Unmasqued

She looked at his ungloved hand holding the wineglass, three of his fingers bearing heavy, jeweled rings, and imagined that hand on her flesh. It would be cold, and demanding, she knew; it would not allow her to shrink away, to flinch. Christine watched as he trickled his fingers, blunt tipped and thick, over, the side of his glass as if to call attention to them.

She tore her gaze away, and it skittered upward and was trapped. By calculating grayish blue eyes. He nodded once, then turned his attention to the others at the table. He spoke no more to her that night. He did not even acknowledge her presence with anything but an occasional searing stare. After the meal was finished, Raoul excused himself and Christine and sent for his carriage. When they returned to the Opera House, Christine found herself looking at the huge marble theater in a different light. Since joining the corps de ballet, she'd hardly ever seen the facade of the famous columned building, for most often, her comings and goings were relegated to the back, where the dormitories were located. But now, as the sun was rising over the creamy Paris skyline, Raoul drove his carriage around the front of the Opera House, to the side rotunda where he would normally enter the building. Christine looked up at the colossal sculpture of Apollo, holding the globe of the earth up toward the sky, and she suddenly felt as though she were just as high and powerful as he.

When Raoul realized he had made a mistake, he sent her a rueful smile and drove the horses around to the back of the building. It was a long walk to the dormitories, and at last Christine realized how exhausted she was.

"When shall I see you next?" asked Raoul, stopping at her door. Although he had dragged her up against him only hours ago, and ravaged her mouth as though starving, he seemed to have shed that intensity and now looked upon her as something delicate and breakable. Something out of reach, something to be worshipped.

"When do you wish to?" she asked.

"Now. Tonight. Tomorrow. The morning." He took her hands, his eyes soft and luminous in the low gaslight in the hall, forever.

Christine laughed lightly and pulled gently away. "Such strong words, Raoul, and we barely know each other."

"I have known you for years, Christine, and I have never forgotten you… It was only fate that pulled us apart and brought us back together. If my brother had not become the Opera House's new patron, I should not have been here tonight to see you sing and to have renewed my acquaintance with you." He tilted his head gently, as though to better look in her eyes. "Do you not feel you know me? Don't you feel the connection between us?"

"Yes, I do feel a connection: the memory of a lovely summer all those years ago. From such a happy time in my life," she replied. "I feel as though you are an old friend. Someone comfortable, familiar."

Not someone who unsettled her, or burned her. No, not Raoul.

Raoul did not burn her.

"You see?" Raoul broke into a beam of a smile. "I feel the same, Christine. I shall speak to my brother-"

"The comte?" The warmth that had begun to swell in her filtered away. "Why must you speak to him?"

"Because if I wish to court you"-he smiled, wide and brilliant, like a young boy-"I must ensure he will approve."

"But you are a Chagny! He will never allow you to court me. I am not… you cannot."

"I shall court you anyway, in secret if I must," Raoul told her fiercely. "I am the younger son. I do not need to wed for my family. It is becoming more accepted for actresses to marry well. And you are no Blanche d'Antigny." He spoke of the Parisian actress who had been driven from the Russian stage because of her immorality.

Perhaps he was right. Perhaps it was becoming more accepted. More possible. Could she ever aspire to being the wife of a vicomte, little Christine Daae, daughter of a violinist?

She thought of Marie Biere, the singer who had not had the benefit of Madame Giry's mentorship, but had found her way nevertheless. Marie had been freed after her arrest for attempting to murder her rich lover, when he had left her pregnant and destitute. Even the courts had found in her favor, she, an actress! Perhaps times were changing.

But Raoul was still speaking earnestly, holding her hands and looking at her with his blue eyes. "My brother will approve. He spoke of your beauty and grace, and I saw that he found your company quite enjoyable at dinner. He would never have spoken to you so informally if he had not."

Christine felt a chill over the back of her neck. There was no doubt that the Comte de Chagny found her attractive. And his informal comment had felt more like a bearbaiting than conversation. Still. Raoul made her feel comfortable and happy, and he was the personification of a rare memory of happiness.

She was the beautiful singing lady now, wanted and loved by all. There would be no more loneliness.