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Chapter Text

The Opera Garnier loomed like a storm cloud over Inej Ghafa as she stood before the imposing structure. At least that’s what she thought it was called. In all honesty, Inej had never taken the time to learn how to read French, and her pronunciation was passable at best. She instead preferred to speak Hindi with her family members in the caravan, but she was going to have to learn more if her audition went well and she managed to secure a contract as a ballerina at the Opera. 

She took a deep breath and sent up a small plea to God before pushing open one of the large wooden doors. Inside the foyer was even more breathtaking than anything she could have imagined. Growing up as a traveling performer, her family had everything they needed, but could never afford many luxuries. And luxury was what the grand marble staircase and stone statues glinting from the light of hundreds of candles conveyed. 

Inej allowed herself to marvel at the opulence before her, wandering deeper into the hall before she heard a shuffling noise off to the side. “Psst!” a voice called from behind her. Inej turned around to see a girl around her age waving her over from behind one of the columns lining the room. Inej glanced around, thinking the girl must have been talking to someone else, but finding the hall deserted, pointed a questioning finger to herself. “Yes you,” the girl said, shaking her head, exasperated. 

Confused but not wanting to seem rude, Inej hurried over to where the girl was half hidden in the shadows. As she neared her, she realized the girl was rather beautiful with her full figure and brown tresses. “Are you here for the ballet auditions? You were supposed to come in through the side entrance. If Madame Van Houden found you out here you would have no hope of getting work here. Follow me.” Without waiting for a response, the girl turned around and Inej hurried to keep up with her as she entered a small, hidden hallway. The girl looked back every so often to make sure her companion was still with her as they wove their ways through the dimly lit passageway. “My name is Nina, by the way.”

It took Inej a moment to realize Nina was waiting for a response. “Inej. My name is Inej,” she replied in her heavily accented French.

“Enchante, Inej,” Nina smiled. “You’re not from Paris are you?”

Inej shook her head, whipping her dark braid back and forth. “I grew up traveling Asia and Europe with my family, but my parents are from India.”

“Traveling Asia and Europe? Whatever for?” Nina asked as they were nearing a small door and the end of the corridor. 

“We were performers,” Inej remarked with a forlorn smile. “My family would play and sing, and I would dance.”

“You were?”

The smile slipped from Inej’s face. “There was an accident.” Flashes of that night returned to Inej in a panic filled haze. She woke in the middle of the night, making her way quietly out of the wooden caravan, having drank too much before bed because her cousin - Davina - had taken to reading tea leaves and no one else would help her. When she returned, she found her life, everything she had ever known, in flames. “We were in the French countryside and had promised to regroup in Paris if anything ever happened. I waited three weeks, and no one came.”

Tears pricked at Inej’s dark eyes and she blinked them back. “I’m sorry,” Nina whispered, her hand hovering just above the doorknob. Inej nodded her thanks and was given a moment to collect herself before Nina opened up the door to reveal an area bustling with young women in leotards and tights. She stayed close to Nina as she followed her through the pandemonium to a room lined with mirrors and cubbies. Nina gestured to one of the small compartments. “Here, you can put things in here during the auditions.”

“Thank you.” Inej grabbed her worn ballet slippers, took off her shoes, and put her stuff away. She sat down to tie her laces and was pinning her hair up when she heard a stern voice calling for order. Everyone immediately rushed into the mirrored room and Nina practically dragged Inej to join the other girls, now standing at attention along the walls. The only sound that could be heard in the room was the clacking of heels slowly approaching, and Inej was suddenly grateful she had skipped breakfast lest she spill it all over her shoes. 

From the door Inej had entered only minutes ago, emerged a striking woman in her early thirties, with blonde hair piled high and a diamond choker clasped around her neck. She surveyed the room with her piercing hazel eyes before clearing her throat. “For those of you who do not know me, I am Madame Van Houden, the ballet instructor here at the Opera Garnier. You are here today because you wish to obtain a spot in my dance company for the upcoming season.” She paused at this, allowing a wave of dread to wash over all the hopeful dancers. “As most of you know, here at the Opera Garnier, we do not tolerate weakness, laziness, or false comfort. That is why every season auditions for the petit rats are held, regardless of if you performed last season or not. You will have five minutes to stretch and warm up, after that I expect all of you to be on stage, ready to perform.” 

And with that, Madame Van Houden swept out of the room leaving the dancers to themselves. Everyone seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, but the moment was short lived as the girls hurried to begin their warm-ups. No one spoke to each other as they stretched, even those who had been with the opera for the previous season. Madame Van Houden did not tolerate idle chatter. 

Five minutes later over fifty girls were lined up on the stage of the Opera Garnier, and Inej was struggling not to be distracted by the large auditorium before her. She had thought the foyer to be exquisite, but it paled in comparison to the plush velvet seats and golden chandelier before her now. Still, when Madame Van Houden called for attention, Inej tore her eyes away from the audience and focused on the woman who controlled her future. They started with a simple routine, yet Madame Van Houden circled the girls like a vulture and did not hesitate to tap out anyone who made the slightest mistake. 

As time progressed so did the difficulty of the routines, and the number of girls left dancing decreased until only a handful were left on the stage, Inej and Nina being two of the lucky few. Eventually, Madame Van Houden stopped circling and stood before the chosen dancers. “Enough. You have all proven yourself to be…capable. For those of you who danced for me last season, your contract will be renewed and you may return to the dormitories.” The girls murmured their thanks and returned to their rooms, leaving only one girl on the stage with Madame Van Houden. The older woman inspected Inej with scrutiny, almost as if she were a bug on her shoe. “What is your name?”

“Inej Ghafa,” the young dancer replied, willing her voice not to shake. She kept her posture straight and refused to wither under Heleen Van Houden’s gaze. 

“Ghafa, what an unusual name,” Madame Van Houden mused, resuming her circling. “How long have you been studying dance?”

Inej felt her cheeks flush at the question. “I have never studied, Madame. At least not at any school.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you taught yourself?”

“For the most part, yes.”

