The Secret Door: A Phantom of the Opera Novel

by J. Smith

  Erik could not rest. He'd gone into his room, fully intending to sleep, after apologizing to Jenna—again! It seemed to be a daily occurrence for him to do something to upset that girl. He really ought to figure out some way to send her back to her own time so that he could save her from the continued misery of his company.

  And yet, as he lay in bed, he remembered her appreciative smile in Box 5, when she listened to the out-of-tune music of the orchestra. He recalled how she agreed to capture spiders for him with nary a sidelong glance, when another woman might have fainted dead away at just the thought of touching the creepy, crawling arachnids. He chuckled at how enthusiastically she'd helped him deliver said spiders into Carlotta's wig and the mischief in her eyes when the diva had discovered their surprise.

  Erik could not help but admit that he enjoyed having Jenna around. She gave him a sort of companionship that he had never had before. It was different from the grudging friendship he had with the Persian, who always seemed to hold himself at least slightly morally above Erik. It was as if the man had taken it upon himself to become Erik's conscience. But Jenna—she did not judge. She did not question. She just … accepted him, exactly how he was.

  Of course, he reminded himself, as he rolled over to try once more to get comfortable in bed, she does not really know you exactly as you are. It was true. She knew he wore a mask, but she did not know why—and even if she'd guessed that there was some deformity, she could not imagine the extent. And she did not know about Persia. Oh…Persia. He shivered when he remembered the atrocities he'd performed there, taught to him by all those in his life who'd only shown him cruelty when he yearned for nothing more than love. How many lives had he taken? How many screams had he provoked?

  No, Jenna didn't know he was a monster, and neither did Christine. The thought of the young soprano's dark chocolate curls had him up and out of bed, leaving his chamber and stalking over to the piano with unchecked energy. He stroked the keys and began to play the composition he had worked so hard to construct—the melody that had been inspired by Jenna, which he had perfected for Christine. Oh, Christine, he thought to himself. She was the reason he had been short with Jenna. He truly did regret his brutishness, but Jenna just could not understand what Christine meant to him. He'd felt his heart leap that first night he saw her, when she was crying in the chapel over her lost father. He'd ached to reach out to her, to hold her in his arms until her tears dissolved into laughing—the way he had yearned for someone to do the same for him all those years ago. But he knew that a creature so lovely and pure as Christine could only run screaming into the night from a monster as vile as him. No, he knew she could never know him—but then, when he heard her sing, and he found that there was a way he could reach out to her, he had been overjoyed. If it was an angel that Christine needed, then he was happy to play that role, because he certainly couldn't be a part of her life as the demon he really was.

  At that moment, Samineh halted Erik's song by jumping up on the piano and greeting him with a meow. Erik chuckled at her salutation and reached forward to stroke her silken hair, being sure to scratch behind her ears, as she so seemed to enjoy. Her bright blue eyes reminded him of the sea, and once again, he was imagining watery blue orbs, set in a heart shaped face, surrounded by a cascade of deep, rich, sepia curls.

  Suddenly, Erik had to see her. He knew the hour was late and that most likely, she would be asleep. He had discovered that she shared a room with the ballet mistress's daughter—Little Meg Giry. It would be a simple thing, to slip out and visit the dormitories. Just a glimpse at her, and he was sure his heart would find peace. A glance, and nothing more—because, after all, a glance was already more of the angel than he deserved.

  Erik lifted the tiny kitten and brought her into the kitchen. He poured her a saucer of cream, and after she was lapping contentedly, he quietly slipped out, back to his chambers, to don his trousers and shirt once more. After fastening his cloak and setting his hat atop his head, he set out on his solitary journey to the living quarters of the opera house, to glance upon a sleeping dream, his beautiful angel Christine.

  Christine hummed to herself softly, a needle in her hand. It was late in the evening, and she should be sleeping, but she found that memories of her dear angel kept her wide awake. So she'd gathered some sewing she had brought back with her and decided to get a head start on the next day's work.

