Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

  Nearly a decade later a small pale hand knocked on the cozy cottage’s door. Christine started, she had not been expecting visitors that day. She looked over at Raoul who was frowning. Everyone in the area knew they discouraged callers who came at random. Christine sighed as the knock came again, this time louder and more urgent. She set her book down and walked over to the door.
  Oh my, Christine thought, but isn’t she beautiful. Christine had always know she was beautiful, but here, in front of this dark-haired, Emerald-eyed stranger she didn’t feel the least bit attractive, in fact, she felt just the opposite. She noted the girl’s ebony hair and pale skin. She could be Snow White. Mirror, Mirror, She though grimly, never have I been jealous of another because of their looks, I will not start now!
  This beautiful stranger carried herself with a grace that reminded Christine of Erik, and a confidence that did not. It almost seemed as if the girl knew that her beauty was ethereal and god-like. With her air of confidence came and air of mystery and exoticness. Her eyes held a hint of mischief, much sadness and Christine was quite surprised to see, a carefully controlled anger. Christine started when the girl made a noise of impatience and quickly took her hand, shaking it. The girl glared at her for a minute before asking in a voice that was also . . . Unearthly (like Erik‘s, Christine thought), “May I come in? I have much I wish to discuss with you Mademoiselle Daae or is it Madame de Chagny, as I suspect?”
  The girl waited a moment before continuing , “Well, of course it would be de Chagny, by now . . . Yes . . . silly me. Unless of course you’ve married someone else?”
  “No, you’re quite right,” Christine answered, suspiciously. No one in the area, or even the country had known her maiden name. She had never given it out and wasn‘t sure why. She continued slowly, “I am Christine de Chagny . . . How may I help you?”
  “I am Naomi . . .” Christine noted that Naomi hesitated after her first name. She realized the girl, for whatever reasons would not list her last name. “May I come in? As I said, we have much to speak of.”
  Naomi did not wait for an answer before walking through the doorway and into the parlor. Christine followed and then came of in front of her when Naomi stopped in the doorway of the parlor, staring at the piano in the corner. There was a smile of longing in her eyes as she gazed that piano.
  “Do you play?” Christine asked.
  “Sometimes, “The girl replied with a fierce longing. “If I work hard enough playing is my reward. In it I find a joy like none other.”
  “Would you like to play ours? Not many people here in town play and it seems it is manly used to collect dust.” Christine said. “I would love to hear you.”
  The girl shook her head, but continued to stare at the instrument with longing, “I shouldn’t.”
  Christine looked down to see the girl’s fingers twitching. She smiled at her sympathetically, “I insist.”
  “Very well,” the girl said as she sat down on the piano bench with eager flourish. Without taking out any sheet music she began to play. It was a slow song, mournful with an underlying message of hope. It was beautiful. It did not seem possible that such . . . Passion could come from a girl so young. It seemed even more impossible that it could be communicated through music. She had never heard anything like it.
  “Who taught you to play like that?” Christine asked, breathless and astonished. She realized she was staring at the girl incredulously and looked away quickly, not wishing the girl to feel like a freak on display.
  The sad smile appeared in Naomi’s eyes again as she said, “My father.”
  With a start, Christine realized Raoul was in the room. He seemed to be staring, transfixed at Naomi.
  So, I am not the only one who notices her beauty, Christine thought sullenly. She shook her head at herself. Wasn’t she past petty jealousy? But then again . . . Raoul had never looked at another female that way, except herself. She sighed, irritated. She would just have to deal with it. She was not going to remove the girl from her home until she had said what she came to say.
  Naomi stared unabashedly at Christine, studying everything about her, trying to judge the woman within. She really is quite beautiful. Just like he said she was, even after all these years, she thought resentfully. I wish her husband would stop staring at me. It’s making me uncomfortable. Oh why did I agree to come here? All I’m going to achieve is causing myself more pain than I’ve already experienced. If I tell her the truth . . . she’ll do as she has always done and I’ll end up spurned, again.
  “You wish to know why I’m here, do you not?” Naomi asked, deciding her loyalties lay with her father. She would do his bidding, if only for the act that she loved him. At Christine’s nod, she continued, “My father wishes to see you. He is . . . In need of your presence.”
  Christine’s brow creased in confusion, “But I surely do not know your father! I do not know you! How can I know your father?”
  “Trust me, Madame, you know my father. He speaks of you . . . often.” Naomi replied, a underlying current of something that Christine couldn’t identify.
“Where are you from? Christine asked, confused by the mere appearance of the girl, “What is his name?”
  “His name . . . I am not sure. He is simply . . . Father.” Naomi said, frowning a bit, “I never cared to ask his name. I am from Persia, however, I live in Paris as does my father.”
  Erik! Christine’s heart jumped. She shook her head. Erik was dead. It could have been anyone of her admirers in Paris from when she worked in the Opera house or it could be one of the managers or even another childhood sweetheart . . . Well, the possibilities were endless. Why, then, did she still think, even after the knowledge that he was dead, think that Erik had sent for her? Hope . . . she thought dully, what it can do to a heart.
  “He wishes for you see him at once.” Naomi said. Did Christine detect a hint of guarded resentfulness in the girl’s tone? “He is . . .very ill,” Naomi’s voice shook sadly on the last word. “He wished . . . To see you one last time.”
  Christine’s confusion escalated. What type of final wish was that? Who would wish to see her? Who loved her that much? She thought of Erik, sadly and shook her head. He was dead, she had seen him that night. He had been glad to die. He had no will left to live, not only that, but he had been weak, very weak. Not even he could have survived that night. Not even if he had wanted to!
  “He also requested . . .” She hesitated and then shook her head, “No matter . . . We’ll get to it when we get there, hm?”
  I must be out of my mind, she thought as she replied with a sigh, “Alright, I’ll go. If only to see you back safely. What kind of father sends a young girl into another country with no escort?”
  “One that knows that girl can take care of herself.” Naomi replied with a wry tone Christine didn’t understand. “I do not want to waste much time in this country, it seems very . . . Crude, compared to what I am used to.”
  Christine turned to Raoul, he was no longer staring at Naomi but glaring at the floor, though discreetly. Christine recognized that look. It was the look he wore whenever he was angry with Christine, but wished not to make a scene in front of guests. She sighed, anticipating the fight that would come later, once Naomi had left for a hotel. She walked over to Raoul and said, “I know that look.”
  He sighed and shrugged, “It makes no sense, and I don’t like it.”
  “What could it hurt?” Christine asked, “The girl seems adamant to please her father and would likely be crushed if I refuse, besides who am I to deny a man’s dying wish?”
  “I know why you wish to go.” He said, “Erik is dead, Christine. You’ve told me yourself many times. I . . . This man could be dangerous. I don’t wish you to get hurt.”
  “The man won’t hurt me in front of his daughter.” She said, scanning the room for Naomi. She was surprised to find her nowhere insight, having left discreetly the moment Christine had turned to talk to Raoul. Christine walked over to the piano to find a note telling her to meet Naomi at a local inn early the next morning. She shook her head a bit. The girl was a little strange and more than slightly mysterious, yet, somehow Christine trusted her. She sighed, well whoever this mysterious man her father was, she would meet him, Raoul’s approval or not. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt as if this was something important. Something she needed to do.



