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charleygirlTitle: Beyond the Green Baize Door 13/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1638
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae, Madame Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Continued from Chapter 12. Christine faces the Phantom for the first time since that fateful morning...
WOUNDED LION
“I don’t wish to intrude.”
Christine hesitated in the doorway, feeling like a child up past her bedtime trying to join the grown-ups in conversation. Madame Giry fixed her with a stern glare, obviously divining that she had been followed; Christine, worried about her Angel, had seen the ballet mistress’s furtive behaviour as she descended to the props store in the cellars, somewhere she should surely have no business. Taking her chance, she slipped as quietly as she could through the trap door Madame Giry had unwittingly revealed, knowing that if anyone could lead her to the strange house by the underground lake it was that formidable lady.
And she had been proved right. Here she was, back at the scene of the most bewildering, frightening and yet beautiful night of her life. A shiver ran down the length of her spine, but she was unsure whether it was due to fear, cold or anticipation. There was her Angel of Music... no, no, it was apparent now more than ever that he was flesh and blood. Just a man, and a man who upon seeing her uttered a groan of dismay, covering his ravaged face with one hand. He looked... he looked embarrassed, she realised. His head was angled away from her and she only just caught the words he mumbled,
“Oh, Christine...”
Even now, after everything that had happened, her name sounded like music on his lips. Madame Giry stood, and crossed to her side. “We will talk about your wisdom in following me later,” she said quietly. “In the meantime, are you quite sure you want to do this? He is... well, you can see for yourself.”
Christine did see, casting her eye over the devastated library and the unkempt man in the chair. There was no sign of the regal, commanding Phantom here. In his place sat the very human creature who had wept as she timidly returned his mask. She nodded, and Madame Giry glided past her into the hall.
“I will be here if you need me,” she said, and closed the door behind her.
Silence reigned in the room for some time. Christine did not like to move from her position lest she damage something by crushing it accidentally underfoot. Her Angel... no, Erik, that was what Madame Giry called him. He had a name and she should use it; in all the time she had thought him a celestial messenger from her father it never occurred to her to ask what he was called. He sat still in the chair, deliberately not looking at her; she could see the tense muscles in his neck and jaw as he evidently struggled to retain his composure.
Eventually, she could stand it no longer and began to pick her way carefully towards him, gathering up discarded books as she went. By the time she reached him she had an impressive stack, balanced with both hands and tucked beneath her chin; she set it on the table at his elbow, hiding the crystal decanter and glass with its dregs of brandy from view.
“You should not have come,” he said hoarsely.
She regarded him, her head on one side. He looked so dreadfully tired; it would seem that the past two weeks had been no easier upon him than they had been for her. “Would you like me to go?” she asked. “I will do so if you wish.”
After a pause, he shook his head. She took the gesture as permission to remain and sat down in the little tapestry chair Madame Giry had vacated. As she did, he turned, thankfully keeping his hand over the right side of his face. Christine was grateful; she had not caught more than a glimpse of his deformity before he quickly covered it and been terrified far more by his anger, but she did not want to upset him by any involuntary reaction she might have to it now.
He looked at her with apparently genuine confusion. “Why did you come down here, Christine? Would you play Persephone with me?”
“You have missed our lessons,” she said. “I have never known you fail to keep our appointments; you have chided me for my tardiness more than once in the past. When I heard nothing from you I was worried.”
Erik blinked, incredulity in his mismatched eyes. “You were worried... about me?”
“Of course.” Impulsively, she laid her hand over the long, elegant fingers that rested on the arm of his chair. It was not until she touched his cold skin that she realised what she had done; instinctively she wanted to jerk away in shock, but forced herself not to move lest it seem like a rejection. “Should I not be?”
He peered at her hand warily, as though he thought it might bite him. “I would not have expected it, less deserved it. Our last encounter ended rather abruptly, did it not?”
Christine turned her gaze to the floor, feeling her cheeks burn as shame welled up within her at the recollection of that horrible morning after the gala. Though he had frightened her, made her for a few dreadful moments actually fear for her life, in the cold light of day when she had had time to consider her actions she could neither explain nor excuse what she had done. “We both made mistakes, I think. Angel - ”
“Please, Christine, don’t call me that.” The visible side of his face creased in pain. “I am no angel.”
“Then what shall I call you? Monsieur le Phantom? Maestro?” She glanced up at him shyly. “Erik?”
For several long seconds he just stared at her as if frozen. His eyes glittered in the gaslight and he swallowed hard; when he spoke his voice was husky. “I would... I would be honoured.”
“Thank you... Erik.” Christine smiled, and to her delight saw a glimmer of an answering smile twist the corner of his mouth before he stood abruptly, clearing his throat. He strode over to the piano, hands reaching for something on the rich cloth which covered the instrument, and when he turned to face her once more he was wearing his mask. Smoothing down his hair, he ruefully surveyed the devastation that surrounded him.
