It is easier to forgive an Enemy than to forgive a Friend:
The man who permits you to injure him, deserves your vengeance:
He also will receive it; go Spectre! obey my most secret desire:
Which thou knowest without my speaking.
~ William Blake, Jerusalem: The Emanation of the Giant Albion
Of all the rooms she'd seen in Raoul's house, the upstairs sitting room was quickly becoming Christine's favorite. It was big enough to be comfortable, but not so large and grand as to make her feel swallowed by the vastness. The paintings on the walls were homey, with beautiful nature scenes and portraits of the Chagny family. The furniture was elegant, but also cozy – particularly the couch by the fire, where she and Raoul now sat cuddled together.
Both of them were still warm and relaxed from their baths earlier in the evening, and comfortably wrapped in their dressing gowns. They'd been eager to enjoy a quiet hour by the fire before bed (after all they'd been through in the last two days, it felt more than earned), but what they'd craved even more was time to be close to each other.
Christine snuggled against her fiancé, enjoying the clean, faintly salty smell of his soap, and the sound of his voice as he read to her from one of the adventure novels he enjoyed. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt so peaceful and cared for. It was enough to start lulling her toward the edge of sleep, and it took her a few minutes to notice when Raoul eventually stopped reading and once again turned the conversation back to the subject of their wedding.
"I can hardly wait to show you the chapel." His face glowed with happiness and excitement in the firelight as he spoke. "It's been in our family since the fifteenth century. It has the most beautiful stained glass, enough to rival Sainte-Chapelle. And it's big enough to hold as many guests as we could want."
She hesitated. "Are you thinking we'll have a lot of guests?"
"Of course." He sounded delighted at the idea. "I want all of society to be there to witness our love. And you're becoming a vicomtesse! You deserve the grandest of ceremonies to celebrate."
Christine tried to make herself smile, but her pleasant mood was fading. There were times when she loved Raoul for his bright-eyed enthusiasm, and how eagerly he threw himself into things he cared about. But there were also times when she wished he would stop and ask her what she wanted before making plans on her behalf, even when they came from the best intentions.
"Who would you like to invite?" He turned to her, curious.
She tensed at the question. "I … I'm not sure. I haven't really thought about it."
It was true. Christine had held onto the hope of being married to Raoul over the past months, letting the thought of being safe and loved for the rest of her life comfort her in her darkest moments. But she'd never given much thought to the details of them actually getting married.
She knew that other women often dreamed of their future weddings, but such dreams had never much interested Christine. As a little girl, her fantasies had been of being a singer, not a bride. In the years after her father's death, she'd been too lost in the dark mire of grief to dream about much of anything. And then, when the Angel of Music had finally come to her, lifting her out of the mire and making her feel alive again, he had warned her he would only continue to appear as long as she never gave her heart to earthly love –
But all of that had been a lie, she reminded herself. A cruel deception by a mortal man who'd wanted her for himself.
She was free to marry now. She would be marrying, into one of the most illustrious families in France. And for that to take place, she'd have to take some role in planning the wedding.
"I'd like to have Meg there," she said at last, still subdued and a little unsure. "If she ever forgives me for brushing her off today. And maybe Madame Giry as well. I know things with her are … complicated," she added, remembering what Raoul had told her about the ballet mistress's vague history with Erik, "but she did help you, and she's been kind to me in the past."
She thought about suggesting Sara Sorelli, who'd been something of a friend to her. But she quickly thought better of it when she remembered that the former danseuse étoile had been lovers with the Comte de Chagny – Raoul's brother Philippe.
The Chagnys would probably consider it poor taste in its own right to invite the comte's mistress to the wedding, she thought. It was going to be scandalous enough that Christine herself was marrying into the family, no matter how much Raoul might try to reassure her.
But to make matters worse, something had happened last spring that drove the couple apart. Christine, never one for gossip, hadn't learned the details – whether it was merely a lovers' spat grown out of hand, or something more serious – but the aftermath had shaken the entire company. Philippe de Chagny stayed away from the Opera for the rest of the season, leaving his younger brother to take over his patronage, and La Sorelli had left Paris entirely – the last Christine had heard, she was in Marseille, dancing at the Salle Baveau.
"I can't think of anyone else right now." She shifted on the couch, trying to choose her next words carefully. "Raoul … do we need to have such a large ceremony?"
He looked at her, finally realizing how much the idea was troubling her, and his face fell. "Why would that be a problem? All I want is for the world to see how wonderful you are, and share in our happiness."
She tried not to sigh. "It's not that I don't appreciate the thought. But I don't know if I want the eyes of the world on us."
Raoul was honestly surprised. "I wouldn't have thought you'd be uncomfortable being the center of attention. You're always so confident when you're on the stage."
"That's different. When I'm onstage, I'm performing a part. It's all pretend, a fantasy, and it stops the moment I leave the stage." She took a deep breath. "But this isn't another performance. I don't want the most special day of our lives to be a spectacle for the public like Hannibal or Il Muto. I want it to be real, and just for the two of us."
Raoul was quiet for a long moment, taking in all that she'd said. When he spoke again, he sounded a little chastened, and his expression was soft and questioning.
"I suppose we don't need to invite the whole world. But are you sure there isn't anyone else you'd like to have there? You seemed so friendly with everyone in the Opera. That day you showed me around, you remembered everyone's names, even the old door-shutters. You had a kind word for everyone we came across." He smiled, and reached up to gently stroke her cheek as he drew closer. "It was one of the things that made me love you so much."
She blushed. "I do care for all of them. But we can hardly invite the entire Opera Populaire to our wedding. No matter how big the chapel is," she added, smiling a little.
"Is there no one else you can think of?" he gently, hopefully insisted. "Do you have any family back in Sweden, perhaps?"
"... I don't know. My father never liked to talk about that sort of thing. He told me that he grew up in an orphanage, so I probably don't have relatives on his side. And I was so young when my mother died, I don't remember her ever speaking of her family."
Raoul hugged her gently, and tried to change the subject back to more cheerful things. "Well, there's still plenty of time to decide who you want to invite. The most important thing is that we do marry. I want nothing more than to share my life with you."
That brought a genuine smile to her face. A moment later, he was kissing her – the first kiss they'd shared since the events of last night. His lips were smooth and warm, well-loved and familiar.
So different from …
No, she would not think about that. Her future was with Raoul, and she could not let herself dwell on anything – or anyone – else. She deepened the kiss, parting her lips and letting her tongue softly trace over Raoul's, trying to make the taste and feel of him erase her memory of that other kiss.
Raoul's eyes widened for a moment, but he certainly didn't complain. During the months of their engagement, Christine had been careful to keep displays of affection chaste when she thought the two of them might be watched. But on those rare moments when she was sure they were alone – oh, that had been a different story. Her kisses and embraces had grown ever more passionate, almost desperate at times, and more than once he'd been left burning when they inevitably had to part.
He could only imagine what she would be like when their wedding night finally came. The thought of finally having her unleash that desperate passion on him with nothing to hold her back sent a rush of hot blood to his groin.
His hands found her hair as he pulled her closer. He felt her wrap her arms around him, the smell of her almond-and-rose cream so rich and close and sweet …
It had never been so hard for him to break a kiss. "It's getting late. Perhaps we'd best go get some sleep."
Christine panted for a moment, trying to recover her breath and her senses. "... Yes, you're right."
The memory of that other kiss still wasn't gone. And in a wicked, shameful corner of her heart, she wasn't sorry for that.
But for now, it was Raoul alone who filled her thoughts. It was his touch that still tingled on her skin, that her body craved more of.
And for now, that was enough.
That night, Christine dreamed. Not one of the nightmares that had haunted her, but a dream of love, part wish and part memory.
She was walking across the floor of a church, her shoes tapping on stone tiles the color of rye bread. The painted wooden pews she passed were as tall as she was, for she was a tiny girl again, the whole world grown larger around her.
But she was not afraid, because her parents were with her.