Madame Van Houden’s eyebrows shot up at this. “Very unusual, indeed.” She glanced over Inej once more, before heading into the wings to retrieve a few pieces of paper and a fountain pen. “This is a one-year contract with the Opera Garnier. You will be provided room and board as part of the agreement. The fee for your lodgings will not be due until after your first performance with the Opera Garnier, which you will receive payment for. There are also…other means of earning money, but we shall cross that bridge when we reach it. Feel free to look over the contract before signing it.”

Inej reached out to take the offered documents with shaking hands. She couldn’t believe this. Not only was she getting to study and perform at the Opera Garnier, but she would also be given food and a roof over her head. It was more than she could have ever dreamed. Inej glanced over the contract, but could barely make out any of the unfamiliar words. Yet it didn’t matter, she signed the document without hesitation. 

“Very good,” Madame Van Houden smiled, snatching the papers from Inej. “Welcome to the Opera Garnier, Inej Ghafa.” Inej allowed herself a small smile of her own and followed Madame Van Houden backstage, ignoring the glare she received from rejected dancers who had lingered behind. 

So oblivious was she, she didn’t notice the pair of eyes watching her from Box Five. “Yes,” a deep, rough voice said into the darkness of his box. “Welcome, Mademoiselle Ghafa.”

Chapter Text

The Bastard of the Opera didn’t need a reason. Those were the words whispered backstage, in the orchestra pit, the dressing rooms, even in the manager’s office at the Opera Garnier. The apparition haunting the famous Opera House did not need a reason anymore than he needed permission – to cut down a backdrop, to sabotage a performance, to extort Pekka Rollins for every spare franc he had. 

Of course they were wrong, Inej knew Kaz Brekker had a reason for everything he did, and she would be damned if she didn’t figure out what it was. She’d been working with him for a little over a year now, but there was still so much she didn’t know about the man who lived beneath the Opera.

Namely: why he lived beneath the Opera. 

Though, she supposed as she laid in wait, it was probably the same reason he refused to take off his mask whenever she was around. In fact, she’d never even seen him without his gloves off. But tonight was going to be different. Tonight she was finally going to sneak up on him.

She’d followed him through the maze of damp hallways and musty corridors, around the outskirts of an underground lake, and to an area that could only be described as a lair. Hundreds of candles lit the space, casting shadows onto the dark stone walls, yet perfectly illuminating a large wooden desk covered in a plethora of letters and dog-eared books. She’d taken a moment to glance at the contents of the papers, but couldn’t decipher the messy handwriting in a language she was only just starting to read before she heard the familiar clacking of Kaz’s cane on the floor and she had to hide behind one of the velvet curtains draped along the windowless walls. 

She held her breath as the now familiar form of Kaz Brekker limped out of one of the adjoining rooms and sat down at the cluttered desk, propping his crow’s head cane against it. He sighed and ran a hand down his half-masked face before his dark eyes flickered to Inej’s hiding spot for only a moment, before returning to his desk. She could have sworn she saw a small smirk on his usually downturned lips before he leaned back and slowly began taking his leather gloves off to reveal…perfectly normal hands.

She had to hold back her sigh of frustration. She’d come all the way down here for nothing. Well, not nothing, a voice in her head that sounded an awful lot like Nina mused as Kaz rolled up his sleeves to reveal pale, yet toned, muscular arms. She felt heat rush to her face and mentally berated herself. What was she even doing here? She had just made up her mind to sneak away before she embarrassed herself when she heard the deep timber of Kaz’s voice call out, “Leaving so soon, Wraith?”

Inej stopped in her tracks and didn’t hold back the sigh this time. “How do you always do that?” Inej groaned as she stepped out from behind the curtains into Kaz’s line of sight. Kaz’s eyes danced with amusement. “No one else ever hears me! And you couldn’t have seen me, you never looked back while I was trailing you!”

“Now, what kind of magician would I be if I revealed all my secrets?” Kaz drolled as he returned to his papers. Inej rolled her eyes.

“But isn’t that what you hired me to do?” she asked as she took up her usual perch on the edge of Kaz’s desk. He didn’t look up, but she saw his shoulders tense anyway. She never questioned him though, she knew if someone were to reach for her, she’d likely have the same reaction. “Collect secrets?”

“You can try, Inej,” he conceded, finally looking up at her. There was something about the way he said her name that made her face burn. “I shall certainly enjoy watching your efforts.”

She raised a brow at this. “What makes you so certain that I will fail?”

“My darling Inej,” Kaz smirked. “I have been living underneath this Opera House for five years and not a single person employed at the Opera Garnier knows my legal name, though many have tried to. If you believe that you can be the first, by all means, go right ahead.”

Inej knew she should probably be shocked Kaz had lied to her about his name, affronted even. Yet her mind couldn’t help fixating on the first part of his confession. “You’ve lived down here for five years?” she whispered, sorrow softening her words. He couldn't be much older than her, meaning he’d—

“Your pity is of no use to me,” Kaz scorned, turning his head so only the masked half of his face was visible to her. “And as you know I do not waste my time with such trivialities.” Inej stared at his mask, trying to decipher the emotions hidden beneath. His tone was harsh, yes. But there was something almost…melancholy in his gaze. Before she could figure it out though, Kaz turned back to her, his emotions now hidden beneath a mask of flesh as opposed to porcelain. His voice was cold when he asked, “What do you want, Wraith?”

What did she want? Her cheeks flushed as she heard Nina’s guesses in her head. She really spent too much time with that girl. “I was…” she folded her arms, feeling the cool press of steel beneath her sleeves, reigniting her confidence. “I was hoping we could practice today.”

Something dark flashed in his eyes. “Did they–”

“No,” Inej cut him off. “No one’s tried anything.” Yet. Even though Inej wouldn’t be returning to the foyer de la danse anytime soon, that didn’t stop all wandering hands. “I just don’t want to fall out of practice, in case something does happen.”

