by Heather Webb
He eyed my day dress, his disapproval plain. Gabriel never appeared rumpled or in last season’s coats, cravats, or boots. “Get into costume.”
“I won’t let you down.” I drew myself up to my full height, until the outline of my form cast a shadow across the top of his blond head.
“See that you don’t.” He glanced down and gasped in outrage. Crouching, he rubbed at an invisible scuff on his shoe. When he glanced up at me, I concealed a grin. “They’re Italian leather. Balmoral boots. They cost me a fortune, but they were worth every centime.”
After a moment of scrubbing, he straightened and waltzed away with more grace than a queen.
I closed the door, and stood in front of the mirror. I would be Marguerite tonight! This was my chance to prove I could fill Carlotta’s shoes. I could do this. I would do this!
“At last you return.”
I gasped in surprise. “You’re here.”
The Angel’s chuckle echoed behind the mirror. “I am always here.”
I stared intently at the glass as if it might fracture and fall away, revealing the Angel behind it.
“You rescued me last week.” Emotion swelled and my words came out strangled.
“You cried out for me, dear one, so I came.”
“I came to warn you. Those men wanted to find you and somehow bring you to their boss. I don’t know that a ghost can be ‘found,’ but I was worried. I—”
“Everyone wants to meet the opera ghost,” he growled. “Lure him from hiding and terrorize him. I will terrorize them instead.”
I wrung my hands at the ominous shift in his tone. “Joseph Buquet is missing. Do you know where he is?”
“He is not missing. He’ll turn up soon enough.” Another gruff laugh echoed from behind my dressing room wall.
My stomach churned violently at the thought of the machinist finding me again. “Is it safe for me to stay at the opera? I can find work elsewhere—”
“You will not leave!” the Angel roared.
I flinched at his tone, but held my tongue. How quickly his emotions changed.
After a moment of silence, he went on, tone pianissimo. “Leaving would destroy your chances of becoming a star. It would also disappoint your father.”
I felt a wave of shame, like a coward. He was right. If I didn’t stay—sing Carlotta’s part as long as they needed me—how would I ever know if I was good enough? And there was Madame as well. We would flounder without this income. Caught between fear and duty, I sighed.
“The machinist won’t hurt you again. That’s a promise.”
“I thought I was safe last time,” I said, tilting my chin in defiance.
“I am sorry you were accosted. I thought my first warning to him would be enough, but I should have known better. He isn’t the brightest of men. I assure you, you are safe now.”
I considered his promise; I had no choice but to trust the ghost. And he had come to my rescue—again.
“I’ll stay. For now.”
“Of course you will. Now, begin your warm-ups.”
I went through my exercises, notes playing on my tongue, rhythm coursing through my veins. I could hardly believe my luck—taking Carlotta’s place at last, even if temporarily. I tingled with anticipation.
“You’re ready.” The Angel’s tenor vibrated in the floorboards. “Remember to use all that wells up inside of you while you sing. Strength, confidence. Feel the emotions in the song—be the song. Let it flow into your blood and project it outward. Wrap the room in your voice. I will be there with you, guiding you.”
I closed my eyes as I envisioned myself on stage, commanding the room.
“I’ll be watching from box five.”
With that, the Angel went silent.
My eyes fluttered open. Hastily, I applied maquillage and changed into my costume. Within minutes, I rushed to the cast room in the east wing off the stage. Meg spotted me and made her way toward me, a smile on her face.
“I’m performing tonight,” I said, breathless from my mad dash through the halls. “Carlotta has a cold. Can you believe it? I’m going to play the lead!”
Meg embraced me. “Now you’ll show them!”
I smiled at my friend. I didn’t know what I had done to deserve her kindness, but I was grateful for it just the same.
A ballerina burst into the cast room, terror etched on her features.
The excitement in the room shifted, and all gathered around the petite ballerina.
“Jammet, what is it?”
I joined the others, though all I could see was the topknot of her raven hair.
