A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews! I am so sorry it took longer than anticipated to get this up - but better late than never, right? :)
And now …
XXI
.
A chill wind blew against Christine from behind as she stood and awaited a fate unknown to her. She almost reconsidered a second time what seemed a reckless venture, but Meg would soon return to Paris and her life there, and Christine had no wish to confront the ghosts of her past alone. The Maestro offered assistance once and would likely agree to accompany her again, should she turn tail and run now, then later reach a firm decision to surmount this vexing hurdle. But after the unexpected kiss between them upon which she continually dwelt and it seemed he would rather forget, Christine was reluctant to seek him out for any favors. Besides, he had done so much for her already…
"It will be fine, mon ami," Meg's gentle tone of reassurance was like a hand to her shoulder in support. "They can no longer hurt you. If you are uncomfortable, you have only to walk out the door. There are no chains to bind you here."
Christine glanced at her dear friend in gratitude. Time may have separated them, but it did not erase their companionable ease with one another, which they had fallen back into with astounding alacrity. It was as if those empty years never existed.
Even still, though Meg shared with Christine the distressing events with regard to her birth, Christine never disclosed her own dark secret to her friend – that of allowing her voice free reign in her solitude. That which the Maestro had wretchedly discovered and seemed intent fully to unearth, shattering all locks that kept her safely hidden away within her self-made sanctuary ….
The door opened, catching Christine unaware and putting a swift end to troubling thoughts. At least one set of them; now she must control the ones that currently beset her.
"May I help you?" The frosty tones of the housekeeper made clear her preference to do the opposite and send them away.
"Yes, thank you. I would like to speak with the Master of the house," Christine managed in a voice that came out surprisingly firm.
"There is no Master of Greenwich Hall, only the Mistress."
"Oh, I see. Well then, I should like to speak with her."
The housekeeper's mouth pinched in further, her cold eyes doing a head-to-toe appraisal. "And who shall I say is calling?"
"Christine Daaé."
"One moment."
The door closed in her face, surprising Christine who thought they might at least be allowed shelter from the cold and granted entrance inside the foyer.
Well then…
There had been no recognition in the elderly woman's expression upon hearing her name, and Christine did not recognize the housekeeper either. Of course, childhood memory was often faulty or new help could have been hired. Another alarming thought made its way into forefront of her mind – what if her cousins had left and Greenwich Hall belonged to different owners? She half wished it were so while another part of her worried it might be true.
She still possessed no real knowledge of why she had come to this dismal place of her nightmares, many of which had occurred in the cold light of day.
The door opened sooner than she would have expected, this time swinging in the entire way. "The Mistress will see you," the dour woman said with a sniff of disapproval. "Follow me."
Christine exchanged a nervous glance with Meg who offered a nod of encouragement, and the pair followed the housekeeper to the front parlor.
The interior of the manor seemed familiar and it did not, bare snippets of girlhood memories fogged through the passage of time. Walls and doors of the chamber to which they were led were as she remembered them, painted a dove gray and gilded in antique gold trim, the floor-to-ceiling curtains that flocked the tall twin windows a subdued blue-green, like a calm lake at midday...
The soft hues of the parlor were restful, denoting peace, the room a deceptive masquerade. Here, she had found naught but despair and disquiet and disenchantment, the result of the unjust antipathy and condemnation toward her for matters over which she'd had no control: For being her father's daughter.
In the same chair her aunt had occupied on the day she exiled Christine from her home sat a woman not much older than Christine, though the lines etched on her ivory face near her mouth and bracketing her nose made her look older. The somber tones of her black silk mourning gown sapped any morsel of color from her cheeks, making her appear even more like a ghost. Strands of dark auburn hair were tightly bound back in a bun, adding to the severity of the overall picture presented. Yet the weary eyes of light, vivid green that appraised her two uninvited guests were most assuredly those of Georgiana and surprisingly held none of the animosity to which Christine was accustomed.
"Christine Daaé," her cousin said quietly. "So, you have returned to us."
