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Christine rushed past the other performers, the voices around her only an indistinct din as she made her way to her dressing room. That telltale ache was growing in her chest, spiking with every breath that came a bit too quickly, her heart thudding hard against her corset. Even her voice itself felt weary, overused. Vague apologies slid from her lips as she darted between stuffed shirtfronts and around marble columns. Another corner, another, and…
“Christine! Christine!”
Hell.
She turned and plastered an approximation of a pleasant smile on her face. But she was spared responding by the usual barrage of empty compliments.
“Gorgeous! Simply gorgeous.”
“Thank you so—”
“Truly.” The man who had caught her out grabbed for her hands. “Jean-Louis d’Aubert. You’d know my father. Yours is the finest performance of Ophélie I have seen all season. Such poise you had, even when she gives up her life.”
Poise. “Yes, I—”
“Philémon… Oh, where is that rascal off to this time? Must be after the ballerinas again… Well, Philémon was telling me during the graveyard scene that there was hardly a point to continue the opera now that our dearest Christine was gone.”
Christine nodded and tried to continue making her way to her dressing room, but he shuffled in front of her, and she came to a halt, her smile growing ever thinner.
“You simply must join us for dinner.” He grinned and ducked his head, his voice lowering. “Or perhaps somewhere…more private.”
She glanced side to side. Even if she escaped this particular conversation, there were a dozen waiting for her, each more eager—and more blunt—than the last. She looked back at the unpalatable hope before her and bit back a sigh, instead gesturing toward her dressing room door.
His fingertips were sliding up past her wrist before the door was even fully closed. He reached out with his other hand to catch at her shoulder, his thumb brushing her decollétage. “Your eyes are so beautiful, Christine. I could see the shine of them even from my box.”
She turned her head demurely, a soft flush blooming over her cheek. “That is very kind of you, monsieur.”
“No kindness, only truth.”
He leaned in to kiss her, and she stopped his lips with a finger and a smirk. “Why, monsieur, how forward you are!”
“Why, mademoiselle, how coy you are.”
She drew her finger away as he spoke, taking a step back. “We have only met just this evening.”
“Must I give a repeat performance, then?”
She glanced between him and the door, letting her gaze waver and a crinkle form in her brow. “It does not seem…proper.”
“Quite a rare chorus girl to worry so much over propriety.”
She bit her lip, and her gaze slipped down past his untidy collar, his waistcoat, shifting with his breaths, to settle lower. But she did not move closer when she took a step, merely toward the mirror, tugging at a few errant curls.
“Actresses,” she heard him whisper before he came up behind her, fabric delicately meeting fabric.
“Monsieur!” she protested when fingertips brushed against her skirts, meeting his eyes in the mirror.
His hand slid up to her waist, touching, exploring, but his gaze remained fixed on her, even as her cheeks heated. His fingers tightened against her, and she let her weight fall back into him, her chest heaving with her quick breaths.
“You are quite, quite beautiful, do you know that?”
“I…” Her eyes slid shut as he pressed closer still, every touch inflaming that endless ache inside. It twisted deep in her chest, clawing at the inside of her ribs. It seized her hands from within, drew her fingers up to tangle in his tawny hair, to brush delicately over the pulse in his neck. When roaming fingers tugged up her skirts to slink beneath, she stumbled away, catching herself on the glass.
Wide eyes stared back at her, the figure behind looming over her. She spun, meeting his dark gaze, and reached out blindly, fingers clasping around a cold iron loop. She held the lantern between them. He groaned softly, and that tight place inside of her clenched.
“The prettiest girls are always the worst teases.”
She shook her head reflexively. “Someone might hear.”
“Let them.”
She shook her head again, but this time a soft, welcoming smile slipped over her lips. She reached for one of the lamps that bracketed the mirror and twisted the little brass valve. The flame burned brighter, brighter, buffeting the glass madly. The scent of gas grew heavy in the room, and he stepped forward, reaching out in alarm. But with a click and a thunk, the flame died, and the mirror swung back into the wall with a touch, revealing a dark passageway.
