Page 103 of Angel's Flight
Or maybe that wasn’t it.Maybe she wasn’t someone at all.She wasn’t a character or a mask or some other better version of herself.When she danced, she was merely a body and music and breath and flow and...free.
Meg floated with the sounds of the orchestra, muscles straining and limbs perfectly extended as she moved as one with the rest of the corps de ballet, their delicate tulle skirts spinning around them.Nothing mattered but the movement and the music, and for a wonderful moment, she wasn’t only free, she was happy.This was the reason for the hours of rehearsal and intrigue and pain: this joy.
Too bad it was only a dress rehearsal.At least, there was something of an audience, even if it was just patrons and invited guests (who the Opéra hoped to lure as patrons).They applauded when the ballet was finished, and Monsieur Bosarge turned from his podium in the orchestra to give them a nod of thanks.The dancers themselves were not afforded a bow, as La Roche was instantly onstage giving them notes as the curtain fell.
“Second Row,” La Roche said as he came to Meg’s side, looking at her, then Blanche, Rochelle, and Marie beside her.“Excellent.Giry, you’re truly earning your place at last.”
Meg wanted to squeal in excitement, but settled for turning to Blanche to grin, only to find her friend looking perturbed.
“I was good too,” Blanche muttered.“I honestly don’t know how he couldn’t see me.”
“Oh, I...”Meg faltered.Rochelle met Meg’s eyes over Blanche’s shoulder with a look of bewilderment that made Meg feel somewhat better.
“Maybe we won’t have to run it again,” Rochelle offered.“Since all of us did well.”
“And they’ll be wanting us to spread our charms amongst the patrons,” Blanche added with a cheeky smile.
“We all know what you want to spread, Blanche,” Marie teased, and without warning, Blanche leapt at her friend.Rochelle had to step in between Blanche and the little dancer to keep Blanche from scratching out her eyes before everyone exploded in laughter.
“Ladies!”La Roche called, and the commotion quieted.“If you can manage to contain yourselves, you may go mingle with the audience.”
Blanche made a face and scurried off.“That girl is going to get herself hurt, isn’t she?”Meg muttered.
“She is.It’s up to us to protect her if anyone goes too far,” Rochelle replied, and Marie frowned beside her.
“Well, us and the ghost,” Marie said to Meg’s amazement.“What?We’ve all been thinking it.It’s time someone says it.The ghost has been looking out for all of us since the Opéra reopened and I, for one, am grateful.”
Meg found herself looking around the stage and up to the shadowy flies, where the movement of stagehands was still visible.Where anyone, really, could be waiting and watching.Listening.“Me too,” Meg heard herself say.
Rochelle harrumphed and led Marie from the stage.Meg didn’t follow.Her mind was still too full of the ghost’s voice and a hundred theories and hopes.
Her feet led her to the wings and then upwards, following spiral staircases and cramped halls to a place that many knew of but only employees were allowed to visit.Even then, they were not encouraged to be up here, for it was often hot and dangerous under the great copper dome of the Opéra.
It was a strange place between the ceiling of the auditorium and the dome that sat upon the Palais Garnier.At the peak of the roof was the cupola (at least, that’s what Meg thought it was called) that rested like a crown atop the dome itself.During the day, it let in light through several large windows.At the moment, the morning sun shone through them onto the great chain that held up the chandelier, anchored by five counterweights.The weights themselves were not visible, only the chains and pulleys attached to them.
Meg had not visited this secret place for months.Not since the disaster.Not since every one of the chains to the counterweights had been severed one by one with violent, explosive force.
Meg drifted closer to the mechanisms.They were bright and new, whereas before they had been tarnished and greasy.The paint on the walls behind them was fresh and didn’t quite match the old color.Whatever evidence existed of how the ghost and his accomplices had taken down the chandelier was gone now, but the scars remained.
“Here we are!”
Meg jumped behind the chain and pulley system when she heard Moncharmin’s voice.She didn’t know what sort of terms she was on with the manager, but she didn’t want to be caught here, even so.Thankfully, she was small and flexible and it was easy for her to hide.
“What are we seeing here?”an older voice asked.
“The support system for the chandelier is fully repaired and safer than ever after the accident,” Moncharmin replied.His voice was tense and high.It didn’t inspire confidence in Meg, and she doubted it would impress the potential patrons Moncharmin was wooing.
“So it won’t fall and kill anyone again?”another voice asked.
“No one died,” Moncharmin muttered.
“Philippe de Chagny did.And Antoine de Martiniac if some are to be believed,” the first man declared.“What about this phantom that caused that?”
“There is no phantom, Messieurs.There never was,” Moncharmin said firmly.“That was merely a myth created by artists and disgruntled employees to cover up bad behavior.Like Carlotta’s poisoning that made her sound like she croaked!That was no phantom, just a jealous rival.”
“And you wish us to support an institution that allows such nonsense to persist?”the second speaker scoffed.
“Well, it is the national theater, Giles,” the first man interjected.“It’s not like it can be closed down.”