Her father was beside her, holding her hand. There was no gray in his curly brown hair. His eyes were bright, his face tanned and smiling, untouched by the sickness that would one day leave him gaunt and wasted. Her mother walked just behind them – her face was little more than a pale oval through the haze of Christine's memories, but her long hair was tied loosely under a blue scarf, and shone golden in the sunlight streaming through the church windows.
As they approached the altar, her father scooped Christine up and lifted her onto his shoulders. Christine would one day visit the cathedral of Notre Dame and be awed by the size of it, but to her smaller self, this church's vaulted ceiling seemed every bit as lofty and magnificent.
The faded plaster above them was covered in painted frescos. Flowers and vines framed images of angels, monsters, kings, and prophets. Christine was still too young to recognize all the stories, but she gazed in wonder as her father pointed each one out to her.
"This one is my favorite," Gustave Daaé chuckled. He lifted her as high as he could, up toward a fresco on the lowest panel of the vault. In the picture, she could see a man dressed like a musician, his hair brown and curly like hers and her father's. He sat at a chessboard, and opposite him sat a bony, sallow figure with the grinning face of a skull.
Christine gasped, and her father chuckled again. "Yes, that's Death. But you don't have to be scared of him. See, that man's going to win the game against him. Those words behind them say so. Death will have to let him go then, and he'll be safe and free."
He lowered her down for a hug, and Christine threw her arms around his neck, beaming.
The fear she'd felt when she saw the macabre painting was gone. Now she felt safe and loved, brave and confident. She was sure that if Death ever came for her family, her father would best him, just like the man at the chessboard who looked so much like him. Maybe even a little girl like her could make Death change his mind, if they could play a game she knew.
Her eyes moved farther up the vault, to a picture of revelers dancing on a green hill. Above them, a man and woman embraced in a circle of golden rays.
As Christine gazed at them, the dream began to change.
Somewhere close by, an organ began to play a hymn she did not recognize. The music seemed to wrap around her, lifting her up as her father had done, and the church grew smaller around her. She was no longer a child, she realized, but her now-grown self, and as the music faded, she saw that she was standing at the church altar, holding the hands of a man who stood across from her.
She could see nothing of his features. The sun was behind him, haloing him in golden light but leaving his face in shadow. The only thing she was sure of was that she loved him – that they belonged together, two halves of a whole, and that she wanted nothing more than to hold him and never let go.
As soon as she thought it, she was holding him. Their bodies were entwined, she and her new husband. She could feel his heart beating against hers, and the heat of his mouth as she kissed him with unbridled desire. Golden light filled her eyes, drowning out everything around her, until there was nothing but the two of them and they were so, so close to becoming one …
Christine woke up.
It was early morning, the first rays of sunlight streaming into her eyes. She was in Raoul's bed again, tangled in his sheets. Her nightgown was twisted, and stuck to her body from sweat that had nothing to do with fear.
It took her a moment to realize what had awakened her. Raoul was sleeping with his arms around her and his head pillowed on her breasts, and she could feel his breath on her nipple through the thin, damp cotton. The alternating heat and chill was enough to make her shiver deliciously.
She shifted, trying to fix her nightgown, and felt something hot and firm press against her hip under the covers.
Her eyes shot wide.
Christine might still be a virgin, with no experience of anything more than kissing, but she wasn't ignorant. She knew what a man's parts looked like (that statue of Apollo on top of the Palais Garnier left precious little to the imagination), and thanks to listening to stories from other girls at the Opera, she knew that a man's member swelled and grew erect during intimate moments.
Is he dreaming too?
Is he dreaming of me? Of us?
Her heart beat faster at the thought. Heat pooled low in her belly, pulsing with mingled arousal and shyness. It was thrilling to feel that he wanted her, the solid evidence of his love and desire, but she knew she needed to stop this before they strayed too far into sin.
"Raoul?"
She moved in his embrace, trying to sit up. His erection rubbed against her thigh, and his arms tightened around her as he let out a low, sleepy moan that set a bolt of lust through her.
"Raoul, wake up." She rubbed his shoulder, enjoying touching him for just a little bit longer, before she gripped it and gave him a gentle but determined shake.
"Hnnh … ?"
His eyes opened, blinking in just-awakened confusion. A moment later, he realized what was happening – what he had just done – and he let go of her abruptly and quickly scooted away under the covers.
"Oh goodness! I'm – I didn't – I hope I didn't – oh dear, Christine, I'm so sorry!"
His face was bright pink with embarrassment. As he scooted to the side of the bed, she watched him pulling at his nightshirt, trying to make the obvious tent a little less obvious.
"I hope I didn't upset you. This, er, sort of thing happens sometimes, first thing in the morning. It's no reflection on you." Realizing she might take that the wrong way, he quickly added, "Not that you aren't perfectly desirable! But I was … oh god, did I do anything to you while I was asleep? I truly can't remember!"
Blushing herself, and trying not to giggle, she scooted closer to him. "It's all right, really. You didn't do anything except hug me. It felt nice. This is … it's flattering."
He relaxed a little, and smiled. "Do you truly mean that?"
"Yes. It makes me happy, knowing you want me."
She smiled back at him. Her eyes darted to his lap, where he was still holding the nightshirt awkwardly over his stiffened length. She felt a little bad now for how embarrassed he was, and wished there was something she could do to help him feel better.
The heated pulse between her own legs was growing distracting as well. She began to wonder if, perhaps, it wouldn't be so sinful if she offered to ease his obvious discomfort.
"Do … um, do you want me to … do anything … ?"
Raoul bit his lip, a lustful shiver running down his spine. Oh, he did want her to. The thought of it was enough to make him ache. With great reluctance, he replied, "No, that's all right. I'm perfectly capable of behaving like a gentleman until after we marry."
He wondered how much dignity he could preserve right now if he headed straight for the washroom and drenched himself in a cold bath.
Christine's face fell a little, though she knew he was right. They both knew perfectly well that all of this should wait until marriage. She loved how respectful Raoul had always been with her about such things, never pressing for more than she was willing to give, and she shouldn't be surprised he was still doing so now.
She wasn't even sure what she would have done if he'd said yes. But part of her was still disappointed she wouldn't get to find out.
But I will find out, soon enough, she reminded herself. If he can be patient, so can I.
"I do love you," she said at last, with a warm, sweet smile. "And I am looking forward to us being married. I know I sounded reluctant last night, but it wasn't because of you."
He relaxed even more, visibly reassured. "If you want a smaller wedding, we'll have one. Perhaps that will mean we can organize it faster, and be married all the sooner."
She laughed softly, realizing what he was implying. "I wouldn't mind that at all."
"I really do think you'll like the chapel," he added. "It's where my parents were married. I always imagined –"
Both of them froze at the sound of a knock on the door.
"M'sieur!" Comtois' mild, polite manner from yesterday was gone. Now he sounded insistent, clearly concerned about something. "M'sieur, you and Mamselle Daaé had best get up immediately."
Raoul and Christine exchanged a worried glance. "Comtois, what's going on?" the vicomte called back. "Has something happened?"
Did Erik do something? he nearly asked. Imagining what new villainy their guest might have committed was more than enough to kill his lingering arousal, no cold bath needed.
After fearing the worst for that moment, Comtois' answer almost came as a relief.
"M'sieur, your brother's just arrived."
Christine was still self-consciously trying to tidy her hair as they made their way downstairs.
"Are you sure you want me there right now?" she asked. "I'm hardly in a state to make the best impression."
Raoul paused for a moment, smiling, and helped her fix a hairpin into place. "You look lovely, I promise. And we were talking about inviting Philippe for a visit the other night, weren't we? This is as good a time as any." He kissed her cheek. "Think of it as practice for hosting guests on short notice once you're a vicomtesse."
Christine decided not to tell him that the thought of things like this happening on the regular was not comforting.
Philippe de Chagny was in the drawing room, warming himself by the fire. The finely-tailored day suit he wore was rumpled, and he looked as if he hadn't slept well. Marie-Inès had brought him coffee while he waited for his brother, and he drank it now as if he badly needed the energy it would give.
