.
xoxo
.
Previously,
The Phantom's Lair, Underneath The Palais Garnier Opera House, Paris, France, December, 1894
Christine's eyes softened, her curiosity piqued, and her heart fluttered at the thought of escaping everything they had known. "And where would you have taken me?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper, as if the answer would be something magical.
"America," he replied, his voice filled with quiet certainty.
"Mmm, that sounds wonderful," she breathed, her eyes drifting closed as she imagined it—just the two of them, free from the shadows of Paris, starting anew in a land full of endless possibilities.
In that quiet moment, with the crackling fire and the soft warmth of his presence, Christine knew that whatever the future held, as long as she was with him, it would be more than enough.
.
xoxo
.
Chapter Sixteen: A Secret Engagement
The Garnier Opera's Costume Storage Room, Palais Garnier Opera House, Paris, France, December 1894
"How long did Madame say we could be gone for?" Christine asked as she carefully carried her half-finished costume into the room.
"Half an hour. The others went out to the bakery for lunch," Meg replied, following her in. Christine gave a small nod and made her way to the fabric drawers. Meg smirked, leaning against the doorframe, watching as her friend pulled out handfuls of tulle in shades of blue, pink, and white. The pile in Christine's arms grew comically large, and Meg couldn't contain her laughter. Christine turned, her brows furrowed in confusion. "What's so funny?"
"How many layers of tulle do you need, mon ami?" Meg teased, gesturing dramatically at the endless gathers Christine clutched. Her cheeks flushed, her gaze dropping to the vibrant cloud of fabric in her arms. "I'm… not sure yet."
The two girls dissolved into giggles as they sank down onto the soft carpeted floor, their skirts pooling around them like bright silks. Christine set her tulle aside and began threading her needle, while Meg worked on cutting the loose threads from a newly sewn sleeve. "Has your fiancée seen your costume yet?" Meg asked, glancing up from her stitching.
"No," Christine admitted, her lips curling into a mischievous smile as she glanced toward Meg. "Which is exactly why we're working in here and not in my dressing room." Meg narrowed her eyes at her friend, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Clever trick, mon ami," she teased, pointing her sewing needle at Christine with mock suspicion. "I see you've thought this through."
"Well…" Christine drew out the word with exaggerated pride, sitting up straighter and brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I am engaged to the Phantom of the Opera, after all." She raised a brow and flashed a cheeky grin, tilting her head as if to say, What else did you expect?
Meg gasped dramatically, clutching her sewing to her chest as her eyes darted around the room. "Shh!" she hissed, her voice a harsh whisper. "You never know who's listening!"
The girls giggled before falling into a comfortable silence, focusing on their work. The only sounds were the soft snip of Meg's scissors and the occasional rustle of fabric. It wasn't long before Christine began to explain Erik's plan for the masquerade. By the time she'd finished, Meg was no longer smiling.
"I don't understand why you can't just go with him," Meg exclaimed suddenly, her needle poised over her ruby-red jacket. Golden embellishments glittered under her careful stitching. Christine glanced up, frowning softly. "What do you mean?"
Meg huffed in frustration, stabbing the needle back into the fabric. "It just doesn't seem fair. A masquerade, Christine! Of all occasions…where everyone wears masks and no one questions a thing. It's the perfect time for him to be at your side, and yet… he still can't go with you as your fiancée."
Christine sighed, returning to her sewing. "I know…" she murmured, carefully layering a new piece of pink tulle onto her skirt. "But it doesn't matter. There will be plenty of other events where we can be together. Besides, I get to spend the whole night with you."
Meg softened at that, smiling fondly. "And I love spending time with you, too. But I still hate his plan." She paused, grumbling under her breath. "You should be able to be with your fiancée in public—not sneaking around like this. Oh! Fiddlesticks!" She yelped as the needle pricked her finger.
