by Heather Webb
Table of Contents
Dedication
Dear Reader
~Overture~
~1~
~2~
~3~
~4~
~5~
~6~
~7~
~8~
~9~
~10~
~11~
~12~
~13~
~14~
~15~
~16~
~17~
~18~
~19~
~20~
~21~
~22~
~23~
~24~
~25~
~26~
~27~
~Ovation~
Author's Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Praise for the novels of Heather Webb
The Phantom's Apprentice
In this re-imagining of Phantom of the Opera, meet a Christine Daaé you’ve never seen before…
Christine faces an impossible choice: be a star at the Paris opera as Papa always wanted, or follow her dream—to become a master of illusions. First, she must steal the secrets of the enigmatic master who haunts her, survive a world of treachery and murder, and embrace the uncertain promise of love. To succeed, she will risk her life in the grandest illusion of all.
The Phantom's Apprentice
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2017 by Heather Webb
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Sonnet Press.
First ebook edition: February, 2018
ISBN-13: 978-0-692-78271-2
ISBN-10: 0-692-78271-0
Original Cover Art by James T. Egan, copyright 2017
www.BookflyDesign.com
Dedication
For my beloved sister Jennifer, believer in magic
“All of Paris is a masked ball.”
—Gaston Leroux
“The stage should make as complete as possible the illusion of reality.”
—Victor Hugo
Dear Reader
The first time I listened to the musical of The Phantom of the Opera, I was sixteen. My parents had attended the show and enjoyed it so much, they purchased the CDs. Little did they know how I would lap up this captivating music, so different from anything else our family had ever listened to, and it filled the house until I knew every word and every note. There was something special about this Gothic tale. I fell in love with the enchanting backdrop of the Opéra de Paris, the lush and dark tone, the romance. And yes, the tortured souls.
Years later, I read the novel by Gaston Leroux that had inspired Andrew Lloyd Webber, and noted the way the composer had taken pieces of the story that spoke to him, and left behind those that didn’t. As I mulled this, I noticed something glaring to my feminist mind. Why were the female characters of that era portrayed in a certain light? Why were they either haughty and demanding, or sweet and simpering? I began to question who was this Christine Daaé truly—her heart, her dreams, her strengths—beyond the men who dictated her comings and goings. One day, the Muse answered, and I began to hear Christine’s voice. It was soft as a whisper at first, but slowly, Christine began to trust me. The secrets she held surprised me, and I quickly got to work!
This book is the result of my questioning who Christine Daaé might have been in all her beauty, talent, love, and darkness. In The Phantom’s Apprentice, I weaved together both the original novel and the popular musical, and added new dimensions to characters and story alike, creating a secret world all my own.
So without further ado, I give you my passion project: a dramatic tale of loss, love, and magic and, of course, the incomparable world of the Paris opera.
Overture
New York City, 1891
I was not the innocent girl they thought me to be. Though many never witnessed it, my honeyed warmth disguised a spine of steel. It took time to find my strength, but it had been there all along. Didn’t everyone hide behind a mask at one time or another? In my experience, yes, very often, yes. Yet I longed to be free of my own.
I walked backstage and collapsed into a chair before the vanity mirror. My wine-colored gown blended with the shadows, leaving only the whites of my eyes and pale skin visible in the gloom. Shivering, I turned the knob of the lamp and a flame flickered to life. My knees still trembled from the mysterious vision I’d seen in the west balcony.
“You’re imagining things,” I whispered.
With a shaking hand, I grasped a pot of cream to remove the many layers of rouge and powders. The familiar clamor of stagehands and props, and the din of a dissipating crowd floated through the hall, but did little to calm my nerves. I must have been seeing things. I had to be. Yet terror licked up my spine.
My eyes shifted focus to a reflection in the mirror behind me. The glass tub slipped from my fingers and clattered to the floor.
There, on the table beside the sofa, lay a single red rose tied with a black ribbon.
1
Paris, 1877
I inhaled a breath and released a final high note. My voice shattered the stillness of the audience, and applause ruffled through the room. I beamed as I glanced at Papa, who lowered his violin and bowed. Smiling, I followed his lead and bowed beside him, proud to be his musical partner. He had trained me with singular vision since Mother died; I needed a skill to survive should anything happen to him, and my talents in music grew by the day. I wanted it, too, more than air—at least, I told myself this practice after practice, year after year.
“Remember: Head high, shoulders back, and project,” Papa instructed. He turned to our small audience: Madame Valerius, Claudette the maid, Albert the footman, two cooks, and a coachman—our benefactor and her staff. “Christine is guided by the Angel of Music, is she not?”
“Hear, hear!” Madame Valerius cried.
Papa insisted an ethereal being had watched over me since Mother died. Though he assumed the image soothed me, it made Mother’s absence feel more pronounced, more final. Countless nights I had cried for her, my child’s heart raw with loss, until her scent and the warmth in her eyes faded from memory. The Angel of Music stayed beside me, yet my own Mother did not. I didn’t understand this disparity; and now, after all of these years, I didn’t believe in spirits at all. I forced a smile and rubbed the rose brooch at my neck; the only thing left of Mother.
