The Phantom's Apprentice

by Heather Webb

  Messieurs Montcharmin and Richard approached before I noticed them.

  “Mademoiselle Daaé, good evening.” Monsieur Montcharmin tugged on the end of his pointed mustache. “Aren’t you lovely.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur. So I am recognizable?”

  “There aren’t many fair-haired young ladies with such radiant beauty gracing these halls.”

  “Very kind of you to say.” I smiled. “It’s a lovely soirée. All of Paris must be here.”

  “We have already tripled our donations for the year,” Richard said, resting one hand on his belly. “It seems our ploy has been a success.”

  “How marvelous.”

  “I’ve heard there’s a new talent in music making the headlines,” Monsieur Richard prattled on, making polite conversation. “A Richard Strauss of Germany. Some are predicting he’ll join the list of the greats, or so says Herr Auttenberg. He’s visiting to watch the performances on our stage next week. Good of him to come. Perhaps we’ll invite Monsieur Strauss to meet with the music director sometime.”

  “The world can never have enough beautiful music,” I said, smiling.

  We watched the crowd for a moment, as a nervous silence stretched between us. I steeled myself for the reproach I knew would come. Not only had I disappeared for two weeks, but Erik’s opera meant I would be in the middle of all the trouble again.

  Monsieur Richard clutched a suspender cradling his belly. “You disappeared for a fortnight without a word, Mademoiselle.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I had to leave unexpectedly. I apologize, messieurs, but I had no choice in the matter. It was urgent.”

  Montcharmin stroked his mustache. “Urgent. I am sure.”

  I twirled my handbag nervously. Erik’s threats kept me employed, I knew. What director would keep on an understudy who left on a whim.

  “As you know”—Monsieur Richard broke in—“Carlotta has not been herself. We would like to offer you the starring role in her stead for a while. Soon, we will be beginning a new program, as I am sure you’ve heard.” He threw me a pointed look.

  “Yes, sir. I . . . the cast practices for—”

  “Don Juan Triumphant,” we all said in unison.

  I clutched my handbag to my body, imaging the ways Erik had convinced the directors to do his bidding. I knew his bribery took on one form only: mortal threats.

  “But we need to be certain you won’t disappear again,” Montcharmin said. “We’ll increase your salary, of course, as the lead.”

  I forced a smile. “How could I say no, gentlemen? Thank you for the opportunity.”

  “It won’t be permanent, mind. But we would like to try it for a while. Until—”

  Richard silenced Montcharmin with a glare.

  I knew what that look meant. They wanted me to lead until they dealt with the opera ghost. But no one could “deal” with him until I had.

  Monsieur Richard released his suspender and clinked his glass against Montcharmin’s. “Fantastique. You start tomorrow.”

  The two men scurried off, no doubt to secure more donations. Too edgy to remain in one place, I headed to a refreshment table.

  “May I get you something?”

  My heart leapt into my throat. The voice I had yearned to hear all day filled my ears with music. I turned to find Raoul, resplendent in formal evening attire and a simple black mask.

  I smiled, heart bursting with gladness. “You aren’t wearing a costume.”

  “There’s something too close for comfort about masquerading as the nobility of yore while still carrying a title, n’est-ce pas?” He closed the distance between us.

  I laughed. “You were always eager to shed your title.”

  “Titles mean so little in today’s modern world. I am a man of the République.”

  I thought of the way women swooned around him, longing to become his duchess; the way men respected him instantly for his property and his family name. He couldn’t be more wrong. Titles still meant a great deal, and were dismissed easily only if one possessed a title.

  “Your humility is admirable,” I said. “It always has been.”

  “And you”—he gathered my hand in his and held it to his lips—“are admirable. More than admirable. You’re stunning.”

  Euphoria coursed through me. All was well with the world, if only for the moment, and I wanted it to never end.

  The musical ensemble concluded their song and the sound of applause filled the hall. When the first notes of a waltz followed, the dancing began anew.