Christine had seen the comte from a distance in her early days at the Opera Populaire, when he was still dancing attendance on Sorelli, but hadn't paid him much attention then. Now, though, she could see how much he and Raoul resembled each other. They were both trim and handsome, with the same golden-blond hair (though she could see Philippe's was starting to recede, making his forehead look hard and prominent) and eyes the same shade of clear, green-tinted blue.
No, not exactly the same, she thought. There was a coldness in Philippe's eyes that Raoul did not have. If Raoul's eyes were like the summer sea, Phillipe's were like the sea in winter, freezing and stormy.
That coldness quickly warmed when he saw his brother, though, and Christine found herself wondering if she'd imagined it.
"Raoul! Thank goodness you're all right!" Philippe quickly set his coffee down and caught the younger man in a tight embrace.
"What's brought you back to Paris?" Raoul hugged him back eagerly. He smiled as he spoke, but there was a nervous edge to his voice. "Not that I'm not glad to see you, but you said you were planning to stay at the chateau until May."
"I came to look in on you, of course! Everyone's heard the news about what happened at the Opera." Philippe let go of Raoul and stepped back, looking him over as if inspecting him for damage. "I never should have let you take part in that foolish plan. You're lucky more people weren't killed, yourself included."
Raoul tugged at his ascot, pulling it higher up on his neck.
"We'll make sure to contribute extra to the company this season," Philippe went on. "Goodness knows they're going to need it, after a disaster like this. Especially with the Phantom still at large."
He's not at large, Raoul couldn't help thinking. He's in the guest room just above us.
The thought was so farcical that he almost laughed, and he quickly tried to shift the conversation before Philippe could notice. "Even if he did get away, I doubt he'll dare return to the Opera after this. Christine will be safe now."
Philippe finally seemed to notice that Christine was in the drawing room with them. "Ah yes, the star of this whole troubled production." He ran his eyes over her, taking in her still-messy curls and the dress she'd quickly changed into, and gave Raoul a knowing grin. "Well, I suppose I can't blame you for indulging in some respite after all that's happened."
Christine blushed furiously. She knew it was understandable for the comte to assume she and Raoul had been doing more than sleeping while she was spending the night in his home (less than an hour ago, he'd very nearly been right). But it was one thing to know it in her mind, and another to hear it spoken to her face.
Raoul didn't return his brother's grin. "It's not like that."
"Oh, there's no need to be embarrassed." Philippe clapped him on the shoulder. "At your age, it's healthy to indulge a little. And after all that time at sea, it's good to see you finally taking a proper interest in women."
Raoul's face turned red. "You know I didn't – !"
"I'm only teasing," the comte laughed, a little too quickly. "You have fine taste – she's very pretty. Quite a talent as well, I'm told. A perfectly appropriate companion for a youth of your rank."
"... Actually, Philippe, that's something I wanted to speak to you about."
Raoul turned to Christine, beckoning for her to come stand by his side. She realized immediately what he was intending, and her stomach twisted with apprehension. Oh Raoul, is this really the best time?
But his expression was perfectly confident, his eyes full of love as he watched her and waited. So she approached him, and let him put his arm around her.
"We were keeping it a secret until the Phantom was dealt with," he faced Philippe, all warmth and hope, "but Christine and I are engaged to be married."
Philippe's smile vanished immediately. He stared at the young couple, and Christine saw the coldness creep back into his eyes, like ice slowly forming over the sea.
"You're not serious."
The hope began to drain from Raoul's face. "Yes, I am. We've been engaged since last summer."
Philippe's eyes narrowed, growing colder. "Well, it ends now."
Christine drew in a sharp breath at the blunt statement. Raoul gaped at his brother, and tightened his arm around Christine protectively.
"That's not your decision to make. I'm old enough to marry without your permission."
"Clearly you're not, if you're playing at such childish foolishness!"
Raoul stiffened. "I thought you'd be happy for me."
"And I thought you weren't this naive. What has she done to turn your head like this?"
"She's done nothing! We love each other."
Philippe rubbed his brow. "I should have known better than to introduce you to the Opera. You always were too much of a romantic for your own good. You know perfectly well you can't marry the likes of her! An opera wench, a girl of no family, a common putain of the stage …"
That moment, Raoul came very close to striking his brother. He went as far as to let go of Christine and take a step toward him with one hand clenched in a fist.
Philippe saw it. The heavy signet ring he wore emblazoned with the Chagny coat of arms flashed gold in the firelight as he seized Raoul.
"In the study. Now."
The comte still didn't acknowledge Christine as he started dragging his brother toward the stairs. Raoul's temper rose as he was hauled like a naughty child, and he tried to wrench his arm free.
Philippe's grip tightened, the ring digging in. "I'll drag you by the ear if I have to," he hissed.
Raoul gritted his teeth, but he stopped resisting.
Erik had been awake since before dawn, working on his new mask by lamplight.
Christine had bought him a nightshirt yesterday, but he'd been too apprehensive to put it on – the risk that he might have to flee the house at a moment's notice was still too great. For that reason, he'd slept in his shirt and trousers, and he still wore them now as he stood at the guest room door, listening to the commotion downstairs.
He couldn't make out the distant conversation, but Erik was sure it meant nothing good for him. Silently, he cursed himself for not using last night to scout the house for exit routes, the way he normally did when he stayed in a new place for more than a day. Some might call it paranoia (he could think of two people in particular), but it was a habit that had saved his life more than once in the past.
Now he had no choice but to be ready for a quick, unplanned escape. As he slipped his shoes on and donned his old mask and waistcoat (carefully checking to make sure the banknotes were still in the hidden pocket), his sharp ears picked up two sets of approaching footsteps, and two voices raised in argument. He recognized the vicomte right away, and it took him only a few moments to realize the other one must be his brother.
Erik gritted his teeth. Like Christine, he'd only ever known Philippe de Chagny from a distance, but what he did know was enough to make him profoundly dislike the man. Part of it was the usual envy the deformed composer felt for such men – those who'd had the luck to be born with good looks and wealth, who'd never known what it was like to be denied love or a fair chance in life.
But part of it was also the thoughtless, condescending way he'd witnessed the comte treat the opera employees. He could be charming when he wanted something, particularly from the women of the company, but it was still an odious contrast to the well-mannered gentleman he acted with ladies of his own class. La Sorelli, Erik recalled, had learned that the hard way – the ballet corps had never been the same since she left after their disastrous falling out last year, and Erik still held a grudge against the comte for costing the Opera one of its brightest stars.
When Raoul had taken an interest in Christine all those months ago, Erik had assumed the younger Chagny would be no different from his brother if he got his hands on her. He'd turned out to be wrong about the boy's character (as loath as he was to admit it), but that didn't mean Erik trusted the vicomte not to betray his presence to Philippe now. For all Erik knew, that was the source of the dispute the brothers were in the middle of.
He waited until he heard them pass his room and close a door farther down the hall. Fearing he might have only minutes to spare, he tucked one of the coiled red cords into his jacket, and crept out of the room and down the stairs as silently as a ghost.
Philippe had barely shut the study door behind him before he rounded on his brother, his voice quiet and cold and reproachful.
"I never thought you would lose your head this easily over a chorus girl. Even if it's the first you've ever had, her cunt can't be that bewitching."
Raoul hissed through clenched teeth. "Don't you dare speak that way about her. Christine is a good, pure girl."
"Did she tell you that?" Philippe shook his head. "For God's sake, you lovesick fool, she was telling you what she knew you wanted to hear! That's what those kind of women do. It's as much a fantasy as anything they perform on the stage. They'd tell an abonné they could spin straw into gold if they thought it would keep his attention!"
"How many times do I have to tell you, Christine isn't like that! I've known her since we were children!"
Philippe rolled his eyes. "You knew her when you were children. You don't see what she's become now. You would disgrace our family for the sake of a memory."
