her lungs.
"You cannot have it both ways, Erik. You cannot say we are never to speak of what happened between us and concentrate solely on the opera – then do the exact opposite and only when it pleases you. YOU brought it up! And now I wish to know why!"
"I speak only of the opera – and that insolent boy who interferes with it!"
"The hell you do." She scowled at his refusal to speak of the past, barely refraining from pounding the walls in her frustration. "The Vicomte is not interfering – he supports me! He wishes for the opera's success –"
"You are a blind fool if you think that. Was it not because of his damnable interference tonight that you arrived late for practice?! Did he not continually try to persuade you to leave with him to go to supper?"
"Why do you even ask – I'm certain you know the answer! Have you not been lurking in the shadows to spy?!"
Christine whimpered, the pain in her head now throbbing. She lifted her hands to press them to each side of her temples. The ground slightly wavered, and she reached out to the balustrade, clutching it for balance. "I cannot do this anymore."
"What is wrong?"
Curtly she shook her head.
"Are you ill?"
She gave a harsh little laugh of hysteria, the thin shell beginning to crack.
"Do you honestly pretend to care? Is this your latest game? Oh, but how foolish of me – of course you care! After all, I am the star of your opera, which is all that matters to you! My voice. And for that reason alone, my welfare is of concern." She despised the hot, bitter tears that streamed down her cheeks and viciously swiped them away. "Do not trouble yourself, Maestro. This trivial ache in my head will pass, your Don Juan opera will go on as planned –and you shall have your dreadful diva front and center stage when the curtain opens tomorrow night. I shall not fail you!"
"Christine…"
The sudden gentleness of his voice saying her name was her undoing and threatened to unhinge her soul completely.
"No, I can't," she whispered, not wishing to collapse in this cold, empty chamber before his ever-watchful eyes that had burned her with their scorn –
- whirling on her heel, she fled from the room.
"CHRISTINE…!"
The Phantom slammed his palms against the barricading wall.
"CHRISTINE!"
With a final desperate bellow of her name, once more he uselessly struck rock then bowed his head, feeling as if an invisible knife slashed through what was left of his miserable heart.
x
Christine ran through the vacant corridors as if her life depended on it. With tears obstructing her vision, she turned into the adjoining passage and slammed into something solid.
She gave a little cry of panic and pain as two strong hands gripped her arms, preventing her fall.
"Are you alright, mademoiselle?" One of the stagehands held her close, his smile oily and breath reeking of whiskey. "Can I be of assistance?"
Wide-eyed, reminded of that awful last day in England, she fearfully shrank away, breaking from his hold. Slamming her palms against his chest, she forced him back then darted around him, thankful he did not pursue. Ignoring his low chuckle, she continued her flight, not stopping until she whisked through the rose-colored double doors.
Turning the key in the lock, Christine pressed her back to the wood. Alone at last, she slid down its surface and squeezed her eyes shut, allowing the breathless sobs to escape.
She wept for the past she could not change and the present she did not understand, while dreading what horrors the future held in store. When she had no tears left, she leaned the back of her head that had not ceased pounding against the smooth surface of the door.
How would she ever get through this? How would she get through tomorrow night and singing an entire opera, having had only three months to prepare? What had she been thinking to believe she could?!
She lost track of time and startled when knuckles rapped hard against the wood, the vibrations felt. Wiping the moisture from her cheeks with the edge of her cloak, she struggled to rise and eased the door open, peering through the crack.
Madame Giry stood there. Christine opened the door in surprise. The woman curtly nodded and moved around her to place a tray on a nearby table. Turning, she met Christine's reddened, damp eyes, a softer expression coming to her own.
"Are you alright, my dear?"
Christine managed to nod.
"Dress rehearsal begins at noon. I must spend the morning with the dancers, so get what rest you need." She opened her mouth to say more, then seemed to change her mind, giving a little shake of her head, and swept out the door, closing it behind her.
Christine again locked herself inside before looking at the table, expecting to see a late meal, though Madame never had brought her supper before.
Three items sat on the silver tray.
Her eyes skimmed over the first – a silver goblet containing dark liquid. With widening eyes she focused on the last two objects. A rose of deep crimson, not fully opened, lay upon an envelope that was blank.
She stared at both for an eternity of unsteady heartbeats, her body paralyzed, before she finally sank to the chair beside the table. Lifting the flower, she noticed a thin ribbon of black satin tied around its thornless stem. Slowly she curled the soft ribbon around her fingertip with her thumb and brought the blossom to her nose, the sweet fragrance of the velvet petals a caress to her shattered senses. Swallowing hard, both eager and fearful of what she may find, Christine broke the simple seal of red wax on the envelope and unfolded the stiff parchment.
Your voice is not all of what matters to me.
Seek rest, and let my remedial potion work its magic.
I am always
~Your Angel of Music
.
She let out a little sob at his tender message, the intolerable strain of days leaving her in a rush.
Pressing his note to her breasts, she felt too weary and wracked with pain to think or wonder what it all meant. Without hesitation, she drank every drop of the warm, bitter liquid in the goblet engraved with his initials, O. G.., then curled upon the chaise longue and closed her eyes …
…with his rose she still clutched in her hand now held against her heart.
xXx
A/N: With these chapel meetings- it's as if the years in between were erased and they're again meeting, since the night he left her, everything fresh. The same fears each had in England are still there, amplified over time. This chapel bit was just a mini-confrontation, a poker prodding the embers that causes a sudden temporary flare up. The huge confrontation is still on the rise...