The Phantoms of the Opera And The Things They Do To Annoy Nadir.

Goodbye - Cherik Phic #6

Christine was still kicking and shouting even when Philippe pulled her outside and hurried her towards his carriage.

"I won't go!" she cried, digging her heels into the ground. Philippe tugged her on, pushing gently against her back and guiding her forward by the hand. "No! You can't make me!"

He paid no heed and helped her into the carriage. "Come, Christine. You've had a terrible and stressful night. We'll go home and sleep it off and see what can be done tomorrow."

"Tomorrow will be too late!" she cried, trying to kick out as Philippe closed the carriage door behind them, set her in her seat and then took his own opposite her. "Philippe! You must let me go! Now!"

She was surprised to find that she wasn't crying. Where before she might have burst into racking sobs, now she was quaking with anger, her hands balled tight. She gritted her teeth as Philippe tamed his hair, kicking his shin in a rush of childish fury.

Philippe yelped and bent to tend to his leg. "Christine!"

"He's going to die!" she fumed. "He's going to die all alone, in a museum somewhere, and it's all your fault!"

"I didn't shoot him! All I did was go after you!"

He was right, but it didn't stop her from screeching at him and firing her shoe across the carriage at him.

"It's all your fault," she repeated, scowling to herself. "He's going to die and it's all your fault!"

"Christine." Philippe reached across to her and took her hands in his. "It's alright. I promise it'll all be better in the morning when we all have clear heads."

But she snapped her hands away, folded them under her arms and took to glaring out of the window.

Philippe was not the one who saw their music teacher shot off the opera house roof.

She didn't talk to him for the rest of the journey to his summer house, and when the rattling finally came to a halt and Philippe stepped down ahead of her, she lifted her chin and got out by herself, ignoring his proffered hand.

He kept a polite distance for the most part, until, of course, they reached the entrance foyer, where a well-meaning servant with plain, thin cheeks and mousy hair tied back so tightly that her poor skin looked ready to peel off, asked for her cloak. Philippe offered to take it off for her; he was met with another scowl.

Christine took her cloak off by herself.

"Show her to the south wing guest room," Philippe instructed the servant. She bobbed a curtsey and turned to Christine, who was suddenly acutely aware of what a dark presence she must have been in the little foyer.

"This way, Mademoiselle," the servant said, her voice low and barely audible. Christine balled her hands and strutted after her, ignoring Philippe's quiet sigh as she left. His approval at an offer of champagne, however-

She scowled again. Perhaps Philippe was right: sleep would afford her a fresh outlook, although she wasn't overly sure how much better this situation could possibly get. Even if she slept a hundred years, her Maestro would still be dying, if not dead already. She didn't even know which; Philippe had hurried her away before she'd had time to go to him.

The servant brought her along another long hallway, her candle a faint guide through the shadows, which were also punctuated every so often by a lamp between old portraits on the walls. She unlocked a door and ushered Christine inside, pointing out the armoire and vanity table for her convenience. Christine resisted the urge to snap that she knew perfectly well what furniture looked like; this girl deserved none of her anger, nor the blame for the evening.