“It won’t,” Kaz practically snarled, hands instinctively reaching for his cane. A cane Inej knew was more so a weapon than anything else. “And if anything does happen, you must tell me. Immediately. Do you understand?” Shocked by the sudden outburst, all Inej could do was nod. He seemed to relax, if only slightly at this, before standing and heading to one of the rooms within his labyrinth beneath the Opera. “Come on. I think sparring would do us both some good.”

***

Kaz grunted as Inej swept out his good leg from under him and he collided with the stone floor. He’d meant what he’d said. Sparring was always a good way for him to blow off some steam, but he’d forgotten how good Inej had gotten over the past year. 

It was hard to be angry though, even as Inej had him pinned with a dagger to his throat. How could he be when her eyes were so brightened from the exercise? When her cheeks were flushed and her mouth twitched into that triumphant smirk of hers. When her dark skin seemed to glisten in the candlelight—

Stop, Kaz cursed at himself. These thoughts would bring him nothing but misery. Shouldn’t he have learned that by now? He was the Bastard of the Opera. The ghost who brought terror and destruction everywhere he went. Unable to touch anyone or feel anything. He was here for one reason and one reason alone: revenge.

He couldn’t afford to be distracted by dark brown eyes and a smile more raident than the sun.

“That's another point for me,” the source of his torment grinned as she relinquished her hold on him and offered her hand to help him up. He took it and hauled himself to his feet. Unless he was fighting, Kaz tried to avoid physical contact at all costs, even when he had his gloves on, but Inej had sent his cane to the other side of the room early on in the fight.

Inej silently retrieved his cane for him and took up her fighting stance once more. “That’ll be all for today, Wraith,” Kaz said, his knee protesting at the thought of another skirmish. It’d been broken some years ago and was never given the time to heal properly, so he'd begun using the cane, first as a mobility device, then as a weapon. “It’s late. You should get some rest.”

Inej rolled her eyes and tucked her knives – her Sants – away. He remembered when he’d given her the first dagger in her collection. It wasn’t long after he had agreed to pay for her room and board at the Opera House in exchange for her to gather secrets he couldn’t obtain. Not with his cane announcing his presence even if he were hidden from sight, causing the superstitious to flee and skeptics to go quiet. But Inej was silent . Even if she wore a costume adorned with bells, Kaz could never hear a sound come from her unless she wanted him to. 

That night, after a performance of Hannibal , one of the regular patrons who frequented the foyer de la danse went there in search of “the lynx” – as Van Houden had named Inej for her agility and silence – but couldn’t find her. Yet, instead of leaving or purchasing another girl’s company for the night, he went backstage and cornered Inej. Her cries for help had gone unheard by all except Kaz. Within moments he had been upon the man and knocked him out cold. He would have killed him, but bodies were such a hassle to dispose of.

“Did he harm you?” Kaz had asked, eyes scanning her for any sign of injury. Inej didn’t respond, and instead stared through Kaz. “Inej? Inej can you hear me?” When she still didn’t come to, he heard the man on the floor groan and he quickly pulled Inej into one of his hidden passageways. She didn’t struggle at all, and that terrified him.

“Inej,” he said once they were alone. “Inej, it’s me. The Bas—Kaz. Kaz Brekker. He’s gone now. You’re safe.” That seemed to help some, her eyes focused on him, but they were still void of her spirit. That’s when he got an idea. He reached into his cloak and pulled out one of the daggers concealed there. He took the hilt, and pressed the cool metal into Inej’s palms. “No one is going to hurt you again,” he said, as her hands grasped the knife. “If anyone tries to, use this.”

She named the knife Sant Surdas and always carried it with her from that day on. It was later that she came to him, asking for training which he agreed to, since it would do him no good if “his investment went and got herself killed.”

“I’ll rest if you rest,” Inej replied, bringing him back to the present. He fixed her with a glare. “I won five out of our seven rounds tonight. Either you let me win – which you would never do – or you’re exhausted and too stubborn to admit it.”

She was right, he’d never let her win and he hadn’t slept in the past two days. That didn’t mean she had to nanny him though. “Fine.” He scowled, limping out the main entrance where a small gondola floated atop the murky waters of an underground lake. Inej got into the boat without prompting and Kaz followed, trading his cane for an oar before beginning their trip back to the Opera House. 

He knew Inej was fully capable of traversing the thin ledges around the water – it was how she’d followed him tonight – but years ago Kaz had made sure anyone who fell into those waters wouldn’t be coming out of them alive. He didn’t like the thought of Inej being one of those people. 

“You know,” Inej pipped up, turning to face him. “You’re not the only one who isn’t going by their legal name around here.” Kaz raised his brow in lieu of actually asking his questions. “It turns out the new flute player, Wylan Hendricks, is actually Wylan Van Eck, the only son and heir of Comte Van Eck.”

Comte Jan Van Eck – a rather unfortunate name Kaz had always thought, so long yet so short at the same time – was one of the wealthiest members of the French nobility with great influence and power. If people were to find out his only son was employed at an Opera, well that would cause quite the scandal.

Kaz was vaguely aware of Inej muttering something about a “scheming face” but he was too busy formulating a plan in his mind to pay it much attention. There were still many unknown variables, but one thing was certain. “Wraith,” he said as their gondola reached the opposite shore. “I need you to learn everything you possibly can about Wylan Van Eck.”

Inej’s mouth curled into a smile as she hopped out of the boat. “I knew you would say that.”

Chapter Text

“Inej!" Inej turned to find Jesper frantically waving her over to where he stood in the wings with Nina who was shaking her head at him. “Nina and I are having a debate,” he explained when she reached them. “What are your opinions on my fashion sense?”

“Um,” Inej surveyed his attire for the day. It was awfully bright, gaudy, and just like every other god-awful outfit the stagehand owned. “It’s certainly…bold?”

“Ha!” Nina exclaimed as Jesper let out a dramatic gasp and stumbled backwards, wounded, and right into an unsuspecting mop of ruddy gold curls. The unfortunate soul Jesper crashed into let out a yelp as he fell flat on his bottom. Nina tutted as the boy stared up at them with wide blue eyes. “Now look at what you’ve done, Jesper. Frightened poor Wylan half to death.”

