A/N: Thank you for the reviews! To those who expressed the wish that this tale not end soon, this is far from over…Think of this as two stories rolled into one- something like a miniseries - ;-) …and now…
LVIII
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Christine hurried through her dressing room, slamming the door shut behind her. Rapidly she turned the key with hands that had begun to shake, making the routine task difficult. She pulled the key from the keyhole, gripping it tightly in her clenched fist, and pressed her forehead against the rose-colored wood, willing her terrified heart to cease pounding.
She was safe. She had gotten away before he could do true harm. In the condition she left him, there was no way he could have quickly followed.
Regardless of that knowledge, her breaths came out in rasping sobs of anguish. Tears escaped from beneath tightly squeezed lashes as she held her palm pressed hard to the door. Leaning her upper weight against the wood and using it as a brace, she wondered what to do, or if she should do anything at all.
Would it matter if she did?
Who could she speak to? Should she even speak? To Meg? Madame Giry? Did she dare? Certainly not the managers. She doubted if whether she said anything or remained silent it would make any difference at all, except to prolong and intensify her humiliation. Meg told her such things were part and parcel of theatre life, a burden they all had learned to bear. The opera would go on, and Christine did not expect it to be otherwise.
But could she sing?
Her body trembled all over, her throat felt too tight, as if it might suddenly cut off all breath, and she was certain she could not relax enough to allow the proper breathing that her Maestro insisted upon.
Her understudy could take her place, and for a frantic moment, Christine almost followed through with the idea, just stopping herself as her hand closed around the knob. It would accomplish nothing and might make Raoul suspicious enough to interfere. If he knew, if he learned of this, he might insist that she leave – no, he would insist on it – no longer allowing her the option to live at the theatre. He was in charge of this place. He could order her to go…
And she could not leave, not now, not after all that occurred...
...in spite of what just happened.
She trembled at the memory, clutching the neckline of her blouson tightly at her breasts.
Erik would be displeased if she did not do what was expected and demand to know why she had not appeared for the performance. He would search her out and, terrible liar that she was, would see right through any excuse Christine might fashion, as if she were the ghost.
At the moment, she wished she was.
A sudden knock near her head startled her and she gave a sharp cry, dropping the key and almost jumping out of her skin. She backed away from the door, looking at it as if it were a deadly trap, and covered her mouth with both hands, fearful to make a sound.
"Mademoiselle Grendahl? Please, to let me inside? Oui?"
Christine almost sobbed a laugh of relief to hear Charlotte's muted voice on the other side of the door. She took in a deep breath and closed her eyes. She must seek composure and allow no one to suspect a thing. Wiping tears from beneath her lashes with the backs of her hands, she opened the door to her hairdresser, again quickly closing and locking herself inside the moment Charlotte stepped into the room.
The woman did not comment on her brusque actions but looked at her clothing in puzzled surprise. "Is that not the wrong costume, mademoiselle?"
Christine forced her mind off the dangerous track on which it had been careening, detrimental to bring any peace that she must somehow obtain, and answered Charlotte. "Yes, yes it is. I wore this for the final rehearsal and forgot to change. I'll do so now."
She went behind the screen, not waiting for her dresser, able to manage to unlace the black corset with its embroidered red and yellow flowers that strung up in front in the style of the gypsies. She shed her clothes quickly and grabbed a sponge, scouring every inch of her shoulders, neck and face with water, trying to rub away the terrifying memory that brought disgust and made her stomach churn as if she would be sick.
"S'il vous plait, you must hurry," Charlotte said, her English improved since the first time they met. "The opera begins only minutes away."
"Yes, yes of course," Christine called out, unable to fashion any other words, her mind again becoming her tormenter.
Time had slipped away faster than she supposed. She had tarried overly long in the chapel, and at the thought, she shivered, wishing she had never gone there in the first place. Thankfully her debut entrance did not begin until ten minutes into the opera, and she hurried into her costume for the first act.
While Charlotte fashioned her hair and arranged the flower, pinning it into her wild ringlets, Christine forced herself to concentrate on the present, using the stage cosmetics to the best of her ability. Meg taught her how, and with practice Christine had achieved adequate results, though now her hands trembled so much the paint smeared twice, and she had to dab the mistakes away, starting over, the chore taking twice the usual amount of time. Once finished, she winced to see her neck, now bare, and swallowed hard, dabbing light pigment over Erik's mark of that afternoon.
