by Heather Webb
“Call me Georges. Anytime you’d like, I’ll show you more.”
I smiled. “Georges, then. I’ll be sure to bring the lock tomorrow. Good day to you.”
He nodded and scurried back to his station.
Curious to have a look at the other sets, I wound through a maze of abandoned flats in a more secluded alcove, pausing to admire a bedroom. Another resembled an amphitheatre. As I examined a tavern on a cobbled street, a male voice drifted toward me from the other side of the flat.
“You’ve got to see this,” the voice said. “I think I found the passageway.”
A prickle of fear ran up the back of my neck. I recognized that voice—it belonged to Joseph Buquet, the machinist who tried to molest me. Disgust and hatred swarmed my stomach, yet I willed myself not to flee. I had to see what he was up to. Perhaps then I could tell the directors how he attacked me and relay his scheming. That must be enough to warrant his dismissal.
“I followed a series of trapdoors and found a staircase hidden in the walls,” he went on, tone brusque.
I peeked around the edge of the flat.
Buquet ushered another man—smaller in stature, and with a thin mustache—to a recess in the wall. I tiptoed several feet and ducked behind another flat. Shielded from view, I leaned closer, straining to hear their conversation.
“There are at least another three floors down, maybe more, but it was so dark I couldn’t see. I didn’t have enough oil in my lantern to continue and still find my way back.”
“We’ll bring two lanterns,” the mustachioed man said. “Run one until it goes out, and use the second for backup.”
“There must be lighting, but I didn’t find a damn thing. I was afraid of getting lost.”
Why were they trying to go further underground?
“I didn’t see any signs of—”
The zip and swish of a saw grinding through wood drowned out their voices. I blew out an impatient breath and leaned against the partition. After a few moments, the sawing ceased.
“We’ll get the ghost.” Joseph’s voice drifted toward me again. “Bring him to the boss for questioning.”
The blood drained from my face. They were hunting the opera ghost, my Angel—now, while everyone was here. I paused, surprised by my assertion. My Angel? Somewhere along the way I had laid claim to this soul who helped me to become a better singer, to become a stronger version of myself. Though he frightened me with his mercurial moods, I felt almost wedded to him . . . at least professionally.
At the very least, I owed him a warning.
“I’ll show you the entryway.” Joseph looked over his shoulder and scurried across the room.
Blood pumped in my ears as I followed them into the hall, hanging back just far enough to hide. What in the world had gotten into me? I wasn’t brave or daring. I wasn’t strong, and certainly couldn’t fend the men off, should they discover me. I shuddered at the thought—but I had to know. I could warn the ghost and then tell Delacroix all I had seen, which would secure both of their faith in me.
“This way.” Joseph lowered his voice.
The men turned down another corridor and through a series of storage rooms. Racks of old costumes, battered flats, and forgotten props lay turned over and stacked in heaps. As I skirted around an empty glass case, my shoe caught the edge of the frame and I stumbled. I gasped, catching myself on a set of movable stairs. Its wheels squeaked, and the stairs rolled.
“Did you hear something?” Joseph’s hand flew out to his side, signaling them to stop.
I slipped between racks of costumes and held my breath, pulse thumping in erratic beats. An emperor’s robe crusted with sequins hung like the skin of a sickly old man, once beautiful but now sagging and laden with dust. I eyed it warily—dust made me sneeze.
“Want me to make sure no one is around?” the other man asked.
“I’ve got it,” Joseph growled, striding back through the room toward me.
I retreated deeper into the costumes, willing myself to shrink between the folds of fabric. My rustling shook the dust loose. An invisible cloud of particles invaded my nose.
Joseph’s footsteps grew louder, closer.
I twitched my nose like a rabbit, praying I wouldn’t sneeze.
At the edge of the rack, Joseph paused.
My eyes watered and my throat shivered as I held the spasm at bay.
“There’s no one here,” he said, turning back toward his companion.
“Chasing a ghost has a way of making you hear things that aren’t there.” The second man goaded.