Uncertain how to respond or address a family member with whom she had never been familiar, Christine simply stared. Her cousin looked to her left. "And you have brought someone with you…?"
She found her voice. "This is Mademoiselle Giry, a dear friend."
Meg inclined her head toward the Mistress of Greenwich Hall in civil greeting.
"Please…" She motioned to the sofa. "Have a seat. You will take tea with me?"
Christine hesitated with confusion, never having believed she would be welcomed to this place. Indeed, it was as if Georgiana expected her arrival.
A maid, different from the one who showed them inside, approached her mistress. Georgiana spoke in an undertone to her servant, words Christine could not hear. The young woman nodded in a subservient manner and, casting a curious glance to Meg and Christine, left the room.
"You must tell me what you have been doing with yourself these many years."
Christine stared with disbelief. Surely, Georgiana quipped in mockery. Surely she had known what became of the unwanted and unloved ward unceremoniously foisted upon her vindictive mother and cruel spawn … but, perhaps she had not known. Her cousins were not present on the day her aunt sent Christine from Greenwich Hall and might have been told nothing, not that they would have been interested enough to inquire.
So why the sudden show of interest now?
As though Georgiana sensed Christine's train of thought, she waved a dismissive hand. "You needn't tell me if you have no wish to. We were hardly considerate of your feelings during your time here. How you must have come to despise us! I can only offer the pretext that as a young girl I followed the example of my mother, though I realize that is no excuse for the pain we caused…" She sighed and shook her head. "Geoff was ofttimes a beast; he frightened me if I did not follow his lead and behave as badly as he demanded. In truth, I feared my brother and what harm he could do to me."
Christine struggled to absorb this surprising bit of information, stunned that Georgiana would share at all – the entire situation bizarre…to sit in social politeness with one of her former tormentors in a parlor of the gloomy manor from which she had been cast aside and cast out…
She willed bitter memories to subside, stronger now that she again sat within these walls, and forced her mind to remain in the present.
"Was?"
"Geoff died in a hunting accident shortly after his seventeenth birthday. Mother passed on precisely two years after that."
"Oh. I see."
She could not offer sincere condolences, though certainly such civility was expected. Like Georgiana, not once had Geoff treated her with even a scrap of kindness, but it gave her no relief to learn of his demise either. And to die so young, without having fully lived was tragic.
Tea arrived, brought in by the second maid, and postponed their conversation. Georgiana poured and offered a cup and saucer of fine, delicate china to Christine and Meg in turn. What Christine assumed to be a ladies' maid by her mode of dress, different from the black uniforms of the rest of the staff, came into the chamber shortly after that carrying a rolled up parcel in both arms.
"My mother sensed that one day you might return, especially in those last months when her illness caused her mind to wander between the past and present with more frequency," Georgiana explained as she motioned for the maid to approach Christine. "She instructed I was to give this to you."
Christine stared wide-eyed, tea untouched, and leaned over to set saucer and cup on the low table so as to receive the wrapped bundle, apprehensive of what it might contain. She untied the twine holding the sturdy piece of material in place, nervously plucking at both as if it might conceal hidden pins or blades ready to cause injury.
Once the package unfurled, revealing what lay within, hot tears rushed to her eyes. Tears not caused by pain but by a deep sentiment that engulfed her heart with warm feeling and brought her back to a wretchedly short period of her girlhood when life was simple and happy and carefree.
"Papa's violin," she barely whispered, her fingers giving the battered case a gentle caress.
She had thought the special instrument that once lulled her to sleep and accompanied her in song and dance lost forever – stolen or abandoned – certainly not kept by a woman who detested music in her home and abhorred all Christine's father had been, including the child he had sired. Instead, her aunt kept the violin for Christine, the very idea that she would do such a thing baffling to the mind.
"It was all your father had in his possession that my mother was given once he died," Georgiana went on to explain.
