Page 65 of Angel's Mask

“It wasn’t that bad, come on,” Robert Rameau called after the manager. Erik cocked his head in interest. Moncharmin apparently had stopped in on the rehearsal from which Christine had been excluded.

“She’s worse than you told me she’d be, and you told me she was a terror,” Moncharmin sighed as Rameau caught up to him. “The audacity of demanding more money, when we can barely keep track of the money we have!”

“Maybe she’s received better offers,” Rameau said. “It’s possible. Some other director might not have actually heard her.”

“She has to be mad to think she can hold us hostage now, when we have a more than suitable replacement literally waiting in the wings.”

“Carlotta doesn’t believe that,” Rameau replied, taking Moncharmin by the elbow and guiding him to a secluded corner. Or one that appeared secluded, given that Erik was hidden near to it. “She’s only listening to her toadies. They’re parroting all the same absurd rumors she started back to her about how Christine is a miscreant or a novelty or untalented. None of them know or even are willing to acknowledge how good she really is. The truth doesn’t matter, just the story.”

“I guess you’d know about that,” Moncharmin muttered, a slight edge to his voice but also deep familiarity. In fact, Erik remembered now where else he had heard Moncharmin’s voice before this: in Rameau’s dressing room.

“Don’t be petulant, Armand, I’m trying to help you,” Rameau replied warmly, confirming Erik’s suspicions. “The way Carlotta sees it; you have two options. One, you surrender and pay her more or two, you turn to Christine who will inevitably fail. In that scenario, she’ll get her money and Christine’s career will be over.”

“She can’t contemplate someone actually being better than her? I guess she is a soprano,” Moncharmin rejoined, thoughtfully.

“And I wouldn’t put it past her to make sure Christine fails,” Rameau said. “It wouldn’t be the first time. And given that she thinks she was poisoned before the gala, I’d say it’s likely. She has some stagehands in her pocket who make accidents happen, and then conveniently blame it on the Ghost.”

“Doesn’t she know that the Ghost is Christine Daaé’s most vocal supporter?” Moncharmin grumbled, looking suspiciously over his shoulder, which would have made Erik laugh were he not seething in rage knowing that Carlotta was abusing his reputation.

“Oh, well, that makes sense. She’s quite mysterious, that one,” Rameau said. “And why didn’t you tell me he’d made contact?”

“I’ve been rather busy you know. And I didn’t ever think you were—”

“Telling the truth?” Rameau let out a dry laugh. “I would never lie to you abouthim.” In the dark Erik smiled, at last, some respect.

“What is he?” Moncharmin asked, shivering visibly as both men turned their eyes to the dark around them. Did they feel him watching too?

“I have no clue,” Rameau said. “But meet for supper at my flat tonight and I’ll tell you all my theories.”

Moncharmin met Rameau’s sparkling eyes with a look of apprehension and desire. “I might be late.”

“I’ll wait,” Rameau smiled, tracing the line of Moncharmin’s jaw with his thumb, intimate and tender. “I know you couldn’t do this without me.”

“I’m in this messbecauseof you,” Moncharmin replied without much bite.

“And what a glorious mess it is,” Rameau smiled.

Erik watched them walk different directions, a familiar ache in his chest as he did. He could never even share a hidden love like theirs with Christine, not while she loved a lie. He could neither give her blue skies or darkened flats or anything more than music and glory and a fleeting touch in the dark.

And so that was what he would do. If Carlotta needed a push to let Christine perform, so be it, he’d encourage her gambit and protect Christine from any wrath that might follow. There was more than one way of making a diva disappear.

––––––––

“There we are, lovely,” Julianne declared as she stepped away so Christine could see herself in the mirror of the costume workshop. It had been more than kind for her friend to offer to alter the dress for Christine, among many others. Christine had been told by enough people at this point that she had to dress that part of a diva, but she hated the discomfort, expense, and wait at a dressmaker’s salon. And so she had made do with cast-offs from Adèle and Nicole Duval, like the one she wore now.

Despite being slightly stolen, the dress was the height of fashion now thanks to Julianne, and Louise. It was a deep red brocade, with an underskirt and blouse of purple, with matching ruffles along the edges. There was white lace and brass buttons at the wrists, as well as along the modest neckline.

In her time at the Opera, Christine had also learned how to better style her hair beyond a simple chignon, though it tired her arms and she understood why so many women needed maids just to get ready for a day out. Today she’d been moderately successful, and so, much like at the gala, the reflection she saw staring back at her was again a woman she barely recognized.

“Thank you for this,” she said after too long of a beat. “It’s wonderful.”

“So why do you look so sad?”

“I’m not sad, I’m just...” Christine sighed. There was no word for it in her vocabulary. There were still moments every day that she was so happy, when she was near him and singing for him, but more and more she would find her quiet moments filled with foreboding and the strange, sad feeling that even the things she loved most were sliding away like sand on the shore. “Everything about my life has changed and yet it’s all the same and I feel so...lost sometimes.”

“You’ll hear something soon,” Julianne assured her. “If not forFausttomorrow, at least forRigoletto. Carlotta’s barely even been to rehearsals for it, and she still doesn’t have an actual understudy.”

“She’ll be there today,” Christine sighed. “Just like everyone else.”

---