It did.
A sudden thought entered her mind. Meg leaned in close and examined briefly the elaborate gold-leaf frame. Something of its design seemed familiar, an elegance, an overwrought heaviness . . . like a stage prop. Like something the phantom would design. There! She saw the catch, gingerly reached out a finger to give it a stroke.
Somewhere inside the mirror a small click could be heard. The looking-glass swung outward, revealing . . .
A blank wall. No, not a wall—a brick barrier. Meg’s arms broke out in gooseflesh. She ran a finger along the rough masonry. Someone had bricked up this passageway. Recently. A new idea hit her—what if the opera ghost hadn’t been sending the messages Firmin and Armand had shared with the cast, glee evident in their faces? What if, instead, he had indeed been imprisoned below as the two scheming managers had planned?
“Which would explain why my mother hasn’t received any new medicines from Erik . . .” Meg breathed the conclusion, hands exploring the new brickwork, her frustration growing acute.
Tomorrow would be the opening of “The Wasp and The Butterfly” and the phantom would attend. Tonight . . . tonight she was breaking him out of his subterranean prison.
Meg moved through the wings of the active production, her mind elsewhere. Her ankle still too weak for dancing, Meg’s only duties since her sprain had been in rehearsal for the new piece. Frustrating at first, this now proved to be a blessing in disguise, as it meant she might work out how to free Erik and fetch his assistance for her mother without shirking her duties to the company, and, therefore, draw attention to herself and her activities.
Eyes darting to and fro, she summarily saw and dismissed any number of tools that might help her break through a wall of solid brick. What I need is something big and strong. Preferably something that even these useless little arms of mine might wield.
Again she looked about the bustling backstage. Her eyes lit up as she scanned a rather large item that stood forgotten in the corner. One of the original mechanicorps, phased out for the new and improved remote-controlled style brought in for the phantom’s second opera.
Meg nonchalantly wove through the jungle of curtains, counterweights, and ropes that hung in the wings. She avoided eye contact with the men bustling about in the half-light. As long as she stayed quiet and kept out of their way, they were perfectly happy to ignore her. She made it to the storage cabinet unimpeded.
The door swung open on silent hinges, and she peered into the locker’s interior—a deeper blackness set in the surrounding gloom. There. She spotted one of the individual control mechanisms on a shelf. While one trip into the small props storage would be overlooked, a second foray might excite comment. She made for backstage, just another dark figure flitting about the wings, breathing a sigh of relief when she once again found herself alone in the labyrinth of storage areas in the back of the theatre.
With all the moving about of scenery that had been done in the past few weeks—movement that Meg now correctly assigned to the emptying of lower basements as part of the plot against the Ghost, rather than the usual changeover occurring with the start of a new production—she wondered whether she’d be able to find any of the newer models of mechanicorps. They couldn’t have gone all that far, they’re so irksome to move without the aid of the controls, she reasoned. She felt encouraged by the fact that one of the remote controls had been so ready at hand. She looked down, trying to gauge if it was in working order or not.
She turned the corner and found herself face to face with no less than twelve impassive figures who stood blocking her path. “Oh!” she exclaimed, both startled and elated. Standing in a darkened room full of mechanical dolls, she suddenly felt small, frail.
Immobile and stern metal faces glinted in the half-light from the hallway. The mechanicorps dancers seemed to frown at her, laying harsh blame at her feet. She had the power to save their creator, a man with a mind finer than any other she’d known. She could not let their genius inventor die in the dark beneath the opera house.
Flipping the switch on the top of her device, she chose a mechanicorps doll at random. She snapped a control on the back of one of the hulking machines and an answering low hum emanated from both machines. Signal established. Breathing a sigh of relief as the clockwork dancer lurched forward at her command, Meg turned to lead. Help was on the way.
A human-sized machine made of metal is a heavy thing; even so, Meg was unprepared for the ease with which her abducted dancer broke through the brickwork behind Christine’s old mirror. Before her yawned the dark and menacing passageway known only to a handful of beings on God’s earth.