Christine looked up, biting back a smile. "Pricked yourself again, petite sœur?" she asked, deftly pulling her needle through her fabric. "Yes," Meg grumbled, holding the injured finger to her lips. "I don't know how you manage this without stabbing yourself every other minute."
Christine let out a soft laugh. "It takes practice, mon ami."
"Now you sound like my mother." Meg rolled her eyes, shaking her head as she carefully resumed her stitching, this time with far more caution. "Honestly, it's easier to sew my ballet slippers than to make a whole costume."
"Yes, well," Christine replied, her tone gentle. "Your mother is a wise woman, and you should be proud to have her."
"I am," Meg admitted with a small sigh. "It's just… sometimes I wish I could learn more from her. Not just dancing, but things like cooking or how to act when a gentleman wants to court me." Christine paused, tilting her head thoughtfully. "Oh, Meg. You must tell her these things." Meg nodded quietly before looking back up. "How did you learn to sew, surely Erik didn't teach you?"
Christine laughed at the absurdity of the thought. "No. My mother taught me," she said, a soft smile spreading across her face as she reminisced. "I used to sit at her feet, watching as she threaded her needle, while Papa played his violin in the corner. Those are some of my favourite memories—of the three of us together." Her voice was warm, but there was a distant melancholy in her expression. Meg watched her friend for a moment, her own smile softening.
.
The Daaé Residence, Upper Uppsala, Sweden, Europe, October 1877
The golden hues of autumn painted the countryside outside the small Daaé residence. Crisp winds carried the scent of fallen leaves and distant chimney smoke, whispering through cracks in the old wooden window frames. Inside, the little cottage was alive with warmth and love.
Little Christine Daaé, no older than five, nestled on the thick rug at her mother's feet. Her bright, curious eyes followed every motion of Charlotte Daaé's hands as they deftly moved a needle through pale blue embroidery. Christine had pulled the edge of a quilt over her lap. Her tiny fingers pinched at invisible thread, clumsily mimicking her mother's precise movements. A deep furrow of concentration crossed her young face, but her lips curled into a smile of pride.
Across the room, Gustave Daaé crouched in front of the fireplace, adding a fresh log to the embers. The fire crackled and popped, its golden glow spilling across the small, cozy lounge room. He straightened, brushing ash off his trousers, and turned to observe the scene before him—his beloved wife, beautiful as ever and their precious daughter.
A playful sparkle flickered in his eyes as he crossed the room. "Well, look at this," he said, feigning surprise. "A little seamstress in training!" Christine beamed up at him, her pale curls catching the firelight. "I'm sewing, Papa!" she declared proudly, though the blanket across her lap remained unaltered. "Are you, now? I think you're nearly ready to open your own little shop," Gustave teased, ruffling her hair.
"Gustave, don't tease," Charlotte said with a smile. She paused her sewing to look at Christine, her expression soft with quiet affection. "You're doing very well, min lilla fågel." Christine giggled at the nickname, as she clutched the edge of the quilt tighter, puffing up with pride. Gustave leaned down, his voice lower now, full of conspiratorial mischief. "What do you say, Lottie? Shall we sing a song for Mama?" Christine's head shot up, her eyes wide with delight. "Yes, Papa!" she exclaimed, nearly tripping over the blanket as she scrambled to her feet.
She hurried to her father, who was already reaching for his cherished violin resting against the wall. "Shall we play our favourite?" Gustave asked, already knowing her answer. Christine nodded so vigorously that her curls bounced around her face. She turned toward her mother with eager enthusiasm. "Ready, Mama?"
Charlotte set her embroidery aside, the needle resting atop its hoop. Her gentle smile deepened as she folded her hands neatly in her lap, giving her full, undivided attention to her daughter. "I'm ready, min älskling."
Gustave settled the violin under his chin, tilting his head just slightly as he began to tune the strings. Christine stood close to her father, her small hands clasped together, and took a steadying breath.