Their momentous reunion in the secret corridor seemed a lifetime ago. She wanted him with her now, needed him to hold and reassure her, but it would not do for him to see her like this. No, it would not do at all...
Staring at her image, which reflected misery and not the gay expectancy of Aminta's arrival into the festive city, Christine struggled to shake all dark clouds away and applied bright lip rouge, the last of the artifices required.
Once she arrived at the wing from which she would enter the stage, the opera was already in progress, approximately five minutes into the first act. From several feet away Madame glared at Christine, her expression suddenly switching to concern. Meg put a hand to her shoulder.
"Are you alright?" she whispered.
Christine weakly smiled. "Yes, of course."
Meg smiled in encouragement. "You've done this once already and proved to each and every one of them out there and up here that you're the new reigning diva. Don't be afraid. It won't be so difficult to go onstage this time as it was the first night. I promise."
Christine nodded, clutching a hand to her throat as she kept her attention focused on the frolicking dancers, while trying to suppress the fear that had nothing to do with her upcoming performance. Desperately she worked to clear her mind in preparation to become Aminta.
She watched the nimble dancers gaily cavort in choreographed leaps and twirls about the stage, the girls dressed in pure frothy white, the men in colorful costume, all of them exulting in a spring dance in celebration of the birth of May. One of the ballerinas motioned gaily for her friends to join them, as scripted. The pair eagerly danced toward her, with long wide ribbons of light blue satin that each fair-haired dancer held gracefully rippling behind her in the air, reminiscent of undulating streamers of sky.
The first ballerina was lifted from behind onto the shoulders of a strong male dancer. Her smile was bright as she gracefully extended her arms and looked upward in homage to the heavens. She continued to stare, as if struck immobile, her painted white face and ruby red lips altering into a grotesque mask of stark terror – and she screamed at the same time a blur of movement in the darkness above caught Christine's eye.
Before she could wonder at the cause, a workman plummeted mid-stage, in front of the maypole, his neck caught in the noose of a rope.
Christine stared with eyes so wide they hurt. She stood frozen, not really believing what she was seeing. From the stage and audience horrified screams of shock erupted over the music, which came to a discordant halt. In the pandemonium the spring dancers retreated from midstage in fright and confusion while many in the crowd surged forward in their seats to better view the ghastly spectacle. The victim jerked mid-air in a macabre dance, his legs kicking as he uselessly grabbed at the rope digging deep. Slowly it twisted around until Christine heard the sickening snap of bone. His head lolled sideways and his body twitched then went limp, suddenly falling lifeless to the stage. The taut rope followed, coiling on top of him as if it had just been cut.
The grisly occurrence happened in less than half a minute though it felt as if time moved much more slowly, the seconds themselves seeming to be disrupted by the incident and too shocked to progress at their normal rate. Through the entire spectacle Christine found it impossible to tear her eyes away from the stocky man who lay lifeless on the stage. As swiftly as the dancers had retreated at the enactment of true death, several more began to swarm forward and around the body, now that the Reaper had come and gone claiming his victim's dark soul.
Meg looked high above and gasped, then hurriedly brought her attention back to the body. Still stunned with the mind-numbing shock of having just witnessed a man die before her eyes and in such a ghastly way, while barely able to comprehend all of what happened, Christine also glanced up to the flies.
There was no one there.
"An accident!" Monsieur Firmin yelled from the managers' box directly across from Box Five. "Please, ladies and gentlemen – keep your seats. It was only an accident!"
Many in the audience caught on to the panic on stage, the seats swiftly vacating and the theatre emptying as gentlemen escorted their female companions, a number of them appearing traumatized, to the nearest exits. Dainty gentlewomen waved their fans before their faces and clutched their escort's arms, as if in danger of swooning. The ballerinas fluttered and flocked to the wings like frightened swans, several seeking out Madame Giry, who stood straight and grim-faced as though made from ebony and white marble, like a statue of the theater, and not flesh and bone mortal. With brusque directness she told the girls to pull themselves together, her only proof of her humanity the slight tremble of her arm as she wrapped it around Jammes, the youngest of the dancers, who wept fiercely.