“It’s Joseph Buquet, the machinist!” Jammet exclaimed. “He’s dead! They found him hanging from a rope on the third mezzanine below the stage.”
Everyone gasped.
I staggered backward in shock. He was dead? No. He couldn’t be.
“Jammet, are you certain it was the machinist?” Meg asked.
“Of course I’m certain,” she said. “I’ve just passed the directors and the magistrate in the hall. There’s a load of reporters as well.”
“Was it suicide?” another chorus girl asked.
“That’s what the directors said.” Jammet’s eyes filled with tears. “They said it looked as if he had been dead for several days. I rather liked the man. He gave me sweets.”
“He was a pleasant fellow,” another said. “Always said hello to me.”
“He didn’t commit suicide,” another man from the chorus said. “He wasn’t the type. There’s a murderer among us.”
Lucille, the only contralto in the opera’s chorus, replied in her husky voice, “I would bet my wages it was the opera ghost.”
I stumbled, knocking into an empty chair. It tipped and crashed to the floor. Everyone began talking at once. Would the ghost murder anyone else? Could he be stopped?
“Christine, weren’t you wandering on the third mezzanine before he disappeared?” Gaston, a baritone in the chorus, called out to me.
I leaned on the table for support. “I was looking through a storage room at the old costumes and sets. But I never saw Joseph.”
“Two minutes,” the stage manager called from the doorway. “Everyone at the ready.”
Grateful for the interruption, I slipped away from the crowd toward the back of the room. The murmurings died down as the chorus members filed out, preparing to take their positions on the stage. Joseph did not commit suicide. The man was too determined, too strong, and very sure of himself—and I knew the truth.
The Angel had killed him.
His earlier words pushed to the front of my mind. The machinist won’t hurt you again. That’s a promise.
My hands began to tremble. It was my fault. The Angel wanted to protect me—he killed someone because of me. The strength of his attachment to me rocked me to the core, and the trembling spread until my legs felt weak. Sick. My tutor was a murderer—ghosts really could be malevolent.
At that moment, the show commenced and Faust’s opening soliloquy floated through the doorway. Soon, I would go on. I wanted to flee to the safety of Madame’s house, far from dead men, from dark angels, and pretending to be a real star.
“Christine!” the stage director hissed, grabbing me by the arm. “I hope you’re ready. I never thought I would see this day.”
“I am ready, Monsieur.” My voice cracked. It felt as if I had swallowed a desert.
The director rolled his eyes. “It sounds like it. You do know the lyrics, right?”
“Yes, of course,” I said, my voice still shaking. “I’ll drink some water and do another warm-up exercise. I’ll be ready in a flash.”
“You had damn well better be, or this will be your first and last night on that stage. Gabriel and the directors will be watching your every move.”
“Je comprends.”
My breath came in short bursts. I needed to calm myself. With exactly ten minutes until curtain call, I focused on the Angel’s advice: strength, confidence, emotion. The advice of a killer.
My friend and protector was a murderer. My head spun as my emotions tangled. I wondered where he was now, with the police and the newspaper reporters milling about the building.
“Can you believe it?” Meg’s tutu bounced around her waist as she walked. “First, the ghost sends all of those letters and now Joseph Buquet. I asked Maman about it, but she wouldn’t spill a word.”
When I didn’t respond, she pursed her bow-shaped lips. “Are you all right?”
Something about her expression melted my defenses, and I grabbed her arm. “Oh, Meg, what if I’m terrible tonight? The stage director just warned me this might be my only performance. And if I’m blamed for Joseph Buquet’s death—”
“It’s not your fault. You didn’t even know Buquet.”
I didn’t correct her assumptions. Friend or no, I couldn’t tell her all that had happened. It would only create more panic.
“As for the stage director—the old bag—ignore him,” she said. “You’re a wonderful singer or you wouldn’t be the understudy in the first place. Besides, Gabriel approves. No doubting yourself tonight, do you hear me?”
I exhaled a deep breath and embraced her. “Thank you. You can’t know how much I needed to hear this.”
