A/N: Thank you for the wonderful reviews! :) They make my day! And now...
Chapter XIV
The next day, Christine and Meg followed Adrienne to the theatre room. Christine felt her first check of misgiving when Adrienne pulled a brass key from the pocket of her pinafore and slipped it in the keyhole above the knob.
"The door is kept locked?" Christine stated in somber surprise. "Perhaps the Maestro doesn't wish for anyone to visit."
"No - it's kept locked when not in use," Adrienne swiftly excused herself. "Ask Madame Fairfax, if you like. She leaves it on a hook near the kitchen for anyone to take. The maids dust in there regularly."
The kitchens were on the other side of the manor, and though Christine had greatly recovered, she did not relish the idea of walking there. She would speak with the housekeeper at the first opportunity...but could not vanquish her own wretched curiosity to see this theatre built inside the manor. Surely the Maestro kept nothing in there he wouldn't wish seen, in this chamber designed for public viewing.
"Perhaps, this once" she relented and hoped she wasn't making a grave error in judgment to allow this indulgence of her curiosity.
Adrienne smiled and replaced the key, turning it then twisting the high brass knob. With the gas lamps bracketed to the wall soon lit, Christine surveyed the windowless room, in length running three times the distance of its width. The stage to the left took up nearly half the wall into which it was recessed and stood a few feet off the ground. Five steps up each side led to the platform, and dark green and gold tasseled curtains, no less luxurious than everything else at Thornfield, hung closed at its edge.
Six rows of tapestry-covered chairs stood before the stage. Above them a beautifully wrought iron chandelier acted as an elegant basket to two tiers of candles and hung from the ceiling, a similar chandelier hanging at the far end of the chamber. A small table had been placed at the bottom end of the stage closest to the door, an odd contraption sitting on its surface. Adrienne went directly to it while Christine's attention was captured elsewhere...
Facing the stage, along the opposite wall behind the chairs, a banner-like painting hung, unframed, at least ten feet long. Within the scene, half-naked women in Grecian dress stood or danced in a meadow, while above on a short cliff a powerfully built man played the lyre. Of those maidens that Christine could see well from this vantage point, one bore a scroll in her hand, one a flute, and one a mask.
"Apollo and the Nine Muses," Meg said, coming up beside Christine to also stare at the masterpiece in oils that stood almost as tall as they did. "There are golden statues at the Opera House much like those figures in the painting. Whoever created it is quite skilled. It's a shame to keep something like this hidden away in a locked chamber. It would certainly fit in well with all the extravagant décor at the Paris Opera House."
"Indeed." Christine drew closer, noting the oils chiefly used were earthen greens, rustic browns, indigo blues, and carnelian reds, all dark and vivid, the porcelain-skinned goddesses mysteriously smiling with mischief in their eyes, as if the painting could come to life at any moment. Darkness did not master the theme; at first glance it was only a festive woodland scene of merriment. Yet upon peering closer as she slowly walked along to take it all in, Christine saw the deep shadows that lurked in the corners, the red eyes of threat staring out from behind tall ferns, a few trees twisting like skeletal arms in the background, amid the many lush ones, and the clouds above, when concentrated upon, gave the appearance of a skull.
She did not wonder about the identity of the artist. It was apparent in every skilled slash of paint and trick of light and shadow. She and the Maestro shared a bond of the soul in the expression of their art, so similar...yet so unalike. As he had said, in each of her drawings, despite the pervasive gloom that found its way into the scene, there was always a small source of light, a trace of hope to turn to; but in his creations, the suggestion of encroaching darkness was the foundation, not the escape...
What would cause a man to lose all hope?
Christine's thoughts were cut off by the tinny sound of a violin disturbing the quiet, and she spun around in surprise to see Adrienne crank a handle on the side of the large contraption, gaining Christine's undivided attention as she approached the child.
"Adrienne, perhaps you shouldn't play with that." Unwanted, the cruel memory of her cousin's broken music box and the frightful punishment she suffered came to mind. At least she had never known the Maestro to be cruel, if indifference could not be cast into the mold of cruelty.