Angel of Music, guide and guardian
Grant to me your glory…
Gustave's violin responded to her words, the two sounds intertwining like threads in an unseen tapestry. Christine's gaze never left her mother, who watched her daughter with glistening eyes.
Angel of Music, hide no longer
Secret and strange angel…
Angel of Music,
Guide and guardian
Grant to me your glory…
"Angel of Music,
Hide no longer…
Come to me, strange angel…"
The last note lingered in the air, hanging like a wisp of smoke, before slowly fading into silence. Christine let out a small, satisfied sigh, clasping her hands behind her back as she smiled at her mother. Charlotte placed a hand over her heart. "That was beautiful, min lilla ängel. You sing like heaven itself." Christine blushed, beaming under her mother's praise. "Papa says the angels teach me when I dream."
"And Papa is right," Charlotte replied, glancing up at her husband, who now rested the violin against his shoulder with a look of quiet pride. Gustave chuckled softly, crouching to lift Christine into his arms. "Our little Lottie will sing for the world one day," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her golden head. Christine giggled and wrapped her arms around his neck, resting her cheek against his shoulder.
.
Christine Daaé's Dressing Room, The Palais Garnier Opera House, Paris, France, January, 1895
Christine had thought she knew the plan for the masquerade, but last night had changed everything. As they held each other, saying goodnight before she stepped back through the mirror, the plan had seemed simple.
"To go unaccompanied, to dance, to sing. Have a ball, my darling. But when I join the party, you must act as you have before—afraid, confused, frightened," Erik had whispered in her ear. Christine had gently run her hand over his bicep, her voice tinged with concern. "You do realise it can be quite difficult, to be frightened by someone you love, mon ange?" He had looked at her with that knowing gaze, his voice low. "You're worried."
"Of course I'm worried. You're taking a great risk. What if they catch you?" she had asked, her heart aching with the thought. Erik had pressed his lips gently to hers. "You are the greatest risk I've ever taken. And my greatest reward. They won't capture me, my love. I promise."
Now, standing before the mirror, Christine sighed as she inspected the masquerade costume she had carefully crafted. The layers of pink organza and varying shades of navy and white tulle swirled beneath the ombré pink of the flowing skirt. Beaded silver stars adorned the fabric, traveling down the pleats like little constellations. The sweetheart-cut bodice was delicately adorned with beads and frills, hugging her figure perfectly. Her silver mid-calf boots laced up her calves, completing the look.
She smiled at her reflection, proud of the work she had done. Her mother would have been so proud of her sewing skills. "Oh, Mama and Papa," she whispered softly to herself. "How I wish you could be here and have met Erik." Her gaze fell to the black stone on her left hand, the engagement ring Erik had given her. A sudden thought struck her. She stepped away from the mirror, pulling the ring off her finger and carefully unclasping the chain that hung around her neck. Gently, she slid the ring onto the chain, letting it fall beside her locket. She smiled at the two most sacred gifts she had received from her Angel of Music.
At that moment, Erik entered through the mirror, his presence as silent as ever. He walked up behind her, his hands gliding down her arms. "Such precious treasures," he murmured, his voice rich with affection. "They must have come from someone very special."
Christine smiled at him through the mirror. "Yes, they are from my fiancée, actually."
"Really?" he asked, intrigued. "He must be a very handsome fellow."
"Very handsome," Christine replied, her voice teasing. Erik's voice lowered, filled with mischief. "And if this so-called handsome fiancée of yours can't make it to the masked ball… am I allowed to take you instead?" Christine glanced over her shoulder, shaking her head with a smile. "Sorry, monsieur. I've already made plans with him tonight."
"Are you sure I can't change your mind?" Erik's fingers gently pushed aside the fabric of her velvet cloak, and he pressed a kiss to her shoulder. Christine gasped, a shiver running down her spine at the feel of his lips on her skin. "Very sure," she said, her voice steady, though her pulse quickened. "He's very protective of me. And he especially doesn't like it when other men try to seduce me."
