Chapter Text

Marguerite

It was just another night in Paris—the Ville des Lumières, as the locals proudly titled it—in the year 1881. The city was illuminated by the newly invented electric lighting, which was beginning to be featured in its many streetlights and outdoor lamps. Dark streets were soon overwhelmed with intense, white light, allowing children to stay out and play longer than ever before. But this relatively new invention did not reach past the city’s most public locations. Historic sites, much like the grand Palais Garnier, held onto its traditional gas lighting. Paris’s most famed opera was known for its welcoming atmosphere that drove in hundreds of spectators. And with gas lighting, the warm tones of which cascaded throughout its establishment, visitors of middle and upper incomes were bestowed a remarkable sense of homeliness alongside a dazzling show.

It was quarter past seven when a young woman raced through the door of her dressing room at the Palais Garnier. Gas-lit sconces repeatedly entered her vision as she sped across the marble steps. Having a floor-length gown on was no help, causing her to almost trip a few times.

She was still in her usual messy bun and gray button-up dress upon reaching her destination. Opening the door, she was met by an entourage of people, some in colorful, patterned attire while others in casual working clothes. A wall of mirrors surrounded one side of the wall, accompanied by vanities sat by people aged young to old.

She caught a glimpse of her appearance in the mirror. Her attire happened to blend with the women that drove the washcarts outside. Thankfully, the Corps de Ballet was kind enough to leave her an empty seat, preoccupied with a stack of new clothes among other wardrobe necessities. Lain on the backrest of the cushioned chair was a milkmaid’s dress, an auburn braided wig, and a simple white bonnet. Compared to the other costumes, hers was a lot less of an eye-sore.

Costume jewelry and overzealous embellishments were what all the eye could see on the other actors. She, however, had natural tones applied onto her soft powder skin and had no such regalia. To avoid being too simple, though, her eyes were dolloped with sparkling eyeshadow. Shimmery mica particles stuck to her eyelids and some, although uninvited, to her neck. The embellishing artist hastily applied the remaining cosmetics as if she were a kitchen worktop enduring a thorough cleanse. Make-up done, her eyes transformed into what could only be compared to diamonds.

Before she could say thank you to the embellishments artist, a dresser whisked her away and immediately began unbuttoning her bodice. This sent a rush of red through her already rosied cheeks. The skirt she wore plummeted to the ground, leaving the bottom of her knees bare. 

It felt disconcerting knowing that eyes other than her own caught a glimpse of the skin above her ankles. This feeling was amplified when she heard distant chuckles from the Corps de Ballet.

“Oh poor Christine, maybe you will feel better when it is the Comte undressing you!”

Christine cocked her head away from the young girls in embarrassment. They were relentless in their teasing ever since she first entered the Palais Garnier a few months ago. This was not their first time mentioning the Comte de Chagny, either; the man had been a familiar face in the company for far longer than she had expected. Her thoughts of the Comte were overshadowed by the dresser, who pulled the ribbons of the corset that she did not notice was put on her.

The dresser finished helping her into her costume and rushed over to get the wig. The hair looked shiny and bulkier than her own blonde curls, which were disheveled after hurrying a bath. Having it put on felt like a basket being lodged down her head. In addition to its uncomfortable grip, the large den of hair increased the warmth that started to settle once she entered the dressing room.

Having a moment to breathe, Christine nodded for the dresser to leave and went over to the unoccupied vanity behind her. The seat in question had been placed far across the room in a corner surrounded by trash bins galore. As an ex-laundress at the opera, she was acutely aware of the performers’ disdain for that particular section because of its pervasive odors. Anyone that arrived late in such astir hours would have to endure that seat, lest they do their embellishing on two legs. And coupled with the lack of sympathy from those ballet rats, for reasons unknown to her, she was not one bit surprised to be presented with it.

With a hand to her nose, she reviewed her appearance in the mirror; a plain skirt and square-necked bodice with half-sleeves covered her frame. In shape, the costume was much like the dress she wore when she used to work at a farm before joining the opera house. She found herself thinking of the women who plucked wheat and harvested crops alongside her in those fields. They wore clothes of gray and beige, unlike the striking red and blue of her costume.

A small laugh came from her lips as she observed herself. The garments she wore hung to her like a potato sack on a wooden pole. Were it not for the laced corset, the dress would have acted similarly to a nightgown—flowing above her chest, avoiding her torso, and trailing down to the floor. It was fit for the curvaceous divas that delighted the opera stage. Not someone like her, who replaced the previous diva after a narrowly acceptable bistro performance. She assumed there was little time to adjust it to her measurements; for what meager proportions she had, it was not fiscally competent to waste time tailoring for a petite woman over a one-time role.

As she was examining her dress, a creaking noise emerged from the mirror. Her eyes immediately went to the silver-coated pane. Not another sound came from it. But before she could believe that it was conjured by her imagination, the noise came again. This time more audibly, with the mirror inching away slightly. Apparently, the comical sight of what she was wearing caught the attention of someone other than herself.

The mirror by her side of the vanity rolled back just a little, revealing a shadowy figure behind. It had the silhouette of a man, whose grayish blue eyes captured rings of light from the lamps beside the mirror frame. His hair was light blonde with an almost reddish quality, and from forehead to nose a flesh-toned mask covered his face. The only evidence of him being human, and not a lurking creature of the night, was his mouth and chin, the only components of his appearance left uncovered besides his hair. They revealed his warm, pale skin, whose lips turned up in a faint smile.

Many would be immediately shocked at seeing a mysterious figure presenting himself so unusually, but Christine was not fazed in the slightest. Instead, her eyes gleamed with delight as she moved forward to meet his gaze more directly.

A deep, but friendly voice came from the man, “I see you are already dressed. Such a shame you have to wear that rat’s nest of a wig.”

She giggled quietly to not attract other people to her. Then, she put a hand out to the small space between the mirror and him. “I am so glad to see you. I want to thank you for all the help you have given me thus far. Your voice lessons will not be in vain.”

The masked man reached a gloved hand into hers, “I assure you they won’t. I have full faith that your voice will make the audience come to tears. I have, after all.” He gently pulled her hand to his lips and planted a kiss atop her soft skin.

A blush ran across her face at his small show of affection. Her hand rested on his as he continued to speak, “Do not fear, my Christine. No matter the blunder, I will always be proud of what you have become.”

His caring words tugged at her heart. She wished that she could just throw her arms around him again, except with more pride than that evening before the bistro. Her gratitude for him overwhelmed her, and it showed through the enormous smile that rose over her face.

“Christine! It is time!” One of the stage managers shouted from across the dressing room. She heard his steps proceed in her direction, to which she quickly removed her hand from the masked man’s.

She apologized in a hushed voice, “I’m dearly sorry, but I have to go.”

“It is alright, my dear. Meet me in your room when your performance is finished. Now off you go,” the masked man replied.

She nodded and turned around to meet the stage manager, who had just caught sight of her speaking to what he thought was herself. Fortunately, her figure covered the image of the masked man sliding the mirror back into place.

The stage manager looked at her in confusion. “Who were you speaking to?”

Christine gulped and lied, “Nobody, Monsieur. I just have some… stage fright, that’s all. I was telling myself some words of encouragement before heading off.”

His confused stare fell and was replaced by an annoyed one. “Well, you must rid your fear of the audience. You are the lead soprano, for God’s sake. Now come, we must make haste.” The well-dressed man turned his heel and began walking toward the exit quickly, with Christine following soon after.

He led her to a door that went to the space behind the stage curtains. Melodious voices rang about through the spacious interior, mixed with the rash steps of actors speeding to stand behind heavy towers of red fabric. Others went to join the group that formed the ensemble of peasants that danced into the scene. She ran over to stand behind them and watched as each one slowly immersed themselves in the story of Faust.

The audience watched in both awe and criticality as they entered the stage. Actors, singers, dancers, and musicians all spiraled into a frenzy of song and dance, furthering the performative tale.

In Faust, Christine was to be playing Marguerite—the damsel who caught the attention of Doctor Faust, an old scholar who sold his soul to devil Méphistophélès after attempting his life. Her role would change from quaint to seductive, as Marguerite would soon become the sole obsession of this man, whose age miraculously decreased because of his deal with the devil. 

She found Marguerite a difficult character to act, for her life was nowhere near as promiscuous as hers. She believed herself to be a plain woman, with no attachments besides the opera company and her friendship with the Comte de Chagny. Her own father passed away last year, leaving her with nothing but a worn violin in his name. All she could do was pretend to know what it felt like to be wanted—to be desired in such a ravenous way.

Tonight was her debut, and she was to be of sound mind before stepping onto those wooden boards—the same ones that shone from the glass candlelight and blanketed the creaking sounds of the working men beneath; the ones that shamelessly revealed themselves once the velvet curtain was pulled.

What she told the stage manager was a half-truth; anxiety riddled throughout her mind as she worried about disappointing everyone, especially her Maestro. Regardless of the endearments he spoke of, the possibility of failure lingered. She could not fathom the pain of seeing the saddened eyes of her teacher and best friend had she failed.

Yet, an inner voice suddenly grew a presence despite her self-destructive thoughts. She would not be here, performing a lead role on stage in the most famed opera house in Paris if it were not for her voice. Her Maestro, the masked man himself, would not request to teach her if she was not capable of such a feat. 

So, without further doubt, Christine strode into the light.

Silence engulfed the air of the opera as she walked across the stage with a basket prop in hand. With no time left to spare, she took to the ‘pavement’ of the makeshift town square and transformed into the infamous Marguerite.

It was a full house tonight; the red velvet-coated seats were all occupied by lavishly dressed people, all eager to witness the rest of the show. The swarm that made up the audience did not take away from the enormous space however. Four storeys of opera boxes were separated by velveted partitions and embellished with Greco-Roman motifs decked in gold. The ceiling itself featured a circular painting of Classical gods atop the heavenly clouds of Olympus. In its center was a seven-ton chandelier that protruded with layers of rock crystals and golden lamps—which some might even argue is the true star of the Palais Garnier.

Meters above the audience was a cloaked figure standing behind the curtains of Box 5. As always, that box was kept empty for his arrival, despite nobody having ever seen him inside it. Except, tonight Christine had. Although he was far enough away to resemble a pea in her vision, she mustered a broad smile on his lips. Naturally, she returned it, looking in his direction.

With her eyes still set on his, she began to sing her aria.

Ah! Je ris de me voir.

Her angelic voice echoed through the interiors of the Palais Garnier. Syllables softly cascaded into the next, appeasing the audience’s hearts with emotional splendor.

Si belle en ce miroir.

Her Maestro watched with a beating heart. He realized that she was staring at him while she sang. At this, he raised a proud fist in the air, which seemed to heighten her smile.

Ah! Je ris de me v—

Her voice halted its sweet sound. The momentary pause left the audience and the opera members staring blankly, to which she quickly tried to continue without causing more of a stir.

Si bell en ce mi—

Another mistake. 

Est-ce toi, Marguer—

And another.

Réponds—

She was breathless. As if someone had stricken the voice out of her chest. When she continued, the notes that arose shrunk to crackling noises that hurt her throat. Fearful of damaging her vocal chords, she stopped. Had she sung any further, the sound would have likely driven the audience to madness.

If time could ever stop its endless run, it most certainly did in Christine’s mind. The deathly silence that engulfed the opera house left her listening to her frantic heartbeats. Her chest felt like it was going to burst, and what was left inside spilling onstage for all to see.

Her greatest fear was staring her dead in the eyes: the absence of music, the absence of song—her song. 

All the training—the restless nights, the tiring hours of rehearsal, and most strikingly, the voice lessons from her Maestro—gone in a matter of seconds. Gone, like the nomadic sky, whose weather refused to linger for longer than a few days. Gone, like a shooting star, who remained afloat to be seen by few before becoming lost to the cosmos. And gone, like her angelic voice, which dwindled into the air—its exit as prompt as its arrival.

She had failed.

Her Maestro was just as dumbfounded as the rest. Upon seeing the absolute shock apparent in his eyes, Christine felt her body instantly grow cold. Fainting was not a viable option right now, she told herself. The least she could do to avoid embarrassing herself further was to remain stable, physically if not emotionally.

Turning her gaze away from him, she could sense fire in the eyes of all those present. The actors turned to look at her in a mixture of both shock and disappointment, while the Corps de Ballet hid their laughter. The manager of the opera house, Alain Choleti, stood up abruptly from his seat in the front row and shot her a glare that had enough power to shoot down a deer.

Those seated sprang up and started shouting all sorts of profanities. Some were simple “boos,” while others were rough enough for someone to shield the ears of an elderly woman.

Choleti turned around to ease the rioting crowds before him. Of those on stage, the older actors and dancers joined in on the tactless argument, spewing profanities of their own. Now, the house was loud once again, except with the sounds of angry, screaming voices instead of musical ones.

The people on stage rushed over to its very edge, jumping down to the orchestra pit, leaving Christine alone to her thoughts. She was in shambles from the scene that unraveled; rivers of tears showered through her eyes as she ran backstage in shame.

The man in the shadows observed the calamity unfold in his place above the stage. Bunches of audience members scoured over the edge of the front row, filling every foot of space available. Some even jumped over the barrier that separated the seats from the orchestra pit. 

His brows scrunched in both terror and melancholy as thoughts rushed through his mind. Thoughts of confusion from the unusualness of it all; Christine was not one to sing as ill as she did tonight, especially not after her successful rehearsal the day before.

He watched as audience members repeatedly threw insults and jabs at the people onstage, most of which were targeted at Christine’s performance.

Rage replaced his feelings of empathy as he decided upon the best course of action: revenge.

He bolted out of Box 5, his black cape swinging fiercely in his wake. Adrenaline fueled him to stride backstage, ignoring the bewildered people who were unfortunate enough to be shoved by him. His presence did little to soothe the ongoing hysteria in the room. Those who took a look at his masked appearance immediately began crying in fright.

“Sacré bleu! It is the Phantom of the Opera!”

Amid her agony, Christine overheard the title of her Maestro, whose heeled footsteps were beginning to intensify. He was not keeping himself hidden, to her surprise. Looking at the way he was marching toward her, he was doing anything but.

The backstage crew began to scatter the further he walked. All but Christine remained, wallowing on the ground with her wig in disarray. Her previous sparkly eyelids were now smudged with patches of shimmer all over her porcelain face. She had tripped on her dress during her haste return backstage, leaving her knee bruised from the impact on the hardwood floor.

The Phantom rushed over to her slumped, quivering figure and kneeled at her side.

“Christine.”

When she did not respond he increased the volume of his voice ever so slightly.

“Christine, are you alright, my dear?”

She took her hands away from her face, revealing her red-eyed, puffy complexion. Tears stained her cheeks in connected streams and she could not stop herself from whimpering, to his utter dismay. She merely shook her head and continued to bawl uncontrollably.

The sight of her in such a bitter state made the Phantom’s heart crumple as if it were a decaying Autumn leaf. He had only known one person who was as broken-hearted as she was, and he was sad to admit that that person was no other than himself. In his mind, such an angel was never meant to swallow such sorrow to this extent. This thought alone charged his everblooming fury and he could not sustain it any longer.

With hesitation, he reached his arms toward her small figure and gently wrapped them around her shoulders. Almost like touching fire, her reaction was swift as she shoved her face into the ruffled collar of his cream-colored blouse. The Phantom was taken aback by her sudden movements but continued to hold her in his arms, swaying every so often.

He could feel her pale blonde curls on the side of his exposed chin, and he so strongly wished that he could feel it in other places on his face, too—the parts that were hidden away by the self-induced prison of his mask.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Christine murmured, her head still buried under the layers of his clothing. Her voice no longer had its soft, melodic tone, but churned out broken, incoherent sobs.

“Don’t apologize,” he stated, “It was your first time on stage.”

Regardless of what he told her, Christine refused to listen and went on with her endless apologies. Her hands grasped onto the ruffles of his blouse, as though the silken cloth was an anchor that kept her from drifting away. And, in a way, it was. 

He was unable to comfort her anymore when he heard armies of footsteps in the distance. Sharp noises of clicking heels invaded the hallways behind the backstage door—recognizable as only the sûreté.

He let go of her grip and switched to hold her shaking hands. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll come back to retrieve you.”

She gave a nod and let his hands depart from hers. As much as she desired for him to stay, the sûreté was approaching. Her crying halted and her focus shifted to the Phantom, who ran to a seemingly plain wall with a lamp next to it. The masked man pulled the lamp, which acted as a lever that unveiled a hidden stone passageway.

“Where are you going?” She managed to choke out before he stepped into the dark tunnel.

He answered, his back facing her, “I have something I need to take care of.”

With that, he entered into the darkness, a black mist surrounding his figure as he turned another lever once inside. In response, the wall closed, shielding Christine from his presence.

She was about to go after him, but upon moving she felt a sharp twinge in her knee. The prickly sensation made her wince and she cursed to herself. Unable to stand or commute any further, she remained on the floor, worrying about what her Maestro was planning. Then, she heard the sûreté enter through the door.

She underestimated how many there would be. A train of them emerged from the doorway and rushed to search every corner there was backstage. The one leading them, Inspector Ledoux, saw her messy state on the floor and immediately went over to question her.

His face was that of an aging, yet not yet elderly man—of similar age to Choleti. Wrinkles littered his forehead and the edges of his mouth. One could understand from the dragging bags underneath his eyes that he was in dire need of rest.

“Where is he?!”

She feigned confusion. “I beg your pardon, Monsieur. Who?”

Ledoux was not patient with her. “You know! The Phantom! Where is he?”

Christine thought carefully. Anything she spoke of would determine the path the sûreté would take.

“I saw him run off stage. He went that way.” She pointed behind her to the hurdled mass of people still arguing in the orchestra pit.

Ledoux pointed in the direction Christine had and urged his troops to leave the premises. Resembling a colony of ants, they all ran out in orderly lines with Leroux being last to leave.

She turned her neck to get a glimpse of all the commotion. With the sûreté making an appearance, fights broke out between the gendarmes, the opera crew, and audience members. An altercation between a gendarme and an angry guest had led to a spring of violence involving fists and stage props. Some left the opera to prevent themselves from being hauled into the whole mess; women and children were quick to disappear, leaving only their husbands and brothers to deal with the brazen storm.

Others used the music stands as weapons in their plight. To avoid getting their scores damaged, the musicians in the orchestra pit held onto their bundles of paper while making a run for the chamber exit.

Christine’s frown returned as she cringed at the scene before her. It was a disaster. And it was all because she failed to sing Ah! Je ris de me voir.

Chapter Text

Palace of Crystal

The Phantom’s steps echoed through the dark, empty passageway. Despite the lack of light, the habitualness of the space allowed him to traverse with little to no challenge. He had used this particular route to meet with Christine after her rehearsals from time to time. The further he walked, however, the twists and turns began to merge into something unrecognizable.

Luckily, a small golden light at the end of the tunnel caught his vision. As he ventured forward, the light grew until he was face-to-face with it. He was thankful that lanterns hung from the wall every few yards—even he could get lost in that labyrinth of stone masonry.

Taking the illuminated device off its rack, he went on with his speedy walk through the moist, stony halls. Cobwebs and moss bestrewn the corners and water from an unknown source dripped from the ceiling. Insects of all shapes and sizes could be seen scurrying across the floor, with some unfortunate enough to get squished under the heel of his shoes. Unbothered by the grimy atmosphere, he continued his long trek. Years of living underground had familiarized him with what others above would find repulsive.

Reaching what he figured was the end of the tunnel, a stairwell met his gaze. Its steps were wide and spiraled around a pole made of stone blocks. He started to climb them, careful to keep his cape from getting caught under his shoes.

He could not fathom how long he had to climb up the steps until he arrived at his destination. But what did he expect? The space above the ceiling was many storeys above the stage, which itself was located at the very bottom of the opera house. 

Bouts of air escaped his lungs as he trekked upward. His previous pace now slowed from having to walk up who knows how many steps. It was all for Christine, he told himself. She did not deserve that horrendous display of hatred.

Finally, after climbing up to the top of the stairwell, he soon caught sight of a wooden door. A long sigh of relief flew from his mouth. If he had still believed there was a God, he would have thanked him vehemently. Nevertheless, if he were to remain a Christian, he would turn away from what he was about to do.

The Phantom, with a newfound rush of energy, hurried to open the door. He pulled at the knob with a gloved hand to find it locked, to his displeasure. He immediately turned to the floor to check if there was a rug. Those lazy maintenance workers were easy to leave their keys anywhere, he thought. Luck was not on his side as there were no rugs in sight. Nor were there desks or cabinets, which he was accustomed to stealing keys from.

Growling in frustration, he kicked the door. It jolted open upon impact. The sound of it banging the wall on the other side left him shocked, but that shock was soon overcome with pride as he smiled at his profound strength. 

He headed into the room, lowering his head so as to not hit the low ceiling. Compared to the passageways, this room contained more cobwebs with insect mummies waiting to be eaten by their predators. He swatted away the nests of natural twine and dove further through the lightless space. From the corner of his eye, he found boxes stacked on top of one another, seemingly untouched for years by the look of the mold seeping onto their sides.

The light from the lantern in his hand was the only mode of illumination in the cramped expanse he found himself in. When traversing, he felt a bump under his shoe, to which he used the lantern to examine. It was the end of a thick line of rope. He followed the long cord until it led to a large disk on the floor. It was halved into two from the line that separated its middle. The rope went through a small hole in its center, signifying his point of interest.

He kneeled by the curve of the disk and lifted one piece of it. Doing so led to a burst of warm light that caught his eyes in a flash. He fluttered his lashes rapidly, acquainting himself with the light of the opera house once more. The half in his hands was put to the side and he shimmied over to sit on the other that remained intact on the floor.

Through the hole, he could discern the crowd a great distance below, still occupied in their hopeless violent affairs. However, blocking most of his sight was the multitude of rock crystals and lights that made up the grand chandelier.

“Impeccables,” he murmured under his breath.

Looking down, the fights only grew worse by the minute. The gendarmes were useless; they were overpowered by the hidden brawn of the Parisian guests, who were continuously throwing whatever they could find in the orchestra pit at their opposers—whoever that turned out to be. The entire scene was somewhat amusing to the Phantom, and he regretted not bringing a plate of cheese and crackers with him. He would not have minded if the food was spoiled by the dust and cobwebs, for he had already eaten it like that in times of scarcity during his boyhood.

