by Heather Webb
“Train?” Raoul stood, his eyes full of longing. “You’re leaving?”
“Not to worry, I’ll see her to the train and back to Paris,” Delacroix said firmly.
“Pardon me?” I said, taken aback by the professor’s insistence. “My maid is coming with me. We’ll be fine. You have business to attend to in Le Havre and I am quite capable of seeing myself home.”
“I’ll not hear of you traveling alone. Not after this mess.” He fixed me with his vivid eyes. “It’s too dangerous, Christine. Besides, the business I have can wait.”
I couldn’t make out the professor’s intentions. He had arrived in a flurry only moments before, claiming important business; yet, after hearing about the scene with Raoul in the cemetery and my returning to the opera, he suddenly changed his mind. And then there was that smile of satisfaction. He was planning something. Still, to argue with him would only strengthen his resolve and cause him to question my loyalties. I didn’t have it in me at that moment to argue.
“If you’re certain it doesn’t imposition you in any way. I wouldn’t want you to abandon your studies.”
“It’s no trouble at all. I was headed to visit a friend who is a retired professor, so in truth, there was some business to be discussed, but little.”
“Won’t he miss your visit?” I said, more a plea than a question.
“Think nothing of it. It’s far more important that I take care of someone I consider family.” He smiled broadly.
“Very well, the train leaves in an hour. Please send your friend my regrets for detaining you.”
Judging by his expression, he seemed almost relieved.
“I’ll meet you here in the salon in a quarter of an hour. We should get to the station tout de suite. Vicomte, Officer,” he said, tipping his head politely.
My eyes paused on Raoul’s lips, now rosy with warmth. I looked down and cleared my throat. “I hope you recover quickly, Raoul. Please take care of yourself.”
I turned before I could see the emotion in his eyes, and made a dash for the stairs.
17
During the journey back to Paris, the professor and I spoke little. I replayed the events in the cemetery over and over again—and how spooked and bedraggled Raoul had looked. My heart clenched each time, and I grew furious with the Angel. I didn’t know what to do—how to resolve this. What’s more, I couldn’t reconcile the loss I felt. The Angel wasn’t an angel at all, but as real and alive as me. Somewhere along the way I had grown to believe, or to hope at least, that spirits lived among us, that somehow he really was a spirit that looked out for me. Now I scolded myself for my stupidity.
The following evening I headed to the opera house, weary from lack of sleep and anxiety.
Meg Giry grabbed my hand the moment I arrived, pulling me into a shaded nook between the wall and a staircase. “Monsieur Montcharmin has been talking about you.” Her caramel waves brushed her cheeks as she tipped her head near mine. “They’ve been quarreling about some notes they’ve received.”
“Again?” I groaned. Why did the Angel insist on mentioning me? He was creating more enemies, which I did not need, especially among those who paid me.
“Are you in some sort of trouble?” Meg asked, eyes wide.
“No.” I shrugged, trying to disguise my alarm. “I don’t know.”
“It’s the opera ghost again, isn’t it?” Her voice hushed when mentioning the Angel.
“He wants me to succeed, and doesn’t care who he offends to make that happen.”
“Be careful. You’re making enemies, whether you intend to or not.”
I sighed. “I know, but what am I to do?”
Meg shrugged. “Talk to the directors. Make sure they know you’re not involved in this, and then we’ll find a way to lure the ghost out into the open and figure out what he wants.”
If Delacroix had been unable to flush the Angel out of hiding from his lair at the opera, we certainly couldn’t. Besides, I knew what he wanted. He wanted me, in whatever form he could have me, and the stage—to be his and his alone.
“You’re right.” I nodded numbly. I had to tell the directors I’d returned early anyway. “Thanks, Meg. I’ll talk with them now.”
“Bonne chance.” She kissed my cheek and scurried off to the practice room.
At the office door, I steeled myself for a reprimand and knocked. Regardless of what they had to say, something must change.
“Come in,” Monsieur Richard’s voice called.
