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charleygirlTitle: On the Roof of the Opera Populaire
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 3018
Rating: G
Genre: General, Romance, Fluff
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae, Raoul de Chagny
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: A sporano, an Opera Ghost and too much doctored punch.
Author's Notes: This is my first full-blown Phantom fic, and I'm still getting to know the characters. It's mainly stage musical based, with a hint of Leroux, and takes place roughly between Music of the Night and Il Muto in a slightly alternative universe.
ON THE ROOF OF THE OPERA POPULAIRE
It was during a rare lull in the proceedings that Christine heard it: the sad lament of a lone violin, its song unfamiliar but sweeping, soaring pain held within its notes making her eyes involuntarily fill with tears.
Glancing around her, she wondered whether she was imagining things. No one else gave any indication that they had heard the ethereal music; they were all too busy around the buffet table, filling their plates and sharing toasts in glasses of punch which tasted strange and had made her feel rather light-headed. Meg was deep in conversation with one of the new members of the chorus, a young man who was obviously more than a little interested in her; in a corner of the stage Carlotta held court, the managers and Piangi fawning around. Christine felt quite suddenly very alone in the crowd. Raoul had mentioned that he might pop in for a drink but there had been no sign of him so far.
Taking another sip of the peculiar punch, she listened. The violin’s song was still there. Only one person could be making such beautiful music, and that was the only member of the company who had not been invited to the party. After all, who would choose to make merry with a ghost?
Christine abandoned her glass and followed the sound of the strings, her feet carrying her swiftly from the raucous chatter of the auditorium. She wove her way between giggly dancers and inebriated stagehands, barely hearing Meg as she called her name. It was more than a fortnight since she had seen her teacher, since the night of the gala when he had at last shown himself to her, revealing that he was not an angel at all but a living, breathing man – albeit one with a terrible secret. Though she had expected to be disgusted at the mere thought of him, at the deception he had practised for so long, Christine found herself missing his presence. The fleeting enjoyment she felt when Raoul took her out for dinner and dancing could not compensate for the loss of her strange companion.
In her dressing room there was no trace of him, no sign that the mirror had been recently opened. She tried and failed to find the catch which turned the glass on its pivot and gave the frame a petulant kick. It did not move, and she merely succeeded in stubbing her toe. Frowning, she listened once again, and concluded with no little surprise that the music was coming from above her rather than below. Somehow, it was pure and clear, as though the player were sitting mere feet from her. Abandoning her room, she let her feet guide her through the corridors of the opera house, moving more by instinct than design.
The mournful song led her upwards, further than she had ever been before, forcing her to negotiate narrow passageways and tiny, winding staircases not intended for those encumbered by heavy skirts. So long did her journey take that she almost became convinced that it would never end, or if it did then her quarry would be gone by the time she reached her destination, wherever that might be. At last, when her legs were wobbly from so much climbing, she emerged through a small, innocuous door onto the wide expanse that was the roof of the Opera Populaire.
The leads were bathed in an eerie glow, an odd combination of moonlight and the yellow flames from the gas lamps around the parapet. At first she thought she was alone but for the ghostly music, but then she caught movement from the corner of her eye, in the patch of darkness beneath the great statue of Apollo and the muses which crowned the building. Someone was there, though they were trying very hard not to be seen.
“Angel?” Christine called hesitantly. “Angel, are you there?”
The bow slid across the strings in a violent, discordant scale, ending the song abruptly. He did not speak, but she knew that he had heard her.
She stepped forwards, away from the doorway, finding the little path which wound around the edge of the leads. “Angel, where have you been?” she asked. “Every evening I have waited for you, but when I called you gave me no answer, and I couldn’t open the mirror. I was... I was worried about you.”
There was a long silence. She waited, but received not a word in response. Then, just as she was about to give up and reluctantly return to the festivities below, he said quietly,
“Forgive me, my dear. I had thought that after our last encounter you might not wish to see me again.”
