A/N: Brace yourselves - there's a strong wind on the horizon and it's blowing this way… I borrowed from a favorite scene in ALW's movie, intermingled with my own ideas to fit plot. And now…
Chapter LXIII
.
The vast ballroom of the foyer had been transformed into the iridescent dreams of a fairytale. A fragile place, where reality had not been permitted entrance, while fantasies waltzed in candlelit splendor before daylight could steal their secrets away.
Shimmering wisps of transparent veils in rose and gold hung gathered on the walls and at the entrances and hung draped from gold statues of half-clad goddesses that stood at the foot of the trio of staircases. Everywhere Christine looked, masked guests flocked in a pleasing clash of clever and colorful costumes signifying legendary characters, in literature and the genuine. Some danced across the marble floor polished to a mirror gloss; others gathered in select groups, laughing and conversing gaily. The orchestra played in an alcove two stories above, the music showering down on them bright and merry, befitting for a place of fantastical dreams …
… but the grandeur of the ball failed to touch Christine, who felt strangely absent from all of it.
It was the last place she wished to be, in this theatre of brilliant light. Every nuance of her being craved escape and to be locked away into reality, and the darkness, with Erik. He, too, had tried to rewrite their life into a disguised tale of the absurd and the fanciful, but fairytales had no substance. Their intangible appeal offered a flimsy sham of escape that evaporated like dying hues before twilight.
The light was preferred for its beauty but could shield truth as cleverly as the darkness did. The shadows had become more real to her, a thing to be coveted, because they held what mattered most. She, who had shunned darkness now yearned to dwell in its midst, to be with the only man ever to make her feel so intrinsically alive. The echoes of silence heard in daylight had been vast and vociferous, the shimmer of music no more than a beautiful memory on a distant horizon of eternal dusk. The beats of his heart, the exhalations of his breath, the moans of his pleasure, these were the pure notes Christine again longed to hear, the music of the night that was theirs alone to experience ... and his voice, his beautiful voice, so sinuous and rich it coated her bloodstream in warm desire …
But it seemed she was to be sentenced to this world above in all its bright hazy pretense.
She had forged the excuse to Raoul that she must dress in costume here, at the opera house, and Meg had secretly slipped away from her dressing room to give her the opportunity to face her Phantom alone. But though Christine waited an extensive amount of time, he had not come to her through the mirror or by any other means. No note arrived to greet her, no word was given. She had told herself that perhaps he had not attended the opera last evening to know of her bold but necessary defiance. Yet not five minutes ago Madame took her aside to inform her that the Phantom had visited her in her office and was not one bit pleased with the performance, that Christine never was to attempt such an audacious act of rebellion again and must fully conform to the opera as it was written.
Christine now smiled and nodded to those who greeted her and her handsome escort dressed as a Shakespearean prince. Her features were an animated mask of delight, skilled actress that she had striven to become. But inside she was livid with disbelief dulled only by the ache of dismay.
How dare he speak to Madame and not directly to Christine! How dare he deal with her as if she was an underling – she, his wife – and treat her with his damnable distance again!
"Would you care to dance?" Raoul asked, snapping her out of turbulent thoughts.
"Yes, of course." She pulled her silver-sequined mask anchored on a stick away from her face and took his arm, determined to enjoy herself. But the gaiety of the brisk dance failed to cheer her soul, and when the song concluded she was more than ready to leave the ballroom floor.
As another tune began, he moved as if to whirl her around a second time, but she shook her head and took a slight step back. "Would you mind bringing me some refreshment? I am rather parched after that."
"Of course." Raoul escorted her from the dancing and slightly bowed before leaving in search of her drink. She sensed his cousin come to stand beside her and felt her fingers touch her arm above her glove.
"Can we not put all bygones and foolish misunderstandings aside so that we might enjoy this one evening?" Arabella asked softly.
"Foolish?" Christine gave a little laugh devoid of humor and turned her head to look at her in disbelief. "Misunderstandings. Try blatant and absolute lies. Had you been honest with me four years ago I – we – would not be in this present situation. I would be with my husband, living the life we would have chosen, and you would be with the man you truly love – and not a doddering, dull marquis long past his prime!"