Christine could tell the girl that Death neither knocked nor asked. It took what it wanted whenever it pleased, and now had taken one of the theatre's own. But this time, Death had surely been assisted...
A terrified crew member ran past, almost knocking her off her feet. "He'll kill us all, he will! This theatre is cursed! I'll not stay another day!"
Meg grabbed Christine's arm. "Come! It's not safe here."
Her mind still in a whirl, Christine gave no resistance as Meg ran with her backstage in the direction of her dressing room. All around members of the crew and chorus raced to and fro without seeming to have a true destination, like frightened mice being chased by a great unseen cat. Others stood helplessly still, in a frenzy, not knowing what to do. Everywhere there was a chill sense of panic.
"It's him!" a dancer exclaimed.
"Are you sure? Did you see?"
"I know it was! Who else could it be?"
Performers gathered in groups, exclaiming in nervous, excited undertones and whispers. More than a few cast looks of suspicion and uncertainty in Christine's direction as if she was to blame. Meg led her through the throngs, and the dancers' whispers grew hushed as they stared.
Christine kept her head held high though she felt oblivious to all of it, their foolish slights mere pinpricks compared to the heavy stabs that sliced into her heart in knowing what must be true... what she could not allow herself to think...
They reached the dressing room, but before she could find sanctuary inside, Raoul appeared, Arabella behind him.
"Christine! Thank God you're alright." He grabbed her arms and pulled her into a quick embrace, just as swiftly letting her go. "Miss Giry, thank you. You should go find your mother. She's looking for you."
Meg nodded as if undecided, but thus dismissed by their patron, she hurried away.
"We must get you out of here," Raoul said then turned to Arabella. "Giles will be waiting outside with the coach. Take Christine and return to the hotel, then tell him to come back for me."
His soft commands brought Christine out of her stupor.
"Raoul – no. I cannot leave –"
"You cannot stay." His voice grew quieter as he darted a look beyond her, to see if they were being observed, before his eyes again settled on her with grave intent. "The gendarmes have been summoned, Christine. We have come too far in keeping you safe to risk allowing the plan to fall to pieces now."
"But –"
"They might recognize you if they've been given your likeness, which could be the case if the inspector who worked with Scotland Yard contacted them. He knows of my trip to France so he very well could have alerted them if he suspects my activities from when I was questioned. The gendarmes could become suspicious of you. It is likely they will want to question the performers and especially those who saw what happened, and that includes you. It is simply too dangerous for you to stay here another minute."
His sharp caution broke through her muddled objections and took hold, reminding her that she was wanted for murder, also a criminal, even if only by accident and not through choice. Resigned, she nodded.
"What of you, Raoul?" Arabella asked.
"Father left me in charge. The managers have thus far looked to me for answers in all things, and I don't imagine that has changed. I must somehow attempt to repair the damage as bloody well as can be done, if that's even possible. Once the police finish their preliminary investigation, I'll return. But both of you must go now – and go quickly!"
"Wait!" Christine held back when Raoul took hold of her arm and moved with her as if anxious that she might choose to linger. "My cloak and shoes – I need them. I cannot leave like this!" Christine wore soft slippers only during rehearsals, not continually wishing to traverse the cold wood and icy stones on bare feet, but for the performance the wild gypsy Aminta wore no shoes.
"I'll get them," Arabella said.
"Meet us at the coach," he tersely whispered to his cousin, a look of dread suddenly crossing his determined features.
Before Christine could ask, he swept her up in his arms and began to carry her away, toward the nearest exit.
"Raoul - what are you doing?" She grabbed him around the shoulders for balance. "I can walk, Raoul. My feet are not unaccustomed to cold stones."
"They're already here."
"The gendarmes?" Christine asked, horrified, and looked over his shoulder not awaiting an answer.
Two policemen in black with round steel helmets spoke to a male member of the chorus. He pointed in their direction.
"Oh, God," Christine looked away, ducking her head into Raoul's neck. "Someone just pointed us out."
"Don't be afraid, Lotte," he soothed, though he picked up his pace at a faster walk, almost a run, "It is likely they only wish to speak with me about this horrific state of affairs and it has nothing to do with you at all. Soon you'll be away from this place and can put tonight behind you."
Conflicted, Christine did not argue with his claim that she would wish to leave the theatre. She simply had no choice, and there was no point.