A thick cough rattled in Papa’s chest. When it passed, he wiped his lips and scarlet drops seeped into his handkerchief.
“I’m going to call on the doctor,” I said firmly.
The bleeding had become more frequent.
He held up his hand. “There is nothing a doctor can do for me.” His eyes softened when he saw my expression. “There’s no sense in wasting money. We won’t have many more opportunities to work together, min kära, and I intend to save every centime for you for when I am gone.”
Again, talk of his death. A familiar rush of fear squeezed my chest. My companion and protector, Papa dictated my every move and I followed him without question. When I dared to disobey, I paid the price in chores and endless singing drills. Though Papa was unbearably strict at times, I couldn’t imagine my life when he was gone. He was my partner, my only family. My dream of being onstage would dissolve without him; no one would host a lowly sixteen-year-old without family or connections.
I cast my gaze to the floor to hide the sudden flood of tears. I hated to admit it, but Papa’s final months were in sight. His fra
me withered more each day, his vivacious spirit waned, and even the passion in his music dimmed. I choked back a clot of emotion.
Desperate not to cry, I drank deeply from my water glass while he launched into a rendition of his favorite piece of music: “Lazarus.” I’d heard it so many times I hummed the melody without thinking.
Papa cradled his instrument’s burnished amber face in his hands as if it were his child. The violin, a masterpiece crafted by Jacob Stainer, had cost more than two years of performance earnings, but he insisted on the finest quality for his music. I didn’t blame him for our sacrifice, despite a lifetime of moving through the outskirts of Paris from one abandoned barn or hovel to the next. We hadn’t lived in a proper home since leaving Sweden so many years before. Not until now.
When he finished his song, he twirled his finger in the air and said, “Do your exercises once more.”
He relinquished his violin to its case and sat down to nibble a wedge of apple.
Relieved to see him eating, I smiled. “Can I bring you some tea?”
“You mean, can you ring for tea.” Madame Valerius folded her hands in her lap. “You’re not going to wait on anyone, Christine,” she reminded me. “I like to think of you as family. What once was mine is now yours, too.”
We had met the elderly woman one perfect summer in Normandy four years before, and she had never forgotten Papa’s music. When he called on Madame Valerius for help—to request that she adopt me when he passed—she opened her home to us on the rue Notre-Dames-des-Victoire. Relieved, we moved into her modest apartment overlooking a park, complete with a gurgling fountain and burgeoning flowerpots. Madame lived exclusively on the first floor for ease of use with her wheelchair, and generously gave me the largest room on the top floor. All was tidy and warm. For the first time, I didn’t choke on the odor of rotting hay and animal droppings but instead relished the faint scent of roses perfuming the air.
“Of course, Madame,” I said, softly. “Thank you.”
Though not luxurious, Madame’s home seemed abundant with her maid, footman, and carriage, not to mention ample firewood. I couldn’t get used to the new privilege of a full belly, much less someone else pouring my tea. To hide my discomfort, I fished a deck of cards from my oaken box, a gift from a long-lost childhood friend, Raoul de Chagny. Papa taught him to play the violin the summer we’d spent in Normandy, the very same summer we met Madame. When not practicing, I enticed Raoul to play card games and indulge my interest in small illusions. He looked on as I tinkered endlessly with an assortment of brass knobs and twisted springs, and built simple machines that produced some special effect. Somehow, Raoul understood that my hobbies made me feel closer to Mother. She had enjoyed trifling with such diversions, too, even though they did not suit our sex.
I hadn’t seen Raoul since that summer, yet I thought of him still. With the constant moving, I had no other friends.
I shuffled my cards, their worn edges yielding to my hands.
“Your affinity for card tricks is rather astounding, I must say, Christine.” Madame touched her gray chignon, a nervous habit I often noticed. “Such a clever girl. I thought . . . Well, I thought you might enjoy seeing a real conjurer. Your father needed a bit of prompting, but I think I won him over.”
“I don’t understand.” I stacked the cards into two piles.
“I have taken the liberty of purchasing tickets for you.”
“You mean it?” I squealed, first embracing Papa and then Madame. “Oh, thank you! I have always longed to go.”
“Well, min kära, isn’t that wonderful,” Papa said, in Swedish, his lips pinched.
His tone quelled my enthusiasm. He seemed upset, resentful even.
“Madame Valerius”—he nodded at our hostess, changing to French once more—“has been very kind.” He smiled and his wan face softened, reminding me of his once-jovial nature. “The show is this evening.”
I squealed again, in spite of Papa’s poorly veiled chagrin. I didn’t understand his disdain for my favorite hobby, but I could hardly wait! How I wished Mother were here. She would share my delight, without doubt.
