A/N: A nice long chapter to make up for the wait. :) - enjoy! And, as always, thank you for the reviews!
Previously - At Greenwich Hall, the house where she spent six months of her nightmarish childhood - Christine found a surprise waiting for her: her father's violin that oddly her aunt had kept for her...later, she escapes an unpleasant discussion at Thornfield, one which Erik also overhears. After drawing her away in private, through their small confrontation she learns to her shock that he was the small boy from the carnival freak show that was being discussed. When the matter of his mask and her voice again comes up - (That she will sing for him only if he shows her his face, a safeguard for her not to sing, knowing he never will) - he then challenges her that there is more to the mystery of what she's uncovered, if she dares...
Chapter XXII
.
A keening wind shook the tall casements, causing the panes to rattle fiercely in their wooden holdings, as if the very glass might suddenly crack and explode into smithereens. The dark green chintz curtains with their draping swags had been untied and were drawn against the diamond panes and the threatening sky. A cheery fire blazed in the hearth, but neither consideration helped to douse Christine's rising apprehension…
And the subject matter being discussed among those gathered with her did nothing to calm her nerves.
"All legends stem from some form of truth," Meg insisted, "whether from the entirety of it or only a fraction."
"Are you asking me to believe that there is an actual ghost residing at the opera house?" the Vicomte questioned in incredulous amusement.
Meg tilted her chin upward in mild defense. "Stranger things have happened. There are sometimes moments in this life unexplained. But, no matter. I meant only that somewhere in the annals of history, perhaps there was a man who suffered some horrible fate at the opera house, the story evolving over the years into a legend that made him into a ghost. One that our present-day Phantom overheard and decided to become."
"Our Phantom?" Carlotta fairly screeched. "No! I have notheeng to do with the fiend. Why must we always speak of him?" she ended on a little whine.
"Say that is true. For what purpose do you believe this troublemaker would take up the legend?" Raoul asked Meg, ignoring the diva's standard protestations.
The redhead gave an irritated flick of her painted fan and began to wave it briskly over her flushed face.
"Revenge? Boredom? A rabble-rouser or even someone who wants control?" Meg gave a little shrug. "Look to those who have or have had an issue with the management including the previous managers, as well as anyone else with some degree of authority, like Monsieur Reyer, for instance, or even my mother, and you might find our ghost."
"An interesting concept, mademoiselle," he said, his blue eyes filled with amazement, as if surprised to find that Meg had an intelligent thought in her head. "However, from what little I have seen during my visits to the theatre, I fear the list will be a long one."
"No doubt. But at least it's a place to start."
"Indeed. And mark my words, I mean to find that so-called Phantom, whatever it takes."
His gaze remained on Meg several seconds more before turning to the woman who sat sipping her tea and watching her daughter and the Vicomte with narrowed eyes.
"Based on that idea, what can you tell me, Madame?"
"What is it you wish to know?" she returned guardedly.
"The names of those men who have been sacked or recently quit, as well as anyone with their job intact who might pose a problem or have already done so."
Madame sighed and leaned back in her chair, though as always her spine remained ramrod straight. "You will need to speak with Monsieur Stiles. He is in charge of the crew. As for those in the male chorus, I can think of only one. Johan Roquefort. He was dismissed in the spring for his continual tardiness to rehearsals, appearing to the last one nearly in his cups. But I can tell you that he moved away from Paris with his family. Anything beyond a year I will have to consult my books." Her thin lips turned down grimly at the corners. "As for those presently working at the theatre who have created problems, only one name comes to mind. Joseph Buquet. Ever since his brother, also a scene shifter, was found dead one morning in an accident unexplained, he has been bitter and drinks overly much, even while at his post."
"Why has he not been dismissed?"
Madame gave an expressive shrug. "Who can tell? Perhaps the managers pity the fool? Simon was his only family. It is not my place to dismiss Buquet, though often I have wished to have that power. On two occasions I found him in the girls' dormitories in the late evening and ordered him away."
Raoul's brow furrowed in thought. "You said 'unexplained'. What happened to Simon Buquet?"
"He was found above stage, hanging from the neck by a rope. What he was doing there at night, in an empty auditorium, remains a mystery. Some say he took his own life due to a love he had that went unrequited. Others, that it was an accident, and somehow while in the flies he became tangled in the ropes there and fell. But there are many more who believe it was the work of the Phantom of the Opera, meting out punishment to those who refuse to obey his word."
