A/N: Thank you for your reviews and encouragement! :) This is more like two chapters rolled into one, but I decided to do it this way so the wait isn't as bad (see, I can be nice ;-))... And now…
Chapter LXXXIII
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Death…
Christine had become so acquainted with its harsh, unwelcome touch, to become almost jaded to its presence, as she stood before the small mound of dirt and stared grimly at a cross of sticks that had been crudely fastened together. The reminder took her to the long ago morning when she stood beside Elizabeth's freshly dug grave. Then, too, she had made a silent vow to help care for a child, a vow she never was able to fulfill with Henley.
This time, she would not fail, either Jolene or Erik.
Once, she had hoped to be the little maid's friend and found it ironic that the chief cause of their conflict had been Jolene's acceptance and perverse need of Erik, a twisted version of what Christine so often wished for him to receive from the multitude: acceptance, and the knowledge he was important and needed. Had Jolene's moral compass not been so tainted from her uncle's vile education, perhaps there would have been a chance for all of them to grow into a family. But the Fates had decided, Death had swooped in, swift and merciless once more, and it did no good to dwell on what might have been when it could change nothing.
At the soft squeeze of her hand she looked down to see Jacques' blue eyes stare up at her in clear question.
She smiled gently and lowered herself to his level so he could better read her lips.
"We must leave Paris, but before we go, I thought you might like to tell your sister goodbye."
Such a farewell had helped her, at the age of twelve. Jacques was now half that, having celebrated a birthday while she was kept prisoner at the hotel, she recently learned. Yet the lad was intelligent for his scant years, and she felt he would understand. She repeated a simplified version of what Berta told her at her Papa's graveside.
"Your sister looks down with the angels from above and will always watch over you, Jacques. Would you like to lay some flowers there for her?"
He stared into the wisps of white clouds trailing lazily across a sky of robin's egg blue, then solemnly nodded and approached a patch of lilies that grew nearby. Carefully he selected two and squatted down to lay them on the mound of dirt. He appeared to consider, then pulled a carved angel from the canvas bag slung over his shoulder and laid it between the flowers.
Christine blinked away the sting of moisture that abruptly gathered in her eyes. Perhaps she was not as impervious to death as she thought, and that thought led her to recall what she and her beloved Phantom must soon face.
If anything were to go wrong with their imminent departure, it could well be the end of their tale.
Death came. Death took. Death gave no mercy.
But no! She would not let it conquer – not this time – and she shook her head to purge it of all terrifying possibilities. A miracle had brought Erik back from the grave and into her arms, not once but twice. She would not allow anything to seize him away from her or deny them a future together. They had already been deprived of so much.
Perhaps his way was best. They should simply make a run for it, now, in this moment, and live a life as fugitives. With new identities, it might not be so bad…
She had been wrong to insist on her own way. She must find him and tell him so.
Again taking Jacques by the hand, Christine retraced the twisting garden path. Upon entering the dim chapel, she blinked, her eyes needing a moment to adjust after leaving the brightness of day, but soon realized her husband was absent. Father Dominic was also missing, though she was somewhat amused to see that Mozart had claimed a spot on the small altar and looked quite content in his new home. The lonely priest had been delighted to receive Christine's gift of her pet, and had chuckled when he asked its name and received two monikers in tandem - first from Erik then Christine. The rest of their petition for aid had been received with indecision, but at least had not been outright refused.
Raoul and Arabella sat on a pew, facing one another in intent conversation. They looked up when Christine approached.
"Where is Erik?" she asked.
The boy released her hand and raced for the cat. Mozart leaped off the altar, an inky dark flash disappearing into the back room. Christine grabbed Jacques's shoulder before he could follow and sternly shook her head, pointing to the front pew for him to sit. Grudgingly the boy obeyed.
How could they ever persuade the holy father to watch the lad for the time needed to undertake their plan if Jacques misbehaved at every turn?
Christine again turned to the de Chagnys. "Erik?" she repeated.
"He had something of import to discuss with Father Dominic," Arabella answered, "and I…" she looked at Raoul who softly nodded, "we, have something to discuss with you."
"Yes?" Christine took a seat beside her.
"As you know, Uncle denied our marriage, wishing to link me to some elderly widower with trunkloads of money – but I don't want that. Not when I love Raoul. It would be wrong to marry another, with how I feel for him." He took her hand and she glanced at him, her heart in her eyes, before looking back at Christine. "We had thought that once you were safely aboard ship we would journey to Scotland to marry, but have since recalled this is the priest that performed the ceremony for you and Erik – without banns being posted. So Raoul was hoping to convince him to do the same for us. Should he agree, we would like you to stand up as witnesses - you and Erik, that is."