  As she re-stitched the seams in the diva's dress, loosening the waist so that it would not once again tear, sweet thoughts of a soft voice rich as velvet and downy white angel wings filled her mind. No, she thought to herself, as she glanced over to the red rose on her bedside table. Not white. Despite her angel's celestial nature, the ribbon tied around the rose made Christine think of darkness—of cool, luxurious, enveloping darkness. And while some might be afraid of the dark, Christine found the notion of dark angel wings protecting her from the cruelties she had faced by day sounded just fine to her.

  “Oh, Papa,” she breathed, feeling a tingle down her back, “he is here—he is truly here. He has taught me so much in such little time, and it is as if he is always with me. I…” she paused, drinking in the sensations that her angel awoke in her. “I feel him, Papa. I think of him constantly. I go through my days, just waiting for the moments when we will meet, and I can be in his comforting presence once more. And now, he has given me a bit of himself to take with me.” She glanced, once again at the rose, as its sweet-smelling perfume wafted over on a draft and tickled her nostrils. Oh how dear to her was her angel!

  Christine startled slightly, as the door to her room creaked open. “Christine,” came the high-pitched voice of the young ballerina with whom she shared a room. “Why are you not sleeping?” Meg had crept in quietly, hoping not to wake her friend. But now that she saw there was no need for stealth, she eagerly went over and sat across from Christine on her own bed. “What are you doing up so late?”

  “I could not sleep, Meg,” Christine answered, amused by her friend's questions. “What were you doing out so late?”

  Meg's face crimsoned, and she cast her eyes away before answering, “I…there was a reception, to greet the new patron. Mother managed to get me an invitation—as a serving girl, mind you. But still…” her voice took on a faraway quality. “He was dreamy.”

  Christine chuckled at her friend, “Oh he was dreamy?”

  “Why yes,” Meg responded in a hushed tone. “Blond hair, with waves that just made my fingers tingle…blue eyes, the color of a cloudless sky…and lips that were so full and firm that I could not help but imagine…”

  “Meg Giry!” Christine exclaimed, in mock outrage at her friend. “You forget yourself.”

  “For a moment,” she sighed, twirling one of her own golden curls around her forefinger. “As I gazed upon his face, I think I did.” Her voice took on a more realistic tone then as her hands pushed her hair away from her face. The spell of the memory had been broken. “But I am merely a dancer, fit to act, on occasion, as a serving girl to nobility, but never a consort.” She looked again at her dark haired friend, and her eye was drawn to the flower sitting so regally in a small glass of water. “Christine,” she asked, “what is this?” Her eyes took on a suspicious twinkle, as her right eyebrow rose. “Do you have some suitor you are keeping from me?”

  “No,” Christine felt her own cheeks grow scarlet.

  “Well then,” Meg pressed, grateful to have the scrutiny off her own actions. “Where did you get this rose? More to the point,” Meg teased, “who is he?”

  “Meg,” Christine warned, hesitation in her voice, “I promised never to tell.”

  “Oh, well then, you must,” Meg insisted, shifting over to sit next to Christine on her bed, taking the dress and needle from her hands and placing them in the basket on the floor. She grasped Christine's now free hands in her own and continued, “Surely he never meant you to keep it a secret from me! Your dearest friend! Come, Christine, we are practically sisters!”

  Christin
e contemplated for a moment. She had promised her angel never to tell. But Meg was so dear to her, and surely her best friend could keep her secret. And her heart was so filled with joy at finally meeting her angel that she did, in truth, wish to share it with somebody.

  “Meg,” Christine began, her eyes sharp, her voice solemn. “You must swear to me not to repeat anything I am about to say!”

  “Upon pains of death!” Meg promised, raising her hand as if swearing an oath. “That is my vow!”

  Christine took a deep breath and began. “It is not a suitor, Meg.” She revealed, the excitement building in her voice, as she told her story. “He is an angel.”

  Meg looked at her quizzically. In truth, Christine was a bit of a strange girl. Lovable, to be sure, and a dear friend, but strange. She seemed a bit too attached to her dear father, who had departed this world, and now Meg was truly concerned for her well being, if the girl was talking about angels imparting her with roses. “An angel, Christine?” Meg asked, hoping there would be some clarification for her claim.