A clap of thunder suddenly shook the air, rattling the casements in its fury and causing Christine to give a fearful little start. The saucer shook in her hand, the tea in the teacup spilling over onto it. Already gone cold, she set it down on the table near her.
"Christine, are you alright?" Meg asked in concern. "Your face is as white as the moon."
What moon? came the dismal thought as the storm continued to wreak havoc. "Yes, I'm fine. I was only startled."
But it was more than that; Madame's sinister recounting of the unfortunate worker reminded Christine of the horrid noose she had discovered through her clumsiness. She had deliberated if she should alert the Maestro, then reasoned the rope's purpose could have been a tool for hunting and nothing more. How it wound up in the storage closet was yet another mystery, but she was already at odds with the staff and did not wish to make matters worse.
His parting challenge the previous evening had not ceased to slowly spin inside her mind, causing her no end of frustration. Throughout spare moments of her day she tried to uncover the meaning of the full mystery with regard to him, but came up with nothing she did not already know...
"I beg pardon," came from the door, and all turned to see Madame Fairfax cross the threshold of the drawing room, a woman of similar age entering behind her.
A bright red headscarf covered the stranger's coal black hair, and huge hoops of gold hung from the large lobes of her ears. A fringed black shawl covered the shoulders of the cobalt blue dress she wore, water splotching the material as if she'd been caught in the storm. Her nut-brown face was lined with years of experience, her ebony eyes sharp with the knowledge of decades.
Christine had never seen anyone like her. She seemed like a character from a novel come to life, hardly real…
"The Maestro has asked me to convey his apologies that he could not join you on your last evening at Thornfield," Madame Fairfax explained. "However, he has arranged a night of special entertainment for all of you. This is Madame Ashkali. She is here to tell your fortunes."
A soft stir went up from those gathered there. Christine drew her brows together, troubled. Those at Lindenwood had warned of divination, citing it as a work of the devil and that soothsayers and mystics were a wicked lot to be avoided. Of course, they had forbidden everything in life that hinted of pleasure or fun. Still, Christine wasn't certain she would label tonight's attraction in those blithe terms…
She shared a glance with Meg, whose light blue eyes glistened with excitement.
Carlotta gave an approving smirk. "Finally – something to end ze boredom! You may enter," she said, as if she was mistress of the manor awarding permission to one beneath her station.
The gypsy, for that must be what she was, took a step forward and lifted her arm, palm up, her index finger extended toward them. Bangles of silver and copper jangled from her wrist and up toward her elbow.
"I must have complete privacy to attune to the spirits. I will meet with each of you, alone..." her black eyes took them in, one by one "…in the room that has been given by your host."
Without another word, she turned with a swish of her full skirts and exited the chamber.
"Room, what room?" Carlotta inquired.
"A parlor not far from this one," Madame Fairfax replied. "I will lead each of you there in turn."
Meg clasped her hands together in glee and span halfway in her chair to regard Christine.
"Oh, mon ami, it sounds like such a lark! Shall we go and see what the cards have to say to us?"
Christine fidgeted, ill at ease with the prospect. "I think, perhaps, I shall decline."
"Oh, but you must take part," Meg insisted then stood to her feet in firm decision. "I will go first, to show you that you have nothing to fear."
"Meg…" her mother warned, clearly not in favor of the evening's spectacle.
Her friend made a graceful turn, clasping her hands at her waist in eager supplication, her barely contained enthusiasm reminding Christine of Adrienne when she was hopeful and determined to obtain a coveted item – be it porcelain doll or stage play.
"Oh, please, Maman. It is only a bit of harmless fun to break the doldrums of a stormy night. Besides, the Maestro arranged the proceedings. Would it not be considered a slight against him if we didn't show our appreciation with his parting gift to us?"
Madame sighed wearily in reluctant surrender. "As long as you remember that is all it is, my dear. A bit of fun, as you put it."
"Of course."
And Meg was off with another smile, flitting to where Madame Fairfax waited.
Once the two departed, Raoul turned to Christine as if he might engage her in conversation but was interrupted as Carlotta brazenly sashayed across the room and took a seat beside him on the sofa, commanding his attention. She closed her fan and flirtatiously tapped his knee with it.