Christine listened in amazement. "Of course I will! I'd be delighted."
Erik, on the other hand, might need some heavy persuasion.
It seemed to be a morning for that all around.
The couple discussed their plans further, Raoul mentioning that to avert suspicion, he and Arabella would remain in Paris, only until the chaos of tonight's mystery was solved to the satisfaction of the authorities. Then the de Chagnys would go home, to England, and could be contacted there.
Christine distantly nodded, barely able to concentrate.
What matter of import did Erik have to discuss with Father Dominic that had not already been said? While Christine had been absent, did the priest come to a decision and refuse them? Was Erik trying further to convince him, hopefully (please God) sans threats?
The minutes ticked past, one by one, with slow and steady precision, lending to her disquiet. She was ready to go in search of her husband when, to her relief, Erik strode from the back room and toward her, his carriage tall and commanding, his cloak billowing gracefully about his legs. The sight, as always, made her go weak inside.
She rose from the bench to meet him halfway.
"Is everything alright?" she asked as he took her hands in his.
"You were right, my dear. Confession can be good for the soul."
"Confession?" she whispered. "You mean…"
At that moment, Father Dominic walked around the corner, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. The frail priest looked exhausted, as if he'd just been to a war.
Erik's lips twitched in a wry half smile. "However, the good father may disagree with the trite saying. Certainly what I divulged of my past could not have been good for his untainted soul."
Stunned that Erik had actually surrendered to the idea to seek absolution, when he'd been so adamantly opposed to it before, her mind took a twisted trek into his reasoning.
"You're worried, aren't you? This plan. Tonight. Erik, what if something goes wrong?"
"Christine, I'll not deceive you – never again." His voice grew somber. "What we have chosen to undertake is dangerous, but I am well acquainted with the steps involved and have our escape planned to the last detail."
"Accidents happen – even those not planned by the Opera Ghost. We could die…"
He lifted his hands to her shoulders. "Then if we die, we die together. I would want it no other way."
Neither did she, but she wasn't ready to go quite yet.
"Let us forget this foolish idea of mine and leave – now. Like you wanted. I don't need any of what I left behind, not really. I've survived on far less, and as you said before, anything can be replaced. We can stay here until it's time to board the ship - that is, if Father Dominic agrees…"
Where her mood had become dour and despondent, his incredibly lightened.
"You are borrowing trouble, my love. I have been in precarious situations similar to this, indeed, far worse – necessitating swift escape without time to plan – and I stand before you now."
Somewhere, she found a smile, faint though it was.
"Yes, yes you do. But - "
"It will be alright, Christine." He pressed his cool lips to her furrowed brow. "I have thought the matter over and you are correct. If we don't do this, we shall never know true freedom. I don't want you to spend a lifetime always anxious and looking over your shoulder. That is no life for you. Trust me. You shall be safe under your Angel's wing."
She did trust him, with every vessel and chamber of her heart and soul, but at the same time, she knew some plans of escape were doomed to fail. The small grave just outside at the edge of the garden was proof. And after one too many heartrending experiences, when the cruelest side of Destiny had stood hand-in-hand with Death, she could not prevent a little shudder.
Father Dominic moved toward Jacques, capturing their attention. The priest sat down beside the boy and touched his shoulder, urging Jacques to look at him.
"What have you there?" he asked, enunciating his words carefully.
Jacques held up his hands, one containing a demon soldier, the other an angel.
"My, my…" The priest chuckled. "What fine figurines! I am reminded of a story…a war in the heavenlies between angels and demons, with St. Michael, the archangel, leading the heavenly host. Would you like to hear it?"
The boy nodded with excitement, and the priest slowly began the tale.
"Jacques seems to be in good hands," Erik said quietly, taking Christine a short distance aside. "Shall we go?"
She looked at him in surprised question. "He agreed then?"
"To keep the boy here and give us refuge in the hours before our ship sails, yes, on the condition that we leave before morning mass. It would not do should any of his parishioners catch sight of us and report what they have seen."
"I don't wish him to find trouble either," Christine mused worriedly. "I admit, though of course I hoped all along he would agree, I'm surprised he did." He had helped them before, hiding them away from soldiers who unexpectedly arrived – however, this was no unforeseen act but a well-conceived plan. One of manipulation and deceit…
"He mentioned a woman from the Bible, Tamar, who hid two spies that were God's chosen from those who would kill them, and was rewarded for her good deed. Though I have never been compared to one chosen of God, quite the opposite. The Devil's Child."
"You are my Angel," Christine softly argued, sick to death of the horrid titles devised by the cruel gypsies of his boyhood. "I can see that you trust him. You must, to have agreed to confession. Or did you seek him out?"