Needing to see, to assure herself that this was not some cruel hoax and she would find the case empty, Christine struggled to unsnap buckles that had become stiff with age and opened the protective cover that creaked from neglect. She inhaled another gasp as the late afternoon sunlight streaming in from the gap between curtains caught the gleam of reddish-brown polished wood.
It was there! Papa's violin. In her hands ….
Another gentle caress over the elegant body and taut strings, and she closed the case, her arms protectively covering the top as if it might be wrested from her in the next moment.
The locket, she'd been given, to remind her of her mother…
And now she had a little piece of Papa as well.
Against her will, the tears broke free of her lashes. Not wishing to appear weak, she used one hand to quickly swipe at her cheeks with her fingertips, never letting go of the case.
"Thank you, for this," she managed to say at last. "When I came here today, I never expected anything, and certainly not this."
"What did you expect?" Georgiana inquired in an offhand manner. "You must have had a reason for making this visit."
Christine shook her head, finding it difficult to articulate what she herself did not understand. "In truth, I'm not entirely certain. The ability to put the past behind me by confronting it, I suppose."
"Hmm…" From where she sat directly across, Georgiana studied her. "The truth is, Christine, that you will be all of what remains of our family. My husband of two years passed on last spring, and soon I, too, will join him."
Speechless, Christine could only stare after such a shocking statement.
"My physician gives me the remainder of the year, perhaps into the next." She gave a weary, indifferent wave of one frail, ringed hand, the picture of a woman who had come to terms with her mortality.
"I…don't know what to say... I'm sorry for what you have suffered."
It seemed an irony after the many torments Christine endured by her cousin's hand to say such words, even by rote of what was socially expected. All along she had bitterly presumed that her Belmonte cousins enjoyed a life of plenty, with nary a care in the world. How bizarre to learn their fate was opposite of any such benefits. Even with their bounty of wealth and privilege, they also had known hardship …
"I do not tell you this to gain your pity," Georgiana snipped, a hint of the old disgust in her voice. "I have no children to inherit the legacy. This was my mother's ancestral home, and when I am gone, Greenwich Hall will be yours."
Christine's eyes widened with her cousin's startling declaration.
"Oh, but – I don't want it," she was quick to refuse, every horror suffered coming like a tidal wave to flood her mind. She would rather raze these walls to the ground than make a home within them.
"Nonetheless, it will be yours, and I have instructed my attorney to hand it over to you when I am gone. I have no wish to see my family home go up for auction, but do with it what you will." Wearily, Georgiana settled back against her chair as if the revelation exhausted her, and again Christine noted how the illness had taken its toll. Her porcelain skin was not simply fair – it was ashen, her lips bloodless.
One realization made all else dim in the light of what Georgiana told her.
"You said, this was your mother's family home," Christine breathed in astonishment, always having assumed the manor a legacy passed down to her aunt's husband, having been too young to know the details in those days and never once informed. "Then – it was my mother's home as well?"
"Yes, of course. I was too young to remember her, but until she married your father, Greenwich Hall was her home. My mother loved her young sister dearly and spoke of her quite often, in fondness and in bitterness. She considered it a betrayal when she abandoned her family to elope with your father."
Christine struggled to make sense of all she had never known.
"It is why she treated you so harshly, she told me later. To see you reminded her of Aunt Lizbet; she said you favored her in many ways."
Why then, if she had been a constant reminder of her beloved sister, did her aunt behave toward Christine with such utter contempt and ill regard, never once with kindness or love? She shook her head a little in puzzlement at questions that could find no answers, the one who held their secret long passed from this world.
"I wonder, if you wouldn't mind – might I see her room?"
"Of course. Though I am uncertain as to what state you will find it. My mother never used the bedchamber after your mother left, for guests or otherwise, and once I inherited the estate, I never found the need. Gladys, if you will…"
"Yes, miss."
"Gladys will show you to the chamber and escort you to the door afterward. I must take my leave of you. For what it is worth, Christine, I am pleased to see that you have fared well and the years have been kind to you."
