A/N: Thanks for the reviews! This long chapter deserves the rating…enjoy ;-)
LVII
.
Christine woke to the sound of distant knocking. Every muscle in her body ached, her head throbbed, and her mouth tasted like something most foul.
"Go 'way," she feebly called, burying her face in the pillow.
The knocking would not cease, and groaning, she climbed off the chaise, belting her loose wrapper around her nakedness, faint glimmers coming to mind of how she came to be that way. After the festivities, which were a blur, she had stripped out of her costume that lay haphazardly spread across the floor. Again she'd had the dream of her masked lover. That, too, was a haze, but she remembered it transpired differently than previous dreams. This time he had whispered to her as he embraced her. She remembered the feel of his cloak being drawn about her body as it was she who slipped into the mist. Later she remembered floating deep in warm darkness to the gentle echo of her Angel's song, the words disjointed, the same she had read long ago at The Heights.
She hated that she had missed him on the biggest night of their lives – if he even had come to see her after the performance – and wished now that she'd not spent so much time celebrating at the gala. Of course he would never appear at any event and risk being seen. Perhaps he even thought Christine had been avoiding him by staying at the party so long – their last time together in the chapel harsh and difficult, ending with her fleeing before the lesson was over.
She sighed and opened the door. Meg's cheery face greeted her.
"You look like a victim of la gueule de bois. Here."
Meg held out a goblet of something that had what suspiciously looked like a raw egg floating at its top. Christine wrinkled her nose at the sight.
"La gueule de…?"
"bois. – Another way to say you imbibed overly much and are now suffering from the wrath of the vine." Meg giggled and Christine rolled her eyes.
"Are you always so cheerful in the mornings?" she grumbled.
"Drink it. You'll feel better. At least it's not a spoonful of soot in milk – what some of the stagehands use."
Christine's eyes widened, bringing another laugh from Meg.
"Hurry. You'll likely want to forego breakfast and wait 'til luncheon, but the reporters will be chomping at the bit for that interview with you before rehearsals start."
Christine grimaced and took the repulsive liquid. Pinching her nose as she'd done when she was a child, she drank the spicy mixture. Hearing Meg giggle yet again, at the moment Christine could cheerfully strangle her friend for being so happy though she did envy her ability to constantly find something to be cheerful about. It seemed that whatever deity had ordered Christine's adult life sent far too much drama with moments of bliss or even simple contentment a rarity.
She must visit with the reporters today, the managers had insisted. With her accent, she needed to be cautious but knew enough Swedish to trick any Parisians into believing that country had been her recent home. At least Madame agreed to field most of the questions.
To look at herself in the mirror a half hour later, Christine felt confident no one would equate the dazzling new opera star with the little hoyden who ran wild along the moors. She had chosen the deep green day dress of pinstriped silk with its huge bustle and black piping and wore the emerald pendant the Phantom had given her. In its filigree setting, the jewel was quite elegant and gave her a feeling of reassurance, however silly to think it, that he was with her. Charlotte came in after the dresser left, to arrange her hair in a simple twist with a fall of curls brushing the back of her neck and beamed with approval at the final result.
Feeling more restored to her normal self, she met Madame in her office. Quickly they went over the story to tell the press. True to her word, when Christine entered the room of men, Madame fielded most of the questions, Christine briefly adding information. Ja, she was from Sweden. Her father was British, why she had that accent. Ja, she had a great teacher but nej, she did not wish to reveal his name as yet. Madame looked at her sharply and Christine hoped she had not erred. Someone called out to her and she looked that way. She blinked when part of a huge black box set up on a pedestal exploded with a brilliant flash of sparks. Madame made a curt excuse that they must now go and prepare for rehearsal.
"What was that?" Christine asked as Madame guided her away from the protesting reporters.
"You have never seen a camera?" Madame looked at her in wonder. "It takes an image of you, like a painting, and makes it into a daguerreotype. You have seen those?"
"Yes." She looked at her nervously. "My image will be in the newspapers?"
"The daguerreotype taken was for the theatre only. The managers make a record of their male and female leads and hang their portraits in the foyer. There was an artist who sketched you during the interview, but from a penned drawing no one should recognize you."
Christine nodded. If Madame was not concerned, she would not court fear either.
Once they were alone in a backstage corridor, Christine spoke - "You have said little, after learning of my situation in England..." - then bit her tongue, wondering what sadistic tendency had her bring this up now.