Erik snorted at her awkward attempt to learn more and lightly tweaked her nose, much like when they were children and she grew too curious of matters that were none of her affair. She decided to let it go, this once, content that Erik finally made the difficult step, and just as importantly, that he'd made the decision to place faith in another person, besides Christine.
"He has proven himself worthy of trust. He reminds me of your father."
"I thought the same thing."
They approached Jacques to bid him farewell and reassure him they would be back that evening. The boy appeared only slightly apprehensive, evident in the hard hug he gave Christine, before he turned back to Father Dominic, clearly eager for the continuation of the biblical tale.
Apparently the priest had also won the lad over, which gave Christine great relief. She had feared Jacques would throw a tantrum or attempt to run away again.
"A number of years ago, I was acquainted with a deaf child in my old parish," the priest said to Christine, further reassuring her. "You have no need to worry, Madame. The boy and I will be fine."
Erik nodded and Christine smiled in farewell.
"Time is of the essence," he prodded as they joined the de Chagnys. "We must depart."
Noting Raoul's evident disappointment, Christine put a hand to Erik's arm.
"I think first the Vicomte wishes to speak with Father Dominic."
Raoul and Arabella shared a look, fraught with longing but tempered with duty.
"It can wait," he said. "What is most important now is to see you safely out of Paris."
Erik narrowed his eyes in suspicion, clearly not extending his full trust to the Vicomte, but he nodded curtly and escorted Christine to the carriage, the de Chagnys following.
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xXx
.
Behind the mirror door, Christine turned to Erik one last time. They had spent the past hour holding one another close and sharing in the act of their love before leaving their underground home for their final journey. Two trunks of their belongings had been packed and brought to the Rue Scribe door for the Vicomte to take and stow atop his carriage, where they would remain until Erik, Christine, and Jacques were delivered safely to the dock.
But hours must be endured until that coveted moment, the commencement of which had quite suddenly arrived, according to the distant and powerful bass thrum of the orchestra. Still, Christine held back, not wishing to part with him and putting the moment off as long as possible.
"I fear I will say or do something that shall give us away," she fretted. "You know what a terrible liar I am."
He cradled her face between gloved hands, and she took brief consolation in the feel of his touch and the soft, warmed leather against her chilled skin.
"Give only the information I told you and nothing more," he advised quietly. "Step into this as you would any role onstage. Become another character if you must – Aminta perhaps. Since you find her to be so devious …"
Christine felt too unsettled to rise to his mischievous bait, wishing she could find the same ease apparent in the twinkle of his golden eyes. She laid her trembling hands over his steady ones. He appeared, if not to enjoy their scheme, to greatly anticipate its unfolding. But then, since coming to this theatre, the Phantom of the Opera had always taken bizarre pleasure with his little games and trickery against the masses.
And yet, this was so much more than that.
"Erik, what if I fail? What if I cannot do what you asked?"
"You won't fail, Christine. I have faith in you."
"But - you know I have no wish to do it! Not like that -"
"Shh." He laid his finger against her lips. "Trouble yourself no further. It's alright."
If only it were.
He brushed his mouth over hers in tender farewell. When he began to pull back, she wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him tightly to her and deepening the kiss. For another stolen moment, tongue caressed tongue in desperate adoration, before Erik slowly and firmly pulled away.
"Go, my Little Angel," he whispered, pushing the mirror on its track. "Soon we will be together, and nothing will separate us again. I give you my word."
He hurriedly closed the door and left, as if to stay longer would be to risk temptation, and she blinked back tears at her somber reflection in the looking glass. Determined to be strong, she walked to the painted screen and changed into costume.
Erik felt it would create too great a risk to allow Christine to perform the entire opera, with the threat of the inspector lurking near, and Madame expected her appearance before the final act - at which time the instructor would tell the understudy she was no longer needed. Until that time, Christine would wait, closed and locked away in this room, free from worry of unwanted intrusions. The cast - most pointedly La Carlotta - had been told that Lady de Chagny would keep this as her bedchamber for the remainder of the week and was not to be disturbed. When, in point of fact, Arabella was presently on the way to the chapel with her newly acquired lady's maid, having been persuaded that the best help she could offer was to keep Jacques company until Erik and Christine could get there.
Soon Meg, whose character made no appearance in the fourth act, would enter the dressing room to help Christine with final preparations, and Christine was to deceive her as to their ultimate destination. On the dreadful chance that the detective was as smart as they feared and discovered their ruse, he would learn of three different countries to which the fugitives had fled, none of which was their true objective.
Christine hated to lie to Meg in letting it slip that they were going to Milan, but Erik told her it was best, and in this bizarre set of circumstances, she agreed. He would inform Madame they were traveling to Vienna, and Arabella, if later found and interrogated, would insist Christine told her Prague.
