by Heather Webb
A butler ushered me into the front hall, took my cloak, and showed me to my position and where the other performers would stand as well: a pianist, a trio of ballerinas, and—to my surprise—a conjurer. I didn’t know why it should surprise me. Conjurers weren’t uncommon at the larger salons, but I hadn’t seen one in nearly four years.
I floated through the salon to a corner near the French doors. The wealthy mingled with one another; they laughed and conversed in a restrained way, faces prim. It suited me that they kept their distance. I had little interest in striking up friendships with those who would always treat me as inferior, even if their belittlement was disguised in a sheen of pretty manners and polite gestures. I gulped down the last of my punch, grateful for the alcohol it contained.
The hostess returned to the makeshift stage, interrupting my thoughts. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Stéfan the Illusionist.”
The conjurer stepped into position. Though I needed to warm up and prepare for my own show, I had to watch. I settled into a chair along with the audience.
Stéfan opened with a tepid introduction, followed by a series of amateur tricks. “And then it becomes a dove!” The conjurer threw his hands into the air.
Only the dove didn’t spring from his hands. Instead, the bird poked its head out from the gentleman’s sleeve and began to coo.
The audience guffawed and whistled.
I winced. Poor fellow.
The conjurer stuttered and began a new trick to cover his embarrassment.
I glanced across the room at our hostess, beribboned and feathered in enough lavish blues to make the most glorious of peacocks jealous. She was so absorbed in conversation with a gentleman that she didn’t appear to notice the lackluster show. I wondered how in the world the duchess found this conjurer. Perhaps he had approached her. I scanned the faces in the audience. At least half of them leaned toward an acquaintance for a bit of gossip with their neighbor, or looked over their shoulder at the doorway, hoping they might escape without being noticed. The poor man didn’t realize just how horrid he truly was.
I stood and inched along the outer edge of the room, scooting behind the curtain of the stage. I had hardly made it when the audience began to heckle the conjurer. Nervous I might receive the same treatment, I gulped down a glass of water and began my warm-up.
The duchess slipped behind the curtain in front of me, stuck her hand through the folds of the fabric covering the stage, and, without warning, and yanked the conjurer’s jacket. He stumbled backward and fell on his rear. His hat tumbled from his head. A clump of wadded silk spilled from it to the floor.
More laughter arose from the crowd.
“I am sorry about the spill, Stéfan, but that will be all, thank you. You’re sending people to the door,” the duchess said, taking the stage.
The conjurer grasped the pole on his left to heft himself to his feet.
The pole couldn’t support his weight and it teetered, causing the entire frame of the stage to sway. Those seated in the front row rushed from their chairs to avoid being slammed by the rods.
“Watch out!” someone shouted.
Two men jumped out of their seats and grabbed it just in time, pushing it back into place.
Several others laughed at the spectacle.
Had I been the hostess, I would have been mortified, but instead, the duchess dissolved into a fit of giggles. When she could breathe again, she raised her arms to regain everyone’s attention.
“For our final performance this evening”—she said in a gay voice—“we welcome Mademoiselle Christine Daaé, soprano extraordinaire, straight from the Nouvel Opéra.”
A smattering of applause arose and the murmuring settled some as people reclaimed their seats.
I stepped through the curtain and faced the crowd, clasping my hands together. Finding a point on the back wall, I envisioned hollowing out my insides to make room for the air I would need. Become a vessel for the music that carved a path through me, until it reached my throat and vibrated my vocal chords.
After a moment’s pause, the pianist began.
As I sang, all evaporated but me—my father’s daughter—singing with all my heart. Strength bubbled up from within and I drew upon it like a woman at a well, desperate to quench her thirst. That confidence—the same I’d felt when I bartered with the shopkeeper—again came rushing to the surface. The rapt attention of the audience pressed around me like a blanket, warming my blood, fueling my confidence further. I liked being on stage. No, I adored it; I felt more alive there than anywhere. For the first time since Papa had died, I could feel the first inklings of contentment, in spite of all else that ran amok at the opera house. In this moment, I understood—I knew—somehow that my time at the opera was limited. Someday soon, I would embark on my own path.
After a few songs, I bowed to the applause, warmed with elation and relief that the performance was over. Thirsty, I headed to the refreshment table. The duchess joined me, signaling the attendant at the table to pour her an aperitif of Bardinet.
She sipped the cherry brandy and winked at me. “You, young lady, were magnificent. You stepped in early without a fuss, and didn’t show a monstrous attitude like many other singers I’ve known. I’ll have Jacques pay you double. I hope you’ll consider joining us again.”
“Double?” I nearly dropped my water glass. “You’re certain?”
“Never question someone who offers to pay you. Take it and be off, as quickly as you can, before whoever it is changes their mind.”
I laughed at her candor. “Thank you, Madame.”
“Have a nice evening.” She winked.
I watched in amusement as she threaded through the crowd, laughing and nodding, her feathers bobbing. It had been worth it, risking the Angel’s wrath. Now I could buy a new gun with one night’s work, pay Georges for the cabinet, and still have money left.