"Oh, I know how to work it. See these three cylinders?" Adrienne picked up a gold column less then half the length of her arm with little nodules scattered all around it. "You place whichever one you want here," she pointed to the contraption, where another cylinder lay, "And voila!"
Adrienne resumed turning the handle, and strange, whispery notes, adequate in volume, emitted from a large silver horn of what resembled a trumpet flower connected to a smaller wooden box. Never had Christine seen or heard anything like it, and by Meg's intrigued reaction, neither had she. Inside, a metal cylinder gradually spun until it slowed then stopped as did the music. Christine wondered where the Maestro found it, but most of all she wondered if he also played the violin.
"Will this work for accompaniment?" Adrienne asked Meg.
"It will." Meg grinned her approval. "How do the curtains open?"
"A cord hangs down on the inside."
Meg walked up the closest set of stairs, disappearing behind the heavy drapery. After a moment, the two halves of the tall curtain whooshed apart, exposing a dark stage. Gas lamps bracketed on the recessed wall were lit, giving brighter illumination and displaying a painted backdrop of a forest.
"Oh, this is perfect," Adrienne clapped her hands beneath her chin.
"Perfect?"
"For the play. Can you not see the king and queen of fairies engaged in their devilment? And Puck too."
"Adrienne, we talked about this…"
"Adrienne, if you would please start the music again," Meg called from behind the curtain and stepped out. She had doffed her cloak and stood in full costume, as if attending a professional rehearsal.
Adrienne did so and soon the tinny strains of a distant violin once again crackled through the trumpet flower…
Earlier, Christine had watched as Meg stretched to warm up, using a chair as a prop and bending her body into seemingly impossible angles. Now, Meg flitted gingerly across the stage with airy steps reminiscent of a butterfly being chased. Outfitted in pristine white, she had brought not only her toe slippers but also her leotard and fluffy tutu…not a butterfly - a swan, exhibiting graceful movements to match. Twirls and leaps performed with seeming ease that must, in truth, be difficult to accomplish. It wasn't a stretch of the mind to see how her aspirations would lead to greatness, and Christine was happy for her friend, certain one day Meg's name would be favorably discussed in every Parisian parlor.
"Isn't she magnificent?" Adrienne loudly whispered from the seat next to Christine, and Christine nodded her agreement.
As the magical box wound down, so did the music. Meg altered her steps to slow with the accompaniment, ending in a graceful descent upon one curled leg, with her head bowed to the other leg stretched fully before her, arms lifted in an arc above her head like a dying swan as she brought her upper body fully forward to recline.
"Bravissima!" Adrienne enthused, jumping to her feet and clapping in eager delight. "Magnifica! You are a most sublime dancer, mademoiselle! You simply must dance in the play."
"You dance exceptionally well," Christine added her own praise, ignoring Adrienne's hundredth reference to the idea of such an absurd performance.
"Merci beaucoup," Meg gracefully rose to her feet and gave a fluid curtsy.
The three trespassers lingered long enough to extinguish the gas lamps before leaving the chamber empty and locked again. Christine held her hand out for the key. Adrienne reluctantly handed it over, clearly not happy to relinquish her hold on the little treasure.
"May we have a picnic today?" she asked.
"It's too wet outside for that. We will have luncheon in the morning room," Christine decided.
"The morning room?" Adrienne said in surprise. "But it's midday."
"There are more windows in that room than any other to eat in, and the daylight will flood the chamber. It will be the next best thing to a picnic."
Later, she would come to regret her decision. Had she agreed to the cold-weather picnic, at least a slim hour of discomfort due to the inclement weather was the sole hardship she would bear. But sometimes the path darkly taken could lead to a bramble-covered pit; thorns tearing through flesh as one dug their way to escape…
x
They were halfway through luncheon, clouds having moved across the watery sun's path and making the room quite dreary and dim, when the first thorny vine swept into the room.
"There you are!" Carlotta spoke, as if the three diners had done her a great disservice. "Is there notheeng to do in this place? I will die from the boredom!"
"You could always go to the village," Christine suggested, anticipating her absence.
She sniffed. "We came through on our arrival. It is small – not like Paris with its many boutiques and cafés."