She held out her hand, and he took it, stunned into silence for a long moment as she began to lead him down the narrow, rickety stairs.
“How did you ever discover such a thing?”
She glanced back at him and shrugged before hastening her steps enough he struggled just a little to keep up. When the passage widened, he hurried to match her stride.
“You struck me first as Marguerite, you know?”
“Oh?” She drew up her skirts a little higher to navigate a particularly steep series of stairs, the mild exertion offering a breathy quality to her tone.
“Oh, yes,” he said with relish. “So much so that all the last month I have arrived even before the first act begins. François at the club swears I’ve taken up with a chorus girl, of all things.”
She allowed a quick huff of laughter, leading them past boxes of supplies and half-dismantled set dressings into a narrow corridor lined with machinery.
“How much further, dear? I assure you no one will hear.”
“Besides the ghost.”
“Surely you don’t really believe in all that,” he said, his voice wavering ever so slightly.
“It is the opera, monsieur,” she said with a wink, drawing open a plain wooden door, bleached pale by the heat, and gesturing him forward. “Anything could live down here.”
When he hesitated, she smirked. “You’re not afraid, are you?”
“Of course not!” He marched past her, throwing the door fully open. The storage room came into slow view as she entered with the lantern, shelving filled precariously, stacked boxes coated in a thick layer of dust.
“Not the finest…” He blinked. “What are you doing?”
She slid the latch shut behind her and glanced down at the knife in her hand.
“Christine? Wha—?”
“Oh, do shut up.” She admired the blade as it glinted in the low light, before looking up to cooly observe the redding face of her prey. A predatory sneer turned up the corners of her mouth. “You and Philémon and François from the club… All of you young gentlemen with your empty promises and your wandering hands always going on and on… It is utterly exhausting, do you know?”
His mouth gaped open, his eyes darting between the knife and the door. He shook his head and tried to push past her. “I don’t need this. You… You’re sick.”
“Oh, but I thought I was just a chorus girl.” Before he could reach the door, she caught his shoulder and pressed him against one of the boxes. “Hold still.”
“What are you—?”
There was nothing to the surprise on their faces when the knife snicked into the belly like a key into a lock—the widening of the eyes, the way the breath left them all at once, rattling horribly past suddenly parted lips. The flesh parted with only the slightest resistance, the bowels slithering free onto the floor.
His lips parted in a gurgling scream as she pressed deeper, sliding the blade up, up… The sharp crack of his sternum snapping echoed in her body, relieving that hideous ache. The weight of his body crowded against her, and she pushed it away in disgust. He slumped to the floor, his head cracking against the solid stone wall, just as the supposed ghost’s had soon after she’d arrived. A low moan filled the room, followed by wet, rattling breaths.
“There we are.” Her voice was already smoother, clearer. She breathed in the scent of his death as it filled the room, sustaining her in a way nothing else could. His blood stained her dressing gown, her arms, and she brought her fingers to her lips to taste. Wine, of course, but quite a tang of cognac on the finish as well. Tsk tsk tsk. They really ought to pace themselves.
She slid the latch free again and pulled the door open. The rats knew by now to come quickly, some lapping at the growing pool of blood, some crawling over the dumbstruck face, some slipping past the crumpled clothes for further treats. And if anything was left, well… What a menace that opera ghost was!
Christine slid from her dressing room as the call for places went out. She made her way through the stuffy halls, the occasional draught causing a door to unexpectedly slam shut. No wonder the ballerinas all thought this place was haunted.
“Christine!”
She turned in time to see Meg Giry bounding up behind her in costume, a crooked flower crown in her hair.
“Meg?” She came to a halt. “Is something the matter?”
“No! Well, yes, or maybe? It’s been so long since we spent time together. I just wanted to know if—”
Bang!
They both jumped.
“Meg Giry!” Mme Giry’s voice boomed through the hall.
Meg paled. “Y-yes?”