After receiving payment, I made for the door. A footman led me to a waiting carriage. When I was deposited home, I rushed up the front steps and to my room. After counting the bills, I hid the money in an old handbag in the back of my armoire.
The clock chimed eleven. I needed to rest, but I didn’t feel tired. Though it was late, exhilaration hummed in my veins. I felt less burdened, freed from fear and the weight of the unknown. My eyes fell upon the book of illusions on the bedside table. It had changed everything. I threw open the balcony door and a wintry gust whooshed into the room, whipping through my hair and under my skirts. In spite of the chill, I relished the air, felt emboldened by it.
I stepped outside and stared at the crows perched silently on the eaves of the neighboring house. They were still as death beneath the dome of ebony sky. I shivered, my mood dampening slightly. Were they sleeping, or were they watching me?
A scraping sound came from the far corner of the balcony.
Another bird, perhaps? I glanced in that direction, catching sight of several motionless lumps on the ground. Curious, I walked to the corner and bent down to inspect the mysterious items. With a gasp, I fell on my heels and scrambled backward.
A dozen crows lay dead, their eyes unseeing, with red ribbons tied around their broken necks. A single red rose lay next to them.
He had come—the Angel. The Angel of Death.
I had disobeyed him, by going off to sing elsewhere, and that angered him. The bubble of happiness around me popped and fear snaked through my body until I shook. Someone would pay each time the Angel’s wishes went unheeded. This was his message. He could reach me beyond the opera house.
I would tell him about the gun—why I needed the money—and make him understand. He had to forgive my indiscretion. I dared another look at the dead birds. Something glinted near their bodies.
What in the world?
I reached toward the source of light, winking just above the bodies. My fingers met the cool surface of beveled glass. I frowned and leaned closer.
I snapped upright once more, the truth hitting me with unexpect
ed surprise.
It was an illusion.
There was only one dead bird, its body reflected in fractured panes of glass like a prism. The Angel had tried to deceive me. I crouched in front of the glass to study its size and angles. The gears turned in my ever-curious brain. Had the Angel etched the glass himself, or purchased it somewhere? I could make use of something similar for my own illusions, perhaps. I raced inside for my notebook and quill pen to sketch its dimensions and take notes. As an afterthought I grabbed a lantern and threw my cloak around my shoulders. My exhilaration returning, I stepped into the cold night air once more.
The illusion was gone.
14
The following day, an angry hiss greeted me as I entered my dressing room. A rash of goose bumps ran over my arms and I quickly shut the door.
“Who’s there?” I called, inviting the dark one to answer.
The sound of nails screeching against the wall sent a tremor along my spine.
“You left a dead crow on my balcony,” I said. “Why? You know I am your willing student. There is no one who is able to teach me as you do, who inspires my music more. I already do your bidding. Why would you frighten me?”
“Already do my bidding?” The menace in his laugh seeped from the walls into the room, filling me with dread. “You aren’t doing my bidding, dear one. Believe me, if you were, you would know it.” His voice deepened. “I’ve told you not to sing for anyone but me, here, in my house.”
I planned to tell him about the gun all morning, but now could not bring myself to do it. If he had taken it, he might be planning something awful. If it wasn’t him, Lord knew what he would do to the person who had, perhaps implicating me further. I shuddered. No, I must keep it from him.
“I-I need the money,” I said. “My benefactor is ill so we have many bills. She refuses to dismiss her footman and maid, and can’t do any work herself so—”
“You are forgiven. This once. Promise me you won’t ignore my wishes again.”
“I’ve told you I would heed your wishes,” I said with impatience. Though, as I said the words, I knew I would break my promise that very evening.
I glanced at the clock. As soon as the show ended—the show I was not a part of tonight—I would go to the smoking room and join Raoul, if only briefly. I had to thank him for the book. He didn’t know how much it meant to me, how he had brought me back to life. He’d given me my magic, released dreams I didn’t know I still had. A powerful warmth surged through me, drowning the dread the Angel’s threats had inspired. I could hardly wait to see Raoul again.
“Good. We understand each other then.”
“Perfectly,” I said, sweetly.
“Now, do your exercises and we’ll begin.”
I hid my irritation at his dictatorial tone and did as he asked until my vocal chords were loose and I was ready to begin.
“I have new music for you to learn. You’ll find the sheet on your chair.”
I picked up the paper, entertaining the question that always nagged at me when an object appeared in my room: How had the Angel gotten it there? There had to be a removable panel in the room somewhere. Yet when Delacroix had searched my room, he’d found nothing. I made a mental note to look for it myself.
I picked up the sheet of music and read through the tortured but beautiful lyrics. Titled Don Juan Triumphant, this opera paralleled Mozart’s Don Giovanni, about the scoundrel who seduced or raped women, and was eventually dragged into the fires of hell by demons for his penance. But the Angel’s Don Juan would change his ways, all for the love of Amnita, an innocent and beautiful maiden, after he managed to capture and seduce her. Beside each role, the Angel had listed a cast member’s name. Next to the virginal maiden, I found my own, and Don Juan would be played by the Angel.
I shivered at the implications. Capture and seduction by the Angel. Rape?
“Did you write this?” I asked, my voice hoarse.