Such deceit was merely a protective measure, he had assured, and only if their escape should be uncovered. For that to happen, the detective would have to be a genius of masterminds, always thinking one step ahead.
Their plan, according to Erik, was in a word - ideal.
Smiling with renewed confidence that no one could outmaneuver her Phantom, Christine tied her wrapper about her costume as she walked from behind the tall screen and toward the dressing table. She lifted her head and stopped in horrified shock, the blood draining from her face...
On the stool before the mirror sat Inspector Leverton, holding a pistol aimed at her heart.
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xXx
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In the semi darkness, the Phantom moved with stealth along the flies, managing to remain unseen by the crewmen who worked the ropes and pulleys. Five stories below, the stage shone as a beacon, the only light within the theatre directed upon the players who performed the end of the second act. Having double-checked the ropes, he slid down one that dangled to stage level and hurried to intercept the male lead who wasn't due to reappear until the final act. Christine's understudy took the stage for her solo, and the Phantom knew a moment's gratitude that his ears were spared and the managers had not rehired La Carlotta for the role. The young ingénue was nowhere near as talented as his gifted wife, but thankfully she possessed a voice that did not make him want to claw his ears off when hearing it.
Finding Piangi alone, the Phantom came up behind and wrapped his lasso around the tenor's throat before the oaf could discern his presence. His struggle was minimal, perhaps due to exhaustion from his lumbering performance. A little more force, a quick snap of the wrists and it would be over, but Erik had made a promise to Christine never to kill again unless out of necessity. Nor did he wish to revive his role as an assassin. With difficulty, he pushed away his mind's image of the fool's overzealous stage ardor with Christine weeks ago, in those final moments of the unscripted performance she had changed, lest his fingers apply more pressure than required.
Soon Piangi was safely bound and locked in a storage closet, a potion dribbled into his mouth to ensure his unnatural slumber continued through the evening. With the tenor out of the way, the Phantom proceeded with the next step of the plan and headed to Madame's office.
His dark, soulish struggle over sparing Piangi brought to mind Christine's tearful confession and anxious plea. For himself, bitter fear had clouded any remorse he might feel to inflict death the first time, when he escaped from the gypsies as a child. Later, in Persia, his wrath fed his need for vengeance on humankind and blotted out the reality, which soon warped any weakness of conscience he might experience to wreak such destruction. Yet in a curious twist of irony, what should have deadened his senses completely after time instead made him painfully aware – and he had run from it, run from the monstrosity of his nature that he created...
Only to become a living ghost.
No, the nightmares did not go away. They were grafted into his marrow, a very part of him. He had become the nightmare.
Christine did not deserve to suffer such a fate. Never had she wished to impart suffering, toward man or beast, and it had been the one verity that held him back from believing she could so callously and willfully plot his demise. The nightmares she endured must be magnified for a soul so innocent. If he could change that day so the catastrophic events never occurred, if he could take the responsibility for her foul cousin's blood onto his own hands and bear that burden, he would do anything to spare her the pain of reliving the brutal moment in her dreams.
He had been so damnably wrong. Wrong to believe his executioner, wrong to believe his spy. Wrong to believe the whole bloody village of Haworth for what turned out be no more than misconceptions and harsh rumors, in all likelihood fueled by envy of Christine or the boy. He should have damned all fears and doubts and risked life and limb to see her - should have confronted her and heard the truth from her own lips.
He should have done a lot of things.
Sadly, he could not erase the pain of those years, but never again would he make the same mistake twice. If only he could find a way to rectify past offenses toward her. He had tried once and failed, by giving her back into the light of the world above - completely oblivious that she no longer wished to be there, without him.
As the Phantom waited, concealed, in the darkness of Madame's office, his mind turned over Christine's startling testimony of four years ago, that final day in England, which she had expounded upon when quietly asked. He had no sadistic wish to dwell on what gave them sorrow - would that he could wipe the wretched incident from both their minds! But something niggled at his logic, something that wouldn't let him push the matter aside, and as he deliberated, again going over the details, a truth overlooked clicked into place. His eyes widened in disbelief that he should be so remiss not to realize the oversight immediately, and he pondered the possibilities of what to do next.
First, they must deal with this present dilemma and he must get his family to safety. After that, perhaps he could finally begin to make restitution for past sins.
The good father had absolved him, surprised when Erik approached and asked. He had done so, more to please his wife than for confessing his multitude of sins, certain God already knew their number and did not care about his twisted soul. His penance was not one of simple prayers recited needlessly by rote, but to do all he could to correct mistakes once inflicted, those he had the power to change. Those with regard to Christine.