"I do so hope to see you in Paris again soon, Vicomte. Perhaps at ze opening of my new show?"
Christine shook her head a little at the woman's shameless vanity and self-importance. Did she never think of anyone but herself?
"I regret that I will be unable to attend due to plans made before I came to Thornfield," he said smoothly with a hint of apology in his tone. "Once I leave here tomorrow, I am visiting the home of an acquaintance who lives in the neighboring vicinity."
"Oh?" the diva frowned, eyebrows raised.
Christine was also surprised to hear it. With his determined avowal to catch the elusive Phantom of the Opera, what had been the subject matter of most of their parlor discussions, she would have thought he would bolt back to Paris without delay.
As if he heard her thoughts, Raoul directed a smile in Christine's direction. "A friend from University days fancies himself as something of a sleuth. He has a predilection for the works of Poe and might indeed have sought to be a detective like Dupin, if not for his familial duties. For all his boast and blather, he does have a keen mind and did solve a few minor mysteries during our years together there. A missing pocket watch. A secret uncovered, that sort of thing. And I wish to get his input with regard to the matter of the Phantom."
Carlotta made an impatient noise in her throat, something between a grunt and a groan before she caught herself and sent a cordial smile his way.
"Then you must bring him to ze opera," she insisted, and within the span of seconds, again brought the subject around to her favorite topic – herself – entirely monopolizing the conversation.
Christine tuned her out, more interested with her own little mystery. She was unfamiliar with the works of Poe but did know what a detective was, though she could never group herself into that esteemed category – but oddly the Maestro had awarded her that task, his whole manner odd when last he spoke to her.
He told her the events of past days were the key to discovery, though the understanding of such knowledge remained wretchedly obscure. What was she missing?
There was the play that upset him, specifically the scene with the revelation of the jackass, though she had eliminated that part and written in the diva's solo aria in its place.
Nonetheless, his absence in his private theatre at the time of Act 3 told its own story.
The ride to the cemetery had not seemed to upset him; nor did anything to do with that outing even relate to him, save for their detour to the cliff and his heartfelt admission that she had saved his life with her song. A shocking truth she had yet fully to accept…
Nor had he been upset when she repeatedly refused his persistent offer of vocal instruction, using his gentle and seductive persuasion instead. She could not admit then, even to herself, how wretchedly close she had come to surrender.
No, the only time he had been truly upset that day was to hear Adrienne cite her frightful little tale… and later, to discover the child's uncle trespassed where he had no right and been injured for his troubles.
Dismayed by her inability to unveil the mystery when she felt somehow she was on the keen edge of understanding, she wearily rested her cheek against her hand, elbow propped on the chair arm, and stared into the fire. What "more" did he refer to? What enlightenment to his riddle lay just beyond her grasp?
Meg returned a short time later, fairly dancing into the parlor.
"I am to be a prima ballerina," she exulted and laughed gaily, giving a fluid little twirl. "Oh, to dance the lead! It is what I have wished for my entire life!"
Madame Giry did not look pleased. "Only with many months of hard work, which includes being punctual to all practices, will you achieve such goals, Meg. Do not put your faith in fortunes told."
"Oh, yes, I know – but still, to hear the words spoken… And Maman, how could the gypsy have known I was a dancer? I never told her."
La Carlotta stood abruptly to her feet, her expression self-assured. "I will go next to see the gypsy and hear what marvelous wonders my future will bring."
Giving a flick of her open fan to close it, she held her head high as she strutted to the door and left with Madame Fairfax.
"That woman," Meg muttered and rolled her eyes taking the chair closest to Christine. She laid a hand on her sleeve as if to reveal a confidence. "After hearing my fortune, I cannot wait to hear what Madame Ashkali will say to you."
"I think I might have to decline."
They kept their voices low, the Vicomte having approached Madame Giry once Carlotta left, likely to grill Madame with more questions with regard to the Phantom.
"Oh, don't be such a silly goose," Meg chastised gently. "You were closeted inside that gloomy prison that called itself an orphanage far too long. I was fortunate that my stay was much shorter, having arrived only the year before you did. And I recall how after I left Lindenwood, it took weeks, even months, before I felt comfortable enough to allow myself to play and do all the frivolous things the other young ballet rats did. It took weeks before I would even smile – a stagehand dubbed me with the name of 'sad little mouse', though I do not think he meant it to be unkind."