Madame offered her a brief, sidelong glance. "The Vicomte explained matters. He and his cousin support you and have asked for my silence. I see no reason to act otherwise."
Christine nodded, feeling somewhat encouraged; she supposed she had no need to worry that Madame knew her terrible secret, however much Raoul had told her. After all, Madame was the Phantom's aide, and he was notorious for his crimes.
"I expect you on stage in fifteen minutes in costume for the second act. Monsieur Reyer was not pleased with the presentation. He made changes that must be incorporated into the story."
"Of course."
Christine hurried to her room, wondering how on earth she would change from elegant attire into gypsy dress and return to the stage in so little time. She was fast learning that costume changes at lightning speed were essential.
Thankfully the dresser was there to help, first offering her the requisite water with lemon, which Christine dutifully drank, glad for its refreshing effects. By the time she made a quick trip to the water closet, then shed the formality of dress, corset, padding, chemise, stockings, pantalets and shoes, switching to the gypsy costume with its simple blouson and outer corset in need of lacing, along with a colorful skirt –remembering at the last minute to attach the anklets with the bells – more than ten minutes surely had passed. With no time to take down her hair or add the flower, she shook her head when Charlotte approached with the hairbrush and ran to the stage wing where she was to make her entrance.
Arriving breathless and barely in time for her cue, Christine noted Madame's raised brow of disapproval and quickly turned her concentration to the play.
.
xXx
.
The conductor and Madame kept them at rehearsal for what seemed hours. When at last Reyer excused them, he did so with the order that they would reconvene in twenty minutes to go over the final act. Christine buried a groan, knowing that meant another costume change with little time to rest or prepare.
She hurried backstage and swept through the door of her dressing room, noting the room was darker than when she'd left it. Immediately her arm was grabbed and she was pulled at an angle further inside. A warm hand covered her mouth before she could protest, at the same time she was swiftly drawn back against a man's hard body. Panicked, she heard the door close as his strong arm wrapped around her just beneath her breasts.
"Do not scream."
At the low, melodic whisper of warm breath in her ear, rivulets of blind terror eroded in a surge of pure anger at his terrifying approach, immediately overpowered by the cool wash of relief and the swift flame of desire. His voice sounded more like his own with the ruse of the divergent accent gone, the deep timbre just as riveting. She could feel his every plane and muscle pressed to her back. To know he was truly there and standing so close made her melt against his strength and she nodded her agreement to remain silent.
He removed his hand from her mouth and released her. She did not move at once, but slowly turned to face him, her many questions coming to an abrupt standstill before they could be given voice. Her eyes widened at the sight of him.
Her dark Angel stood there, as elegant and regal as ever, his clothing impeccable, an ebony cloak of soft wool flowing from his broad shoulders. Instead of the full bandit mask of black leather that once covered two-thirds of his features, a strange half mask of white with a slight sheen to it concealed the right side of his face curving just past his cheek and leaving the left side entirely bare. In the glow from the candelabra partway across the room, she got the impression of a lean, firm jaw and high cheekbone, the half of his nose she could see a straight slope, his golden eye vivid beneath his heavy dark eyebrow. Her hand slowly reached up to trace her fingertips lightly against his exposed temple and flawless cheek down to his shadowed jaw, its bristled texture tantalizing the sensitive pads of her skin. His features were the same but different. Older. Dim lines of pain and maturity where none used to be.
"The candles…it's so dark …" She was barely aware of what she said, her mind lost in a rush of emotion equivalent to what stirred within her pounding heart.
His eyebrow quirked a little, his lips lifting at the corners with a hint of amusement. Her eyes were instantly drawn there.
"A draft in the tunnel," he quietly said. "When the door to the mirror is opened, it creates a gust that stirs the flames."
Her fingertips trembled as they moved to his parted mouth, all of it clearly seen with this new mask. Gently she traced his soft upper lip, then his lower one. He grabbed her wrist to stop her.
"There was no door in the chapel," she whispered.
"No, there was only a wall."
Her eyes lifted to his and held.
"And now?"
"What is it you wish for, Christine?"
His eyes burned into hers, branding her soul so that she could scarcely take in a breath. The very threads of time seemed to stretch, awaiting her answer. Looking deeply into brilliant eyes so gold they appeared to contain eternal fire, she pressed her palm fully to his cheek, and at last cut the threads.
"You..."
They stared a moment longer, and suddenly there was no barrier of space between them.