Back to the task, the masked man stood and picked up the lantern next to him. He searched the room to see if there was a gas chamber. For once in the day, he was blessed to find what he was looking for in a corner at the end of the room. The contraption’s levers and buttons were all rusted to a crisp and webs of spider silk coated their grimey ends. Having known the proper method of turning off lights from his various underground construction projects, he pushed at some levers and pulled at others until the warm light faded to a soft glare.

He returned to his previous place on the half of the disk that remained attached to the floor. The chandelier’s change in luminosity set forth a change in demeanor from the people below, who stopped their senseless fights to look up. At this, the Phantom laughed a laugh that bounced through the curves of the ceiling architecture.

A rush of frightened gasps emerged from the crowd as their eyes observed the semi-circular black hole above the chandelier. The phantom, in mischievous jest, poked his head out for them all to see. Screams and shouts immediately rang through the halls of the house from this simple act. He laughed heartily, his voice haunting the ears of those unwilling to listen.

From his trouser belt, he took out a bowie knife and unsheathed it from its guard. Then, he landed his body, chest-down on the floor and moved closer to the rope that held up the dazzling tower of quartz. With the weapon in hand, he began slicing the fibrous vine.

Those people down below, those demons that walked among the Earth, were going to face the wrath of his hand, he thought to himself. All for their wretched behavior against his sweet Christine, an angel whose only fault was failing to appease their material hunger. Hunger for entertainment, not music. No, music was never what they were after. Simple, meaningless pleasures of the eyes and ears were what they craved. Not music, not what he and Christine brought into the world.

“It’s the Phantom! He’s going to drop the chandelier!” Choleti cried out in fear.

The people took note and began to scramble out of the orchestra pit. They climbed out of the barrier and started to run for the main exit. Choleti, although afraid of what was to come, climbed on stage and ran past Christine, who was still on the floor.

She caught sight of his frantic run and called out to him, “Wait! What is going on out there?!”

He whipped his head to look at her and shouted, “The chandelier’s coming down!”

Before she could ask any further questions, he ran through the backstage door. Moments later, he came back with a stout woman wearing a voluptuous gown and whose face was plastered with outstanding makeup.

“There must be an utmost reason as to why you removed me from my room, my love,” the woman said, sarcasm staining her accented tongue. When her eyes met Christine's, a devilish smile appeared on her rouge-stained lips and she used the fan in her hands to hide it.

“My dearest Carlotta, the Phantom is going to kill us all! Now come, let’s get out of here.” Choleti took his wife’s gloved hand and began to run out onto the stage.

Baffled, Christine tried to get up to join them but felt another twinge of pain circle throughout her body. That dastardly knee had not healed enough for her to walk without discomfort. She watched as Choleti jumped down onto the landing and helped Carlotta down as well. The two made a haste run to the main exit, along with a large group of people that swarmed through the door like cattle led out to fodder.

Looking up at where all the pandemonium centered, she found that indeed what Choleti said was true. Although his figure was cast in a dark blanket of shadow, her Maestro’s gloved hand was slicing away at the grand palace of crystal. Some of the strings went and the chandelier was beginning to lean lower, its precious stones clanking away in sublime glory.

“Maestro!” She screamed, “Maestro, please don’t!”

The Phantom ended his slicing to hear the sad voice of the one that stole his heart. He saw Christine looking up at him, her wig now thrown to the side, revealing her lush golden locks. She shook her head and flailed her hands in a motion that prompted him to stop what he was doing. It worked.

But it was too late.

The last of the strings that held up the chandelier ripped from its enormous weight. The layers of crystal were sent crashing downward in a descent only imaginable through a dream. The clear stones, carved pristinely by the hands of the most astute craftsmen, were transformed into daggers that could pierce the flesh of those victim to its fury. Once the palace of crystal made its inevitable land on the seats below, sparks shot out and flames soon engulfed the velvet-coated chairs.

Thankfully, all the guests had already left the opera house before the chandelier made its impromptu appearance. All except Christine, who was desperately crawling over to the wall backstage that held the secret passageway.

The fires were closing in on the front row as she struggled to reach for the lamp. Her short arms were always a nuisance to her, but now more than ever. Her fingers were about to touch the handle when the wall opened to unveil the man who started it all.

“You,” Christine seethed.

The Phantom gave her a look of apology and reached his hands out to her, to which she slapped them away.

“Don’t you dare touch me, you buffoon!”

He could see tears forming at the corners of her eyes when she said that. He sighed, keeping his composure.

“You have every right to be cross with me. But, I have to get you out of this place!” He pleaded.

“Then leave me! I don’t want to see your face any more than I already have.”

A small gasp escaped his mouth. She realized her words and looked at her masked companion, who frowned slightly.

Her voice softened, “Forgive me. That’s not what I meant, I—”

“No matter.” He waved his hand firmly and kneeled to swipe her figure off the ground.

She was unready for his miraculous actions and the anger returned to her words. “Let me go! You are going to have it when we get inside!” She shouted and pounded her fists on his broad shoulders to no avail.

He ignored her furious requests and walked into the passageway, turning to look at the fires one last time before the wall returned to cover his vision in darkness.

Chapter Text

Castaways

Picking up the lantern that hung on the rack next to the hidden door, the Phantom set off with Christine still yelling in his ear.

“My dear, the whole building is going to collapse if you don’t stop your shouting,” he commented, annoyed at her persistence.

She groaned and snapped back, “What on Earth compelled you to commit such an atrocity?!”

It was all for you, he wanted to say. But, it was not the proper time for such sentiments.

“My temper flew over me. I just could not stand to watch those people torment you and do nothing about it.” He held his head low, avoiding her irate eyes by looking at the bricked ground.

They reached an intersection in the vast maze of tunnels. He went opposite the way that would have taken him back to the space above the ceiling. It was a lot less dusty than the other route, having cleaned it for his daily travels to the opera house.

Christine tugged on the silken cloth that made up the back of his collar. “I cannot begin to imagine the level of stupidity for what you did.”

“I know,” he said in a voice so faint that he believed only the frolicking mice could hear. Christine had heard him say this, though, and spoke once again, but with a little more lightness than before.

“I appreciate your concern for me, but this is not the way you should handle these things. How could you live with yourself knowing you could have hurt someone?” She shuddered at the thought of something worse but decided to tell him straight forward, “God forbid, how could you possibly live with someone else’s blood on your palms?”

He kept silent once having heard her statements. His mind was none the wiser, however; the whole ordeal left him feeling torn between telling her that he was responsible, albeit partially, for the deaths of some or keeping this information from her. But, he knew the consequences had he released it; she would not dare speak to him again, let alone have him train her voice. She would come to view him as a deranged freak just as anyone else who encountered him.

However, the moralistic side of him argued otherwise. Christine was not one to be so judgemental when faced with unusual circumstances. The woman was known for her strange inclination to accept things as they were, which, to the bewilderment of her opera peers, was welcomed by him with open arms. The rest of Paris, from what he had come to observe, paled in comparison when it came to compassion. Parisians could not border the amount of warmth Christine had in her heart for those who failed to meet their standards.

Turning his head slightly to see her face, he saw that her brows were knitted together and her nose scrunched. Her glare, although softened, was still there, and upon meeting her eyes he looked away.

He thought it best not to infuriate her with more confounding news. After all, she would not have taken it so steadily as she would have if it were any other night. Rest was what she needed right now, not more to worry over.

Christine was awaiting an answer to her previous questions, but as she had predicted, he avoided them like the plague. Deciding not to fuss over it anymore, she loosened her grip on his collar and adjusted herself on his arms so that her knee could sit comfortably. Her bout of frustration had somehow made her forget the stinging pain that surrounded her right leg.

Eventually, her annoyance at his disposition soon diluted to mere disappointment. She had known he was a man of ill behavior—his habits fueled by a lack of interaction with the world above. But she had never seen it in fruition like this. He was by no means a cruel man, seen by his timidity towards her. Their time together proved that he was of benevolent nature; unlike all the men she had stumbled upon he had been the only one who lacked any ulterior motives. Even her run-ins with the Comte suggested that he was searching for more than just friendship, especially with the knowledge of his various affairs with the Corps de Ballet. Indeed, the Phantom was a mysterious fellow, but he was also a dignified one at that. Though, now she had a brief introduction to his temper, as infrequent as it might have been.

Silence hung thick in the moist air as they traversed through the cellars of brick. The lack of words left them listening to creaking noises and sounds originating from what Christine believed were rodents. At some point, she could even swear she heard a frog croak. Despite the light from the lantern, nothing was discernible except black clouds of darkness just a few meters ahead.

Her voice broke the lingering quietness. “Where are we going?”

The Phantom perked his head up to meet her inquisitive expression. Her hazel eyes shone from the warm lantern light, highlighting her jewel-like irises. The sight caught him awestruck and he found himself pausing for much longer than he should have.

“I am taking you to my home.”

He bit his lip when her eyes widened after telling her that. It was a shame for someone like him, a man who she came to learn was blessed with a multitude of artistic abilities, to bring her to a place like this and have the gall to call it a ‘home’. What cruel irony, and what cruel embarrassment was this fate he was cursed to endure.

“How long have you resided in these cellars?”

Her question left him somewhat startled. Anyone else would have jumped out of his grasp and ran back to the world above after learning where his home was.

“Ever since I was born.”

The response was unnatural to him when hearing it out loud. Truly, he had never told anybody these matters that were only privy to him.

She raised an eyebrow, hinting at him to elaborate.

In an attempt to lighten the mood, he jested, “My, don’t you know that it is improper to ask a man his age? You of all people should know that.” His smile dropped when he did not see the sternness on her face go away.

“First of all, that applies to women only.” She wagged a finger in front of his mask. “And second, I’m not going to humor you. Pray tell, I want to understand you.”

She saw his eyes dilate from that simple request; had he not worn his mask, he would have looked as shocked as last night’s audience when she first broke her aria.

With slight hesitation, he began, “Well, as you may know, I have spent quite a lot of time learning the ins and outs of this place. The Palais Garnier, that is. I have read every book in the Bibliothèque de l’Opera front to back, ever since I was a child. And what would normally take people their entire lifetime to study, I have done in thirty years. Actually, a little less because nobody comes out of the womb knowing the entirety of Johann Sebastian Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos.” 

A small chuckle arrived from his mouth after saying that last line. Christine did not join him in his laughter but instead looked at him with the most astonished eyes. This man was an undisputed genius!

“I was not aware you were this talented.”

“Why, is that not insulting?” He jested again, this time with the success of making her laugh. It started small, with her trying to mask her merriment in her mission to stay serious. But, that was soon abandoned when the sound echoed through the vast, empty halls. To his surprise, Christine only laughed harder when her ears met the reverberating noise.

“My dear, it sounds like you are the true Phantom of the Opera!” He could not help himself from laughing alongside her as he continued to carry her through the bleak corridors he knew oh so well.

“I will faint if you don’t cease your jesting, ‘my dear’.” She jokingly made her voice lower a few octaves to mimic her masked companion. But it only made him spew out more heartily.

“I don’t sound like that!”

“You mustn't be so sure. How is one supposed to know what one sounds like from the ears of someone else?” Christine held her giggles in to hear what he had to say.

A long “hm” rolled from his throat as he thought of his next mode of attack.

“In that case, it wouldn’t be untrue if you were to sound like this…” He pitched his voice to sound like a little girl’s. “Hello, I’m Christine! A pleasure to meet your acquaintance!” 

His laughs grew bolder from that remark and she playfully flicked the nose of his mask.

“Alright, Monsieur Pierrot, tell me more. What are your parents like? Do they work with the company?”

The bright smile that previously occupied his lips dimmed. “You’re a clever one, aren’t you? And yes, my parents did work with the company. My mother was a dancer in the Corps de Ballet. That is, until she met my father, a scrawny stagehand, who discovered her incredible ability to sing and encouraged her to audition. The dancers must have mentioned her to you—the great Belladova—no?”

“Oh yes, indeed they have. The girls still fawn over her grace to this day.”

“As skilled as she was in the art of ballet, her heart ached to sing. And my father was her first audience. I don’t know what she saw in him—a man who smelled of fish sandwiches and had nothing but a few Francs in his pocket. I suppose love does a great deal to overpower such trivial things.”

Christine nodded. “Does your father still work as a stagehand here?”

When he was about to answer she interrupted, “Oh, please don’t tell me your father is Eugene Allard!” She giggled at the name of the elderly opera employee who had worked at the Palais Garnier for longer than their ages combined.

“God, no. If he had been my father, I would have been a rotting old man by now.” He looked at her with mischievous eyes. “Not that you would mind.”

Red stormed her cheeks. She playfully shoved his shoulders. “Shut your mouth! I am not as unscrupulous as you may think.”

“I never said you were,” he replied, pleased at making her flustered. “Besides, I believe you have met my father, Monsieur Gérard Carrière, the old house manager.”

He heard her gasp and added one last detail, “Don’t tell him I told you this. He has kept this information from me for as long as I have known him.”

She gave him a look of confusion, pleading for more answers. But, from that point, he decided not to tell her any more of his past. Only when she gets her rest, he thought.

Their conversation kept them company until they reached a body of water. The lantern’s light blanketed its surface, revealing water as murky as the phlegm people coughed up when stricken with catarrh.

Christine had heard tales of this mysterious lagoon beneath the opera house. The Corps de Ballet especially took great care in trying to frighten her about it. But, she never truly believed a word of what they spoke. The notion was just too spectacular for it to be reality. Yet, here it was, right before her eyes. She should have learned a thing or two from all the opera rumors—if her Maestro was the Phantom, then who is to say that there are no hidden pools below? Hell, who is to say there is not a secret Angel of Music who whispers notes into the ears of musicians and singers before each performance?

A black gondola was tied to a post on the stone ‘port’. Accents of gold lined its edges until they spiraled at the back of its risso, which held in it another lantern. Unlike the one in her Maestro’s arm, its casing was made entirely of multi-colored stained glass. The light from it emitted images of flowers and birds, which spread along the green waters, transforming it into a beautiful display of art.

The Phantom saw her gazing at the sparkling lantern on the gondola and smiled triumphantly. “Do you like what you see? I made it myself!”

“Why, yes.” She traced the curve of the risso with her fingers. The boat seemed to be made of wood and looked to be hand-painted. “What more is there that you cannot possibly do? Do you mean to tell me that you have also built this?” She tapped on the risso, causing the water below the gondola to ripple.

He gave a nod and smiled at her with adoring eyes. Seeing her amusement at his feats felt like winning a gold medal.

“Remind me to hire you if I enter any boating competitions.” She gave him a wink, to which he rolled his eyes dramatically in jest.

The masked man gently placed the woman in his arms in the cabin of the gondola and set the lantern on its floor. The change in position made her wince, and her knee throbbed again. He saw this and immediately grew worried.

“Christine, are you alright? Do you need me t—”

She raised a hand in front of his masked face. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

A minuscule smile crept on his lips. What a self-reliant lady, he deemed with reverence. “Well, alright. But if you drop into the water, you know who is at your disposal.”

She smirked at his comment. “And who will help you if you fall?”

“Nonsense, my dear. I never fall. Ever.”

She poked at his leg, catching him off balance.

“H-hey!”

A devious look consumed her eyes. “Now, is that so?”

His eyebrow raised in reply. She is a feisty one. But then he had an idea. One that would supersede her win.

He turned around to find the post that was tied to the gondola. An impish chuckle gave out from his mouth as he untied the rope. Once done, the only thing that kept Christine from drifting away was his hand. He threw the end of the rope over to her and waited with bated breath.

It took her a few seconds to realize what he had done from the look in his eyes; the masked man was gleaming with roguish contentment as he planned his next steps.

“Maestro, what are you doing?” She asked suspiciously, coming to terms with the idea that this was another one of his silly schemes. When she saw him push the side of the gondola with his shoe, her face soured.

“What in God's name?!”

The nautical vehicle was moving away from the stone pavement on which the Phantom stood.

“Take me back over there at once!”

He let the gondola carry her into the water for a few meters. As it went further away, her voice grew into shouts, “Maestro! Please!”

To her confusion, his voice had a jolly ring to it. “You needn’t worry, Christine! I’ll be joining you!”

The face she gave him looked as if she had seen a pack of wild animals chase after her.

The masked man turned to pace a few meters back and turned again to see his guest’s bewildered expression. Rolling up his sleeves and pushing his cape behind him, he began to run. The heels of his shoes clanked on the solid stone floor as he made his way to the edge of the so-called ‘port’. With nowhere to run except water, he made a grand leap over the body of clouded green in Christine’s direction.

Almost like a nightingale, his flight was swift—landing inside of the floating boat precariously, just mere centimeters away from a descent to the unknown depths beneath. Not perfect, however, as the weight from his person tipped it to the side just slightly, jolting the vehicle enough to splatter some of the murky liquid onto the bottom of his trousers and to Christine’s costume.

“See, I told you. I never fall.”

A bright smile engulfed the little portion of his face that was visible to the world. The woman sitting beside his slightly wet dress shoes stared at him in amazement, retracting her previous doubts about his abilities.

“You are quite the athlete, Monsieur,” she quipped, eyes still wide from the scene that transpired.

“That is a compliment I don’t often hear.” Her Maestro caught her stare and returned it with a friendly smile, to which she bit her lip.

It was a miracle how he had not tipped over the contraption entirely. Quite remarkable indeed, as her elevated travels on his arms made it apparent that although he was a gated recluse, he had not been tardy in keeping shape for all those years he lived under the opera. His arms themselves felt like they bore sand, and not the delicate kind used to coat the bottoms of aquariums.

Blush overpowered her face when she came to realize what she was thinking. It was not very chaste of her to observe a man, her teacher no less, in such a manner. What would her father have said? Had he been alive, he would have deplored them being in the same room together, let alone a boat. And sensibly so. The Phantom, being who he was, would never sit well on his list of suitable candidates for Christine’s affection.

Candidate for my affection? How absurd!

Her brain rattled with embarrassment. How could she think of such ideas? Their relationship was already eccentric enough. Busying herself with imprudent thoughts much like this would only be the cause of more irrational feelings.

But then she found herself comparing him to her other friend. The Comte de Chagny was never this blatantly amiable, she thought. After their reunion, he never did anything in her company that proved their friendship. Instead, he was quick to buy her gifts and say overt compliments at the most irrelevant times. Once, she had even caught him hovering his hand over hers before swiping it away when she noticed. Although one could most certainly do all these things and still be considered a friend, Christine had an aching suspicion that the Vicomte sought after much more than just simple day-outs or pleasant afternoon tea parties.

And then there was the Phantom. As unbecoming was his whole Opera Ghost situation, she had found him to be the most reliable person she had come to know. Unlike the Comte, there was no air of greasiness in his presence. Perhaps it was due to his introversion or his artistic prowess—both of which the Comte lacked—or the aura of mystery that fogged him. The masked man was very difficult to read at times, like a book with a portion of its pages strewn from its binding. It felt like she was a sleuth uncovering these pages one by one, pinning them to a board on the wall to trace back what chapter they belonged to. It was this layer of enigma that made him tolerable to her, more so than her other friend.

Speaking of the devil, his words sliced right through her thoughts. “Won’t you pass me that oar, please?”

A long wooden pole with a curved slab at the end lay behind her. She grabbed it and handed it to him.

Taking the lengthy tool from her hands, he stepped to the empty spot behind her and dipped its curved end into the waters below. Gentle bands swirled about from the motion, increasing their span as he began to row.

The gondola glided through dimly lit vaults that seemed to go on forever. Some areas stretched while others were as short as a single city rue. These walls resembled a great maze, such as the Labyrinth that imprisoned the Minotaur—the Greek half-man, half-bull creature whose greatest tragedy was his birth. Not too dissimilar to his own fate, the Phantom thought. If he had lived his days in the open eyes of society, he too would become a prisoner to its vile judgment.

Noises of unknown critters scurrying through the pavement on the side of the lagoon filled the air as they traveled. Christine hadn’t said a word after he started steering the boat. Maybe she was afraid, he thought. Any sensible young woman would be if they were to travel through these cavernous ways. He looked at her and found that she was staring off into the dark that lay before them, past the boat and the lantern’s projections. The sight made a part of him feel guilty for bringing her here, for this hell was not a place for angels.

“I apologize for the repugnant view,” he thought out loud.

She turned to him, her face solemn. “There is nothing to apologize for.” Then she paused. A long, dragging pause.

“Except… for what you did.”

The abrupt change in tone was like dropping an anchor. He raised a quizzical brow for a moment until he surmised that she meant the chandelier fiasco. His lips bowed downward. “I’m sorry about that. I was truly not of sound mind when it all happened. I—It felt like there was a fire in my chest, and all the noise lit it even more.”

Another dreaded pause engulfed the space, leaving him to hear the echoes of his voice.

Her hand rested on the rim of the gondola and she rubbed at the gold-foil ornamentation. She did not look at him when she spoke. “But there is no reasonable justification for wanting to kill the innocent.”

Aghast, the Phantom retorted loudly, “What?! I didn’t intend on killing anyone tonight! Why, it was meant only as a scare—to frighten those who were mocking you!”

At this, she turned her head to see his vexed expression. “If it was truly a cheap trick, then why were you so enraged? From what I saw, it was like looking into the eyes of a—”

In that second, Christine could feel herself drown from the thickness of the air. The Phantom halted his rowing and darted his eyes at her. They looked blank, but she recognized the anguish behind that façade.

“Go on. Say it,” he replied grimly. The lightness he had in his words a minute ago faded to oblivion, being replaced by a deep, whisper-like sound. She heard his teeth grit at the last sentence—a cruel amalgamation of sadness and restrained frustration painted his mouth.

“Please.” She felt as if her voice was stolen once again. “Don’t read me the wrong way.”

“How can I not? You were most definitely going to deem me a ‘monster’. Or, if not that, a ‘beast’ or whatever synonym that poses the same truth.”

She became silent.

“I knew it,” his voice broke. He turned away from her worried face and clutched the oar to his chest.