"We are not children any longer, Meg. There needs to be structure in life –"
"Yes, but that doesn't mean you cannot allow yourself to have fun now and then."
"I do have fun, as time allows. I read. I draw."
Meg shook her head in exasperation. "That is not the kind of fun I meant, those pastimes all done in solitude. What of balls and dancing and social outings?"
Christine wryly laughed. "Yes, can you not see a governess in such a role? Besides, I know nothing of dancing."
An expression of remorse clouded Meg's face. "What was I thinking? These many days we have shared – I should have taught you!"
"You are hardly at fault, Meg. It is only recently that I've been able to walk again without pain."
Meg's brow cleared and she smiled. "Well, that's a good thing! And we do have tonight. Come then..." She stood to her feet and faced Christine, holding her hands out. "I will teach you."
"Meg," Christine laughed in mild disbelief, drawing further back against her chair. "Don't be absurd."
"Why not?" Meg scanned the area closest to them. "There is ample room."
"Now who's being a silly goose? Are you unaware there's no music?"
"You could always sing."
Christine shot Meg a warning look before casting her glance to the other two inhabitants in the room. They appeared not to notice.
"Come along, mon ami," Meg coaxed, her manner firm. "I have seen your eyes light up when I speak of the theatre and the balls that have been held there. I think you would like to try..."
"You are incorrigible," Christine muttered. "You really won't cease with your manipulations until I give in, will you?"
She wondered if Meg had been taking lessons from the Maestro.
"You do know me well," Meg grinned. "Living at the Opera House, I have learned to dig in my heels when I want something badly enough. I'm not the meek little weakling you knew at Lindenwood."
"Hardly meek," Christine countered, "and never a weakling. Oh, alright, if it will make you happy, since this is your last night here," she at last conceded, feeling quite foolish as she took hold of Meg's outstretched hands.
Once standing, she faced her friend. "Now what?"
"We clasp one hand and hold it out to the side and bent, like so…" Meg demonstrated. "And since I will play the part of the gentleman, I put my hand at your waist and you put your other hand on my shoulder. Now you simply follow my lead."
Meg hummed no tune in particular and made a few slow steps, one back, a slide to the side, then another forward. Christine did her best to follow. The first minutes were a lesson in endurance, and amid muted giggles of embarrassment when she inadvertently stepped on Meg's slipper again and again as Meg moved a little more swiftly and led them to cover a wider area, Christine almost pleaded to end the impromptu lesson.
"Oh, Meg, I'm hopeless," she laughed at her bumbling attempts.
"You cannot expect to become accomplished within minutes after you've only just started," Meg encouraged. "You're a teacher. You should know that."
"Yes, but your poor feet have taken so much abuse from mine."
"My poor feet take ten times the abuse daily at practice than your occasional stepping on my toes causes. Besides, I make a horrible lead."
Both women giggled like schoolgirls, so absorbed in the lesson, they failed to notice the Vicomte had moved from his chair until they almost barreled into him.
"Perhaps I can be of service?" he offered.
He grinned as they broke apart in sheepish apology, and Meg gave an embarrassed little giggle. Christine waited for Meg to accept his invitation then realized with a start he was looking at her.
"Oh, I don't think so," Christine quietly demurred.
Knowing that Meg had an interest in the Vicomte, she did not feel comfortable accepting his invitation.
"Oh, do go ahead, Christine," her friend surprised her by saying. Christine looked her way in questioning confusion, and Meg gave a little approving nod and reassuring smile, as if she'd heard Christine's qualms. "I am certain the Vicomte can provide a much better lead to help teach you than I can."
Christine was left with no choice as if given permission, he took her hand and drew her a shade closer, setting his other hand to her waist. Averting her eyes from his stare, she nervously focused them on his ascot instead.
Meg had ceased to hum and with no music it felt odd to be in rhythmic motion while this man touched her with such familiarity. The Vicomte was clearly skilled in the waltz. Christine's footsteps rarely stumbled, and yet with him clasping her waist and Meg standing off to the side, watching, it felt so…wrong. Gone was the frivolous and carefree manner that had inhabited her emotions when attempting the dance with her friend.
"I'm sorry," she began but before she could withdraw from his hold and explain a desire for rest, more of an excuse than a need, they heard footsteps enter the drawing room.