His words struck on something that had been troubling Raoul, and he took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "Perhaps I did see her that way at first. But we've been through so much since then. I do know who she is now, and I know she'd be nothing but a blessing to our family."
"She will be nothing to our family, because you're not marrying her."
The downstairs was deserted, and Erik was grateful for that. He didn't relish the thought of having to break his promise and lose valuable time by doing away with witnesses.
As he headed for the front door, all the while thinking frantically over how he could disappear out of the city without a proper disguise (the sewers might be a possibility, though a very unpleasant one), he passed near the entrance to the drawing room. From somewhere inside, a soft noise pierced through his racing thoughts like a needle through a vein: the all-too-familiar sound of Christine crying.
Erik stopped in his tracks.
He knew he should ignore her. He had to get out of the house as soon as possible, before the Chagnys came after him. Whatever was upsetting her, it was the vicomte's responsibility to comfort her now.
And even leaving all that aside, Erik was sure she wouldn't want him near her in such a vulnerable moment. Not after all the times he'd been the one who was the cause of her tears.
In his head, Erik knew all these things perfectly well. But none of them stopped him from quietly entering the drawing room and making his way to her side.
"Christine, what's wrong?" He cautiously approached the armchair where she sat with her face buried in her hands. "Has something happened?"
She tensed as she heard him. Her voice was rough and wet-sounding, but steady. "Erik, you shouldn't be out here. The comte Philippe's in the house, he could see you."
"I know." Erik knelt beside her chair. "I heard him and the vicomte upstairs. They sounded rather vehement about whatever they were discussing."
Slowly, Christine raised her head enough that he could see her bleary eyes. "Raoul told him about our engagement."
"... I see." Erik's first thought was a selfish one – so it wasn't me they were arguing about – before he turned his attention back to her. "And I take it the comte didn't approve?"
Christine nodded, another tear running down her cheek. "He's trying to make Raoul end it."
"I will not end it! Christine and I can go to the mairie today, if we have to. I will not abandon her, no matter how you threaten me."
Philippe's mouth tightened into the hard line Raoul recognized from when he was little and had done something naughty. With their twenty years' difference in age, there had been many times when Philippe played the role of a father more than a brother to him, and now he was trying to assert that role once again.
"You're acting like a spoiled child. Well, I'm not indulging you anymore. It's time you started being responsible and doing what your station in life demands."
The comte drew in a sharp breath, and his next words were cold and deliberate. "You owe our family a great deal, Raoul."
Raoul bit his lip. There it was, finally spoken aloud: the underlying tension that had haunted their family since his birth.
No one had ever outright blamed Raoul for his mother's death. Everyone knew that childbirth was risky, and the comtesse had been getting on in years when she unexpectedly fell pregnant again. After she'd died, her husband and three older children had all done their best to love and care for the new youngest Chagny she'd left behind.
But from his earliest childhood, part of Raoul had always been aware that there was a dark cloud hanging over his very existence – that his family's love for him was bittersweet, and tinged with grief. On an unspoken level, he'd accepted that it was his responsibility to make his loved ones happy, to cheer and distract them from that grief, and so compensate for the fact that his life had come at such a high cost.
He'd always been aware of it, but it still hurt beyond words to hear Philippe, who he'd loved and admired so much, be the one to finally say it.
Well, Raoul had a few long-unspoken thoughts of his own. If Philippe wasn't going to hold back anymore, neither was he.
"If you're so concerned about our family's future, why haven't you married already? You're the eldest, it should be your responsibility. Surely you could have made a respectable match and fathered some heirs long before now!"
Philippe froze, and Raoul realized his words had struck a nerve.
Christine told Erik everything Philippe had said to her and Raoul. She knew it was absurd for her to be seeking sympathy from him , of all people, but at this moment, she had no one else. Her hurt feelings and fear of what would come now throbbed inside her like an abscess – if she didn't drain it, it would burst.
As he listened, Erik's shoulders tensed like a cat ready to pounce. His opinion of the Comte de Chagny grew worse with every word, what had been mere dislike boiling down into true hatred.
"I really don't know what's going to happen now," she said at last. Her tears had subsided, but her voice was still a raw whisper. "Raoul was so sure he could convince him to accept our marriage, but after this … I just don't know."
Erik got to his feet.
"I could kill him."
Christine's head snapped up. "What did you say?"
"I can do away with the comte. It would be my pleasure to dispose of him for you."
"Don't you dare try to lay this on me." Philippe's voice was icy and brittle. "We're discussing your foolishness now."
"Is that the real reason you're so determined to prevent this?" Raoul knew his next words would wound, but he was too furious to hold them back. "You thought that as long as I married someone society approved of, the Chagny line would be secured and you'd be free to keep dallying with ballet girls for as long as you wanted?"
Philippe seized Raoul, all but shaking him. "You have no place to talk about such things!"
"At least I'm trying to do the honorable thing and marry the woman I love!" Raoul shot back. "If she's not what society expects, well, what of it? The world is changing, Philippe. It's not as if titles of nobility really mean anything in France anymore –"
The moment he said it, Raoul knew he'd gone too far.
Philippe's grip tightened, the signet ring digging in hard enough to bruise. "They still matter to some. Whatever it takes to prevent you from making this mistake, I will do it."
"Erik, no! You promised me!"
"You could release me from that promise." He met her eyes, his voice dangerously calm. "He deserves to die for saying such vile things about you. And you needn't fear anyone connecting it to you. I can make it look like an accident. A drowning, perhaps. Your dear vicomte would inherit everything …"
"Stop it!" She stood up from the chair. "I'm not releasing you from your promise, and I don't ever want to hear you suggest such a thing again."
"The world would be better for his absence."
"The world's already seen enough death. I helped you that night because I didn't want anyone else to die, and I still don't." Her eyes were piercing. "And I haven't forgotten that other promise you gave me. If I have to order you to leave this very moment, I will."
They faced each other for a long moment, each wordlessly challenging the other.
In the end, Erik was the first to lower his gaze. "Very well. I'll spare the comte."
Christine relaxed a little. "The things he said hurt me, but it will pass. They'll do me no real harm."
Erik gave a disdainful sniff. " 'La bave du crapaud n'atteint pas la blanche colombe' ? It's a pretty thought, Christine, but it's nonsense. Insults do harm."
"Perhaps, but it's not as if any of what he said was true. I know it, Raoul knows it, and that's all that matters."
In the back of her mind, though, Christine couldn't help dwelling on one particular thing Philippe had called her.
A girl of no family …
It was only a few more minutes before they heard the two noblemen coming back down the stairs.
Erik's eyes darted frantically around the drawing room. Once again he silently cursed himself for letting his love for Christine cloud his judgment and make him step into the path of danger. They were almost certainly heading back to speak to her, and he needed to be gone before they did.
Trying to reach the front door again would put him right in the approaching Chagnys' line of sight. The double doors at the room's other end would only take him into the dining room, where there would be even less means of escape. Opening one of the drawing room's enormous windows would take time, and risk making noise –
In desperation, Erik's frantic gaze settled on the heavy, floor-length curtains that framed the nearest window.
Well, it worked for Polonius …
Forcing himself to breathe as quietly as possible (and trying not to think about how such a hiding place had not, in fact, turned out well for Polonius), Erik ducked behind the curtains.
He listened intently, his lanky frame pressed flat against the window, as the Chagnys drew closer down the hall. One set of footsteps entered the room, and from the entrance a moment later, he heard Philippe speak.
"After I speak to the bank, I must go back and see to a few things at the estate. I'll return in three days, at the most. God willing, you'll have come to your senses by then, but if you haven't, I'll be able to keep watch over you until you do."
The comte paused, clearly waiting for a response from his brother. But the vicomte said nothing, and when Philippe spoke again, he sounded almost sad.
"I truly am sorry it's come to this. But Raoul, you've left me no choice. I can't allow you to make a mistake of this magnitude." Bitterness edged into his voice. "Believe me, it will hurt less if you get rid of her now. Once she finds out you can't indulge her anymore, I think you'll find she'll lose her affection for you very quickly."