Christine looked at her feet, unsure how to respond. She had been scared that night, yes, and hopelessly confused; her success at the gala and the revelation that her Angel of Music was not what she believed him to be had thrown her mind into a whirl. When she returned to the surface she had wanted nothing more than to run and hide, shutting herself away in her apartment and opening the door to no one. But finally having time to reflect upon everything that had happened she realised that, no matter who – or what – he was, she could not abandon her teacher, the man who had comforted her and kept her sane when the grief from the loss of her father almost crushed her.
“I was frightened,” she said, as the image of his disfigured features, contorted in fury, flashed before her eyes. She felt again the cold, hard surface of his mask in her hand as she tore it from his face. “I will not deny that. I was overwhelmed. You took me by surprise; I did not know what to do. I did not mean to...” She swallowed. “I should not have done what I did – I should have controlled my curiosity. It was wrong of me. But you lied to me, Angel. You made me feel foolish for believing in a girlish dream.”
There was the whisper of a sigh on the breeze. “I am sorry, child.” He moved, and she could see in the gaslight the silhouette of his seated form, the folds of his cloak and the wide brim of the hat he wore tilted over his face. “But would you have wanted to know me had I come to you as I am? Would you not have screamed and run away as so many have before you?”
“Perhaps,” she admitted. “But I am here now.” The air was cold so high up – she rubbed her upper arms briskly, wishing she had thought to put on a coat. A little unsteadily, she made her way around the narrow ledge to where he sat – she waited expectantly, and after a moment he moved aside to make room for her. She settled herself, noticing that he kept a reasonable distance between them. It was strange feeling, to be beside him in this way, to accept him as a person rather than a disembodied voice. “Do you often come up here?” she asked him.
“Only when I need to think and the activity below makes such contemplation impossible. As indeed it does tonight.”
“There is a party, to celebrate the end of Hannibal.”
“So I believe. The noise is audible even five cellars down.” The annoyance in his voice was obvious.
Christine could not suppress a giggle. “It is rather... lively.”
“That is one way of putting it.” Presented as she was with the unblemished left side of his face, she thought that he might almost be called handsome as he glanced slightly towards her, his visible eyebrow arched quizzically. Handsome, that was, if one could forget what lay behind the mask... “Were you not enjoying yourself?”
“It was a little too lively for me,” she confessed, and then, to her extreme mortification, she hiccupped.
This time, the corner of his mouth quirked upwards. “So I see.”
Christine flushed bright red, clapping a hand over her mouth. “I only had two glasses of punch. Or was it three? I don’t know what was in it, but it did rather make the room spin.”
Her companion looked amused, but said nothing, for which she was grateful. Feeling awkward, and embarrassed, she stood and moved to the edge of the parapet, gazing out at the lights of the city, sparkling in the darkness. Just at that moment she thought that Paris had been sprinkled with fairy dust, it glittered so. Resting her hands on the stone ledge she leaned over for a better look. “How wonderful,” she breathed. “Is it not beautiful?”
“Indeed it is. And the view is even better from the top of the Notre Dame.”
“Oh, have you been there? Father always intended to take me, but I was afraid that I might run into Quasimodo.” Christine leaned a little further, so that she could see directly into the Place de l’Opera below them. It was busy, even at such a late hour. “Look!” she cried, pointing. “There is a carriage with the de Chagny coat of arms. It must be the Comte coming to see Sorelli.”
“Quite possibly. Christine, come away from there – you will fall.” His voice was stern now, the way it always was during her lessons when he thought she was not concentrating sufficiently, but she paid him no heed.
“Don’t be silly,” she told him. He was quite wrong – why on earth should she fall? It felt as though she could fly... in fact, all she had to do was just spread her wings and leap...
Christine threw her arms wide, launching herself into empty space. There was a shout behind her and then a scream of shock and panic that she realised belatedly was her own as she felt herself fall, forwards, right over the edge!
She flailed, trying to find something to cling onto. The ground, a very, very long way below, came rushing up to meet her with sickening speed. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to brace herself for the inevitable impact, and desperately began to pray.