Arabella drew in a swift breath, wincing at Christine's cruel and pointed words. "I was wrong to keep all knowledge of his visits from you, I admit that. But you didn't have to choose to remain. Had you wished to, you could have left The Grange at any time after your recovery. That was your decision, Christine, and I will not be blamed for it any longer."
Christine bristled at her firm, quiet reply, feeling the familiar twinge of guilt for her own multitude of past sins, but already wound in a net of frustration, Arabella had become the target for her current anger.
"Your avoidance to speak the truth led me to believe he did not care as I had hoped and wanted little to do with me. I was hurt and said things I never should have. To him. To others. All of it set the course for things unimaginable …" She shivered to remember his blunt, seemingly cold confession in the darkness of her hotel bedchamber.
"Is that not also your current experience?" Arabella reminded needlessly, then sighed in weariness. "Oh, poppycock. Enough of this. Speak to him, Christine. Do not allow this present course to drive you further apart. Ask him how he feels toward you, and let the truth be known of your own heart."
"You think I haven't tried? You know I have! You were there, at the cave." Christine briskly shook her head, blinking away tears. "I cannot speak of this, not now, not to you…"
Arabella watched as Christine strode quickly away to meet an approaching prince clad in blue velvet, who smiled and handed her a glass of champagne. Raoul's eyes shifted to meet Arabella's and held for tense seconds. She turned away, on the pretext of studying the dancers. Lord Cavendish earlier told her that due to his tone-deafness, he preferred not to dance but would allow her the privilege, and had joined his peers outside the foyer. Already he treated her as a possession, as if he felt he had the right to bestow permission, and though he was her escort and she knew a need for continual consent could be the case if she became his wife, she did not relish the idea of being subservient to him as was expected. At least with Raoul, they were more or less on equal footing.
Arabella grimaced and approached a refreshment table with a tall fountain of sparkling champagne flowing down its crystal tiers. Holding out her gloved hand for a fluted glass, she blinked in shock when the glass was intercepted, and turned to see a tall gentleman with broad shoulders hold her drink hostage. He was dressed head to toe in a black hooded costume of what appeared to resemble a Gothic dark squire.
"Would mademoiselle care to dance?" he asked, his deep voice barely heard over the music but striking a chord of familiarity that made her give a sharp intake of breath.
In her social class, to dance without first being formally introduced was scandalously unacceptable, but the opera house was a world all unto itself…
Besides, he needed no introduction.
Nervous as to what he wanted, she nonetheless agreed. He set down her captured glass and she accepted his black gloved hand, a tingle of fear mixed with curious interest propelling her steps as she followed him into a waltz. His large hand slipped to the side of her waist, his form lean, but his inherent strength making her feel weak as he gracefully moved into the steps, and she recalled another occasion when she had felt this same breathless vulnerability – only then his hand had been at her throat.
She looked up past his full dark mask into eyes of bright gold.
"To what do I owe this honor, to dance with the infamous Phantom of the Opera? Or should I call you Monsieur Erik, Christine's childhood gypsy-friend?"
If he was shocked that she had learned both his identities, he failed to show it. His lips twisted into a mocking smile as he took in the brown feathered and beaked mask of the partridge she wore before again looking into her eyes. His grip on her hand tightened.
"So, you remember," he said smoothly. "At least we may dispense with the frivolity of arcane revelations. And the Vicomte," he said his name like a bad taste in his mouth. "Does he also know my secrets?"
"No, I have told him nothing. He doesn't even know of my visit to your caves."
"Now you astonish me." He studied her in curiosity. "You do not fear me?"
"I doubt you have bothered to attend tonight's gala, only to strangle me in the midst of hundreds of guests on the ballroom floor."
He chuckled darkly and spun with her, causing her to catch her breath.
"That surely would cause a stir. Indeed, the image excites the imagination."
She frowned at his cavalier response, though her heart raced a little faster that she could not tell if he spoke in absolute jest.
"Yes," he sighed, his manner growing serious, as if weary of taunting her and wishing only to speak of what was significant, "you are correct. I arranged for this moment only to deliver a message, so listen well, milady – no matter what happens tonight with Christine, keep your cousin away. Follow Madame Giry's lead. Tell the Vicomte whatever you must. But know this, if you choose not to cooperate, the consequences will be grave."
