Page 7 of Angel's Mask

“No, Maxine, it’swhite!” A small girl at another station squeaked. “You see it floating in the dark like the moon. Or his eyes – his eyesburn!”

“He lives near the lake, they say,” Louise added, her voice dark. “Deep in the fifth cellar. No one goes down there for fear of him.”

“Oh so there’s also a lake?” Christine snorted.

The white-haired woman, Maxine, glared at Christine. “The Ghost is the soul of the Opera,” the matron declared. “It’s he who really holds the power here, not the managers or the stars. Without his approval, everything would be cursed.”

“As if it’s not cursed already,” Julianne snapped back, and Maxine sneered like Julianne had blasphemed. She turned back to Christine. “He makes all sorts of accidents happen. Especially when he’s unhappy.”

“He’s certainly made more costumes disappear than I can count. Carlotta’s especially,” Louise added.

“Lord in heaven, hehatesher,” Maxine muttered before Christine could ask who in the world they were talking about.

“Can you blame him?” Julianne replied.

“And then there was the fireman, just the other day, the one who they found half-dead! A mile from where he was supposed to be,” the young woman added, visibly pale. Christine’s head was swimming.

“But ghosts aren’treal,” Christine countered, hearing uncharacteristic coldness in her voice. There were few things left in this world that could inspire her ire, but this was one. The women looked at her with a combination of pity and derision. “I mean, these stories are amusing, but I just don’t think—”

“It doesn’t matter what you think, girl,” Maxine cut her off. “The Opera Ghost is real. As real as you or me.”

“I don’t think you understand,” Julianne added to Christine, gentler. “We’ve seen what he does, people hear his voice and see him. I’ve heard he has a private box and a concierge who takes messages to the managers for him.”

Christine opened her mouth to say that sounded completely insane, then shut it. She knew better than to debate matters like this with believers. She’d tried it too many times and paid the price.

“Don’t let them scare you away,” Louise said, looking between Christine and Julianne. “Especially Julianne, she just likes the ghost stories because they’re good for frightening the ballet rats.”

“Christine doesn’t need to be scared, I don’t think,” Julianne said with a secret smile. Louise shook her head and left the two alone. The rest of the room returned to ignoring Christine as well, which was a relief.

“What did you mean by that?” Christine asked, fiddling with her mending.

“Well, he let you sleep here last night, he must like you,” Julianne said.

Christine tamped down the impulse to laugh again. “OrI survived the night because ghosts aren’t real.”

Julianne shrugged. “You’ll believe soon enough. He has a way of making himself known.” Christine shivered at the promise in Julianne’s voice, thinking back on the night before. Not just the sheet that had moved itself, but the eerie feeling of the Opera; that sense of being watched from somewhere in the dark. Julianne’s eyes widened. “Or he already did...”

“No,” Christine said it for herself as much as Julianne.

“Did you see something?”

“No. Just shadows and rats,” Christine pushed back. “I don’t believe in ghosts.” Julianne could not possibly know how deeply it hurt Christine just to say it.

“We’ll see, my friend, we will see,” Julianne said. Christine held her tongue. She very much doubted that.

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Erik was bored. Anda bored ghost was a dangerous thing. Nothing had held his attention, even music, so he was wandering his kingdom, considering the excitement of yesterday and the monotony of today in contrast. He found himself beneath the stage, among the pulleys and wheels taller than him that moved the scenery above.

It was calming to walk in this secret, mechanical corner of the world, where it smelled of wood, hemp, oil, and shadow. Soon the theater above would be bustling with activity ahead of the performance and it would not be safe for him in the warren of ropes and machines. He would have to find some other distraction to keep him from thinking of the girl he’d decided to forget.

The first sound of a stagehand’s heavy footfall and a wheezing cough echoed through the stillness. It was time to leave. Erik pushed through a trap door onto the empty stage and stole away. He passed the billowing black curtains in the wings and crept towards the dressing rooms. It was possible that some other fool might catch sight of him here, but they would just scream and run, and the Opera would have another story.

Erik found himself at the door of dressing room three, by far the largest and most highly desired of all the dressing rooms. Of course it was Carlotta’s and despite years of efforts, he had been unable to evict her from it.

Erik slipped into the room without a sound. He left the door ajar, allowing a sliver of gold gaslight to penetrate the empty gloom. A box on the diva’s practically overflowed with jewels, all gaudy and charmless. He broke a string of ugly beads, scattering them. But he’d stolen enough of Carlotta’s jewels that even that was boring. She had so many that she barely even noticed when they were gone.

He turned to the costume the woman would wear in a few hours and raised his hand to the pink satin gown. Now, a tear would be such a terrible inconvenience...Erik stopped, his hand hovering in the air. That girl – thatChristine– was at work in the costume shop right now, likely mending tears like the one he was ready to inflict. His hand fell, unwilling to add to the pathetic creature’s work.

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