The thought chilled her more than the damp and unhealthy air that issued forth. Still, Meg moved quickly, lest her noisy actions bring anyone running. She snatched up the lantern she’d brought, and moved to lay aside her corps controller. Pausing, she debated the wisdom of her next act.
Think, girl, think how hard they worked to trap poor Erik, she reasoned, trying to force her reluctant feet into forward motion. She turned her mind to thoughts of her mother as she’d last seen her: lying sedated upon a divan, her frail sickness a terrible foil to the fluffy and ornate stage prop. It was the story of Meg’s short life. Everything beautiful was a lie, a fakery to please the shallow world’s sensitivities. All was gold leaf and face paint.
Galvanized by the sheer unfairness of it all, both in regards her situation and that of the opera ghost, Meg worked the controls for the clockwork doll once more, guiding it into the dark passage ahead of her. Then, with one tremulous backward glance, she loosed the ties on a nearby drapery, the heavy brocade swinging down to hide the entire scene—mirror, broken brickwork, and all.
Cold, damp air caressed her face as she turned to the illicit passageway with her flickering lantern. The bland metallic face of the mechanicorps dancer looked menacing in the chill corridor, and Meg shuddered, feeling for the first time that her intrusion might well be unwelcome. Hurriedly putting such thoughts aside, she hastened her progress down, down into the darkness beneath the Palais Garnier, careful not to turn her ankle on an errant stone or uneven flag.
While she knew the opera house supported seven stories of sub-basements, all poised above an underground cistern that doubled as ballast for some of the larger set pieces, the journey to the phantom’s subterranean lake seemed painfully long to Meg’s overworked mind. The floor endlessly sloped down, down . . . the ceiling gave the impression of having receded high off above her head long minutes ago. And still Meg found herself in a winding, twisting passage of stone, with no sign of Erik anywhere.
As if in answer to her worries, and without warning, the passageway suddenly came to an end, opening out into a large cavern bathed in an eerie blue light. Though her experience with such things was small, she was the daughter of the theatre and could sense the dramatic space that lay before her in the dark.
She could feel, rather than see, that it must hold heart-stopping beauty. The ballerina hesitated, suddenly afraid that in the inky blue-black of the cave, she might step over the banks of the nearby lake and sink to a watery death.
Luckily, Meg’s lengthy walk in the winding corridor had prepared her eyes for such dim surroundings, and she soon could pick out the dark form of a small boat lying on the banks of the water she could now see, as well as hear.
Climbing into the vessel without so much as a second thought, and praying she wouldn’t overturn the thing as she grabbed at the oars, Meg peered about the dim cavern to see where she might direct her efforts. Alarmingly, she soon had her answer.
“Ah, Baroness. Sweet Meg.” He spoke to her out of the black water, Erik’s now familiar voice sending shivers up Meg’s spine and nearly prompting her to drop the oars. A chuckle echoed around her, the mocking tone of his address a burden on her shaken nerves.
“Am I to take this as a social visit? You’ll find me rather unprepared to receive visitors at present—I so rarely have them and have been busy with . . . other matters . .
. of late.”
These last words fell oddly flat on Meg’s ears, and she felt a tremor of guilt that she should be affiliated with the men who would imprison this remarkable man, a part of her whispering that she was only here to secure aid for her mother, and was therefore as in the wrong as if she’d laid the confining brickwork herself.
“I’m sorry for what they did to you,” she whispered, as if the paltry apology would exculpate her from the crime of federation with the wicked deeds of men. “I know that—”
“You know, do you? I don’t think you quite understand, dear Meg,” the ghost’s voice echoed in the half-light, sounding both near and distant at the same time. “And I do believe it is time you do.”
At his words, the small boat jolted into motion and Meg grabbed the rowlocks to steady herself, lest she be thrown overboard into the inky water. Peering into the darkness and seeing nothing but a light ripple in the water before her to hint at what might be providing the locomotion, a wildness seized her mind, and she considered leaping into the water and swimming to the not-yet-distant shore.