“Saints,” Jesper gushed as he reached out a hand to help the boy - Wylan - Inej noted. So this was Wylan Hendricks–Van Eck. She silently observed him as he took Jespers extended hand. His pale cheeks were stained scarlet already, but reddened even further as he lost his balance again and fell right into Jesper’s chest. He was engulfed by the large Congolese boy’s frame but he was young - sixteen, likely - and still had some growing to do. “I am so sorry,” Jes apologized as he helped the boy right himself once again.

“It’s fine,” Wylan muttered, staring at his feet. Jesper seemed as though he was going to return to the conversation and ignore Wylan, before the flutist stole a quick look at Jesper and added, “And, um, for the record, I think you look nice.”

“Aha!” Jesper declared, his face lighting up with a shit-eating grin. He slung his arm around Wylan’s shoulders and turned to stick his tongue out at Nina and Inej. “At least someone around here appreciates true fashion! Thank you for having exquisite taste, Wylan.”

Wylan just nodded, seemingly rendered speechless by Jesper’s hand resting on his shoulder. Jesper continued on obliviously, crowing about the woes of being a genius, and Inej had to bite back a grin. It was obvious the poor boy had a crush on Jesper. Perhaps a reason as to why no one had heard of Van Eck’s son before?

Though Jesper’s lamentations were cut off when Matthias’s heavily accented voice called out, “Jesper! I need your help with the backdrops!” Both Nina and Jesper perked up at the request. Jesper sighed and reluctantly went to do his job - much to the relief (or disappointment?) of Wylan - while Nina made up a crappy excuse about “checking on her costume.” Inej knew fully well that she was going to flirt with the Swedish stagehand, but she wasn’t going to call her out when it gave Inej the perfect opportunity to speak with Wylan alone. 

Inej waited until Nina was out of earshot before turning to Wylan and laughing, “She does realize that she isn’t fooling anyone, right?” The boy startled, as if he had forgotten he wasn’t alone. “It’s obvious she’s going to flirt with Matthias.”

“Matthias?” Wylan asked, clearly not acquainted with him. Inej pointed to the tall, burly blond working the fly system, who was unsurprisingly staring at Nina as she sauntered by with a sultry smile. “Oh.”

“Watch, as soon as he’s done, Matthias will be following her to ‘secretly’ snog in one of the storage closets.” Inej and Wylan watched, and sure enough, Matthias was quick to follow after Nina like a lovesick puppy. Out of the corner of her eye Inej spotted another opportunity. “Oh, and look! There’s Rotty - the stage manager—” she gestured to a stout man with a bulbous nose cradling a nondescript mug “—he tells everyone he’s got a caffeine addiction, hence why he always has coffee, but after lunch break the coffee starts to turn Irish.”

“Huh,” Wylan remarked, eyes following Rotty’s swaying stance before turning back to Inej, slightly weary. “How do you know all of this?”

Inej shrugged innocently. “I am a bit of a people watcher. A habit I've never been quite able to shake.”

Wylan nodded slowly, fidgeting with a loose thread of his shirt. “So…so you know a lot about this place then, right?”

“You could say that. Why? Do you have a question about something,” she glanced towards Jesper who was still securing the flies. “Or someone?”

Wylan followed her eyes and blushed. “Um…well, actually, I’ve been hearing rumors about something called the Bastard of the Opera?”

Inej was careful not to show her surprise. She was certain Wylan was going to ask about Jesper. But then again, he’d been raised as the son of a Comte and thespians were more…understanding of different lifestyles than others. Especially more so than nobility. “What would you like to know about Opera Garnier’s infamous ghost?”

“Well, I haven’t heard much,” he admitted with a sheepish smile. “So I was thinking, everything?”

Inej couldn’t help but laugh. He might’ve only been a year younger than her, but his soft disposition stirred a familial fondness in her heart for him. “Well I am afraid that would take a rather long time, Wylan. So how about the basics for now?” Wylan nodded eagerly. Was he that desperate for information? Or simply a friend to talk to? Either way, Inej tugged at his hand and led him over to an empty bench. One far away enough from the others to avoid being overheard, but still had a good view of the stage before them. “There are several rumors about the truth behind the Bastard of the Opera. Some think he is simply a fictional character, made up to blame mistakes on. Others think it’s really some miscreants playing a prank. But the most widely accepted theory is that he is a phantom, haunting the opera house.

“The story goes like this: Some years ago, there was a dancer here at the opera who had to work in the foyer de la danse because of her contract,” Inej explained, trying not to think of how similar this was to her story. Could have been her story, if not for Kaz. Wylan asked no questions about the foyer, so she assumed he knew of it. It was hard not to if you were employed at the opera. “One of the wealthier patrons was infatuated with her beauty, and wanted her desperately. He went so far as to pay so no one else could spend a night with her. The dancer was content with this arrangement, for he was a kind man and didn’t abuse her as others had. So, when she found out she was with child, the woman was elated, thinking surely now he would have to marry her. She would be taken away from the opera and debts she could never pay to live a life of luxury with her child and a kind husband. But when she told the patron, instead of receiving a proposal, she received a broken heart.

“The man denied the child being his, even though he’d made certain she wasn’t bedded by any other man than him. He refused to marry her, and he refused to have anything to do with the baby. The woman was distraught, for now she had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. The opera would no longer employ her since it was unseemly to have a pregnant woman onstage and they had taken every last franc she had. The woman became a destitute, starving on the streets of Paris. Miraculously though, the church took pity on her soul and gave her a place to stay until her child was born. 