"Must you make everything into a threat?" Arabella asked, a bite to her words. "Can you not just ask for my help?"
He was taken aback by the question. "And you, Lady de Chagny. You would help me? The same lowly gypsy who dared to darken the door and seek entrance to your sacred household four years ago?" He laughed bitterly when she winced with shame at his mockery.
"Given the right circumstances, I might."
"Why?" he sneered. "What has changed?"
"I would do it for Christine."
"Indeed..." His gaze flicked down her body in dispassionate appraisal then up again. She got the impression that he was assessing her worth as a willing cohort. Behind the mask, he narrowed his eyes as he looked over her shoulder. "She might not thank you for your interference. Even now she glares this way. Nor does her escort look pleased. Have you three fought?"
He sounded delighted by the prospect and spun with her so that she faced the two. Both Raoul and Christine stood near the wall, watching them. Christine's face was white, her mouth pinched, her expression one of angry disbelief. Raoul also looked upset, though among all the masked individuals there he could not possibly know that she danced with the Phantom of the Opera. He had never seen the man to know who his enemy was.
She looked away and back into the Phantom's calculating eyes. "Do you wish for my aid or don't you?"
He studied her warily, as if still suspecting her motive. "I have said it. Whether you wish to give it freely or it is compelled from you makes no difference to me."
She had heard much of the tale of his life and could not fault him for his mistrust.
"For Christine's sake, I'll do what I can. I know you'd never hurt her, though forgive me if I'm somewhat apprehensive of what you have planned for the rest of us."
His lips twisted into a cunning, secret smile. "Just be prepared."
"Prepared for what...?"
The waltz arrived to its conclusion. Instead of the explanation she sought, he swiftly spun with her in a series of expert turns and through the most populated area of the dance floor. Bowing her head at the blur of motion and color, Arabella struggled to catch her breath then felt his hold slip from her once he brought her to a whirling stop. Dizzy, she pressed a hand to her heart and looked up, to find herself alone on the fringes of the dance floor, near the refreshment table where he had first approached...
The Phantom was nowhere in sight.
.
xXx
.
The ball had halfway concluded, the approach of midnight near, and with intent eyes, Christine still surreptitiously searched the crowded ballroom for the tall masked man in black who had waltzed with Arabella. One moment he had been whirling the Vicomte's cousin through throngs of dancing couples. The next he simply vanished.
She told herself that continual thoughts of Erik and his unknown whereabouts made her imagine his presence there, as she had over two and a half years ago at her birthday celebration. If he was not so adverse to being seen, she reasoned it could have been him. He had acquired skill in dancing. As a girl growing into a woman at the Heights, she had persuaded him to be her partner so that she could learn the steps to all the dances. And when they danced together in the parlor to Papa's violin, and in later years on the moors, with the haunting music of the wind for accompaniment, they had complemented one another beautifully.
But, no, she must have been mistaken. Erik would not come out of hiding to dance with Raoul's cousin! He despised anyone with the name of de Chagny.
Or - under the protection of a commonplace disguise made almost unnoticeable against the ostentatious flamboyancy of others in attendance - would he dance with Arabella? He had seemed to look straight at Christine for tense seconds, though his face had been concealed in the shadow of his hood.
Was this the Phantom's latest ploy, to torment Christine and make her jealous?
Raoul invited her to dance again. Christine masked her frown and gratefully accepted, eager to escape such vexing, ridiculous thoughts. Raoul also seemed troubled, his smiles not coming as freely as before.
He waltzed with her along the center of the floor, sweeping her along to the foot of the middle staircase.
The gaslights flickered off and then lit up in their frosty globes again – several times – and the dancing came to an abrupt stop, everyone looking above to see what had caused the interruption. At the same time the candles near Christine extinguished as if a strong wind had blown through, though no air gusted to stir the flames.
Her heart fluttered in anxious shock then plummeted to her midsection in a tumble of stunned excitement. The musicians' instruments wavered on a booming note – and reality broke through the barriers of fantasy as darkness commandeered the light.