Christine turned with Raoul still holding her, to see Carlotta's maidservant, Maria, hurry into the room. Usually, the woman with the tightly pinned hair seemed calm. Only when her employer was upset did she become agitated, almost in a panic, as she was now.
"Maria," Christine asked, breaking away from Raoul. "Is anything wrong?"
"Oh, si, si – everything is wrong!" She threw her hands up near her head and scanned the room as if in search of something. "Have you seen my mistress's wrap? She sent me to fetch it."
Christine motioned to the chair where the salmon-colored silk lay.
"Will Senora Guidicelli not be joining us?" Raoul asked.
"No – she very upset…" Maria hesitated after grabbing the tasseled wrapper and darted a glance behind her, as though anxious she might be overheard. "She curse all gypsies – call them charlatans. Could you not hear her shouting as she went upstairs to her room?"
"Did something happen?" Christine asked the obvious.
Maria nodded, darting another look toward the open door before continuing. "I do not know all of what happen, but from what I hear my Mistress say, the gypsy tell her she will no longer sing. She say her time is up and she will do other things – away from the theatre."
"Oh my…" Christine murmured, feeling a wisp of pity. She could barely tolerate the diva's highhanded ways, but for a proud woman like La Carlotta, who seemed to live and breathe the opera, that news must have stung dreadfully.
"It couldn't have happened to anyone more deserving," Meg said beneath her breath.
"I must go," Maria said. "She will not be happy if I am slow to arrive."
Raoul stared pensively at the door through which the maidservant exited, almost at a run to do her mistress's bidding, then turned back to Meg and Christine.
"If you ladies don't mind," he darted a look toward Madame Giry, including her in his request, "I would like to visit the gypsy next."
Madame inclined her head. "I will not be joining in," she said resolutely.
"Of course," Christine replied when he again looked her way, also having no intention of taking part. She was surprised that the Vicomte seemed eager to take a turn, even if the night's bizarre entertainment was all in fun, as Meg believed. He did not seem the type to believe in any aspect of the supernatural, given his views on the Ghost that ruled the opera.
Once he departed, Christine turned instantly to her friend. "Why did you do that? Encourage me to dance with him," she clarified at Meg's clear confusion. "I thought that you…" Before she could speak of Meg's interest in the Vicomte, she recalled Madame sitting at the far end of the room and abruptly concluded her statement.
Meg also flicked her eyes quickly to her mother, who again flipped through the pages of the book she'd been reading, then grabbed Christine's hands and brought her toward the piano.
"Since you will no longer sing for us, will you play?" her friend asked a little too loudly.
Christine thought the idea absurd. She hardly was accomplished enough to provide after dinner entertainment - Meg knew she was no virtuoso, unlike the Maestro – but she took the bench, had no choice without making a scene, the pressure of Meg's hand on her shoulder pushing her steadily downward.
"Play," Meg whispered. "Just play anything."
Christine's fingers picked out the keys of a hymn, the storm in the background pealing out a rapid volley of rolling thunder as if in protest. Under the cover of the debatable music, Meg spoke.
"It is quite common at the balls for a lady to dance with more than one partner," she explained, and Christine wondered why Meg felt the need for such clandestine behavior to impart that information.
Her friend perched on the edge of the bench, and Christine scooted over, making room for her.
"He kissed my hand last night," she said in a lower tone.
Christine's brows sailed up at that, but she faced forward and did not stop playing.
"I have wanted to tell you all day, and since we are leaving in the morning, I felt this my only opportunity," Meg explained. "We simply found ourselves in the same corridor by no design, and he escorted me to the door of my room. I know I shouldn't make anything of it. All gentlemen kiss a lady's hand in greeting or farewell. It is the accepted rule, and in Paris, especially, they often kiss both cheeks…"
Christine did not know that, did not know anything of the 'accepted rules' of a society that everyone else so easily understood. Often of late she felt gauche and naïve when it came to such worldly matters of sophistication, especially during the evening parlor talks when the guests would bring up matters she could not comprehend, much less contribute toward. She frowned, a trace of bitter resentment toward all those at Lindenwood causing her mind and hands to stray and hit a discordant note.