I’m sorry, Papa, I’m sorry... Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name...
The crash never came. The silence was deafening.
Gradually, Christine became aware that she was being held tightly by a pair of strong arms. Shaking with terror, she curled into them, burying her face in the chest of her rescuer as his hand gently stroked her hair. It felt comfortable, it felt safe. It felt right.
“I think it is time you went home to bed, child,” a familiar, melodic voice said softly. She opened her eyes, and gasped as she found herself looking up at the bone-white surface of a porcelain mask, a dark, hypnotic gaze meeting hers. How could she have forgotten that her companion was the Phantom of the Opera?
He had evidently noticed her shock, as his mouth twitched and he immediately put her back on her feet, stepping away to retrieve the fedora which must have fallen from his head when he leapt to catch her. He made to pick it up, but Christine was too quick for him – scooping it from the floor, she pulled it on over her curls. It was much too big, and she laughed as she had to lift the brim from her eyes.
“Christine,” he said in a dangerous tone, and held out a hand, a gesture which clearly said Give it back.
She ignored the warning, instead reaching out impulsively and capturing his hand in hers. Surprisingly, she found she did not shudder at his touch, though the long, elegant fingers were as cold as ice.
“Dance with me,” she said, and amazed herself with her boldness.
“No.” Allowing her to keep possession of his hat for the moment, he tried to pull away, but she held on tight. He sighed. “Christine, you are drunk.”
“I am not. I’m just a little... merry.” She giggled and tugged on his hand, drawing him towards the flat expanse of roof behind Apollo. “I want to dance,” she told him stubbornly. “I want my angel to dance with me.”
“Angels do not dance,” he said impatiently. “They do not know how.”
“Well, then, I shall teach you!” she declared, flashing him a brilliant smile and wondering why she felt quite dizzy when she was standing still. “I shall be the teacher for once – it will be fun!”
Her angel looked at her as though the word ‘fun’ was not one usually in his vocabulary. Christine removed his hat and set it back on his head, sending his face into shadow. As she took the hand she still held and placed it lightly in the small of her back, he flinched, and again would have moved away from her had her grip not been firm. Taking his other hand, she raised her head to look him in the eye. Again she felt light-headed as his strange, mismatched gaze met hers.
“Now,” she said, “Just follow me.”
A hint of amusement laced his voice now as she began to lead him in a slow waltz, sure of the steps despite the sudden fog in her brain. “My dear, I may be almost ignorant of social niceties, but I am sure it is the man who is meant to lead.”
In the absence of any music, Christine was singing to herself, but stopped to answer him though her feet led them onwards. “Oh – Meg and I taught ourselves the steps from watching the dancers at the Masquerade ball. Because I’m so much taller, I had to be the man.”
“Have you been forcing your vicomte to dance the female part?” he enquired a few moments later, and she jumped guiltily before she reasoned that of course he would know she had been out with Raoul. He knew everything that happened within the opera house.
“Raoul already knows how to waltz,” she said, “and he’s not very good. He treads on my toes. And he’s not ‘my’ vicomte, he’s just a friend.”
He said nothing in response to that, instead showing an incredible ability to master the dance as he quite suddenly took the lead from her, whirling her around the rooftop in perfect time until she felt quite breathless. The light as it hit the jet beading on his cloak dazzled her as they spun round and round beneath the stars. In that moment, it seemed as if there was no one else in the world but the two of them, caught up in their silent song.
At last, he slowed, releasing her with a graceful bow. Christine dropped a wobbly curtsey in reply, and he had to raise her carefully before she toppled backwards into an inelegant heap. She found herself face to face with him, their noses almost touching. It was strange how interesting she found his chin, and those rather bloated, misshapen lips...
“Christine!”
They both jumped at the new voice which disturbed the night air. Somewhere nearby a clock struck midnight and Christine felt inexplicably like Cinderella, forced to flee the ball as her dress and coach returned to their mundane origins, the magic spent.
“It’s Raoul,” she whispered, and the visible side of her angel’s face crumpled into a scowl which matched that of his mask. “He must have come looking for me.”