"I agree," Meg said readily. "You should return to Paris. There is nothing worthy of you here."
The remark was made with bland countenance, her tone almost congenial, and apparently only Christine detected the dry twist of insult the woman deserved, since Carlotta only sullenly nodded.
"I can entertain you," Adrienne piped up. "Your dress is very pretty," she added a bit wistfully.
Carlotta's eyes instantly searched out the conveyor of the compliment of her attire, today an elaborate day gown of soft rose-pink with shimmering golden swirls in the material of the over-skirt, and her brows lifted in curious surprise. "Ciao - and who are you?"
"I am Adrienne." The girl popped out of her chair with a wide smile and gave the diva a curtsy. "Buongiorno, Signora. You speak Italian?"
"Si, si, si." Carlotta looked at the girl with something akin to surprised delight. "Sei la figlia del Maestro?"
"No, sono il suo pupillo."
"Come puoi intrattenermi?"
"So cantare! Il Maestro mi ha insegnato."
Feeling at a loss and alarmed to hear the Maestro's name pop up more than once, Christine felt she should put a stop to the mystery conversation. "Adrienne, French if you please," she corrected her, then, "what did she ask you?" She ignored Carlotta's scornful look directed her way.
"The Signora asked if I was the Maestro's daughter. I told her no, I'm his ward, and that he taught me to sing." Eagerly she turned to Carlotta. "Would you like to hear? I can entertain you – and oh!" She almost squealed, the thought that passed over her eyes making them shine like dark stars. "We can now perform the play!" she enthused in a flurry of excitement to Christine, then turned back to adress Carlotta. "You must take part as well – you will be perfect as Oberon's queen. We plan to put it on for the Maestro when he returns."
"Adrienne, I never said -" Christine began.
"A play?" Carlotta nearly purred, smiling at the cast designation of the word 'queen'.
"Oh, but you did!" Adrienne whipped her gaze back to Christine. "You said we need three more players to perform the play well, and now we have them! The Signora and the Vicomte that came with her and her two servants – that's more than three. Fate must have decided the outcome, like the Maestro says!"
"But, no, I didn't mean -" Christine spluttered, never having believed it would come to this!
"You did say it," Meg said softly near her elbow.
"Yes, you're not helping," Christine quietly snapped beneath her breath then turned back to the spirited child, hoping to get her to see calm reason. "Adrienne, I'm sure the Signora and the Vicomte have better things to do with their time than take part in such an amateur undertaking."
Adrienne frowned, seeming perplexed, and turned to the redheaded diva. "Do you?"
Carlotta cast another seething look of disdain Christine's way, as if to put her in her place, then smiled at the child. "I should love to be Queen of your play, and my servants will do as I tell them."
"Wonderful!" Adrienne clapped her hands beneath her chin. "That leaves only the Vicomte." She glanced at Christine. "I suppose we don't really need him, since you said three, and he makes four. Still, it wouldn't be polite to leave him out, and everyone is forever telling me I should be polite."
Christine tried again. "Adrienne –"
"Last I saw the Vicomte, he was in the library," Carlotta interrupted smoothly.
Adrienne flashed her wide smile at the diva. "Gracias, Signora! I will ask him now!"
Before Christine could stop her, Adrienne was out the door like a silken blue arrow in eager search of its unwitting target. Carlotta smirked arrogantly at the women, triumphant over her conquest, then swept from the room as if she truly believed herself a queen, her ever-present entourage following several steps behind.
"Don't fret so," Meg encouraged, "I think, perhaps, Lindenwood has gotten beneath your skin. You've forgotten how to relax and have fun, Christine. The world isn't so intolerant and demanding as we were led to believe. Besides, what harm can one little play do?"
She dreaded to find out.
xXx
The Vicomte agreed, Fate playing her sly hand once again. It seemed, come hell or high water, the performance would go on, and though as the child's governess Christine had the authority to stop it, she saw no real reason to. Anything untoward could be controlled, and with the caveat to Adrienne being that all scenes must meet with Christine's approval, the preparations were underway.
