Between Mirrors and Roses (A Phantom of the Opera Fanfiction) ✓

20: Masquerade

Erik

I woke on the sofa in the parlor, a blanket wrapped around me. My head was pounding for some reason. I groaned when I remembered the night before: drinking wine with Christine. What had I said? What had I done? I faintly recalled my inebriated actions, but not enough to be sure of where reality crossed into dreams.

Christine emerged from the hall carrying two cups of tea, one of which she set in front of me. She wore a pretty, white dress—one of those I had bought her. I nodded my thanks, and she perched on the edge of a chair, sipping her tea with a faint smile of amusement on her face.

Mustering all the dignity I still possessed, I addressed her. "I would like to apologize for any inappropriate behavior I might have displayed last night," I said. "It was wrong of me to drink so much, and—"

Christine was laughing. "You did nothing wrong," she said. "You were quite adorable, actually."

Oh, Heaven help me. What had I said? I had a horrible suspicion... "Did I refer to myself by my own name?" I asked hopelessly, praying my memory was false.

"Yep," she said, taking another sip of her tea to hide the enormous smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

I put my head in my hands. I would never live this down. "Nadir can never know," I told her, and I joined her laughter for a moment before I realized what was missing. "My mask," I said, my head snapping up and my eyes darting around the room.

She was suddenly serious and grabbed it from the table before I could. "Oh, leave it off for a little longer," she pleaded. "I like seeing you without it."

"I suppose I can deny you nothing after you put up with me last night," I said and self-consciously stood up, retiring to my room to compose myself. When I returned in fresh clothes, I stood at my organ, looking down at my opera. "My dream would be to perform it here," I told Christine, who was reading nearby. I turned around to look at her.

She had a peculiar expression on her face—like hesitant excitement. "Do you know," she asked me, "about the masquerade ball they're holding for New Years?"

What could that have to do with anything? "Yes," I said to humor her.

She bit her lip, still undecided about something.

Now I was intrigued. I stood in front of her. "What is it?" I asked.

Christine finally decided to tell me, a wicked smile spreading across her features; she looked beautiful and dangerous. "In the musical that I told you about," she said, "the Phantom comes to the ball dressed as the Red Death and presents his opera to the managers, scaring everyone a bit on the way."

My smile slowly grew until it matched hers. "That is a marvelous idea, my dear," I purred, helping her to her feet and tugging her to the center of the room. She laughed and let me put a hand on her waist. I spun her around to an imaginary melody. "Just imagine it: a ballroom full of people dancing without a care in the world—when suddenly, there appears the dreaded Phantom, waltzing in like he owns the place! Which he practically does, I might add."

Christine giggled.

"He tells those sad excuses for singers they need to revitalize their efforts if they wish to match Christine's artistry."

"Now," she warned, "you can't let them know that you favor me."

I mock-pouted. "But I do favor you," I whispered, bringing my mouth close to her ear.

She pushed me away with a smile. "No, you have to act like you are fond of me because I'm talented, without letting them know that we are, you know, in love with each other." She blushed.