Clad in blood red, a new arrival stood at the top center of the wide staircase at the right. His bearing declared a bold, confident authority, while his presence captured one collective breath. In dread anticipation, Christine along with every guest in the ballroom stared up with wide eyes at the imposing sight of the Phantom of the Opera in all his mystique and dark glory.
Even from this distance and masked differently, she would recognize him.
Bewildered that he had actually stepped out of the shadows to appear at a public gathering, even a masked one, but even more shocking - that he was so recklessly announcing his presence - her sulkiness was forgotten, pierced by the sharp fear for his continued safety. Quickly she scanned the faces of those standing nearest him for recognition. Thankfully, seeing none, her hungry eyes again fastened to his form.
His martial costume of an emperor overpowered the darker-hued disguises the majority of the men favored, the vivid color garish if anyone else were to wear it, but flattering to his complexion and strong male physique. His tunic bore bright gold buttons with epaulets of the same color at the shoulders and his breeches clung to his long muscular legs like a second skin. His feet were shod in tall black boots and a black belt encircled his waist, a sword hanging at his side. A matching cape of brilliant red trailed far along the stairs behind him. Majestic ... captivating, a man of mystery about whom Christine wished to know every secret, no matter how dark.
Once she slowly brought her eyes up his form to his face, she noted his costume mask, crafted like a skull, the sockets hollowed out with black around his eyes. Her stomach gave an uneasy lurch to realize what his disguise represented.
Death.
Many of the guests along the staircase edge stepped back in unease as he took two deliberate steps downward, his comportment one of poetic grace. Christine held what breath she had left as he addressed the now quiet ballroom in sardonic song, his attention going to the managers who stood in horrified uncertainty:
"Messieurs, I bid you welcome – did you miss me, my fine friends? A few points I must address before I return you to your Bal Masque …"
Christine's heart pounded against her ribcage upon hearing the sound of his seductively beautiful voice after having been denied it for so long. At the same time she blinked in incredulous awe to realize he was making clear to those still unaware exactly whose presence they stood in.
She could barely conceive this was happening, though the sea of anxious eyes fixed on him told her she had not dreamed her dark Angel into existence.
What mischief was he up to now?
She swallowed hard and clutched Raoul's arm for fear that her trembling knees might betray her and she sway and fall into an awkward heap of pink froth, satin and roses. Her escort glanced at her in curiosity then back to the fearless newcomer in red who continued to slowly descend the curved staircase. Distrust narrowed the Victome's eyes.
"It's just so warm in here," she whispered, hoping to allay his suspicions.
"Who is that?" he asked her just as quietly.
"That…?" Christine searched her panicked mind for a viable answer and decided a half truth was best. "That's my teacher. He has some… influence over the opera."
"Your teacher. The same man you told me avoids crowds?"
"Perhaps he thought it time for a change."
She prayed desperately that he would believe her, though she doubted her Phantom desired any true change except from those who worked under his strict mandates, and as he continued to address the cast he proved her assumption correct.
"…The violinist is absurd, the dancers a deplorable mess, and my managers still presume that they know how to run an opera…" He pulled out his sword in one swift, skillful move and made a half turn to taunt them with his blade. Their eyes bugged as they arched backward to avoid its silver tip.
Christine gasped along with many in the ballroom.
"What in blazes does he think he's doing?" Raoul reached for his own sword, before realizing he wasn't wearing one. She grabbed his sword arm more tightly.
"It's alright. He won't hurt them," she nervously assured, praying it was so.
Surely, though she knew him to be a murderer, Erik would cause no true harm amid hundreds of witnesses who could now see him in the flesh? Witnesses who were now privy to the image of his form and face, masked though it was! She recalled threats the Phantom made during her time with him in his caverns, about what he wished to do to each of the cast members, one in particular...
and watched as he took two more steps down and stood before the haughty woman, who stared up at him from the edge of the step below.
"The erstwhile La Carlotta must cease with her pathetic dramatics ..." the Phantom continued to sing while with his blade he pierced an apple amid the nest of fruit atop her tall gold hat.