Christine could contradict those absurd words spoken in polite ignorance, could inform Georgiana just what perdition she endured, but what was the point? Her cousin had also been a child at the time and had nothing to do with Christine's miserable fate at Lindenwood; that was all on Aunt Hildegard.
Final words were exchanged, awkward in their presentation, and though Christine realized that in all likelihood she would never again see her estranged cousin, she could offer no more than the common courtesy of a farewell, along with another word of thanks for returning Papa's violin.
As she and Meg followed Gladys up the staircase to the second floor, her friend whispered in an aside, "That wasn't so bad, was it? I would venture to guess it turned out much better than you anticipated."
"Yes, quite," Christine said offhandedly, every muscle tensing as they drew near the closed door of what Christine would always recall as 'the red room.'
In the locked room of red and gold furnishings with its pale red, silk walls, the restless ghost of a deceased ancestor was reputed to walk the floors in the darkest of night. There her aunt locked Christine after darkness fell – twice – when she had done something unforgivable in her eyes. Just as her cousins once imprisoned Christine in the attic above, first regaling her with ghostly tales of the Harvest Monster, her aunt frightened her with talk of a spirit in whose rooms she must stay, to learn her lesson of being good and obedient. Though thankfully at least Aunt Hildegard had lit the lamp to a low flame and not left Christine in utter darkness. Yet such a small respite did not alleviate her fear at the time - the shadows twisting and alive in the corners outside the small light where she huddled - and Christine understood Georgiana's words to be true: the daughter had repeated the cruel example of her mother.
And now Georgiana seemed repentant and resolved to make amends. Perhaps, before death had taken her, Aunt Hildegard hoped to do the same. The unexpected gift Christine had been given proof of that.
She clutched Papa's violin case to her breast, holding to it like a lifeline as she walked past the red room and struggled to push aside the tormenting memories of those two endless nights locked within its chamber.
They approached a second corridor, walking half its length to another closed door. Gladys slipped one of the keys into the lock and opened it.
The air here was stale. Heavy damask curtains were drawn against the outside light, with white dustcovers draped over the furniture, diverse shapes of ghosts from a forgotten life. Only the large canopied, four-poster bed that claimed predominance in the room had been left untouched. Sprigs of wildflowers atop thin bars of gold and olive green decorated the faded wallpaper, and a plush rug lay spread out over the floor, near the dark green bed hangings coated in dust.
Drawn to the one uncovered item in the room, she pulled back the bed curtain – surprised to find a thick, soft coverlet spread out on top, as if its owner would soon return to pull down the sheets and find slumber there. Pillows of rose, gold, and green embroidered in slipcovers with lilacs and roses lay perfectly positioned at the head. She laid down the violin and brought one close, tentatively breathing in the aroma and sensing beneath the mustiness a faint trace of lilac and the sweet tang of dead roses.
Her mother's scent? Her favorite flowers? Perhaps her handiwork?
Tears filmed her eyes as she traced with a fingertip the delicate stitching and once more stood befuddled, this time to find that not every room in Greenwich Hall brought a dismal sense of loneliness and despair. She had been too young to remember her mother, but the little girl inside clung to these remnants of what little there was to tell the story, grateful to be given this opportunity for fond sentiments...
The entire time, what amounted to minutes, Meg remained by the window with the curtain pulled aside and looked out over the manicured lawn, as if she sensed Christine needed time alone with her melancholy thoughts. And though she would love to explore this abandoned chamber in more depth, perhaps search to see if any additional trace of her mother could be found here, the time had come to depart for Thornfield, Madame Giry having issued the order for Meg to be back by supper. Meg had quietly groaned at the directive, but Christine silently envied her friend. How she would have loved a mother's concerned interference in her own life...
Had Christine but known what awaited upon their return and in the days thereafter, she might have been sorely tempted to send Meg back in the carriage alone and lock herself inside her mother's girlhood chamber, to keep refuge there.
xXx
The dissonance of high-pitched laughter grated against Christine's ears as they neared the parlor, the hushed murmur of voices attesting that the guests had gathered there to await the summons to dinner as was the usual standard.