"Mmm, sounds like a very dangerous man," Erik whispered, his lips brushing the side of her neck. Christine arched her neck, offering him better access. "Well… Some might call him The Phantom of the Opera…" she breathed, her voice trailing off as Erik's lips danced across her skin.
"I thought it was The Opera Ghost," he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. Christine rolled her eyes playfully. "He has many names, Monsieur. I'm just lucky enough to call him mine."
"And…" Erik's nose nuzzled up the side of her neck. "What's your favorite name to call him?" he whispered, inhaling deeply, his lips brushing the delicate scent of rosewater on her skin.
"Husband," Christine breathed out.
Erik's grip tightened, and in one swift motion, he spun her around, pulling her flush against his chest. She placed a hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat thrum beneath her palm. "My husband…" she whispered, before Erik's mouth claimed hers in a fierce kiss. She moaned softly as his lips parted hers, her tongue sliding against his in a heated dance. "You shall see later mon bel ange."
As he leaned in for a kiss, she pulled back before Erik's lips met hers, giggling and leaned against his chest. "Menace." he groaned, kissing the side of her neck. Christine giggled. "Your menace." Erik gave her forearms a gentle squeeze before gathering his cloak and draping it over her shoulders, hiding her costume.
"Christine?" Eloise's voice rang out, followed by a sharp knock on the door. "Are you ready yet?"
Christine shot Erik a reluctant look, his eyes narrowing at the door. She stepped into his arms, resting her head against his chest as he pressed a chaste kiss to her hair. "Go on," Erik murmured. "Those silly girls will break down your door if you don't leave."
"Christine?!" Eloise called again.
"Coming!" Christine called back, picking up her silver mask. She turned to Erik, her heart fluttering. "How do I look?"
"Perfection," Erik whispered, his voice laced with admiration. Christine kissed his cheek before opening the door and rushing out.
.
The Garnier Ballroom, The Palais Garnier Opera House, Paris, France, January, 1895
The two mangers of the Opera House met on the grand staircase laughing at there success of the party. "Dear André, what a splendid party," said Firmin, raising a glass of champagne as a footman passed by. "The prologue to a bright new year," André agreed, glancing around the room in admiration. "Quite a night. I'm impressed."
"Well, one does one's best," André said with a wink. "Here's to us!" Firmin raised his glass. "A toast to all the city!" André chimed in. The two men laughed, their voices full of amusement. "Such a pity that the Phantom can't be here," Firmin said with a grin. The managers laughed in delight clinking their glasses together. As the cast of the theatre waltzed down the grand stairs and began to dance and sing on the ballroom floor.
Masquerade!
Paper faces on parade
Masquerade
Hide your face, so the world will never find you
Masquerade!
Every face a different shade
Masquerade
Look around, there's another mask behind you
The music echoed through the ballroom as the guests swirled around the room, faces hidden behind elaborate masks.
Flash of mauve, splash of puce
Fool and king, ghoul and goose
Green and black, queen and priest
Trace of rouge, face of beast
Faces,
Take your turn, take a ride
On the merry-go-round
In an inhuman race
Thigh of blue, true is false
Who is who
Curl of lip, swirl of gown
Ace of hearts, face of clown
Faces!
Drink it in, drink it up
Till you've drowned in the light, In the sound
Christine and Meg dashed down the stairs, their hands linked as they grinned at each other,"But who can name the face?"
Masquerade!
Grinning yellows, spinning reds
Masquerade!
Take your fill, let the spectacle astound you
Masquerade!
Burning glances, turning heads
Masquerade!
Stop and stare
At the sea of smiles around you
Masquerade!
Seething shadows, breathing lies
Masquerade!
You can fool
Any friend who ever knew you
Masquerade!
Leering satyrs, peering eyes
Masquerade!
Run and hide
But the face will still pursue you
Christine and Meg, reached Antoinette, who was surrounded by ballet girls twirling in their costumes. "What a night!"