Meg seemed not to notice or care, now waxing poetic about the Vicomte's ocean-blue eyes…
Thinking back to that breathtaking and troubling moment with the Maestro on the cliff by the sea, never far from the periphery of wandering thought, Christine pondered if a brief kiss on the lips was also commonplace in the accepted rules of the society where Meg now dwelled. Surely it meant nothing to him, since he never once referred to it, and she was foolish to think otherwise.
She was the governess; he was her master. The kiss had been no more than token gratitude, the Maestro caught up in relaying past events.
Raoul soon returned, his eyes alight with discovery. Meg's face went rosy, no doubt due to her recent disclosures, but she wasted no time in approaching him. Christine followed.
"Did you receive a good fortune?" Meg asked.
"It was…enlightening." He poured himself a drink from one of the crystal decanters provided on a small table.
"How so?"
He took a sip of his brandy and regarded Meg. "You were given the fortune that you would dance the lead. Madame Guidicelli was told she would no longer sing - and I was warned to stay far from Paris, that danger awaited me there, and I would be better served to leave France entirely. When I aired my doubts, she even went so far to say that I would find love in another country."
He chuckled at that, not noticing how Meg looked away, her manner almost sullen.
"I don't see what's so humorous about that," she argued.
"Permit me to explain. The gypsy must have overheard our conversation through the door before making her presence known to us. Think back, Miss Giry. You were speaking of your eagerness to return to the opera and dance, the diva had just gifted us with a song…"
Christine could not help note the forced manner in which he said the word.
"…And I had been relaying my plan to catch the Phantom in Paris." His attention swept to Christine. "I would be most interested to hear your fortune. If I recall correctly, you were speaking to Meg of your latest trials with teaching your young pupil. I would bet that the gypsy's words will relate to that in some manner."
Christine shook her head in mild apology. "I decided not to have my fortune told."
"Oh, but you must!" Meg insisted. "If the Vicomte is right, he may have found the gypsy's secret to her divination skills. Wouldn't you like to know the truth of it?"
"Not really."
"Christine," Meg touched her arm in reassurance. "There is nothing to fear. You simply pour some tea into a cup and drink it. She then studies the leaves at the bottom and reads them. No more than that."
Reading leaves of wet tea? Christine's eyes widened at the ludicrous idea.
"I would consider it a favor if you would take a turn and visit with her," the Vicomte inserted softly. "I would like to know if my theory is correct. As Miss Giry said, there's nothing to it really."
"It's only a bit of fun…"
With their soft, wheedling words continuing to chip away at her resolve and quietly beseeching eyes never wavering from her face, Christine finally threw up her hands in surrender.
"Oh, very well! But keep in mind, I am doing this under duress," she said the last with a laugh, not truly upset.
Besides, she could do with another cup of hot tea.
x
The room to which Madame Fairfax led her appeared to be a smaller parlor than the one she had just left, the décor suggesting it had been furnished for a lady. Like two thirds of the manor – including the forbidden south tower – it was a room Christine had never visited. One of many behind doors closed to her that she had never opened…
An inner chamber, this room held one window, the lightning flickering madly beyond its thin pale curtain. Christine clasped her hands more tightly in her skirts at the immediate answering roar of thunder and did a quick scan of the chamber.
Above the wainscoting of dark wood, the wallpaper was patterned with sprays of pink and red flowers and what appeared to be peacocks, the theme repeated in the tapestry pillows of a short sofa, able to seat only two people, and what she could see of an oriental folding screen that stood in a far corner. Ahead of her, the gypsy woman sat at a small cloth-covered round table designed to seat four comfortably. A silver tea set occupied the center, along with a three-armed candelabra. That, and the low fire in the hearth to her left cast the only light, giving the midst of the parlor a subdued glow while leaving the distant corners in shadows.
With one brown, be-ringed hand, Madame Ashkali motioned her forward to take the chair on the opposite side of the table.
Her confidence fading, Christine hesitated from drawing near, a sudden case of nerves compelling her to turn on her heel and leave with haste. Briefly she closed her eyes and shook away all childish fears – certainly the room wasn't truly dark, albeit gloomy, and as Meg said, the evening's entertainment was only a bit of fun…
Wasn't it?
She certainly did not believe that a stranger could foretell her future, or anyone else for that matter, and the knowledge helped clear her head and continue toward the table and the empty chair there.
The gypsy studied Christine head to lap, where her hands were tightly folded.
"What is your name, my dear?"