“Mon Dieu, this place is a mess,” he muttered, dropping to his haunches and beginning to pick up some of the crumpled sheets of manuscript paper which littered the rug. Christine fell to helping him, and between them they began to put the library to rights. She was surprised by how comfortable it felt, the silence between them companionable this time rather than foreboding. Eventually, she was sure she heard Erik humming under his breath and could not help but join in.
“I have neglected your tuition,” he said, taking the cushions she passed to him and replacing them on the sofa, which was standing again in its rightful spot before the fire. “We will resume your lessons tomorrow; you must be ready to take on the Countess in Il Muto.”
Christine paused as she folded an afghan and frowned. “But I’m not to play the Countess, Erik.” Angry tears prickled in her eyes as she remembered how humiliated she had felt when the parts were announced; how was it possible to descend from leading lady to a minor role so quickly? Carlotta’s triumphant smile had been enough to make her want to flee the stage, to hide somewhere dark and never come out.
“Not the Countess?” Erik had suddenly become very still, his fingers digging into the cushion he still held. “Then which role have you been assigned?”
“They cast me as Serafimo – the pageboy.”
“The mute pageboy?”
Christine nodded miserably. There was a loud ripping noise and she jumped; when she raised her head she realised that Erik had torn the fabric of the cushion’s damask cover almost in half. With a snarl he threw the thing aside, scattering feathers over the Persian rug, and whirled around, heading for a writing desk in the corner. Snatching up paper and pen, he called over his shoulder,
“Antoinette! I need you to deliver a note for me.”
The door opened and Madame Giry appeared, carrying a tea tray. She set it down on the side table and calmly began to pour three cups, for all the world as though she had not spent the last half an hour standing out in the hallway. Christine accepted the cup she was handed and watched as the ballet mistress took another to Erik. He ignored the tea, writing so furiously that the nib of his pen nearly tore right through the paper. The visible side of his face was thunderous; he looked as he had that morning when she pulled away his mask. Christine trembled, her cup rattling slightly in its saucer. This was not the Erik she wanted to see; it was not her gentle Angel of Music who stood there stabbing the pen into the ink pot with such alarming ferocity.
“What... what are you going to do?” she asked, but her voice emerged in a dry whisper and he did not hear her.
“To whom is this note addressed?” Madame Giry enquired.
“Those two dolts who believe they run my theatre! Daring to ignore my instructions...! They think they know better, but they will learn.” Erik straightened, and passed her the envelope. It was edged with black, just like mourning paper. He took up his tea. “Oh, they will learn, or they will have to deal with the consequences.”
Christine felt that strange shiver down her spine once more. There was more than a hint of danger in his tone, and she didn’t like it. Though the lion had been wounded, it seemed that he still knew how to roar.
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1638
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae, Madame Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Continued from Chapter 12. Christine faces the Phantom for the first time since that fateful morning...
WOUNDED LION
“I don’t wish to intrude.”
Christine hesitated in the doorway, feeling like a child up past her bedtime trying to join the grown-ups in conversation. Madame Giry fixed her with a stern glare, obviously divining that she had been followed; Christine, worried about her Angel, had seen the ballet mistress’s furtive behaviour as she descended to the props store in the cellars, somewhere she should surely have no business. Taking her chance, she slipped as quietly as she could through the trap door Madame Giry had unwittingly revealed, knowing that if anyone could lead her to the strange house by the underground lake it was that formidable lady.
And she had been proved right. Here she was, back at the scene of the most bewildering, frightening and yet beautiful night of her life. A shiver ran down the length of her spine, but she was unsure whether it was due to fear, cold or anticipation. There was her Angel of Music... no, no, it was apparent now more than ever that he was flesh and blood. Just a man, and a man who upon seeing her uttered a groan of dismay, covering his ravaged face with one hand. He looked... he looked embarrassed, she realised. His head was angled away from her and she only just caught the words he mumbled,
“Oh, Christine...”
Even now, after everything that had happened, her name sounded like music on his lips. Madame Giry stood, and crossed to her side. “We will talk about your wisdom in following me later,” she said quietly. “In the meantime, are you quite sure you want to do this? He is... well, you can see for yourself.”
Christine did see, casting her eye over the devastated library and the unkempt man in the chair. There was no sign of the regal, commanding Phantom here. In his place sat the very human creature who had wept as she timidly returned his mask. She nodded, and Madame Giry glided past her into the hall.
“I will be here if you need me,” she said, and closed the door behind her.
Silence reigned in the room for some time. Christine did not like to move from her position lest she damage something by crushing it accidentally underfoot. Her Angel... no, Erik, that was what Madame Giry called him. He had a name and she should use it; in all the time she had thought him a celestial messenger from her father it never occurred to her to ask what he was called. He sat still in the chair, deliberately not looking at her; she could see the tense muscles in his neck and jaw as he evidently struggled to retain his composure.
Eventually, she could stand it no longer and began to pick her way carefully towards him, gathering up discarded books as she went. By the time she reached him she had an impressive stack, balanced with both hands and tucked beneath her chin; she set it on the table at his elbow, hiding the crystal decanter and glass with its dregs of brandy from view.
“You should not have come,” he said hoarsely.