"What a crowd!" They replied to her, laughing as they twirl around Antoinette. "Makes you glad!" André said to Firmin who nods, "Makes you proud! All the créme de la créme." "Watching us, and watching them." Carlotta gestured to the couples dancing on the floor. "Six months…" André exclaimed, not believing that the so called Opera Ghost had interfered with their work. "Of relief."
"Of delight." Piangi breathed a sigh of contentment as he felt Carlotta's kiss on his cheek. "Of Elysian peace," Firmin nodded, his gaze fixed on Christine, who was twirling with her friends. "And we can breathe at last," Eloise and Ivy giggled together.
"No more notes," Carlotta said with a smile. "No more ghost," Piangi added.
"Here's a health!" Antoinette raised her glass to the managers. "Here's a toast to a prosperous year," André said with a grin.
"And may its splendour never fade," Carlotta said, turning to Piangi.
"What a change!" Antoinette exclaimed. "What a blessed release," the managers nodded in agreement. "And what a masquerade…" André trailed off, his eyes drawn to the dancers.
.
"Come on, Christine!" her friends called, urging her to join them in another dance. Christine laughed, her excitement rising as she followed them through the dense crowd. She weaved between the couples on the ballroom floor, the movement of bodies creating a dizzying blur. Suddenly, a wave of claustrophobia washed over her as the dancers seemed to close in, circling around her in a seamless, almost suffocating rhythm.
Masks were everywhere—obscuring faces, blurring identities, swirling in every direction. The scene spun before her eyes, the weight of the moment making her head spin.
Taking a breath she leaned against the back wall the held a tapestry. Watching as her friends and the guests sing and dance in celebration of the new year. She pressed her back against the wall, humming along with music as she twirled around her locket and engagement ring. "Think of it, a secret engagement. Look, your future bride.."
The arms around her waist pulled her swiftly behind the heavy tapestry, the world around her blurring into a sea of darkness. For a fleeting moment, terror surged through her veins, her heart pounding in her chest with fear. But then, as if a switch had been flipped, the fear melted away. A smile tugged at her lips as she looked up at her ange, her fiancé, standing before her.
Christine felt him pull her closer, his chest warm and firm against her. The darkness surrounding them made it impossible to see what her fiancé was wearing, but the gold mask covering the right side of his face glinted softly, a striking contrast in the shadows. Erik's fingers brushed against the chain that held her locket and engagement ring, tugging gently at it. "No, Erik, please don't," she whispered, her voice trembling as she instinctively reached up to tuck the ring and locket back beneath her costume. "They'll see."
He caught her hands in his, his grip steady yet reassuring. "Well let them see," he murmured, his voice a soft reassurance. "It's an engagement, Christine, not a crime." He tucked a stray curl behind her ear,"You forge ange. You're my fiancée. Not the Vicomte's, not anyone else's. You're mine. And no one touches what's mine." Christine's face flushed a deep, vivid red at Erik's words. A flutter of uncertainty gripped her heart, and a wave of conflicting emotions swirled within her. The last thing she wanted was for her fears to spoil their night together. She hesitated, "I know, but I'm worried about Raoul. I don't want him to ruin our night."
Erik's gaze softened, a quiet understanding in his eyes as he reached out to gently lift her chin. "Christine, I know you're scared. But you have to trust me on this. No one not even that boy can take this moment from us. Tonight is ours, and no one can change that."
She wrapped her arms around Erik's neck instinctively, seeking the reassurance of his warmth and strength. Her forehead gently rested against his, her thoughts momentarily quieting in his embrace. The world around them seemed to fade as she murmured with a playful smile, "By the way, monsieur, you owe me a dance."
Her words were light, but there was an underlying tenderness that betrayed how much she cherished the intimacy between them. Her heart was still racing, but there was a sense of calm as she felt his arms around her, his presence anchoring her.