Over the next few afternoons, as well as half of her morning lessons, Adrienne painstakingly wrote out the dialogue, so that each two participants would have a copy to share. Carlotta's servants were put to work fashioning costumes from the ribbons and castoffs of servant uniforms Adrienne brought them, while Christine and Meg were delegated to make the head of a jackass from scraps of brown cloth, buttons, bits of wire and other sundry items. Where the girl had found such a wide assortment of gewgaws, Christine wasn't certain, but at Madame Fairfax's clear approval – even eagerness to see the play in its final presentation – Christine decided they weren't doing anything of which the Maestro would disapprove, and felt a bit more at ease, even able to joke along with Meg as they fashioned the mask of an ass…
Wire was absconded from an old birdcage long banished to a storage room, even the Vicomte given a task by Adrienne, to snip individual wires and bend them, using Adrienne's hobby horse as a guideline. To Christine's surprised relief, he was quite gregarious with the child, and condescended to her every instruction. Christine cut scraps to fit and stitched them together, fashioning a face for the beast, sewing on buttons for eyes and cutting wide slits beneath to see through. Meg, though rusty at the needlework once learned at Lindenwood, did her best to help – both of them fashioning a puppet-like mask for Carlotta's servant to wear.
As Christine swiftly pulled the needle in and out of the smooth material, her thoughts went to the mask the Maestro was never without. Surely, though it was made of leather and not constructed of wire and suede, it couldn't be comfortable to habitually wear, and she frowned to think he felt it his destiny to endure such a fate.
"Christine," Meg said, amusement in her voice. "Did you intend to make the jackass smile?"
"Did I...what?" Christine said distractedly and looked at the last two teeth she'd stitched on with scraps of white material. "Well, so I did!" she said with a careless grin. "Better a happy beast than a miserable one."
Meg looked at her oddly but didn't ferret out what she meant by that remark.
Christine didn't think the Maestro beastly, not really, though at times he could be monstrous in his behavior. Nor did she admit that she'd been thinking of the Master of Thornfield the entire time they stitched in silence.
"Papa loved animals," Christine said hurriedly to crowd out such thoughts. "Sometimes, if we were very still, a few would gather as he played. Squirrels, cats, a fox once – even a doe if you can believe it. They never came close, only within eyesight, but they would calmly sit or stand, as if the music soothed them."
They sat on the parlor sofa, with Adrienne seated at a nearby table busily penning the final copy of the libretto she designed. The Vicomte sat across from her at the table, which seated four, and was designed to play cards. He busily twisted wires together with a tool, forming the frame for the cloth mask the women fashioned to slip over it.
"Your father played for the animals as well as the people?" Meg queried in delight.
"Well, it wasn't intentional." Her tone grew bittersweet. "I used to love hearing him play the violin when I was a child."
"That's it!" suddenly came with gusto from the table, and both girls looked up in surprise, watching as the Vicomte shot to his feet. "Daaé!" he exclaimed with a victorious smile. "I knew I'd heard the name before. Your father was a musician. He played on the streets."
Christine wasn't sure why, but his words rankled. "Before I was born, he played in an orchestra."
"Yes, yes, I meant no disrespect." He walked to where they were seated and came to stand before Christine. "You had a knitted scarf that you said was your mother's – it was windy, that day by the sea. Your scarf came loose and blew into the water…"
Christine stared, bits and pieces of what he said fitting into a memory she couldn't fully recall. So much had happened, so many years in between - but she did remember a well-dressed boy who doffed his shoes and coat and raced from his parents' side to fish her flyaway scarf from the frothy waves before the sea could swallow it.
"You were the boy who rescued it?" Christine asked in amazement.
His smile was brilliant. "You remember!"
"Not all of it, no…" She faintly smiled and directed her next words to her pupil, who had stopped writing and sat, eyes wide with interest. If ears could bend, they would be fully turned their way. "Adrienne, be a dear and ask Madame Fairfax to prepare tea and sandwiches."
The child seemed about to argue, but checked herself and left the room to tend to a task she'd never once been asked to do.
"It was well over a decade ago," Christine said to the Vicomte once she was certain Adrienne had gone. "I was but six, but I do have a hazy memory of that day and later, of playing in the attic at your family's seaside cottage on a rainy afternoon, while you read dark tales to me."
