Page 1 of Angel's Mask

Shadows

She had thought theso-calledPalais Garnierwould be more beautiful. Or at least, that the building of her dreams would look more like a palace than a train station. But contrary to her fantasies, the edifice squatting at the end of theAvenue De L’Opérawas less like a palace and more like an ornate stone wedding cake, glowering at the carriages, and bustling foot traffic below. She was an Empress in a country that had done away with the title, Christine Daaé mused.

The great copper dome, flanked by winged horses, was a dowager’s crown. Filigree and busts adorned her all over, like too many jewels. She wore layers of crests and cherubim, masks of comedy and tragedy, and busts and names of the great and not-so-great composers. Christine was pleased to see her beloved Mozart there, but she wondered if Meyerbeer truly deserved the honor of inclusion. On the top corners above the grand loggia, crowded with columns, stood twin angels, and far above Apollo thrust his lyre to the heavens. Perhaps in the summer sun he would have glittered gold, but against the cold gray of the October sky, he looked dull and distant to Christine’s eyes.

“So, there you are,” she whispered to herself, stepping into the shadow of the great building. It had been a long journey to get here. TheGare du Nordtrain station was miles from the Opera, and Christine had found herself terribly lost at first among all streets filled with identical cream-colored buildings. Everyone had been able to point in the right direction though. That was the point of the new Paris that Baron Haussmann had birthed a decade before: relentless order, sameness, all roads leading to one modern world. Christine did not like it, but at least it was easy to understand. Now she stood among the noise and bustle at the very crossroad of the world.

Christine walked slowly to what she hoped was the main entry. There were so many arches and doors, flanked by frolicking nymphs whose bare stone breasts seemed even more scandalous and ill-considered with the clouds above threatening rain. There had to be a way in, past the iron gates. Despite her weariness and doubt, Christine could not help but feel a thrill.

There were days when Christine thought of her spirit like a garden. It was abandoned long ago and now grew thin and wild, but hope sprang up like a weed, no matter what she did to stop it. Even now, soaked to the skin and filthy from days of traveling, carrying all she owned in a threadbare satchel, she could not help it. The single open gate came into view and Christine stepped through to see the main doors. A man with sallow skin and spectacles sat at a podium beside the door, sniffling.

“Excuse me, Monsieur—”

“Not open,” the attendant snapped. Christine glanced to the open door beside him, ornate tile just visible on the floor inside.

“Is the National Academy of Music not a public building?”

The man looked at her like a stray animal that had somehow gained the power of speech. “Not opento beggars.”

At least blushing made her warmer. Christine swallowed and pushed on. “I wished to enquire about auditions.”

“You think you can just walk into the premiere opera house in the world andaudition?” His laugh was not promising.

“Are they not looking for choristers? Even just people to fill the stage?” Christine stammered even as the man’s frown soured. “I need work and—”

“Try in thePigalle. I’m sure you’ll find openings there.” Christine’s blush deepened, she knew of Paris’s infamous red-light district.

“Monsieur, I’m not—”

“Then go around and see if they want help shoveling shit in the stables,” the man snapped just as thunder rumbled and the rain began to fall. “And get out of here before I call a gendarme.”

Christine hurried away, determined to at least spare herself the embarrassment of being removed by force. Cheeks burning, the deluge that soaked her was the final indignity. A different girl would have started to cry. But for her, disappointment was so familiar that it was comforting. The joke about the stables had been the worst, she thought, adjusting her soggy shawl. Even the enormous Paris Opera didn’t havestables.

Christine followed the perimeter of the massive building, the stone slick and dark from the storm. At the least she might find a dry place to wait out the rain. She sighed again at the thought. What would she do when the storm passed? Try again? What was her plan when they turned her away a second time or a third? Where else could she possibly go in this sprawling, indifferent city full of strangers?

The few others she saw braving the storm scurried from building to building, tucked under umbrellas or papers, trying in vain to outrun the drops. She was the only one just walking.

––––––––

The Opera Ghost enjoyedthe scent of rain. It mixed with the earthier smell of the stables into something that reminded him of distant, wild places far from the chaos of the city or the murky dark beneath it. César liked it too, if the way the white gelding snorted and shook his mane was any indication.

“Easy, my friend, just an autumn storm,” the Ghost whispered, petting the animal’s flank before guiding him back into his stall. César’s neighbor, a bay mare, whinnied in greeting as the shade retreated back into the shadows. It wouldn’t be too long before others would notice the Andalusian’s return and it was best not to linger.

On cue, the head groom of the Opera rushed to César, breathing exactly as hard as a man who had been passed out drunk in a bale of hay until three minutes ago might. Indeed, Jean-Paul Lachenal’s affection for wine and sleep, and general distaste for work, was what made borrowing César so easy.

“Damn it all, there you are!” Lachenal exclaimed as he examined his prize steed. His face was ruddy around his grey moustache, but his hands were steady as he made his inspection. “It’s nearly noon! I have told you: no more excursions during the day! What if someone important had happened by? What would I have told them? That you were off with some phantom?”

The phantom in question smiled in the shadows. Half the fun of taking César for a ride was Lachenal’s fits when he was returned. Today he appeared primed for a truly amusing performance.

“Maybe that would have been the best,” Lachenal went on. “If that cursedthingkeeps making off with you, maybe the management should know. They can get me some damn locks for my stable doors!” he bellowed into the shadows.

“Now, where would the fun be in that?” the Phantom spoke, smooth as night. The color fled from Lachenal’s face, and the man crossed himself.

“Ah, Monsieur! I didn’t know you were still here!” the groom yelped.

“I’m always here,” the Ghost replied, his voice right at Lachenal’s ear, making the man turn as if he expected to see someone standing behind him. César whinnied in agreement. “I’m sure you would never mean to insult or question me. Would you, Jean-Paul?”

“Of course, Monsieur! Didn’t mean a word!” Lachenal croaked, spinning like a lethargic top.

---