“Messieurs, good day,” I said. “I’ve put off the vacation to the sea after all. I wanted to let you know I will be here at your disposal.”
“Very good,” Monsieur Richard said. “And good timing, I’d say, eh Montcharmin?”
“Sit down, Mademoiselle Daaé.” Montcharmin motioned me toward a seat. “We need to discuss a troubling matter with you.”
“I’ll stand, if you please.” I stood at the edge of his desk, which was stacked with years’ worth of ledgers beside a freshly inked letter. I sneaked a glance at the salutation. My pulse began to thump in my ears. The letter was addressed to OG, the opera ghost.
“Fine, fine.” Monsieur Richard hovered over a crystal decanter filled with tawny liquid. He poured a splash into two glasses before raising his brow at me. “Care for a scotch?”
Surprised by his bold gesture, I frowned and said, “Thank you, no.”
Women didn’t drink spirits at this time of day, though in the theatre, one did many things outside the norm. Still, this was no social call. I wanted them to get on with their admonishments, if that’s what this was about.
“You may have heard”—Monsieur Moncharmin paused to roll the scotch around in his glass before tipping it back to swallow the liquor in one gulp—“there have been notes circulating in the opera house, delivered by Madame Giry from the ghost. Oddly, most of them have your name in them. Would you care to explain your connection with the OG?”
Indignation rose inside me. After this little meeting, I would confront the phantom, demand he show himself, and cease all of this nonsense at once. If Carlotta was to rule the stage over me, so be it. I would happily accept my pay and remain as understudy until I could figure out my next move.
“The ghost has helped me with lessons, but I have never seen him. He is a ghost, just as you all have said.” I thought of the violin in the graveyard and him clutching Raoul’s cape. With effort, I shoved the image away and continued, “I come to work each day, practice in my dressing room, and hope to sing on stage. The notes, and any other ploys, are not my own. I am as appalled as you are, and detest how my name is ceaselessly drawn through the mud. Messieurs.” I stuck out my chin.
“It is curious, his obsession with you, Mademoiselle.” Monsieur Moncharmin stroked the curled ends of his mustache. “You’re certain you’ve done nothing to invoke his attentions?”
I threw out my arms, my frustration bubbling over. “Just how would I have done that? I’ve never laid eyes on this . . . creature. How could I possibly force him to do anything?”
“He pushes your career.” Montcharmin leaned forward in his chair. “At the expense of others.”
“And he wishes to bankrupt us,” Monsieur Richard muttered. “One hundred thousand francs indeed.”
“How much?” I asked, taken aback. “Gentlemen, I assure you, I have nothing to do with his demands. If I hear from him directly, I will tell him to cease the notes at once. To leave you and the others be.”
“A warning, Daaé.” Montcharmin tipped forward at the waist, a shadow falling across the bridge of his nose. His eyes glittered beneath a graying brow. “We will have to dismiss you should further disruptions occur. Consider this your first and final warning.”
“I can’t account for the ghost’s whereabouts. It’s unfair to hold me responsible for his doings. Should you dismiss me, gentlemen, you will regret the loss of my talents. With me gone, you’ll have no one to fill the lead when Carlotta feigns an illness.” I tossed my hair in defi
ance, sending a golden cascade over my shoulder. “Now, if that is all, I have rehearsal.”
They stared at me, silent and dumbstruck by my sudden change. I was no longer a naïve chorus girl, so easily managed and bossed about.
“Well, since you’re here, why don’t you join the chorus on stage this evening?” Monsieur Richard said at last.
“Perhaps that will appease him for now.” Montcharmin nodded in agreement.
“I’ll check with Gabriel.” I stalked across the office. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
I closed the door behind me, relishing the surprise imprinted upon their faces. I smiled as I headed to Gabriel’s office. They may not like the notes, they might even dismiss me, but at least I had stood my ground.