"At least you remember that," he forgave her lack of recollection.
"It was a very difficult summer." Christine set down her needlework and went still. "My father fell gravely ill and died only months after you left. My life drastically changed in that one horrid night."
He dropped to one knee before her and took her hand in contrition. Christine was aware of Meg's surprise, a match to her own.
"I'm sorry about your father," he said. "He had such a God-given talent. Even as a lad of ten I recall how well he played, and you – you sang like an angel."
Christine felt no warm glow to hear such praise, only unease. "I would appreciate it if you don't mention my entertaining as a child. I don't wish to become the next round of juicy gossip at Thornfield."
"But why keep such a spectacular voice secret?"
"Please, monsieur!" She kept her voice whisper-soft, with a hint of impatience to warn him, aware any of the servants could be lurking outside the door.
"I shall agree to your request," he said with a sly look in his blue eyes, "if you sing for me one more time."
Flustered, she pulled her hand away from his. "No, you don't understand. That part of my life is over. I prefer to keep it in the past, where it belongs."
He looked somberly astounded. "Tell me that you still sing?"
"No, and I ask once more that you not bring it up again. I'm a governess and a teacher and nothing else. Now, if you'll excuse me…"
She barely had room to rise, he knelt so close, but she managed to skirt around him.
"I sincerely hope I haven't offended," he pleaded, turning to watch her while standing to his feet.
Christine shook her head and managed a polite smile. "No. I must speak to Madame Fairfax. There is some business I'd forgotten that must be addressed." Such as the menu for supper, which was hardly the task of a governess. But with no one else to plan and with guests in residence, the housekeeper daily sought out Christine's aid in what to prepare, likely because Meg was her friend and a guest.
Yet it wasn't to the kitchens that her feet led her but out the door and over the grounds, and she saw by the placement of the dimming sun, it had gone into early evening.
Five days had elapsed since their arrival. Her ailments had faded, almost to be of no significance, though she kept gloves on her hands whenever possible to prevent irritation while they fully healed.
Meg was a dear, a tease at times, but gave her no real grief; it was a delight to be reunited with her childhood friend. But that harridan La Carlotta, as Meg dubbed her, threatened to stretch every taut nerve, her one saving grace that she had a clear affinity for the child, though she showed no consideration toward any other occupant of Thornfield, save for the Vicomte. Adrienne confided in Christine that Carlotta told her Adrienne reminded her of her little sister, which would explain such uncharacteristic kindness. And the Vicomte, well, his focused attentions toward Christine now made sense, she supposed, but she needed no continual reminder of a past that only taunted her with what could have been.
Emotionally of late, she felt herself being slowly torn to tatters, and so it was with no great surprise she found herself at the magical spot where she'd begun her painting. She would love to return to that as well and could easily hold a paintbrush, with or without gloves, but she resisted, not wishing to be rude and disappear during her free hours, though Meg would in all likelihood enjoy the scenic area too.
But, for Christine, it had become her hideaway, and she guarded it selfishly. Another secret, and the only place she felt safe to express what lay deep inside her soul, the wistful need strengthened after the conversation she'd just escaped.
Ever since the night she had stumbled upon the Maestro at his piano, the need perpetually burned...
xXx
The Master of Thornfield returned to his home, to learn that along with his two guests invaders were present. Before the insolent cretins could catch sight of him, he gruffly gave Madame Fairfax orders to resume preparations for the tea Christine had requested and quit the manor. Cesar needed rest after the lengthy ride from Paris, so Erik decided a walk along the grounds to assess what would need repair was circumspect; anything to prolong the confrontation that would soon follow.
He had been surprised to learn Christine was an orphan from Lindenwood, having visited that godforsaken place in secret over a decade ago, in his search for Madame Giry's small daughter. It stood to reason the two girls would have known each other, and upon furtively questioning Madame a week ago, he learned that in past years Meg spoke fondly of a childhood friend named Christine with the surname of Daaé. It was then he issued the invitation to the Girys to visit Thornfield during this respite, hoping the atypical act would in some small way atone to Christine for the grievous injuries she suffered while saving his worthless carcass from the fire.