"I should go check on Adrienne."
Before she could make her escape, Meg firmly clutched her arm. "Oh, no you don't, Christine Daaé. I have been at Thornfield long enough to know that at this time of the evening the child is with her nursemaid. I return home day after tomorrow and haven't a clue when we'll see each other again, unless you were to come to Paris, of course. Which would be splendid. But you seem to like your work here, so I suppose there's no use in trying to talk you into abandoning it a third time…" She paused with lifted brow, as if she might make the attempt then sighed in defeat. "Simply ignore the old shrew if she gets on your nerves or is again nasty toward you, and let us spend what time there is left together."
Meg had no need to offer the reminder that her visit was approaching its end. Both women had been dismayed when a messenger arrived from Paris this morning with word from the management that repairs were completed earlier than expected and they wanted their cast back at the start of the work week. With their time together sadly cut short, Christine grudgingly relented and allowed Meg to pull her by the hand into the parlor, as if they were again children.
Madame Giry sat in one of two chairs there, La Carlotta and the Vicomte taking up the sofa. Meg took the remaining chair her mother nodded to as a directive, which left Christine no alternative but to sit next to Raoul, who had risen to his feet as a courtesy the moment she and Meg entered the room.
"Mademoiselle Giry, Mademoiselle Daaé…" His tone went a shade softer when addressing Christine, and his curious gaze dropped to the instrument case she held. "I trust your outing was successful?"
"Yes, quite," Christine agreed, wondering how he learned of their visit to Greenwich Hall since she'd told no one.
She took a place at the end of the sofa, the Vicomte reclaiming his seat in the middle, the shrew glaring at Christine from the opposite end. With the three of them sitting upon the hard upholstered cushion, there was little room to move about without brushing against him, and Christine sat stiffly, with both hands atop Papa's violin case, holding it protectively on her lap.
"Yes, well, as I was saying," Carlotta declared with a little sniff. "The child ees born to take the stage. Her recounting of the monster put the chills een my spine. It brought me to recall a night similar – a harvest moon one autumn, many years ago, at a fair in the city. I was but a child, of course…"
Christine and Meg exchanged looks and Meg rolled her eyes and shook her head slightly. Though the diva appeared to be in her early forties, she often tried to pass herself off as a woman in her latter twenties.
Assured that every eye was focused upon her, Carlotta sat back and took a leisurely sip of her drink before continuing her tale. "Eet was a bitter cold night with a strong wind – how you say? A gale," she immediately answered herself. "That being the only reason my companion and I went into the foul tent where the freak was on dee-splay. I shudder to recall the memory." And visibly she did, pressing a hand to the pink froth of ruffles near her ample breast. "Inside– oh! The most repulsive sight – a boy – eef he could be called that. More animal than human. Wearing soiled and tattered clothes and sitting on the ground in a cage, like the beast he was. 'The Devil's Child,' the banner over the tent said. His face, eet was a mistake – a monster's face, twisted and grotesque – much like the poem the girl recited. My escort nearly had to carry me out, I was so overcome by the horror…"
"Your escort," Meg put in when Carlotta paused for breath. "But I thought you were only a child. My, but they must conduct courtships early in Italy."
Madame Giry cast a pointed look her daughter's way but gave no reprimand. Carlotta screwed up her face in a dark scowl and her lips into a pout.
"You call me a liar, Meg Giry? I did not say my homeland – in thees country it happen, in France, and I was only a girl, yes, but the boys they look with interest, even then." She let out a laugh that tried to be modest but failed miserably.
Christine paid scant attention to the rising discord, disgusted by the diva's pitiless recounting of the tragic boy and her own stab at self importance. Her gaze wandered across the room to the entryway, and she inhaled a soft breath to notice a shadowed figure that stood just outside the door of the dim corridor – tall and familiar. He stood in partial profile, no more than a silhouette, but there was no doubt as to his identity. Her eyes widened when she realized he had been listening, and her face warmed with embarrassment for the accidental host of these undeserving guests, or at least the one.