“There’s no ghost here, either, Serge,” Joseph rumbled. “Come on, the doorway is over there.”
I covered my nose and mouth with my sleeve, and sneezed, stifling the noise as much as I could. My head and nose vibrated with the force. Thankfully, the men were just far enough away and too engrossed in their exploration to notice the whisper of sound. I crept slowly from the cover of the costumes and peered around a nearby cabinet.
Joseph stopped in front of a mirror with chipped beveled edges; the glass showed the smokiness of age. He pumped an invisible lever near the floorboard with his foot, and the wall panel slid inward, revealing a passageway shrouded in darkness.
Excitement raced through my veins. A secret passage!
“That’s easy enough,” Serge said. “I’ll finish the job I’m working on and we’ll go. No one will notice us missing. Meet back here in two hours?”
Joseph nodded.
I scrambled back to my hiding place, not daring to move until their footsteps receded. After dusting grime from my clothing, I walked quickly to the mirror. I stopped in front of it. I didn’t have a lantern or the slightest idea where to go or how to get back. I could get lost, as Joseph said, and who knew how long it would be before someone discovered me—or who would make the discovery.
I stepped backward, shaking my head. It wasn’t smart. I needed to speak to the Angel from my dressing room. But I had been absent last night, at Carlotta’s. If the Angel was angry I’d missed our lesson, he might not return for a while.
I set off for my dressing room. I had to try, at least. If Joseph and his friend discovered him somehow, or a secret he needed to hide, who knew what might happen? I had to protect the Angel. I owed him that much.
Inside my dressing room, I locked the door and laid my cheek against the wall paneling.
“Angel?” I called softly. “Are you there? I need you.”
My stomach swam with nerves.
“Angel?” I raised my voice. “Please, I’m sorry I missed our lesson. Don’t be angry with me. This is important.” I waited for several minutes, then called, “Someone is after you!”
I heard no movement, no hint of the luxurious tenor I had come to know so well.
“I’m trying to help you,” I pleaded.
Still no answer.
I glanced at the clock on my vanity. I still had time to try the secret passage myself before Buquet and his thug showed, but I would have to hurry. Threading through the corridors in a rush, I reached the storage room quickly and crouched in front of the mirror. With a probing hand, I felt along its base. A thin metal lever jutted above the warped floorboard. The latch! I pressed it with my hand.
It didn’t budge.
Grumbling under my breath, I straightened and stomped on the lever with my foot. The door whooshed as it receded into the dark passage.
Success!
I peered inside the opening, and found nothing but a dark hallway. I paused, doubt clouding me like a fog. What was I doing here? Should Joseph find me, who knew what he would do.
I knew. I clenched my fists at my sides. Now was not the time to be a coward. I could do this. I needed to do this—I controlled my own life, my own fate. Despite my loyalty to the Angel, I needed to prove I was my own person, not a shrinking coward in constant need of protection. With a deep breath, I entered the passageway.
A faint light shone in the distance like a lantern veiled in cloth.
I recalled Joseph’s comments about the darkness and frowned. There was enough light. Joseph could have found his way without a lantern. Besides, he wasn’t the sort to be tentative. He was an ox, smashing through a tearoom.
I sucked in a breath to calm the blood racing through my veins. Reaching gingerly for the wall, I tried to banish the image of cobwebs sagging under the weight of fat spiders with frightening eyes and rows of hairy legs. A smooth surface met my fingertips. I sighed in relief and inched forward, leaving behind the welcome light of the storage room.
A breeze thick with dust blew against my cheek. There must be an opening somewhere. Frowning, I took another step.
My foot met no pavement.
I screeched as I plummeted downward, the sensation of falling lasting only a moment before my hip connected with the edge of a step, then another, and several more. I rolled, limbs flailing, until I landed in a heap at the bottom of the staircase. Groaning, I pushed myself into an upright position and felt along the floor until my fingers brushed the edge of the landing. I peered over the edge. An additional set of stairs led farther, deeper into an abyss of darkness.