He plucked the red globe from the wide brim, to the woman's outraged consternation and more horrified gasps from his audience. Christine nervously widened her eyes but couldn't help the quiet giggle that escaped at his calm audacity. He then pulled the fruit from the tip, tossing it aside, and turned the weapon on her escort.
"... While the clownish Señor Piangi must improve his lackluster theatrics ..." In taunting threat, he moved his sword from the stocky tenor's throat to the paunch of his gold-garbed belly.
Raoul's muscle clenched beneath her hold, and Christine dug her stiff fingers into his arm, determined to keep him from lunging forward.
"As for our star ... Miss Christine Grendahl ..." The words of song came out in a mocking hiss both terrible and beautiful to behold as her Maestro, at last, turned his full attention her way.
She gasped at the dizzying impact as irises, like molten gold, locked on her - made even brighter by the black he'd painted around them - and seared through to her soul. Never had she seen the Phantom in such brightly-lit surroundings; the vibrancy of his eyes, even from this distance, made the flames from the candles seem weak in comparison.
Her legs did not cease to tremble but Christine stood taller, determined not to let him see even a trace of her anxiety at his justly deserved reprimand.
"No doubt she does her best, it's true her voice is good," he took the last two steps down the stairs and gave a soft mocking little nod and smirk, addressing the crowd, before again turning the blazing furnace of his eyes on her – "but she must cease to forget – the opera's not her playground, to change to suit her mood …"
He took the last stair in descent to the dais and stared down the short middle flight of steps, to the foot of them where she stood. Raising his arm, he lifted a black glove and slowly crooked his finger, signaling for her to join him.
Powerless to resist with no inclination to want to, Christine fought down trepidation and took the first stair, knowing in the deepest chambers of her heart that Erik would never harm her.
Raoul grabbed her gloved arm before she could ascend to the second step. "Christine! What are you doing?" he exclaimed in a low voice. "You can't go up there!"
"It's alright," she quietly assured, barely taking her eyes off Erik. "He's my teacher." She briefly moved her focus to scan the curious and expectant crowd nearest them. "Please, don't make a scene."
"Your teacher seems to have gained that full advantage."
"Please, Raoul."
At the urgency in her tone, what she could see of his brow furrowed above his dark blue velvet mask, but this time he did not prevent her from moving up the stairs.
The closer she drew to her Phantom, the more lightheaded she became with a breathlessness both eager and apprehensive. Her heart pounded in rapid counterpoint with each slow step as Christine clutched her frothy pink princess gown of satin and taffeta and roses at her sides, her hands perspiring in her long white gloves.
She took the final step and moved to the middle of the dais, until at last she came face to face with her dark Angel. Standing a little more than a foot apart, their chests rose and fell in rapid rhythm while a multitude of emotions played across their features ...
and each of them remembered.
The Phantom did not look away, his eyes of bright gold reflecting the nearby flames and setting her blood afire.
Christine stared with the same fixation, her eyes twin wells of deep midnight that drowned his soul in their depths.
After electric seconds not unlike the calm before a storm, his gaze lowered to the daring neckline of her satin bodice and the chain she wore there. He drew his lips into a firm line, his jaw hardening in anger.
"This," – Before she knew what he was doing, his gloved fingers brushed the cleavage of her bosom and he snapped the chain from around her neck. She gasped from the slight sting and the warm tingles his touch produced. He held up her heart locket and wedding ring, shaking the chain in her face. – "YOU - belong to ME."
"Give it back," she demanded under her breath, noticing the stir on the middle staircase at the same time Erik did. They both turned their heads to see Raoul charging up the last few steps.
Swiftly the Phantom spun Christine around, grabbing her to his hard body, his arm wrapping tight beneath her breasts. At the same time he brought up his sword, pointing it toward the Vicomte and effectively stopping him in his tracks a few feet away.
"Leave her be!" Erik growled in demand and retreated several steps back, bringing her with him. "She's mine!"
Immediately he lowered the sword, perpendicular to his body, and bowed his head to hers. Without warning, Christine felt the floor give way beneath their feet, as the world around her became engulfed in a wall of fire and thick red smoke.
x
"Mon Dieu," Madame Giry anxiously whispered beneath her breath, the stunned and horrified gasps undulating throughout the room echoes to her shock. She clutched the lace collar at her throat before remembering her cue had arrived.
