Page 3 of Angel's Mask

“I–what?” The girl was rightfully suspicious and moved slowly to follow Lachenal as he fetched his keys. “You’re too kind, Monsieur. I don’t even know your name and I—”

“Jean-Paul Lachenal,” he grinned. “And you are?”

“Christine. Christine Daaé.”

“Come on, Christine, it’s your lucky day,” Lachenal grinned and led her out of the stable.

The Ghost remained, considering his own actions. He wondered whether (if by some miracle Lachenal could convince Louise to take in the girl) the miserable creature would even survive a day in thePalais Garnier. Another wounded stray, looking for a place to belong. The Opera was already full of them, including the very ghost that had saved her on a whim. It was easy to pity her, with her dirty clothes and eyes that might have been gentle in another life.

The stories about him were usually so dark, it made things interesting if he mixed in some charity once in a while. It kept his subjects on their toes and earned loyalty where he needed it. Not that a damp vagabond could be of much use. But still, sometimes it was...pleasant to indulge in human kindness. Though it had been a while since he’d counted himself human. Well, just like the rain it, would pass. But perhaps the girl would remain.

“Good luck, Christine Daaé,” the Ghost whispered into the dark. “Don’t disappoint me.”

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Christine hurried afterthe mad groom, ready to wake from the dream at any moment. But it was real because she was dry and warm and finally inside the Paris Opera House. It had been a long while since she had felt anything akin to wonder, but it edged into her heart as Jean-Paul escorted her through the dim halls. The walls were painted with the lower half a deep maroon and the top a pinkish yellow; the lighter color reflected the smoky gaslight while the deep red magnified the ever-present shadows. The air was ripe with the musty, wonderful smell only theaters had.

Somewhere deep in the theater, they entered a large chamber. Bright gaslights illuminated the huge, glittering room stuffed with every color Christine had ever dreamed of and even some she hadn’t. Exquisite tutus, sparkling gowns, dark robes, and monsters’ faces hung to the rafters, and the workshop buzzed with female voices gossiping and laughing as they worked at long tables. In her drab, wet clothes Christine was just a smudge on the otherwise beautiful scene. She shrank when she noticed the imposing, middle-aged woman stalking towards them, her stern face as red as her russet hair.

“What in God’s name are you doing here, Jean-Paul! You’ll get your muck all over my workroom!” the woman barked.

“Hello, Louise, my darling,” Jean-Paul sputtered. “You look lovely today!”

“I amnotrefitting another costume for a horse, you – what is this?” Louise turned her blistering gaze to Christine, who withered more.

“This is, uh, a new friend, and she’s looking for work and I thought that you might be in the market for a new, uh, what’s the word again? With the mending and cutting and—”

“I wouldn’t take on a new girl off the street on the word of a stable hand.”

“Chief groom!”

“Especially not one that looks like she just rolled out of the workhouse.”

“It was a train, actually,” Christine muttered.

Louise’s eyebrows rose high. “Or one without manners.” She began to turn away and Christine sighed. At least she could say she had been inside the Opera.

“Louise, please!” Jean-Paul called out, oddly urgent as he caught Louise by the elbow. “Think of this as a favor, not for me but in honor our...mutual departed friend,” Jean-Paul said slowly, looking directly into Louise’s eyes. It had to mean something because Louise’s face went pale. “Besides, woman, she’s got nothing in the world but some dream of working here. You can’t deny her that.”

Christine tried not to squirm as Louise looked her over down with a critical eye. “Can you sew?”

“I know the general theory.” Louise did not seem convinced. “I work hard and I’m willing to learn.”

“Do you scare easy?”

Christine squinted, lost again. “Excuse me?”

“Are you easily frightened? Superstitious?”

“No, I don’t. I mean, I’m not.”

Louise gave Jean-Paul a long, meaningful look and finally heaved a sigh. “Fine,fine. We’ll set you to launder and mend,” she said. “I suppose you can’t do too much harm there.” Jean-Paul gave a laugh of triumph. “Andyoucan leave.”

“Excellent! Thank you, darling Louise, thank you!” Jean-Paul gave Christine a grin and a wink then sauntered away, a new spring in his step.

“Come on then, girl,” Louise grumbled. Christine turned back to the older woman, who was gesturing for her to follow. She walked with sure, deliberate strides as Christine scurried after her to a small side room filled with decidedly unglamorous coats and shawls. “Leave your things here. What did you say your name was?”

“Christine.”

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