“It’s mine, yes. And I’ve passed it along to those fools who run my theatre. They’ll give it a full run, like the other operas—with my choice of cast.
“I wrote it for you,” the voice said quietly.
Torn between admiration, flattery, and fear, I said nothing. What was he plotting? Did he . . . have feelings for me, beyond what I had imagined?
I walked to the large mirror on the back wall; the place from which his voice seemed to emanate. At last I whispered, “It’s incredible. The musical score is unique, powerful.”
The mirror shifted and my form faded until it appeared to overlay another—a male in a dark suit.
I gasped and stepped backward, pulse racing. “Is that you?”
He wore a cape and a fedora hat pulled low over his face. A sort of fog surrounded him, the way I would expect an apparition to look. His arm reached for me and caressed the image of my face in the mirror.
“Yes.”
I gasped. He couldn’t really touch me, I reminded myself. Confusion swirled inside me like a gathering storm. Here was the image of the man-angel who had taught me like a tutor, led me like a father, and now showed feelings for me that inspired an icy rush of emotion in my chest; a mingling of fear and something I couldn’t place. He is a murderer, my head screamed. He has threatened me! But he cares for me. And I care for him, I admitted slowly, in some way at least.
Confused, I focused on the glass. How had he done it? I snapped my fingers as I realized the truth behind the illusion—this was Platonized glass, like the panes I’d seen for sale at the magic shop. The open panel was behind the mirror—not the wall! I grinned in spite of myself. I knew his secret.
He dropped his arm and his image faded from the glass. “It is time to sing.”
After several run-throughs, I had the song almost memorized.
“Good,” the Angel said. “Now, one last time and we will conclude for the day. I want you to learn each of your songs, and be quick about it. The cast is already ahead of you.”
I closed my eyes and sang, focusing on each note, each breath. On the second stanza, he joined me. Surprised, my eyes fluttered open and I stumbled over the next phrase. His beautiful tenor never failed to astound me with its perfection. I regained my composure quickly, and our voices braided smoothly as if from the same weave, then parted, only to rejoin in a harmonious swell. His voice caressed my own, coiled around it, and clutched it with need.
When the final notes concluded, I breathed heavily. I had never felt such intensity singing. Regardless of his rough demeanor and his outrageous demands, the Angel inspired me to be better, to throw off the doubts in my abilities. I longed to please him, even if he manipulated and scolded me—even when he terrified me into submission.
“You have done well, dear one,” the Angel said, his voice thick with emotion.
I smiled, basking in his praise. “It’s a beautiful song.”
“A beautiful voice filled with emotion and longing is precisely what the song needs to make it soar. You are truly coming into your own.”
I drained the water glass on my table, mulling over his words. Singing filled me with longing, yes, but not the kind he hoped for. There was no joy there, no pleasure, or sense of certainty that this was right for me. Not anymore. Suddenly I longed to see Papa more than anything in the world. I needed his comforting presence—I needed some sort of sign.
“We’ll practice again tomorrow,” the Angel said.
Shoving down my confusion, I nodded. “I would like some privacy now, please. And then I will be on my way.”
“Until tomorrow.”
Though the Angel’s absence left a strange void, I was glad for it. I didn’t want to take the chance of missing Raoul tonight. The performance had ended almost forty-five minutes ago. Quickly, I checked my appearance. My cheeks were flushed and my green gown accentuated my slender waist. A lightness of mood swept through me and I smiled.
I walked the familiar path through the corridors, up several flights of stairs, and into the main hall, admiring its beauty a
s I went. Every eave or marble pillar showcased an intricate carving of mythical beings, instruments, or decorative leaves, vines, and flowers.
When I reached the grand staircase, my heart beat in time with my steps. How would I thank Raoul? I didn’t know the words. I headed toward the anterior hall, willing my pulse to slow its frantic pace. Inside Le Salon de Lune, I searched each face, to no avail—he wasn’t there. Before continuing on, I took a moment to admire the gilded mirrors on opposing walls, and stood in front of the glass, marveling at the way my image repeated into infinity as it curved away from me. Above my head, black owls flocked around the ceiling fixture supporting a silver chandelier. The pewter sky of the dome curved around their dark bodies and dripped into sharp icicle points down the wall. A smattering of stars glistened in the painted night. I’d only seen this floor once before, and I’d forgotten how beautiful the rooms were.
Cognizant of the evening slipping away, I didn’t hesitate and headed quickly for Le Salon de Soleil, the other smoking room at the opposite end of the foyer. The west room featured the same infinity mirrors, but all glistened in gold leaf rather than silver. Salamanders—a symbol of the sun—crawled around the center chandelier on the ceiling, and a sun projected its shimmering rays down the walls. The opera house held as many facets of beauty as it did secrets, it seemed. I waded through elegant gentlemen sloshing their cognacs, lost in tall tales and political discourse, and ladies discussing Nana, the latest novel by Émile Zola, about a prostitute-turned-stage player. At Carlotta’s party and again at the Duchess of Zurich’s salon, I’d overheard plenty about the scandalous novel. I mentally added the novel to my list, to see what all of the fuss was about.