“When she did give birth, it was to a baby boy with a mangled leg and she did not survive long after labor. The church took in the child and raised him, even though the boy would never be able to walk without a cane. Eventually telling him his mother’s story once he was of age. When he learned about what his mother had gone through because of the management at the opera and because of the man who was supposed to be his father, he was furious. His caretakers warned him to not act on this anger and let God be the judge, but he would not listen. Instead he came here, to the opera house with the intent to confront, then kill his father and then burn down the building along with everyone inside. He cornered the patron and told him of how he made an innocent woman suffer. Of how he had doomed him to be a cripple and an orphan. Yet before he could pull out his gun to deliver his final blow, the patron beat him to it, and shot him right between the eyes. The boy died instantly, and the patron carried on as usual. But still even to this day, the boy’s spirit haunts the opera house seeking revenge for his mother and his own damned soul. It’s said that if you listen close enough, sometimes you can hear the bastard’s cane, pounding through the theatre, deciding who to punish next.”

As if on cue, Inej heard the faint thunking of a familiar gait overhead, though it went unnoticed by Wylan who appeared deep in thought. She had to resist the urge to roll her eyes. Kaz was also so dramatic. 

“And what of the Wraith?” Wylan asked, regaining Inej’s attention. “I haven’t heard much, but a lot of the time people will mention some ‘Wraith’ as if it is working with the Bastard of the Opera.”

The irony was not lost on Inej that Wylan was asking the being who’d inspired tales of the Wraith herself about the entity, but she didn’t let it show. “There is no grand tale about the Wraith, I am afraid. She is more recent. Rumors of a second spirit’s presence here started a few years back, when there were strange occurrences without the sound of the Bastard’s cane. They only grew when Monsieur Rollins’ letters from the Bastard of the Opera contained information no one else should have known. Unless a silent wraith had been listening, watching, and reporting to her fellow spector. Some speculate that the Wraith may be the spirit of the Bastard’s mother, but,” she shrugged. “No one really knows.”

Wylan’s brow furrowed and he opened his mouth to presumably ask another question, but before he got the chance to the sound of snapping ropes, a loud crash, and screams interrupted him. Everyone rushed to the source of the noise to find one of the backdrops fallen to the ground, having nearly crushed several of the petit rats.

There was a moment of stunned silence before Rotty stumbled over pointing and shouting, “Who is responsible for this? Helvar! Fahey! Get your asses out here!”

Jesper ran forward, cheeks flushed and stumbling over his words. “Sorry, sir. I don't know what happened. Matthias and I had just finished securing that and after he went on break. But I was standing over by the flies, and no one was there. From the looks of it, the rope was cut.”

“What in the bloody blazes do you mean cut? Who would've cut it?”

As if in answer, stilted pounding echoed from the rafters. Every head turned up, looking for the source of the noise, and every pair of eyes followed the sudden appearance and slow descent of a piece of paper as it landed right at Wylan’s feet. Pale-faced, Wylan retrieved the letter, the pounding faded away, and then all hell broke loose.

Some shouted, some whispered prayers, and one person even fainted. “It was the spöke !” Matthias cried out, having emerged with a rather disheveled-looking Nina (he was in no perfect state either with his messed hair and swollen lips).

But Inej ignored them, instead peeking over Wylan’s shoulder to see the envelope now grasped in his hands. She almost laughed at the messy handwriting, scrawled in red ink. While Inej could not read French, she could read Pekka Rollings’ name. Wylan flipped the letter, carefully breaking the wax seal (in the shape of a crow, of course) and revealing the contents. Wylan’s fear seemed to melt away into something else entirely as he looked over the letter. “What does it say?” Inej whispered, only able to recognize a few words. 

Wylan shoved the paper at her. “Can’t you read it?” He was frustrated, yes, anyone would've picked up on that, but Inej also noticed the way he avoided her gaze and he blushed all the way to the tips of his ears. Signs he was once again embarrassed. But by what? She glanced at the parchment in her hands and suddenly, all the pieces clicked together.

“No,” Inej said softly, shaking her head. “I can’t read.” Either , she added in her head. Wylan looked at her as if she had just uttered some unholy secret. Her heart ached for the boy at that moment. Growing up as a Comte’s son, unable to read…it must've been hell for him if the haunted look in his eyes was anything to go off of. “I’ll ask Jesper to read it for us.”

A flash of panic shone bright in his eyes for a moment before it dulled to resignation. Wylan dipped his head, and Inej took it as his consent. “Hey, Jes!” Inej called, beckoning him over. She handed him the letter. “Could you read this for me?”

“Sure thing, ‘Nej,” Jesper flashed a cocky smile before holding out the scroll as he would a king’s proclamation. He cleared his throat loudly, and everyone around quieted to listen. “My dear manager, Monsieur Rollins - oh this should be good - I am pleased to see that rehearsals for Il Muto are going well. For the most part.”

People exchanged nervous glances at this. But no one dared say a word as Jesper read on: “The vocals are entrancing, as would be the dancing if Madame Van Houden spent her time teaching her students how to dance as opposed to bedding rich patrons. I expect to see vast improvement before opening night, on which I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in box five. Which will be kept empty for me - aside from my overdue salary of twenty thousand francs. Do not think I have forgotten your debts, monsieur. Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur. I remain, Your Obedient Servant, The Bastard of the Opera.”

Then, for the first time in months, everyone in the auditorium was silent. It was not the first time that the mysterious opera ghost had sent a letter to the manager and it happened to fall into the hands of the cast before the man himself, but it was the first time a threat loomed over their heads so ominously. Made all the more real by the nearly devastating accident that occurred moments before. If the large wooden beams supporting the backdrop had fallen on any one of the dancers it surely would have ruined their career. After all, an injured dancer is no longer a dancer.

Rotty was first to break the silence. “Well, what are you all standing around waiting for? We still have a rehearsal to finish and notes to go over - though I suppose the Bastard beat me to it,” he added quietly, his eyes flicking over to Madame Van Houden who was red in the face and looked ready to strangle someone. Everyone immediately sprung into action, the stage buzzing with a sense of dread. Jesper mindlessly handed the letter back to Inej, who carried it over to where Rotty stood, taking a long sip of his “coffee.”

“Monsieur, should I…?” She held up the letter as a way of finishing her question. 

The stage manager waved her off dismissively. “Yes, yes,” he grumbled. “Go ahead and take it to Rollins. Let’s just hope he doesn’t shoot you.”