But, no. That would leave her nowhere but wet on the edge of a lake thirty metres below the Paris Opera House and, as she truly felt that right was on her side, she must see it through, no matter how terrifying the phantom’s revelations might be.
The boat slowed, approaching the far shore of the underground lake, revealing a colossal structure of stone. Before her, she could see the dark silhouette of a mechanism churning and whirring on the lake’s edge, a chain threading through the series of pinions, leading up from the water and clearly having its origins at her boat’s prow. The mystery of her craft’s propulsion solved, she now eagerly looked about for the phantom.
“Meg Giry, I bid you welcome to my humble abode.” Erik was again clothed in all black save for his bone-white mask, and a gloved hand reached out to help her in exiting the boat. With unaccountable eagerness, she took it and allowed herself to be handed gently onto the waiting shore, her own dark eyes locking brightly with the glittering ones that shone out from beneath her host’s luminous mask.
Sure of footing, even in the dark—for the ghost still held her gently at his side—Meg crossed the short space between the lake and the phantom’s home. Struck with awe that such a large building should exist beneath the opera house, with little rumor as to its existence, Meg allowed herself to be led through the massive front door, little noting the smell of death and decay that emanated from within the hulking edifice.
“How long—?” she began, choking on the words as she looked up into the blank masque of the opera ghost. They passed through a grand foyer resplendent with finery. Had the journey not been harrowing, the darkness without near complete, and her host equally enigmatic and terrifying, Meg would have paid her surroundings due attention.
“On the evening after our last meeting, Monchamin and Richard’s men erected barriers of stone and mortar over each and every one of my outlets into the world above.”
The ghost supplied the answer to her ill-framed question, his pace quickening as they progressed through a large sitting room lit by no less than a thousand candles. Meg now compulsorily swiveled her head to take it all in before they hurried into the next, equally opulent room, this one graced with a large pipe organ. The grand instrument was truly an ornate piece of art, such a one might have been seen in churches a hundred years prior.
“So the night I flew for the first time . . . ”
“Was my last night of freedom.” The bitterness in the phantom’s voice carried a new menace and Meg gasped, partly out of fear, partly out of pain, for their rapid pace and her lengthy sojourn had greatly taxed the still-sore appendage and she found herself longing to rest her poor ankle.
Either they had arrived at their destination, or the opera ghost became cognizant of her needs, for he now let go of her arm and bade her sit, offering her a glass of very old, very expensive wine. Perching gingerly on the edge of a large overstuffed armchair, for this room was singularly ill-lit in comparison to the prior one, and the couch smelled faintly of disuse, Meg waited numbly with glass in hand as the ghost moved about, lighting lamps and asking questions.
“And your mother, how is she? How goes the current production? Has your own rolé in The Wasp and The Butterfly proved sufficient?” His rapid-fire collection of inquiries startled and baffled her, and she stammered to answer each in turn. It struck her suddenly that the opera ghost seemed nervous, anxious.
“You’re here to ask for my assistance in your mother’s recovery, yes?” The sharp eyes turned back to her, demanding honesty.
“Yes,” she breathed and took a sip of the reassuringly aged wine that swirled darkly in her glass. Dismayed at her own simplicity, knowing it was her own exhaustion and fear making her speak so, she moved to explain, “I didn’t know what to do. And when I found out that Firmin and Armand had trapped you through their treachery . . . They’ve been passing the company notes these last few weeks as though the instructions came from you.”
“Ah!” the ghost turned his back on her now, doubling over, his gloved fingers picking at his mask, as if he might rip it from his face. His voice radiated a pain that nearly moved poor Meg to tears. “Say no more, dear Meg. I should have known. I should have known you would not prove false to me—you or your dear mother, who has served me so faithfully all these years.”
Meg moved to rise, was forced into stillness by the ghost’s cries, “Stop! Come no closer.”
Pacing like a caged animal, Erik strode the room, the violence in the delivery of his next words matching well the manic energy in his movement, “Meg, you must know that I never meant for you to make this choice. But these past weeks have proven disastrous to my plans. My father is here, in Paris. Quite nearby, in fact. But he—” his gait caught a hitch and he appeared to consider his next words before continuing “—he has fallen ill and it appears my hand is to be forced.”