After a quick meeting with Gabriel, I scooted to my dressing room. I’d had enough of the Angel’s games. If he wished to continue as my tutor, I wanted to know who he was truly, and his intent after his opera went to stage. I would set my own rules—and boundaries for him as well. No more violence, no more threats, or I would turn him over to the police and leave him for good. From this point forward, I would be in charge.
I locked my dressing room door and flung my overcoat onto the sofa. I turned to face the center of the room. “Angel, show yourself at once. I demand to know who you are. I’m finished with your games.”
Nothing but silence.
My temperature rose as my heart pounded a staccato beat in my chest.
“I have other ambitions, you know,” I said. “I don’t have to stay here. I’m tired of doing what everyone else expects of me. I’m tired of being threatened.” Fury mounted inside me and courage flooded my limbs. “Show yourself at once!”
A pop and click split the silence, and the lights to my dressing room went out.
I opened my mouth to scream but a cool finger pressed gently against my lips.
“You summoned me, ma chèrie,” said the smooth tenor I had grown to know so well.
My heart beat rapidly like a bird’s, my pulse thrashing against my throat. I searched the blackness around me for a silhouette, a shadow, anything to shed light on the dark Angel. My courage melted like butter on hot bread. He was a man—flesh and blood—and a dangerous man at that.
“It makes no difference whether I am a man or a ghost. Yet you feel me upon you.” A soft laugh vibrated in the air around me. “Yes, dear one, I am real. Alive. A man, as you are a woman, but I think you knew that. You have never believed in spirits.”
That wasn’t entirely true. My chest heaved as I tried to regain my composure.
A whooshing sound stirred a breeze around my face, and with it, the lights went on once more. I whirled around. He had disappeared again.
“Who are you?”
An eerie silence filled the room.
I stared into the mirror on the back wall, but saw only my own frightened reflection. He must have come from behind it. There seemed to be no other way into the room, unless the armoire had a false back. I glanced at it and turned back to my reflection. No, this made the most sense, though the glass might be too heavy to move. I would search the room later.
“Why does it matter what my name is?” His voice echoed from the walls.
“Because it does,” I insisted. “Tell me. I wish to know you. That isn’t possible unless I call you by name.”
“You wish to know me, do you?”
The lights flickered. My form faded in the mirror and the silhouette of a man in a hat and cape replaced my own.
I gasped and stepped backward several steps.
“It’s me, ma chèrie. Come closer.” The hand in the mirror motioned to me.
My pulse hammered in my ears. I didn’t—I couldn’t—be near him.
“After tonight,” he said, “Carlotta will be unable to perform.”
“You aren’t going to hurt her?” I willed my voice to remain even.
“What do you take me for, Christine? I am an angel, remember?” The beautiful voice fractured into a terrifying laugh. After he regained his composure, he said, “My name is Erik. That’s all you need to know for now. In time, I will reveal my true identity to you.”
“Prépare-toi,” he said. “This will be the last time you play a role of such insignificance.” His breath tickled my ear.
I jumped at his nearness, throwing out my hands. My fingers met a patch of skin, grooved and ridged in an unnatural way. I yanked my hand away, repulsed by the sensation.
“Do not touch me!” he snarled.
“I’m sorry. Forgive me, I—”
“Enough! I have things to tend to. I must go.”
The lights flickered a final time.
“Erik?” I spun around on my heel. He had gone.
I glanced at the clock on my vanity. There was no time to waste. The show would begin soon. I tied my hair back in a low, flat queue to resemble a boy’s from the past century, dressed in culottes and shoes with buckles, and rushed through my warm-up exercises. My part as a boy was small, but nonetheless I needed to be ready.
After I dressed, I headed to the cast room on the wing of the stage, mind racing. I couldn’t imagine how Erik knew Carlotta would be unable to perform after tonight, unless he was planning something sinister. My stomach clenched at the thought. I should warn the directors—or Carlotta—but what could I say? I had no proof he would truly enact a plan, and what’s more, they would blame me for his schemes.
When I reached the holding room near the stage, I joined the other cast members. Neck taut and tension high, I felt a headache coming on. I walked back and forth, rolling my shoulders forward. If my vocal cords weren’t relaxed, I would sound like a squeaky wheel.