The comte's footsteps moved away from the drawing room entrance. Erik could hear him heading for the front door, speaking with some of the servants as he did, but he paid it little mind. His focus was on the sound of Christine walking across the floor, approaching her fiancé.
"Raoul, what's happened?" Her voice was chilled and fearful.
The vicomte's reply was barely more than a whisper. "He's cutting me off. Until I break off our engagement."
Raoul and Christine held each other close, clinging to each other as they both reeled from this new, devastating obstacle.
"I'm so, so sorry," he whispered against her hair.
He told her of the agreement he and his siblings had made after their father's death. His two sisters, both grown women at the time, had given their share of the inheritance back to their eldest brother, not wanting to see the estate divided (and both intending to marry well enough that it would be no concern). And Raoul, who had been only twelve when he lost his father and had loved and trusted all three of his siblings to do what was best for him, had pledged to follow their example unquestioningly.
"He gave Jeanne and Beatrice their shares back when they married, as a dowry. I always assumed he'd make a similar arrangement for me when the time came." Raoul felt a lump rising in his throat as tears threatened. "I really did think he'd be happy for us."
Christine hugged him tighter, a few more tears running down her own cheeks. She wanted to tell him that it didn't matter, that she would still marry him if he didn't have a centime to his name.
But now she began to fear that he might not feel the same. He'd been ready to give up his life for her two nights ago, but this was something entirely different. Could she really expect him to give up everything else for her – his fortune, his family, the only way of life he'd ever known – knowing that it wouldn't end in a merciful death, but a lifetime of suffering with the consequences? What if he came to regret pledging himself to her so eagerly, and began to resent her for it?
If she truly loved him, Christine thought, she should release him from his pledge. She hated the thought of him thinking Philippe's parting words were true, but perhaps it would be kinder to them both in the end.
She swallowed, forcing herself to speak. "If … if you need to …"
He realized what she was trying to say. When he pulled back to look her in the eyes, she saw he was weeping too.
"Christine, this changes nothing. I still love you. I still intend to marry you. If Philippe doesn't change his mind … well, then we'll make our own way in the world."
"Raoul –"
"I can still provide for us both. I have an education, I can find work somewhere. By God, I'll go back to sea, if I have to! I'll take care of you –"
"Raoul, I can't –"
His voice broke. "Christine, please, don't leave me!"
"I don't want to! But … oh Raoul, this is so much more than that promise we made on the rooftop. I've already asked too much of you. I can't ask this as well."
"You don't have to ask anything. I want to do this. I can't imagine my future without you."
"You could lose your family …"
He hugged her close, his tears dampening her hair. "If they refuse to see how wonderful you are, then I want no part of them anymore."
She tensed in his embrace. Oh God, she wanted so much to believe him – to believe that this could still work out, that love could still overcome all.
But that one phrase, a girl of no family, still burned in the back of her mind. She knew how lonely and frightening it was to be alone in the world. How could she let someone she loved so much condemn himself to the same fate?
Behind the curtain, Erik's entire body tensed.
Oh, he did not want to listen to this. It was that night on the rooftop all over again, with him being forced to witness as Christine and the vicomte shared the kind of love that would always be denied to him. And this time, he couldn't hope to vent his rage and pain by crashing any chandeliers.
Truth to tell, he didn't even feel angry now, and that almost made it worse. Rage was a fire that could consume and destroy when he let it, but at least it brought warmth, and its own sort of comfort. Without it, all he had was pain, cold and hollow and miserable.
Well, with the comte gone, there wasn't any real need to keep subjecting himself to this misery. Quietly and cautiously, Erik slipped out from behind the curtain.
Raoul's head snapped up as he spotted him. He glared at him, tears forgotten for the moment. "What are you doing down here?"
Erik hesitated, but saw no point in lying. "... I was preparing to leave. I thought you might have told your brother about me."
"Well, I didn't." Raoul's tone was curt. "I do have other things besides you occupying my thoughts." His jaw tightened as he realized how much the other man must have overheard. "I suppose you're going to gloat over my misfortune?"
A few days ago, Erik would have loved nothing more than to do precisely that. He would have found it utterly delicious to see his rival's triumph so dramatically thwarted – by his own family, no less! If Erik couldn't have Christine for himself, at least he'd get the pleasure of knowing the vicomte wouldn't have her either. It might be only a fraction of the suffering Erik himself had experienced, but still, had that spoiled, insolent boy ever been denied anything before?
But as he watched their tear-stained faces now, Erik found he didn't feel gleeful at all. He'd let the two of them go the other night expecting they would find happiness, and now that happiness had been lost through no fault of theirs. Where he should have been delighted, all he felt was an echo of his own hollow misery. It was deeply unfamiliar, feeling that way on someone else's behalf, and Erik wished he knew how to get rid of it.
"I hardly see the point," he replied at last. "This is a bad turn of events for all of us."
Raoul's glare turned into a look of genuine surprise. He said nothing, but his posture relaxed a little, as did Christine's once she realized she wasn't going to have to witness another fight.
Silence hung between the three of them for a long moment. Finally, Erik turned toward the door.
"I must get back to work. I can't still be your guest when the comte returns."
As he made his way back up the stairs, Erik found himself forced to reflect that he'd misjudged the vicomte once again. Despite his brother's threats, the boy was still determined to be with the one he loved. He'd been ready to die for her the other night (which had rather disappointed Erik, who'd hoped to see his rival beg for his life), and now he was willing to give up everything else for her.
As much as Erik hated to admit it, that kind of devotion was impressive. Even admirable.
It was almost enough to make him envy Christine.
It didn't take long for the news of what had just happened between the Chagnys to spread among the servants. Comtois was the first to approach the young couple, his demeanor gentle and sympathetic.
"I'm truly sorry for all of this. I haven't known you very long, Mamselle Daaé, but the vicomte has told me a great deal about you, and you seem like a good, kind-hearted lady. I looked forward to having you join the household."
Christine gave him a small, grateful smile.
Raoul sighed. "I'm sorry as well, Comtois. I'll do what I can to make sure Philippe keeps your salary the same after I'm gone."
"I'm not concerned about that, m'sieur. But then, you are planning to leave?"
"I don't see that we have a choice."
It wasn't only the thought of Philippe forbidding him from being with Christine. The fight had made him realize something even deeper: that his brother still saw him as a child who couldn't make his own decisions. He couldn't stand the thought of now having to live with Philippe watching his every move, ready to nip his heels like a sheepdog if he strayed out of line.
Comtois hesitated, just for a moment.
"... Then whatever I can do to assist you both, please know that I will do it. I've always known you to be a good soul, and I wish nothing more than for you to be happy. Even if it means I'll no longer be working for you."
Raoul was surprised – what the valet was speaking of was far more than the expected loyalty of a servant to an employer. "... Thank you. Whatever Christine and I do next, we'll be grateful for your help."
The trouble, though, was that the couple had no idea what they were going to do next. At the moment, their emotions were still too raw to come up with any sensible plans – at least, any that didn't require the money Raoul no longer had access to.
When the midday meal was served, neither of them had much of an appetite. And they hadn't swallowed more than a few bites before Marie-Inès entered the dining room, her expression grave and urgent.
"I hate to disturb you," she said, "but some more visitors just arrived."
Raoul groaned. "Who is it now?"
"A lady and a gentleman. They say they've come from the Opera." Her bright black eyes darted to Christine. "And they asked about you in particular, Mademoiselle Daaé. Perhaps you'd both best come take a look at them. I have them waiting in the foyer right now, in case they're not anyone you wish to invite in."
Raoul's eyes widened at the housemaid's boldness. He knew some of it was mere self-interest (ever since Mme. Travert had retired, Marie-Inès had been quietly seeking the promotion to housekeeper in her place), but he couldn't deny that that kind of loyalty and discretion was very helpful right now.
They followed her toward the foyer, and Christine's breath caught as she immediately recognized the stiff, black-clad figure of Mme. Giry. They didn't know the name of the man beside her, but they recognized him all the same: the long-held subject of gossip known as the Persian.