Hurriedly she clapped her hands in boisterous applause and moved onto the dais where the frightening Opera Ghost had just disappeared in a magnificent blaze of smoke and fire with his captive bride.
"Bravo and brava! A most splendid performance." She hoped no one else noticed the quaver in her voice as she expectantly looked around at the bewildered faces of the crowd, all of them still frozen in shock. She worked to shake off her own bedazzlement, her taciturn Maestro having not told her all of what to expect.
Waving her hand about the air at the obscure wisps of pungent red smoke that lingered she moved to where the Vicomte stood. The managers were fools and would be easy to convince, but the Vicomte was another matter entirely.
"Messieurs, Mesdames, and Mesdemoiselles – you have all been the audience to a brief skit, performed for your entertainment and in honor of this festive occasion on this night of lovers, highlighting a similar scene from an upcoming opera."
A stir filled the crowd, along with relieved laughter and low murmurs, many of the guests also breaking into smattering groups of applause that intensified through the room before dwindling away. Only the Vicomte stood unaffected by her words, his expression dour.
"A skit," he said in disbelief. "It was nothing more than a performance."
"Of course." Madame Giry lifted her hands with a smile. "This is the theatre, after all. We feast on the dramatic here."
"Ah," The managers nodded at each other. "A unique surprise."
"Yes, unique," Andre agreed, turning his focus on her, "although a trifle discomfiting after what we have undergone during our short tenure here. The notes–"
"Yes, I understand, gentlemen," she hastily interrupted. "However, imitation is the highest form of flattery, it brought publicity, and it is our hope that it will impress any and all who watched." She hoped they would understand her veiled reference to the Phantom and cease with any further mention of him.
"Ah, yes, I see," Firmin said with a superior twitch of his mustache. "I was actually thinking of something along the same lines last week. A wise choice. Let us hope this endeavor meets with success."
"We are most pleased that you enjoyed our small presentation."
Madame had no doubt in her mind that by the dawn of the new morning Monsieur Firmin would have taken full credit for the Phantom's carefully planned performance.
"Any and all who watched?" the Vicomte repeated her earlier words.
Madame nodded once. "Potential investors. Others with influence."
"If it was only a skit, then with it now concluded, where is Miss Grendahl?" The Vicomte briefly looked around the room to make his point. "I don't see her."
"Christine is fine."
The managers drifted away, clearly not interested in the location of their new diva. The music resumed and couples swept to the dance floor below, the guests again happy and assured that nothing was amiss.
"That does not answer my question, Madame."
"Maman is right," Meg said, a white swan floating forward to help instill calm. "It was all planned in advance."
"I don't believe it." Raoul stared in accusation at Madame. "He taunted the cast personally, calling them by name."
"All part of the fun," Madame reassured. "Of course the libretto, should we decide to use it, will have false names. Only a select few were in on the surprise."
Arabella moved away from her escort and up the stairs to stand beside her cousin, her expression curious to hear what was being said.
"Would you like to know what I think," Raoul continued. "That was no performance and he was no actor. The manner in which that madman spoke leads me to believe that we were all witness to none other than the Phantom of the Opera, who has taken Christine."
Madame was thankful no one else within the vicinity paid attention to their discussion, the guests intent on merrymaking. "It was a performance, monsieur, nothing more. Christine was one of the players in the drama – why else would she so willingly approach him if she were in danger? Did you hear her cry out for help or see her struggle to get away?"
"She is under his spell – she has behaved strangely since her mysterious return to the theatre – and I'll damn well wager you're his aide in all of it. You and your daughter. The Phantom is her teacher - isn't he?"
Without waiting for a reply to his snide accusation, Raoul turned on his booted heel and stormed down the stairs and toward the entrance. Arabella looked at Madame in worried confusion.
"Well?" she urged, "I saw you dance with the Maestro and know you are aware of his plan. Will you help, or will you watch your cousin gather a mob to seek Christine - who I am sure you are also aware has no wish to be found?"
A look of determination crossed the Lady de Chagny's solemn features before she gave a curt nod of agreement and hurried downstairs after the Vicomte.