He abruptly turned and disappeared, catching Madame Giry's attention as well by the swift glance she cast toward the open door.
"Was that the Maestro?" Carlotta pondered, also looking in that direction. "But why he leave without a greeting? He can be quite reserved, yes? Still, with all that money, I suppose he can do as he likes." She let out another light squeal of laughter, the only one moved to amusement, the others clearly ill at ease by what had just transpired.
Christine cast the pretentious woman an incredulous glance, barely able to cover her aversion to such unbelievable arrogance, and rose to her feet, hugging the violin case close to her breasts. Could the diva not see the mask he wore and realize such tales were better left told elsewhere or not at all?
"If you'll excuse me," she addressed the group, "I must speak with the Maestro."
Barely noting Meg's concerned expression and the Vicomte's aggrieved one, she hurried past them and exited the chamber. Looking both ways down the corridor, she saw her objective making a rapid pace toward the corridor that led to the music room.
"Maestro, one moment – please," she beseeched softly and strode as quickly as she was able to where he had stopped and turned, waiting for her. He wore the full black mask, the waistcoat beneath his frock coat also black and embroidered with dark maroon thread, a dark ascot at his throat - his entire appearance as if his wish was to become one with the shadows and disappear from sight.
"Mademoiselle Daaé," he greeted, his voice velvet soft with an acidic bite. "Based on previous words shared I would have thought you above such spiteful discourse. Or does your penchant for kindheartedness not extend to those hapless souls considered far beneath the human race?"
He abruptly looked beyond her then swore beneath his breath. Before she could inquire what new matter added to his ire or look over her shoulder to see who must have entered the corridor, he clamped a hand above her elbow and ducked with her into the nearest room, closing the door behind them. Only then did he release her.
To her shock, they stood inside a walk-in linen closet. Tablecloths and linens as well as implements to keep the manor tidy were stocked on shelves at either side; brooms, mops, and pails in a distant corner. The room was long and narrow but large enough to move a few steps and not feel too crowded. An arced window spread out like a ladies' fan was set high in the wall and let in what little remained of the daylight.
"They were not my words," she argued quietly, taking up where they had been interrupted, having no need to ask what he previously accused her of this time. "In case it escaped your notice, I left the parlor. I did not find the diva's story to my liking."
"Ah, yes. You did express an aversion to the absurd legend of the Harvest Monster, finding that creature to be a fright, and I would assume the same goes for all those unfortunate enough to be cast into his mold."
"Comparing some tragic boy to a frightful legend – it is hardly the same." She sighed in exasperation. "Your assessment is untrue and not at all what I feel, monsieur – how you do twist the meaning of my words!" Collecting herself, recalling that he was her employer, she hastened to say, "I only meant that I did not initiate the conversation, and simply because I was a hapless victim to such parlor talk does not mean I agreed with what that woman had to say."
"Hapless victim," he snorted softly, his tone mocking. "You were as engrossed in that harridan's tale as every fool in there!"
His words were not false, and Christine briefly cast her troubled gaze to his shoes, not bothering to ask what so utterly vexed him about a simple recounting of a disfigured child; the mask that gleamed from his face answer enough.
He let out a forceful exhalation of breath and paused, as if trying to regain his calm. His eyes dropped to what she held.
"Why do you carry that violin case? Is it yours?"
Reminded of her treasure and her reason to seek him out, she lifted hopeful eyes to his assessing ones. "It was my father's. I went to Greenwich Hall today."
The chill leaked from his eyes and a glimmer of warmth again brought them to a golden glow. "Did you?"
She nodded and smiled. "Meg accompanied me to the manor. It went better than expected, though was still quite awkward. But I feel as if a burden has been lifted off my shoulders, one I have carried since childhood."
"Then I am pleased for you."
His words came sincere, his earlier ire with the imprudent tale all but forgotten, and she felt better prepared to issue her request. She had deliberated over the idea during the entire drive back to Thornfield, and though it would be difficult, she felt it the safest measure to take.