For a moment, Christine considered telling Marie-Inès to send them away. With all that had happened, she was in no mood to talk to anyone else.
But as soon as the thought came, she felt guilty for it. No doubt Meg had told her mother about their encounter yesterday – perhaps the ballet mistress had only come asking after Christine's welfare. If she sent her away without explanation, it would just make the Girys even more suspicious.
She had no idea why the Persian might be with her, though. None of the possibilities made her feel at ease. But if they had indeed come here together (and the way they stood close to each other did speak of familiarity), there was no avoiding it.
Together, Christine and Raoul entered the foyer.
Mme. Giry's posture relaxed a little as she saw them. "Christine, Monsieur le Vicomte. It's a relief to see you're both well."
Meg definitely told her, Christine thought, and pursed her lips.
"I'm afraid this really isn't a good time for a visit," Raoul started to say.
"I understand, and we won't keep you long," Mme. Giry immediately replied. "This isn't a mere social call. After you and Christine failed to return to the Opera on your own today, I thought it best we come look in on you ourselves."
That emphasis on 'we' made Raoul give the Persian a close look. Like most of the regular patrons, he knew the man by sight, but nothing else about him beyond rumor. "I don't believe we've been introduced?"
The older man gave a polite nod, his deep voice calm and businesslike. "We have not, and it is long overdue. I am Nadir Mohammad Khan, formerly of the province of Mazandaran."
"And what is your business in all of this?" It came out ruder than Raoul had meant it to, but his nerves were too frayed to rein in his manners.
Fortunately, M. Khan didn't seem to take offense. "A reasonable question. I've been investigating the man you know as the Phantom for some time, Monsieur le Vicomte."
"Investigating?" Raoul raised an eyebrow. "Are you a detective of some sort, then?"
The Persian looked faintly amused. "You're very close. In my homeland, I was a daroga – a prefect of police, you would probably call was where I first met him. He's taken many aliases over the years, but when I knew him, he called himself Erik."
At the mention of the name, both Raoul and Christine couldn't stop themselves from reacting. It was only a moment's flinch, but it was all the tell that the former officer of the law needed.
"Meg told me the story you gave her yesterday, Christine," said Mme. Giry. "And I know it was a lie. Monsieur Khan and myself traced your steps as far as the Rue Scribe gate. We know Erik was with you at least until then." She watched the two of them closely. "For all our sakes, both of you, what truly happened that night?"
Christine tensed, still wondering if she should stick to her story about jumping from the boat. But it hadn't felt good lying to Meg yesterday, and it didn't feel any better to think about lying now, especially to people who were clearly not going to be easy to fool. And the ballet mistress's usually stern demeanor was gone, replaced with what seemed like genuine worry.
"What you say will not pass beyond us," M. Khan gently added. "You have my word. We only wish to know that no one is still in danger."
Christine hesitated a moment longer, biting her lip. She glanced at Raoul, and saw him hesitate as well.
But, at last, they exchanged a faint, silent nod of agreement.
She took a deep breath, and began to talk.
This time, the young couple did tell most of the truth. They described the final confrontation in the Phantom's lair, his threat to kill Raoul unless Christine gave herself to him, the kiss that had changed everything, and the trio's mutual escape in the boat.
When it came to that moment at the Rue Scribe gate, however, Christine still couldn't bring herself to give away just how deeply they'd gotten themselves involved in helping Erik. "After that, he disappeared. Raoul and I made our way back here, and there's really nothing more to tell."
"And you are quite certain you've seen no sign of him since then?" M. Khan insisted. "No mysterious shadows, no watching eyes in the night?"
Christine clenched her teeth. "Yes."
The ballet mistress and the former daroga had both worn expressions of resigned understanding as they listened to the story. Now, with that final pronouncement, Mme. Giry spoke first.
"I don't blame you at all for wanting to help him, Christine. Erik has a talent for inspiring that sort of urge in people, even when they ought to know better. Monsieur Khan and I have both had our own experiences with it."
Raoul watched Mme. Giry, remembering what she'd told him after the masquerade. The familiar way she spoke Erik's name now made him realize something. "That story you told me about the traveling fair … he didn't escape on his own, did he?"
She shook her head. "But I already knew him long before I saw him that day. The two of us had spent our youth together. There was once a time when I considered him my dearest friend."
"I used to consider him a friend too, when we both served in the Shah's court," M. Khan added. "Erik may have told you that the world never showed him compassion, but that is not entirely true. I will not deny he has had a difficult, unhappy life, but there have been others who cared for him and tried to help him. And it has never ended well for them."
He sighed. "I once helped him escape from an unjust execution. It came at the cost of my own exile, but I told myself it was worth it to save the life of a man I believed still had it in him to do good for the world. Before he fled Persia, Erik had promised me he would never commit murder again." His expression turned cold as he glanced at the other three. "We've all witnessed how well he kept that promise."
Christine drew in a sharp breath through her teeth. At the same moment, there was a faint, almost imperceptible creak from somewhere near the top of the grand staircase.
M. Khan's eyes instantly darted in the direction of the noise. From this angle down in the foyer, none of them could see the staircase's upper landing, but he watched the stairs with all the intensity of a hawk who has just spotted a rabbit in the underbrush and is waiting for it to emerge for a clear strike.
But all that emerged down the stairs was Comtois, carrying a bundle of clothes. He gave the visitors a carefully mild look-over, before heading away in the direction of the laundry.
Some of the intensity went out of M. Khan at the sight of the valet, but he was still clearly not at ease. "I tried to confront Erik myself after the death of Buquet, and he very nearly killed me with one of his tricks. After that, I knew I could never consider him a friend again. If you ever see him again, Mademoiselle Daaé, I beg you: do not listen to him. He may have shown you both mercy this once, but he's not likely to do it again. Erik's hardships have left him too damaged to care for anyone but himself. He may be pitied, but he cannot be trusted."
Christine was still and silent as she listened. She thought of the promise she'd extracted from Erik yesterday – the one she now knew he'd already made and broken once before. That knowledge churned and stormed alongside her still-fresh pain from the clash with Philippe, and the trauma of everything else that had so recently happened, turning her emotions into a maelstrom that could not help but rise to the surface.
"... You tried to confront him," she said at last. "Then, you knew where he was?"
M. Khan nodded. "I had never been inside, but I knew about the home he'd built for himself by the lake."
Christine didn't answer him, but turned her eyes on Mme. Giry. "And you knew as well. You told Raoul where he'd taken me."
The ballet mistress, who had known Christine longer and better than the former daroga, immediately realized she wasn't as calm as she sounded. Cautiously, she replied, "Yes. He'd shown it to me not long before the Garnier opened."
Christine gritted her teeth. "Both of you knew about him. You knew who he was, what he was doing, and where he could be found. So why did neither of you tell anyone before this?!"
Her eyes snapped to Mme. Giry again. "You knew about our lessons. Why did you never warn me?! You let me keep believing I was speaking with an angel! You let me all but throw myself into his clutches!"
Part of Christine knew it was unfair for her to be throwing so much blame at Mme. Giry right now. The whole fiasco was ultimately Erik's fault, and if Christine were honest with herself, she'd also kept clinging to her belief in the Angel of Music long after there had been clues that the voice she was hearing didn't belong to anyone supernatural (if nothing else, surely an all-knowing angel wouldn't have needed to ask her when her birthday was).
But she'd trusted her! She'd considered her a mentor, someone she could confide in, especially after she'd lost Mamma Valerius. If she didn't release the agonizing fury building inside her now, she felt as if it might destroy her, and in this moment, the ballet mistress seemed as deserving a target as any.
Christine snarled, "You offered me up to him like a lamb for sacrifice."
"... You're right." Mme. Giry's voice was unresisting. "You're completely right, Christine. Trusting Erik to teach you was the worst mistake I've ever made. I let my memories of the boy I used to know blind me to what he's become now. I don't expect you to forgive me," she added firmly, "but I do urge you to learn from my mistakes. Never let Erik into your life again. It will only end in disaster."