The chill wind hit her with gale force as he hurried outside and toward a waiting black coach parked at the side of the cobbled street. She drew closer to Raoul upon feeling the bitter cold slice through her scanty costume. At their sudden appearance, the driver awkwardly pocketed what looked like a flask, clearly not expecting his services to be required so soon, and stepped down from his seat in evident surprise.
"My lord?" He glanced at Christine in curiosity as he posed the question.
"You're to take Miss Grendahl and my cousin back to the hotel then return for me."
"Very good, milord."
The driver opened the carriage door, and Raoul sat Christine on the bench seat inside.
"Get some rest. Try to put this all behind you," he repeated his earlier counsel with a weak smile that sadly failed to encourage. "I'll be along later."
Arabella came up behind him, and the cousins shared words that Christine could not make out. Arabella then climbed into the coach and handed Christine her cloak and slippers.
Burrowing beneath the heavy woolen folds, she pulled her legs up beneath it, warming her feet, and closed her eyes. The horses took off with a start, the sound of their hooves hollow on the cobblestones.
In the relative dark stillness Christine tried to relax – had it only been minutes ago she stood awaiting her cue? – but in the calm silence, she could no longer block out what she perceived to be the awful truth.
In her mind, as though painted there, she could still see the bulging dead eyes of the stagehand who earlier had accosted her in the empty corridor...
...while in her heart she had strong cause to believe that his murderer, the man about whom the dancers had so fearfully spoken, was the Phantom of the Opera.
x
The short drive was undertaken in heavy silence, the gravity of the moment again creating the illusion that time seemed to progress at a more sluggish pace. Christine almost wished for Arabella's custom of filling in the dark voids with inconsequential words that pertained to nothing of current significance.
In the voids she thought too much, and she did not wish to think.
Once the coach thankfully arrived at the hotel a short distance from the Opera House, Christine recognized it as the same establishment they stayed at on her first visit to France.
Grateful for the folds of the cloak that covered her costume, dreadfully out of place and flagrantly brazen in this posh establishment, she kept her head down and followed Arabella inside.
"Lady de Chagny," a man said, halting them. "I trust everything is alright?"
"Yes, thank you. Please have a maid bring tea to my suite."
"Of course, my lady. Was the opera not to your liking this evening? I have heard the music is dreadful."
Angered by such a remark, Christine lifted her head to see who would have the gall to criticize Erik's musical genius so harshly. She was met with the cold dark eyes of a short, trim man with black goatee and mustache. Though he addressed Arabella, he had been curiously staring at Christine.
"The opera itself is quite delightful, and I find the music both interesting and innovative. Now, if you'll excuse us." Arabella moved away, Christine following her up a wide staircase that wrapped around the wall in a spiral to the upper landings.
"The hotel is really quite lovely," her friend said to Christine as they took the steps, "but it would be a great deal lovelier if they would remove that annoying little man as concierge."
Despite the darkness of the situation that brought her here, Christine felt a smile tilt her lips at Arabella's dry remark. As they turned with the curve of the stair, Christine looked down into the spacious lobby, alarmed to see that the concierge had his face tilted upward and was still watching her.
"Pay him no mind," Arabella urged, noting the direction of Christine's stare. "From all I have witnessed he makes it his duty to interfere in the guests' affairs, perhaps because he feels his title of management gives him that privilege."
Christine vaguely nodded. After her earlier encounter, his attention made her more nervous than usual. At least he did not leer. Rather, he looked at her as if she was a complicated puzzle he was working to figure out. He was not the only one who stared at her in such a peculiar manner. Several guests in formal attire and walking downstairs did the same. She wondered if perhaps they had been to the opening of the opera the previous evening and recognized her without fully understanding why or had perhaps seen a printed flyer advertising the Don Juan that had been plastered on the outside of buildings in the city. Surely, though, she could not be recognized from that. She, as Aminta, was not prominent in the picture, her face somewhat obscured in shadow. The management had wished for the illustration to add to the mystery of the unknown diva and further entice the crowds to visit the theatre and see the new leading lady for themselves.
Christine never thought she would be so relieved to enter the de Chagny suite.
Arabella closed the door of the sitting room and turned to Christine, taking her gently by the shoulders and looking directly into her eyes.
"Now tell me, honestly, are you alright?"