"I wish to ask for a favor," she began then hesitated, wondering where she got the gall after what had just transpired. For surely, he would see it that way...
He narrowed his eyes at her silence and brusquely nodded for her to go on.
Gathering courage, she pulled the case from her body where she'd been hugging it, looked fondly down at it one more time then held it out to him.
"Please, if you would put this somewhere safe. After the theft of my mirror, I don't feel comfortable leaving Papa's violin inside my bedchamber. At least, not until the thief is caught." Though she felt certain that Hazel Bleu was the culprit and wondered why no one else took the idea seriously, since the woman was still employed there and had not been sacked.
It was a moment before he spoke. "You are entrusting this instrument into my care, though I am responsible for the loss of your mirror?"
"You are not responsible," she countered.
"My household. My staff."
She exhaled a soft breath. "You have a deep appreciation for music and all things musical. I trust you to keep Papa's violin safe."
"You trust me…" He turned her words over in reflection, as if they were a locked puzzle box he'd been presented for which he had no key.
"Yes, of course."
"What exactly have I done to earn such trust?"
Did he jest with her? She looked hard at him, but he seemed quite earnest in his lack of understanding.
"You gave me aid when I needed it, you have encouraged me in my art, and you gave me back a part of my life I thought forever lost to me."
"Ah. Your voice."
She flinched. "No, my father. In so doing, I now have this to remember him by, when before I had nothing."
He nodded, taking the proffered leather case into his hands before looking back into her eyes. Though the room had gradually grown dimmer with twilight on the horizon, she felt the force of his gaze as though it were tangible and might cause her to collapse. Nervously, she braced herself for what more he would say.
"Have you reconsidered?"
She had no need to ask him to clarify his question and lifted her chin.
"Have you?"
His lips thinned beneath the mask at her quick retort. "One request can hardly equate with the other. I ask for magnificence. You seek horror."
She stood her ground. "A matter of opinion. What you believe to be magnificence, I view as a terror, and while what you shield beneath the mask might not be called magnificent, I truly doubt it is as horrific as you portend it to be."
Where she had gotten the chutzpah to speak so boldly, she could not say, though he often did request forthright speech from her. Perhaps it came from at last facing her fear of Greenwich Hall. Perhaps it was simply a need to understand as well as to be understood. Whatever the case, she did not back down or offer apology.
Christine knew he would never relent to her part of their non-existent bargain she had created, but oddly enough neither could she seem to refrain from pushing him to that brink of surrender.
His brow lifted as shown by the shift of his mask. "Careful…if you draw too near the flame you cannot expect to come away without getting scalded."
She winced at the memory of her recent burns. He huffed a low, exasperated snort.
"You have no concept of what you speak, mademoiselle. None whatsoever. It is best to refrain where you have not been well-versed. As a teacher I would have thought you to know better."
His persistence to color her in the unflattering light of ignorance only stiffened her spine.
"That remains to be seen, Maestro. You seem to think me naïve and foolish with regard to sensitive matters, but I may surprise you if given half the chance."
"And yet…" He leaned in close, his words silken and low, with a definitive undertone of warning. "When handed the vile information on the proverbial silver platter, you have shown little capacity to acknowledge its truth."
A shiver raced up her spine, not entirely due to his blatant act of intimidation.
"Its truth?" she breathed in confusion and shook her head a little. "What truth?"
"Come now, mademoiselle, you have proven your intelligence on a number of occasions. Surely the revelation cannot be so far beyond your grasp?"
He was taunting her, speaking in riddles as was his wont. His eyes appeared pained but almost desperate in the twilight-blue shadow of the room, as if he hoped she might uncover the mystery without his having to admit to it…while his tone came cynical bearing an edge that defied any attempt, even warned against it. As if he both anticipated she would uncover the truth, whatever that truth might be, and at the same time feared her discovery, intent on dissuading her.