Yet Erik had no need for a man of the cloth, or even God, to tell him what must be accomplished.
To become truly worthy of his Little Angel, he would do anything …
Even the impossible.
.
xXx
.
"Please…Miss Daaé , is it not?" The inspector smirked and stood, motioning to the stool he had just vacated with exaggerated politeness. "Do take a seat."
Christine struggled to rein in her panic. "I'm sorry, sir, you're mistaken. My name is Christine Grendahl."
"Perhaps, today. What of tomorrow?"
Christine feigned ignorance. "I'm sorry? I don't understand." Slowly she backed toward the door as she spoke. "But I'm expected onstage..."
Any genial nonchalance vanished with the swiftness of a viper's strike.
"Sit down!" He violently motioned to the stool with his pistol. "I will not tell you a third time."
With her heart knocking hard against her ribs, Christine warily approached the dressing table, circling far from him to take the ordered seat. She stared up at where he stood at the end of her vanity, determined not to let him see her fear.
"There's been a mistake," she tried once more to plead ignorance, somehow keeping her voice calm and quiet. "I really don't know what it is you think I've done -"
"Stop!" He raised his hand holding the revolver high in threat and took a step closer, his trouser leg brushing her skirts. By the livid disgust that entered his eyes, she recoiled, thinking he might actually strike her with his weapon, as the foul soldier had struck her then Erik in the same manner. "Enough of this pretense of innocence. Allow me to apprise you of your new circumstances…"
She stared with wide eyes, waiting for what more he would say.
"You have led me on quite the merry chase," he said lightly again, though no true amusement laced his tone. "I consider it a great bit of fortune that I ran across the path of Madame Gudicelli. When first she spoke of her enemy, Christine, I did wonder, though I'll admit, upon hearing her enemy's name was Grendahl, I thought I had reached another dead end."
He began to walk as he spoke. Frowning, she followed him with her eyes. He lifted a coil of rope from a small table and approached her with it.
"I'm not a man to surrender easily. When Madame Gudicelli mentioned how this thorn in her side, this new singer, Christine, appeared out of nowhere and robbed her of her position on the stage, I became quite interested in her story. Enough to investigate and question the dancers, two of whom recalled that on the day of your audition you gave a different name than Grendahl. Would you like to know what they said and what name they gave…?" he asked with cynical amusement.
Christine briefly closed her eyes, wishing she could simply disappear, wishing he would turn away long enough for her to slip through the mirror door and run to the safety of Erik's lair. IF she could find her way without encountering any of his traps. The greater trap loomed before her now, the deadly serpent rising before her, his smile vicious and victorious.
"Christine Daaé ," he hissed the answer. "A dancer with little talent, who bore a distinctive British accent."
With one small, nervous slip, one thoughtless utterance of her true name, she had destroyed everything. No longer attempting to convince him that he'd mistaken her identity, she remained silent.
"What? No more denials?" he goaded and moved toward her.
"What exactly do you intend to do with me?" she asked quietly.
"What the law does to criminals of your ilk," he said brusquely. "After the Parisian police arrive, who I took the precaution of sending for before I came into this room, they will keep you locked in a cell while I make arrangements to transport you back to England. There, you will stand trial for the murder of Henri Daaé and, if justice has her way, will be hanged by the neck until dead."
Christine's hand went to her throat.
"It wasn't my fault," she whispered.
Beneath his hat, his dark brows lifted. "You wish to confess?"
"I –" She blinked. Perhaps she could persuade him, make him understand how helpless she'd been, and for the second time she aired the words that tore into her soul. "H-he attacked me. Forced himself on me. I - I was fighting for my life, my virtue -"
He snorted vociferously, like a bull over a fallen matador.
""Your virtue," he repeated sarcastically then grew stern. "Don't bother to speak lies we both know aren't true. Your hands, Miss Daaé."
When she only stared in confusion he grabbed her wrists in his meaty paws and brought one hand atop the other, then wound the rope tightly around them and knotted the ends. He took a step in retreat, his back to the door, and she turned her head to watch, wanting to keep him in her sight at all times, fearful of any sudden moves or what he might do to her. His was not the cold, indifferent manner of a chief inspector with a supposed perpetrator of a crime, but the heated, implacable traits of a hunter who'd made the matter personal and judged her guilty without a trial.
"Henri told me everything, how you lived with the Vicomte and became his paramour, how you whored yourself to the thieving gypsy with the monstrous face. He spoke of the temptations presented when he was married to my poor Elizabeth. Of how you dangled yourself before him like a painted doxy, in the hopes that he would allow you to remain and make The Heights your home. How you eventually DID throw yourself at him, hoping to get into his trousers to achieve that purpose."