  “You promised me a dance.” Raoul leaned closer and held out his arm, sparking a blush that spread beneath my mask. “Shall we?”

  My stomach somersaulted as he led me to the dance floor and placed a hand at my waist. As we whisked over polished floors, I couldn’t wipe the smile from my face. A graceful and experienced dancer, Raoul’s gaze remained steadfast on mine and he never seemed to consider his steps. So much emotion shimmered between us, it robbed me of breath.

  I loved him. By God, how I loved him.

  “I have dreamed of this moment,” he said. “Of taking you in my arms and sweeping you across the dance floor like we were the only two in the room.”

  My blood hummed in my veins. “Aren’t we?”

  He brushed his lips over the tip of my nose, then pulled me closer until our bodies nearly touched—a scandalous position—in front of everyone.

  I yearned to be closer still.

  “Tell me what you are thinking,” he said.

  A laugh bubbled in my throat and broke free. “I find it curious how we go from one emotion to the next, from the depths of fear and despair to the heights of joy, so easily and without warning.”

  “I want to be your source of joy always,” he said, his voice husky.

  “To be here with you is a dream.” My heart nearly burst with happiness.

  We danced another song, and another. When the third ended, we paused to catch our breath.

  “We’ll wear holes in our shoes tonight.” I laughed as he clinked his punch glass against mine.

  “I’ll be happier for it.”

  I gazed at him, memorizing his features, the beauty and the signs of pain etched there, the soul in his eyes.

  “Come away with me somewhere, away from the crowd.” He scanned the room as if looking for an escape. “I’d like to talk alone.”

  “To the roof, perhaps?” I knew there was a hidden staircase just off the former emperor’s apartments. I’d found it the first time I’d gone exploring. We would be alone there for certain.

  “It’s this way,” I said, boldly taking him by the hand.

  His fingers closed around mine, and I led him through the foyer, dodging the merrymaking guests, until we reached a quieter wing of the building. After pausing to look around, I ducked through a door that appeared to open into a storage room.

  Raoul frowned. “What’s in here?”

  “Shh, he’ll hear us.” I pulled him inside. Once the door closed, I whispered, “You’ll have to come closer or it won’t open. Here, right in front of me.”

  “Who? What in the world—”

  I covered his lips with my finger. “He’s always listening.”

  Raoul pressed against me and placed his hands on my waist possessively. His scent rushed my senses like an opium cloud and I felt like a woman drugged. I wanted to lose myself in him.

  “What next?” he asked, his tone guttural yet soft.

  I groped along the ceiling for the crack I knew was there. At last, I found the lever and pulled it. The revolving door pivoted. We found ourselves in another cramped room, but this time, a staircase spiraled upward toward the ceiling.

  “Amazing,” Raoul whispered.

  I smiled in the dark. “Follow me.”

  We climbed the staircase as quietly as possible. At the top, Raoul flipped open the latch and we climbed onto the roof. A sliver of moon carved the night sky. Scattered pockets of shadow chased the moonlight in a delicate, silvery dance
across the rooftop. City lights winked in the distance.

  “It’s colder than I thought.” I shivered at the bright cold, wishing I had the added protection of my cape. “We won’t be able to stay for long.”

  “It’s frightfully cold tonight.” He rubbed his hands together. “So I will come right to the point, save the rest for another time.” He pulled his mask over his head. “First, let me see you.”

  I pulled up my mask.

  He cradled my face in his hands, ran his thumb across my cheek. His touch left a trail of heat on my skin.

  After a moment, I forced out a whisper. “We must be careful. If Erik discovers us . . . He has threatened to harm you, and me as well. He may be planning something this very minute.”

  The joyous expression on his face melted. “Someone must put a stop to this nonsense.”

  “I will, soon,” I said quickly. “I just need a little more time, until Don Juan Triumphant premieres. If we’re hasty, we will all lose this game he is playing.”

  “I’ll go along with this a little longer, Christine, but only because I trust you.” His jaw set in a hard line, his eyes looked fierce in the pale moonlight. “I’m worried for your safety.”