  “Yes, Meg.” Christine asserted, her eyes sparkling now in excitement. “And not just any angel. The Angel of Music.”

  Meg nodded slowly at her friend, fearing the worst. Christine had been so saddened by her father's death—so tormented by Carlotta's cruelty—that her mental faculties had finally left her. “I see,” she said quietly.

  “Oh Meg,” Christine continued, knowing that her friend must think her mad. “I know it sounds preposterous, but father promised me. Before he died, he said that he would send me the Angel of Music to watch over me, and give me the gift of song. I clung to that dream, Meg, because it made Papa seem closer—because it gave me hope that one day, things would not be so bleak. But the other night, Meg…the Angel…he was there.”

  Meg studied her friend. Christine spoke in such earnest, and she truly didn't sound like she was out of her mind. But what did she mean that the angel was suddenly there? “He was there? You saw him?”

  “Well, no.” Christine corrected. “I did not see him. I do not think I am yet worthy to look upon his beauty. But he spoke to me, Meg.”

  “He spoke to you?” Meg asked, with narrowed eyes.

  “Yes, he heard me, in the chapel, crying out for Papa, asking if the Angel of Music would ever come. And then I heard a voice—a voice like no other.” She recalled that magical moment, her voice taking on a dreamy lilt. “It was shimmery and lush, and it felt as if I could fall back into it and it would catch me and cushion me against all the hardness of the world. And he said he was the Angel of Music. And he had come to lift my voice in song—just like Papa promised.”

  “I see…”

  “And he has, Meg.” Christine's voice was excited again. “He is teaching me to sing—just like Papa always dreamed I could sing. And when he sings to me…” her eyes narrowed slightly at the exquisite memory. “It is like the heavens themselves open their gates and the sounds of all the celestial hosts are caught up blessedly in his voice.”

  Meg did not know what to say to her friend's rambling. “Christine, surely it must all have been a dream. A wonderful, magnificent, splendid dream, but still a dream. Stories like this—they can't come true.”

  “It was not a dream, Meg!” Christine insisted, beginning to regret that she had shared the story of her angel with her friend.

  “But…” Meg tried to make Christine see reason, “you're…you're not making sense. This is entirely unlike you.”

  Christine huffed at her friend's disbelief. She knew she should leave it alone, but she could not stand for Meg to doubt her angel. “What must I do, Meg Giry, to prove to you that I am not crazy!?”

  Meg thought for a moment. “Sing, Christine. Why don't you sing for me right now, so I can see the effect this angel has had on your voice.”

  “Very well!” Christine rose, closed her eyes, and began singing the tune that had been constantly in her mind since she had met her angel days ago.

  Father once spoke of an Angel…

  Meg stared, dumb-founded, at her friend. Truly, she had heard her friend hum absent-mindedly to herself as she sewed. She had even heard her sing a bit under her breath at times. But this…this was magnificent. “My God, Christine! I had no idea you could sing like that!”

  “I could not!” Christine replied, “But then I was visited by my Angel.”

  Could it be? Meg wondered to herself. There was truly a change in her friend. She had grown more confident and less mousy, and her voice—oh how it soared! This unseen Angel…

  “Christine!” Meg asked out loud, a thought occurring to her.

  “Yes, Meg,” she asked, still basking in the song about her angel.

  “If you have never seen him, then how did he give you the rose?”

  “He… left it for me…” Christine answered, remembering how she had found the beautiful bloom. “As I was leaving the chapel, I heard a soft rapping on the wall, and when I turned to look, the rose was lying there, on the floor.”

  Meg felt a chill in her heart. Things did tend to mysteriously appear around this opera house—but not usually by the work of an angel. Could it be that this Angel of Music and the Opera Garnier's own Phantom were one and the same?

  “I think,” Meg said, wanting some time to quietly think things over before saying anything further on the topic to her friend, “that we should rest, Christine. It is late, and I have an early rehearsal tomorrow.”

  “Of course, Meg,” Christine replied, as she felt a yawn coming over her. Telling her story had finally stilled her mind, and she indeed felt as if she could rest.