"Christine Daaé."
The woman's black eyes lit up with recognition. "Ah, so you are Christine! You are very young…"
Christine ignored the commonplace remark of appearing years younger than her age.
"You have heard of me?" she asked in surprise.
"After I told the Vicomte his future, he said he will not leave France and spoke of interests to keep him here. He spoke of a childhood friend and called her by name. Your name…"
Why on earth would he have mentioned her?
Troubled, Christine reflected on the startling admission and worried that she might have given Raoul the wrong impression. It surely had been a mistake to dance with him. Did he erroneously believe she had some special interest other than simple friendship? And she felt uncertain of even that – they had been children that summer by the sea, she barely six. So much time had elapsed; so many changes they had both undergone. They were not the same people, in life. In station. In thought. Indeed, they were almost strangers…
"He seems fond of you."
A peculiar expression came over the woman's face, her faint smile disappearing and her features growing somber. She glanced beyond Christine's shoulder then down to the table and hastily selected a cup which she sat in front of Christine, along with a porcelain jar that she could see at a glance contained tea leaves.
"Spoon leaves into the cup and pour water over them," the woman said, a bit gruffly. "Stir once."
Grateful the woman said no more on the subject of the Vicomte, Christine did as instructed and set the teapot back on the tray.
"Now drink."
Christine lifted the cup and lightly blew on it, taking a sip before setting it back on the saucer.
"You must drink all of it."
The tea was not piping hot, a shade stronger than warm, and it brought a soothing flush to her insides dispelling the chill that the storm had brought. Once finished, she set the cup back down. The gypsy took it, tilting it in her hands while she peered inside.
"Ah, I see a change in your future…"
Life was constantly filled with change, the words hardly prophetic.
"You withhold a great talent, one you must not conceal."
"I like to draw and paint," Christine offered.
"No, no – it is not that." The gypsy seemed exasperated with her reply, again looking beyond her, into the air, as if communing with an invisible force. "Something deeper, a part that you have kept concealed."
Christine held her breath in wary disbelief as the woman looked back into the teacup.
"There is nothing more," Christine said a bit apprehensively.
"You deceive yourself, mademoiselle," Madame Ashkali said quietly. "You have a talent you will not recognize, but will become an essential part of your future. To embrace it will bring true happiness. Otherwise, I cannot say what will happen…" She gave a little shrug and set the teacup down, her eyes again flicking beyond Christine's shoulder before returning to her face.
"I see."
Those words, so familiar - all the words spoken tonight to all the guests - seemed to fit a recognizable pattern. Nor did it escape her notice that the woman's manner of speech had changed with the prophecy, as if she were not the one speaking the words at all...
A strong suspicion shook Christine with such force that for a moment she sat speechless with the shock of it. She could scarcely believe it was so and did not conceive how it could even be possible.
And then, she thought she understood.
"If you will excuse me…"
Woodenly she rose from her chair and turned to face the wall behind and the tall folding screen that stood there.
"Mademoiselle, are you unwell?"
Christine ignored the gypsy and stared a moment into the shadowed part of the room before moving in that direction, her hands held tightly clasped and fidgeting at her waist.
"Mademoiselle!" the woman said a bit anxiously. "What are you doing?"
Without hesitation, Christine rounded the corner of the screen and stepped beyond it.
In that instant another mad flicker of lighting illumined the room with white and exposed golden eyes that stared hard at her from behind a black mask. He towered in the small enclosure, his lean form as tall as the barrier that had kept him concealed.
Their eyes – his intense, almost accusatory, hers distressed and questioning - held long moments in the oppressive silence, broken only by the distant howling wind and the rain striking the panes.
"Brava, mademoiselle," he said quietly. "How discerning of you. I commend you on your skill of deduction."
Trembling with affront and no small amount of righteous indignation, Christine regarded him with chin boldly lifted. Forgetting for the moment their difference in station, forgetting that he was her master and she comparable to nothing more than a servant.
"I will not ask what my fortune meant – the answer being quite obvious – and how you managed all of this remains a mystery. I sincerely doubt that gypsy woman could recall all of what you planned for her to relay to each and every one of us. But why would you do such a thing in the first place?"
The firelight beyond the screen emitted a dim orange glow, enough to see the mocking lift of his brow.
"I wished to give them a proper sendoff."