She heard a small sobbing noise come from his direction and it made her heart knot. To prevent any more damage she quickly reached for his hand. The sudden sensation of their hands meeting made him move away, though Christine refused to let go.

“Maestro, I don’t believe you are any of that.” She rubbed his gloved knuckles. “It’s just–just that you weren’t the same man when you were up there.”

No response. He remained with his back turned for a while, his hand becoming limb to her grasp. The one that was free from her graceful touch was wiping away the tears that gathered underneath his mask. Nobody should see his despair, not even her.

Regaining some courage, he adjusted his mask and turned his head to look down at her. She was undeniably tired; her eyes sullen and her face smudged with make-up from all that ensued that night. Neatly curled golden locks were now unrolled and frizzy with a distinctive sheen—a result of their prolonged journey in the moist cellars. As unkempt as most would find her in this moment, he could not agree less.

Her sleepy eyes met his slightly red ones, which made her forehead scrunch a little. He had no idea what to do next; all he wanted was for them to remain like this for eternity, staring at each other in sadness and understanding—for seeing her face was like watching a star twinkle in the great, vast darkness of the universe. And he could not blame the Comte or any other for being awestruck by her light.

To his chagrin, she motioned for him to sit next to her. This confused him. Was she not furious?

He complied and took a seat in the cramped area beside her, placing the oar to the side. Not knowing what else to do, he stayed silent waiting for her to say something, anything, because the sounds of rats and water droplets were starting to take a toll on his conscience, more so than usual. Having been introduced to her voice was like giving candy to a child for the first time, and he simply could not forego hearing it.

Her hand was still holding onto his even after he had sat down and that seemed to be her main interest at the moment. The silk material that made up his glove contained three narrow ridges, which she traced vertically. Then, to his surprise, she removed the garment entirely, revealing a fleshy masculine hand. He lay still, tree-like, observing his confidante take her other hand and use it to wrap around his wrist, lifting it to meet her gaze. She moved his fingers to space them out and then placed her hand in his palm, matching the gesture. 

Her hand was smaller in that the bottom of her palm rested just below the middle of his. His one was also warmer and had a slight roughness to it, contrasting with hers which was cold and supple.

Goosebumps ran down his arms once he felt her soft skin against his. He had never touched her without his gloves before. Having them gone in general was like exposing a secret. No one else other than Gérard had seen his hands and he would have preferred it that way. But for her, he would make an exception.

“See. You’re no monster. You and I, we’re nothing but human,” she avowed gingerly.

Warm light from the lantern beside them shone across their faces, enveloping them in an overwhelming orange. Both their eyes were glossy, though more so his. The light had danced around his irises enough that she could tell tears swelled them.

“You’re crying.”

“N-no.”

She sighed and took her hand away from his, using it and her other one to reach past his shoulders in an embrace.

“Don’t lie to me.”

This was the second time that she hugged him. But, he just could not comprehend why. Why would anyone hug him, let alone touch him? It was baffling that he got this much affection after having shown how maniacal he could be—how maniacal he is. 

The tears only grew worse from then on and he tugged onto the hem of her costume, wetting his hands from the lagoon water that drenched it.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

Their proximity was close, much closer than what would be expected of them had they made their trek on the streets above. In any other situation, she would have required a chaperone in his presence to avoid the judgment of passersby. But, she knew of no one who would commit to her situation, for her only friends were both men, one being the very man she ought to have a chaperone for. Regardless, that would have been if her Maestro had not been the Phantom—not a thief blackmailing the manager of the Palais Garnier for twenty-thousand francs a month, nor a mischievous comedienne who falsely gambled with lives other than his own, and certainly not someone who established their primary dwelling underground, accessible only through an elaborate gondola ride over waters which nobody knew the contents of. 

Yet, after all this, something about him intrigued her enough to allow him to take her wherever he desired, and to be in a proximity that neither of them would be comfortable with had they met under normal pretenses.

Chapter Text

La Maison

Christine held onto the Phantom’s neck for what seemed like eternity. Never had she seen him this distraught; he was typically joyful whenever she indulged in his company, and the worst she had seen him perturbed was when they spoke of Carlotta’s singing abilities (or lack thereof). A cruel urge to laugh rose within her. His pain was not amusing in the slightest, but she had to admit it was unnatural to come across a man his age who wept to this extent.

Regardless of the circumstances that brought forth their embrace, she could not help but feel a lightness in her chest. His broad build encompassed her frame in a way that fit them together like pieces of a puzzle. It was comfortable. Safe even. The way his reddish blonde tufts rubbed against the side of her neck and the steady rhythm of his beating heart. He brought a warmth that could conquer tundras—a privilege she made certain to bathe in.

It is ironic, considering she would have never been this comfortable had it been the Comte in his place.

She realized she was comparing her two friends again and slapped herself internally. Why was she like this? If Philippe—no, that was the name she called him when they were children—if the Comte were to hear any of her thoughts, then his weekly gifts labeled “For Christine” would cease in the mail. And perhaps he would no longer be willing to visit her between rehearsals when she would be too exhausted to step away from her dressing room.

On that thought, the idea did sound appealing.

Regardless, it would insult him had he known the person he was being compared to was Paris’s infamous Opera Ghost. Even if she begged to differ.

Her mind returned to the tall strawberry-blonde who held onto her torso for dear life. His cries softened to silence, but his head remained on the side of her neck. The two of them sat there in the cabin of the gondola until the sound of a passing colony of rats entered their earshot. To her dismay, he was the first to pull away.

Adjusting his mask and wiping off the lagoon water that coated his hands, he looked at her with a sincerity she hadn’t seen from him before. A kind, she believed, only the wounded gave when they returned from battle to meet nurses who tended their injuries.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words left his lips. Then he lowered his head somewhat as if he were a young boy awaiting a lecture for doing something wrong. 

“I, uhm.” He put a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

She gave him a coy smile and handed him his white glove back. He slowly reached his hand out to take it and found himself meeting her eyes again. Their hazel color was flushed out by the orange lantern light, making them look like amber—his favorite variety of gemstones.

“Maestro, the boat?”

He stopped his prolonged staring and returned to his casual demeanor. “Ah, yes. The boat. We’ll be on our way then.” He stood up, took the oar next to him, and continued his rowing.

Following was a string of pleasant conversations that overlooked the demure of a before. He made a few more clever jests here and there, receiving her utmost joy. That smile of hers never failed to impress him; seeing her so happy made him smile, too, and he just could not keep a straight face after witnessing her gleeful one.

Eventually, the air turned quiet. But, it did not have the shivering cold of before. It felt warm and welcoming, as though they were in a world only private to them. And, indeed, they were.

Sometime later, a door in their general direction began to emerge from the black mist. A porch with stairs led up to it, alongside a small window overlooking the lagoon which sat on the side of the front wall. The gondola reached the edge of the stone platform by the bottom of the stairs, to which the Phantom promptly stepped out.

Upon him leaving the nautical vehicle, Christine made a weary face. He caught on and smiled faintly. 

“Do not fret. I’m not going to shove the boat away again.”

Another post stood atop the platform with a rope attached to it, which he tied to the gondola’s risso.

Her features relaxed, and she held her arms out for him to take. His hands were strong, but not overly dense like what she would expect from men of his stature. He picked her up with little struggle, and she wondered if he had any experience in carrying women.

No, that would be unlikely for a man raised in cellars such as these, she thought. Regardless, it still felt calming to be held by him. Too calming for someone who committed arson just an hour ago. But she wanted to move past that thought. 

Their brief moment of solace was replaced by a familiar sense of prickliness that made her grit her teeth. His hand was hugging the back of the knee that got bruised. He realized her wincing and adjusted his grip on her form to alleviate the pain.

“Is this fine, my dear? Are you still hurting?” He questioned worriedly.

She waved her hand lightly and shook her head. “I’m O.K. Just don’t place your hand under my knee again. That isn’t very pleasant.”

He nodded in reply. “I won’t.”

With that, he left the gondola idle and walked up the steps to his home. The front door was left unlocked—a familiar occurrence, since it was not every day that visitors besides Gérard entered.

Warmth enveloped them when they went inside. Flames flickered in the fireplace situated on the center wall, casting a warm glow over their surroundings. The room was quaintly decorated with upholstered wooden furniture and porcelain vases filled with deep green flora. From what she could tell, this was the parlor. As he led her further in, she caught a glimpse of a small pianoforte and a velvet-coated bench beside it. Candelabras remained on the corners, their sconces equipped with wax candles that infused the air with a sweet vanilla scent.

He carried her through an archway into a room that appeared less organized than the one they had just left. A large organ was placed to one side, accompanied by a desk with a heap of papers and used dinnerware on its surface. This room was considerably darker, as the candles seemed to have very little wax left to burn. She noticed his pace increased as they walked by what she thought was the music room.

Another door entered their view, and he walked toward it to open it, revealing a bedroom decorated with the same scheme of wooden furniture. A bed layered with white blankets stood in the center, with sheer white curtains cascading from its canopy. He pushed back the curtains and carefully placed the woman in his arms onto the mattress.

“I’ll go get the medicine,” he said, leaving soon after.

Christine watched from the open door frame as he fumbled to order the papers on his desk and collect all the dirty dishes. Some of the items in his hands fell to the floor, creating a mess. A chuckle escaped her mouth as she saw him groan and kneel to pick them up one by one. He then stood and turned to enter another archway, vanishing from her sight.

Now alone, her eyes strayed to see what was in the bedroom. Next to her, a small bedside table held a brass chamber stick. Its candle was the only source of illumination in the room. A few meters from the bed stood an incongruous mannequin that accompanied an empty vanity. Her heart skipped a beat from glancing at it, thinking that a specter was standing there. She turned away to look at other things to avoid the uncanny sight.

Gilt Barbizon-style frames hung on the walls. In them, paintings of Paris—from the Eiffel Tower to the Musée du Louvre, and even the Palais Garnier itself, all except one frame, which held in it a portrait of a man and a woman. It was eerily life-like to the point she couldn’t tell whether it was a painting. Unlike the cityscapes, the portrait had no color; the entire piece was in black and white—something she did not see in art often besides the charcoal sketches street artists drew.

Her eyes narrowed to get a closer look at the couple. The dark-haired man was of a shorter stature than his female companion. He wore a dark button-up with suspenders that contrasted with the woman’s ruffled white gown. His face looked familiar to her, but she could not recognize it. Nor was the woman, who had light hair much like hers. Though, unlike her, freckles dotted the pale skin above the woman’s cheeks. 

The two looked young—maybe in their mid-twenties—and on their faces were bright smiles. Strange, Christine thought, I’ve never seen a painting with people smiling.

She gave up trying to identify the two and returned her focus to the mannequin. It donned a white dress that looked identical to the one worn by the woman in the portrait. Her weariness for the anthropomorphic object faded once she surmised that the dress belonged to the same person. Perhaps a relative of her Maestro?

A small smile arose from the thought of him having more family. He was not truly alone in this world, at least. However, his reclusiveness surpassed her expectations because he failed to mention any news of these mysterious people. For all she knew, he must have kept many things from her. After all, she had just learned of his relation to Gérard.

Her eyes veered off to examine the space outside the door. The room was painted a warm beige, like the one she was currently in, and more sheer white curtains hung above the ‘windows.’ A chaise and matching footrest in patterned almond was placed in the middle, with a mahogany tea table right across. Piles of newspapers haphazardly laid over it, and atop that a narrow vase which held a single decayed rose.

The ensemble reminded Christine of her apartment in Perros-Guirec when she and her father worked for the Chagnys. It was just as quaintly decorated, if not more, and had a great deal of room space. In it was enough waxed wooden flooring for a nine-year-old whose favorite pastime was running. There were times when she tripped, only for her father to snatch her before she fell. He would take her in his arms and twirl her around while the warm sunlight from the French doors bounced on their faces. It felt like she was a fairy princess taking flight with her kingly father. Oh, what a blessed time that was.

But that was in Perros-Guirec. In the world who knows how many storeys above. It baffled her that this place would look as normal as it did. She reckoned that her Maestro’s residence would have looked disorderly, akin to her makeshift ‘room’ at the opera before she was rewarded a stay at her current dressing room. And yet, it was nothing but. She was almost envious of the fact that he lived here. Had she not been aware of its location, she would most certainly have believed it to be an expensive home just mere blocks away from the Palais Garnier.

Out of all the homes she visited, however, this one felt inherently different. It exuded a sense of antiquity yet also carried with it a feeling of newness. She assumed this was because her Maestro tended to construct his own belongings. Seeing that he made the gondola and its beautiful lantern, she could only deduce that he made the furniture himself.

Her hand touched the bedstead to test this theory. It did not have the smooth, glossy finish characteristic of manufactured beds. Instead, her fingers felt the familiar powdery grain of unpolished wood—the distinct nature of hand-crafted merchandise. She found herself appreciative of the refined-rustic quality as it brought back memories of the furniture her parents owned in Sweden. The feel of their wooden armrests and chair legs, among other features, were things she had the faintest recollection of before she and her father moved to France.

Sharp noises of footsteps grew near, taking her mind off of her surroundings. She watched the masked man enter through the door with a tray in his hands. A metal box lay on it, with a porcelain teacup and a plate of sugar cubes. He cast the tray to the bedside table and grabbed the box, opening it to unveil an assortment of brown-tinted glass bottles, bandage wraps, syringes, and rolls of cotton and suture string. 

Christine felt a shiver descend from the sight of the medical instruments, especially after spying the thin blades that stretched across the syringes.

From the look of her tight-lipped expression, he guessed her vexation. “Oh, don’t mind these auxiliary objects. I’m only going to clean up your wound, nothing more.”

Her body remained tense, but she leaned back into the pillows to find comfort. She was usually never this careless to get injured. In the rare instances she was, however, she despised being looked at as a helpless lamb in need of care. Unfortunately for her, the current situation culminated in that exactly.

“I’m going to lift your dress if you don’t mind,” he said quietly. A flash of pink rose on the tips of his ears, the sight of which made her almost forget why he asked that in the first place.

“Do what you think is best.”

He nodded and did so as he said. The blue fabric was slid onto her thigh, uncovering the bare skin of her leg up to the bottom of her knee. Her drawers hid her knees, of which the one on the right had a dark red stain that stuck onto the skin beneath. He removed the linen material with delicate hands slowly, but surely to not irritate the wound. Christine gritted her teeth from the sensation as the crusty cloth was detached.

When he lifted the stained drawer leg, her right knee displayed a massive red line with some inner tissues peeking out. Small patches of blood, both dry and fresh, littered her pale white skin. He examined the cut to find that it needed sutures or it would not heal properly.

His eyes met hers again with a look of apology. “I’m afraid you’ll be needing stitches, Christine. The cut looks worse than I thought.”

Her eyes widened in fear. “R-really? Is there no other alternative? Can’t it just heal on its own? I-I mean, I fell off a horse once and I didn’t need stitches then.” 

Her hands shook from the thought of being sewed like those town market ragdolls beggars made in Perros-Guirec. Needles in general terrified her, even more so from her experience in the textile factories she worked at post her father’s passing. She had stabbed her thumb one too many times in that line of work. Each time it was unexpected, and that made the pain all the more awful. Now, the thought of inserting a metal pin into her repeatedly made her gag, even if it meant her knee would heal sooner.

He saw her hands grasping at the bedsheets, crinkling the cotton material. “My dear.” He reached a hand to place over hers. “Do not fear, it will be done in no time.”

His reassurance proved futile, for she continued to look at him with worried eyes. 

The hand over hers tightened its hold, and he leaned closer to push some of her curls behind her ear. He smiled softly, lifting her chin slightly with his pointer finger. 

“Christine, you are strength itself. If you cannot bear something as minute as a few sutures, then what’s there left to say about the rest of us?”

His dramatic comment left her speechless. But after a second of profound silence, she snorted, to his utter astonishment. 

She gasped and covered her nose with both of her hands. “Forgive my indecency, your words just… surprised me.”

“I suppose my manner of speech does tend to be a bit  ‘surprising’. Gérard can testify to that.”

She laughed a little at his mention of the old house manager. The man must have been privy to all his son’s witty and histrionic statements.

He took his hands away from her touch and brought the metal box full of medical supplies up to the bed. From it, he grabbed the infamous wire string that caught her eye a while ago, along with a small pouch of leather. It opened to reveal an array of needles pinned onto its flaps. He took a curved one and set it on the lid of the box.

She glimpsed at the sharp steel device and shut her eyes tightly. It will be done in no time, just as he said.

“Tell me something to distract me.”

“Anything in particular?” He questioned while threading the wire through the hole of the hooked needle.

She took a few seconds to think about what to ask him.

“I’ve learned many things about you tonight. Except for your name. What is it?” She opened an eye to see him pause his preparations.

After a moment of contemplation, he returned to his threading.

“Erik,” he replied without taking his eyes off the needle.

“What?”

“My name is Erik. And I would hate to admit my surname might be Carrière, too."

Christine opened her eyes again. Her Maestro was a man named Erik. The Phantom of the Opera had the name of a gentleman. She smiled faintly at the thought.

“Well, Monsieur Erik Carrière, would you mind if I referred to you by your name hereafter? Or does ‘Maestro’ suffice?”

“Erik will do. But you may call me whatever you please.”

Her lips tilted upward in a mischievous smirk. “Even if I referred to you as Princess Pumpernickel?”

He stopped his threading once again and faked a gasp amusedly. “How atrocious! You are truly the jester of all clowns."

“So, can I?”

“Not a chance.”

She pouted and crossed her arms. “You deceived me.”

He cut the wire string with a pair of scissors.

"I have, indeed."

With the suturing needle fully prepared in his hand, the only thing left to do was to begin. He looked at his patient tentatively, seeking her permission to start the procedure. She nodded slowly and closed her eyes again in anticipation.

A faint shriek escaped her mouth when the metal pin first dove into her wounded skin. It burned from the cold antiseptic liquid he poured onto the device before its insertion.

He cringed at her reaction. Doing this—being the cause of her pain—felt so wrong to him. But what he felt did not matter, he told himself. If she was going to heal, then this was what was best.

The next few stitches proved to be just as painful, getting short yelps out of her with each entry. He sewed diagonally, creating loops of parallel lines with the silver string. Eventually, the pain became somewhat manageable from the repetition. When done, he tied the knot, closing the wound and bringing the two cut folds of skin together as closely as possible.

She let out a sigh of relief and dove further back into the pillows once he finished his work.

“My dear, do not relax just yet. I still need to administer an analgesic to relieve any pain you may have," he stated, turning to get a narrow rectangular wooden box from the metal one on the mattress. He opened it to expose the clear glass capsule of a hypodermic needle.

The sight of the contraption made Christine abruptly fold her unharmed knee to her chest.

“Please don’t tell me you are putting that inside me.” She pointed at the object threateningly, as if it were a diseased rodent.

He put a hand over hers that was in the air and lowered it.

“I am...” He saw her face immediately scrunch in agony. “But! But it will just be a small nip in the arm. I won’t be a bother to you anymore after this.”

“Promise?”

“I promise I will not subject you to any more medical torture.”

“Ugh! Why must you say it that way?!” She cried.

“Fine! I promise.” He took the back of her hand and kissed it sharply, to her surprise. “Now, if you will excuse me...”

He grabbed one of the rich brown bottles of liquid and read the text on the strip of paper encircling it: Morphine Sulfate. Setting the glass case to the side, he dipped the bottom of the hypodermic needle into the antiseptic liquid he previously poured into another container and took a small towel to wipe it dry. He then opened the cap for the bottle of Morphine Sulphate and used the needle to vacuum some of the liquid into its capsule.

She watched with tight lips as he set the needle aside on the surface of the metal box. He took another small towel from inside and doused it with more antiseptic liquid, to which he rubbed the cotton cloth on the middle of her arm. That dreadful cold feeling returned to her skin upon contact, worsening from the wind that blew from his nimble movements.

“Would you say my doctoring is apt?” He asked as a means of distraction while strapping a bandage cloth around her arm.

Her voice quivered. “Quite.”

With two bandages tightly wrapped around the middle of her arm—a space between each—Christine watched with weary eyes as he took hold of the needle. There it was, its metal syringe shamelessly pointing toward the heavens with its cylindrical encasement filled halfway.

He brought the reflective device over the area of skin exposed between the two bandages and paused. His patient was trembling.

“Do it already. I cannot wait any more,” She said with shut eyes. Tears were accumulating at the corners.

He frowned and put his free hand over hers, to which her fingers intertwined his upon contact.

“I know you are afraid. I was, too, when Gérard first used these on me. But you are in good hands because I will never hurt you. I could not possibly live with myself if I ever did.”

Her eyes opened to see him look at her solemnly. Almost as if he had been the one sitting with a stitched-up knee, awaiting an injection of some miraculous healing substance. He gestured at the syringe in his hand, waiting for her word.

She nodded for him to continue his workings, this time with less fear. He was doing this in good faith, she reminded herself. He was not one to repudiate his promises.

The pointed metal object pierced into her arm, its contents slowly leaking inside. She could not lie; the pain was vigorous. But having known the person administering the injection made it seem less so. Had she gone to the hospital to get it, that would have been another story—a tale of horror, certainly.

Erik removed the needle and set it on the lid of the metal box next to the other medical instruments. He then removed the two bandages he wrapped around her arm previously, which were meant to lower blood flow in that area for the dose. Quickly, he took a ball of cotton from a bag in the box and applied it to the bleeding hole on her arm, then acquired another bandage to wrap around it.

Much to her luck, a teacup full of lukewarm tea was handed to her right after he cleaned up his doctoring materials. Before she could mouth a "Thank you,” he closed his metal box with an audible clunk.

“I’m done here for now. However, I must warn that you may experience an inconceivable urge to sleep in the next few minutes. I suggest finishing your tea before that happens, or else I’ll have to do another round of laundry.” He winked at her once finishing that last sentence.

Taking his metal box, he was about to step away from beside the bed when she caught his hand. Weak as her grip was, her fingers did as best as they could to keep him from moving without her person being dragged alongside him. He noticed this and turned to see her smiling at him with small eyes.

“Is this yours?” She managed to say softly before taking a long, slobbering sip from her tea.

