10Later...
"Hang in there, Meg. I'm on my way with food."
A nasally moan followed by a whispered echo of her best friend's voice came down the line. "Oh, God, Chris, you are the literal best. All I've eaten for the past three days has been soup, applesauce, and Gatorade. I would devour literally anything else if someone offered it to me."
Christine shifted the phone on her shoulder, juggling the Shake Shack bag and drink holder that she refused to set on the limo's leather seats. "Are you sure you're feeling up for company? You sound terrible."
"Love you too," Meg deadpanned with a sigh. "Look, I've been on antibiotics for thirty-six hours. I'm not contagious and I want to hear all about your night- especially given my fiance has run off to le family chateau 'for obligations'."
It was actually a penthouse on Lexington and 57th, but who was she to correct a sick woman with a penchant for sarcasm? "Okay, if you're sure…"
"Christine, I swear if you're not here with sustenance soon…"
"I'm coming!" She repeated a bit more emphatically than intended, eyes drifting to the New York traffic edging in around them, swallowing up her limo. "I'm not going to argue with you with chicken in my lap, Meg. I'll be there soon."
"I swear I'm up for company. Thank you. Love you! Mean it this time,"The call disconnected with a beep and Christine let the phone fall from her shoulder, landing with a soft thud beside her.
If Meg could only know how much they had to catch up on.
Her gaze fell to the take-out in her hands. I should have gotten extra-thick shakes.
Now
If Christine had found the red carpet intense, beholding the inside of the museum was positively overwhelming.
She maintained a firm grasp on Raoul's arm as they meandered through the cavernous halls on the way to the exhibit space. The normally bland-tone staircases had been covered in plush carpeting, not unlike what they had just left behind. In the distance she could hear the din of movement as staff scrambled to ready the dinner portion of the evening. Per Raoul's "pre-game session", as he called it, he had explained that guests were given tours of the new exhibit, followed by dinner and dancing. This all had taken place in Raoul's family's game room, complete with a projector, Powerpoint presentation and pointer.
It had also taken twice as long as planned due to the thorough heckling given by his audience of two. Only when Raoul threatened to revoke the invitation did the girls shut up and let him drone on for another forty-five minutes.
Forty-five minutes well spent now that she was here. Given that the theme this year was "A Symphony in Stitches: The Musicality of Fashion", Christine found herself musing over just what awaited them. She voiced as much to her date, who simply shrugged and said, "I would think you would have more of an idea than I would. You're the musician, after all."
"Ameatur, and even that's a stretch," she chuckled. When she received a pointed look in return, she acquiesced. "Okay, fair. But singing in the choir and being hired for the occasional wedding does not a singer make."
"You sing, you're a singer," Raoul reasoned, smirking as her eyes lifted skyward. "Seriously, Chris, you don't give yourself enough credit. You're fantastic."
"Not the time or place for this conversation,"
"You never know." His eyes took on the devilish glint that had caused half the trouble of their formative years. "Maybe I can pull a few strings and get you on stage tonight. It would be fun to use my social prowess for good."
"Don't you dare" she warned, finger digging deeper into the sleeve of his tux. When his smirk only deepened, she stopped them cold, uncaring of the foot traffic behind them. "Raoul De Chagney, I'm serious. I will never speak to you again."
"I'm about to marry your best friend," he countered. "You wouldn't last a week."
Christine leveled him with her best glare. "Try me. I can think of multiple ways to maintain contact with Meg without you."
A little fight seemed to drain out of him before he perked right back up, eyes sparking with renewed vigor. "Fine, but no more of my apple pie. You've said yourself that Thanksgiving isn't Thanksgiving without it."
She deflated as his victorious chortle echoed off the vast hall, causing more than a few curious glances to be cast their way." "Shut up," she muttered, steering them back toward the exhibit. "Your apple pie isn't that good."
"It is, you know it is, and we can fight about that later," he replied. "Come on- the exhibit is right here."
All thoughts of pie, revenge, and others immediately dissipated as they rounded the corner into the exhibit hall and Christine felt her eyes go wide.
A cavernous space opened large before them, room after room seemingly filled with flurries of fabric and color. Canned classical music played from speaker throughout, an attempt to marry the musicality with the fashion pieces exhibited among the rooms. The real music, however, seemed to be found in the fabric themselves.