  “Please, let me do this my way.”

  He leaned his forehead against mine. “I trust you, my love.”

  Another burst of joy returned the smile to my face. I sighed and wrapped my arms around his neck.

  “I have something I need to ask you.” His breath puffed around us like a steam cloud in the cold. “Seeing you again, after all of these years, has lit a fire inside me I didn’t know was there. I can’t eat. I walk the grounds of my estate at night like a ghost, unable to sleep. I think of nothing else but the sweetness of your voice, the softness of your lips.” He gathered my hands and held them against his heart. “Put me out of my misery. Tell me you love me, too.”

  Emotion welled in my throat. He loved me, a musician’s daughter, a second-rate opera singer—a woman stalked by an insane man posing as a ghost. He loved me. I touched his cheek with my fingertips. “I have feared my love for you, tried to deny it, but it’s useless. It consumes me.”

  His eyes watered, and he kissed my hand. “Then let us be apart no longer. Marry me. Be my wife and I will cherish you and protect you always.”

  I felt as if I could catch a breeze and fly, drift among the stars like a night bird. Somehow, I’d found something meaningful and real—something that was not an illusion. Raoul wanted me, loved me.

  A single tear slipped down my face. “I want nothing more.”

  He crushed me against him and twirled me around. We laughed, jubilation distracting us from the cold for a moment. Then his lips covered mine in a slow, tender kiss.

  I kissed him back, my need for him turning greedy, and my body tingled in places it never had before.

  His hands slid over my back and cradled my head as he held me against him.

  “Oh, Raoul.” I gasped between breaths.

  “My darling,” he said, kissing me again. His hands moved slowly over my shoulders, down my arms. Gently, he probed my ribs and slowly moved upward. He peered into my eyes, as his hand moved higher still, and cupped my breast.

  I arched against him, desire flaming inside me.

  He groaned, and began to plant kisses below my ear and along my neck. When his lips reached my breasts, my head grew dizzy. I watched him, stroked his hair, as he freed me from the neckline of my low-cut gown. Softly, he took my nipple into his mouth. I gasped as his warm tongue circled my flesh, his hand massaged the fullness of my breast. My knees went weak. Too consumed, I couldn’t think—didn’t want to think—about the impropriety. We would be married, belong to each other at last. That was all that mattered. On that glorious day, his eyes, his hands, his tongue, would roam everywhere. I shivered with pleasure.

  He raised his head and smiled at my expression. “It pleases you, my love?”

  Breathless, I nodded. “Yes, my darling, but we must stop.”

  “I know.” He kissed me softly, then helped me adjust my clothing. “I’ll dream of you in the meantime.”

  We held each other for some time, shivering with cold, yet burning with our new secret.

  When I could no longer feel my fingers, I pulled from his embrace. “As much as I don’t want to, we should return.”

  “Yes, my brother will be looking for me.”

  We retraced our steps in silence, though a full orchestra trumpeted inside my head. I was in love. I would marry—marry Raoul!

  But soon after we returned to the Grand Foyer, my smile waned.

  Carlotta strutted toward us in a gown straight from Renaissance Italy with its puffed sleeves, intricate gold thread, and crushed velvet. Matching scarlet and green feathers waved triumphantly on either sides of her mask, and her lips were slathered in bold rouge. I groaned and drank deeply from a glass of punch.

  “What is it?” Raoul asked.

  Before I could reply, Queen Carlotta descended upon us.

  “Buenosera.” She greeted us in Italian. “We must speak immediately, Raoul. I’ve been looking for you all night.”

  Ever surprised by Carlotta’s audacious nature, I gawked at her opulence, her bosom barely contained by her gown, and the way she inserted herself into any conversation.

  I glanced at Raoul. He shifted from one foot to the other. He seemed uneasy in her presence always, though she appeared nothing but kind to him, if heavily flirtatious. But she flirted with everyone, even women at times, if it suited her mood. I held my breath, waiting for her to chastise him about her friend, Mademoiselle DuClos.