“What?”

“The… bed.”

He saw the hand she used to hold the teacup start to shake and rushed over to take it from her grasp. She whispered a faint “no” from his actions but did not put up much resistance.

“In retrospect, I think it would be best if you drink this later.” He put the teacup back in the tray on the bedside table and returned to meet her droopy eyes.

Her speech slurred after each word. “You… didn’t… answer… m-my question.”

“Oh. Yes, this is my bed. Why do you ask?” 

Her hand still held onto his even as she fell further into comatose. His image was beginning to blur in some areas, notably his flesh-toned mask. She squinted to find that it was no longer there, and in place of it stood the face of a perfectly normal man—a quite handsome one, at that.

“Where… will you… sleep?”

He laughed lightly at her concern. “Why, the chaise of course. You will be sleeping here tonight.” 

She was about to speak when he quickly responded, “And I shall not be taking any refusals.”

Her lips produced a poor attempt at a frown. As he turned to leave, her hand remained firmly on his. Confounded by her stubborn grasp, he turned his neck to look back at his sleepy companion. She was not going to let him go any time soon.

“Sleep… with… me.”

Erik could not believe his ears. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said… sleep… with… me.”

She patted the space next to her on the mattress, gesturing to him to join her. He looked at her, dumbfounded.

“C-Christine, I cannot. This is not proper! I cannot possibly share the same bed with a woman, my student no less!”

Her brows furrowed, and her lips curled into a thin line. She pulled his hand. “Sleep… h-here.”

When he tried to leave again, he found his hand still tied to her own. He used his other hand to try and pry off her fingers to no avail. For someone who was drugged, she had an iron grip.

His eyes turned to look back at her. It seemed her request was more of a demand than anything else. But he could also see a desolation in her eyes, as somnolent as they were.

“Fine,” he finally relented, “But, under one condition.” He pointed at his mask. “You cannot peer at my face.”

She gave a nod and fell back onto the pillows. Without needing to say anything, Erik took off her slippers and placed them on the floor, then did the same for his shoes. He hung his black cloak on a nearby coat rack along with the black vest he wore underneath.

He would have slept shirtless any other night. But to keep some level of decency in this already less-than-decent situation, he decided not to. On the occasion that Gérard visited, however, he would have cared less about his appearance, knowing that the man who raised him had seen much worse than his bare chest. But for now, he had to make do with his white ruffled blouse.

Christine watched with a tender smile as he blew the flame off the brass chamberstick. The warm light instantly left the room, engulfing them in a bubble of darkness. She quickly untied her corset and threw the sturdy article of clothing on the floor, along with the skirt she had worn during her doomed performance last night. Having it removed felt like taking off an entire cargo ship's worth of merchandise off of her frame. All she had left on were her white chemise and drawers.

A sharp clicking noise appeared at her right, where the bedside table was. Her heart raced from the realization of what had made that sound. She could not see him but she sensed that Erik had finally let his barrier fall. 

He walked over to the other side of the bed. The mattress stretched once he sat on it, and the bed frame creaked from adjusting himself to his liking. Though there was no way of knowing from the cloud of black that pervaded her vision, she knew he was facing away from her.

“Good night, Christine,” He mused once he got comfortable in his pillow and blanket. But she would not have it.

“Turn.”

Her hand went to his shoulder to try to pull it back.

His body tensed at her touch, but he obeyed her request. She could feel his form move, albeit hesitantly, until he was facing her direction.

Her hand moved to where his chest was to find his heart beating at a brisk tempo. She felt him flinch when she did so, and his body felt somewhat stiff from the change in placement. As if he were a cat dropped into a pail of water. She moved her hand to the side of his neck, but upon contact, his hand caught hers and moved it away.

“No, please.”

His voice sounded desperate, with it a tinge of anger that slipped away just as he let go of her hand. She took the cue and did not lead it any further than his chest after that.

But even then, his stiffness did not leave.

She moved closer to him, erasing the little space left between them.

“Good…night… Erik,” she whispered.

Her body was situated in a way that made her head touch the bottom of his chin. He immediately eased at the sensation and let himself relax, feeling her soft curls brush against his bare skin.

Steady breaths hit the top of her head, and the tips of her feet brushed against his trousers. She would not have minded sleeping like this every night. It was less lonely than her “residence” at the opera; that cobweb-ridden basement under the stairs was nothing less than solitary.

It was a strange desire to want such a thing—having her vocal teacher sleep beside her in the dark. Actually, it was rather shameful. Had she been deprived of companionship for so long that she had to resort to some deluded fantasy? Perhaps it was true. But to keep some level of sanity, she decided to look past that inkling thought.

Her mind went to think about the time. Since her performance began at 7:30 p.m., she estimated it had been two hours after their spontaneous departure. However, it was still difficult to tell from the constant darkness since they were kilometers underground. 

Erik probably has the leisure of waking whenever he pleases from the lack of daylight she thought. That also meant he could stay awake past what people usually considered their sleeping hours.

A slight frown grew on her face. Had she not taken that analgesic, she would have happily stayed awake longer to drink the tea he brewed for her. Perhaps, he would have gotten himself a cup, too. The thought of them chatting with teacups in hand for hours on end seemed like an amusing idea to her. Sure, she had done the same on her last few outings with the Comte—except she could only handle a few minutes of his conversations before her mind ventured off—but with Erik, it felt different. She could tell him the most absurd ideas she ever had without him batting an eye. And on the other end, if he ever had any strange inclinations, she would too.

Although he could not see it, she was smiling ear-to-ear. If only he could hear her thoughts, he would have joined her in her delight.

But her beloved Phantom of the Opera was also in his own state of deep thought.

If there is a God, then surely He has blessed me at this very moment, Erik beamed in his mind.

He had no clue why the Almighty chose now and not the countless times he prayed as a child. Yet here he was, incredibly grateful regardless. He possessed the presence of an angel so graceful and kind. And so near to him as well! That was most certainly worth the wait.

Although as overwhelming was the gratitude he felt, the fear of her discovering his face still irked him. Almost as if he was made of the same clay used in the various masks he constructed for himself. So fragile, so delicate, so disposable. An ounce of light in the darkness would have broken him. It would have displayed all of his shards to the unprepared eye. Behold, a devil incarnate, so unbelievably ugly and wretched, laid on the feet of the blessed. He internally laughed at the irony of it all.

At the current moment, though, he decided to set his mind on his beloved Christine. The one he was glad to call his closest friend. Having her in his vicinity was a blessing, but having her like this was an honor. He still could not believe that it was real.

Maybe it is not, he thought, it must be a trick of the mind.

He gently poked her arm to see if she was present and not some figment of his imagination. And to his relief, she was.

Christine was yet to sleep, even as her body ached for slumber. The spell of Morpheus did not come to her easily. And the fact that her bedside companion was poking her shoulder did not help in the matter either.

“What… are you… doing?” She asked in a hushed voice as if ears other than theirs were listening.

“Nothing!”

She could tell her friend was bashful from how quickly his words came out. Without preparation, she grabbed the hand at his side and placed it on her waist. The sudden motion expelled a squeaking noise from him that made her chuckle.

“You know… you… could have… just… t-told me.”

There it was again: that stiffness she despised so much. From how still he became, she could have confused him for that wooden mannequin by the vanity. She buried her head against his neck in an attempt to ease his discomfort. It was successful, as she sensed him loosening himself into her form. His hand on her waist went further toward her back until they were wrapped in each other’s warmth.

“Good night… again,” she repeated.

Erik paused, contemplating doing something he worried would affect him adversely. She was so beautiful, and even the darkness surrounding them could not restrain him from seeing her grace. And neither did his appearance, the only prison to which his entire life chained itself. Nothing in the plausible universe—its matter, non-matter, or whatever humanity had not yet discovered—could have shielded him from seeing it.

“Good night, my Christine.” He leaned closer to kiss her head before returning to his place.

She smiled at his gesture and soon fell asleep in his arms.

Chapter Text

Carrière et Chagny

Who could believe a horrid disaster could befall a place as ornate as the opera? Gérard could not believe his eyes when he stepped through the entrance to where all the magic happened, to find it completely devoid. Where there would be actors adorned in sparkling attire, singers lifting their voices into the air, and dancers and musicians swaying in unison, there were only towers of relentless blaze. From what he could tell, the chandelier had come undone in a mountain of broken rock crystal that shone deathly rays of red and orange.

The thought of dying in his sleep washed past his mind, if only for a moment. Had he kept his late parents’ religious tendencies, he would have believed he caught a glimpse of Hell from just standing there alone. In all his years working at the Palais Garnier, a fire never passed a tablecloth caught by a candle flame. But there were indeed firsts for everything. Today was cursed with one of those.

An hour prior, Gérard had been escorting his dear friend and primary patron of the opera, Comte Philippe de Chagny, to the private lavatory just outside. The young, impressionable Comte had drunk much more than he could care to admit at a nearby bar in the Cafè de la Paix. Unfortunately, his urgent need to urinate left them no time to attend the grande debut of Mademoiselle Christine Daaé. 

He was observing his pocket watch beside the lavatory when Choleti came running to him with Carlotta. The well-to-do new manager was more or less composed, if only slightly frazzled; the only untidy aspect was his mustache—a hurricane of thin, peppered strands leaning in every direction. His wife, on the other hand, was significantly more of a heaving mess than he was. The diva was fanning herself restlessly once she caught up to her husband, her fiery curls hanging loose on her pompadour. The scarlet rouge on her thin lips refused to stay in line, and her equally red gown slipped past her shoulders.

Their hazardous appearance almost elicited a chuckle from the former manager if it were not for the ruinous news they were about to report.

Choleti was the first to speak. “Gérard! I have the most harrowing news!”

“What is it, Alain?” Gérard said nonchalantly, putting the watch away in his trouser pocket.

“L'Homme Masqué struck again!”

The noise of a toilet flushing went off behind the door Gérard was standing in front of.

“Who?”

Carlotta butted in, “The Phantom—”

Upon listening to those blasted syllables leave her lips, Gérard waved a hand in front of her face and shushed her.

“Don’t you ‘shush’ me!” She shouted.

The middle-aged redhead stepped before the many people standing in line to chastise the aging man. Before she could utter a word, however, another man behind her requested that she “move to the back like all the other folks," along with some colorful words that Gérard would prefer not to recall. At this, her demeanor transformed from an angry hyena to a dainty young lady, apologizing for her rash behavior and stepping away accordingly.

Choleti grimaced at the man on line. “Do not speak ill of my wife.”

Sensing the tension between the two men, Gérard placed a hand on the new manager's shoulder. “Leave it be. Now, what was it about the Phantom?”

Those two had been experiencing frequent pranks conspired by the masked man ever since they stepped foot into the opera. His son’s shenanigans ranged from gluing Carlotta’s goblet to a tray during a performance to removing all the buttons from Choleti’s shirts. Gérard could not lie; these jokes had some clever wit to them. But, knowing the extent of what those two were unprepared for left him with a pang of guilt.

But no one except God could have warned him of what he was to hear.

“That wretched arsonist set the place on fire!”

“What?” Gérard asked, taken aback by his abruptness.

“You hear me correct! He sawed the chandelier off its rope and now the Sapeurs-Pompiers are attempting to put out the flames,” the new manager replied hysterically in a hushed voice, “What are we to do about the damage? This disaster will surely be in the papers tomorrow morning! Oh my God, just imagine the public backlash. ‘Mysterious Phantom Strikes the Opera in a Fiery Siege.' That will be the top headline!”

To the couple’s surprise, Gérard laughed after hearing the news. “Alain, you can be such a comedian. Your acting skills, however, are all but perfect. I did not believe that charade one bit.”

Choleti and Carlotta looked at each other in shock before turning to their smiling companion. Their faces rendered him confused, albeit still somewhat humorous.

“Gérard, I am serious,” Choleti remarked solemnly, his voice lowering from his previous tone.

Another laugh escaped Gérard’s lips and he patted his shoulder. “Oh, you are just bluffing. A silly prank played by the new manager upon the old one. I saw it coming any time now.”

“This is not a bluff!” Choleti remarked rather loudly, only to be hushed by his wife soon after, “I swear on it, by God, I swear on the grave of my Maman!”

“That's a bit bold, don’t you think?”

“It’s true I tell you!”

A door creaking entered their ears as the occupant left the lavatory behind Gérard. All three adults went silent and turned to the man exiting, whose back was toward them to close the door. Once he turned around, the three were met with dilated light blue eyes and a crooked grin—the after-effects of the champagne, they all presumed. As Gérard was about to speak, Philippe held out his pointer.

“Just a moment,” he said as he dove his other hand into his trouser pocket. From it, he extracted a gold disk with floral carvings bordering its cover. He flipped it open and observed his face in the small mirror within the device. After a second of looking at his pale complexion, along with a touch of his hair, Philippe snapped it shut and returned it to whence it came.

“You may continue,” he replied with a chirp.

Gérard eyed the young man. He looked like a true gentleman with his well-combed, shoulder-length golden hair and well-shaven face. Though, when looking down, that notion began to shrivel. He was wearing a black tailcoat above his white waistcoat, and both articles were similar in design to those of Gérard and Choleti. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, however, with one button missing from its hole entirely. The bowtie on his neck was also undone, with small patches of beige staining its fabric.

“Ahem.” Gérard nudged Philipp's arm. “Your appearance is, how do I say it, untidy. I suggest you touch up back in the lavatory.” He removed his bowtie and handed the garment to the Comte, who took the piece of neckwear and turned to the couple beside them. Carlotta let out a chuckle, failing to hide her smirk with her feathered fan, and her husband sported a worried look, though the young man had no clue why.

“Thanks, Gérard. But I must inquire, what is the matter with all of you?” His feet stumbled after saying that, prompting the eldest of the bunch to interlock their arms.

Choleti’s eyes widened, and an urge to reveal all the details of what transpired that night soon boiled up. “Of course, you don’t know. How could you? You weren’t there.”

At that moment, Gérard knew what Choleti said wasn’t a bluff. He never heard an ounce of darkness in that man’s voice until that remark. It was almost as haunting as his son’s own demeanor, which grew cold and bitter when the opera did not appeal to his standards.

Philippe’s brows creased. “What do you m—”

His question was interrupted by Gérard, who reopened the lavatory door and gently pushed the Comte inside. “It’s nothing of your concern, Philippe! Just fix your tie, then we’ll be off!”

“Fine, if that’s how it’s going to be. Vieux fou.” Gérard heard him mutter behind the door. He refused to utter another word before he saw the bronze door knob clasp shut.

“What an impertinent display, Gérard!” Choleti complained, “He’s paying for all this, you know. Would it not be best if he knew?”

“No, of course not!” Gérard replied, being sure to keep his voice low for fear that the Comte was listening from behind. It would have been a great deal of drama had he or the rest of his family known about this incident. He explained, “We would make a fool of ourselves if we did. Actually, you would because I no longer work there.”

“Are you saying he would cease funding if he knew?” Choleti asked, bemused by the old manager’s heated tone. From what he observed in the past few months, Gérard rarely spoke with this much tensity. He was usually the soft-spoken, patient type—a completely different image from how he was behaving now.

“What else? If he finds out, say farewell to the short-lived Opera Populaire!”

Choleti frowned, his eyes moving to the door behind Gérard. He could hear the muffled noise of expletives uttered as the door bumped from the inside. Although not much of a drinker himself, in the few times he shared a hard sip, he, too, felt the same inebriation. Young men, especially those as affluent as the Comte, were prone to having more than what they could physically bargain.

“I assume he’s not attending the opera any time soon.”

“Not in this state, no. And with the place in shambles, we must keep it that way until repairs finish.”

Carlotta closed her fan sharply. The sudden motion provoked a clapping noise from the silver rods held together by finely pressed silk. At this, the two men ceased speaking and turned to her with curiosity.

“About the opera, Miss Daaé’s debut was an absolute catastrophe,” she said with an unbefitting smile.

Gérard gave her and Choleti a look of surprise. “Really? How so?”

This was news to him, even more so than his son’s shenanigans. Christine’s voice shared an uncanny resemblance to that of his late wife Belladova—a feature so distinct, perfect in all of its nature. He had been honored to hear it in a fairly informal setting at the bistro before she was signed as the new leading lady. Upon listening, his ears were transported twenty-seven years into the past, by the bedside of his Tuberculosis-stricken wife, who used her last remaining breaths to sing a farewell lullaby to her then child of three years. Gérard could not help but stare in shock as those around the bistro clapped and whistled with glee. How could such a voice be deemed unfit for opera? How much had transpired since he was dismissed for this to happen?

Choleti unearthed a cigarette can from his trouser pocket and twisted the crank to unroll its metal lid. It took a few twists until the metal strip surrounding the side of the lid broke off onto the pavement below. He opened the container eagerly, tobacco particles puffing out and grazing the bottom of his chin.

“Her singing wasn’t anything like how it was at the bistro,” he said, coughing mid-sentence before digging out a thick cigarette. He held out the canister in Gérard’s direction, tipping his balding head toward it as an offering. The older man waved his hand in refusal.

“Her voice must have lost after all that rehearsing,” Carlotta added. Her fingers toddled with the red carnation pinned to her husband’s suit lapel. Unfazed, Choleti brought out a steel lighter to ignite the tip of the tobacco-enthused roll. 

“She was never ready for the stage, anyway. A frail girl like her could not possibly handle the pressure a full house offers. Her costume alone was practically hanging by the thread!” 

Gérard watched with sad eyes as Choleti returned his lighter and cigarette canister into his trouser pockets. He was never fond of that man’s wife. Since those two walked through his old office’s doors the day of his dismissal, he sensed she had something up her sleeve. Feelings of suspicion would always fester his mind whenever she brought up Christine Daaè. There was no doubt the redhead had a distaste for the young blonde. That night at the bistro spoke volumes about what she thought of her. It was almost humorous how the older woman attempted to outdo her younger compatriot in their duet, only to be outshined by her completely in the final notes. Mademoiselle Daaé’s vocal triumph that night only made it more baffling why she failed her debut tonight.

The new directors of the opera were not people who could be easily pleased. Especially Carlotta, who made it clear to whoever worked there that she would be star prima donna at every performance. Despite this, an understudy was assigned if she was unable to perform, unbeknownst to her knowledge. And yet, to Gérard and the rest of Paris’s misfortune, the redhead had not one day of falling ill nor any chance of impotence toward her role. It was only through his son’s pranks each time she set foot on stage that she refused to play Marguerite in Faust. This fateful turn of events spun a sparkling opening for Miss Daaé—one that ended in inopportune tragedy if any of what the couple said were true.

“Oh, that poor thing. I take it she isn’t doing so well after the Phantom struck?” Gérard asked, guilt heavy in his mind. 

His son must have been behind her falling. The new directors may have been critical people, but Erik was the most meticulous of all. If anyone dared to step foot on his stage, damsel or not, he would have his way with them. Perhaps Miss Daaé failed to heed his instruction. Or, Choleti failed to impart those very same instructions to her through Erik’s letters. The man did say he didn’t believe in ghosts.

The man in question smoked a puff from his cigarette and said, “I suppose she isn’t. To think of it, I did not see her leave with all the others.”

“Well, of course she did. She was right behind us when we left, my darling,” Carlotta replied, bored that this conversation remained on the young dame.

Her husband began to cough out smoke. His eyes went wide, and for a second Gérard thought he could see his face turn paler than it already was. Carlotta patted his back and fanned him until his coughs lowered. It was then that Choleti decided to stop smoking; in an unexpected move, he spun his arm around and launched the half-used cigarette into the street, where it landed on the bricked road to be squashed under the wheel of a passing gig.

He turned to his wife, wide eyes and forehead wrinkled like crumpled paper. His words didn’t match his expression. Instead, they came out soft as usual when speaking to her. “My sweet, I don’t doubt not seeing her leave.” 

“And I have no doubt she did!”

“Last I saw, she was still on stage!”

“She was a few steps behind, I’m sure!”

Gérard watched as the two bickered continuously. He quickly grew tired of their incessant disagreements and moved to stand between them.

The elder placed a firm hand between their faces, silencing them. “Let’s start from the beginning; what happened after the chandelier fell?”

Carlotta crossed her arms. “I was in my dressing room when my husband came running to me with the most ridiculous face. We rushed downstairs to see Christine on the floor of the stage. Little Miss Marguerite’s embellishments and wig were all undone. Her dress was savagely torn, too. She should have watched her step.” The redhead let out a snicker at that last sentence.

“The crowd was in a frenzy to get through the doors. Ourselves included,” Choleti chimed, putting a hand on his wife’s back.

“It was a miracle we all left before any casualties occurred.”

“I disagree. I do not recall her ever leaving the opera in the first place,” Choleti said firmly but loosened his tone after seeing his wife’s tense glare, “When leaving, I saw Mademoiselle Daaé struggling to stand up. She had a look of pain on her face, I believe. I hadn’t a moment longer to observe her before our departure.”

Gérard swallowed the load of information presented to him. Dozens of worries buzzed his mind, but the worst yet was about his son. He knew Erik had the temper of a raging bull—if left to fester, it would destroy anything on its path. But that anger never went far enough to collapse a chandelier. The worst he saw of it was when he played those boyish pranks on the new directors; applying an itching concoction onto a wig was a far cry from attempted mass murder. Gérard knew his son would never in his right mind kill a man unless it was for self-defense.

“In his right mind” were four tricky words. Of course, his son was certainly not in his right mind when perpetrating this dilemma.

“I’m sure she left after you noticed. A farm girl can handle a bump on the leg.” Carlotta jerked her husband’s elbow after uttering that last sentiment. Choleti was not amused by this but did not pay mind to her erratic behaviors either.

Gérard’s next response was interrupted by the rattle of a doorknob behind him. The three adults once again turned to face the door of the lavatory, which was opened steadily by the Comte. He wore Gérard’s clean white bowtie—a tad lopsided but presentable.

Philippe was holding onto the doorknob fiercely. The inebriation still hadn’t worn off, rather, he felt that it severely increased as time passed. The minutes melted into seconds, as when he exited, the first man in line shoved past him to enter the lavatory. The door slid closed, catching Philippe off balance.

