Chapter Text
Twenty days. Twenty painful, silent days since she last heard from her ghostly tutor. Christine walked down Rue de Gramont, the summer sun beating down oppressively. By the time she reached the theatre, she would need to wash once more. Paris summers were stifling, she knew this, but it did not help her mood.
It was the opening night of Il Muto. Call time was six o’clock. She would have two hours to get into costume, apply her makeup, fix her hair. No vocal warm ups required, none of the obsessive preparation the day beforehand, not like Hannibal. Christine could have plenty of milk in her coffee and could feel very free to drink wine after the performance. No one cared if she dried out her vocal chords or lined them with mucus. No one cared at all.
Well, Raoul cared. He had been very attentive in the intervening weeks, calling on her like a gentleman, promising to advocate for her advancement in the opera company. To which Christine reminded him not to, to leave well enough alone. In an attempt to distract her, he took her to the latest exhibition of Greek artefacts, dutifully picking her up from her apartment in his carriage. And there was no suggestion of anything untoward; no implication that she ought to be repaying him for his time and efforts. No roaming hands, no implications in his speech. Unusually for a member of the aristocracy, Raoul’s intentions towards the opera singer seemed to be genuine. He hinted at wanting a future with Christine, a proper, married one, and she had to ignore that.
How could a Vicomte of an ancient family marry a chorus girl? How could she abandon everything she worked for, her career, her music, for a life of genteel socialising? Raoul was a dear friend, but this path filled her with trepidation.
Not to mention her tutor might have some opinions about that. If he ever bothered to talk to her again, she thought. After her strange and painful message last week, she had been sure that would attract him. That he would have to talk to her, he would return and beg her forgiveness once more.
But she was wrong. The accusatory silence continued. It taunted her in her worst moments, that she broke his trust forever, removed the mask and lost her only friend.
Friend? Is that what I’m calling him now?
Finally she reached the stage door of the Palais Garnier, leaving the hot Paris night for the cool passageways inside. There was a flurry of movement, dancers hurrying down to the stage to stretch, singers warming up. Sets were being carried into place, the head of the flies barking orders at the boys who assisted him.
Christine ducked her head, weaving through the crowd and reaching her dressing room with relief.
Silence could be oppressive. But it could also be calming.
Steadily, she laid out her things and began brushing her hair. She had time yet before getting changed into those ridiculous breeches. The door clicked open, a pair of eyes peering in.
“Christine? Can I come in?” Meg’s voice called out.
“Of course,” Christine replied. Meg had been in constant rehearsals, the opposite of Christine, Madame Giry was determined to whip the ballet into order. The act three ballet for Il Muto, a pastorale affair that satisfied the aesthetic demands of the opera while making little sense for the plot, was a complicated one. Floral garlands required the dancers to endlessly rehearse and ensure they had the strength to carry them through the entire piece. As a result, the friends barely saw one another.
Meg rushed to embrace her, looking at her with worried eyes.
“Christine, you’re so pale, have you been sleeping?” she asked and Christine shrugged.
“Barely, but it’s okay, I don’t have to do much tonight.”
“Is it him? Is he keeping you up practicing?” Meg asked eagerly and Christine paused. She had not told Meg the Phantom was not speaking to her. That her angelic tutor had disappeared. She also had not told her that he was a real human man. That she slept on his couch and let him run his hands all over her. That she repaid the favour by obliterating his trust.
Honestly, she wasn’t telling Meg much.
“Yes, I think it’s to compensate for not getting the lead in this. He insists I must keep up my progress,” she lied, wondering if he was listening. What would he think of that?
Meg kept her company as she finished getting ready, tying her hair into a queue. She asked Meg about rehearsals, about opera company gossip, about Carlotta and the managers, knowing Madame Giry had an insider’s privilege. It kept Meg talking happily and Christine could pretend things were as they had been before.
Eventually Madame Giry came looking for her errant daughter and reminded her she ought to be fully warmed up by now. As Meg ran off, Christine stopped her mother.
“Have you heard from him?” she asked quietly and Giry’s eyes narrowed, examining the young woman.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied steadily.
“One minute it’s ‘He’s pleased with you’ and now you’re claiming to not know anything at all. What is it you’re avoiding?” Christine hissed and Giry stepped back, as if she had been burned.
“I think it would be best to avoid these questions, Mademoiselle Daae,” she said, eyes searching the room. “You never know who is listening.”
Christine stood in shock as she watched Madame Giry leave and firmly close the door behind her. She was no longer simply frustrated with the situation, she was outraged. Surely the woman had held some affection for her? Surely she cared if she was being carried off and molested by some cellar-dwelling composer?
That was, if she was lucky. She shook her head, trying to chase away the thought with little relief. She could not understand this dark instinct of hers. Twenty days since she emerged from the cellars unscathed and yet her feelings had only grown worse. More frantic, more desperate. How could he leave it at that? How could he leave her?
Bereft, she picked up her costume. May as well get ready. She removed her street clothing, hanging it on the valet as usual. Men’s stockings with garters around the calf, then the loose white shirt, and finally the striped breeches. Fastening the front, smoothing the tucked in shirt, she looked in the mirror. It wasn’t a very glamorous costume, but she didn’t look bad in it. She would have to take the small wins.
The lights flickered, just for a moment. Christine looked up, examining the gas lamps. Was this just their usual inconsistency? She couldn’t assume it was him.
Then they flickered out completely.
Breathing softly in the darkened dressing room, Christine was not frightened. It was the first time she felt calm in weeks. Her eyes adjusted to the gloom, not entirely without light. No, a small amount of filtered light was dappling in through the mirror.
She exhaled slowly, relieved to finally see a pair of glowing eyes looking at her through the glass.
“About time.”