Inej smiled at the little joke. All the times she had brought Kaz’s letters to Pekka, he had never once shot her, but he certainly would not be pleased with today’s. What was Kaz thinking?

After Inej had given the letter to the Opera’s manager, who’d practically ripped the letter from her hands with a scowl, she silently pressed a small panel, one nearly invisible unless you knew where to look, folding back a piece of the wall the size of a small doorway. She made sure she was alone before she stepped through the opening and sealed the passage shut. Inej pressed her ear to a thin wall to her right, allowing her to perfectly hear everything in the office.

“That bastard! ” Pekka raged from the other side of the wall. There was a loud crash, presumably something he had to decided to break in his fit. It wouldn’t have been the first time. “Who would have the gall to send this? Who is he to think he can demand anything from me? Who is he to criticize my employees? To threaten me!”

There was another loud crash, followed by a period of silence. Inej was about to leave when she heard Rollins scoff. “Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur. Well, I’d like to see him try. This ghost will not be getting paid this month, and I would very much like to see his response.”

“Do you really think that’s wise, monsieur?” A new, yet familiar, voice interjected. “After all he does know of the circus—”

“Of which there is no longer a paper trail, Haskell.” Ah. So the other man in the room was Per Haskell - Pekka’s silent partner. Inej had never met the man personally, but she'd seen him whispering about something to Rollins several times. Perhaps about this mysterious circus? She filed that information away for later and continued listening. “So, should this Bastard - or his Wraith for that matter - report us nothing will happen. You know how the police are. Lazy buffoons who will turn a blind eye with a single flash of gold. The only way we would be arrested is if there was proof they couldn’t deny. Proof that no longer exists.”

“Yes, but there are other things he can do,” Haskell argued, the more superstitious of the two. “Just today he cut down a backdrop. If it had injured anyone we would have been held responsible. We would have had to pay.”

Pekka chuckled, the sound vile and unsettling. “This isn’t about money anymore, monsieur . This is about stopping the bastard. I have catered to his demands for far too long. I will find out who this ‘Bastard of the Opera’ and his little Wraith are. And when I do, I will ruin them.”

***

Kaz’s knee had been killing him for days, and the trip through the rafters did not help. So, instead of hunching over his desk like usual, he allowed himself a few minutes of rest in the sitting room adjacent the training room - a room in which he may or may not have added an extra chair to once he’d begun teaching Inej how to defend herself. He was lounging in a plush velvet armchair, just about to doze off, when he felt more so than heard Inej’s arrival. 

It took Inej a few extra moments to track him down due to his unusual location, giving Kaz enough time to silently reprimand himself for such foolishness. Napping in the middle of the afternoon? He shouldn’t even be taking a break right now. Not when there was still so much to do. 

Inej interrupted his self-scolding when she appeared in the doorway, appraising his bloodshot and shadowed eyes before asking, “When was the last time you slept?”

Whether Kaz ignored the question because he did not want to answer it or because he couldn’t answer it was only for him to know. “What business, Wraith?” Inej sighed and plopped down in her chair - not her chair, Kaz reminded himself.  Just the chair she sits in. 

“Rollins isn’t going to pay you,” she said as she kicked off her flats and extended her stockinged feet to the hearth in front of them, seeking out the flame’s warmth. The fire bathed Inej’s skin in a heavenly glow as she carefully unwound her hair from the tight coil she had to keep it in during rehearsal. Kaz watched, mesmerized, as she carded her fingers through the inky tresses. A quill dipping into the inkwell. When she finally turned her gaze back to him it took Kaz longer than he wanted to admit to realize that she was expecting a response to her previous statement. 

He shrugged and turned his gaze back to the hearth. “I suspected as much. Men like Pekka Rollins don’t like being told what to do. They especially don’t like feeling powerless, with no choices to make. Threats do just that.”

“So you don’t want him to pay you? Why?”

“I want him to know who he’s dealing with,” Kaz answered plainly. “Pekka has become too lax lately. He has forgotten that even though the deed may be in his name, this is my opera house. I’ve merely given him a warning.” He risked a glance back at Inej who was…smiling. At him. Normally he drank in her smiles. Smiles that were too pure and good for a wretched creature like himself to deserve. But when he smiled at him like this - when she looked at him like this - as though he wasn’t some demon who’d crawled his way out of hell and instead, maybe, just maybe there was a good person hidden beneath the mask and gloves, his stomach soured and he had to look away. “I didn’t do it out of kindness, Wraith,” he rasped, reaching for his cane, “so stop gawking at me like that.”

He stood to leave, probably on his way to hit something or someone , but Inej stopped his retreat by saying, “Rollins and Haskell were talking about a circus.” He froze in the doorway, every part of him going rigid. “Said they’d destroyed all evidence of their connection to it. That way you couldn’t use it as blackmail anymore. Care to explain?”

For one terrifying moment Kaz felt as though he couldn’t move, as if he was no longer in his sitting room with Inej, but instead chained in a cage, face bare, on display for the hundreds of faces gawking at him. Reaching for him through the bars–

But no. He wasn’t that frightened boy anymore. He was the Bastard of the Opera, free from any mortal chains. Your wrists may not be clasped in iron anymore, Jordie’s voice mocked in his head. But you are still as trapped as I am dead. Kaz ignored the voice, focusing instead on the cool porcelain on his ruined face, the worn leather coating his hands, the cotton hugging his arms. Your armor will not protect you from me, brother.

Kaz glanced back at Inej, still curled up in the armchair, eyes watching him expectantly. And she’ll see though it soon enough, too. Kaz pulled a scowl and left with a response that was everything he was: Brief, cold, and final. 

“No.”

Chapter Text

If Inej hadn’t been mad at Kaz after he openly refused to answer her question - something she had foolishly thought they were past - she most certainly was now. 

“Again!” Madame Van Houden barked, scrutinizing every move her dancers made. Rehearsals had been vigorous before, with little to no room for error, but ever since Kaz made his remarks in last week’s letter, it seemed Madame Van Houden had taken it upon herself to make the petit rats’ lives a living hell.