The next instant, Carlotta pushed herself to the edge of the stage to await her cue. When she received the signal, she glanced in my direction and threw me a false smile.
Too anxious to be obsequious, I looked past her.
The curtain went up. Light flooded the stage and Carlotta’s voice projected perfectly over the orchestra. I watched the diva intently, stomach swirling with equal parts anticipation and fear.
When my cue came at last, I leapt out from behind the folds of fabric. As I opened my mouth to sing the part of Siebel, Faust’s student, my eyes were drawn to the box seats where I had once seen Raoul. There he sat, eyes glued to the stage, pain contorting his features. I refocused on the audience, pushing my own pain—and him—away.
Carlotta joined me in the faux garden carrying her bouquet of lilacs. She launched into the ballad of the “King of Thule” with such alacrity and beauty, I held my breath. She hit the perfect octave, showed perfect pitch. I glanced down at the dull buckle on my shoe. I could never compete with her vocals. The woman was a true star.
And then it happened.
The next syllable, Carlotta’s voice cracked. Her lyrics came out as a croak.
The orchestra stopped abruptly.
My hand flew to my mouth in surprise. She sounded like a toad!
Much of the audience gasped in shock. They had never seen such a thing; Carlotta’s performances were always flawless.
Horror marring her features, Carlotta wrapped a hand around her throat.
Guilt and pity—and horror—washed over me. How could Erik have known her voice would falter midsong? Perhaps through a potion, but that didn’t seem likely. I glanced at the box seats where Raoul and his brother sat and at the box on the far right side of the stage—box five. Erik’s box. The directors had taken the seats instead, and now leaned over the railing, mouths agape.
Carlotta threw out her arms, signaling the orchestra to begin again. The crowd stilled, their faces set into masks of concern. The maestro’s troubled expression smoothed and he tapped his wand on the edge of the podium. With a burst, the song began again.
Carlotta filled the pool of light at center stage. She held her head high, the glitter from her fake jewels sparkling. The horns bellowed and the jaunty cadence of strings joined in the melody. She inhaled deeply and began. The first few
notes floated out over the audience, wrapping them in the perfection of her voice.
I held my breath. In spite of my feelings toward the woman, I hoped she would make it through the song. I didn’t wish such embarrassment on anyone.
As she began the next stanza, I squeezed my hands into fists.
The audience leaned forward, holding its breath.
The diva’s voice croaked. This time it was a series of spasms, like those of a tree toad.
Carlotta cried out, bosom heaving.
The audience exclaimed. Many jumped to their feet. Something was amiss, and everyone in the room could feel it, as if a malevolent cloud had rolled over the seats and floated toward the copper ceiling.
My arms crawled with goose bumps. What had Erik done?
Carlotta stomped across the stage and ducked behind the curtain.
I jumped out of the way as a bevy of her friends raced to console her. The moment she left the stage, the audience dissolved into a melee of confusion. Someone shouted for people to remain seated. Charles, the stage director, signaled for the curtain to close. As it swept closed, someone screamed.
I looked out at the audience with a tightness in my chest. This was it. The horrible something for which I’d been waiting.
The massive chandelier suspended above the audience began to sway. With each swing, the brass fixture gained momentum. Screams filled the auditorium as the screech of rending metal echoed through the theatre.
I looked at Raoul’s seat, scarcely able to breathe. He watched in shock as the light fixture swung in broad strokes overhead.
“Ladies and gentlemen”—Charles projected over the confusion—“please exit quickly through the far doors. Quickly!”
Just then, the cable lengthened as it unraveled from a support in the ceiling.
“Run!” I screamed.
My voice blended with the chorus of shrieks and chaos.
With a resounding snap, the chandelier’s cord gave way and smashed down onto the rows of seats beneath it. Glass exploded and metal twisted on impact. The unlucky few who had not escaped to the safety of the hall were crushed to death beneath the weight of brass, steel, and shattered glass.
