Unmasqued

She looked away. "I know that's what you said, but… well, that was last evening."

"You think that I might have changed my mind overnight? When all I could think of last night was you?"

"I was not suggesting that you would have changed your mind, but that perhaps you might have had some assistance."

"You speak of my brother, the one who himself had a widely known attachment to none other than La Sorelli." Raoul laughed, but it felt hollow. He hadn't spoken to Philippe yet, and although he had every intention of courting-and, if the truth be known, marrying-Christine Daae, he acknowledged that it would likely take some convincing of his brother.

But he would do it. Philippe never denied him anything he truly wished; for he was twelve years older, and had always thought of Raoul as more of a son than a brother, since their mother had died when Raoul was born, and their father less than a decade later.

It was true, however, that Raoul did not like to think of angering or disappointing Philippe. That was why he'd gone to sea: to make something of himself that the comte would be proud of.

Christine didn't reply, and they rode along in silence, broken only by the shouts of street vendors and the scrabbling of carriages along the cobbled street.

Raoul struggled to put his thoughts into words; he wanted to talk to her, to find out about her, to learn her… but one could not just suddenly delve into a woman's life with personal questions. Yet, he felt almost as if he had earned the right to do so, all those years ago, that summer. After all, he wasn't just a young man who'd suddenly noticed her glorious voice and lovely person… He'd known of it for years.

Perhaps he would start there. Where they'd left off. "I didn't realize your father died that winter after our summer together. It must have been terrible for you."

She nodded next to him. "It was the coldest winter I'd ever known. I felt frozen, Raoul. Numb and slow. He was all I had. Father and his music. And then suddenly, it was gone. It was worse than losing Mama, for I was so young and I barely remember her. But Papa… but you know. You lost your parents too."

"Yes, but… well, it was different for me. I had my brother, who became like a father to me, and my two sisters, who were all so much older than I. And my mother's sister, who raised me. Of course, I have her to thank for living in Brest, for that is how we came to be in Perros and how you and I met." He flashed her a quick look. She had a sad smile on her face. She must be remembering.

"I had no one. No one except the Valeriuses, and they were wonderful to keep me on, but it wasn't the same. For a long time, I didn't want to even hear the violin. Do you still play?" she asked suddenly, taking him by surprise.

"I haven't in many years, but I believe if I picked up the instrument, I would remember what your father taught me that summer, after I rescued your scarf."

"Those were lovely days by the sea, with the gulls calling in the distance behind the notes you and father were practicing."

He chuckled. "I would not have called them notes, Christine… I was only a passable player, not talented like your father. And you."

There was another silence as he considered his next move. He needed to ask; he needed to know… but he was afraid. So at last, he tightened his fingers on the reins, looked straight ahead, and said, "Christine. How… how was it for you all these years in the Opera House? What I mean to say is… Sorelli and my brother have been together, and other singers and dancers have had protectors, and… I just wish to know… Have you been treated… well?"

When she didn't respond, he gripped the reins tighter, but didn't look at her. This was so much more difficult than steering a massive ship in a storm and planning and executing voyages and training for ship-to-ship attacks. There, one could learn one's way with the lines and the sheets and the navigation, and even use the weather and myriad weapons.

But this was a woman, and she did not have a helm.

At last Christine spoke, her voice barely audible over the soft crunch of hooves on a portion of the rue that was still covered with snow. "I was lonely. I didn't fit in with the other girls, because for a long time, I didn't want to sing. I barely danced. When Papa died, I lost the music and I still don't know how Professor Valerius convinced the conservatoire to take me. Perhaps because I was the daughter of the famous violinist, they believed I would rise to the occasion."

"But you have, Christine. You did! You were magnificent last night."

"Last night. Yes, I felt it. But there were many months and years where I didn't belong and I didn't believe I would ever have the chance to be… to be the beautiful lady, who stands onstage in the limelight, and garners all of the applause and admiration. I longed for it, Raoul… but it was out of my reach."