Meg shared a conspiratorial smile with her mother. "Well, that was certainly exciting! Besides the brilliant way the Phantom escaped with Christine, I think I most enjoyed what he did to Carlotta's awful hat."
"Meg!" Madame scolded in a hushed tone.
Meg giggled without remorse and drifted away to dance with a young man from the chorus. Madame shook her head in supreme weariness.
She hoped that the Lady de Chagny could convince her resolute cousin nothing was amiss ...
But more importantly that the obstinate Phantom and his spirited bride would resolve their heated differences before they brought the entire opera house down around everyone's heads!
.
xXx
.
Arabella caught up with her cousin outside their closed carriage. She grabbed his arm as he wrenched open the door.
"Raoul, wait – what are you doing?"
"Fetching my sword – and then I'm going to gather whatever men will assist me to help search for Christine and capture that madman!"
Since Buquet's supposed accident, which he still believed was murder, Raoul kept his sword in the carriage when he wasn't wearing it, and again she prevented him from reaching for the weapon.
"Wait, Raoul, please – listen to me!"
"What?" he said in impatience. "Christine is in danger and you wish to stand here and hold a discussion? We have wasted too much time as it is!"
"She's not in danger – Madame Giry was right – it was all a performance. Do you hear?" She tugged on his arm, getting him to look at her. "Christine is in no danger!"
The Phantom may be overbearing and powerful, certainly dangerous to the misfortunate and unwary who crossed paths with him. But after all that transpired, and upon seeing how the Maestro and his attentive bride had stared at one another – as if each composed their entire universe, heedless to the existence of all others in the ballroom – Arabella was certain the Phantom, for all his faults, would never cause Christine harm.
She noticed that they had attracted a small audience of guests who stood outside and watched them with blatant curiosity.
"Please, Raoul, let us take a ride and continue this discussion inside the carriage," she appealed with lowered voice, her tone just as emphatic. "I love Christine like she was my own flesh and blood. If I thought she was in peril, do you think I would be standing here trying to prevent you from going back and making a fool of yourself? I would be finding a way down that trapdoor and heading the search party with you! But I know she's in no danger. Trust me in this."
He narrowed his eyes in clear indecision but gave a terse nod and helped her inside, ordering the driver to take them once around the block before joining her on the seat opposite.
Away from prying eyes, Arabella marginally relaxed and searched her mind for what to tell her cousin. She had no wish to lie - a bevy of lies had immersed all four of them into this wretched mess of horrors - and she sought for a way to convince him to surrender his search while speaking the truth, all without betraying Christine's confidence.
Surely Brutus's protestations to convince Caesar of the lack of foul play had been less complicated, though she didn't feel exactly like a traitoress, either.
"Alright, Arabella, you have my full attention. How do you know it was a performance?" Raoul asked impatiently. "Did Christine tell you? Why would she not share such information with me? Why was I not told about a skit by anyone there, since I am patron of the theatre and supposedly in charge?"
Slowly she pulled off her mask and set it on the bench seat beside her, keeping her composure in the midst of his frenzied questions. She hated to wound his feelings, but knew of no other method to convince him to keep his distance.
"You have kept her locked away from everyone, hounding her every movement for weeks, at the hotel, at the theatre. Is it so surprising that she wished for a method to break free from her captivity and obtain some peace and freedom? The performance tonight gave her the means to do so in a theatrical manner that entertained the guests."
His head drooped slightly, as if he found truth to her words, but unsure he was convinced she took it a little further, "You know how Christine has always loved her little adventures – one of those is what brought her to us four years ago when she and her friend climbed that tree and spied on our ball. She changed so much after he was killed and lost her spirit for creating excitement. We should be grateful that she's rediscovered it." She smiled. "We'll hear from her when she's ready to be seen."
"She's with her teacher?" he asked skeptically. "You were in on this?"
She swallowed hard at the hurt in his voice and nodded, realizing Christine must have told him that much about his identity.
"Yes ... and yes. There really was no other way."
"And her teacher is not the Phantom?"
How to answer that!
"She has talked to me at length about him and trusts him implicitly. The man she described sounds nothing like the deranged man you hunt."