His hands grabbed her head, his lips finding hers as pins scattered, falling all around her to the carpet. He clutched handfuls of her thick ringlets that cascaded in soft waterfalls over his fists and moved her head, gaining full access to her mouth.
With a little sob, she eagerly opened for him, welcoming the sweet invasion of his tongue, the hungry pull of her lips with his, the slide of his teeth against hers. Theirs was no gentle kiss; it was rough and heady and painful, tearing through her very soul – a stark kiss of hunger and flame and ache and want – and Christine clung to him, craving more. Desperately she moved her hands from clutching his waistcoat to frame them firmly against his face, the mask hard and foreign beneath her left hand, his face both soft and coarse beneath her right one.
He pulled her hands away, moving back, and she let out a sharp protest instantly swallowed in a thick gasp of shock as his mouth found her throat and suckled the delicate skin as if he would consume her. She clutched his shoulders, letting her head fall back, wishing for his heated mouth to cover every part of her body…
"You are exquisite," he whispered, his voice its own velvet caress as his mood changed to one more tender and he pressed moist kisses along her collarbone. "You were exquisite. The voice of an angel…my Angel…"
Christine shivered with elation and need at his possessive actions and choice of words, all the more momentous since he rarely gave praise.
Pulling the material of her blouson down, he bared the curve of her shoulder to his seeking mouth. Hardly daring to believe this was happening, she held his head to her, urging him lower...
"Oh."
The soft exclamation did not immediately register, but the intrusive column of light shining into their perfect darkness did.
Startled, Christine grabbed Erik moving closer to him when he suddenly straightened and backed away from view of the corridor. Both warily looked toward the entrance.
Meg stood there open-mouthed before coming to her senses and closing the door behind her. "Pardon. I- I knocked but you didn't answer. I thought you weren't here. But obviously you are, so, um …I seem to do that a lot don't I? I'll just be a moment."
She lifted the costumes slung over her arm, hurried to lay them over a chair, and retraced her steps to the door. Her face glowed pink, and Christine was sure she'd never seen the dancer so flustered. She also felt awkward and speechless to be caught in such a moment, but was thankful it was Meg who'd done so, since she was one of the very few who knew their secret, so Christine felt she would keep a guarded tongue. Erik stood, silent and forbidding, a true Phantom.
Meg stalled. "I don't advise being late back to rehearsal. Reyer is in a foul mood…I-I should go," she said, motioning to the door. "Yes, well, I like the change to the white, monsieur. Adieu."
She bobbed out, closing the door behind her.
Growling a curse, Erik moved into action, grabbing Christine by the arm and bringing her with him to the mirror and through the secret entrance. It was the first she remembered being on the other side, this hidden area dark as night and twice as cold, the drip of water an echo in the distance.
Once he closed the mirror, he rounded on her, again kissing her senseless while pressing her back against the wall of rough rock, his hands protecting her shoulder blades from being bruised. She wrapped her arms around him, uncaring of the time or an angry Reyer, wishing only to remain in her lover's arms.
Sanity eventually returned to the Phantom though his desire for his songbird did not wane. If he did not let her go soon, they would come looking for her. The intrusive dancer might have already gossiped about what she'd seen.
He began to pull away and she clung to his shoulders.
"Christine…"
"I don't care," she insisted. "Have you any idea how long I've waited for you to come back to me?" she whimpered. "To feel your touch again…"
"To feel you in my arms," he finished hoarsely, and he damned foul reason, shifting position in the narrow tunnel so that he stood against the rough wall. He brought her against him, with her back pressed to his chest, and drew his arms around her middle, enfolding her within his cloak. Nuzzling the bare side of his face in her silken hair, he kissed the side of her neck.
Christine felt dizzy with the force of her hunger, a match to his own, and melted against his hardness felt at the back of her skirts. Through her thin costume every line of his masculinity was made strongly aware to her. She felt the sudden pull of laces of the gypsy corset, his fingers adroit in their swiftness, loosening the costume until the boning gave way and she was freed…
She shook her head a little to try to think.
"Erik, I-I need to know…Why...?"
She did not finish but he understood.
"You might come to regret what you discover," he warned, his voice rough velvet, his hands never ceasing with their heated slide over her trembling body.
"I don't care. I just need to know, to understand …" Her words ended on a throaty moan as he slid his hand into the neckline of her loose blouson and his fingers wrapped around her breast, her nipple hard against his palm.