  The girls got ready for bed in quiet, and as they crawled under the covers, Christine lay in her bed, dreaming about her dark angel. Meg lay awake awhile longer, pondering the possible connection between the angel who sang to Christine and the Phantom who tormented the rest of the opera house. Eventually though, as she felt herself drift off to sleep, she could not stop her dreams from turning toward a certain tall, blond patron by the name of Raoul Vicomte de Changy.

  Behind the wall, Erik stood seething. Christine had promised! She had vowed that she would not speak of him to anybody else! And though she had sworn him to be an angel, he could see the Giry girl's calculation clear in her eyes. Of course, she would make the connection. Her mother was the one who delivered his salary, for heaven's sake. The Phantom would be the foremost supernatural being on Little Giry's mind. In revealing his existence, Christine had shown him a side of herself with which he was not very pleased. A youthful, impetuous side that could prove an impediment to a life on the stage, as well as a barrier to her training with him.

  But what angered him most—what surprised him and enraged him and upset him the most—was the mark of Jenna's betrayal—the single red rose, tied with a silken black ribbon, sitting in the cup on Christine's nightstand. With a billow of his cape, Erik turned, stalking the corridors back to his home. Down once more.

  23 UNMASKING A SOUL

  Jenna was surrounded by red velvety roses, and by swirling, enveloping music, as a pair of eyes, both brown and blue gazed intently into hers. “Jenna,” he whispered, his deep husky rumble making goose bumps appear on her flesh. Her fingers trailed up and tangled in his soft, dark hair. “I want you to know…” his voice hushed even more. “That I…” his words trailed off as he cradled her cheek in his tender hands, and his lips were but a breath away. Slowly, so achingly slowly, she saw him close his eyes and those lips—those sweet, warm, succulent lips began to close in on hers. She opened her mouth to accept him, tilting her head, as he came closer…nearer…

  A sharp rapping on her door woke her with a start. She sat up in bed and wrapped her arms around herself, acclimating to the chill in the air, after the heat she'd felt in the dream just seconds ago. She had been in his arms. And his hands…his voice. Oh, she shuddered, his lips…

  Another knock, and a call came from the other side of the door. “Mademoiselle! Are you awake?”

  Erik! Jenna threw
on her dressing gown and hurried over to the door, blushing as she tried to fully emerge from her dream. She did her best to temper the butterflies floating around in her stomach before she pulled the door open to see her host leaning lazily against the frame.

  “Erik?” she asked in confusion. “What are…?”

  “I just wished to check on you again, Mademoiselle.” Erik's tone was cordial, but cold, a strange smile plastered across his lips. “After all, maladies of the throat are often worst late at night.”

  Jenna shook her head, finding it a bit strange that he would wake her from a deep sleep to ask her about her throat. “Erik, I'm fine,” she said, sweetly. “I'm really feeling much better.”

  “Much better, Mademoiselle?” he asked, his exposed eyebrow raised in question. “That was quite an expeditious recovery.”

  “Yes, I…” she stuttered, “I guess it really was just the dust.”

  “Perhaps the dust…” Erik agreed, nodding. “Or perhaps you're allergic to roses?”

  Jenna, felt her throat going dry for real this time. “Excuse me?” she croaked.

  “Well, it occurred to me,” he began smoothly, “you had that rose tucked in your hair. The one with which I had absconded from the diva's dressing room.”

  “I…um…” Jenna began, flustering her words, “yes, I did, but…I'm not allergic to roses.”

  “I see,” he said, gazing around her room, as if in search of something. “What did ever happen to that rose, Mademoiselle? Did you find a vase of water for it?”

  “Well, I…” Jenna cleared her throat, wishing she had some water for herself right about now. “I think I must have lost it in the tunnels. I…I don't have it.”

  “Ah,” Erik nodded. “Perhaps it fell out of your hair by the chapel?” His mismatched orbs suddenly bore into hers. “Perhaps when you bent to pick up your cloak…”

  Despite the discomfort she felt from his gaze, which seemed to delve straight into her deceptive soul, she kept her eyes trained on his. She took a deep breath and said, “You know.”