“Did you not hear the call for places?”
“Yes. But—”
“Then go to your place.”
Meg sighed. “Yes, ma’am.” Her shoulders slumped, and she skulked off.
Mme Giry turned to Christine, her eyes fiery and defiant. The set of her jaw was firm, but a faint tremor betrayed her fear.
Christine nodded once. Mme Giry nodded back. She had nothing to fear from this woman, provided she let Meg be. She was not the only one who had been at the mercy of the national opera’s male patrons.
The evening performance of Faust went on without a hitch. Christine stood at the center of the stage and poured every piece of her soul into the music. She sang even more effortlessly, more fluidly than the week before, her voice buoyed by the sacrifice she had made. It soared out over the audience, touched their hearts, filling them with Marguerite’s joy and fear, her pain as she lost everything, and the rapturous righteousness that burst forth in the finale. When Marguerite ascended to join the chorus of angels, she knew the audience had ascended as well.
After a standing ovation, she returned to her dressing room, alone this time, but alive with the energy of the night’s performance. Her veins pulsed with it, her eyes far too bright as it coursed through her. She, too, had ascended with Marguerite, and she still floated somewhere above the world, utterly free. She dabbed at her face, removing the last of the thick stage makeup.
A knock sounded at her door, dragging her back down to earth. Her head shot up, a hiss of frustration escaping her lips. Not yet. She’d hardly gotten off stage! She moved to retrieve her dressing gown as a young man strode into her room, over confident and self-assured.
“Chr—Mademoiselle Daaé?” The young man held out a single rose.
Christine finished wrapping her dressing gown around herself and stood, accepting the rose. “It is awfully bold of you to enter my dressing room without waiting for a response.”
The young man chuckled. “Do you not recognize me? The little boy who once rescued your scarf from the perils of the sea? I received quite a scolding for it too.”
A memory flickered in her mind. A red scarf. Her father. The rhythmic sound of waves washing against the sand… An unfamiliar sensation ached in her chest. Could it be…? “Raoul?”
His eyes lit up immediately, and he crossed the room taking her hands. “I knew you would remember! My dearest Christine, you’ve grown so talented! If only your father could hear you.”
Christine’s cheeks warmed. She opened her mouth to respond but caught herself. When had she last let herself get caught up in something like this?
“How have you been? I heard rumours of the national opera’s talented new prima donna, but I never imagined I would find it to be my sweet Little Lotte of all those years past.”
“I haven’t any words. This is…I never expected…” The ache was growing again in her chest, and her gaze caught on his upturned lip, his open expression, the welcoming lines of his body. He would need so little convincing, even less than those who were addled by drink. She need only smile and…
“You simply must let me take you to dinner.”
She caught herself shaking her head and stilled it. “That is such a kind offer, but—”
“There is a lovely little place on the Rue Saint-Rustique that has the most beautiful Vitréais. Surely you remember how Bertrand would sugar the almonds?”
She did remember this little blond boy and his cavalcade of cooks and servants and nannies. But she also remembered the comfort of the soft, sliced apples, the generous quantity of cream served alongside it, the way he offered her seconds and never seemed to notice when rolls, pastries, and little cakes disappeared into her skirts.
“I…I shouldn’t.” It was something she told them all, half refusal, half offering for the pushy young man with far more enthusiasm than courtesy. Or good sense.
But he merely took a step back and nodded his head, that easy smile never faltering. She could draw him closer so easily, could lead him down into the dark with all the others. It could be dangerous to let him go—the things he knew about her, about her father…
“It’s late, and I am terribly tired,” she heard herself say. “Perhaps another night.”
“Of course,” he said softly, still gazing at her with something like awe. He stepped close and reached for her, and she let him, suppressing a shiver as his lips brushed the back of her hand. “It was wonderful to see you again.”
“And you,” she said, not entirely certain whether she meant it.