Stunned to feel his other hand rip away the buttons at her skirt, which floated suddenly to her ankles, she gasped in shock.
With her almost naked and hidden within the folds of his cloak he held draped across her, his hands began to do marvelous, wicked things, making her forget all else but the paths of heated exploration they took. He grabbed her bare thigh, his fingers rubbing up along the inner flesh and slipping beneath the hem of her blouson. She shuddered to feel two of them softly burrow into her warm center, his palm cupping her soft curls.
Oh…dear…God…
Christine let out her breath in a long sigh and forgot how to inhale.
With his lips buried beneath her ear, the Phantom groaned to feel her so wet beneath his touch, so wanting for him. Him, and not that boy. Desperate to relearn her riches, he stroked her silken flesh. Her arousal scented the caverns, his senses swimming with the feel and fragrance of his bride.
Oh, how he wanted her…
"You are life-giving nectar, Mon Ange," he whispered against the delicate shell of her ear. "Too long I have been as one dead. Your very warmth and essence restores this demon from his cold underworld. And you want me. The proof of your choice drips from my fingertips…"
He rubbed her creamy flesh in gentle circles, barely dipping inside to give credence to the words, and she whimpered at the tingles of heat and merciless pleasure he lathed upon her.
"I must hear you say it, Christine – once and for all I must know. Tell me you are mine and want no other! That fool may take credit and take my opera – but I will never share you!"
"I am yours," she whispered at his gruff command, barely coherent. "…there is no one else…"
Christine lifted her arms, reaching behind to clasp him around the neck, and laid her head back against his shoulder as he continued his delicious assault to her senses. His fingers teased her moistness, drawing out her pleasure, while his other hand manipulated her crest, nestled between the length of two fingers, to an even tighter peak. She panted with need. Her legs trembled, barely able to remain standing.
"This…" he claimed savagely, even as his thumb gently rubbed the sensitive nub at the thatch of her curls, at the same time he slipped his finger deep inside her body and stroked her hidden walls… "is mine…"
She cried out moving against him, meeting the thrusts of his hand as he slipped a second finger inside, stretching her tightness.
"You are mine…"
She pressed her bottom against his trousers, rubbing against the rigid length of him, needing him, God, needing him so much.
"Erik, please…" she begged.
"You feel what you do to me," he rasped, arching his hips against her desperate movements, mimicking the plunges of his hand. Her face was a study of light and shadow, flushed and glowing, her full lips parted and wet. He groaned, knowing he must end this now, and sucked in the delicate flesh of her neck, quickening his strokes and sending her over the edge while softly he bit the taut cord.
Her body spasmed in little fiery shocks as she held fast to him, melting into him, losing consciousness of her surroundings, of all but them, as he quenched the unbearable ache and brought her to shattering release. Her hold relaxed, slowly lowering from the back of his neck.
"That was a taste," he vowed, his voice a dark, hungry rasp near her ear, "to carry with you now that we must part. To remind you of who you belong to when you are again in the company of your friend…"
"But…" She shook her head in confusion. "You're not leaving?" Incredulous, she clutched his arm to keep him there.
"When I again claim your body it will not be in a damp tunnel of rock, Christine. I want hours, not mere minutes to enjoy you to the fullest extent. I will teach you all there is to know of pleasure…"
She felt weak with all of what he made her feel, and troubled that he still thought Raoul a threat. But his words again stirred embers of excitement, making her shiver.
His arms tightened around her, reluctant to let go, before his hands gradually slipped away from her body. She turned in the narrow space, bringing her hands to cradle his head and her lips to his in a deep kiss that pleaded with him to forget the minutes and the hours, she no longer caring if she arrived to the rehearsal late or never.
His hands went to her wrists, holding them a moment before pushing her a step away.
"Go," he spoke the word she had no desire to hear.
Breathless, she frowned. "And if I don't wish to?"
A flicker of a smile touched his lips at her spirit.
"In this, Madame, you have no choice."
"Then you don't know me as well as you think, Phantom. You told me I always have a choice." She pressed her palms against his waistcoat, trailing them downward. "Or do you now retract that vow?"
He caught her hands firmly in his large ones before they could reach his waist.
"You play with fire," he warned.
"What if I want to be burned, to be consumed…by you?" She felt her face flush with heat to be so bold, but he had lit the match within her blood and she had no desire to extinguish the flame.
His eyes flared at her words. "I wish to give you every comfort and pleasure denied you, when I first took you so brutally. And certainly not this." He gave a terse, disgusted motion of his head to their damp, dark surroundings.