He did not, however, extend the invitation to the overblown diva and that insolent pup she'd brought with her. The Vicomte had recently arrived to the theatre as its newest patron, full of himself and his ideas; but all he was proving was to be a pest. And the woman, well, she had always been a leech. A screeching leech.
Erik's tight grin faded at the apt comparison, when suddenly he halted on the path upon hearing a distant sound so opposite from the auditory murder La Carlotta was prone to commit. He concentrated hard to hear and changed direction to leave the path and walk into the chill breeze that carried with it so sweet a sound. It still came faraway but more discernible, and he listened in stunned shock as his mind scrambled to reveal the truth.
That voice…
Shivers of incredulity brought him to remember the night, long ago, that changed the course of his miserable life. It couldn't be...no. It wasn't possible! The cliff where he'd nearly thrown himself into the sea wasn't too great a distance. Several minutes by horseback at a gallop - surely too far to hear sound. After so many years, to hear the enchantress again - was it even possible? The singer could no longer be a child, if indeed she was then, but the tone was just as innocent and angelic. A girl from the village, perhaps, wandering through the forest, not realizing she had crossed over onto the boundary of his land…
He hastened his steps, determined to seek her out, but to his frustration, the voice faded instead of strengthened. He changed direction and charged through a copse of trees, intent to listen over the faint rush of wind. He felt a little jolt when the siren's call grew a fraction stronger, words now discernible though not entirely clear. This time, instead of petitioning an Angel of Music, the words seemed mournful, the bearer expressing a wish for someone beloved to be near. That it was the same voice, he was certain – none had ever moved him so powerfully, then and now.
With each season that passed since his return to Thornfield, he desired to hear that voice again, even having visited that fateful cliff sometimes during the day, often at dusk with the frail hope his wish would be granted. But after days and months and years arrived and departed, he'd given up hope for such dreams to alter his hollow reality, sure that his nightingale had long flown to different climes.
The voice again faded, and cursing the wind that so cruelly stole the stirring notes, he broke into a run as if his life depended on it.
He must find her!
After what seemed a small eternity, he crashed through tall overgrowth into the small niche of forest that held the ancient stone platform his grandfather's ward once used as a stage. The shaded clearing with its overhanging branches stood disappointingly empty, the lyrical voice also having disappeared, and though he waited, even prayed to hear it again, God help him, he should have realized his petition for an angel would not be granted to one possessing the appearance and actions of the very devil.
Erik covered the area as a ravenous beast searches prey, ever-waiting, his ears sharply attuned to hear beyond the papery rustle of leaves which the breeze stirred, but it proved useless, and he began to question his sanity. Perhaps there had been no siren's voice, no evasive creature - only an eternal longing once more ignited by the figment of his dreams that taunted him into chasing endlessly and reaching for a distant star never fated to be in his grasp.
Haunted by a ghost…yes, that's what he was.
How damnably fitting.
xXx
"Christine, where have you been?" Meg rose from the sofa to greet her, her mother the only other occupant in the room.
"Has something happened?"
"Nothing of consequence. Oh, dear – you're limping again!" Meg plucked bronze particles of leaves from Christine's hair near her skull. "Have you been taking a stroll on the grounds?"
Christine felt a niggling of guilt not to invite Meg. "Next time, you must come with me."
She had pushed herself too hard, though her foot didn't hurt as badly as it had in past days. She had paused in her secret song to Papa, and in those few quiet breaths heard what sounded like a wild animal charging through the undergrowth. Absent of any weapon and terrified to be cornered by a dangerous beast or a wandering mortal, she slipped quietly through the bushes and took the hidden path leading to the South Tower. She had dashed back to the manor, heedless of the twigs that slapped at her clothing and snatched at her hair, and was still a bit breathless.
"Adrienne went to the theatre," Meg informed her. "It seems that rehearsals start now. I said I would wait for you."
"Now?" Christine brushed a stray leaf from her skirt and did a quick inventory for any other telltale signs that would betray her. "Her nursemaid might have something to say about that. It will soon be dusk."