Gérard caught the young man’s arm moments before he could fall onto the brick pavement.

“Thank you,” Philippe expressed, getting back onto his feet and dusting himself, “Let’s get going.” He took a step but his arm was still held by the former manager, who was as still as a boulder.

“I’m afraid you cannot do that,” Gérard said.

“Why not? We have an opera to attend to.”

Choleti and Carlotta gave each other glances before turning to watch their interaction.

Gérard paused for a moment. He had to think this through cleverly; any fumble and he would tarnish an inch of his son’s inviolability. He already convinced Choleti and, to some extent, Carlotta to play into this game of his—one he managed to swerve around to make them believe they were players just like him. Except they weren’t.

He played this sweet game of deception for more than thirty years of his life, mainly to ensure the survival of his family. First, it was for Belladova; it all began when he brought her down to the opera stables for a place to bear their son. The unoccupied crevices of the opera eventually became their haven, and the cellars their ultimate residence. The next three years post Erik’s birth, he had stolen a fair, or rather unfair, share of food from the markets near the Palais Garnier. And by the time Belladova passed, he created the myth that was the Phantom of the Opera, if only to mask Erik’s echoing wails when everyone was asleep. The falsities and fables only grew worse from then. 

Gérard used deception to climb up the ranks until he became the very manager of the opera itself; he used it to acquire daily necessities for Erik until he grew old enough to gather them himself; and he used it to frighten his employees into doing whatever Erik asked of them through his letters. Now, this situation was just another instance that required its use.

“What is it? Why won’t you—any of you tell me what’s going on?!” Philippe remarked tensely. The drinks he had earlier may have weakened his body, but his mind still retained some of its strength.

“Philippe,” Gérard began, “You cannot go to the opera because… there is no opera to begin with.”

The Comte squinted his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, Miss Daaé has already completed her debut. There is no opera. We missed the show.”

Philippe almost stumbled once hearing what the former manager said. He was sure he calculated the time between his visit to Cafè de la Paix and Christine’s performance near perfectly. It was the sole reason why he decided to purchase that new watch that recently came out—one that tethered around his wrist like those plain bracelets his sisters wore. The seller told him he acquired it from a retired German naval officer. Philippe found it a novelty, but his younger brother Raoul thought him foolish for buying such an accessory. Said it gave him a feminine edge. Regardless, he wasn’t one for decorating himself, but he wasn’t one for keeping time either. It was a terrible habit.

He pulled his sleeve back to find the mechanical device. The longest hand pointed just past the number eight, behind silver perpendicular wires that made up the cage of its bezel.

“We are only thirty minutes late. I doubt that we’ve missed much.” He attempted to move again but was held back by Gérard. A scowl grew on his face. “Is there a problem?”

The other replied, “As a matter of fact, there is. Miss Daaé was… unable to follow through on her role tonight.”

Worry washed over Philippe. “Is she alright?”

Christine failing her performance was the last thing to come across Philippe’s mind. The young woman did astoundingly each time he visited her during rehearsals, especially the night before. Perhaps she was nervous and didn’t have anyone to provide her reassurance before going on stage. He bit his lip. His timing was so poorly designed. If he hadn’t been so heedless he would have skipped the bar and gone to her as soon as he could. With a rose in hand, surely. He could imagine her sweet face—her soft smile when she found the rose, those hazel eyes that fought between green and brown each time he saw her. She could have given him a kiss for all he could imagine. Alas, his impudence cost him that lovely interaction.

Gérard was once again interrupted before he could provide an answer, this time by Carlotta. She replied with enthusiasm disguised by pity, “I’m sorry to tell you dear, her debut was nothing short of unpromising.”

“I concur,” Choleti said, intertwining his arm with his wife’s.

Philippe's eyes tensed. His absence caused a greater concern for Christine than he expected. Oh, what a buffoon he was. She failed because of him, he was sure of it. Without his support, she was like a lone fawn in a dark forest: fearful, alone, diffident. The guilt piled higher as his thoughts delved further into his and Christine’s relationship. She must have felt betrayed to walk onto that waxed stage to find his usual opera box empty, he thought. He had an impression that she was expecting his arrival. They were close friends after all. 

That word, “friend,” brought him more discomfort than anything when referring to the woman he pined for all his life. Ever since his aunt evicted her and her father from their chateau, he could not erase the image of her little hands reaching out to him across the iron gate. Those blasted iron bars and his blasted aunt with her ancient manners and social etiquette. He was blasted in his way, too; he did not realize his devotion toward Christine in the little time they had until after she left. Time only tightened this infatuation. Now, the chances of her continuing their friendship, even after years of anguish and separation, were slim because of his dreadful decisions.

“She had a very tiresome schedule tonight and wants to be left alone to recuperate,” Gérard lied.

“Nonsense. I must see her.”

Philippe attempted to pull his arm out of Gérard’s grasp, but the latter kept a wrinkled hand on his elbow.

It was beginning to dawn on him that something peculiar was going on. Despite his drunken stupor, Philipppe could still discern his companion's strange behavior. The grip on his arm tightened. Confusion swept through him. Why was Gérard so unwilling to let him enter the opera? Just earlier, he was so eager to watch the show.

Gérard turned to face him directly. "She is in her dressing room right now."

“How do you know that? You were with me all day,” the Comte bit back.

A string of silence followed as Gérard paused to eye the young man. Philippe was so adamant in getting answers that it was beginning to irritate him. He remained calm, however. Another string of deception would not tangle the ropes he already tied.

“Monsieur Choleti afforded me the news.”

Philippe turned to Choleti to see him with a distraught expression. “Is this true, Monsieur?”

Gérard motioned his hands behind the Comte, waving them rapidly in a desperate plea to convince the new manager to cooperate with him.

Choleti looked between Gérard and Philippe, sweat accumulating on his forehead.

He was not a skilled liar like his managerial predecessor, but he had to try. He and Carlotta had just acquired the opera and promised the company their legacy was one worth remembering. Had he informed the Comte of tonight’s massive failure, all of Paris would have thought them incompetent.

Choleti held onto her hand tightly and gave a firm nod.

Philippe stared at the new manager with suspicion. He observed his fingers fidgeting and eyes floating toward places other than what was in front of him. But Choleti was not the only one who seemed distracted; Carlotta was fanning herself excessively—and, curiously, so near her face that the accessory was blocking his view of her. He then turned to face Gérard, whose eyes were nearly devoid of emotion.

Eventually, Philippe sighed. Although he believed they were all keeping some hidden knowledge from him, he decided to give in to Gérard’s request. Perhaps tomorrow, or in the coming days, he could discover the true nature behind the opera, especially if Christine was involved. For now, if she desired some solace, he would respect it.

He loosened himself in Gérard’s grasp. “I’ll take your word for it, gentlemen.”

“You best be going home now, then. Christine won’t appreciate you leaving so late,” Gérard lightly jested, hoping to remove any compulsion of returning to her from the Comte's mind.

Philippe did not laugh, for he still worried about her whereabouts. From how everyone spoke to him, it sounded like she had gone missing. But, here was Gérard telling him otherwise. It all felt disconcerting. Even if she were missing, he could not find her if he tried. The champagne would never allow it.

“I’ll hail you a fiacre,” Carlotta offered. As the Comte tried to deny her, she put two fingers to her lips and screeched a shrill whistle. Soon enough, a boxed horse-drawn carriage wheeled to their place on the sidewalk and parked itself.

Choleti opened the door for Gérard to guide Philippe into the passenger seat. As he was climbing into the vehicle, Philippe touched the top of Gérard’s hand and looked at him. 

Solemnity filled his eyes as he said, “Please, look after Christine. I don’t know what I would do without her.”

The elder put a hand atop his and tapped it. “I give you my word.”

With that, Gérard removed himself from him and stepped away so that Choleti could close the door to the fiacre. They all watched as the carriage drove away, with Philippe peeking through the window. His face stared back, stoic yet full of dread.

Gérard had been in his shoes once. Not quite exactly, but he understood that irksome feeling of uncertainty. It was present when he contemplated telling Belladova of his past marriage with another. It was also there during her nine-month disappearance when he decided to avoid telling her that altogether. Regarding Philippe, Gérard recognized that look he gave inside the fiacre. A look Gérard himself gave so often when he worried about his wife—when he learned of her pregnancy, her illness, and generally any obstacle she came to face. 

The boy was in love with the girl, no doubt. This story was all too familiar for him to read.

As the fiacre faded from the distance, Gérard turned to face the couple. “You say you didn’t see Christine leave?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Both husband and wife turned to each other in disagreement before listening to what more Gérard had to say.

“Have you heard back from her at least?”

Choleti put his hands in his pockets, pondering. “No… we came to you right after we left.”

Gérard turned his heel in the direction of the opera. “Then we must leave. She could still be in there!”

“It is too dangerous to go back and search. The pompiers said they’ll be on it.” Choleti looked up to view the darkening skies above them. Smoke rose behind the buildings that concealed the image of the opera, hints of it permeating the air like a dollop of ink running its branches across a water drop.

“If they had, then Christine would’ve been here with us,” Gérard pointed out.

Carlotta eyed her husband. “I will not return to that place! And neither shall you.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him closer to her. The sheer force of her grip erased his doubts, and he gave up what courage he had left to go with Gérard.

“Go look for her if you want. We’ll be staying here,” the new manager said.

“So be it then.”

Chapter Text

Scarlet

Gérard began his trek back to the opera but stopped to glance at the couple. They spoke briefly before turning a corner on the rue. At this point, he surmised that Carlotta didn’t want to save Mademoiselle Daaé. He knew she despised her, but this was beyond his expectations. He had the slightest hope that the couple would be sensible enough to help a young woman in need, especially someone as kind as Christine. One could say she deserved their aid after all her acts of service to them. But no, Carlotta was too envious and her husband too cowardly.

His disdain for the couple, however, was cast aside by the fear of Christine’s becoming. There was ample time left for her rescue if he began his walk now.

He started through the storefronts, cafés, and vendors, all a blur in his peripheral vision. For more than once, his elbow grazed that of others, and his person pushed through people who remained on the pavement like stone. He may have grown weaker and slower from his age, as proven by the internal crackings of his shoulders, but he was not about to give in to his body’s hindrances just yet.

Philippe mentioned it was past 8:00 p.m. Yet, it felt like it had still been daylight. The particular route he was currently traversing was one he frequented often. Some of its streetlamps were removed and replaced with newer electronic ones. The lamps, once an inviting honey golden, now emitted a striking white brighter than the feathers of a Chinese goose. But as he trekked closer toward the opera, that whiteness faded into a faint daisy yellow, then a tart orange, until finally, upon which he stood in front of the entrance, a demonic scarlet that threatened to engulf anything in its path.

It was a miracle that Gérard got past the sûreté. While they were escorting the Crème de la crème out of the building, he managed to slip away into one of the secret wall doors Erik had installed. Upon entering, he found the area vacant; the only presence was that of the countless sculptures that invaded the hall of the Grand Escalier. Greeting him were the four infamous bronze maidens, who carried in their hands a bouquet of gas-lit lamps. The smoke trailed behind them, cascading them in a thick slug of black. For all he could imagine, they looked like demons—wrenches from down below who stared at him with soulless eyes and unforgiving expressions. The yellowish light encircled their hands as if they were conjuring a terrible spell. His eyes deceived him; it looked like those witches were the cause of all this and not his ill-behaved son.

The air, or what remained of it, was beginning to fill his lungs with filth. He quickly sped up the marble steps while shielding his mouth with his sleeve. The smooth fabric did little to soothe the violent coughs that soon escaped his throat. It was too much. Whatever clouded his vision was seeping into him gradually. He wondered if this was what Belladova felt when she threw herself into the Seine all those years ago. Had he not kept his attention, she would have succumbed to one of the worst fates known to humanity: drowning. Smoke may have been unhurried in its conquest of the body, but water was a silent evil no one could fathom. As he climbed the steps, he battled his instinctual urge to gasp whenever possible. The further he went, the more his vision blurred and warped around him like a dream. The heat worsened those wild sensations—it, a ravenous beast that tore at his skin for what meager meat he possessed. 

Voices joined the now screaming throttle of the fire. Smog began to part as he ventured closer toward the origins of the noise. There, he found the Grande chandelier lying on burnt and broken seats, their luxurious velvet upholstery now baked to black ash. The golden centerpiece toppled to one side; its arms reared around itself with cracked lamps on each end. Once a prominent symbol of artistic excellence, it laid there powerlessly, defeated in purpose and beauty, shooting flames as a final plea for life.

Warm drops of water sprinkled over his face as he rushed past pompiers in navy uniforms and golden, Corinthian-style helmets. They were preoccupied with spraying water into the fires with long, trailing hoses, one of which almost caught under his shoe if he hadn’t stepped over it the last second.

He evaded their detection and went to the corner of the orchestra pit. From over the partition that separated the guest chairs from the pit, he could see leftover sheet music and fallen music stands. With one arm over the edge, he hoisted himself onto it and jumped to reach the opposite side, where he landed on the shambolic array of printed white pages. Leaving his face bare without the protection of his sleeve wasn’t so judicious, for the coughing returned more raspy. After climbing onstage, he rushed through abandoned set pieces of painted cobblestone.

The smog made it impossible for anyone to see past the blazing fires. To remedy this, Gérard kept a hand on the wall of a set piece as he pursued further backstage. A thick layer of blackness coated the air upon moving further until he could no longer discern anything without his hand technique. His fingers eventually grazed against what he believed was the backstage wall. He recognized its powdered, chalky texture from painting it as a handyman in his youth.

He tapped his heel on the floorboards to alert the presence of whoever was backstage. When no one responded, he shifted to another area and tried again—only to hear the continued crackling of flames and muffled voices of pompiers. He made three more attempts, all with no discernible success. His next step was to search between the set pieces and stairwells. But doing so proved just as futile.

According to Choleti, Christine was unable to leave without dragging herself. That task would have been impracticable, as made evident by the blankets of inferno encapsulating the seats. Despite the nature of the situation, she was nowhere to be seen. If anything, she had been transported elsewhere inside the opera. But by whom?

Garçon Stupide!

Gérard grunted in annoyance. Who else would it have been besides the creature that conspired all this? He just prayed that she be granted the man's mercy, for he could not bring himself to bury another corpse.

Without delay, he went to reach where the lamp handle hung. It was the only one of its kind backstage, done to keep the area dimmed to avoid attracting attention during shows. A turn of the lever uncovered a familiar, barely lit passageway, which was soon overwhelmed by a gust of the filth he was breathing all this time. He entered and pulled the lever on the opposite side. The gate closed, extinguishing the path of the foul air.

The taste of bittersweet coldness entered his lungs. He was thankful for the brilliance of Charles Garnier to construct the opera over its subterranean tunnels. God knows how long he could have withstood the remnants of those nauseous flames. He may not have been a smoker, but his breaths from last night must have subtracted years from his life.

Though enough of his whimpers, he told himself. Erik was to be fed the lecture of a lifetime after all this was settled.

Gérard’s shoes clanked against the stone brick as he ran. The path was arduous, no matter how many times he traversed it. Such was the sacrifice of ensconcing his son’s home down here. He had hoped the journey would deter Erik from peaking beyond the cellars—it did for him, though on the matter of visitation. But there were no boundaries drawn from that boy, and if there were then he had already crossed them.

For Erik, curiosity never verged on killing the cat. Instead, that cat thrived on drinking an elixir that granted it lives surpassing the natural nine. This irresistible pursuit of the unknown was a quality only comparable to Belladova. She was no stranger to the outré, for she had often befriended people outside her class and partook in activities perceived as “improper.” Her creativity was boundless, and so was her passion. There were times when Gérard could sense his wife’s spirit within his son: when he taught himself to read music, his knack for repurposing props taken from backstage, or even his idiosyncratic obsession with taxidermy. Though, as terrible it was to admit, he also attributed her madness. She was known for her capriciousness when responding to unfavorable circumstances. That depressive fit at the Seine was a testament to such.

Gérard could only wonder what had ignited the switch in Erik. The Choletis were usually the ones he directed his wrath at, but even then, he considered them a puny threat to his dominion. There was little reason for such a hazardous outburst. Unless… Christine Daaé had a role in it.

The warm lantern light passed through his vision repeatedly as he ventured down spiraling stairs. He had forgotten how far below the masked man lived, for he had not visited him in quite some time. Erik was not keen on dependence, even after twenty or so years of living with him. He believed that his boy grew restless of waiting for his father to bring him supplies after coming of age. But he also doubted that Erik put that much thought into it anyway, for the man had still yet to uncover their true relation.

When he reached the stone “port” by the lagoon, a dismal thought materialized in his mind. How would he go about revealing this to Erik? That his father refused to tell him he had one of his own? Would it have been a betrayal to know that he once did not want to associate himself with his son? God, he had been a coward for thirty years, even if he had grown to love the boy his wife once mothered. It had been a long time coming, but he could not bear to imagine a scenario where his son was arrested for all this—when he would have to reveal his fatherhood for the sake of his son's freedom. Only then would Erik finally understand his utter recreancy, his shame, his self-pity.

His mind began to overtake the hollowed echoes of the tunnel as he careened the narrow floors accompanying the lagoon. It was a dangerous act, for one wrong step would inevitably put him on the Paris missing persons list the next day. He neared his impending doom at once from a slippery tile but readjusted himself so that his person fell toward the stone brick instead of the water. Gérard cursed to himself. If that slip failed to kill him, then the immediate spark in his heart that came afterward would have.

Generally, he avoided this particular route, as the boat was sparsely available for his commute. There were other options that all led to his son's home, but those gates were currently open to the prying eyes of pompiers and fleeing guests. He continued down the lagoon floors with a newfound sense of his own mortality.

What was it that spurred his brain to settle down here again? Sometimes, he rethought the usefulness of his past actions. It was this terribly moist place that Erik resided in by his volition, even if he had the fleeting pleasure of venturing above. It had meant to be an expedient accommodation until he had saved enough money to purchase a new, real house for them both to start anew. But, that sweet dream had never come to fruition, at least not on behalf of Erik—his childish attachment to this dastardly place left him to rot down here, while Gérard left for somewhere in the world above.

His bleary thoughts of what could be and what was subsided when he reached a familiar stone gateway. He climbed its steps and found the finely crafted wooden door closed. It was usually open for his entry during his sporadic visits, which perplexed him this time around. His heart began to race as thoughts of horror replaced those of bleariness. He rushed to twist the knob to find the door unlocked, which eased his worries somewhat. However, he knew Erik enough to recognize that the boy did not care when his malfeasances were exposed.

He entered to see the living area just as it had been the last time he visited, except the room was empty of its clutter for once, and the leftover dishes laid over the desks and tables previously were nowhere to be found. The melted candles were also replenished, brightening the place to mimic one equipped with actual lamps. It was a pleasant change in atmosphere from the drab it once was, but some Spring cleaning could not shake his fear of the current dilemma. He closed the door and went to the music room—just as cleansed as the living area, to his disbelief—and then over to the door of Erik’s bedroom. It was left ajar, and through it, he saw a sight that stupefied him to the core.

Lying on the bed was Christine, sound asleep with her arm below her head. A thick navy duvet covered her up to her shoulders, and her golden curls sprawled over it. The sight was an innocent one to behold, which he never would have guessed in a place rumored to have once hosted the corpses of the French commune. However, his relief proved temporary, as his eyes went to the corset and Marguerite costume on the floor. A rush of questions whirred him after this discovery, but the most unprincipled of all pervaded his mind.

No, Erik would never…

He was about to enter the room to further inspect the scene when he felt a pull at his shoulder. His suit crinkled a little from the invader’s large, thick fingers, and he was turned around to face the taller figure before him.

“Bienvenue à la maison, Gérard.”

Chapter Text

Patience Nor Propriety

Erik had ceased to fall asleep. Doing so was quite toilsome when Christine was in his arms—like a dove presiding in its nest on a brisk morning. Except that dove was not offered prickly sticks or chilled pebbles but with warm sheets and a tender embrace. He wanted it to last forever, for when would they be this close ever again? If she hadn't requested that he sleep beside her, he would have never dared to lay next to her, let alone envelop her as a hen does its chicks. He swore that impropriety was never his resolve. And yet, he desired it all the same.

As entranced as he was holding her, his left shoulder began to suffer from leaning on one side for too long. He carefully unraveled his arms from her figure and laid on his back. The image that greeted his swollen eyes was the same as always: the color of death painted the ceiling, and so were the walls. The air, however, was not. The presence of Christine made it impossible for it to be so.

Gently, he placed a hand on her forehead to feel her temperature: warm but not feverish. Morphine had the slightest chance of inducing fevers, which he had the misfortune of knowing all too well. Thankfully, she was on her way to recovery with little to no complications.

Upon retracting his hand, his fingers brushed against a curl that fell over her face. He hesitantly placed it behind her ear to rest along with the other curls. His disgraced lips formed a small smile from this. He then lightly traced the peak of her cheekbone with his fingertip, but soon pulled it away once realizing the absurdity of his actions.

Her skin feels like the créme of the most exquisite macarons, he regarded with admiration. Everything about her, he deemed perfect—no, her perfection was imperceivable by a mere mortal such as he, but by the Divine who had blessed her with it. All he could do was selfishly bask in her grace—a grace that could never melt away from its candle nor could wither into the darkest abyss. Always, he questioned the reason for her fondness or, more precisely, tolerance of him. He was a strange, ugly creature, which most everyone knew him for. A foreboding opera ghost that stalked the marble walls and stage rafters. But despite his countless frailties, she still spoke to him like an honorable companion—like a true friend. Not even his own father spoke to him with as much goodwill as she did.

Such a simple thing it was, being spoken to, listened to. But the life he was granted and its predicaments was far from what anyone would deem “simple.” And so, he could only hope to encompass the gratitude found in his heart for Christine, the woman who defied the harsh world of normal and ventured into its abnormal depths.

His hand went to touch the skin on his face. The difference couldn’t have been more pronounced; if one could call Christine’s skin a hill powered with the most delicate snow, his would have been one infested with crumpled leaves by comparison.