She hesitated, a little unnerved by his reminder of the pain, recalling how fiercely it had burned, but she was willing to experience the feeling of again being torn apart if it meant they could finally be together.
"I don't care where we are as long as I'm with you. Will you deny me that pleasure?"
"Christine, my temptress," he rasped, "soon you will leave me without sound reason."
"When has anything we have shared been logical, since the day you first took me captive?" she insisted with a hoarse laugh. "You began this strange fairytale, my Phantom, and now must see it through to the end. Give in to the passion. Is that not what you taught me with your opera?"
She lifted her arms free of his grasp and brought his head lower, her eyes meeting the fiery gold of his as she mirrored his confession he told her on The Summit.
"That is my choice, Erik, that is what I want … I burn for you …."
With a dark, low growl, his warm hands grasped her bare hips below the loose blouson and he lifted her, placing her against the back of the mirror door while she wrapped her legs tightly around him. He shifted to fumble with his fastenings with one hand, softly cursing his rare ineptness. She tore loose his cravat and the top buttons of his vest but made it no further as the heavy slow thrust of his body into hers took away all her breath.
His fullness stretched her to the core, making her shiver with pleasure and her eyelashes flutter at the sensation of being thoroughly filled with him. To her surprised relief there was no true pain this time, only tremendous pressure, and eagerly she ground against him, digging her fingers into his shoulders, wishing to bury every inch of him so deep as to get lost within her body.
He gasped at her brazen action. "You will surely drive me to madness," his voice came gruff and sensual at the same time.
"Then it is a madness we both will share."
Again she tore through his waistcoat to his shirt, not stopping in her search until she found his skin, sparsely tufted with curly hair beneath and hot and damp to her touch. He began to move inside her, his rhythm deliciously slow and steady. She met each stroke as best she could in her position braced against the door, the tinkling bells of her anklets filling the corridor with music and enunciating each plunge.
Bending her head to kiss him long and deep, with her fingers buried in his silky hair, she realized with a start that it was his own and not the wig. In the darkness she had not noticed the difference in color, and she felt a thrill to know he had abandoned the Phantom disguise, coming to her completely as Erik, but soon even that reality was lost to her – her only knowledge his every keen movement inside her body and the intense ache deep within her belly that for a second time began to crescendo.
Closing her eyes, overwhelmed, Christine brought her head back against the wall of the mirror. One of his hands went to her loose blouse that he dragged down from one shoulder. Cupping the lower part of her breast, he lifted her nipple to his mouth, laving the needy peak and suckling skin. She felt their passionate cadenza burst forth in a powerful rush as the pressure swelled to unbearable heights, at last bursting in the highest note, and she clung to him to feel her body again fragment in miniscule shards of pleasure.
He pulled away from her breast, his thrusts coming darker, and in a delicious haze, every bone and sinew feeling as if it melted into rosy liquid warmth with their fire, she concentrated on the exposed part of his face that the mask did not cover. In the dim candlelight of the dressing room behind the mirror that acted as a window from this side, she could see every glorious expression previously denied her – his need, his ache, his pleasure – and she knew bliss that she'd put those feelings there.
He reached his zenith, exploding deeply inside her. At the sound of her whispered name, Christine felt her heart flutter with tenderness. Breathless, they continued to cling to one another as Erik held still a short time then left her body. Instantly she felt bereft.
Helping her to slide down to stand, he did not once look away from her eyes.
Words seemed lost, fragile, even dangerous in this new closeness between them now that their passion was spent, but Christine could not let the matter that haunted her rest.
They had reconciled without words and made love with their very souls, but still the past loomed dark and disturbed between them.
"Tonight." She kept her eyes on his, her arms still around his neck. "Promise that you'll come tonight, after the performance, to talk. Please…It's important. You know it is."
A sadness she did not understand filtered into the glazed blackness of his eyes, the gold around them barely seen. He gently broke her hold and adjusted his trousers then bent his knees to retrieve her skirt and corset from the ground. Again he straightened to his full height, placing the costume in her hand.
"Erik," she insisted.
He gave a short nod. "Tonight."
"Where?" Now that she had finally persuaded him to agree, she did not wish to leave anything to foolish chance or simple misunderstanding.
He hesitated as if not wishing to bind himself to his words. "The chapel. No one will disturb us there."
