Page 10 of Angel's Mask
“There are three other people here, Marie,” Julianne countered with a laugh.
“None of them as are good with laces as you,” another dancer, a blonde with her hair half up, muttered in a truly scandalous tone. Behind her, a third dancer, older than the others, smirked.
“Oh, don’t get her started,” the elder muttered. The redhead blushed to her freckles but still rushed to Julianne for help. “Who’s this?” It took Christine a moment to realize she was the subject of the question.
“This is Christine, she’s a new costumer, fresh from – well, actually I don’t know,” Julianne said, but it wasn’t a question. “Christine this is Marie,” she nodded to the girl before her. “That’s Cécile, call her Jammes, and that’s Blanche Carcaux, don’t call her anything, she’s a terrible gossip,” she said, indicating the blonde in front of her then the oldest dancer, who stuck her tongue out at Julianne in response. “And that’s Meg Giry.” The final dancer was in the corner, taking in the scene with wide eyes. She looked to be the youngest
“Nice to meet you,” Christine muttered.
“Meg’s new too, at least to this part of the Opera. The Ghost just had her promoted,” Jammes said, her tone conspiratorial.
“Oh, did he now?” Julianne asked, giving Christine a pointed look. Christine couldn’t help but roll her eyes.
“Does she not believe yet?” Marie asked.
“Not yet, even after he gave Carlotta’s shoes back to her,” Julianne said.
“Well, it sounds like no one likes this Carlotta, maybe someone else moved them,” Christine tried. She was beginning to wonder if there was any topic of conversation at the Opera other than “the Ghost.”
“Oh, no, it washim,” Julianne said, and Marie nodded as she was finally released from her costume. She rushed to a wardrobe, her thin chemise barely concealing her pert breasts from the others.
“He’s locked her in her dressing room ahead of performances so many times they had to take the lock off her door,” Blanche said, her voice and face deadly serious.
“That could have been anyone.” Christine didn’t mean to argue, but it rankled her she wasn’t allowed to not believe in peace.
“No, it’s him. He’s real,” it was little Meg who had popped in. “My mother, she hears his voice in box five.” The room grew still as the women turned their attention to the small dancer with brass blonde hair. “She says...she says his voice is beautiful. Too beautiful to be human.”
Christine didn’t know what to say without telling this girl her mother was mad.
“People all over talk to ghosts,” Marie said, emerging from behind the wardrobe in a blue silk dress still needing to be fastened. “There are mediums holding seances in fancy flats on theBoulevard des Italiensevery day.”
“Most of those people are charlatans,” Christine said. “Trust me.”
“Victor Hugo went to see them!” Marie snapped back and Christine sighed powerfully.
“Let me take these,” Christine grumbled, grabbing the discarded costumes from the floor, and pushing out the door in annoyance.
The hall was quiet and dark, as she’d already become used to. Like so many dark corridors she’d already explored it was completely empty yet felt like there was someone waiting and watching. Christine huffed as she deposited the costumes in their bin. The thought was as insane and stupid as the ghost stories she’d been hearing all day.
The absurdity of it all and the emptiness withing her in contrast to the foolish girls in that dressing room suddenly pierced her heart like a knife. She’d come here chasing her own ghosts only to be reminded again and again what a ridiculous fantasy her whole life had been. She could barely breathe, tears stinging her eyes.
“Are you alright?” It was Julianne in the hall behind her.
“No. I’m not,” Christine replied, trying to compose herself, not daring to look at Julianne and show her tears. “I don’t like ghost stories.”
“Why? What makes you so sure he can’t be real?”
“Because no ghost or spirit can’t be real,” Christine said as firmly as she could manage.
“But you’ve heard the stories—”
“Let me tell you a story, then,” Christine growled, rounding on Julianne. “Once upon a time there was a violinist who had a daughter. He taught her to love music and stories. He told her tales her whole life of spirits and magic, but her favorite was the story of the angels of music, who blessed musicians with marvelous gifts, protected them and guided them.” It sounded so absurd said aloud, and it was more shameful how much she still wished she could believe it.
“But that violinist, he got sick,” Christine went on. “He grew worse for years, and he knew he was going to die, but he promised his daughter that it would be alright. When he was in heaven, he would send her an angel of music to protect her.”
“Christine...” Julianne’s face was full of pity and Christine hated that too.
“Can you already guess what happened when he died?” she barreled on, her voice angrier and harder with each word. “Nothing. Less than nothing. No angel appeared to that girl. And every time she tried to sing, the notes dried in her throat. She kept trying though, kept looking for something. For three goddamn years. But the money he left her to attend the conservatoire ran out, and they wouldn’t keep her. So, she ended up destitute, sleeping in storerooms and eating scraps.Alone.”