Christine drew herself up to her full height. Before she could stop herself, the words began to pour in a blistering flood.
"I've had enough of everyone thinking they know what's best for me! You're right, madame, I don't forgive you, and you'll have to forgive me if I don't trust you anymore! Or you, Monsieur Khan," she added, glaring at him. "Neither of you tried to help me or the Opera when it truly mattered. You've both proven you don't know Erik as well as you thought. I made him change his mind when no one else could, so I think it's best if I trust my own judgment about him from now on."
Realizing she was dangerously close to telling the visitors about their new houseguest, Raoul quickly put a comforting arm around her. "Look, none of us are in the best state of mind at the moment. Let's end this now, before anyone says anything they truly regret. We'll all be calmer by tomorrow. Christine and I will come back to the Opera first thing in the morning, and we'll give our statement and explain everything –"
He trailed off as he saw the visitors' expressions both turn cold and tense.
"That would not be a good idea," M. Khan said. "That's actually the other matter we came to warn you about."
Mme. Giry straightened up, gripping her cane. "I've been keeping a watch on things at the Opera. The gendarmes are still swarming the place. And Christine … they've decided to blame you for everything."
Christine gasped. Raoul held her closer, his eyes wide and unbelieving. "How can they do such a thing? They know perfectly well it was all the Phantom's work!"
M. Khan frowned grimly. "You may be too young to have learned it yet, vicomte, but far too many officers of the law are more concerned with protecting their own reputation than with serving justice. That's as true in France as it was in Persia, and no doubt the rest of the world as well."
Mme. Giry nodded in bitter agreement. "I heard them myself. Commissaire Mifroid is furious over how badly his men failed that night. To save face, he and his officers are claiming the Phantom only got away from them because you helped him willingly."
Raoul stared in shock, struggling to accept that the police force he'd been raised to believe existed to protect and serve all good people would turn around and do something so cowardly, especially to someone as innocent as Christine. "Surely someone's spoken up for her! The managers –"
"Firmin and André just want the whole thing over and done with," Mme. Giry replied. "Their own reputations are on the verge of ruin. Carlotta and the other vocalists want justice for Piangi, and everyone is worried for the future of the Opera." She drew in a deep breath. "I'm not saying they'd willingly offer up Christine as a scapegoat. But if it came to a choice between having her arrested or losing all their livelihoods … well, I don't think it would be wise to test them."
"Both of you should stay away from the Opera for as long as possible," warned M. Khan, deep and serious. "You'll buy yourselves some time before the gendarmes come looking for you. And if your family has attorneys on hand, vicomte, you should speak to them immediately. Mademoiselle Daaé will need all the help they can give."
Raoul could feel Christine trembling in his embrace, her whole body rigid. Hugging her tighter, he told the visitors, "I will do what I can, and I do thank you for informing us. But right now, I think the two of you had better leave."
Mme. Giry and M. Khan looked less than satisfied with that answer, but they nodded.
As they turned to go, the ballet mistress spoke up one last time. "I'll have Meg come inform you if anything new happens. She'll draw less attention."
She looked as if there was far more she wanted to say. Another apology, perhaps, or one last warning not to trust Erik.
But in the end, she said nothing, and simply followed her companion out the front door.
From the landing at the top of the stairs, Erik listened to them depart.
He'd listened to the entire conversation, from the moment he'd recognized those two new voices when they first spoke to Marie-Inès. When Comtois had passed by with the laundry, Erik hadn't even spared him a glance.
The visit hadn't been a complete surprise. He'd already known that Antoinette and Nadir were in cahoots – nothing that happened under the roof of the Palais Garnier escaped his notice, and it probably was inevitable that the two people who knew him best would have crossed paths sooner or later. It was probably also inevitable they would have formed their inconvenient little alliance, so they might keep two sets of eyes on him instead of one.
He remembered the attempted visit Nadir had spoken of. He didn't know if Antoinette had told him where to find his home or if the former daroga had snooped it out for himself, but either way, it had ended with him nearly drowning the man, and Nadir throwing that wretched promise about no more murders in his face.
He'd sealed himself away for six months after that, no longer sending messages even to Antoinette. He'd let grief, rage, and betrayal spur him into finally finishing the opera that was his life's work – most of those feelings had come from Christine, but if Erik were honest with himself, some of it had also come from the two people he'd once considered friends.
Erik gritted his teeth. How dare they speak of friendship now, when they were trying to turn the last ally he had in the world against him!
In the back of Erik's mind, the dark voice that had many times kept him alive in dire circumstances whispered that it was their fault those bonds between them had been destroyed. Antoinette had broken his heart when they were barely more than children, driving him to flee Paris and setting him on his life's path of crime and death. Nadir had lured him to the Shah's court for the sake of his own glory, all but throwing him into the final crucible that would forge him into a monster.
… But Nadir had also saved his life, when he'd had nothing to gain and everything to lose by doing so. He'd helped him cover his trail and escape Persia, fully aware that he'd be punished for it.
And Antoinette had helped him escape the torture of the traveling fair, when she could just as easily have turned her back on him again. She'd helped him establish himself as the Phantom of the Opera, despite all the risk to herself and her daughter.
In spite of all his attempts to finally cut himself off from humanity and become a ghost in all ways but the final one, in a small corner of his heart, Erik had still cared for both of them. Worse, he'd still cared what they thought of him.
And when he'd heard them tell Christine that they considered being his friend a mistake, it had hurt far more than he'd expected.
With cold dread rising inside him, he waited to see what Christine would do next. She had said she wouldn't listen to Antoinette and Nadir, but how long could he trust that to last?
Down in the foyer, Raoul tried to keep his spirits up. "We'll think of something, I promise. Perhaps we can –"
Christine tore herself from his arms.
"I told you I wanted no part of that plan!" she shouted. "I knew nothing good would come of involving the gendarmes! Why didn't you listen to me? Why do you never listen to me?!"
Raoul's shoulders tensed. "You agreed to it."
"What else could I have done?!"
"Christine, I'm sorry –"
But she was already leaving, tearing away down the hall.
Raoul started after her, heart pounding. "Where are you going?"
"Away. Outside. I can't breathe in here!"
She found her way to the doors that led to the house's back garden, and escaped out into the afternoon sunlight. The smells of grass and earth and springtime were rich and vital, as sweet as the first new breath must have been to Lazarus after his resurrection.
There was a stone bench against one wall of the garden, near a tiny locked gate that discreetly led out to the Parc Monceau. Christine collapsed on it now, huddled in on herself.
For a moment, she thought she might start crying again. It might have been a relief if she could. But after all that had happened today, she no longer had any tears left. Even the anger was nearly gone – all that was left inside her was numb exhaustion.
She curled up on the bench, accepting that numbness for now, and did not speak to Raoul or Erik for the rest of the afternoon.
That evening, as he made his way home, Théodore Remy wondered (not for the first time) if he should have gone to Frankfurt with M. Lefèvre when he had the chance.
Lefèvre had urged him to stay, of course. The new owners, he'd said, would need the help of the faithful secretary who had helped him keep the Opera Populaire running for so long. Like a fool, Remy had quaffed the praise at the time and stayed, so now he was stuck helping Firmin and André try desperately to clean up the mess that had been left in the wake of the final confrontation with the Phantom.
It truly was a mess. The leading tenor murdered, another singer gone missing (and currently pegged as the Phantom's accomplice), patrons terrorized and nearly shot, police efforts thwarted – it all meant a nightmare of paperwork for the management that they were only too ready to foist on their secretary.
"He was right about there being worse things than a shattered chandelier," Remy had heard M. Firmin remark at one point. "It might have been less of a disaster if the whole place had simply burned down. At least then we'd be able to collect some insurance."
And then there had been the press to deal with. Reporters were still visiting the Garnier every day, prying everyone they could for their accounts of what had happened.