His visage had supplied his eyes with countless tears throughout his life, to such an extent that he did not have any left to spare. The only tears he cried now were music. It was everywhere: in his mind, his soul, his voice. There was perfection in the limitless potential of something so malleable as sound. Even when played several times, a composition will always contain a difference, no matter its formation. Music had been as pliable as his soul. It could be jagged and distorted, just as it could be a gentle little lamb. It brought him hope at times. For if music could be enjoyed, with all its grotesque, demeaning splendor, then could he be not? The thought brought him some semblance of peace, if not an inch of joy. But it was only a thought—one of many that roamed that little brain of his.

Slumber was a king he had failed to submit to. Even when tired, his mind remained open and active as his body lay dormant on the cot. If he had found peace in music, then it was a false feeling that his brain conjured. It kept him awake. The sounds he played with much dexterity on his organ, the little jingles he hummed through his breath while completing errands, the many orchestras that reverberated the walls of his home throughout the day. These vibratory patterns remained in the background of his mind, entangling together in a warm soup that kept him alive. Yes, food and water dealt him a physical service, but the soul cannot be tamed with just somatic medicine alone. Music, one of the many arts humanity was blessed to inaugurate, indeed had bestowed solace to his loneliness—despite the insomnia brought by its influence.

But all that musicality was lost now, or at most dimmed to white noise in a vast sea of uncertainty. What was he to do now? Every day, every hour of his life since he could discern, he was in some state of frantic despair. Finding things to do kept him busy. The music kept him busy. But now, all he could think to do was wait. There were no clocks in this bedroom of his; he never needed one, as he had a peculiar habit of sensing the time. Somehow this innate sense had gotten lost, along with his regular tendency to be occupied with something. This was a freedom he had yet to prepare for, but a freedom nonetheless. He wondered what set it in motion. Looking over his shoulder, he was awarded an answer in the blonde beauty sleeping soundlessly beside him.

Erik was pulling the duvet over himself when a creaking noise arose. There was a certain smooth, hollowness to the sound, which he recognized to be the entrance to his home. Deftly, he removed himself from the bed without stirring awake his companion—a useless endeavor since she was already dosed with a sedative, but he digressed. His hands went to grab the mask on the bedside table and quickly wrapped its beige ribbon behind his ears.

The sound of dress shoes thumped against the carpeted floors as he left to inspect the music room. Erik hid behind the mahogany piano, eyeing the gray-haired intruder as he encroached further inside and eventually isolated the bedroom door. He spied the man, who was slightly shorter than him and dressed in proper opera-enjoying attire, peering through the small crevice left by its opening.

He heard a gasp fall from the man’s breath just as he prowled behind him. As soon as the man had turned around, the two found themselves eye-to-eye.

“Bienvenue à la maison, Gérard.”

The former opera manager stumbled back from the masked man’s sudden appearance. He had his hand to his heart and a wild look on his clammy, wrinkled face upon examining their situation.

“What in God’s name, Erik?!”

“That’s one way to greet someone. I personally would have preferred a ‘hello’ or ‘how do you do,’” the other replied, slightly vexed by the abrupt visit.

Gérard composed himself, only to grow irritated by the presence of his son. “What is the meaning of this?!” He directed a hand toward the door behind him. “What have you done to this poor woman?!”

Erik huffed amusedly, “I haven’t done anything besides relieve her of her injuries, Gérard.”

“Injuries?!”

“Why else would I have brought her here? Or, did you think that I, lonesome Erik, had ill intentions? You really ought to stop making rash assumptions, you know.”

The elder stood speechless at his nonchalance before continuing, “Then how do you explain her state of undress? It wouldn’t be so unbelievable as to misconstrue the implications of that.”

“She had taken them off herself after I tended to her knee. I suppose a lady can sustain a corset for so long before her bones begin to malform. Us men have it easy in that regard.”

Relief washed over Gérard, and he walked past Erik into the parlor. There, he sat on the almond-colored chaise with his hands on his knees and his head hung below. The latter followed suit, curious to hear what else he had to say.

“Erik, have you any idea what you’ve done?”

“If you mean my revealing my home to someone other than yourself, then I am fully aware of that.”

“Not only that,” Gérard uttered tiredly, “But the chaos you’ve brought down upon yourself.”

“She won’t tell, I assure you—”

Gérard turned to face Erik in robust exasperation. “This is not about her!” His voice simmered. “At least not entirely.”

The masked man sighed impatiently and took a seat next to his father. “Then what is it? I was amidst a rather pleasant dream, and I hate to be an ass but you are denying me my slumber.”

“We both know that is a lie.”

“Even if it were, I would still like to know what compelled you to barge into my home unannounced at this hour!” Erik retorted in a hushed voice.

The former manager stared at his host’s mask, downtrodden by the quandary they found themselves afloat. It seemed that every visit he paid to this crab shell of a home carried with it a bag of issues needing to be unfurled. Life was never nearly this eventful two decades ago; when Erik had been just shy of adolescence, it was rarely a matter of speaking that problems other than a shortage of foodstuffs or health essentials arose. But that was prior to his leave from the boy’s home. It was as though his removal from any sort of normalcy had been destined to erupt madness, even if it stemmed from his own son.

Gérard spoke, “It wasn’t my intention to be a bother to you this late. I’m sorry for that, I truly am, but that is where my apologies end. I came here with the notion of Miss Daaé’s whereabouts… and with an expectation of being afforded answers. So tell me—and do tell me the truth because I know you are a man of many faces—why? What sort of demonic creature possessed you to set the opera aflame?!”

Erik placed a finger on the elder’s cheek and rubbed against its flesh. Gérard watched with befuddlement as the man removed his finger to take a gander. “I have to say, I’m surprised how you managed to leave that wreck unscathed. Or, better put, not have turned into a plate of filet de boeuf.” He turned his finger around to display an ashen fingertip.

Gérard placed a hand to wipe at his face in remark. His fingertips, too, became ashen. “Erik, this is not like one of your jocular escapades.” From his suit pocket, he unveiled a small silken cloth and began wiping his pale, black-speckled cheeks with it. “We both know you are not so forthcoming with your appearances above.”

“You came all the way down here to tell me something I already know?”

Gérard slapped the cloth down onto his lap. “Oh, would you let me finish?!”

Erik waved a hand. “Fine.”

“I’m beginning to think that you are not as concerned about this as I am,” the elder said with suspicion.

“I’m not.”

“And why aren’t you? Your entire life, your opera, your Godforsaken home is at stake in this matter in time!”

The masked man shrugged. “I find it hard to believe that a minor stunt will get me found out. If that had been the case, you would have seen me behind bars by now. But that’s not how it is, is it?”

“Erik,” Gérard replied frustratedly, “You collapsed a seven-ton chandelier in the center of a fully populated theatre. I’m astounded at how you haven’t been found yet.”

“You prove my point!”

Gérard exhaled. As much as he tried, he could never understand what went on inside his son’s head. Erik favored his delusions in such a way that he mistook them as hobbies. The “passions of the soul” as Gérard once heard him describe. But all he saw was a lonely boy who could only imagine and perform those imaginations, even if it meant trouble for those on the receiving end.

He realized that interrogating Erik wouldn’t do him any favors in figuring out what happened, and that a more caring approach was necessary. The premise of a caring demeanor alone felt rather unnatural to him, and he assumed the same for Erik. While he had raised the boy, Gérard didn’t exactly tend to him as closely as his mother did. Perhaps it was the guilt, or maybe even the slightest repulsion which denied him that closeness. But as of right now, he preferred answers brought by care rather than negligence from otherwise.

“Will you tell me why you did it?”

“No,” Erik dismissed, “It is none of your concern. Need I remind you that you don’t work here anymore? If you still had your job then I would have some reason to discuss this with you.”

He began to leave his seat when Gérard caught him by the sleeve. “I don’t need to work here to get news from you. For the love of God, I raised you!”

Erik easily released himself from Gérard’s grasp and started in the direction of his bedroom. The old man had forgotten how physically empowered his son was, especially after not having seen him in so long. It caught him off guard, pushing him back slightly from the release. Erik was just a foot away when the elder called out for him.

Luckily, he had the decency to pause and listen to what the old man had to say before leaving. “Oh, what is it now?” He asked, his patience waning.

It had been years since Gérard recognized that look in his son’s eyes. There was a tensity, agitation even, in his usually indifferent movements. Back in his youth, he’d often inhabit that demeanor when trying to hide a mishap, or finish an elaborate jigsaw after having finished his daily errands. Yet, it wasn’t exactly the same now. Instead, it was as if he was running from something… or there was something he desperately needed to run to.

Gérard knew of this feeling himself. He assumed Philippe did as well, at least from how his face appeared that evening. It was fine on the Comte’s behalf, but not Erik. As paining as it was to believe, Erik could not be granted the same pleasures as normal people. Not even the one most universal, most forgiving in its disposition. Forgiveness could only go so far, and Erik was a land forgotten—forever unknown to the masses of mankind, and thus unreachable from its perceived inexistence. The one thing Gérard could not deny his son, however, was his humanity; just as anyone else who escaped the womb, he was human, and being human brought with it the ineluctable ability to…

“You love her, don’t you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you in love with her?”

“You old pole! I have no time for this,” the masked man said as he hastily returned behind the door of his bedroom. He was about to shut it when Gérard pushed it back. At this, his lips formed into a thin, displeasing line.

There, between the opening of wood and stone, was his semi-covered face. The very face Gérard came to have known for the last thirty years. As much as Erik thought himself anonymous, there was not an ounce of him that Gérard hadn’t seen physically. Yet, he hadn’t seen Erik’s mind, nor could he ever successfully comprehend what the man was thinking; the only truly anonymous part of his being was that of his brain. However, there was only one aspect of Erik for which his thoughts could be read: his eyes. They were the nearest to an orator, whose stories flowed as effortlessly as the Seine. Every flick of the lashes, every sideward glance, every solemn stare told a world of words that could not, or would not, be said.

It were those same gray-green eyes which found themselves at the behest of Gérard’s observation. Like tittering grasshoppers, they bounced from the old man’s face, then to what appeared behind him, and finally down below to where his necktie should have been.

Eyes still darted on the ash-dusted surface of silk, Erik asked, “What happened to your tie?”

“I gave it to—wait—”

“Who did you give it to?”

Gérard banged his fist on the face of the door. “That’s it! I won’t be telling you anything unless you tell me this. Do you love her or not?”

Erik’s pupils flashed to the right, where the image of Christine lay on the cot—blissfully asleep, and just as blissfully unaware of the conversation being spoken just a few feet away. Then back those dark pupils went, to look upon those of the old, wrinkly man, a head shorter than his own, standing in the doorway before him.

Erik sighed defeatedly and let go of the door handle to step back into the music room. He shut it gently, erasing the view of his beloved friend deep in the sweet embrace of slumber.

An audible snap drowned the silence as the wooden door closed. It lay in the air, sounding like the many skips a pebble made when thrown across a shallow water pond. Gérard remained quiet, eagerly awaiting a response from his host, who stood just as silent, if not more deathly. Erik’s eyes were once again lost to oblivion. He made no attempt at an answer, but stood, seemingly occupied with whatever was occurring inside his mind. Then, with a sort of suddenness, he moved with a great calculation only rivaled by a leopard in hunt for its prey. Gérard followed the man out of the study and into the parlor to find him venturing farther back to where the front entrance lay open. There, the muffled squeaks of rats and water-droppings returned as Erik’s ungloved hand rested on the doorframe.

“Goodbye.”

“Erik!” The elder cried.

In equal timbre, the masked man mimicked, “Gérard!”

In a matter of seconds, Gérard grabbed at the exterior doorknob, pulling it with all his might as Erik took hold of the opposite. The elder grit his teeth, his face blooming into a capricious red as he tried his son’s strength. If it weren’t for its expert craftsmanship, the hinges would have blasted off at the speed of a thousand doves taking flight.

“I will not leave until you… give… me… an answer!”

“I am no longer a child! You have no authority over what I shall or shall not say!” Erik huffed, “This is my home now! And I order you to exit it!”

Gérard let go of his knob, launching the opposite knob into Erik’s abdomen. “Not unless you tell me the truth.” He stepped beside the half-open door to look at his disgruntled, menace of a son.

Erik rubbed the surface of his blouse where the knob slammed into and grunted. Then, he picked up that copper head of his to once again meet eye-to-eye with the man whom he’d known all his life. Since that day he left his mother’s cavernous womb until now, still lurking inside cavernous cellars with a cavernous pool just outside, with what felt like a cavernous pain beneath his abdomen.

“Fine, if you so wish.”

He nodded his head in the direction of the chaise. Gérard closed the front door, then followed his masked companion onto the decorated piece of furniture. Erik slumped onto its velvety cushions, his arm draped over his still-throbbing abdomen.

The elder stared with pitying eyes. Some fatherly part of him gouged up from deep beneath, enough for him to apologize. “Sorry for that. I—”

Erik waved off his words. “All is forgiven. Now, do you want an explanation or not?”

From then began a conversation that carried on into the dark hours of night (or what was considered in that home transformed from the remnants of a misty dungeon). A recount of the fiasco was given in its entirety, from the brief meeting behind the vanity mirror to the inevitable debut debacle onstage. Then came the aftermath, which proved remarkably sweet just as it was harrowing. Some points of interest were left away, however, particularly the intimate bits, as Erik found it too… boyish… to be speaking of such matters to whom he was expected to view as a distant “friend.” To him, if Gérard could continue this shameful charade, then he shall be served no less than a half-eaten story riddled with wood-boring scarabs.

Every sentence was carefully selected to recount what happened from an outsider's perspective. It lacked enough receptivity to such an extent for Gérard to begin doubting Erik’s experience for an extemporaneous fabrication. But each time he questioned the story’s validity, his reply was met with willful ignorance. And so were his additive comments about Miss Daaé, whom Erik failed to lead further into besides the footnote that he had decided to undertake the task of becoming her vocal instructor one night. There were no mentions of their relationship beyond his tutelage. No talk of meetings outside their scheduled visits, nor instances of conversation other than that of pure musical instruction.

All this made Gérard wonder if Erik really did have no interest in the woman besides perfecting her jewel-like voice; the man did possess a pride like no other, carefully tucked away under a thin veil of humility. He wondered if Erik could love at all. With what living without parents in dingy old cellars proposed, he doubted it heavily. Could a man really feel love if never once offered it? Of course, Erik was loved once. By his mother. And, to some extent, Gérard in his own, distant ways. But, presumably, he was too young to recall his mother’s loving embrace, or not merely observant enough to recognize Gérard’s mundane acts in raising him from afar.

Still, a festering sense of knowing withheld the former opera manager. So he decided to ask his irksome question one last time: “Do you love her?”

Erik paused his rambling. An arguably sodden look captured his eyes as he set them down to his hands. He had been expecting this moment—when he would be reckoned to answer the question plaguing Gérard’s tongue like an inexplicable ailment.

With a hitched breath, he said, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“Well… I do.”

“So you do love her?”

“Love is a very subjective thing, you know. At least, from what I’ve learned from the Bibliothèque de l’Opera.”

Gérard raised an eyebrow. “So you don’t?”

“No, no, I do… but—oh, don’t look at me like that—it is not in the way you think!” One could mistake Erik for a corpse from the way he wrapped his arms around his torso after that last utterance.

“It’s a kind of love akin to how one admires the morning melodies of a songbird, or the whistling of winds when they brush against the trees midday, or perhaps the sounds of urban life in the Parisian night. It isn’t a love only manifested by mere physical attraction; while she is a blessing to the eyes, her heart is just as blessed. It is as if she were a poetic song. Her lyrical heart captures all that is around her in a delicate embrace, one that continues to emit a warmth as soothing as the books we write, the music we compose, the art we create. This love cannot be characterized by mortal, impermanent fixtures, Gérard. It is not human for all I know. It is much grander than that.”

For an instant, the former manager believed he saw those bright gray-green eyes he knew so well expanding like the lenses of a telescope. It reminded him of the light that once dwelled inside them, so full of wonder and awe in the idyllic caress of youth. As any human, that light dimmed with age, confronted by the many worries kindled in adulthood. Even music, his son’s most sought after pastime, became one of a list of humdrum constants indulged for the sake of eating away the days. Except now, that once faded blur he came to see so often in Erik’s eyes grew in luminosity—a return so bright that Gérard had forgotten just how radiant that light could be if left untouched.

The silence between them grew greater as time stretched, for the elder had not yet said a word after his son’s confession.

Erik thought to give his gray-haired guest a moment to repossess himself, believing that it would assist in this most strange situation. Though, as Gérard sat there thinking, scratching the ash-dusted beard below his chin, Erik quickly grew tired of waiting for a response. So, in typical Erik fashion, he pierced the air with blunt force.

“So?”

That two-letter word rang in Gérard’s aged ears like the toiling bells of Notre-Dame. When the rings faded, he turned his head to meet Erik’s expectant gaze.

“I have granted all that you have asked of me. The least you can do is give me an elucidation.” The other spoke stiffly, looking to the still-pondering man sitting beside him.

When Erik’s reply was met with continued silence, what strings of patience that remained snapped. He gave Gérard a few more seconds should he surrender to his intent to avoid confrontation. Still, as the sound of a lone petal dropping from its decayed rose on the tea table in front of them, none had been spoken. Words had yet to be mouthed even as Erik stared the elder down with a light that developed into a wildfire from a once golden dawn. Then, as if lightning struck, he spoke again, this time with a temperament unshielded by patience nor propriety.

“You come here looking for answers, throwing doors and creating a ruckus while my student sleeps in the other room with a stitched up leg. When I heed your demands, all you do is remain mute like a dead animal. You know now my secret, which I have held from you for a considerable time, and yet you show no sign of satisfaction. What more do you want from me?! A written declaration? An opera? Say something! Answer me or I shall remove you from this home myself, no matter our history!”

With that blow from Erik, Gérard broke from his spell. Indignantly, he retorted, “You know very well why I am at a loss for words.”

“Is it because you think this is impossible? For Erik to love? For him to be paid all the same respects he’s ever deserved, the same ones he never had the chance to endure?”

“Stop speaking in tongues, Erik.”

“Only when you stop speaking proverbially will Erik return to his normal speech pattern,” the masked man asserted pettily, crossing his arms.

Gérard sighed and shook his head. “She is not another instrument you can play. She’s a woman. One with a great big life ahead of her that will die if you keep her down here with you.”

The former manager watched as his son looked off into the distance—somewhere he assumed even his son could not point a finger to. Apparently, his statement left a larger imprint than he thought it would.

After a while of wordless staring, Erik slumped his shoulders and hung his head. Gérard could sense that a release was underway. A pitiful, woebegone release. Erik then hunched forward and placed his hands over his knees in a quiet gesture of defeat.

That once naive young boy rose from within as he lamented, “What is there left for me in this world? I have done anything and everything to find peace in it, but that bliss never lasts. When I have finally acquired some meaning, someone, I am left with the same burdens as I had when I first embarked upon this journey. It is my accursed visage that poisons my life and now my one true chance at solace.”

Erik led a hand through his reddish blond locks, grasping at the strands like they were his last hope for survival.

“Oh, poor, ugly Erik. The living dead—no—even the dead rest peacefully. Poor Erik, God’s living mistake.”

The mask was now shrouded in an extra layer of silken cloth. But as Erik lay there, seemingly still without a sound, Gérard saw the faintest jerk emerge from the back of his son’s neck. Then out came a voiceless sob. And tears, just as locked away as he kept that face of his.

Gérard stared at him as soundless weeps emerged under hardened clay. If only he had known how to assess this. Just as Belladova once did in those three years of felicity. But, as Gérard had done all through his boy’s life, he did nothing. For he had not the faintest clue. His father nor any of the men he was raised under had an understanding of the degree of emotion Erik had in him. They all died or abandoned Gérard once his life fell into ruin, much less consoled him for his discomforts.

Awkwardly, Gérard placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. This action seemed to startle Erik as he tilted his back around to meet again the eyes of his houseguest. He sniffled a bit, then returned to the unfeeling façade he housed whenever Gérard paid him a visit.

“You should go.”

The elder protested, “Erik…”

“I know you have your doubts.” The masked man stood, cutting his father off to usher him towards the front door. “But come what may, it shall all end well. I will make sure of it.”

As they made their way to the door, Gérard made sure to stop before he made his leave. This visit earned him more questions than he had when he first arrived, so he supposed that he ought to have the final word.

“How long will she stay?”

Erik thought over his answer. “As long as she needs.”

“You mean, as long as you see fit.”

“Correct. Au revoir,” he raised his hand in a gesture of farewell and began to shut the door.

Gérard put his shoe through before he closed it.

“One last note,” the elder beseeched to his host’s annoyance.

“What is it?”

“See that she returns as soon as she is well. The Comte will be expecting her, with much more distress if she remains here longer than intended.”

“What do I care about that pampered prat?” Erik scorned.

Gérard paused. That last comment left a hole he wasn’t anticipating. “God, I hope you know what you’re doing. Adieu.”

Erik saw his father remove his shoe and he closed the door with little hesitation. However, leaning against the slab of wood, he listened to the echoed footsteps as the elder made his way through the narrow concrete masonry once more. He contemplated escorting him out through another route, but soon discarded that thought. Gérard possessed an intelligence even he couldn’t comprehend. One that was different from the arts—which he was so adept in—but just as remarkable.

The former opera manager had everything equipped to be a father. He had all but one flaw: his inability to escape the restraint of cowardice. For that, Erik was unforgiving.

Chapter Text

Söta Drömmar

Vem Kan Segla Förutan Vind?

Christine awoke steadily. Eyes shut, she felt herself rock. Back and forth she went, like the undulating tides of sea. Once to the right, followed by the left. It was a pleasant ride to endure, right until the nausea from spinning produced a headache.

A darkness occupied her vision—so painfully black that she was unable to decipher her surroundings. Was she on a boat? A fiacre? Her hammock under the stage? The latter seemed the most plausible; she fell asleep not too long ago. But, she also remembered that it was not her home she had returned to last night.

Oh my, what have I gotten myself into?

She felt her cheeks warm up. Her hands lifted to touch them, only to not feel their pressure upon her skin. Again, she tried. Her fingers hovered over her face and fell onto where she believed her pale cheeks to be. In the cusp of pure blackness, she extended her fingers in and out, just as a spider spins its silken thread. But she did not feel a thing.