  “That is quite a costume, Carlotta,” Raoul said. “You always stand apart from the rest of us.”

  Given his tone, I wasn’t sure if he meant it as a compliment or an insult. I knew what I thought of the matter. Classic Carlotta, showy as ever. I sipped from my glass, and wished she would be on her way. The evening had been magnificent so far and she did nothing but cast a shadow on the festivities.

  For an instant, I lost myself in a dreamy haze. The look on Raoul’s face while we danced, his beautiful words, his touch—I could scarcely believe it. I would be his wife! I smiled broadly in spite of myself.

  “We need to talk, Raoul,” Carlotta insisted. “Now.”

  Her tone jolted me back to reality and I glanced at Raoul.

  “Can it wait?” His irritation snuffed out the light in his eyes. “I’m enjoying the company of Mademoiselle Daaé at present.”

  She laughed a brittle sound laced with sarcasm. “It will wait another six months to be exact, for a total of nine.”

  All humor left his face and panic filled his eyes. “Nine months?” He choked on the words.

  I looked from one to the other, trying to follow their meaning. Nine months? The only significance nine months held that I could think of was . . . I stared at Raoul, my confusion mounting. What was this about? The ebullience I’d felt for the last two days began to dissipate like day-old champagne.

  “It’s exactly what it looks like! Our rendezvous has cost me, Monsieur le Vicomte, and now it will cost you.” Carlotta placed her hand on her abdomen and looked pointedly at me, though she addressed Raoul.

  My chest tightened as my gaze locked on to her hand on her stomach, hidden beneath the billows of her gown. When I met her eye, her smile turned vicious. A series of images flashed behind my eyes: the flowers that day in her dressing room, her constant warnings to stay away from him, the way she stared at him.

  The room began to spin.

  The warnings Carlotta had made weren’t to preserve her friend’s relationship with Raoul—they were to preserve hers.

  “You are with child?” Every ounce of color drained from Raoul’s face.

  “Indeed, my dear vicomte.”

  My happiness imploded as tremors of shock shook me to the core. Raoul had bedded Carlotta? Could this be true? Carlotta was vindictive, I knew, but she wouldn’t lie about this. Would she? At the very least, she coul
dn’t lie about their shared intimacy.

  I glanced at Raoul. His face blanched—all I needed to know.

  I closed my eyes against the despair, the sight of Carlotta’s hateful glee. What a foolish girl I was. We couldn’t marry; it was impossible. He would ask for Carlotta’s hand instead. It was the honorable thing to do. He wouldn’t damage the family name—and she knew it.

  I stumbled through the crowd, rushing past guest after guest, the stiff smiles of their masks mocking me, the swirl of colors and macabre costumes. I’d built a wall around my heart after Papa died, but Raoul had found a way inside. He knew me as I truly was. Yet I had known nothing about him after all. Anguish blinded me as I pushed toward the door.

  “Christine!” Raoul shouted my name from somewhere behind me.

  I squeezed my eyes closed, wishing I could block out his beloved voice. Erik’s wretched face popped into view, his words of warning about Raoul. My dark angel loved me as well in his twisted way, but he saw me as a dream, a fictional woman who could rescue him from his despair and self-loathing. I wanted none of it—neither him, nor Raoul. I wanted none of this opera house. I had to get out, leave. Go far from Paris.

  “Wait, please! Christine.” Raoul persisted in his chase.

  I pushed hard past a man blocking my path, desperate to escape. He spun around to see who the rude person had been.

  Monsieur Delacroix looked bothered by the offense and then amused. “What on earth? Christine, are you all right? Where are you going in such a hurry?” He clutched a cigar in his hand and stood in a circle of men, none of whom wore masks or costumes.

  I cursed the tears pricking my eyes. “I need to go home. Something has come up.”

  “Let me escort you,” he said. “You look distraught.”

  Though grateful for the kind offer, I couldn’t bring myself to be with anyone right now. “I will be all right. Stay, enjoy the ball.”