"Check this out," Raoul commented as they moved through the rows. "That dress has little lighting strikes woven through it."
"They're quarter rests, Raoul," she corrected absently, eyes taking in the detailed patterns. "It's part of a series. 'Duality of Design'", she read from the placard. "The designer used quarter rests to replicate a houndstooth pattern."
Raoul harrumphed beside her. "I like the lighting strikes better.."
They moved forward, meandering through the halls as they observed garment after garment. Chrisinte paused before a platform, taking particular interest in the display. "Look! This designer set her sewing machine to a metronome and stitched each of the pieces at a different time measure. Four-four, Six-eight… How cool is that?"
He shrugged "...Um…very cool?"
"Nevermind," Christine deadpanned, dragging him forward, but making a mental note to come back later. "We're near the end and I could hear your stomach growling three rooms ago."
Raoul made no protest as she took his arm and allowed herself to be led through the rest of the exhibit to the Temple of Dendur, where dinner would be served. The ancient structure loomed overhead, majestic and imposing in the dimming May light. In front of the temple, the orchestra was assembling and the dissonant tones of strings and winds echoed through the space as instruments were tuned, a dissonant symphony of reed wetted and strings absently plucked.
Christine watched their preparatory rituals with undisguised interest as she asked, "Do you know who is performing as the featured artist this year?"
Raoul's brow furrowed. "I think it's the conductor, strangely enough. I heard Dad going on about him the other day. He's some hotshot in the classical music world, but this big mystery. Few have even met him, apparently. He composed his first symphony when he was , like, 16, I think?" His eyes caught hers. "I'm surprised you didn't know? I think his name is E.D, E.V..De-something or other…"
"Do you mean E.C. Deveraux?"
Raoul blinked. "That sounds right. Have you heard of him?"
She scoffed, "Are you kidding? Dad tried for years to get him to be a guest composer in Boston, but his invitations were always refused. Said he was a 'modern Mozart' and he'd never seen a musical talent like it before."
HIs brow arched. "He turned down your dad? Sounds like a pompous ass to me."
She shrugged. "I said as much to him once and he nearly bit my head off. He said the man was basically a recluse and published his compositions under a pseudonym and through some publishing house in Europe. He;s only played in public a handful of times and on one seems to know much about him except that he's some sort of prodigy." Her teeth found her lower lips, chewing absently as she mused, "I wonder what made him agree to perform tonight.."
Raoul snorted. "Like you said in the car- It's the 'freaking Met Gala!" He returned the grin that bloomed on her face at his impression of her earlier exuberance and then nudged her toward the dinner seating. "We can ponder the mysteries of musical hermits later. Let's find our seats. I'm starving."
Tables for dinner were placed on the room's lower level, separated by the orchestra and dance floor by the faux Nile. Servers scurried by as Christine and Raoul found their table, filled with fellow city officials, much to Raoul's relief and soon the room buzzed with low din of conversation and cocktails. As dinner progressed, Christine nodded, smiled and sipped her water, taking a moment to offer a polite response when anyone deemed her interesting enough to take a false, albiet polite interest in her and/or her relationship with New York's arguably most eligible bachelor.
The orchestra began it's set halfway through dinner, finding Christine involved with a monotone conversation with some councilman's wife who droned on about the wasteful extravagance of events such as these even as her half-a-million dollar diamond choker jostled with every move, catching light and directing it right into Christine's eyes. Resisting the urge to squint paired with one false smile and polite headnod later, movement in the corner of her eye provided the excuse she needed for the last twenty minutes.
The woman continued to drone on, oblivious to Christine's quick apology as she turned away, looking to Raoul, still engrossed in conversation, and quickly flitting to catch the barest of movement near the orchestra to see…
Him.
Planted just inside the entrance to the temple as if he were one of it's long-held secrets, enigmatic and worth discovering. Christine swallowed hard, eyes quickly darting down to what remained of her dinner before rising again, searching and seeking of their own accord. Her gaze found him immediately, just as his head tipped up and in her direction.
In a collision of color, their gazes locked, eyes widened and before she could utter a cohort thought, she heard it again.