That much was true; Christine's version of her "Soulmate, Erik" and Raoul's interpretation of "the Scourge on society" greatly differed.
Slowly he pulled off his mask and set it down beside him with a resigned sigh.
"And you, Arabella. Is your decision to spend so much time with Lord Cavendish a means of escape as well? Do you feel confined at the hotel with me?"
She took in a swift breath at the unexpected turn in conversation, relieved he had given up on chasing after Christine but nervous to proceed with the change in topic. To be near him as no more than a cousin, when she wished to be more, had grown increasingly painful.
"I should have thought you would be pleased," she said lightly. "Is it not commendable for me to spend time with my suitor?"
He snorted softly at her choice of words. "You speak of only one, but perhaps there are others?"
She shook her head in confusion at his odd statement. "I don't understand."
"The man in black I saw you dance with," he said, his tone reeking with disapproval. "He seemed to be on familiar terms with you, and you with him."
"You cannot be serious."
She almost laughed to think of how he would react to know the true identity of her dance partner – and that he was Christine's husband – then thought better of finding humor in such a reaction. He was sure to be furious if he knew how they had duped him, how she was still duping him ...
For Christine, she reminded herself. It was only right that she do all she could to mend past mistakes.
Araballa nervously shrugged. "He was a guest. It was a ball. People dance at balls. And I happen to love to dance. But you didn't answer my question, Raoul. I should have thought you would approve of the time I spent with the Marquis. Is that not what you and uncle wanted ...? Well, isn't it?" she insisted when he glanced out the window.
"I once asked the same question of you." He turned his eyes back to hers. In the dim lamplight coming into the carriage, she felt their vivid blues probing her. "If it was what you wanted."
Her heart skipped a beat, and she recalled her earlier words to Christine on the matter of expressing feelings with honesty. Perhaps it was time to remove the hidden masks and take her own advice.
"Lord Cavendish told me that he had something important to ask you. Did he?"
Raoul nodded. "He came to me a week ago, on the morning I first took Christine to rehearsal."
"Oh?"
"He asked for your hand in marriage."
Arabella exhaled a soft breath, the news not coming as a surprise. "What did you tell him?"
"That I couldn't give him an answer. That he would have to write for Father's approval or should go visit with him." He looked out the window again.
"Why?" She furrowed her brow in puzzlement. "Uncle is in Bordeaux at Lord and Lady Dolworth's country estate and put you in charge of finding me a husband. You told me so."
"In this situation I think it would be best if Father agreed."
"Because he's an old friend of your father's?
He didn't answer.
"Or is this only another tactic for delay?"
His expression grew wary as he studied her. "Delay?"
"Yes, delay. You have found fault with every man I have suggested as a potential suitor, and the one man considered suitable to our class, who has shown interest in me as a wife, you put off with excuses of needing further permission. Why?"
"Why?" he hesitated.
"Yes, Raoul – why?"
"I am responsible for you. It's my duty to exercise caution and protect you from an unsuitable union."
"And that's the only reason?"
"What other reason would there be?"
She shook her head in extreme frustration, throwing to the wind all pretenses and fearful concern that her suspicion of his deeper feelings for her had no substance.
"This!" she exclaimed softly.
Moving forward to express the extent of her own feelings, she took his face between her satin-clad hands and pressed her lips firmly to his.
She felt the current of his shock, but he did not pull away and she kept her mouth against his for several breathtaking seconds longer. Once she drew back, her heart thudding in nervousness at her brazen move, she lifted her eyes to search his own.
"So tell me now and tell me truthfully ... is that the only reason?" she repeated her initial question.
"You know it's not." This time his hands lifted to cradle her head, his fingers weaving into the tendrils of her hair. "I don't want you to marry anyone, Arabella, but me."
She smiled, tears misting her eyes. "I had hoped you would say that."
His lips found hers this time, more passionately than before, and she brought her gloved fingers down to cradle the back of his neck, thankful the once-doomed night had ended on a note of high bliss.
She only hoped the same could be said for Christine and her Phantom.
xXx
A/N: Finally, E/C are together and the long-awaited firestorm is about to hit...
(*rubs hands together in mad glee)