Inej had felt a strange rush of pride when the Bastard of the Opera had condemned Heleen for being more concerned with the dealings within the foyer de la danse as opposed to onstage, but that had been quickly squashed when rehearsals had gone from intense to downright brutal. But Inej had seen several of her peers receive more than harsh words when caught lacking, and she was not keen to share their experiences, so she plastered on a smile and concentrated on her footwork.

After running through the ballet from Act III - in what Inej considered to be - an ungodly number of times, Madame Van Houden dismissed the dancers for the day, and Inej nearly collapsed from relief mixed with a generous amount of exhaustion. Nina, on the other hand, actually did collapse - but only after Van Houdeen had departed for the evening, of course. Inej smiled down at her friend's antics and extended a hand to help her back to her feet. “No,” Nina groaned, swatting Inej’s arm away. “I have become one with the floor. I shall never get up again.”

Inej tried and failed to bite back her laugh when she saw Matthias’s worried expression at Nina’s statement. “Come on, Neens!” Inej giggled, then, quieter, “Matthias is walking towards us.”

“Really?” Nina craned her neck to get a glimpse of her paramour. She turned back to Inej with a wicked grin before coloring her features with exhaustion just as Matthias approached. “Oh, Matthias! Thank heavens you’re here!”

Matthias, seemingly oblivious to Inej’s, or anyone else’s presence for that matter, crouched down beside Nina, brushing one of the errant strands of her hair back with a gentleness contrasting his hulking frame and calloused hands. “What is it, liten röd fågel?”

“I am so exhausted, I cannot move,” Nina proclaimed, draping an arm over her head in a display so dramatic it could rival even one of the prima donna’s fits. “If only there were someone to carry me back to the dormitory!”

Inej rolled her eyes and sighed, “He is not going to–” Inej was cut off by Matthias lifting Nina into his arms with the utmost care. Nina shot a smug smile at Inej, who in return shook her head and mouthed, “Shameless.”

Nina responded with her own silent, “Prude” before Matthias had whisked her away. No longer fighting back her smile, Inej went to put away her ballet shoes in good spirits despite the ache in her limbs. While untying her laces, a group of Inej’s peers trudged in to do the same thing, chattering in the way teenage girls often do.

“What has gotten into Madame Van Houden lately?” One of the dancers complained as she plopped to the ground with a thump. “I cannot remember the last time my feet hurt so.”

“It’s because of that letter,” another girl replied in a hushed tone. “The one the bastard sent. I think he wounded her pride, and now we’re the ones paying.”

“Well, that isn’t fair,” the first girl pouted. “Why should we suffer because of some phony phantom? Whoever this Bastard of the Opera really is, he should be the one punished!”

“Oh, he is not a fake, mademoiselles,” A new voice interjected. All the girls’ heads whipped around to face the large figure looming in the doorway. It took Inej a moment, but she soon recognized him as the lazy stagehand called Big Bolliger. “I can assure you, he is real. Seen him with my own two eyes.”

“You have?” The girls seemed to collectively gasp. Inej narrowed her gaze, suspicious. Had this man really seen Kaz? When? Where? And if so, why was this the first Inej was hearing of it? But before Inej could find a way to tactfully pose any of her questions, the first girl spoke up again, “What does he look like?”

Bolliger smiled and beckoned for the girls to come closer. Soon, every girl in the room surrounded him, except for the silent Wraith in the corner, who’d long since put away her slippers. “Like yellow parchment is his skin,” he began, as if reciting an epic poem. “A big black hole serves as the nose that never grew. You must be always on your guard!” He pulled out a piece of rope fashioned into a noose and threw it loosely around the nearest girl’s neck, and pulled her closer. “Or he will catch you with his magical lasso!”

He tickled the girl, who let out a playful shriek. The other ballerinas were giggling at the display, and a fierce anger boiled in Inej’s core. Silently, she made her way over, noticed only when she reached to remove the noose from the girl’s neck, and stood defiantly before a man twice her size. “Those who speak of what they know, find too late that prudent silence is wise.” In one quick motion, the noose was around Bolliger’s neck, and Inej held the knot just beneath his Adam's apple. “Monsieur Bolliger, hold your tongue. Or he will burn you with the heat of his eyes.”

Inej held his gaze, relishing in the fear written plainly across his face, before dropping the rope and leaving without another word. 

Whenever Inej was upset, she found herself drawn to the roof of the opera house. Perhaps it was something about being able to see the city of lights sprawled out beneath her. Or she needed the reminder that even though she never left it, there was a world beyond the Palais Garnier. Most likely, though, it was because when she sat on the edge, legs dangling and sunlight kissing her face, she could close her eyes and imagine her father was sitting next to her. It was just another day with her family, sitting atop their caravan with her pita, talking about everything and nothing. 

So she found herself making the climb to the roof not long after her encounter with Big Bolliger, ready for some quiet to sort through her thoughts and perhaps to feed the crows that she’d taken a liking to. Because they were simple and beautiful , she told herself. Not because they reminded her of a certain masked boy with a cane. 

Halfway through the bag of stale bread crumbs and no closer to understanding why Bolliger mocking Kaz had irked her so, the door to the roof flew open once again, and Wylan Hendricks (Van Eck) stormed out. Tears were streaming down his flushed cheeks, and he was muttering something to himself as he tore up a piece of parchment. Inej was considering slipping away silently, but then Wylan glanced up and immediately stilled. There were a few moments of awkward silence before he stuttered out, “I’m sorry. I– I didn’t realize–” 

Inej shook her head and offered him a soft smile. “It’s okay. I often come here seeking solace myself.” Wylan seemed to relax, however marginally at that. He tucked the paper into the pocket of his tattered brown coat and wiped at his tears. Inej gestured to the empty space beside her. “Care to join me?”