"Face to face." She shivered, the chill of the tunnels piercing into her without the protection of his warm body and his cloak to shield her. "No more walls."
At her firm words and determination to take charge, he could not help but grin. Stepping forward he gripped her head between his hands and kissed her hard on the mouth. He pulled away, his eyes flaring into her dazed ones.
"Go," he said softly and moved to trip the lever.
The mirror slid open.
"Erik…" She pouted. "You can't just push me away. Not after …not after that." She flushed to recall the burn of his hands and mouth on her needy flesh and the feel of him inside her.
"Watch me." Once more he touched her, this time by the shoulders to turn her around and give her a soft little push into the dressing room. She whirled to face him where he still stood in the secret corridor.
"I won't leave this spot until I have your word! I swear it."
His eyes swiftly took in every detail of her scantily dressed form. They flashed in a way that stole her breath, as if he also recalled what just happened between them.
"Saucy wench, do you think I could bear to have walls of stone between us ever again?" His voice came thick. "Now go, before I damn all the fates and forget my resolve not to spirit you away to my dungeons – and put us both in danger of being discovered by the incompetent fools who think they run this theatre."
A smile of triumph edged her mouth, but before she could respond that she wouldn't mind being spirited away this time, half hoping he would pounce, the mirror slid shut between them.
Christine sighed, already missing him but knowing he was right. She certainly did not want anyone searching for her or thinking she'd been abducted. If Raoul heard of a second disappearance he wouldn't hesitate to tear down walls to find her in his mistaken belief that he was rescuing her from the Opera Ghost.
The gravity of the mood returned to thwart her spirit from floating too high. She suddenly realized anyone could enter her room – indeed, already had – and she stood in no more than her slippers and a billowy blouson, which barely hung past her hips, with the evidence of their very passionate encounter a warm trickle inside her thighs as had happened on the night she gave him her virginity. She hurried to lock the door then cleansed the traces of desire from her skin with water from a pitcher near the changing screen. The decadent thought that she didn't really mind carrying such a brand of his made her blush, then color even deeper to think of herself walking on stage with that lingering hidden reminder of her dark lover covering her.
That would surely make her entrance more seductive!
She gave a nervous giggle, her face heating to a warmer shade of rose. Heavens! She truly had grown wanton and wicked, but Erik didn't seem to mind. After all he had made her that way – so why should she pretend shame when everything felt hopeful at last?
Quickly she donned her costume, then dabbed on perfume to mask the unmistakable fragrance of their lovemaking, her secretive smile blooming into a gasp of pleasure to see for the first time the perfect red rose that lay on the dressing table. A twin to the first he had sent her on the tray.
She had received massive bouquets as accolades for her triumph, but this one simple tribute was all that mattered to her heart. It, too, gave her hope, reminding her of the simple spray of wildflowers from the heath that he had once left in her bedchamber after they argued when they lived at The Heights.
In those stolen moments in the secret corridor, things had been much as they once were between them, the banter, the fire, the hunger and the mischief, and though she knew the years had changed them both, Christine felt hopeful that their bond, though weakened through time and deception, had never truly severed.
The soul remained forever, and they were each a part of the other's flesh now as well. Even their blood, and her mind went back to the pact of early friendship they made as small children on The Summit and the drops of blood they'd pressed to one another's fingers as a token promise that they would always be there for one another.
Tonight, everything would be made right again. Tonight the obscure veil of lies that hampered their vision would at last be torn away. Tonight she would have her husband back, and they could truly begin their new life together.
She had bitten her tongue twice not to speak of her love for him, afraid he would not believe her, or worse, that he would mock her, since he scorned all affections of the heart. And she ached to be deprived of the love he refused to bear. Just as he taught her the dark pleasures of what it meant to burn and be physically fulfilled, she desperately hoped she could teach him to love her absolutely, with tenderness of the heart and not only a lust for her body.
She looked in the vanity mirror then gasped at the raspberry mark on her neck, her face heating with color to remember his mouth there. Without hesitation, she untied the black ribbon from the rose and fastened it around her neck. Tying it in a bow beneath her hair, she covered the mark well enough not to be easily noticed, hoping Madame Giry would not order her to remove it during rehearsal.
She hastened to the stage. Reyer's scowl at her did not go unnoticed, and thankfully Madame also did nothing but glare. The conductor repeatedly slapped his stick on the podium with force and instructed them to begin anew.