Footsteps clattered in the passageway behind me.
Heart pounding against my ribs, I scrambled to my feet and descended the second staircase, pushing aside my fear of what lay below. A dangerous man followed somewhere behind—I had to find a place to hide. Now. Using the wall as my guide, I plunged deeper into the heart of the building. At last, my hands closed around a doorknob. I turned it, and threw open the door.
I squinted in a flood of light. As I attempted to get my bearings, the whinny of horses floated through the air. There was a stable down here? Stunned, I gaped at the strange spectacle. I sorted through my memories, seeking the details of the opera house’s history. The building had been built at Emperor Bonaparte III’s request. The stable must have been for his private use, but that was a decade ago. Perhaps they used horses in the shows? I faintly recalled Gabriel mentioning horses, though I didn’t remember how, or in what context.
The rumble of male voices came from the hall behind me. I raced for the cover of the stable. In my rush, I closed the door behind me with a bang.
“Who’s there?” Joseph called.
My breath hitched as I slipped into a stall occupied by a white stallion. The horse peered at me warily, but calmed as I caressed his nose. He whinnied and nibbled my shoulder.
“That’s it. Be a good boy,” I whispered, thankful for the many times Papa and I had slept in stables and cared for horses in exchange for shelter.
The stallion pawed the ground with his hoof, stirring up the pungent odor of manure and straw. In spite of my caresses, he didn’t like sharing his space.
As I crouched, the stable door crashed open against the wall. The horses neighed at another unexpected intrusion.
“I know you’re in here,” Joseph shouted.
My breath froze in my lungs.
“Show yourself!” he shouted.
I flattened against the wall, wishing I could become invisible.
“We’re going to have some fun when we find him,” Serge said.
Momentarily relieved, I rocked back on my heels. They thought I was “a him.”
“Grab the broom,” Joseph said. In seconds, the broom handle thwacked against the wood, over and over again. “Come out, opera ghost! Show yourself like a man.”
Each time he hit a stall door the horses pranced about and snorted their dismay. The white stallion seemed more rattled than the others. He stamped nervously behind me.
Please don’t crush me, I prayed.
“There’s no one in the stalls, Joe,” Serge said.
“We heard the door close. He’s here. Come out, ghost!” Joseph shouted.
My heart thumped in my ears. I prayed the Angel would show up, scare them with his ominous voice, or do something. Anything.
The men continued through the stalls, slamming doors, nudging the horses with the broom. Any moment they would find me, and have their way with me. Panic seized me. The thought of Joseph Buquet, his rotten breath, his rough hands pawing beneath my clothes. I gasped in a breath and the odor of perspiration and horse manure filled my lungs. I tugged at my high-necked collar, trying to breathe. He might even kill me when he finished. Stupid, stupid girl, I berated myself.
I squeezed my eyes closed. Please, Angel. You promised to protect me.
The shuffle of their boots grew closer, the slamming louder. As they approached the last row of stalls, my stallion snorted and shook his head.
Serge cracked the broom against the stallion’s door. The horse blew out an angry breath, and danced around his stall in agitation.
Serge poked the horse with the broom handle.
The stallion backed away from the broom. A screech tore from my lips as the horse narrowly missed my legs.
“Well, what have we here?” Serge poked his head into the stall. “Aren’t you one of the chorus girls? Did you go looking for the ghost yourself?”
I remained silent, too terrified to speak. I wished violently that I had stayed in the safety of my dressing room—that I hadn’t felt the need to prove myself, and to what end, exactly?
Joseph stopped beside him. When he recognized me, his eyes narrowed to slits and a malicious grin spread across his face. “Well, well. It’s not just any chorus girl, it’s you. The beautiful understudy. The one who had me beaten that night. Lost a few teeth because of you.” He opened his mouth to show me a large space where two of his top teeth should be.
Though my insides quaked, the injustice of his statement fueled my hate. “You deserved it! You should have been dismissed as well.”