As she desperately grabbed at the location she felt her face ought to be, her head rustled against cloth. Smooth, fine threads tickled the bare of her neck. Linen, she recognized, a cheap fabric that could be woven by hand with a flax spinning machine.

She had owned a fair share of linen garments from her youth, all hand-sewn by either of her parents. It began with her mother, who was once a couturière, a profession with which came the gift of bespoke dresses and nightgowns. But this tradition came to cease not long after its beginning; six years into her birth, her mother had passed from tuberculosis. Not soon after, her father took on the task of family tailor—thankfully, for a household of two. Unlike her dear mama, her father’s pieces were functional at best and loose-fitting and scratchy at worst. He made some for his own use as well, mainly trousers and dress shirts for the countless occupations he labored until his untimely dismissal.

Linen was the textile she found most comforting. Despite its commonality, the fabric held in it the few memories she had left of her homeland—of the one true place she held an attachment for: Uppsala. It was a quaint Swedish town populated by markets and merchants, all of whom were well-versed in their unique crafts. Whether it be confectionery, metalwork, or shoemaking, the merchandise sold—in her humble opinion—could rival no other. And the linen gowns she had been gifted on occasion were just as glamorous to her once guileless eyes. Pattern upon pattern, embroidered with daisies and lily-of-the-valley in sweet, candied colors, adorned her little body on days like the anniversary of her birth. She pranced in them as did the tumbling hogs she and her father passed by on the trek back home, or the faeries from old Swedish fables he recited to her during bedtime.

The cute garments made her feel magical. Sometimes, she even refused to take them off, for fear that they would get lost. But her father, like the master negotiator he was, always found the perfect excuse to remove it for laundering. Even then, she was surrounded by linen, if not drowned in it. The textile was in the bedsheets, the carpets, the curtains, the dishrags, the rugs, on her, on her father…

Perhaps, that was why she remembered it the most. Linen had been a tradition, a namesake for the memories of her family. The family she had once so deeply loved and relied upon, the last of which lost not so long ago. In these fleeting days, linen inherited a crude burden, one that held the troubling, doleful reality she met everyday since becoming truly alone. It became a reminder, an immovable monument in the face of amnesia. Sometimes the memories brought from it gave her pleasure, and sometimes they did not. Even now, amidst a pool of black and nowhere but, her only vague consolation was in the certainty of laying upon linen—the fabric of her past and present.

No matter the strength, her eyelids refused to open. Her limbs astrayed. But her limp body lay in sweeping motion against a strangely familiar linen surface. Had she gone blind? Or had the reaper come to escort her earlier than intended? Her movements were ghostly. She could clearly feel her limbs, along with the flesh and blood that rested upon them, just as any living person would. But, as she flailed her hands around, she felt them drag. It was as if she were a submerged boat and her arms the oars.

It left her unsettled, the absence of image, of something. This lack of anything at all brought down a great fear she had never previously been witness to.

That was, until she began to discern blotches of fading colors—small earthworms and sparkling scarabs that flitted about her vision before crawling away into the abyss. Then came a faint light that peeked through her eyelids, casting the unobservable darkness into a warm red.

She felt whole once more, her hands no longer a specter’s fleece, her body no longer a separate entity. Something about this return to wholeness felt enlivening… and perhaps it was. She pondered the cause of her brief escape. The first thought that came to mind was the medicine. Whatever stored in that glass tube of death must have procured this. Although, as clear as that idea seemed, she refused to believe it. He couldn’t have known, she convinced herself. Erik’s promise relinquished that notion.

Her hands finally reached the flesh on her face. The skin was the same—soft and malleable, as it was any other day. But more importantly, she could feel again. She could grasp at things, just as God intended human hands to do. She could feel her own weight resting, she could hear the oscillating breaths entering and exiting from within. Oh, what joy it is to be aware of one’s living!

Then, with quick fluttering motions, her eyes began to open. A warm light cast upon her face from some place above, enveloping her in rich warmth. She turned her head to view her surroundings, to which her mouth hung agape.

Where she found herself was nowhere near where she last fell asleep. In fact, it was hundreds of miles away, perhaps even thousands.

The possibility of death soon returned. There was no feasible explanation for how she had gotten here, the place where she so longed to be again. Unless, she had been brought to it by the Archangel Michael himself.

The sun’s rays slipped through arched windows and bounced onto freshly waxed, beige floorboards. White linen curtains flung themselves forward, catching the wind like swans mid-flight. Stone walls, whose rugged surface was revealed by the breaking light, stood behind a wrought-iron stove and a generous array of cookware. Smells of baked bread and thyme and all there was that provoked her sense of childhood overwhelmed her nostrils. It was just as it had been seventeen years ago, in those times of transitory delight. 

Here it stood, in its old Swedish glory, her barndomshem. She was back.

Her eyes then ventured to her hands, the very ones they failed to construe not so long before. It didn’t take much time for her to realize something was amiss. Her hands were not as thin and feminine as she had come to expect for her age. Instead, what greeted her vision were stout little fingers the size of bean sprouts and petals for nail beds. Her skin, while still her own, was whiter than she last remembered it. The hair that fell over the side of her jaw was much shorter and lighter as well, with a reflective gold tinge that shimmered in the sun.

When what she believed a gasp slipped her lips, a shrill squeaking noise left in its place. With every word came out more abhorrent noises, much that of an animal shot in its hind leg or some other analogy that could compare. Fright poured through her insides. With it, an unabated compulsion for emotional release.

She cried. A reason for it, she could not say, except to quell the massive, untamable need to rid of her internal lamentations. Doing so was a soothing practice, which greatly lessened her trembling the further she did it. But her incessant weeping eventually came to cease when she felt her hand touch another’s.

The hand was much greater in scale than her own. Its skin, sunburnt, calloused and dry, with curly gray hairs on its back. It clearly belonged to a man, one whom time and fieldwork had aged.

A voice then arose from above her head, deep and warm as the heat emitted from the rustic stove before her. But, beside that richness was a crisp clarity that precluded it from being a bass. In the world of opera, one would distinguish it as baritone.

“Sssst, min dotter. Var inte rädd,” came the words, melting into each other like fresh Spring honey. There was only one man she knew of that spoke in such a manner.

“Pappa,” said Christine, who looked up to see the adoring face she once came home to so often.

A great big smile emerged from her father’s face, his teeth slightly crooked, and his hairs still as gray and feathered as she remembered. Wrinkles tightened under his pale eyelids and dimples as he looked down at his daughter.

He was much larger than her, an alarming size, which allowed her to lay on her back above his knees. To think of it, it seemed that she herself shrunk! And so did her clothes! They were much like the garments she wore…

When she was a child.

The realization stilled her fears. She did not die, thank the Lord. This vision was merely a making of her mind—a dream. It was as simple and uncomplicated as that.  Although, it was a uniquely lifelike one to put it frankly.

Her Pappa hummed a soft tune as he circled the middle of her infantile palm with his thumb.

The skin under his thumb was just as dry as she remembered it to be. Like a sanded slab of wood that tickled her supple flesh. His voice, his clothing, everything about him seemed to have returned in this unexpected reunion. He himself was just as he once was, before the ailing times. Before the joy turned to coughing fits or lengthy periods of slumber. Before the pressure of her finding work in the farms, or as a maid in shops that entertained barely a handful of customers. Before his confinement to bed for however long it was until fate caught him by the throat.

All she desired to do now was weep. Seeing him alive and well and happy greatened her longing to have him truly back, resurrected from that unkempt garden left abandoned by her merely a year ago, away from that poor excuse of a grave.

Alas, God could give no such pity, for the workings of nature and the universe forbade it so.

The rocking soon grew all too familiar, its creaking noise echoing against the wooden floorboards—one, two, one, two. She despised it just the same when she sat on her father’s knee to listen to his stories. The noise always tore her away from the magic of his words. Except, now there was no book in his hands, only a melodious tune intertwined with those incessant creakings.

There she was again, held by her father in his old reading chair, listening to his voice and feeling the rising and falling of his chest as she laid her head against it. He continued to rub circles on her small palm, in motion with every transitioning hum.

Not so long after he began, the creaking faded. His voice overtook her baby form, who seemingly fell “asleep” in this world of dream.

The comforting melody that hugged her ears mellowed into incoherent mumbling. Their echoes played out until they, too, extinguished into obscure silence, and darkness once again befell her eyes.

Upon reopening them, she was greeted with a brush of frigid air. Her nose stiffened at the sensation, her face numb. With each breath, white mist flew from her lips. The cackling of crows were heard some distance above, to which she tilted her head to search for their whereabouts. Their dark feathers cut through the pasty white sky like shadows emitted from an oil lamp. Taking a step, a bed of browning grass met her ankles, pricking her skin with their cold, decayed blades.

Surveying her surroundings, she realized she was standing outside her childhood home. This time, the once homely brick house was now infested with browning vines and unkempt moss. The ground beneath her feet were just as bleak in color, layered in a bed of unraked leaves.

A wintry day like this in Uppsala meant tending to the garden. Just like any year, the decayed foliage needed to be removed and new crops planted for their Springtime birth.

She crouched down, habit guiding her hands as she gathered the lifeless plants. Until a handful of them occupied her arms she hadn’t realized the difference in her size compared to her last vision. Her body no longer took the form of a youthful baby, but a meek, young lady who was in dire need of a hair comb and a garb that went past her ankles. She felt like herself again. Almost—if not for her surroundings.

As much as she desired to return, Uppsala was not her place to be. Her true fate was to live in Paris and sing professionally, just as her father once asked her to do, just as she wished to do—a dream, a real one, which faded as soon as it was lit. Hence, she gleaned that all this was just a continuation of her state of slumber.

Peering downward, she found herself wearing a dark gray gown. The same one which she wore on her first day entering the Opera Populaire. Its condition wasn’t tattered and wrinkly as she came to know it was after a year of usage. Instead, the linen looked perfectly stitched together; brand new as the day she bought it from a local market in Perros-Guirec.

This fact made her frown. She did not purchase that dress for mere indulgence; it was the cheapest, yet most befitting dress for an occasion of sorrow—for her father’s impromptu funeral.

It played out all over again: the dreadful visit to his French home, their last supper, his last words, and the mortuary process that began shortly after. A few friends from his boyhood visited to transport him back to their long-abandoned Swedish cottage. She recalled their awkward attempts at conversation, speaking about her father as if he were still flesh and bones instead of a corpse destined to rot away in a pine wood coffin. The train ride was uneventful. The funeral, slightly less so. Her father’s friends were joined by some local townsfolk who knew him from his many jobs. Speeches were said and condolences offered. Then came her time to acknowledge the unspoken truth.

There she stood, in the spoiled, overgrown mess she once spent her days nurturing. She hadn’t prepared a speech, despite the circumstances. No amount of words could define her grief. So, she decided to sing. Just as she did when her father played his famous fiddle in the streets and soil. Just as she did when their home was empty and the rain pattered against the windows in a musical frenzy. And just as she did by his bedside, when he requested to hear his daughter’s voice one last time before he and her mother reunited at the glorious gates of Paradise.

She learned many a folk song over the years, either from her father or from word of mouth. French was not her first language, nor was it her father’s, so a Swedish song she would sing. The only issue was the songs she knew of did not suit the occasion; they all pertained to the country’s blessed people or its land’s abundant fertility, of the joyous feats made by the working Swedes and their undying love for their homeland. Only now did she curse her people’s unrelenting warm disposition.

Amidst her hopelessness, however, she recalled a new song that had become popular among sailors and their wives: Vem Kan Segla Förutan Vind?—a valedictory ballad dedicated to sending off loved ones to a place far away. Reciting it would be perfect for a time like this. And so, Christine began her bittersweet farewell:

Vem kan segla förutan vind?

Vem kan ro utan åror?

Vem kan skiljas från vännen sin

Utan att fälla tårar?

Jag kan segla förutan vind,

Jag kan ro utan åror.

Men ej skiljas från vännen min

Utan att fälla tårar.

The crowd gave her a standing ovation—not one entrenched in splendor, but sorrow, though no less sincere in its congratulation. As they exchanged handkerchiefs, some sinful part of her felt amused, prideful even, for their reverence.

But more than naught did she feel empty. Her sorrow, all gone, languished into a state of unfeeling discontent that stuck to her insides like some kind of plague. This feeling never left ever since he died. It only petered out in dreams until it rebounded with as much intensity as it held in real life.

The dream was no longer pleasant. None of them truly were past the funeral. A blanket of bliss enveloped them at certain points, for which she was grateful, but it was few and far between. Sometimes they woke her in a cold sweat, breathing erratically as if she had contracted a respiratory ailment. It became such a frequent occurrence that she had known when to sense it, to prepare herself for an unprecedented fright.

Soon enough, the cloud of black returned to shroud her eyes from a relatively tame dream. A tear or two may have shed in her slumber, but at least she hadn’t woken with a crazed gasp.

As she felt herself fall deeper, her body became limp once more. The numbness which protruded her mind now traversed into her very bones. It was an oddly soothing sensation.

She presumed that this would be the end of her nighttime escapade. No substantial terrors were envisioned, so she could safely say that she could leave unscathed. Expectant of her premature awakening, she waited patiently for the darkness to wither and her eyesight to return.

Only, neither did as anticipated.

Christine continued to lay limp, unable to move her limbs nor her head. Her eyes remained open, unblinking. She felt a pressure arise on her chest despite not seeing a thing. The invisible force kept pulling her into herself as if a deer had fallen dead upon her solid form. Her mouth failed to open as she attempted to breathe, to call out, to do anything that could verbally alert her distress.

It was happening again. She could feel it.

The black mist dissolved for her eyesight to return once more. What she saw was the same image as her last vision: the overgrown cottage with the pine wood coffin, still yet to be buried inside its rectilinear hole. A square tombstone stood beside the hole, inscribed with the name “Gustave Daaé.”

While she could not physically move an inch, her form in view glided toward the coffin in spite of her reluctance. She stopped to stand there once a safe distance away, watching the closed lid and the many scratches atop its surface. Her father’s friends had been rash; instead of hiring a coffin-maker, they were convinced that his newly acquired apprentice could take on such a project. The result was just as she had expected—unpolished, poorly measured, and misshapen.

A faint drop of cold fell on her forefinger as she was observing. Then another, and another. They then began spraying in unison until her hair became drenched in water. It was raining, just as it had been that day.

The surface of the coffin slowly darkened from the raindrops. Once pale beige, the wood now seeped into a warm brown, and her garments drenched into an ashy slate. As much as she urged herself to move, she stood idly amidst the descending showers as they poured down increasingly.

She felt cold and wet. Worse was the suffocating weight which sat on her chest as she stood emotionless, open to all natural phenomena that came her way. Her eyes only remained on the simple coffin in front of her.

Nobody was in the garden—if it could even be called that—no one but her. There she was, fixed in place and drenched like a raggedy doll given a bath by its child owner, anticipating another night terror. She remained watchful for a spontaneous scare or burst of noise. Instead, all she heard were the thunderous tumults of the sky and the crinkling of leaves as the wind pushed them into one another. The pressure never fell from her chest either, nor did the ringing she felt atop her scalp—all signs of a forthcoming demon that would harm her in the most disgraceful manner, and tear her apart as if she were shredded chicken. At least, that was what she imagined such a terror could encompass.

A compulsion to converge on the coffin overcame her. Try as she might, her attempts at standing in place or walking away were proven faulty by the image of her form peering closer to the wooden container. She grit her teeth as she watched her own hand place itself on the lid, her fingers tracing over the indentations left from missed knife-carvings. Then, she did what her mind refused to do: with both hands over the edge, she lifted the weighty, wet slab of wood above her head.

The hinges creaked that shrill, crackling sound she hated so much—the sounds she so often was forced to listen to as her father gracefully rocked in his reading chair all those years ago.

In the narrow, tapered-hexagonal space, there was no cloth. The coffin’s walls were bare, unlike its upholstered cousins crafted by the master coffin maker, whose apprentice spent little from their inventory to construct it. The rain did not spare the wood from its wrath either; the edges once untouched by water were soon doused in it, browning the surface just as it had the rest of the encasement.

Most striking of all was the flaccid figure resting inside. A white pillow lay underneath his head, dutifully gifted by one of his friends who couldn’t dare ask her to provide one. He was graciously dressed in the suit he once told her he was married in, along with a silver necklace and cross pendant draped over his chest. His mop of gray hair was neatly combed and his beard trimmed to a gentlemanly mustache. Smudges of blush highlighted his cheekbones and nose, presumably a rouge borrowed from one of the female neighbors. One could call the ensemble the making of a doll-maker; her father, dressed and painted like the porcelain dolls gifted by wealthy parents to their children. Except those dolls had wide, glassy eyes—a feature no longer possessed by her father.

She could not help but admire the corpse as it lay dead in the most peaceful slumber one could imagine. Perhaps it was just her, but it seemed as if a miniscule smile emerged on his face—an image so peaceful that it cured her of what worries she had left.

The rain began to accumulate inside the coffin, bathing her father in a wooden tub. All his garments became submerged in water as she remained motionless, staring into his closed eyelids for God knows how much time. She observed as his long, silver eyelashes captured the droplets like waxy leaves. Every time she spoke to her father, his eyelashes were the first to stand out. It was a trait she was always desired to acquire, be it through applying Vaseline or concoctions of egg white and charcoal. Alas, she had taken her mother’s eyes, which brought with them short, light blonde hairs visible only to those who brought their face to hers. Now here she was again, gazing at her father’s face just as she had once done when she was merely a babe. 

A new, involuntary urge to move flooded her. This time, provoking her to hover her head over the corpse’s face. Invading her gaze was a clearer view of his bluing skin and all the imperfections that came with a decomposing body. Her face neared so close to his forehead that her lips were less than an inch from contact. Soon enough, they found themselves doing just that: becoming lightly pursed to give a gentle, but deep smack—an act she deemed more a farewell than reciting some tune heard on the streets of Sweden.

As soon as the kiss left her lips, the pressure which held down her chest sprung. She opened her eyes to meet the face which now occupied her vision. Her form retracted, and a gasp broke from her mouth.

There was no time for her to digest the creature before her, whose bulging eyes and graven face resembled those of a drunken man. His hair became disheveled into a hurricane of gray, strands flinging outward like a flock of partridges released from their cage. He looked so much like him—retaining the same features and clothes, just as he had when he was laid to rest. Except, she knew deep inside that this wild, unnatural creature conjured by her brain could never be her father.

He arose from his bed in the coffin and grabbed her left forearm. The frozen spell which ached her body seemingly fell, and now she was able to move again. But as she attempted to pull away from the undead imposter, his nails pierced through her skin enough to contain her in his grasp.

She was dragged towards him, slamming her bosom into the coffin’s wooden exterior. But before the pain from the impact could settle, another hand went to grab at her chin to force her to face him. 

With heated breath, the revenant spoke, “Varför lämnade du mig? Varför har du övergivit mitt namn?  Säg mig varför, Christine, varför?”

Christine answered, trembling, “Jag var tvungen att gå, Pappa. Du ville att jag skulle göra det.”

“Hädelse! Du vet att det var du som ville åka. Jag gav dig bara näring så att du kunde leva din dröm. O, vilken dröm det var, att aldrig bära frukt. Tänkte du på mig när du misslyckades med din debut? Nej, jag var bara den sjuke gamle mannen i sängen som inte kunde hålla i en fiol, än mindre se ditt framträdande. Du lämnade mig att ruttna, och ruttna gjorde jag Christine.”

Tears amassed in her eyes as he said this. She tried to pull away, but his grip latched onto her deeper the more she tried.

“Säg mig varför, Christine, varför?”

His nails pierced through her flesh.

“Varför, Christine?”

The internal folds peeled away as he dragged them back.

Torrents rolled down her cheeks, and her face ruckled like an ugly raisin left out in the window sill too long. Then, a sudden spike surged her body, through what felt like her very bones. She watched as the creature tore her arm, ripping its tendons and arteries, then scraping away the nauseous, slimy innards left with claws deluged in a red so bright that it competed with blossoming roses.

Now, her gown and her golden locks were drenched, not just in rainwater, but in the liquid which kept life alive. The red sprawled the edges of the pine wood, mixing and mingling with the clear droplets—staining the brown a faint pink. Even the crumply foliage underneath was not prone to the coating, as they, too, were harassed with the concoction.

What looked to be her father paused his ghastly activity to inch his face toward hers. In utter agony, she felt her breathing rush and her heartbeat jump in unison, awaiting his next move as she looked into those once welcoming gray eyes.

With one swift swing, he retracted and punched his fist into her. “Svara mig, din eländiga flicka!”

She jolted awake upon her wailing breath.

Chapter Text

Nocturne

Black. It was everywhere; from the ceiling to the floor, caged by the walls in Erik’s bedroom. The murky, yet invisible substance pervaded Christine’s eyes as it had a few moments before, when memories of her past invaded her psyche in rapid succession. Darkness, the capsule which encompassed all this black, could never be trusted, even if one felt what could be described as respite, or a derivation of it, within its quarters. She had firsthand knowledge of this… but, like the rest of humanity, the brief, desirable grasp of darkness could never fail to ferment even the most seasoned of individuals.

She shrieked, sitting upright on the bed at what could possibly be the speed of a second. Her wakefulness couldn’t prevent her from the images she had previously envisioned, however. That dastardly thing kept staring at her with those mad gray eyes and untamed hair, wearing her father’s most cherished garbs. 

Sobs overtook her as her shoulders shook from the sudden cold that slithered down her spine. She grabbed at the navy duvet with all her might, trying to feel that softness she was so fond of as a child. But it wasn’t working—the duvet was clearly made of cotton, too smooth and manufactured to provide her any internal comfort. If only it had been made of linen, then would she have felt an ounce of relief.

In an attempt to calm herself, she began rocking instead. One two, one two. Creak, creak. There it was again, that meddlesome noise.

She was alone. Again. Without her father, without the opera crew, without Phillippe, and even without her dearest Erik beside her. Where had they all gone? Was she now truly dead? Slain by that thing, that conjuring of the very thing which gave her thought, her own mind? Or did she die of her own accord, by the thrusting of her heart, the palpitations too quick, too magnitudinal to bear?

