Page 6 of Angel's Mask

He stalked soundlessly to the door. The damn girl had caused him enough trouble already. He had learned to forget hope before and he would forget her just the same.

Haunted

Christine woke automaticallybefore dawn. The stiffness in her body was worse than usual, but that was to be expected after a night on a hard floor. At least she was warm. Christine sat up, bewildered.Whywas she warm?

She pushed herself from the floor, blinking in the washed-out light. Nothing in the dusty storeroom had changed except that some sort of drop cloth was covering her. When had she moved it? She chewed the last of her half-stale bread as the room brightened, hoping to remember when she had pulled the cloth over her or what that voice in her dream had said.

In the pale light of morning, the Opera was empty and unnerving, like a sleeping giant. All the strangeness of the previous day was even more disconcerting when Christine thought back on it now, as she made her way through silent halls. Jean-Paul talking to no one, his remark to Louise about a departed friend, everyone asking if she was easily scared. What was wrong with this place?

She tried to put it out of her mind as she made her way back to the costumers. It took her several tries and detours, but she found the workroom just as the other women arrived. Louise sent Christine to table far in the back of the workshop beside a massive pile of costumes and tutus with the simple instructions to find any holes or tears and mend them.

Within an hour Christine’s shoulders ached from hunching over her sewing, and she had pricked her fingers a dozen times. No one noticed her, even the women doing the same work, and all the better since Christine’s sewing was only slightly better than terrible.

It wasn’t the worst job. The costume shop was warm and smelled pleasantly of dust, sweat, and cloth. Christine’s work was mindless enough that she could let her mind wander. Once in a while, her attention returned to the torn peasant’s costume in her hand and the hope she wouldn’t bleed on it, or the unending stream of conversation among the women who barely noticed Christine’s presence.

The only person with more than a passing interest in her arrived much later in the day. Julianne swept into the workshop and immediately plopped herself across from the table, grinning at Christine. A few other costumers gave the dark-skinned girl a look that Christine wagered wasn’t just to do with her manners. “You made it! I can’t say I’m not surprised.”

Christine rolled her eyes and smirked. “Well, there was a rat that gave me a hard time, but I survived.” Julianne looked over Christine as if she were surveying for damage.

“Well, I did warn you about the rats. But you do seem to be in one piece.”

“I am. Now, will you tell me why you thought I wouldn’t be?”

A mysterious smile spread across Julianne’s sharp features. “Well, I guess you’ve earned it.” She leaned in close to Christine, who found herself holding her breath. “The Opera is haunted.”

“Haunted?” Christine exclaimed, then laughed loudly. Perhaps she was out of practice and had done it wrong because a handful of other women turned at the sound. She shut her mouth, trying to school her face into something more somber. “You aren’t serious. Are you?”

“She’s dead serious,” an older woman at a worktable next to them replied, scowling at Christine over her embroidery. “And you should be too when it comes tohim.” The way she said ‘him’ could have made someone want to cross themselves.

“Youallbelieve the Opera’s haunted,” Christine asked the gaggle of women now staring at her, including Louise who had come to investigate the pause in work.

“Of course we do,” Louise said, grim and careful. “As long as the Opera Garnier has stood, he has been here. The Phantom.”

“Everyone knows about the Opera Ghost,” Julianne added with relish. “He walks the halls dressed like he’s on his way to a performance, but he always wears a white mask. They say if you see beneath it, you’re never heard from again.”

Christine fought back a scoff at the theatrics of it all, just as the older woman who had spoken before chimed back in: “His mask is black, you foolish girl.”

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