She regarded him, her head on one side. He looked so dreadfully tired; it would seem that the past two weeks had been no easier upon him than they had been for her. “Would you like me to go?” she asked. “I will do so if you wish.”
After a pause, he shook his head. She took the gesture as permission to remain and sat down in the little tapestry chair Madame Giry had vacated. As she did, he turned, thankfully keeping his hand over the right side of his face. Christine was grateful; she had not caught more than a glimpse of his deformity before he quickly covered it and been terrified far more by his anger, but she did not want to upset him by any involuntary reaction she might have to it now.
He looked at her with apparently genuine confusion. “Why did you come down here, Christine? Would you play Persephone with me?”
“You have missed our lessons,” she said. “I have never known you fail to keep our appointments; you have chided me for my tardiness more than once in the past. When I heard nothing from you I was worried.”
Erik blinked, incredulity in his mismatched eyes. “You were worried... about me?”
“Of course.” Impulsively, she laid her hand over the long, elegant fingers that rested on the arm of his chair. It was not until she touched his cold skin that she realised what she had done; instinctively she wanted to jerk away in shock, but forced herself not to move lest it seem like a rejection. “Should I not be?”
He peered at her hand warily, as though he thought it might bite him. “I would not have expected it, less deserved it. Our last encounter ended rather abruptly, did it not?”
Christine turned her gaze to the floor, feeling her cheeks burn as shame welled up within her at the recollection of that horrible morning after the gala. Though he had frightened her, made her for a few dreadful moments actually fear for her life, in the cold light of day when she had had time to consider her actions she could neither explain nor excuse what she had done. “We both made mistakes, I think. Angel - ”
“Please, Christine, don’t call me that.” The visible side of his face creased in pain. “I am no angel.”
“Then what shall I call you? Monsieur le Phantom? Maestro?” She glanced up at him shyly. “Erik?”
For several long seconds he just stared at her as if frozen. His eyes glittered in the gaslight and he swallowed hard; when he spoke his voice was husky. “I would... I would be honoured.”
“Thank you... Erik.” Christine smiled, and to her delight saw a glimmer of an answering smile twist the corner of his mouth before he stood abruptly, clearing his throat. He strode over to the piano, hands reaching for something on the rich cloth which covered the instrument, and when he turned to face her once more he was wearing his mask. Smoothing down his hair, he ruefully surveyed the devastation that surrounded him.
“Mon Dieu, this place is a mess,” he muttered, dropping to his haunches and beginning to pick up some of the crumpled sheets of manuscript paper which littered the rug. Christine fell to helping him, and between them they began to put the library to rights. She was surprised by how comfortable it felt, the silence between them companionable this time rather than foreboding. Eventually, she was sure she heard Erik humming under his breath and could not help but join in.
“I have neglected your tuition,” he said, taking the cushions she passed to him and replacing them on the sofa, which was standing again in its rightful spot before the fire. “We will resume your lessons tomorrow; you must be ready to take on the Countess in Il Muto.”
Christine paused as she folded an afghan and frowned. “But I’m not to play the Countess, Erik.” Angry tears prickled in her eyes as she remembered how humiliated she had felt when the parts were announced; how was it possible to descend from leading lady to a minor role so quickly? Carlotta’s triumphant smile had been enough to make her want to flee the stage, to hide somewhere dark and never come out.
“Not the Countess?” Erik had suddenly become very still, his fingers digging into the cushion he still held. “Then which role have you been assigned?”
“They cast me as Serafimo – the pageboy.”
“The mute pageboy?”
Christine nodded miserably. There was a loud ripping noise and she jumped; when she raised her head she realised that Erik had torn the fabric of the cushion’s damask cover almost in half. With a snarl he threw the thing aside, scattering feathers over the Persian rug, and whirled around, heading for a writing desk in the corner. Snatching up paper and pen, he called over his shoulder,
“Antoinette! I need you to deliver a note for me.”
The door opened and Madame Giry appeared, carrying a tea tray. She set it down on the side table and calmly began to pour three cups, for all the world as though she had not spent the last half an hour standing out in the hallway. Christine accepted the cup she was handed and watched as the ballet mistress took another to Erik. He ignored the tea, writing so furiously that the nib of his pen nearly tore right through the paper. The visible side of his face was thunderous; he looked as he had that morning when she pulled away his mask. Christine trembled, her cup rattling slightly in its saucer. This was not the Erik she wanted to see; it was not her gentle Angel of Music who stood there stabbing the pen into the ink pot with such alarming ferocity.
“What... what are you going to do?” she asked, but her voice emerged in a dry whisper and he did not hear her.
“To whom is this note addressed?” Madame Giry enquired.
“Those two dolts who believe they run my theatre! Daring to ignore my instructions...! They think they know better, but they will learn.” Erik straightened, and passed her the envelope. It was edged with black, just like mourning paper. He took up his tea. “Oh, they will learn, or they will have to deal with the consequences.”
Christine felt that strange shiver down her spine once more. There was more than a hint of danger in his tone, and she didn’t like it. Though the lion had been wounded, it seemed that he still knew how to roar.
