Page 8 of Angel's Mask

He grabbed the diva’s shoes. Those would have to do, and Marguerite didn’t need bejeweled slippers anyway. He stood with his prize, laughing darkly. But he moved to the wrong place. The light from the door reflected in the vanity mirror and onto his mask and for a second, Erik saw his own masked face.

He froze, loathing and panic overcoming him before he smashed the mirror. The glass shattered under Carlotta’s heels; cracks blooming through the glass and obscuring his hated reflection. The shoes had the benefit of protecting his hands, which was a blessing. It would never do for a ghost to bleed.

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Christine had founda pleasant stairwell to rest and eat her supper. Said supper was just an apple that she assumed Julianne or Louise had left in her bag in a fit of pity, but it was something to fill her starving stomach, so she was content. She stared at the plaster on the walls as she chewed, slow as possible to make it last. It would be white in daylight, she guessed, but here it took on the warm, orange glow of the gaslight. There was a small crack running down a few inches from the brass fixture. This building had only been open five years. How quickly things fell apart.

“There you are.” Christine looked up at Louise’s stern face. “You staying for the performance?”

Christine gulped down her final bite and nodded. “I heard there’s extra money if we do.”

“Were you planning on lurking here ’til then or were you going to go up?”

Christine stood too quickly, stumbling over herself. “I can listen?”

Louise chuckled. “Of course, just stay out of the way. Julianne seems to like you, see if she needs help with thepetit rats.” Christine’s heart beat harder than it had in days as she straightened her dress and rushed out the door. “The stage is the other way!” Louise yelled after her and she corrected course.

It wasn’t hard to find her way to the stage. She just followed the people in costume. At last, she heard the sound of the orchestra tuning from above, one pitch flowering into dozens of echoes and variations. The sound, so familiar and magical, filled her with both joy and aching regret, like notes in harmony. More performers passed by, sweeping past her without a thought. She didn’t care. Jean-Paul had said they were presentingFausttonight.

Finally, she spotted it: the great stage of the Opera Garnier with its subtle slope so seat saw each inch of grandeur. The fire curtain blocked the view of the audience as the stagehands completed their work arranging Faust’s study. Behind the flat meant to be the doomed Doctor’s wall were layers of painted backdrops, creating the illusion of expansive countryside in the distance. Off to the sides in the wing were ropes and winches and pulleys and sandbags, all manned by burly stagehands. Christine followed the miles of rope with her eyes, up and up, to where it disappeared into the flies. The heaven of ropes and catwalks above was alive with movement and the sheer height and expanse of it made her mouth fall open in awe.

Someone pushed past Christine – she guessed it was a chorus member by their peasant’s dress. The chorus was already assembling in the wings to sing the idyllic air that would inspire Faust’s bargain with Méphistophélès. Christine backed away from the crowd, ducking behind a set piece. She didn’t want to be reprimanded for being where she so very obviously didn’t belong.

She had meant to find this stage in a very different way, and she wasn’t worthy of being so close to it. There was still time to leave, she thought with regret, but where would she go? Just as it had been for years, she had followed music to another dead end. She didn’t leave though. She couldn’t.

Christine wedged herself into a hidden corner, closing her eyes as the overture began. Slowly, Gounod’s marvelous, ominous music welled up from the unseen orchestra. It made her heart race as it rose and crested, like waves on a mysterious sea. She let it sweep her away as the dark chords warmed into something more like a dream, a promise of heaven and hope, despite the devils awaiting.

Christine smiled in the dark as she listened. She didn’t believe in ghosts, she wouldn’t let herself, but she believed inthis.

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Everyone had routinesfor performances. The chorus with their vocal exercises and teas, the stagehands with their shouts and barked orders. The directors fretted and the violinists tightened their bows. Erik watched all of them, making sure to keep to his own routine as well. Thepetit rats, the youngest members of the ballet, had a new tradition this year of leaving “gifts for the Ghost,” so he wouldn’t take anything important at an inconvenient time. They placed pins and pennies and beads in a porcelain dish outside their dressing rooms in the dark hall. It was only polite for Erik to accept and give the dancers a thrill.

The treasure sat safe in his pocket as he moved through his secret paths in the dark, listening to the beginning of Faust’s lament. He had seen the production enough times that he didn’t mind not being in his box. Especially because he had another tribute to collect.

Carlotta had to be fuming at the chaos he’d left for her. He knew just the place to wait for the uproar. In the twilight area between the stage and the dressing rooms there were many places to hide. It would be perfect...were it not occupied.

Of all the places Erik had expected to findher, this was the last one. Yet there Christine Daaé was: tucked into the shadows like another ghost, eyes closed as she listened to the opening scene. Below the stage beneath a trap door, Robert Rameau awaited his entrance as Méphistophélès, but here in the dark, the devil had already arrived and was ready to finally show this girl exactly why she should be afraid. Erik readied himself.

“Fucking hell, she’s going to kill someone for this!” Erik darted back at the voice, just as Christine’s eyes shot open, curious. A pair of women were whispering close together. He knew them. The one who had spoken was a dresser for Carlotta, poor thing, and the other dark-skinned one usually kept to the dancers, though she had helped Christine last night.

“Calm down, Anette, we’ll find them,” Bonet said.

“Julianne?” The women turned to see Christine emerging from her hiding place. “What’s going on?”

“Carlotta’s goddamnshoeshave gone missing and she’s about to fire me for it!” Anette snapped. “Who the hell are you by the way?”

“I’m no one,” Christine answered quickly. “But I can help you look for them if you like.”

“That’s very sweet, but...” Julianne looked over her shoulder as if she could feel Erik near. “I doubt you’ll find them ifsomeonedoesn’t want them found.”

To Erik and Anette’s surprise, Christine laughed. It was a small, sad laugh and not at all what the Ghost expected upon mention of his power. “Because your ghost has taken them?” Christine asked.

“Don’t talk like that, you fool,” Anette snapped, and Erik bristled at the way it made Christine wince.

“Christine’s not a believer yet,” Julianne said, much kinder. This made Erik smile. There was little he relished more than inspiring new faith a skeptic.

“Maybe you should...ask for them back? Does that work?” Christine said. The other women stared at her, which Erik found offensive. If more people were as polite as Christine suggested, perhapshewould be more generous. “Just say ‘Monsieur Fantôme, please give back—’ what was it again?”

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