With the memory of her Phantom's recent seduction to heat her flesh and give fire to her voice, Christine concentrated on those forbidden moments behind the mirror as a stimulus to entice Piangi in their final duet. Afterward, Reyer beamed at her – rarely had she seen the man smile – and she congratulated herself on her victory.
x
Once Reyer dismissed them, Piangi approached. "Bella Donna, you are an enchantment to the eyes and ears. Tonight your song held passion. Sing like that in the performance and they will be falling at your feet, as I, your humble servant do." He attempted a bow from the waist, awkward due to his great girth. "Will you give me the pleasure of escorting you to supper?"
Uncomfortable by his fixed stare and his manner of calling her endearments he should reserve for Carlotta or better yet, his wife, Christine realized perhaps it had been a mistake to exhibit friendliness and share company with him at meals. The intense gleam in his eyes reminded her of how Erik so recently looked at her, and she did not want to mislead this man into thinking she aspired to take Carlotta's place as his mistress.
"I'm sorry, Señor, but I promised Meg I'd go with her to supper."
Spotting the dancer nearby, she latched onto the excuse, speaking loud enough for her to hear.
Meg walked into her role as if she'd been practicing all morning. "Christine." She smiled and hurried toward her, grabbing her arm. "Come along. I have so much to tell you." With a nod to Piangi, she escorted Christine away.
"Thank you," Christine muttered beneath her breath.
"It's the least I could do after my blunder earlier. Piangi was right though – your voice was inspired, perhaps by the visit from your guest?"
Christine sent her a swift sidelong glance. "Perhaps."
"That choker is a new addition. I've never seen you wear it," Meg mused, looking right at where the Phantom's mark was, and Christine wished the silk ribbon wasn't so narrow.
"You really aren't sorry at all, are you?"
Meg laughed outright then sobered. "No, you're wrong. It's just so common to enter that room without knocking. I forget it's now your bedchamber. But I am pleased to see that matters have been resolved between you."
"You mustn't tell a soul about any of it."
"Don't worry. I gave him my promise the night you were wed, and I consider it enduring."
Christine smiled then looked around to make sure no one was close. "Have you ever been in love, Meg?"
"Once I thought I was. Are you?"
"I think I started loving him since the day we met, what seems ages ago."
"We are talking about your husband?"
Christine swatted her arm. "Of course. I shall never be any man's mistress but my husband's. If a wife can be a mistress…." She pondered that.
"Well, that's a good thing, I would think, since he is your master," Meg teased back.
Her master? Christine wrinkled her nose. No man would ever again lord it over her, and the Phantom knew better than to try, as many times as he had attempted it. She hid a grin to think of her rare triumph of his submission in the secret corridor. She had always considered herself Erik's equal in many things. But no matter what mask he wore, as Erik or the Phantom, she did not think he desired a subjugated wife, recalling how he had always admired her fire and spirit. A spirit once broken that he renewed when he became her Angel of Music.
She secretly smiled, and her mind went to her father, who on his deathbed promised her an angel…
.
xXx
.
The Phantom lit the chapel candles and reflected on the past week with a measure of triumph and dismay.
Tonight, she had chosen him. Despite who he was, she made the choice to honor her vows, but he dreaded what this imminent confrontation would reveal, for a confrontation it was sure to be. Too much had transpired in the last four years, the darkest of wickedness, layers of which she could not begin to grasp, and he had not overstated his contradictory remark when he told her she might not like what she uncovered. Indeed, she would hate it. But she had always been determined to shed light where there were only shadows, both the darkness to be dispelled by a flame and the shadows in one's soul, revealed by truth.
In rediscovering her presence and keeping her with him below ground, old feelings had stirred, his plot against her soon crumbled, and he had finally come to a place to absolve Christine of her old transgression against him, willing to put her betrayal in the past and never speak of it. But that would not satisfy her, and he had been a fool to think it would.
Ever since she was a child she demanded to know the veracity of things, never one to mince words or shy away from airing or hearing the heart of the matter, even if it deeply wounded. He had admired that about her, in a sense still did, but now wished she would let well enough alone. It could do no good to rake up their history, together and apart, with its many twisted secrets, no matter that she felt assured it would help her understand. In this case, to be oblivious was the preferred state of mind.
He lit several torches in the corridors, so she would not have to contend with the darkness she so despised, then walked the lengthy distance to the secret passageway behind the chapel wall that led to the main theatre. He had walked a short distance when he heard the faint tinkle of bells, their chimes continual and growing louder. The last he heard that sound had been with Christine hours ago, her costume anklets ringing with her movements. Retracing his steps, he looked through the peepholes into the chapel.