In the well of foul lies he spouted, Christine struggled to hold her head high, but felt she might drown in fear and disgust. The thought of what he said repulsed her, and she shivered with outrage.
"Yes, be afraid, Miss Daaé. I have often wondered, after all my son-in-law told me, did Elizabeth truly die in childbirth – or did you kill my daughter too?!"
Her eyes popped wide at the horrific accusation. "Elizabeth was my friend! I did everything I could to help save her and the baby."
"You rode away from the manor -"
"To find a doctor -"
"And remained absent for hours."
"The doctor couldn't be found! There was a bad storm which made riding difficult."
Christine shook her head in frustration and looked down at her lap, coming to the frightful conclusion that nothing she said would convince him of her innocence.
She had destroyed her reputation long ago, with no one to explain to her the importance such an advantage held when growing into a woman, and because of that, no one would now believe she wasn't the lying slut they thought her. Berta had at times expressed disapproval of the orphaned Christine's uninhibited behavior, though always in the guise of a servant, never in authoritative demand. But Christine had shrugged off her concerns as silly and done as she wished. Henri had forbidden her to spend time with her soul mate, but only because he detested Erik, and Christine never cared what her cruel cousin thought. Though not for anything could she regret her nighttime rides with Erik, their unchaperoned jaunts on the moors, and the occasions they spent together in the loft staring up at the stars or sleeping side by side. She did regret staying those five weeks at the de Chagnys however. Oh, how she regretted it...
If not for her injured pride, she wouldn't be sitting here now. But life could not be wound back, like the hands of a clock, and regardless of all the heartache, there had been warm and blissful moments of true rapture.
Despite the negative weight of public opinion, Erik had risen above the pauper into which her cousin tried to shape him and become a man of means, a master composer and musician, able to give her, to give them both, their lifelong ambitions. He brought her out of nothing and made her into a star. He gave her hope, through their music, and the ability to soar.
He had given life to her voice, fire to her heart, and instilled in her the will to live again.
No matter her present circumstances, she could not for one moment regret the destiny she had chosen. Reputation be damned, she had Erik, and that was all that mattered.
"Henri was a loathsome worm," she said coldly and lifted steady eyes to her jailer. "He often hit Elizabeth when he took to the drink – did she tell you that? He was a drunken sot more often than he was sober and cruel to her in more ways than one. He sickened me. I couldn't stand even to be in the same room with him."
He scoffed. "Yet for all that, you took shelter in his home, ate his food. The Heights were his, though through greed and avarice, you did all you could to make it yours."
She said nothing, only glared at him.
"If he was so repulsive to you, why did you not leave?"
"Elizabeth needed me!"
"A likely story," he sneered, "and one a magistrate will soon hear. But this time, your lies will not save you, Miss Daaé. Let us not forget the caretaker who heard you threaten -"
The inspector's eyes suddenly went wide, the whites showing as they then rolled closed. His body crumpled as his knees gave way and hit the floor. In confused shock, Christine barely whipped her own legs aside to prevent him from falling on her.
She looked from his prone, unconscious form sprawled on the rug – and up into the sparkling eyes of Meg Giry. The girl held a brass candlestick, a smear of blood at its base.
x
"I always wanted to do that," she mused, "knock someone out. Though I always fantasized it being the ex diva." The hint of devilment dancing in her eyes faded into worry. "But I didn't mean to…he's not…?"
Christine knew what she asked. Cautiously, she bent to look and noticed the faint rise and fall of his chest.
"He's breathing," she said in relief, grateful not to be responsible for yet another murder.
The words cut through their shock to remind them of the danger. Meg rushed to her side, setting down the candlestick, to kneel and work out the knots of the rope.
"Are you alright? My heart nearly stopped when I cracked open the door and heard him. The things he said!"
Christine winced at the knowledge of what Meg must have heard.
"I'm thankful you came when you did. The pistol, Meg…"
At the reminder, her brave friend left Christine to finish unwinding the ropes from around her wrists, and snatched up the weapon from the rug. Meg then handed the gun to Christine, who shook her head.
"No, I don't want that. I haven't a clue how to fire it, and certainly can't carry it on stage. Hide it in the drawer. Then find something else that can be used to tie him up."
Meg placed the pistol in the drawer, then shuffled through a box atop the vanity, taking up one of the long ribbons inside. While Christine bound the inspector's hands with the rope, Meg bound his ankles with ribbon.