Christine… there you are. You've found me.
She could feel the bob of her throat, working to make a sound, any sound. Across the room, the masked man held her gaze, intently studying her. His thin lips attempted to form something…words, perhaps?...but he seemed as helpless to express his thoughts as she was.
Come to me, dearest. It's been far too long. Remember your promise.
"I…..who…"
Come to me, angel of music…
"Christine, are you all right?" Raoul's questioning gaze broke the spell, concern etched again on his face in a macabre reprise of their earlier conversation on the red carpet.
"Yes, yeah. I'm sorry, Raoul. I don't know what's wrong with me I just keep…zoning out, I guess." She blinked a few times, eyes darting back to the temple, but her enigmatic friend was nowhere to be found.
"Do you need anything? Another glass of wine?" Raoul was studying her intently now, much like the stranger moments ago. Worry etched across his brow. "Do we need to get you home?"
"I'm fine," she promised, accepting the offered glass of champagne despite her earlier vow not to drink. One sip and set aside. "I think I just need some air."
"Do you want me to go with you?"
She shook her head. "Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. Stay and visit. I'll be back in no time."
Raoul didn't look convinced. "If you're sure, Chris…"
"I'm fine," she promised again, placing a hand on his shoulder and flashing him what she hoped was a reassuring smile before stepping away.
This was insane. She was going insane.
Mysterious men in masks, voices echoing in a whisper.
"You're fine," she whispered to herself as she marched away from the ball. "
By the time she reached the restrooms, she nearly believed it to be true. After splashing some cold water on her face and fixing any errant make-up, she planted her arms firmly on the counter, met her gaze in the mirror and repeated the mantra. ""You're not going crazy, there is no weird, disembodied voice stalking you around the Met. You are absolutely fine."
Mirror Christine looked far more resolute than actual Christine felt, but that couldn't be helped.
Blowing out a breath, Christine nodded once and reached for the restroom door, pulling her wrap tighter around her as she stepped into the hall…
…and slammed straight into something surprisingly solid.
A male expletive and exclamation mangled with her muffled "oomph!" as both struggled to separate themselves. Large hand grasped her shoulders, moving her back and away as she fought to regain her breath and her balance. Cursing her shoes and vowing never to wear stilettos again, she reached up, grasping at one of the arms that held her at length, resting a hand there as she muttered an apology, mingled with his.
"I am so sorry-"
"Please excuse me-"
Both stopped, mangled atonement attempts thick between them before Christine found herself putting a self-deprecating chuckle. "Really, it was my fault. I wasn't look-' Her voice died out as she lifted her eyes to the face before her, staring back with an almost amused tilt of his lips.
Surprise registered on his own face- the visible part at least- when recognition dawned. She felt his finger tighten imperceptibly where he still grasped her upper arms and his throat worked.
Christine blinked, eyes moving from his lips, to the mask, to the grey-green of his eyes and..
And then, she was no longer at the Met
Night itself surrounded her, illuminated only by the myriad candles scattered around another cavernous Voice is back, surrounding her with an etherial beauty and she is cradled by two surprisingly strong arms. One is wrapped securely around her waist, her back pressed against the long, lean line of a body.
She should be afraid. She should run. Instead, she is a willing prisoner in this strange embrace. Her eyes fall closed, a hand guiding one of hers up, up, up to cup a masked cheek, long fingers sprayed over her own..
"Are you all right?" That question again!
Christine blinked, now back in the present, back at the Met, back to staring into a pair of the most beautiful eyes she has ever seen. He regards her carefully, curiously and yet seems oblivious to where she had just been. "I'm sorry, Miss.."
"Oh! Uh..Christine," she supplied. "Christine Daae. I'm sorry for literally running into you." Her feeble attempts at a smile are met with a tentative quick of his lips.
He offered a half chuckle. "The apology is mine. It seems my attempts to escape have been thwarted. And by a beautiful woman at that."
An answer manifests on her tongue then dies and her mouth goes slack as her brain pieces together what should have been apparent from the moment he opened his mouth.
The Voice...that damned alluring voice….
It's his.
And though he does not utter another physical sounds in front of her, it echoes through the hall.
Two words, smug and sure.
At last.