Erik's laughed and nodded before pressing his lips to hers, and Christine gasped softly, her breath catching in surprise. His kiss was gentle yet filled with intensity, and the sound of a slight groan escaped him, sending a shiver through her. But the moment was fleeting, interrupted by the approaching voices. He pressed his forehead against hers again, holding her for just a second longer, as if savouring the closeness. Then, with a playful yet gentle push, he urged her away. "Go," he murmured, nudging her out of their hiding spot.
Christine stumbled slightly as she stepped out from behind the tapestry, her heart still racing from Erik's kiss. The warmth of the moment lingered on her lips, and her cheeks flushed a deep pink. She touched her lips where Erik had placed his, a soft giggle escaping her in the midst of her flustered excitement. But as she took a step forward, her heart nearly stopped.
Raoul stood in front of her, blocking her path, his presence like a heavy weight that crushed the air around them. The intensity of his gaze was cold, piercing, and filled with something dark that made her skin crawl. It felt as though he could see right through her, stripping away her defences. The chill from his stare sent an icy shiver down her spine, and she froze, unable to move. Her breath caught in her throat as the weight of his stare seemed to hold her captive, the tension between them unbearable.
"Christine." His voice was low and edged with something dangerous. It was the tone of someone who had lost control, someone who wasn't willing to be ignored. Before he could take another step, Christine turned her head toward the sound of her friends calling for her—Belle, Mary, and Clarissa.
She shook off the unsettling grip of Raoul's stare, forcing herself to move. With a deep breath, she gracefully ran toward her friends, the urgency of the moment pushing her forward. As she took her place beside Meg, she could still feel the weight of Raoul's gaze on her, but she stood tall, leading the crowd in the final act of the song, her heart pounding in her chest.
Masquerade
Paper faces on parade
Masquerade
Hide your face
So the world will never find you
Masquerade
Every face a different shade
Masquerade
Look around, there's another mask behind you
Masquerade
Burning glances, turning heads
Masquerade
Stop and stare
At the sea of smiles around you
Masquerade
Grinning yellows, spinning reds
Masquerade
Take your fill,
Let the spectacle astound you!
The music in the ballroom shifted instantly, its lively tune giving way to a darker, more foreboding melody. The air grew heavier, thick with an unspoken tension that seemed to pull the breath from the room. Christine froze, her friends beside her mirroring her reaction, as they all turned toward the entrance. There, standing in the doorway, was her Angel of Music, cloaked in crimson, his mask as haunting as it was captivating. His presence, dramatic and commanding, seemed to cast a shadow over the ballroom. Christine's heart raced, but not out of fear—no, never fear. In that moment, she understood with absolute certainty what he had come as.
Her Angel was The Red Death.
.
The Phantom's Lair, Underneath The Palais Garnier Opera House, Paris, France, January, 1895
"Darling can you help me with this?" Christine asked as Erik sat down at the small table beside her. Erik picked up the half-finished mask, holding it up in front of him with a raised eyebrow. "What is this?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.
"It's for the masquerade ball," Christine explained, her hands pausing momentarily. "But please be gentle, it's still drying."
Erik kissed her cheek and handed her unfinished mask. "What are you going as?" Christine asked softly, reaching forward to gently brush his hair off his face. Her fingers lingered for a moment on his deformed cheek, tracing the contours of his skin with a tenderness that only she could offer.
Erik looked at her, a teasing glint in his eyes as he gave a vexing smile. "Well, I have a few ideas, but since you won't tell me what you're wearing, why should I tell you?" His voice was playful, yet there was a certain warmth behind his words.
Christine chuckled softly, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "It's because I want to surprise you with it," she replied, her voice low and earnest. "I've worked really hard on it, and I want you to see it in all its glory once it's done."
Erik's expression softened, his gaze locking with hers. "I'm sure you'll be the bell of the ball, ma beauté," he murmured.
.