The worst of it all was that heathen’s uncanny resemblance to the man who awarded her with life's happiest days. The one man whom she could say for certain she loved, enough that a piece of her became lost to oblivion the day he left his place on Earth. She could never find such a love, nor possess such a devotion to someone ever again. What an unkind world she had to live in. To have her heart ripped all over again, shred by fraying shred, viewing her joyous, fiddle-playing Pappa as some kind of vile monster. The mere thought brought endless streams down her eyes.

Her face felt hot. A headache brewed beneath her skull. Her hands went back to the duvet, tugging at it once again.

She wished she never returned to Paris. Her death should’ve been right there and then, after everyone left that Godforsaken funeral at Uppsala. The crows could’ve had a grand feast that day. Instead, there she was, leaving him to rot in soil too untilled to produce harvest or provide home for sprouting flowers. A dead place for someone so alive. No wonder his resentment; he was upset from beyond the grave. Because of her. For leaving her barndomshem so freely, without a single glance, into a life of howling divas and prancing ballet rats—only to remain the same old anonymous broad, whose dreams of becoming the next big soprano were torn away from a minor case of aphonia.

“Du lämnade mig att ruttna, och ruttna gjorde jag Christine,” her mind repeated. Those wretched words stung her brain, her face, her soul. She was a failure, and her father knew it. Not even the chains of death could keep her from his acrimony.

Her quiet sobs transitioned into wails. Ugly, rancid sounds produced from them, intermingling with trails of wet mucus and tears. The medicine significantly inflamed her discomfort; everything felt off. Her head spun, her leg burned, her ears rang. It was unbearable.

Being by herself only made her susceptible to the emotional torment. She needed someone, and quickly. God, even the squeaking of mice could fill that void if it meant masking those ten awful words. But the room remained the same, replete with the sound of death itself: nothing.

And it disturbed her beyond comprehension.

All she could hear was her father’s embittered speech—every syllable spoken with the deepest pits of disappointment. All she could feel were the stinging pricks of her corseted right leg, lines of perspiration raining down her bosom and backside. She felt like filth. A rotten fish dissected and resewn for some aquatic museum, only to detangle and flop into a slimy pile for the custodian to dispose of. How could she ever begin to believe that she could be someone up on the stage, a limelight to her figure and an audience to herself? A rotting fish with the voice of a dazzling diva? Even the most absurd thing imaginable could not compete with such a scenario.

Her wailing eventually became too strident to not be heard. Sounds of shoes thumping against the carpet grew past the bedroom, until the door to it swung open ferociously. The light from the candelabras in the music room lit the door-opener from behind, casting a faint orangey glow into the bedroom.

In the doorway was Erik, adorned with his flesh-toned mask and a hand tied to the doorknob. His eyes were ridden with worry.

Upon sight of her face, he rushed to sit by her on the bed. “Christine! What happened?!”

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. Right when she thought she composed herself enough to speak, a hiccup broke out. “I saw my father. A-and he hates me!”

Erik watched as her face contorted into a wilted flower. Those once smooth cheeks now shriveled into a melancholic mess. What lips once housed bright smiles now turned downward in a painful bout of sadness. All he could do was observe as she moved her head to lean on his shoulder, her left hand wrapping around her left knee in a desperate search for comfort. As much as he desired to keep her safely tucked away in his arms, her injury was in the way. So, he laid his right arm over her in a small gesture of care.

“Breathe. I’m here,” he said softly, rubbing her left upper arm. She obliged and inhaled and exhaled deeply. But the cries refused to end.

“He was there. Looking at me. He knew what I did. I failed him, Erik!”

“Who was where, Christine?”

“My Pappa! Out of his coffin, in our old house in Sweden…” She wiped at her nose with the back of her hand.

“He was there for me and look what I did. Nothing! I couldn’t even honor him properly… instead he died for a daughter who failed to do the one thing she promised him she would do.”

Erik assumed she meant her unsatisfactory debut the night prior. If it couldn’t be that, then he didn’t know what else she could be despondent about.

“That’s not true and you know it,” He replied firmly, “It was just a nightmare.”

She choked out another sob. “B-but that’s just it! He spoke to me from beyond the grave. I saw him! Flesh and blood. He was so, so upset. I know he knows. He just does.” Her right hand went to tug at his blouse, her fingers wrinkling the cotton material into a tornado of folds.

Erik remained silent for a while and continued to rub her arm softly. Back and forth his hand went. One, two. One, two. No more creaking noises. No more head-spinning. She sat there, concentrating on those gentle movements with her eyes closed. Tears fell from her eyes and she restrained the urge to wail for the sake of her own dignity. Her breathing was raspy at first, but it grew softer as she sat there next to him. Eventually the desperation left, along with the sounds of her father’s thunderous lament. Those ten words seeped away into the air like a ghost’s echo. 

A sigh slipped past her lips. It was calm now.

He sensed the change in her demeanor, but still continued to give her left arm what he thought were soothing rubs. “Is this helping?”

She nodded, not yet ready to speak. It was as if the past eight or so hours had cursed her of any usage of her vocal cords. She spoke normally from time to time, but for some peculiar reason raising her voice brought a pain that stung her throat.

What an odd circumstance this was, being unable to sing or speak loudly. She had been doing the first all her life, and especially during the last few months since becoming a pupil of Erik’s. Now this was what she was repaid with? Not one word slightly above a certain range lest she suffer a bothersome ache from within? She was left questioning what she had done to deserve such a punishment.

Minutes passed in silence between the both of them. It was of a comfortable variety. The darkness no longer felt threatening despite how little light there was left in the room.

Her glum thoughts gradually dissipated. Having him beside her surely helped in the matter; his hands, anchors bringing her back to shore from a stormy voyage at sea.

She loosened her grip on his blouse until she removed her fingers from it entirely, letting her right hand drop down onto the duvet below.

He watched her as she did this and waited for her to speak again. She caught his stare. “Thank you.”

“No worries,” he answered, ceasing his rubbing. He then pulled out a silky white piece of cloth from his trouser pocket—a handkerchief—and handed it to her.

She looked at the square of fabric that rested delicately on his hands. Her eyes then lifted to look at his own in confusion.

“Go on,” he said, “I’ll wash it later. You can use it if you like.”

She gave a small nod and took it from his hand, her fingers brushing his. His hand was warm, somewhat tough and lightly hairy, a texture she remembered her father having. It felt strangely nostalgic.

After she blew her nose with the handkerchief, she placed the ruined cloth on the bedside table on her left.

“Thank you for being so hospitable to me,” she remarked softly, a warmth rising over the apples of her cheeks.

He smiled. “You mustn’t be so thankful all the time. I’ll be glad to do all this even when you aren’t my guest.”

She returned the smile, hers a tad teethy. “Likewise.”

He could not help but admire her when she did this. “You have a beautiful smile, Christine.”

Both their eyes widened at his sudden compliment.

“I-uhm,” he stuttered awkwardly and looked at his hands, which began to fidget. Sometimes his mouth had a mind of its own to his disappointment—a trait he likely gained from that so-called father of his.

“That’s very kind of you to say, Erik,” she said, bashful.

Their eyes met briefly before they turned away to focus on something else menial in the room. Neither of them realized it, but the heat from within was rising. Their hearts beat at a quicker rate. Their thoughts occupied their brains enough to cloud their presence amongst each other. Thoughts of what transpired that day, that night, and of each other.

She was the first to break their introspective ballad. “Where did you go?”

“Pardon?”

Red ran across her cheeks. “Where were you when I awoke?”

He froze. He had forgotten he left her bedside when he went to speak with Gérard. Who knows how many hours went by without her knowing where he had gone off to. It was not a wise decision on his part, and he felt awful for even doing so when he had an injured house guest to look after.

“Oh, we had an unexpected visitor.”

“Gérard?”

He sighed. “Yes, him.”

Maybe it was the candlelight from the doorway, but he swore that a glint emerged in her eyes the moment he mentioned his father’s name.

“How was he? What did he think of my being here?” She questioned intently. Anyone would find it odd to find someone of the opposite gender in their bedroom lest it be their relative, spouse or someone they were courting. The whole ordeal felt exciting to her. Perhaps even a bit moreish, if she were to be honest.

Erik leaned his back against the bed frame. “He’s fine. He came here looking for you, actually.” He decided to steer away from Gérard’s opinions about her presence at his home. Especially since that conversation would inadvertently lead to talk of a topic he was not ready to tread.

“Me?” Her brows raised in surprise.

“It’s because Choleti and Carlotta were asking about you. Apparently, they were curious about your whereabouts after what happened last night.” A trickle of guilt slipped through as he said that last statement.

She frowned slightly and lowered her head, blonde locks curtaining the sides of her face. The directors were presumably displeased with the outcome of her performance. Who could blame them? After last night, she had forever instilled in them that she was just another good-for-nothing farmgirl with dreams larger than what reality could possibly offer.

What an embarrassment you are, she scorned internally and turned away from him. It took every ounce of her willpower to restrain herself from crying all over again. Unfortunately, that was far from enough when a quiet sob spilled from her mouth.

Erik frowned when he spotted her spiral. He wondered if he should rub her arm again if it did any good in providing her comfort. His hand went to place itself on her arm, but he tore it away just as it was about to make contact. Stop prodding her, damnit.

“Christine?” He turned his whole person to face her. “Dear, are you alright?”

The blonde sniffled. “Y-yes.”

He could sense her fib. “Are you sure?” He asked sincerely, leaning his head closer to her still-diverted face.

That act broke her. She felt as if towers of china had fallen from a poorly locked hutch, the shards splitting and launching into fine porcelain dust that stung at the soles of one’s feet. They kept falling, breaking, and tumbling into each other in a constant loop. They were never meant to leave the confines of that hutch. No matter how terrible the construction was.

Tears fell as she let herself fall victim to the grasp of regret. Her arms clutched at the bedsheets bedside her legs. Her face, a reddish slob of sweat and unsuppressed pain. First it had been her voice that was ruined, and now her appearance too.

“I’m so sorry. I put you through so much,” she cried, “A-and you’re still here recovering the pieces.”

His heart shattered at the sound of her apology. He placed a hand on her own, her skin tight like stone grabbing at the cotton material underneath them.

“Do not blame yourself.” His other hand went to place a pointer under her chin. He gently moved her face to meet his masked complexion.

A world of unsaid was seen through her red, make-up-smudged eyes and tousled locks. He could feel the warmth in her skin in the little contact he had; she was an eruption greater than the one suffered by Mount Vesuvius.

He did not say anything immediately; he just stayed there with his finger beneath her chin, their faces inches apart and eyes unblinking. The usual anxious reminder that his face was too near to be revealed was no longer apparent. That small space between their faces, of his mask and her lips, was the length of a canyon, or the distance between Earth and sky, of sun and moon. Only if they could come together as one—a return to Pangea, to Adam and Eve—would it all be complete.

But it could never be that way. So, he relented to words of comfort instead of a passionate plea of affection.

“Hear me, you need not apologize. You haven’t done anything wrong. We all make mistakes. You just happened to make one today.”

He would’ve added in a note to do better next time, but it seemed rather cruel to mention it with how vulnerable she was. Their vocal sessions proved him to be a perfectionist when it came to music. Even then, he liked to think he wasn’t so mechanical.

Her voice broke the way a pianist loses their rhythm. “How could I demolish my entire career before I even began it?”

He pushed the hair out of her face and replied assuredly, “You haven’t demolished anything. You need rest, that’s all.”

“Erik, I failed! I cannot possibly see myself again on that stage.”

“Yes, you can. Once you heal, I’ll see to it that your return shall have the company at your feet. And with an entourage greater than what it had been last night!” He exclaimed, a glimmer in his eyes and a smile to his teeth. “There will be crowds erupting in glee, whimpering in awe and laughter and shedding tears when you sing.”

She shook her head, her lips turning upward just slightly.

He continued, “Today’s fluke was only to lure them into a state of unease. A trick of the eye, like the magicians say. When you come back will they then be awarded with the delicious surprise of your excellence.”

A chuckle leapt out of her. “Delicious surprise?”

“Now, now, how else shall I word it? Delectable? Flavorus? Succulent? Ah, I know. Scrumptious.”

He felt a hand lightly shove his shoulder. Then a giggle, along with movement from the bed and noises of a nose being blown. His handkerchief was then thrown back to its place on the leftmost bedside table.

“You have poor taste in vocabulary for someone I call Maestro,” she teased, her voice still nasal-sounding.

“Perhaps to you. I find it quite clever.”

“It’s creative, I’ll give it that.”

“How would you describe it then?”

“Describe what?”

“Your voice?”

The little dimple on the side of her cheek faded. She looked down at her hands, one of which was still sheathed in his. “Inept. Unrefined. Artless.”

How much more could his heart take? Hearing his pupil and confidante speaking words of discouragement to herself made him shrivel within. He simply would not have it. Not when he knew just how splendid she was when she sang the few lyrics she could of her aria. Amongst faces of whom she had known and whom she didn’t. When she looked at him from that sparkling stage, and him looking back at her from that Box 5 of his. It was pure joy, untainted ecstasy. They were yards away and yet he had never felt so close to her. Oh what he would do for her to be on that stage again. To see her so bliss and to feel at bliss seeing her at the same time.

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Wrong. It is anything but.”

She sighed. “How can you believe that? The audience was positively enraged!”

“They do not know what I know.”

“And that is?”

“That what happened last night was a flash. A momentary lapse.”

Her woe was soon gone, being replaced with frustration. “It cannot have been that. It could not possibly!”

“Why not?” He argued, “You sang perfectly the night before. And the night before that. Rehearsal was practically a stroll for you.”

“You had me practice longer during our sessions afterward. Surely my voice needed improvement if all of that was necessary.”

He paused. If he were truly honest, he made the arrangement to spend more time with her. But he was not going to tell her that anytime soon, if ever.

“T-that was… to perfect it before the show! Think of it as a painter varnishing his paintings before an exhibition. It enhances the colors. The sessions were an extra touch; your voice was excellent anyhow.”

Suddenly, she turned to her left and shoved a pillow to her face. Mumbling through the cotton casing, she said, “I have nothing else to think of.” Her head then lifted up to face him. “Regardless, Monsieur Choleti won’t let me sing again.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. I’ll take care of it.” He slid some of her curls off her shoulder, revealing her arm. The action seemed to stir her to sit up again.

She raised a brow. “You won’t do anything questionable, will you?”

“Questionable?” He huffed amusedly. “When have I done anything of the sort?”

Her lack of response to that question was all he needed to hold his tongue.

She tried to make herself comfortable on the bed. When shuffling, her knee stung a river of pain that washed through her right leg, earning a small squeak out of her. This alerted her dear Maestro, who flinched at the sound.

“Christine,” he started.

She waved a dismissive hand. “I am fine.” God knows she wasn’t. “Now, why don’t you join me?”

“Again?”

“Yes, again.” She smiled warmly.

The medicine had seemed to have worn off its sedative effects somewhat at least, if her unwonted rise in assertiveness were any clue. Or, maybe it was the opposite. Perhaps he had been talking to a Christine who was so far stricken with slumber that she was speaking in her sleep. He did read in the papers once that some people possessed the stupendous ability to look wide awake—eyes open and all—whilst they slept as peacefully as a pea. Then again, peas couldn’t sleep, neither could someone who was crying vehemently just moments ago.

He shyly set himself back in the position he found himself in before Gérard interrupted their slumber. This time, however, her eyes were far from closed and her speech clear.

“Isn’t that uncomfortable?”

“What is?” He knew exactly what she was referring to.

She poked the nose of his mask lightly. “This.”

The question he so desperately avoided was asked so simply, he wondered if it could be said with any more bluntness. And by anyone else so purely out of curiosity or that innocence that children had when they wanted to know right from wrong. He wanted to answer it, with all the truth he could muster from within. With all the pain and suppressed emotion he had kept to himself all those years living alone, or even with Gérard—there was little difference either way. But life was cruel and it reminded him so. It was a calendar whose holidays were pricks to the heart. A clock whose hands rung each hour to the sound of silent weeping. A morning mantra that refuted its purpose. And his face? A time capsule buried away, awaiting its revelation only to become obsolete.

But… there were always buts in his life. Howevers and althoughs, regardlesses and albeits. He grew accustomed to them over time. They helped him survive, at least that’s what he hoped they did. Gérard taught him about buts. He taught him many things, all except how to be a son. But—there it is again—buts were his most profound lesson. Erik, you can go anywhere in the opera, but where the people are. You can take your mask off whenever you like, but when I am present. You can go outside, but only at night and through disguise. Even now, Erik was at the behest of buts. He so desired to tell Christine of his endless miseries regarding his mask: the way it made his face melt from perspiration and indented the little skin that wasn’t tarnished from his conception; the way its accoutrement left him feeling subhuman because of his need for it; and the way it separated him from all those around him, except for those in society who were already cast away. But, like how all good things should be kept safe and secure, he mustn’t. That is, if he intended to continue his friendship with her. And by God he did, even if it meant shielding the very thing that made people individual.

“No. I’ve learnt to live with it,” he said.

They laid beside each other in an inviting ambience. She let her finger fall away from his mask and placed her hand behind her head. The door remained open behind them, letting in the warm candlelight from the music room. It flickered its rays and shaped a golden outline on the clay adornment he wore.

“We all learn to live with dissatisfaction, I suppose.” She could feel his exhaling in line with her own. “It’s nice knowing that it’s a like experience. Makes us feel less alone.”

A tightness arose in his chest. “There are indeed some things that life cannot grant us, despite how much we vie for them.”

An uncontrollable wordlessness struck her as lightning does a man riding a velocipede on a weathery night. Perhaps it was the light—that beautiful honey-toned blanket which enveloped them together in the comfort of a sleeping chamber, their eyes dazed at how the color communicated through their skin and clothes. Or that they were at their most sensitive, barriers mostly torn away to be seen bare by the other. Their state greatly inflamed within her a longing to relive this moment endlessly. Shame was an afterthought. She had seen him and he had seen her, and she wished it was beyond the mere absence of just a few articles. This feeling was more so a craving, or a thirst, or something that could describe that starvation that she wanted so badly to satiate. Instead she laid there, quiet and observant, feeding on their shared gaze and the slightest cross between their little fingers.

They both wondered about the other in their little haven. They knew a sliver of the other’s woes, and yet they wanted to know more. The lack of information felt like a hole left undug.

“What do you vie for?”

As soon as those words left, she realized how insensitive that particular inquiry must have sounded. The answer was his face, for God’s sake.

What he said next took her by surprise. “I want normalcy. I cannot just live down here like a beast forever.”

The usage of the word “beast” filled her with guilt. She never meant to say such a thing when they were in the gondola, regardless of how incongruously he acted that night. Words were easy weapons. Someone like him would have been well-acquainted with their wounds. 

He continued, “People wish for grandiose things. A manor. A personal valet. A new suit. What I wish for is what most everyone has: a normal life.”

“But you are normal. You just look different,” she contested.

“Christine, whatever it is you think I look like is not true. I am only a shell of a human who desires to put on its skin because he hasn’t any. ”

He watched as she struggled to reply. Her mouth was open, ready to say another optimistic excuse for his being ordinary like all the other men she had known in her life. She stopped, however, because they both knew what was truly real.

“If it pleases you, I’d like to move on to brighter things.” He changed the subject. “What is it that you vie for?”

“Me?”

He nodded.

“Well,” she began, but paused right after.

She knew that her father wished that she would become the greatest soprano the world had ever seen. It was all he spoke about to his colleagues when he was still alive. It was all he spoke about to her. Music was as entwined in her life as the golden band that lay on her father’s ring finger. Though, as much as she shared the same aspiration, she also wanted something else. Her time as a maid living under the Chagnys had shown her a brief glimpse of what that was. When she and the young Comte would play the piano or race each other behind his family’s chateau. Or the times she helped him scurry away to listen to her father play a tune on his fiddle. The first time their noses touched when she was wiping gravy from his cravat. Alas, what they shared was meteoric by the nature of their classes. And, more recently, his taste in women. Lots of them.

They grew apart naturally in their distance from each other. Years later, it wasn’t until she received a letter with his family crest sealed in wax requesting that she go to the Palais Garnier to ask Gérard for a job did she consider rekindling their friendship. Except Gérard had been discharged and the Comte was not the same princely boy he had once been. And she quickly realized that he had done the same charade to a couple other girls working at the opera.

“Love,” she said finally, “Someone to share dreams with. To spend a life with. It gets rather lonesome when you return to an empty home, with nobody to tell stories to about your day or eat dinner with.”

Erik looked at her with a conglomeration of emotions. Tenderness, sympathy, yearning, whatever it was that made a man want to hold something sacred, to desist it from flying away to be destroyed in its solitude. 

“I understand that feeling. It’s all I have ever known.”

“But you have Gérard,” she replied.

“And you had your father.”

A flicker of light caught her eye in front of them. The glass on the wall sparkled of the orange flame that rode and fell in the music room. It was that frame encasing the black-and-white picture she had taken an interest in earlier. She pointed at the portrait of the couple, who stared back at them in eternal delight.

“Who are they?”

He turned to see what she had pointed at and smiled fondly. “That’s Gérard… and my mother.”

“Why is it so lifelike? I don’t believe I have seen a painting of such accuracy before.”

“It is called a photograph. It’s an image of real life taken from a machine. Gérard knew someone who made a profession from it and was lucky to acquire one of his own. He was known as Nadar or something. A foreign sort of name, I think.”

She looked at the image in wonderment. Her friend was lucky to have a father with connections like that. To be able to view his parents in their youth so vividly and so true to life was a gift, for she wished she could do the same with hers.

“They look so happy,” she said.

“They were.”

He let that hang in the air like laundered clothes left out to dry. “I miss them.”

As much as she wanted to remind him that Gérard was still alive, she chose not to.

“I miss mine too.”

The rest of the night passed with them conversing under the flickering orange light. Laughs and smiles were shared. So were looks that seemed to span a millenia. Eventually, their voices melted and their eyes closed, and they were once again reunited in their embrace of the nocturne.