Casting one last look at the inspector, to ensure he remained insensible, Christine hurried to stand before the dressing table and grabbed the costume prop of the red rose for her hair, jabbing it carelessly into her wild mass of ringlets. She dared not take the time to apply theatrical artifices or have Meg help her style her unruly mane. Christine pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to bring blood to them, hoping she wouldn't appear too washed out under the floodlights. But then, what did it matter? All who watched would soon think her a ghost…
And if their plan failed, she would become one.
"I dare not linger," she said, determined not to again give way to qualms that sapped all courage. "Carlotta might come looking for him, or the gendarmes could enter..."
"The gendarmes," Meg repeated under her breath.
"He told me he sent for them. I assume you heard?"
Meg had never been told of Christine's need to hide, Christine letting her friend think their sole reason to escape Paris had to do with the bounty on the Phantom and his urgency to evade capture. Now that the girl knew the full story, Christine guardedly awaited her reaction.
"I did hear, Christine, and I know you well enough to realize you're not any of those awful things he said. If you killed that man, there was good cause, and from what I heard you say, it was entirely justified. Men oughtn't think they have some inborn right to treat women however they wish it, as if we're put on this earth to satisfy their cruel desires. He got what he had coming – as did Joseph Buquet."
The spritely dancer never failed to surprise with her responses, and in relief, Christine grabbed Meg's hands and pulled her into a swift hug. "I can't tell you what a true friend you've been to me, Meg. I shall miss you so, and I swear, I'll write from Milan, as soon as we're settled."
Christine wished there was no need for this deception, but now more than ever, felt it necessary.
Meg blinked as they drew apart. "What will you do? You're supposed to remain hidden, and there are still minutes to go before the final act."
The blare of orchestra music, muted and coming from outside the door told Christine that the chorus was embarking on their wild orgy of dance and song, to herald Don Juan's entrance and the conception of his vengeful plan. She had thought to hurry to Madame's office, hopeful to find Erik there, but he would now be stationed near the curtains backstage. She would need to traverse three corridors scattered with cast and crew and props to reach him, and by that time, he likely would have moved into position.
"I'll wait in the wings," she decided.
Meg nodded. "I'll come with you."
The two girls hastened from the room, and Meg pulled the ring of keys from her waist.
"This might buy you more time," she said, turning the skeleton key in the door and locking it.
Christine struggled to tamp down her panic as they hurried to the area where she was to make her entrance. Madame Giry stood a short distance away, drawing her brows together in displeasure, likely upon seeing Christine's ill-managed attempt of a costume change. As she stared, her features grew concerned, clearly able to tell something was amiss.
"I'll talk to her," Meg assured, squeezing her hand before moving to join her mother.
Christine inhaled a deep, shattering breath for calm, but couldn't seem to find it. Her eyes repeatedly lifted to the rafters and scanned the aisles while she waited. She released her death grip on the curtain as, at last, her cue arrived…
… at the same moment uniformed men with rifles slipped quickly and quietly into the theatre through the back doors.
.
xXx
.
The Phantom watched Christine tightly clutch her basket of roses and walk nervously onstage. Though she sang of possessing no thoughts or dreams but those of joy and love, the tremor of fear in her voice belied such words. But it was the stricken expression on her snow-white, unpainted face that made his heart pound with dread.
She sat down heavily at the front of the stage with her back to him, to strip the roses of thorns, as scripted. In the still and darkened theatre, he caught a flash from the corner of his eye and turned his head to see.
Soldiers bearing guns filed down the aisle toward the front. He counted three and looked to the opposite side of the theatre, finding the same.
He noted her attention frozen on the fool invaders and with an impatient sweep of his hand signaled for the dwarf accomplice of Don Juan's to exit backstage. The little man looked up, as if waiting for Don Juan's lines to be sung, but upon being ignored, shook his head as if he had no idea what was going on and slipped through the crimson-and-black striped curtain.
Christine's attention remained fixed on the soldiers, the rose she had been stripping of thorns now motionless in her hand.
"You have come here…" the Phantom sang, "In pursuit of your deepest urge…"
The rose fell into the basket. Christine turned her head to look over her shoulder. Her dark eyes were wide, haunted and frightened, and he tried to reassure her as silently and slowly he moved toward her.
"In pursuit of that wish which till now has been silent, silent…"
Through his lyrics and actions he instructed her to remain calm. Barely, she nodded, rising to greet him.
As his Don Juan continued to seduce his lover with song, drawing ever nearer, Erik came to a difficult decision. One that went against his grain as a composer, but would help her relax into the role and carry through with the plan. More importantly it would create an obstacle for their uninvited guests, that is if previous events could be trusted…
Already a few of the chorus who had concluded their roles in tonight's performance had drawn closer in the wings to see what was happening onstage, recognizing that not only had Christine appeared in the final act, after more than two weeks of being absent, but it was not Piangi's voice that filled the theatre. The next change was sure to bring more of the cast and crew to crowd close and impede the fool soldiers in their clear attempt to ensnare a Phantom.