There'd been one today, in fact, who wouldn't leave Remy alone. A tall and slender gentleman, well-dressed in a foppish sort of way, with thick spectacles and vividly red hair. His face had been bizarrely smooth, Remy recalled – after years spent working in a theater, it hadn't taken him long to recognize that the man was wearing a heavy layer of makeup, but there was something else odd about his face even beyond that.
Still, odd and excessively vain or not, his manner had been pleasant enough. He'd asked Remy how long he'd worked at the Opera (seven years), what his duties involved (all the little things a manager couldn't be bothered with), what he knew about the other staff (a great deal, seeing as he helped keep track of payroll, requested days off, and other personal matters), and what he knew about the Phantom (that he'd frequently extorted money from the previous management, but otherwise very little). He'd thanked Remy graciously after he finished taking his notes, and it was only after he'd left that Remy realized he'd never mentioned his name, or what paper he worked for.
The secretary shivered, and began to walk a little faster. He'd stayed at work hours later than he usually did. The sun had nearly set by now, casting long shadows across the narrow street and pouring darkness into the waiting alleyways. It was never wise to be alone on the streets of Paris after dark.
Almost as soon as he'd thought it, Remy began to hear footsteps behind him.
A chill ran down his spine. They never did catch the Phantom, he thought. But surely he'd have no business with me …
"Monsieur Remy!" a friendly voice called out. The secretary relaxed as he recognized the nameless red-haired reporter.
Remy breathed a sigh of relief. He'd gladly put up with a few more questions if it meant he didn't have to walk home alone in the dark. "Hello again! I don't believe I caught your name earlier, Monsieur … ?"
"Oh, it's nothing important," the spectacled reporter chuckled. He clapped a hand on Remy's shoulder, all but steering him to the other side of the street as they walked. "I take it you're eager to get home to your family?"
Remy felt a little uneasy at the question, and started to wonder if the other man's interest in him might be more than professional. "I'm afraid I'm still a bachelor," he said as they passed the mouth of a nearby alley. "But it has been a long day, and I am looking forward to a rest –"
Something whistled through the air.
Remy barely caught a glimpse of a long black cord flying straight at him, a silver weight glittering at its end, before pain shot through his head and locked around his neck. Unable to breathe, barely able to think, he found himself hauled into the darkness of the alley.
Strong arms slammed him against the wall. A figure dressed in black loomed before him, a short cloak with a ghostly silver-beige pattern on the inside rippling as he moved.
"Good evening, Monsieur Remy. I will not detain you long."
The stranger's voice was smooth and refined, though higher than Remy had expected from such an intimidating figure. His French was flawless, but he spoke it with the careful, too-formal accent of someone who had learned the language in a schoolroom rather than from the cradle.
Remy gasped for breath as the silk cord loosened a little. "M-My billfold's in my right pocket –"
The stranger tightened the cord again, pressing the metal weight threateningly against Remy's windpipe. "I am not interested in money, so do not insult me with it again. Do you understand?"
The secretary nodded, terrified, trying not to struggle as his vision started to turn gray.
"Good." The cord loosened again.
Remy stared in fascinated terror as the stranger reached for something with his free hand. The man's entire head was covered by a domed leather mask with a cowl-like collar that draped down past his neck – most of the material was black, but the section over his face was bone-white. Where his nose and mouth would be, a brass nozzle curved downward like the beak of a bird of prey. The eyeholes were covered with glass lenses, and the skin beneath them was painted black, making his eyes seem to pierce out from solid darkness.
To Remy's surprise, the stranger held up a clipping from L'Epoque. A photograph he recognized all too well.
"The girl in this picture," he said. "Marguerite Giry. Tell me of her."
Remy coughed, his throat burning as he tried to answer. "L-Little Meg? Uh … she's a dancer at the Opera. Her mother's in charge of the ballet."
"And what does she know of the Phantom?"
Remy blinked in confusion. "I don't underst–"
He gave a choked gurgle as the metal weight crushed his windpipe again.
"Do not pretend to be stupid," the masked man hissed. "The newspaper said she was the first to reach the Phantom's lair. How did she know where to find it?"
Remy's terrified mind raced. Struggling against the throbbing pain and lack of air, he tried desperately to remember some detail about Meg Giry, no matter how small, that might save his life now.
"... Sh-sh-she often spoke of him …"
The cord loosened. "Go on."
Remy let out agonized gasps as he tried to speak more clearly. "Wh-whenever something would go wrong at the Opera, she was always the first to say it must be the Phantom."
He heard the stranger draw breath through the nozzle of his mask. "So he was of great interest to her. Why is that?"
"I-I don't know –" Remy immediately realized it was the wrong thing to say, and corrected himself before his attacker could choke him again. "Her mother, maybe!"
The stranger tilted his masked head. "The ballet director?"
"Yes! Antoinette Giry! She definitely knows about the Phantom!" Remy's pulse raced in hope as he realized he could give real information now. "She used to bring messages from him. If anyone knows where to find him now, she does."
"And where do I find her?"
Remy hesitated, just for a moment.
"... The Rue de Provence. She and her daughter share a flat there." He told him the building and the number, easily remembered from years going over the Opera's staffing records.
The stranger was silent for a long moment, studying Remy for any signs he might be lying. The secretary stared up at the taller man, giving him a smile that was a desperate rictus.
"... Very good," the man in black said at last, and slipped the newspaper clipping back into his high-collared jacket. "I will make use of this information."
Remy started to relax, but his terror immediately came roaring back when he saw the man take out a knife. It was a foreign-looking thing with a thick ivory handle, the blade curving inward like a bird's talon.
The cord tightened one last time, and Remy could not even scream as the knife slashed …
But there was no pain, for the blade only cut open his right pocket. The billfold he had spoken of started to fall out, and the masked man snatched it up between two fingers. Almost disdainfully, he tossed it to one side – Remy just barely caught a glimpse of a stocky figure in an old brown topcoat, who caught the wallet with practiced ease before quickly disappearing.
"I thank you for your time, Monsieur Remy," the masked man said, as if he were speaking of perfectly ordinary business. The curved knife had disappeared – in his hand now was a thick metal canister, about the size and shape of a laudanum bottle.
His gloved thumb flicked the top. There was a flash and a hiss, and smoke began to pour out.
The silk cord slipped away completely. Remy whooped and gasped, unable to resist the instinct to finally breathe freely – and unable to stop himself from inhaling the smoke.
His gasps turned into coughing. The smoke was pale in color, more like what he'd expect from tobacco than from oil or coal, and it carried a strange, sour-sweet herbal smell.
With his injured throat burning, his eyes stinging as the smoke filled his vision, Remy managed to whisper, "Who are you?"
The man in the black and white mask chuckled. "I am nothing more than a bad dream."
And, without a sound, he disappeared. A few moments later, the smoke began to clear, and Remy found himself alone in the alley.
The secretary leaned against the dirty brick wall for some minutes, rubbing his eyes and neck blearily as he tried to collect his thoughts. Even with the pain in his throat, it felt good to breathe again – the stink of garbage and street filth had never been so welcome.
What in God's name had all of that been about?!
He felt awful now for telling such a dangerous man where to find the Girys. Despite her past actions as the Phantom's envoy, Remy had no personal grudge against Mme. Giry, and certainly none against young Meg.
Perhaps there was time to warn someone, if he hurried.
Panting, Remy stumbled out of the alley. The lump on the back of his head where the silver weight had struck was still throbbing, and the headache was starting to spread. He tried to remember which direction he had been walking, but the thought refused to come. His mind felt foggy, full of shadows and strange lights.
Remy tugged at his cravat, staggering down the narrow street. When had the air become so hot? It was only mid-April – Paris was never so hot at this time of year! His fingers struggled to work his buttons, until he simply tore his shirt collar open.
Lights and shadows whirled faster through his overheating brain. All around him, the streets seemed to be coming alive with phantoms, demons, and every sort of waking nightmare.
He managed to get as far as the corner before the nightmares overtook him completely, and he began to scream.
To Be Continued …