Without taking his riveting eyes off her, he raised his voice, "Madame Ashkali, you may go. Madame Hastings will give you a meal in the kitchen, as arranged, where you may wait out the storm."
Christine kept her silence until she heard the woman's heavy footsteps quickly exit the chamber.
"A proper sendoff? What was proper about it? The diva, perhaps, I can understand. She has been nothing but a thorn in everyone's side…"
He inclined his head in sardonic gratitude. "I am pleased my efforts met with your approval," he said dryly.
"However, I cannot understand why you should inform the Vicomte that he must leave France," she continued, thinking of Meg and her interest in Raoul. "Even deceiving him that it is perilous for him to return to Paris. Whyever would you do such a thing?"
"Whyever do you care?"
Something dangerous flickered in his eyes, and his lips pulled into a thin line beneath the dark mask. He took a step toward her, so that she had to lift her head to see his face. Her heart skipped a beat.
"More to the point, why did you not tell me that you made that boy's acquaintance long before he trespassed into Thornfield?" His voice was liquid silk wrapped around a blade.
She shook her head slightly. "Why do you despise him so? He has been nothing but gracious toward you –"
"Gracious?!"
"Yes – and why should it even matter that we met before? We were children then –"
"And this…"
To her profound shock, his gloved hands lifted to grab thick bunches of her long ringlets on either side of her head, beneath her jaw. He gave a little shake of his fists though did not pull hard enough to cause pain.
"…Is this for him?"
"I," she could barely draw breath, her words coming out in a swift gasp. "I don't know what you mean."
"Only after his accursed arrival did you wear your hair flowing down, about your shoulders. Like this."
Christine shook her head in utter confusion, strongly aware of his gloved hands tightly grasping her locks, his knuckles barely touching her jaw. A tingle ran along her scalp and traveled down her spine. The very air prickled with a strange undercurrent of electricity, as if the storm had moved indoors, while they continued to stare at one another, so close their breaths mingled. She struggled mightily to force thoughts to align with words, unable to break free from the mesmerizing command of his eyes.
"My hands. I could not handle the pins – I am aware it's not the proper appearance for a governess –"
"What do I care for such matters?" he fairly growled.
"But - I thought…" she whispered, her words a faint tremor as her lashes fell half-closed. "I don't understand,"
"Nor do I," his voice deepened in a rasp…
And suddenly his lips were on hers, his mouth taking full possession.
Nothing like the chaste kiss by the sea, this kiss demanded and seized. It gave no room for refusal – nor did she struggle to pull away. In a warm flood of shock mixed with no small amount of pleasure she found her lips moving against his with the same impassioned need, the edge of his stiff leather mask pressing hard into her skin.
He gave an impatient little growl that both unnerved and excited her.
Still gripping her hair, he moved her head to one side so that the mask was barely felt. His mouth slanted over hers, and she gave a little gasp as his hot tongue found purchase between her parted lips. A wave of dizzying heat washed through Christine as he sought to know her even deeper…
Slowly the Maestro pulled his head away though did not let go of his hold. Resting his forehead to hers, he clenched his teeth and spoke, his emotive voice a deep rumble that ran intensely through her veins –
"I should not have done that…. But by God, I'm not sorry!"
He remained motionless a moment longer, then swiftly released his grip on her and spun on his heel, exiting from behind the screen at the opposite end of where she stood.
Christine clasped a hand around her throat and pressed one palm to the wall in an effort to remain balanced. Leaning slightly toward it, she felt shaken beyond intelligent thought, her heart continuing to pound as if it might never retain its slow and steady beats.
In such a state, she dared not return to the parlor, though at some point she supposed she must, since Meg and the Vicomte awaited her findings.
She could not think beyond that, struggling only to compose her emotions into some acceptable order…
An impossibility when with eyes opened or closed, all she could see were eyes like twin flame, all she could feel were his cool lips on hers, swiftly warming with his passion, his body so close as to feel his heat washing over her…
His low parting words – a contradiction – completely mystified. First, a terse apology followed by a renouncement of all wrongdoing.
And though she had been taught, warned, badgered, and threatened that such illicit moments were sinful and wrong…
She was troubled even more that it never once felt that way.
xXx
A/N: And so, we have taken another wee bit of a turn…with an even sharper one yet to come. ;-) Hope you enjoyed it!