The Music of the Night by Amanda Ashley Page A

closed,
she seemed to hear Christine’s voice, but of course, it was only her
imagination.
     
    Still, it seemed so real. Opening her
eyes, Christie stared at the stage, blinked and looked again. Was there a figure
standing there? A figure wearing a hooded cloak and a red scarf? Christie rubbed
her eyes. Not one figure, but two. A dark shape wearing a black hat with a long,
curling black feather stood beside the cross on the cemetery wall. A long black
cloak covered him from neck to heels. Was that a staff in his hand? Canting her
head to one side, Christie heard him sing ever so softly and sweetly to his
wandering child.
     
    Christie sat up straighter and leaned
forwards. It wasn’t possible. She had to be dreaming. She rubbed her eyes again.
The figure of Christine seemed transparent, ghost like, but the Phantom . . .
She was certain he was real.
     
    Fear sat like a lump of ice in her
belly, and then she realized that what she was seeing was probably just some
star-struck member of the cleaning crew, or a night watchman wearing one of the
Phantom’s costumes, or . . . Of course, it was an understudy who had stayed late
to rehearse. It was the logical explanation, except it didn’t explain the
ghostly Christine.
     
    Suddenly, echoing through the empty
building came the Phantom’s cry of rage as Christine turned her back on him and
left with Raoul. Fireballs spit from the Phantom’s staff to light the stage and
the image of Christine disappeared. But the figure of the Phantom remained
standing near the cross, his shoulders slumped in defeat, his head bowed.
     
    It had always been one of her
favourite scenes, one that had never failed to move her to tears. This
performance by some unknown actor was no different. With a sniff, she wiped the
dampness from her cheeks . . .
     
    . . . and found herself pinned by the
gaze of the man on the stage. Even through the darkness, she could feel those
black eyes burning into her own.
     
    Her mind screamed at her to leave, to
run from the theatre as quickly as possible, but try as she might, she couldn’t
move, couldn’t tear her gaze from his.
     
    It took her a moment to realize he
had left the stage and was walking rapidly towards her. He moved with effortless
grace, the long black cape billowing behind him. His feet made no sound; indeed,
he seemed to be floating towards her.
    And then, abruptly, he was leaning
over her. The half-mask gleamed a ghostly white in the darkness.
     
    “Christine?” His voice, filled with
hope, tugged at her heart.
     
    She shook her head, her eyes fixed on
the mask that covered the right side of his face. No, it couldn’t be. He wasn’t
real. He didn’t exist.
     
    He took a step closer, and then he
frowned. “Forgive me, you are not she.”
     
    Christie tried to speak, but fear
trapped the words in her throat.
     
    “You are very like her,” he remarked,
a note of wonder in his voice.
     
    His voice was mesmerizing: a deep,
rich baritone, haunted, tinged with pain and sorrow and a soul-deep loneliness.
     
    Caught in his gaze, she could only
stare up at him, her heart pounding a staccato beat as he reached towards her,
his knuckles sliding lightly over her cheek.
     
    “Who?” Her voice was no more than a
whisper. “Who are you?”
     
    “Forgive me,” he said with a courtly
bow. “I am Erik.”
     
    She swallowed hard. “Erik?”
     
    A slight nod, filled with arrogance.
One dark brow arched in wry amusement. “Some people know me as the Phantom of
the Opera.”
     
    Christie shook her head. No, it was
impossible. She was dreaming. She had to be dreaming. Soon, her alarm clock
would go off and she would wake up in her room at the hotel. And she would
laugh.
     
    She looked up into his dark, haunted
eyes and wondered if he had ever laughed. Wondered if she, herself, would ever
laugh again.
     
    “And your name?” he asked.
     
    “Christie,” she said, and fainted
dead