I kissed Madame on the cheek and she smiled widely, pleased she had made me so happy.
Plopping into my chair, I chose a card from the stack in front of me. A magic show! I could hardly believe it. With my thumb, I covered the plump heart floating beside the Queen of Hearts. The image blurred as I lost myself in memories of a summer evening years before—the only occasion I’d seen a conjurer. Papa and I had performed at a nobleman’s salon. As luck would have it, a conjurer presented directly after us. I recalled how the gentleman wore a regal dress coat with winged collar and navy foulard, and a curious smile throughout his show. Rapt, I stared in awe while he commanded everyone’s attention with the smooth authority of his voice. When he transformed silk handkerchiefs into a pair of doves and coaxed carnations from an empty pot, applause thundered through the room.
For me, the world had tilted then, taken on a new hue as if before, all had been coated in a gray residue. Now everything appeared awash in color and light. My fingers tingled and an awakening blossomed inside of me. I understood why Mother had found illusions so enchanting.
After his act, the conjurer approached us. “You enjoyed my show, as I enjoyed your daughter’s.”
Papa nodded stiffly. “Thank you.”
“You sang like an angel.” The conjurer smiled at me. “You look like one, too, with your golden hair and white dress.”
I looked down at the scuffed toes of my boots, suddenly timid. “Merci, Monsieur. I hope to be a real singer one day, on a stage.”
His lips twitched with amusement. “Continue to practice and you will.”
Emboldened by his faith in me, I risked an impolite question. “Will you show me one of your secrets?”
His eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“Christine, mind your manners,” Papa said.
I ducked my head in shame. “I’m sorry. I—”
The conjurer reached behind my ear and produced an orange. “For you.”
I smiled and accepted the gift, stroking the fruit’s leathery skin in anticipation. I had never tasted an orange. “How did you do that?”
“I can’t share all of my secrets.” Delight danced in his eyes. “I will, however, show you this.” He gathered a deck of cards from a box on the stage and directed me to a side table away from the crowd. “You hold the cards like this.” He palmed the entire deck and wrapped his fingers around the sides of the stack with the exception of his index finger, which crooked over the top edge of the cards. “Watch closely.”
From that day forward, I practiced what the conjurer had shown me and attempted illusions of my own. Noticing my enthusiasm, Papa scolded me if I spent too much time “learning tricks.” It seemed to anger him, though I tried to make him understand. To be able to step inside a world of make-believe—to escape our poverty and simple existence, and the anguish I’d suffered losing Mother—imprinted on my heart that day.
“Magic,” I whispered. It did exist.
The clock in the salon chimed and I refocused my gaze on Papa’s slight frame. He flipped open his pocket watch and looked pointedly at the deck in my hand. “We need to move along, or we’ll be late.”
“I can’t wait, Papa!” We were going to see a conjurer!
After a light supper, Albert the footman helped us into the carriage, and we set out for the Theatre Margot. Papa coughed the entire trip, enflaming my guilt for dragging him from bed. I knew he didn’t want to go, but humored me just the same.
I rubbed his back to comfort him. “Are you all right?”
“Fine, fine,” he said, though he couldn’t hide the worry in his eyes.
When the carriage deposited us outside the theatre, Papa’s anxiety deepened. I frowned, both bemused by his attitude and annoyed he would hamper my amusement at my first real magic show. I couldn’t let it ruin my night.
“We’re here!” I clapped in deli
ght, and exited the carriage.
A sign spanned the front of the building with curled red lettering that read: The Master Conjurer. Beyond the sign, the building lacked frills of any kind; it had no ornate gilding, no imposing entryway. It was a nondescript structure; the only oddity was its proximity to not one, but three sewer holes in the street. As we approached the door, steam rose through the grates, carrying the odor of waste drowning in a watery underground. I wrinkled my nose in disgust. I would never have chosen such a location for a theatre.
As we filed in behind the crowd, I studied the patrons who, despite their numbers, remained mostly silent.
“Why is everyone so solemn?” I asked.
Papa leaned into me. “They have come to see the conjurer contact the dead. The papers claim he caused a riot in London when he toured there last. The spiritualists clashed with those who don’t believe it’s possible to summon ghosts.” He pressed his lips together. “You know how I feel about spirits.”
I knew well. He spoke about Mother at times as if she were there, or at least could hear him speak. Yet spirits seemed unlikely to me, silly even.
“If there is the slightest concern, we will leave immediately.” His expression mirrored the drawn faces of the audience. “I will not put you in danger.”
“I understand.” I kissed him lightly on the cheek.
Once settled in our seats, I studied the audience. Weren’t they excited, at least a little, to see the show? One woman’s eyes shifted, and she turned to look over her shoulder as if she expected a ghost to sneak up behind her. I snickered at her expression. It was an illusion—all of it. Every act had a logical explanation, though the crowd seemed to believe differently.
Perhaps it was I who was missing something. Maybe spirits lived among us after all, and I was foolish to doubt.