The path she walked upon diverged into two: One well lit, enabling her to continue along, safe and unaware, and leave things as they were – untouched and undiscovered… the other path undefined and shrouded by mystery and darkness.
Treasures lay buried in the darkness.
But to find them, one had to be willing to confront the many dangers concealed along the way, those hidden in the shadows...
And those in full view.
The Maestro had never once done her physical harm, had only given her assistance in every way conceivable. Yet he was danger personified - and could wound her heart and soul with nothing more than the lash of his fiery tongue or the shield of his icy indifference. A man well steeped in mystery, and she sensed the mask only a diminutive part of his masquerade...
Did he wish her to uncover the man few knew or saw? Is that what he asked of her? She could see no other meaning behind his words.
It was rare that Christine Daaé could refuse a challenge, when it did not involve her song. And the path darkly taken promised to be the one most worthwhile.
Only seconds had elapsed since he issued his bizarre dare, and mindful of his intent and expectant gaze never leaving her befuddled one, Christine forced scattered thoughts to align into a cohesive pattern, thinking over what she had learned.
They spoke of his mask and what lay behind his refusal to remove it. He'd been furious with the diva's recounting of an encounter at a carnival freak show that happened many years ago during the harvest moon …
No. There was something more, something that beckoned just beyond her reach.
He implied that she had been spoon fed the information, and she thought further back to what the housekeeper told her of the Maestro's childhood. His mother was a vicious woman, heartless and cruel to her young son, forcing him to cover his face with a mask. He ran away and did not return for many years. He never went without a mask in all the time he had been master at Thornfield…
He ran away.
For many years.
A boy of six.
But where could such a child go...?
Her eyes widened as a thought sharpened with clarity in her mind, and she lifted her stunned gaze to his eyes that burned in the semi-darkness.
"Ah, and so once more the light begins to dawn."
His words derided her but did not restrain her from speaking.
"You," she nearly whispered. "The boy at the fair."
"Brava, mademoiselle," he responded just as softly. "And you say they do not scorn and ridicule me!" He let out a huff of disparaging laughter. "The Devil's Child – an apt title, would you not agree?"
The shock of her discovery left Christine speechless.
"But there is more," he took a step closer, so that she had to lift her head to keep visual contact with him, his eyes of hypnotic flame not releasing her from their hold. "More to uncover, if you dare."
"I'm sorry." They were the only words, gentle and sincere, that she could form or think to say.
He scowled and took a quick step back. "Spare me your pity! I do not require it. That pathetic scrap of a boy is long gone. But perhaps I should take pity on you and clear up what mystery remains …?" He cocked his head slightly, pretending to consider, then shook it. "I think not. Consider it a prize to be earned, my dear. Only then, perhaps, you will understand my reasoning and never again seek after that which you would have no sane wish to perceive."
Wearily she shook her head at yet another of his acerbic puzzles. "I am not certain what you want of me."
"Simply to look at the entire picture that has been laid out before you, as you would when you paint a landscape and discern its shapes and colors. Only then can you unveil the true depth of all that lies before you and find the answer in full, if you are willing..." At her continued blank stare, he sighed. "I will give you this: the key lies in events of past days. Once you understand, we will talk more on the subject then."
With those enigmatic words, the Master of Thornfield turned on his heel and exited the room, leaving Christine standing there, alone, and blinking after him in a cloud of uncertain confusion.
Feeling unbalanced by all that occurred, as if his swift departure had sucked the air from the small chamber, she took a shaky step backward, her shoulder hitting against a sack propped on the edge of the shelf. Turning quickly with hands upraised in a vain attempt to save it from crashing to the ground, she also dislodged a coil of thin rope that unfurled and likewise descended. Caught on something, it did not hit the floor like the white powder that had burst open near her feet, but dangled from the shelf…
In horror, she stared at the tied end which formed a wide loop in the shape of a noose.
xXx
A/N: Oh dear, what will Christine uncover…I guess time will tell. ;-)
Thank you again for the lovely reviews! Next up, more of A Phantom's Blood.