His laugh had jagged edges. “ ‘Dismissed’? I’m well liked among the machinists and cast. Everyone knows what a jolly fellow I am. They wouldn’t believe you, no matter what you told them.” With that, he opened the stall door.
Serge took the horse’s halter to calm him, while Joseph advanced toward me. In seconds, he stood over me, gripped my arm, and hauled me out of the stall.
“I’ll go straight to the directors. Tell them what you’ve done.”
He shoved me to the floor.
I threw out my hands to catch myself, scraping my palms against the floorboards.
“They’ll thank me for finding the ghost. I’m sure they’ll be so happy to have him eliminated, they won’t care about you a bit.”
Despite my fear, I considered the absurdity of Buquet’s statement. If the Angel was truly a ghost, could he even be located, much less eliminated? This man was mad.
“She sure is pretty, isn’t she?” Serge’s expression shifted from anger to hunger.
“A real beauty. And delicious. I’ve tasted her once before.”
Bile surged up my throat. I wrapped my arms about me like a shield. “Stay away from me. I swear, I’ll tell them! I’ll go to the police.”
Serge ignored me and stepped closer. “That’s hardly fair. You’ve had a go and I haven’t.”
Panic surged through my limbs. I couldn’t believe I was in this place—again. My eyes darted around the stable, searching for a weapon or a way out. A pitchfork sat near the door. I could reach it, but I would have to keep them talking to distract them.
“Why are you hunting the ghost?” I asked, my voice tremulous. Slowly, I stood.
“We need to have a word with him,” Joseph growled.
I turned on my heel and raced for the pitchfork.
“Get her!” Joseph shouted.
“Angel, help me!” I screamed. Three more strides and I would have the weapon. “Angel, help!”
Just as I grasped the rusted handle, Joseph caught me and spun me around. It felt as if a brick smashed into my face.
I reeled backward and everything went dark.
9
I awakened to a cold sensation burning my skin. My eyes fluttered open to find Meg standing over me, concern shining in her doe eyes.
“You’re awake.” She dropped the compress she held
against my face and sighed in relief.
I sat up, wincing at the pain throbbing through my cheek and the back of my head. “What happened?”
The secret passageway . . . at once, the events came flooding back. I felt my dress, felt my limbs, my abdomen. I hadn’t been defiled and nothing seemed broken, thank God. I exhaled in relief. In fact, my clothes showed no signs of struggle. Had the men just left me? That seemed unlikely, given the way they had acted. Someone must have come to my rescue. Someone or something.
My Angel had saved me again.
Meg sat on the edge of a chair in her leotard and skirt. She tucked her slippered feet beneath her. “Maman told me to tend to you in your dressing room. The ghost told her you were hurt.”
“The ghost?” I asked, feigning surprise. “He helped me?”
Meg shrugged. “I assume so, since he told Maman. Can a ghost carry a human?” She shuddered. “The whole thing is strange. And horrible.”
I probed my swollen cheek tentatively. I wanted to go home, but first I had to thank the Angel, and find out what had happened.
“You’re shaking.” Meg rubbed my arms. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”
I wasn’t safe until I told the directors about the evil men and had them arrested. Pain throbbed behind my eyes and along my jaw. Groaning, I held the compress to my swollen face. What had I been thinking? I was lucky I hadn’t been killed.
“May I ask you something?” Meg leaned forward in her chair. “Why haven’t you been practicing with Gabriel and the others?”
“I’ve been practicing on my own.” When I needed them, lies sprang to my lips before I had a chance to think. My Angel had inspired more than one change in me, and not all for the better.
Meg’s face changed, and a cloud perched on her fair brow. “There are rumors going around about you, Christine. They say the opera ghost is your teacher. And now he’s rescued you. We all assume. . . I won’t tell anyone, because it’ll make it worse. He’s not exactly the most popular . . . being around here. You should be careful.”
A nervous laugh stuck in my throat. “I don’t believe in rumors, or ghosts.”
She leaned forward again. “I know the ghost is real, Christine. He rescued you, and Maman delivers messages for him. She’s told me everything.”