  Across town Naomi tried to organize her scattered thoughts. After many hours of pacing she sunk to the floor and drew her knees up to her chest. Why did her have to ask this of her? Why couldn’t he have sent someone else? He knew how much pain he had caused her through Christine. Why did he have to send her on this task? It hurt her more than the fact that he loved (and always had) Christine more. He was normally so protective of her. Refusing to let her experience anything for fear that she’d be hurt. But he had sent her on this great task and on this journey . . . And to what end? She had now looked upon Christine’s gentle beauty, so unlike her own looks. Christine light, beautiful, with everything where it should be, herself dark, plain and . . . Odd. Father had always called her exotic and mysterious, secretly she knew he was telling her that she wasn’t as beautiful as so many seemed to think. Their opinions didn’t matter. Her father knew of beauty. He created it, nurtured it, craved it. Never once had he called her beautiful, never once had he called her pretty, never once had he complimented her looks. She was just exotic . . . Mysterious . . . Dark. She shook her head. She would never compare to Christine. She knew that.
  She felt a tear slip down her cheek. She had been the perfect daughter, always listening, never rebellious. She was smart, she learned easily and she had more than enough talent for his favorite thing - music. She knew she was talented. She might not have known, but Father had complimented her a few times. It was enough for her to know that she truly was talented. A natural, as some might say. She was devoted. She sang to him every night and when she was unable she would read or paint for him. She loved him so much! Why couldn’t he love her back, she had often wondered sadly. He rarely looked at her, and never touched her. Even when her fiancé had died and she was in great need of arms to hold her, he did not touch her. She never understood why he didn’t love her. And, yet, as much as his lack of affection for her hurt her, she stayed. Perhaps because she sensed he was lonely. He was so sad . . . All she wanted was him to be happy, so she did what she could to make him happy. Somehow, though, it wasn’t enough. She had even asked him, once after a particularly heart-trending day, why it was he didn’t love her. He had not said anything after the question, and she did not hope it was shock that was keeping him from speaking. She knew he was angry with for her asking. She left the room moments after she had blurted out the question, in tears. She ran to her hiding spot and sobbed, broken-hearted for hours. As clever as her father had been he had never found that small space that she made her private refuge when the day grew too emotionally taxing. He called out her name over and over for a long while, perhaps two or three hours before giving up, having lost his voice. Later, when she met him for dinner he had started to speak of the incident. She cut him off saying, very coldly, that she just wished to forget it ever happened. He pressed on, but she continued to cut him off, growing colder and more furious each time. So he didn’t think she deserved an explanation for the way he snubbed her love. She didn’t want to hear his excuses. It was the only time he had cause to be angry with her. It was the only time she had been less than adoring of him.



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