He whisked in behind his bride, slipping his hand gently to her throat, and felt her body tremble and melt against him. While waiting for the stanza that would usher in his next words, he brought his lips to the shell of her ear.
"Play it as you wish…"
Once he pulled away, stroking his fingers down the curve of her arm to her wrist, she sought his eyes in surprised question. He barely nodded and smiled as he sang, assuring her that he meant it.
From that moment, a change came over Christine. A sparkle lit her eyes and a natural smile tilted her lips. She played the part befitting a gypsy siren, but with a compassionate ardor that set his blood afire and his pulse racing, as she poured every bit of love and regret into words that held a definitive double meaning. He watched as she halted at the curve of the spiral steps and leaned over the rail toward him, in hungered plea that they unite soon and she remain his forever. He barely was able to take his eyes off her to manage his own journey upward, to the bridge. Only when they met in the middle and he twirled her into a sensual embrace did he fully recall the peril they faced and what was expected.
So, apparently, did she, for as the orchestra faded away to nothing, the silence deafening as he held her close beneath the spotlight, he felt her muscles tense strongly against him and heard her little gasp of shocked despair. He looked below and saw with cold anger the English inspector who hunted her down, and who Madame had pointed out to him days ago at his insistence. The fiend stood in the wings and stared up at them with mutual hatred, then turned to speak to one of the gendarmes, obviously giving an order. To the Phantom's disgust, the concierge also appeared near the front, catching the inspector's attention and pointing to the Phantom, solidifying his belief that the two fools were working together.
So, they would again try to capture and harm his beloved wife? He barely restrained a growl. Had it been him alone they sought to ensnare, he would have mastered their escape and only that...
But now they had forced his hand.
The Phantom glanced down at her head of dark curls resting against his shoulder. He had argued with Christine often these past days about what must be done, most recently behind the mirror door, and finally convinced her of the necessity. Taking her hand linked with his that he had just traced up her body, he carefully turned her to face him on the narrow bridge. It was then he noticed that behind her a gendarme had taken up position on the scaffolding, and the Phantom sensed rather than saw that another stood guard behind him.
They were surrounded.
The Phantom read the resigned sorrow in his Angel's countenance and gently squeezed her hand, softly singing words that begged her to join him for all of one lifetime. To the audience, who craned forward in breathless expectation, it would seem that the mysterious new lead had broken from the opera to vow his enduring love to the singer who'd also taken the place of the previous performer. The crew and cast, just as stunned and likely recognizing him as the Phantom from the masked ball, flocked to both wings – thus crowding in and preventing the soldiers from easily pushing through to obey their despicable orders.
Perfect. Exactly what he wanted.
Christine looked at him, her heart in her eyes, as they staged the last bit of their drama.
She barely shook her head, silently beseeching him, and he gave a soft, stern nod, their actions subtle and indiscernible to those who watched. Regardless that he ordered her to do this, he could not help tense as her cool fingertips reluctantly touched the edge of his mask, and when she snatched the black leather away he felt dead inside.
Forced again to face public humiliation, to be the monster...
The steady, tender look in her eyes soothed the raw furrow that had ripped through his soul, and he almost brushed away the tear that leaked onto her cheek –
Almost forgot to stay in character.
With an enraged growl, he whipped his attention toward the audience, punishing them with the full knowledge of the curse of his damned face.
Frightened screams and horrified gasps rang throughout the auditorium. Those standing in the wings undulated backward, further impeding the gendarmes, who raised their rifles in an attempt to get a clear shot, but struggled to remain standing in the panicked surge. The soldiers in the flies also fumbled in the terrible light of disclosure.
To those with the misfortune to be in the theatre that night, it appeared that the Phantom of the Opera had forced his way onstage to plead his love to the diva he once shadowed and taught. Only to be spurned and humiliated by her callous removal of his mask, whereupon he then sought vengeance…
The Phantom whipped from his sash a blade and sliced through the rope, noting Christine's stare of shocked surprise, but there was no time to explain his need to embellish the plan.
Almost immediately the discordant tinkle of crystal from mid-dome added to the cacophony of screams.
Grabbing her to him hard, he felt reassured when Christine held him just as tightly. Her face turned into his neck, her lips brushing the frantic beat of his pulse.
"Always and forever," he whispered, inclining his head to hers, "unto death and beyond."
Erik stomped down on the wedge that triggered the trapdoor.
A volley of shots rang out as together the notorious Phantom of the Opera and his beautiful Angel of Music fell through the bridge, far below, into a vast well of darkness…
xXx