He was moving away from her, towards the shadows. “We will resume your lessons tomorrow,” he said, and it almost seemed as though his voice was fading along with his presence. “You must be ready to take on the Countess in Il Muto.”
“But, Angel, Carlotta has been cast as the Countess! I am no more than the pageboy.” Tears pricked her eyes again as she recalled the humiliation she had felt when the parts were announced. To be raised to prima donna one day only to find herself relegated to a silent role the next had been heartbreaking. She knew that with Carlotta in the company she could expect little recognition, but the gala had been such a triumph! Surely she deserved more than the role of Serafimo.
“I am aware of the casting.” He sounded angry now, and Christine suppressed a shiver, telling herself that it was just the chill of the wind. “Those two fools who call themselves managers have not taken my advice, but they will learn. If they wish to remain in my theatre they must learn!” His tone softened. “Now, go home, child, and rest. The night air is not good for your voice.”
“Yes, Angel,” she said, but even before she spoke she knew that he was gone. She heard footsteps behind her and turned to see the door that led back into the opera house open and Raoul come through it. He looked a little dishevelled, as though he had been running around the building searching for her.
“Little Lotte, there you are!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Are you all right? What on earth are you doing up here?”
“I wanted to come and look at the stars. They are beautiful, do you not think so? I could almost reach out and touch them - ” Christine twirled around, her eyes searching the heavens, and then her stomach lurched. She quickly covered her mouth. “Oh, Raoul, I feel sick...”
Raoul chuckled and shook his head. “Were you drinking that punch? I overheard one of the stagehands telling another the ‘extra ingredients’ he’d added to it – the stuff’s lethal. Come on, I’ll take you home.”
She let him usher her to the door, one arm solicitously around her. As she glanced back across the rooftop she thought she heard a voice on the breeze, a voice singing Goodnight, Christine...
Raoul frowned. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
He shook his head again. “Nothing. I must have imagined it.”
Christine smiled, glad of the darkness as she followed him back down the winding stairs.
Goodnight, Angel...
FIN
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 3018
Rating: G
Genre: General, Romance, Fluff
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae, Raoul de Chagny
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: A sporano, an Opera Ghost and too much doctored punch.
Author's Notes: This is my first full-blown Phantom fic, and I'm still getting to know the characters. It's mainly stage musical based, with a hint of Leroux, and takes place roughly between Music of the Night and Il Muto in a slightly alternative universe.
It was during a rare lull in the proceedings that Christine heard it: the sad lament of a lone violin, its song unfamiliar but sweeping, soaring pain held within its notes making her eyes involuntarily fill with tears.
Glancing around her, she wondered whether she was imagining things. No one else gave any indication that they had heard the ethereal music; they were all too busy around the buffet table, filling their plates and sharing toasts in glasses of punch which tasted strange and had made her feel rather light-headed. Meg was deep in conversation with one of the new members of the chorus, a young man who was obviously more than a little interested in her; in a corner of the stage Carlotta held court, the managers and Piangi fawning around. Christine felt quite suddenly very alone in the crowd. Raoul had mentioned that he might pop in for a drink but there had been no sign of him so far.
Taking another sip of the peculiar punch, she listened. The violin’s song was still there. Only one person could be making such beautiful music, and that was the only member of the company who had not been invited to the party. After all, who would choose to make merry with a ghost?
Christine abandoned her glass and followed the sound of the strings, her feet carrying her swiftly from the raucous chatter of the auditorium. She wove her way between giggly dancers and inebriated stagehands, barely hearing Meg as she called her name. It was more than a fortnight since she had seen her teacher, since the night of the gala when he had at last shown himself to her, revealing that he was not an angel at all but a living, breathing man – albeit one with a terrible secret. Though she had expected to be disgusted at the mere thought of him, at the deception he had practised for so long, Christine found herself missing his presence. The fleeting enjoyment she felt when Raoul took her out for dinner and dancing could not compensate for the loss of her strange companion.