His songbird rounded the spiral of stairs and swept into the chamber, holding a shawl of gold around her shoulders. Her face was radiant, and he took in a breath, stunned anew by her beauty. Curious why she would be there when they agreed to meet after the performance, with the opening curtain less than an hour away, he watched her hurry toward the tier of memorial candles to his right and kneel on the stones. Using a taper, she lit a candle.
"Papa," she said in a hesitant voice, "I feel that if anywhere you should hear me, it would be in this sanctuary of music." She lifted her gaze to the ceiling, her smile wistful. "How many times did I beg you to call me Little Lotte? And that last day, you promised to send me the Angel of Music…" She gave a light laugh. "I later came to believe you did that to soothe a grieving daughter and no such creature exists. But I did find him, Papa. I found my Angel…"
He watched in bewilderment, his heart moved by her words and the picture she made, with the glow of sunset from the stained glass window showering upon her and casting her in brilliant hues of light. Since Christine had come to the opera house, he felt no qualm to eavesdrop, leery of her actions and wishing to spy, but now, in hearing her talk to her father, he felt uneasy to listen. Nor did he feel comfortable with disturbing her peace by announcing his presence. Yet he found he could not leave. As she spoke to her father, his thoughts went to the unassuming and pious man.
Gustave Daaé had never been demonstrative toward Erik, reserving all his warm affection for his little girl. But he had given Erik a home, seen to his education, and treated him well enough in those short years before his death. Then, with the change of the minute hand to the next revolution around the clock, Erik had everything snatched away from him and was physically restrained and beaten when he tried to defy the new master of The Heights. His room, his nice clothes, his possessions – all were taken from him, and he was forced to live as an animal in the stables. Henri spent the years that followed determined to make Erik's life a daily torment with his constant jeers and cruel punishments.
His hands clenched into fists. He wished her cur of a cousin was here now. Gladly he would wring the man's neck for his crime against Christine, that he had dared try to defile her. He closed his eyes to the mental image that evoked, breathing hard, fighting the mounting desire to wreak destruction.
She was alright. She was here. He would never let harm come to her again.
"I have a favor to ask, Papa," she said with a sigh, bringing Erik's attention back to her. "I know you cannot alter the fates, but tonight is very important. So much has happened. Perhaps you know?" She grew absorbed in the candle's flame a moment before lifting her eyes again. "Would you please ask the heavenly angels or the saints or, or perhaps the Almighty Father to guide me in what to do or say…?"
Her voice became very small, as if she could not dare believe she asked for such a thing, and he frowned thinking an Angel had every right to make such a petition.
"I still have a terrible habit of speaking falsely in my hurt pride, to hurt those who've crossed me. You often warned me about being too prideful and watching my tongue, and I honestly have tried, Papa. Though it's been difficult…Perhaps had I learned, and remained silent years ago, and had not been so upset when he spurned me after…well, after we returned from the moors, then I wouldn't be in this predicament and seeking guidance tonight. I honestly want to do better. I must. I'm his wife now and no longer a child. But he no longer trusts me, and really, I don't blame him. I don't trust myself, or I wouldn't be here now…" She shook her head in disgust.
Erik remained frozen in place, his mind scattering in a dozen different directions at once.
"I have to go, the opera will soon begin. Only please, be with me tonight. I don't want to get angry and say something I shouldn't and cause more damage than I've already done. I miss you, Papa."
Erik could only stare in shock as she hurried to her feet and rushed from the chapel, the tinkle of bells marking her progress. Barely aware he did so, he resumed his trek.
She had said she spoke falsely that night, perhaps at The Grange as well? He had warned her many times never to speak to him words she didn't mean, and she had sworn she never would. Had she spoken out of hurt, inflicting pain when she thought him absent? Both times? With her candid outpouring, was there a chance she might actually... love him?
He struggled to keep his heart from soaring too high - knew he was hoping for too much. Where had hope ever gotten him? He was twisting her actions of the past into what he wished, and resolved to rely only on facts of the present. She chose to become his wife and chose to act like a wife, even after knowing who and what he truly was. And that was more of heaven than he ever imagined possible for a creature like himself to have…
Christine's distant scream chilled the Phantom's blood and halted him in his tracks for one terrifying moment. Whirling about, he raced for the door that led to the abandoned corridors.
.
xXx