“Of course. We’re friends.”
I managed a smile.
The stage manager poked his head into the room. “You’re on, Daaé!”
With a deep breath, I followed him. I paced to my designated place on the stage and stood tall, ignoring the tremor in my hands. The curtains parted and light flooded the stage. A silent crowd stared—at me.
In the split second before the music began, I peered out at the theatre, gaining my bearings and gathering my nerve.
Impress yourself upon them, Papa had said. Expand your presence and fill the space. Don’t give the power to the strangers who gaze at you.
A sea of faces looked on from the parterre. Above them, the wealthy perched in box seats, decked in finery and feathered hats. I envisioned them entering from the east wing, reserved for the gentry, hanging their overcoats in the private room adjoining their seats, and Madame Giry attending to their demands. Would they like a refreshment of champagne or some other delight? Could she assist them with reservations after the show?
Packed into the seats of the parterre, a crowd of working-class theatre-lovers anticipated the show. Without doubt, they had scrimped and saved for weeks to purchase even the cheapest seats.
All stared at me.
I willed my stomach to unknot and my mind to clear of the horrible news. Focus, Christine.
The conductor posed on his platform in a black smoking jacket, face lined with concentration and hands prepared to take flight. He tapped his wand on the podium, and raised his arms into the air. With a flick of his wrist, the music began.
Pulse racing, my lips parted in anticipation. At the right moment, I began. I pushed out the first notes, heart thundering in my chest until the lyrics streamed from memory and flowed over my tongue without effort. Like magic, the music wrapped me in a cocoon. I drew strength from within, power from the muscles in my diaphragm, and channeled the energy out through my throat. The exertion warmed my blood, and energy charged through my limbs as I belted out the lyrics to “Je voudrais bien savoir . . . Il était un Roi de Thulé,” a song about Marguerite’s wish to identify the stranger she had met in the town square.
One song after another, I sang as if my life depended upon it. Perhaps it did. I couldn’t keep my eyes from wandering in the direction of box five, in search of the Angel. Yet no one—and nothing—filled the box that I could see, neither human nor shadow.
When at last it was time for my final piece, “D'amour, l'ardente flamme,” I faced the west balcony and flung out my arms. As I glanced up, there, in the balcony nearest the stage, sat a familiar handsome gentleman. He stared at me as if enraptured by my voice. My heart registered his face in an instant and thumped wildly.
The vicomte, Raoul de Chagny.
A flood of images crashed over me: Raoul on my doorstep, Carlotta’s words of warning. Joseph smashing my head—his dead body swinging from the rafters. I squeezed my eyes closed, forcing myself to focus on the song, pushing the final notes higher.
The contorted bodies in the fire, the smell of charring flesh.
With every ounce of concentration I possessed, I sang over the memories, pushing through the encroaching darkness. Only a few more bars and I could escape, figure out what came next.
Papa’s glazed eyes, his gasp of final breath.
Black dots speckled my vision as my fear strained against my will. It was too much. I couldn’t—
The orchestra played their final notes, and my legs collapsed beneath me.
Applause began, slowly at first, but it caught like fire and ripped through the auditorium until it thundered from the rafters. The crowd jumped to their feet, cheering, chanting my name.
The cheering contorted into the roar of fire consuming wood. I panted, staring wide-eyed at the beautifully carved ceiling. All those dead bodies. Papa’s dead body.
And then, it all went silent.
11
A flurry of voices filled my head. Slowly, I opened my eyes.
“She’s awake!” Meg’s voice rang through the fog like a bell. “Christine, you were brilliant! Truly brilliant.”
“Who is your teacher?” asked Lucille, a ballerina. “You must have been training like mad. Your voice was so different in practice.”
A groan rumbled in my throat as Meg helped me into a sitting position. I looked about and spied my vanity, now covered in carnations, roses, and several varieties of flowers I couldn’t name.
“I fainted?” I asked, wrapping my arms around my middle. “How long was I out?”