In her dressing room there was no trace of him, no sign that the mirror had been recently opened. She tried and failed to find the catch which turned the glass on its pivot and gave the frame a petulant kick. It did not move, and she merely succeeded in stubbing her toe. Frowning, she listened once again, and concluded with no little surprise that the music was coming from above her rather than below. Somehow, it was pure and clear, as though the player were sitting mere feet from her. Abandoning her room, she let her feet guide her through the corridors of the opera house, moving more by instinct than design.
The mournful song led her upwards, further than she had ever been before, forcing her to negotiate narrow passageways and tiny, winding staircases not intended for those encumbered by heavy skirts. So long did her journey take that she almost became convinced that it would never end, or if it did then her quarry would be gone by the time she reached her destination, wherever that might be. At last, when her legs were wobbly from so much climbing, she emerged through a small, innocuous door onto the wide expanse that was the roof of the Opera Populaire.
The leads were bathed in an eerie glow, an odd combination of moonlight and the yellow flames from the gas lamps around the parapet. At first she thought she was alone but for the ghostly music, but then she caught movement from the corner of her eye, in the patch of darkness beneath the great statue of Apollo and the muses which crowned the building. Someone was there, though they were trying very hard not to be seen.
“Angel?” Christine called hesitantly. “Angel, are you there?”
The bow slid across the strings in a violent, discordant scale, ending the song abruptly. He did not speak, but she knew that he had heard her.
She stepped forwards, away from the doorway, finding the little path which wound around the edge of the leads. “Angel, where have you been?” she asked. “Every evening I have waited for you, but when I called you gave me no answer, and I couldn’t open the mirror. I was... I was worried about you.”
There was a long silence. She waited, but received not a word in response. Then, just as she was about to give up and reluctantly return to the festivities below, he said quietly,
“Forgive me, my dear. I had thought that after our last encounter you might not wish to see me again.”
Christine looked at her feet, unsure how to respond. She had been scared that night, yes, and hopelessly confused; her success at the gala and the revelation that her Angel of Music was not what she believed him to be had thrown her mind into a whirl. When she returned to the surface she had wanted nothing more than to run and hide, shutting herself away in her apartment and opening the door to no one. But finally having time to reflect upon everything that had happened she realised that, no matter who – or what – he was, she could not abandon her teacher, the man who had comforted her and kept her sane when the grief from the loss of her father almost crushed her.
“I was frightened,” she said, as the image of his disfigured features, contorted in fury, flashed before her eyes. She felt again the cold, hard surface of his mask in her hand as she tore it from his face. “I will not deny that. I was overwhelmed. You took me by surprise; I did not know what to do. I did not mean to...” She swallowed. “I should not have done what I did – I should have controlled my curiosity. It was wrong of me. But you lied to me, Angel. You made me feel foolish for believing in a girlish dream.”
There was the whisper of a sigh on the breeze. “I am sorry, child.” He moved, and she could see in the gaslight the silhouette of his seated form, the folds of his cloak and the wide brim of the hat he wore tilted over his face. “But would you have wanted to know me had I come to you as I am? Would you not have screamed and run away as so many have before you?”
“Perhaps,” she admitted. “But I am here now.” The air was cold so high up – she rubbed her upper arms briskly, wishing she had thought to put on a coat. A little unsteadily, she made her way around the narrow ledge to where he sat – she waited expectantly, and after a moment he moved aside to make room for her. She settled herself, noticing that he kept a reasonable distance between them. It was strange feeling, to be beside him in this way, to accept him as a person rather than a disembodied voice. “Do you often come up here?” she asked him.
“Only when I need to think and the activity below makes such contemplation impossible. As indeed it does tonight.”
“There is a party, to celebrate the end of Hannibal.”
“So I believe. The noise is audible even five cellars down.” The annoyance in his voice was obvious.
Christine could not suppress a giggle. “It is rather... lively.”
“That is one way of putting it.” Presented as she was with the unblemished left side of his face, she thought that he might almost be called handsome as he glanced slightly towards her, his visible eyebrow arched quizzically. Handsome, that was, if one could forget what lay behind the mask... “Were you not enjoying yourself?”