Wylan sat down without another word and stared out at the skyline aimlessly. Inej kept feeding her crows. She noticed Wylan watching her out of the corner of her eye and wordlessly offered the bag to him. He took a handful of crumbs and began to feed the crows as well.

“It was from my father,” Wylan said after a few minutes of silence. It was so quiet that the words were almost lost to the wind, but Wylan plowed on. “The letter that is. I may be illiterate, but I can recognize my father’s name.”

Inej simply nodded her head and continued feeding the crows. “I had someone read the first one he sent to me. The first line read, ‘If you’re reading this, then you know how much I wish to have you home.’ I had them stop after that. He’s just so…so…” Wylan’s voice trailed off, his face blotched and eyes shining with unshed tears. His fists were so clenched that Inej wouldn’t be surprised if the remaining bread crumbs had been smushed back together. 

Inej was no stranger to tears of sorrow, tears of anger, and tears of frustration. She recognized them all in this poor boy’s eyes. She knew them intimately and knew such feelings must be felt before they passed. So she sat quietly while the tears ran down his cheeks, and the little sniffles disturbed the air. When once at last, the salt stopped flowing and his sobs had ceased, she reached out her hand and placed it on his arm.

It was not a big gesture by any means, but to Wylan it seemed to convey more than he ever hoped for. It’s okay. Her gentle touch seemed to say. It’s not your fault. I’m here for you.

And then new tears stung his eyes. 

“So you ran away from home?” Inej asked, not wanting to push him, but also acutely aware that Kaz was waiting for more on the Van Eck boy.

“I guess you could say that,” Wylan said with either a sniffle or a laugh. Inej cocked her head. “My father said he was going to send me to university. Gave me the papers and everything. He had his valet accompany me, but about a mile or two from the city limits, we stopped in the middle of the woods. His valet played his part well enough, getting out of the carriage under the guise of seeing what had made us stop. After a few minutes without his return, I got out to see what was going on myself, only to be met with a bullet to the chest.”

Inej’s breath caught at that, and Wylan grimaced, reaching for something in his pocket. “Luckily for me, I had this pinned underneath my shirt, right where I was shot.” He held out something that might have been a fine piece of ironwork once, but was now dented and mangled from a gunshot. “It was my mother’s family crest. It’s the only thing of hers I was able to keep after she…well, anyway, it saved my life. The shock of the bullet and force of it knocked me backwards, and I hit my head, passing out. The valet must’ve thought me dead or close to it anyway and left. When I came to, I was stranded in the woods with nothing but the clothes on my back, my violin, and a letter full of blank papers to admit me to a university I was never meant to reach. Somehow, I managed to make my way to the side of the road and was picked up by a group who turned out to be members of the orchestra here. They took me in, got me an audition, and here I am.”

Silence presided. 

Maybe Inej should have said something after that. Most people would have. Something like: “Wow. I can’t believe you went through all of that. I’m so sorry. You’re so brave,” etc., etc.

Instead, Inej was quiet because silence carried its own message and its own comfort. Silence was a weapon and a medicine. And right now, both of them needed to heal.

***

Kaz Brekker was not so stupid nor so callous as to say he had good days and bad days. Kaz Brekker had never known a good day. Perhaps Kaz Rietveld had, but he was not that boy. Not anymore. Not after. 

But there were days when the waters did not rise. When Joride’s voice was blissfully quiet. When he did not have to scratch his scarred and twisted flesh until it bled to make the itching cease.

Suffice it to say, today was not one of those days.

So when Inej glided up to Kaz’s desk, quiet as ever but with resolve written across her face, and announced, “Wylan won’t be of any use to you.” Kaz knew this wasn’t going to end well. 

“And why not?” Kaz asked, trying (and failing) to keep the frustration blooming in his chest from leaking into his voice. True, the Van Ecks were not an integral part of his plan, but it was an inconvenience all the same, just as his mask chafed his face with every word. 

“Well, I imagine your plan was to use Wylan to blackmail his father,” Inej drawled, casually as if discussing the weather. “Correct?”

“Perceptive as ever, Wraith.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You cannot use a son as leverage if the father wishes him dead. Comte Jan Van Eck does not care for his son. He went so far as to attempt to have Wylan murdered.”

“Then why does he send Wylan letters detailing how much he worries for him and wishes to have him home?” Kaz folded his hands together to keep from reaching to scratch beneath his mask. He would not. Not in front of Inej. Inej, who didn’t seem surprised by this information, but more so that Kaz did as well. “You think I don’t read every piece of mail that enters this Opera House? I’ve taught you better than that, Wraith.”

She regained her footing. “Those letters are taunts. Wylan is illiterate. I can only imagine Van Eck sends them out of spite.”

Kaz scoffed. “An illiterate heir? No wonder the Comte banished him to the Opera.”

Something dangerous flashed in Inej’s dark eyes. “Don’t. Don’t you dare talk about Wylan that way.”

“I’ll talk about Wylan whatever way I damn well please,” Kaz practically growled, his patience wearing thin. His skin was crawling, his face felt as though it were on fire, and he did not have the time for Inej’s soft heart. “Need I remind you that you are not the one in charge here?”

Kaz watched as, almost reflexively, Inej’s hand flew to her side, right where he knew she kept Sant Surdas sheathed. Then Kaz threw his head back and laughed . The sound had no joy nor mirth to it. Instead, it was the dissonant melody of a cynical man. “I don’t think that your precious Sants will help you, Inej. Draw that blade on me, and there is nothing left standing between you and the foyer de la danse . But by all means,” Kaz mocked, baring his throat for her. “Go right ahead.”

Kaz watched, through that rage-fueled haze – the kind that tips into delirium all too easily – as Inej’s hand lingered at her side, fingers inches away from the hilt of her dagger, before it dropped along with a single tear on her cheek. Kaz watched as she left without another word, leaving only the bitter aftertaste of his fury and the ever-persistent itch on his face. Kaz watched as the porcelain of his mask shattered against the wall and the jagged shards landed, reminiscent of the mess his cruel words had just made. 

No , Kaz remarked distantly to himself. Today was not a good day.