"Oh, she's been roped into the cast, too. The great diva has spoken and wishes to relieve her boredom, so rehearsals begin at once." Meg rolled her eyes a little in disgusted mockery.
"Adrienne has been hopping about like a gleeful grasshopper the moment she opened the book with that play inside. It wouldn't take a lot to persuade her."
Meg peered at her intently. "Did something happen? You seem upset."
"No, everything is fine." She was grateful she'd made her escape - twice in one day.
"It's the Vicomte, isn't it? He is dynamic in nature but really quite harmless. It's astonishing that you once knew him…"
Christine's lips quirked at Meg's blatant fishing but she took the bait. "I barely remember that summer and only met with him on a few occasions to play. Papa needed me with him; there was no one else. It was during the onset of his illness."
"Oh, Christine…" Meg put a consoling hand to her arm. "I didn't mean to pry."
"Turnabout is fair play."
"What?" Meg pulled her hand away, taken aback.
"Do you fancy him?" Christine asked, sotto voce, aware that Madame Giry sat on the opposite side of the room. As if Meg also recalled that fact, she darted her a quick glance, relieved to see her mother engrossed in a book on music.
"Why would you even suggest such a thing?"
"Shall we retreat to the theatre chamber and join the others?"
"Yes, please," Meg said, then more loudly, "Maman, are you coming?"
"I will be along soon, my dear." Madame Giry had elected not to actively participate in the performance, instead offering her services in its direction.
"It's the way you look at him when he doesn't notice," Christine continued once she and Meg were safely out of earshot "…and how you made it a point not to look at him when he revealed our brief history together."
"He is quite handsome," Meg said with a wistful sigh, "and kinder than you'd expect for one of his station. But honestly, what chance would a dancer have with a Vicomte?"
"More than a governess, I would think," Christine teased, making Meg grin.
They arrived at the open door of the theatre room, to find the rehearsal underway. One of the diva's servants held a libretto, cuing Carlotta as she stumbled along in her lines. They were in the midst of a scene between King Oberon, played by the Vicotme, and his queen, Titania, with Adrienne as Puck standing at his side. Still undiscovered, Christine and Meg stood just inside the chamber and watched the players fumble through their lines, though Adrienne whisked through her part with ease, having memorized it well. Christine wasn't surprised. Drama coursed through the child's veins, theatrics running rampant in her blood.
The play continued, the Vicomte reading his lines from the paper:
"…See as thou wast wont to see: Dian's bud o'er Cupid's flower hath such force and blessed power. Now, my Titania - wake you, my sweet queen!"
Though Carlotta would be stretched out on a chaise longue to be brought in for the performance, she stood in this rough rehearsal and stretched as if just awakening.
"My Oberon! what visions have I seen! Methought …"
Several seconds elapsed, and Carlotta looked with emphatic question, arching her painted brows high toward her servant holding the libretto.
"I was enamored –" the woman began, giving her the cue.
"I was enamour'd of an ass," Carlotta quickly finished.
The Vicomte chuckled, in character, reading from his own libretto. "There lies your love."
Carlotta looked with abject horror toward her other servant, who wore the beast's head they had worked hard to construct. The man turned beast also stood, though in the actual performance he would be stretched out beside the queen, still in slumber beside her. "How came these things to pass?" she wailed. "O, how mine eyes do loathe his visage now! To think, I did kiss that cursed face!"
"Silence awhile. Robin, take off this head…"
All within the chamber did abruptly go silent, deathly so, the Vicomte's passage ending altogether. Christine had no need to look behind to understand that every startled eye now turned their way from the stage wasn't focused on Meg or herself.
An odd undercurrent in the air tingled her spine and charged her heart to beat a rapid cadence; her intake of breath, when Christine forced herself to breathe, came somewhat stilted.
Possessing no doubt of who stood in the doorway, she turned fully and looked, beyond the ever-present black mask and into eyes of glaring gold.
xXx
A/N: Methinks, perchance, someone is in trouble. ;-) ... Most lines of the play that Adrienne penned I took directly from Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. Only one line is my own, to fit better with what I wanted for this part of the story. Can you guess which one? ;-)