She bid him goodnight and drew the door closed behind him. Turning away, she glanced at the rose, then met her own gaze in the mirror, those too-bright eyes staring back at her. She tugged at her curls, calmed the soft flush from her cheeks, and dusted her nose with the powder from her dressing table. Surely another eager young gentleman wished to see the prima donna’s dressing room.
But the boy came back. And he did not come empty handed—flowers, little chocolates imported from Belgium or Switzerland, even the little apple cake he had promised, wrapped carefully in butcher paper.
After more performances, more nice little conversations, she agreed to the dinner, to carriage rides, even to a walk in the bois. Evenings that used to be spent luring young men into the traps were instead whiled away laughing, chatting, and reminiscing. Even on the nights she turned him down, the flowers, the looks, the occasional touches of the hand kept the other young gentlemen far away.
She knelt over the young man’s body, dagger trembling in her hand, her tears falling onto his pale, stilled cheeks. She sang her final note and plunged the blade into her chest, hearing nothing but her panting breaths before the audience burst into applause. It rang in her ears as she pretended her own death, her ribs burning, her lungs still straining. Juliette was a difficult role, that was all, and this staging took all of her energy to perform.
Yet when she heard, in the distance, an enthusiastic brava, she relaxed down against the stage, the aches in her body replaced with a heavy warmth. And when the final curtain came down, it was Raoul who met her at the door, a bouquet of roses in his hand and a blinding smile on his face.
“Come for a walk with me,” he said once she’d taken the flowers, breathing in the scent.
She blinked up at him. “I…”
“Not tonight.” He chuckled. “Tomorrow, before the next performance.”
She blushed, her cheeks warm even as something soft and comforting fluttered in her chest. “I think I’d like that.”
She hardly slept, spent the day with a strange frisson of tension slinking beneath her skin. They had gone for walks before, dinner even. But this felt different, and her fingers shook as she did up the buttons on her dress.
She hardly heard what they spoke of, but she nearly flinched at the brush of his fingertips against her wrist. She had woken with her throat sore, had struggled through rehearsal and pleaded she merely needed rest. But it was becoming too much to deny. If she wasn’t careful, her voice wouldn’t…
“Christine?”
“Yes, sorry, I—”
“I love you.”
Christine stopped walking. She stared at him, her thoughts utterly scattered. That growing warmth bloomed in her chest, followed by a sharp, cold pain beneath her ribs. She opened her mouth.
“You must feel it too. I have been overcome with it. You occupy my every thought.”
She felt… She didn’t know how she felt, only that she wanted his eyes looking into hers, wanted his hands wrapped so solidly around hers.
He grasped her hands with his own, soft and warm. “Oh, Christine, say you won’t send me away.”
“I-I won’t.” She couldn’t. She wasn’t certain she could bear it. “Of course I would not send you away, Raoul.”
A grin lit up his face. “Meet me after the opera?”
Her dressing room, the traps, a storage room backstage… “The roof?”
He smiled and brought her clasped hands to his lips. “The roof.”
His hands, his eyes haunted her the rest of the evening, the soft warmth of sunlight against all her coldness. She begged off the final rehearsal, returning to her dressing room to down cup after cup of honeyed tea. Her throat burned, her chest ached, she could hardly press against the boning of her corset when she breathed. Her cheeks were still flushed, but the rest of her face was terribly pale, her eyes dull with the distractions in her mind.
More roses arrived, white, these, nearly ghostly in the low gaslight. She could not bring herself to read the attached note—she knew what it said, how comforting the words would be. The thought of it drew nausea into her throat, twisted her already unsteady breaths into gasps. She turned away from her reflection in the mirror and poured another cup of tea, swallowing the discomfort with the pain.
She had to tell him everything. Tonight. She couldn’t stand any longer the thought of him looking at her and seeing only that little girl by the seaside, mother lost, father only ever dragging her along behind him. She had been so cold then, too, empty whenever there was no song on her lips. But the music had not saved her. It could hold her in its arms, could warm her very soul, but only so long as she could sustain the notes. When her voice failed, she was only ever alone again.