“You were in such raptures over the music you swooned, right there on stage.” Meg beamed. “It was incredible! The audience chanted your name as you were carried away.”
I frowned. It wasn’t raptures over the music, but an attack of panic, a tidal wave of overwhelming fright, confusion, and exhaustion. But I had done it. I had brought the crowd to their feet. Yet, no sense of satisfaction stirred in my belly. No joy hummed in my veins. I felt strangely cold and bereft.
“You were amazing!” Meg said, face beaming.
On her right, a doctor pulled a stethoscope from his case. He adjusted the pince-nez perched on the end of his nose. “Mademoiselle, you were overcome and fainted on stage. It would be prudent to ensure all is well.”
Several others pushed around him, or called from the doorway. “Bravo, Mademoiselle Daaé!”
They clamored for me. They wanted me.
“Can we clear the room?” a male voice cut through the din. “Mademoiselle Daaé needs her space.”
The music of that voice sent an arrow to my heart.
Raoul, in his elegant evening wear, ushered everyone out of the room except for Meg and the doctor. “Christine, are you all right? You sang with such conviction, you wrung yourself out. I saw you grow pale from my box.”
Heat spread across my cheeks and neck. “I am quite well.”
Meg grinned widely. “You’ll keep Carlotta on her toes now.”
Hearing the diva’s name brought back her warning. I had to ask Raoul to leave, though every part of me struggled against the thought. He wanted to be friends; that was all. I didn’t see any real reason to turn him away, and yet, I knew I must.
“Thank you all, but if you will excuse me, I need to rest.” I crumpled inwardly as Raoul’s face fell. He was bound to think me cold, but I had no choice. For now, I needed to stay on at the opera, and displeasing Carlotta endangered my position.
“I’ll visit you later,” Meg said.
I rose from the chaise. “That will be all, Doctor, thank you.”
“If you insist,” Raoul said. “But should you fall again, I won’t agree to you turning me away.”
“Of course. Thank you for your kindness.” I nodded as he packed his things.
Everyone
left but Raoul.
“I had to make certain you were all right,” he said. “I’ll be meeting my brother in the ballet room, and then on to the Grand Foyer for an aperitif after the next show. Will you join us?”
The clock on my vanity table chimed eleven thirty—the hour I was supposed to meet the Angel.
I walked to my dressing room door and held it open, anxious for him to leave. “It was lovely to see you again, Raoul, but I’m going to follow the doctor’s orders and rest.”
His brow puckered, and then he nodded. “Yes, of course. Good night.” He hesitated at the door, a quizzical look on his face before continuing on his way.
I closed the door and pushed out a breath. Raoul had come to see me! In spite of my anxiety, my lips turned up in a smile—only an instant. What was I going to do about this? I sat at my vanity to rub away the rouge on my lips and cheeks, and discovered a single red rose tied with black ribbon, lying amid the lavish bouquets of flowers. I held it to my nose.
“You did well tonight,” the Angel said.
I jumped. “You’re here!” My pulse kicked up a notch.
The ghost was a murderer.
Regardless of his loyalty to me, I had to be careful. Should I anger him, he might turn against me, too. I smeared my handkerchief with cream and wiped my face clean of maquillage, rubbing hard until my skin glowed pink from the exertion.
“Monsieur le Vicomte cares for you,” he said, his voice low.
“We knew each other as children. He is soon to be engaged.” I unpinned the braided coils on my head, and they unfurled down my back. I released my hair, running a brush through the blond snarls until they grew silky again.
“You would do well to stay clear of him. The vicomte will only hurt you. Seduce you with his pretty visage and his money, and leave you when he has what he wants. He would never marry a musician’s daughter, and certainly not a stage performer.”
I pulled the brush through my waves again with force. I didn’t like his implication: Stage girls were considered promiscuous, even if celebrated, and now I was counted among them. It seemed the Angel was no different from the men I’d had to endure at Madame’s salon. The thought brought a sharp slice of pain. I had thought our friendship a special one.