“It was a little too lively for me,” she confessed, and then, to her extreme mortification, she hiccupped.
This time, the corner of his mouth quirked upwards. “So I see.”
Christine flushed bright red, clapping a hand over her mouth. “I only had two glasses of punch. Or was it three? I don’t know what was in it, but it did rather make the room spin.”
Her companion looked amused, but said nothing, for which she was grateful. Feeling awkward, and embarrassed, she stood and moved to the edge of the parapet, gazing out at the lights of the city, sparkling in the darkness. Just at that moment she thought that Paris had been sprinkled with fairy dust, it glittered so. Resting her hands on the stone ledge she leaned over for a better look. “How wonderful,” she breathed. “Is it not beautiful?”
“Indeed it is. And the view is even better from the top of the Notre Dame.”
“Oh, have you been there? Father always intended to take me, but I was afraid that I might run into Quasimodo.” Christine leaned a little further, so that she could see directly into the Place de l’Opera below them. It was busy, even at such a late hour. “Look!” she cried, pointing. “There is a carriage with the de Chagny coat of arms. It must be the Comte coming to see Sorelli.”
“Quite possibly. Christine, come away from there – you will fall.” His voice was stern now, the way it always was during her lessons when he thought she was not concentrating sufficiently, but she paid him no heed.
“Don’t be silly,” she told him. He was quite wrong – why on earth should she fall? It felt as though she could fly... in fact, all she had to do was just spread her wings and leap...
Christine threw her arms wide, launching herself into empty space. There was a shout behind her and then a scream of shock and panic that she realised belatedly was her own as she felt herself fall, forwards, right over the edge!
She flailed, trying to find something to cling onto. The ground, a very, very long way below, came rushing up to meet her with sickening speed. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to brace herself for the inevitable impact, and desperately began to pray.
I’m sorry, Papa, I’m sorry... Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name...
The crash never came. The silence was deafening.
Gradually, Christine became aware that she was being held tightly by a pair of strong arms. Shaking with terror, she curled into them, burying her face in the chest of her rescuer as his hand gently stroked her hair. It felt comfortable, it felt safe. It felt right.
“I think it is time you went home to bed, child,” a familiar, melodic voice said softly. She opened her eyes, and gasped as she found herself looking up at the bone-white surface of a porcelain mask, a dark, hypnotic gaze meeting hers. How could she have forgotten that her companion was the Phantom of the Opera?
He had evidently noticed her shock, as his mouth twitched and he immediately put her back on her feet, stepping away to retrieve the fedora which must have fallen from his head when he leapt to catch her. He made to pick it up, but Christine was too quick for him – scooping it from the floor, she pulled it on over her curls. It was much too big, and she laughed as she had to lift the brim from her eyes.
“Christine,” he said in a dangerous tone, and held out a hand, a gesture which clearly said Give it back.
She ignored the warning, instead reaching out impulsively and capturing his hand in hers. Surprisingly, she found she did not shudder at his touch, though the long, elegant fingers were as cold as ice.
“Dance with me,” she said, and amazed herself with her boldness.
“No.” Allowing her to keep possession of his hat for the moment, he tried to pull away, but she held on tight. He sighed. “Christine, you are drunk.”
“I am not. I’m just a little... merry.” She giggled and tugged on his hand, drawing him towards the flat expanse of roof behind Apollo. “I want to dance,” she told him stubbornly. “I want my angel to dance with me.”
“Angels do not dance,” he said impatiently. “They do not know how.”
“Well, then, I shall teach you!” she declared, flashing him a brilliant smile and wondering why she felt quite dizzy when she was standing still. “I shall be the teacher for once – it will be fun!”
Her angel looked at her as though the word ‘fun’ was not one usually in his vocabulary. Christine removed his hat and set it back on his head, sending his face into shadow. As she took the hand she still held and placed it lightly in the small of her back, he flinched, and again would have moved away from her had her grip not been firm. Taking his other hand, she raised her head to look him in the eye. Again she felt light-headed as his strange, mismatched gaze met hers.