Roméo et Juliette was very nearly a disaster, though Christine kept her voice steady until the final note. It cracked horribly as it left her lips, but the audience was thankfully spared the terrible rasping that might have followed by the ever serendipitous dagger. The applause was tumultuous, but she knew the critics would be unsparing. They had certainly torn apart the previous prima donna before her abrupt departure from the opera world entirely.
She staggered through the stage door and pressed past the crowd to find her dressing room. The cold tea dregs scraped painfully down her throat, but it was far better than nothing. When she pressed her face to the waiting bouquet to catch its scent, one of the roses was spotted with blood. She had pushed far too hard, had carved the notes out of her body as brutally as she carved the entrails out of her sacrifices. The strength of her voice, the ease of musicality she’d had only a few weeks ago…it was all gone now. Even the talents she’d had as a child had faded, not sustained through sufficient proper practice, but drained from the souls of her victims.
It was too much—too many performances, too much critique. She had tried at the conservatoire, but… Maybe it would be better this way. She was so tired, had been for a long time. Tired of being so empty and so cold, warmed only by the blood and the impersonal touch of the music in her veins. She slipped back through the mirror passageway, but navigated up instead of down, past the flies and toward the roof.
“Raoul,” she gasped when she opened the door. Part of her had thought he might not come, that his interest would have waned after a performance so poor.
But he merely smiled, reaching out for her as she approached. She collapsed into his arms the moment he caught her hand, tucking her head under his chin.
“Christine, Christine…” He tightened his arms around her. “I’m here, Christine.”
“I’m afraid, Raoul”
“I love you.”
“I…” She drew back just enough to meet his gaze. How could she tell this dear, sweet boy about the things she had done? Would he understand the desperation, the hunger, the fear? The certainty that should she fail, the only place left for her would be streetcorners, brothels, asylums?
“Marry me.”
“W-what?” The rooftop spun around her. “We…we can’t just—”
“I don’t care what my brother says.”
“You talked to…”
“It doesn’t matter. Christine, don’t you see?” His face broke into a blinding smile that warmed her to her core. “I love you. I’m going to marry you. We’re going to be happy, I swear it.”
“I…” She dropped his hands and staggered back. “I have to tell you. You need to—”
“None of that matters anymore.” He stepped close and went to one knee, reaching up for her hand. “You don’t need to say anything but yes.”
The air seemed to freeze, bristling against her skin, prickling in her chest. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak.
“You will sing for all of Europe, America. Anywhere we go, they must hear you.” He clasped her hands in his. “You are the finest singer in all the world, Christine.”
“You…you are too kind.”
He shook his head. “No kindness, only truth.”
She looked at him as if she were hanging from the statue of Apollo, looking down on both of them—the young suitor, the poor ingénue. The star-crossed engagement, the hasty marriage. Inevitable children. Her opera career suspended—if she could still keep it after these recent performances—the young men kept far away from her knife… Could she give it all up? For the warmth in her chest? For the hands on her hands? For him?
“You’re perfect,” he said, and she tore away her hands, staggering to her feet.
He frowned. “Darling, are you alright?”
“No…”
“Let me—”
“No.” Her fingers slipped down into her skirts, scratching over the tulle, searching for the hidden pocket.
“What is…?” He took a step back. “What are you doing with that?”
The dagger glinted in the moonlight as she raised it. “I swore never to marry.”
His lips parted, the confusion, the betrayal flashing in his eyes, the ordinary pleas waiting on his lips. In these moments, they were all the same—same tailcoat, same hat, same shocked expression on the same soft-featured face. He wouldn’t remain this sweet boy who promised her the world. When her voice failed, when her beauty began to fade, when he realized she was not the innocent doll they all wanted her to be…what would she have left?
The blood was still dripping from her fingertips when it was done, hastily wiped on his starched white shirt. They would find him soon enough—fear on his stilled face, belly torn and ribs cracked, Juliette’s bloody dagger a few paces away—but it was no matter.