There he stood, in all his dramatic glory, wearing his Red Death costume.
A grin tugged at the corners of Christine's lips as she allowed herself to play along with the act. She let her breath quicken just enough to make it convincing, freezing in place with wide eyes and feigned terror. The figure of Erik, cloaked in his dark and imposing attire, commanded the room's attention. She knew this was his moment, his performance, and she would play her part perfectly, adding to the illusion that he had come to claim his place in the spectacle.
Dressed in rich red fabric, Erik wore red pants and a red dinner jacket with tails, adorned with intricate orange and black embellishments. His gold mask, identical to his usual white one, gleamed in the light, and somehow, he had even managed to curl his sideburns. Christine couldn't help but giggle quietly to herself, realising she hadn't noticed the detail of his curled sideburns when they had shared a lovers' embrace just moments before. She quickly covered her mouth, feeling Meg's light pinch on her arm.
Erik stood at the top of the grand staircase, a dark grin spreading across his face as he looked down at the terrified crowd below. "Why so silent, good messieurs? Did you think that I had left you for good?" he taunted, his voice booming through the room. The crowd at the bottom of the staircase shuddered, fear palpable in the air. Erik smirked, his confidence growing as he descended the stairs, stopping midway to address them.
"Have you missed me, good messieurs?" he sneered. "I have written you an opera. Here, I bring the finished score—Don Juan Triumphant." With a flourish, he tossed his manuscript to André, who caught it clumsily while Firmin cowered behind him.
"I advise you to comply, my instructions should be clear."
Meanwhile, Christine saw her opportunity. Handing her mask to Meg, she made her way through the bustling ballroom, her eyes set on her fiancée. Step by step, she ascended the grand staircase toward him, her heart pounding with both excitement and defiance.
"Christine, what are you doing?" Eloise's voice rang out in confusion. The ballet girls all gasped in shock, their eyes wide as they watched Christine deliberately walk closer and closer to the Phantom.
"Christine, stop!" Mary protested.
"Christine, no!" Lily cried out.
"Christine, are you crazy?" Belle frowned in disbelief.
"Christine, come back!" Ivy exclaimed, her voice laced with panic.
"Is she insane?" Clarissa asked, her voice laced with confusion as she watched Christine walk up the stairs. "Christine, get away from him!" Raoul's voice thundered across the ballroom. He shoved his way through the crowd, trying to reach her, but Antoinette stood in his path, pushing him back. "No, monsieur," she commanded, "You must stay back!"
Christine paid no attention to the protests. She to move gracefully toward Erik. Every step seemed almost ethereal, as if she were floating, her skirts swirling and swaying around her ankles, revealing layers of blue and white tulle beneath. She reached the top and stood before him, their eyes meeting. "My brave ange," Erik whispered, his voice so soft that only she could hear. He caressed her cheek gently, then pulled his hand away just before she could lean into the touch. His eyes flickered toward the Vicomte, who was rushing toward them. A low growl escaped Erik as he pulled Christine closer, his grip tightening protectively around her.
"Your chains are mine! You will sing for me!"
Without warning, flames erupted from his hands, filling the space in front of the crowd with fire and smoke. Christine gasped, looking up at Erik in wide-eyed fear. "Trust me, my love," Erik murmured, his voice reassuring despite the chaos surrounding them. And the fear in her eyes vanishes and turns into trust. He pulled out a smoke bomb throwing in front of the audience as they dropped through the ground just as the smoke cleared. The ballroom instantly filled with the sounds of screams and cries. Antoinette gathered the ballet girls together, trying to reassure them.
.
xoxo
.
Translations:
petite soeur = little sister
min lilla fågel = my little bird
min älskling = my darling
ma beauté = my beauty
min lilla ängel = my little angel
.
Songs:
Angel Of Music: Andrew Lloyd Webber
Masquerade/Why So Silent?: Andrew Lloyd Webber
.
xoxo
.