She nodded, unsure of anything at the moment.
"I have an extra bed gown you may use, but we must find you a day dress to wear. I'm afraid nothing I have will fit, unless I can locate a seamstress to try to take down the hem."
Christine shrugged and sank to a chair. "I can return in what I have on."
"Well, perhaps…" Arabella looked doubtful. "At least the bed is quite spacious and I insisted on pillows with goose feathers, so you shall rest in comfort."
Arabella began to prattle about everything and nothing, as was her wont, while Christine tried not to think about what was happening at the opera house. Tea at last arrived, and the maid set it on the table, looking at Christine in open curiosity.
"Thank you, Giselle," Arabella said, breaking her concentration. "Would you mind tending to the fire?"
"Oui, mademoiselle." The pretty maid gave a little curtsy.
She put more fuel on the low burning embers and stoked them, all the while casting glances at Christine. Christine wondered if the de Chagnys never entertained company for all the colossal notice she'd been given by the staff.
Once the maid left, Christine moved to the cozy table for two near a large window that looked out upon the street and sat down to drink hot tea with Arabella, who filled in the minutes with more mindless chatter. The scenario reminded Christine of another time they anxiously awaited Raoul's return from investigating what had turned into a grisly murder.
Only this time she was not the cause.
Frowning, she looked into her cup.
"I was speaking to a new acquaintance of ours this week, Lord Cavendish, and though he's not a devotee of the opera, he is well versed in history and mythology among other things," Arabella said, pouring herself another cup. "He told me the name Aminta comes from the Greeks and means vindicator. I find that interesting since the merchant seeks vengeance on Don Juan for what happened to his sister, and with Aminta's help, she aids in the plot to punish him. Do you suppose her name was chosen with that purpose in mind?"
"I wouldn't know." Oddly enough a vindicator also stood for the opposite: a protector and defender who worked to clear someone from blame.
Which one was she?
She did not wish to think but could do little else. She was not weary but needed to be alone.
"I'm sorry, Arabella. I really don't care to speak of anything concerning the opera right now."
"Of course." Her expression was instantly contrite. "How thoughtless of me."
"No, it's alright. But I think I would like to lie down. It's all been rather much."
"My room is through that door." Arabella motioned behind Christine toward a closed door. Another like it stood opposite the room, directly across from Arabella's, and Christine assumed it to be Raoul's bedchamber. "The maid will have laid out a bed gown. Go ahead and use that and I will retrieve another."
"Thank you."
Christine summoned a smile of gratitude but did not relax until she was on the other side of the door. Despite the room being cold, she was immediately drawn to the balcony window and the glow of gaslights outside, and moved toward the double doors.
Opening them wide, she stepped outside to look, her cloak gently whipping around her in the soft wind. This high, on the third story, and beyond the shorter buildings, she could see part of the pearl white marble of the opera house with its many circular windows glowing blood red in the distance and a row of Grecian gold statues crowning the top.
She shivered at the sudden bite of frosty air that chilled her face and ears and retreated inside, closing the doors and pulling back the drape across them to provide dim light, not wishing to turn up the lamp. Accustomed to dressing and undressing in frigid temperatures, she quickly exchanged her costume for the long white bed gown that lay spread out on the bed and climbed beneath the heavy covers.
Wide awake, she stared at the ceiling for some time before the room grew abruptly colder...
And she knew she was no longer alone.
With very little surprise, for she had half hoped, half expected he would come, Christine looked toward the balcony doors that again stood open.
With the faint glow of the Parisian night for a backdrop and the silvery sheen of the moon outlining his head and broad shoulders, he stood tall at the threshold of the room, his cloak gently swirling around him from the wind. Silent and mysterious, he wore a wide-brimmed fedora tilted rakishly over his head. The vulnerable white mask had disappeared. Now he wore the full shielding black, but she could see the dim glow of his eyes even in this darkness.
Silently she commanded her heart to cease its swift pounding at the enthralling sight of him and slowly sat up in bed, with the coverlet held to her chest.
Her solemn gaze met his veiled one.
"I have one question," she said quietly, her voice steady though inside she trembled to hear his answer. "Did you kill him?"
Her dark Angel said and did nothing for a long, breathless moment, then stepped into the room, his arm sweeping behind him to close the balcony door.
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xXx