He stopped his frantic pacing and turned to her, his eyes losing their menace for once, instead appearing to glitter with tears, “The medicines that I had given Mme. Giry. My father has told me that she—that she is the only one who might save him, and him, her. That the treatments once meant to cure them both have now become the only thing that might allow me to rescue one of them from the jaws of death.”
Frozen with wonder, knowing that in his raving the opera ghost was trying to explain something very, very important, Meg fought through the fog of fear that had begun to enshroud her mind, “I’m not sure I understand. Your father, is here, in Paris?”
“Listen. Listen to me,” the crazed energy returned to the opera ghost’s voice as he crossed the room to her. “You have a choice. I—I’m giving you a choice, though it may mean my imprisonment here forever. Meg Giry, only one may be saved—as your mother’s lungs are failing, so is my father’s heart. My father has assured me that the medicines coursing through each of their veins is enough to guarantee compatibility. Should you wish to save your mother, my father will die. And with him, my chances of his healing me of this . . . this . . . ” his hands now made good on their promise from before, tearing off the masque and flinging it angrily at her feet “—this disease, this deformity with which I am cursed.”
With a shriek, Meg found herself mere inches from the truest nightmare she had ever dared to dream. Old Joseph Buquet, chief scene-shifter dead these four years, had not even come close to describing the horror when he’d terrorized the ballet corps with his stories.
Yellow skin, like parchment, flaked away from the edges of ragged wounds, sores weeping angrily at the world. Unmasked, the glittering eyes turned sunken, falling back into the depths of the man’s skull-head, as if to escape affiliation with the crooked nose that was barely present in the center of the broken monstrosity of a visage.
He continued. “My father. My father has within him the power, the medicinal know-how to fix this.” He jabbed a finger at the abomination that was his face. “This face that would imprison me at the
hands of ‘good men’ such as your Firmin and Armand.” His voice dripped sarcasm at these last words, and he seemed to gain some modicum of control over himself. Turning, he appeared to have forgotten that he’d flung his mask from him, and he looked wildly about, flinching like a whipped dog when Meg bent and picked up the ghost’s discarded guise and held it out to him, tears in her eyes.
“I cannot. You are wonderful, but I cannot,” she choked. Surely he understood? Understood that she could not seal her own mother’s fate. “Please—”
“Then you must stay with me,” he stepped back, voice low. “If you are to consign me to this fate—”
“No.”
“No? Come, come. If I am to save your mother at the expense of my father, surely you owe me something in return.” He cocked his head to the side, seemingly surprised at her boldness and more than a little bemused.
“There has to be another way,” she shook her head, the motion making the room spin around her.
“I eagerly await your erudite suggestions, dear Meg Giry,” as he stepped backward into the growing gloom, “But I fear we—and you—are almost out of time. I shall fetch your mother while you sleep off your wine.”
Something, some unknown instinct in her, had bade her imbibe no more of the phantom’s cloying vintage, but it seemed that the insight had come too late. Meg’s last conscious thought rang with the stomach-churning echo of the phantom’s laugh.
Waking in near darkness, Meg sat and waited, fearful of the ghost’s return, but somehow sensing that he’d left the cavern entirely. There was an emptiness, a dullness to the phantom’s house. She tremulously rose to her feet, surprised that he should have left her to freely roam about his dwelling-place in his absence. Perhaps he had no fear of her escape—after all, every passage into the opera house, save one, were sealed.
A small, clattering noise arrested her attention, and she froze. Echoing through the dark, in a room beyond that which she presently occupied, the miniscule sound repeated itself. Scrambling to lay hands upon a lantern, she hurried toward the noise, heart pounding in her chest so as to nearly drown out the faint utterance she so anxiously followed. Meg quickly arrived at a closed door, light bleeding out from underneath. She tried the handle—unlocked—and found herself in the presence of the phantom’s other captive.
Mechanized Masterpieces: A Steampunk Anthology Page 17