“Now,” she said, “Just follow me.”
A hint of amusement laced his voice now as she began to lead him in a slow waltz, sure of the steps despite the sudden fog in her brain. “My dear, I may be almost ignorant of social niceties, but I am sure it is the man who is meant to lead.”
In the absence of any music, Christine was singing to herself, but stopped to answer him though her feet led them onwards. “Oh – Meg and I taught ourselves the steps from watching the dancers at the Masquerade ball. Because I’m so much taller, I had to be the man.”
“Have you been forcing your vicomte to dance the female part?” he enquired a few moments later, and she jumped guiltily before she reasoned that of course he would know she had been out with Raoul. He knew everything that happened within the opera house.
“Raoul already knows how to waltz,” she said, “and he’s not very good. He treads on my toes. And he’s not ‘my’ vicomte, he’s just a friend.”
He said nothing in response to that, instead showing an incredible ability to master the dance as he quite suddenly took the lead from her, whirling her around the rooftop in perfect time until she felt quite breathless. The light as it hit the jet beading on his cloak dazzled her as they spun round and round beneath the stars. In that moment, it seemed as if there was no one else in the world but the two of them, caught up in their silent song.
At last, he slowed, releasing her with a graceful bow. Christine dropped a wobbly curtsey in reply, and he had to raise her carefully before she toppled backwards into an inelegant heap. She found herself face to face with him, their noses almost touching. It was strange how interesting she found his chin, and those rather bloated, misshapen lips...
“Christine!”
They both jumped at the new voice which disturbed the night air. Somewhere nearby a clock struck midnight and Christine felt inexplicably like Cinderella, forced to flee the ball as her dress and coach returned to their mundane origins, the magic spent.
“It’s Raoul,” she whispered, and the visible side of her angel’s face crumpled into a scowl which matched that of his mask. “He must have come looking for me.”
He was moving away from her, towards the shadows. “We will resume your lessons tomorrow,” he said, and it almost seemed as though his voice was fading along with his presence. “You must be ready to take on the Countess in Il Muto.”
“But, Angel, Carlotta has been cast as the Countess! I am no more than the pageboy.” Tears pricked her eyes again as she recalled the humiliation she had felt when the parts were announced. To be raised to prima donna one day only to find herself relegated to a silent role the next had been heartbreaking. She knew that with Carlotta in the company she could expect little recognition, but the gala had been such a triumph! Surely she deserved more than the role of Serafimo.
“I am aware of the casting.” He sounded angry now, and Christine suppressed a shiver, telling herself that it was just the chill of the wind. “Those two fools who call themselves managers have not taken my advice, but they will learn. If they wish to remain in my theatre they must learn!” His tone softened. “Now, go home, child, and rest. The night air is not good for your voice.”
“Yes, Angel,” she said, but even before she spoke she knew that he was gone. She heard footsteps behind her and turned to see the door that led back into the opera house open and Raoul come through it. He looked a little dishevelled, as though he had been running around the building searching for her.
“Little Lotte, there you are!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Are you all right? What on earth are you doing up here?”
“I wanted to come and look at the stars. They are beautiful, do you not think so? I could almost reach out and touch them - ” Christine twirled around, her eyes searching the heavens, and then her stomach lurched. She quickly covered her mouth. “Oh, Raoul, I feel sick...”
Raoul chuckled and shook his head. “Were you drinking that punch? I overheard one of the stagehands telling another the ‘extra ingredients’ he’d added to it – the stuff’s lethal. Come on, I’ll take you home.”
She let him usher her to the door, one arm solicitously around her. As she glanced back across the rooftop she thought she heard a voice on the breeze, a voice singing Goodnight, Christine...
Raoul frowned. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
He shook his head again. “Nothing. I must have imagined it.”
Christine smiled, glad of the darkness as she followed him back down the winding stairs.
Goodnight, Angel...
FIN
