IMAGINED CAST: Daisy Maywood as Meg; Nick Holder as Buquet; Ramin Karimloo as the Phantom; Liz Robertson as Madame Giry; Hadley Fraser as Raoul; Sierra Boggess as Christine; Barry James as Firmin; Gareth Snook as André

DISCLAIMER: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra and its musical counterpart are the property of Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lloyd Webber, Charles Hart, all casts and all creative teams that have ever produced any production of The Phantom of the Opera. No money is being made off this story.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yes, I am aware that the title is a little cliché, but it fits with this.

This came about from thinking about the different versions of the Magic Lasso scene (in Leroux, told by Meg; in Webber, told by Buquet), wondering where Buquet really was when he "wasn't at his post", and noticing that in the 25th Anniversary, Daisy Maywood as Meg was missing from the Dance of the Country Nymphs.

This is a high T. You have been warned.


1.

"Mlle. Giry, La Sorelli is ill. You're to go on in her place as the prima ballerina for the gala."

"...w— what?"

The call boy rolled his eyes. "I said, Sorelli—"

"No, I heard you, but— why am I going in her place? Shouldn't Jammes...?"

"Does it look like I know?"

Meg sighed. "Is there anything else?"

"You're supposed to report to Mme. Giry."

"Thank you." Just as the call boy was leaving, she called out: "Do you know who decided that I should go in Sorelli's place?"

"Some people are saying it was the Opera Ghost. A load of rubbish if you ask me." Then the call boy was gone, leaving Meg alone in the green room.

Surely there had been a mistake. Of course there had. The new managers, André and Firmin— they hadn't the slightest clue what was going on. And her mother had made it quite clear that Meg was not ready to be Sorelli's cover.

And it couldn't have been the Phantom. That wasn't even a possibility.

Meg went to the dancers' rehearsal room for the last rehearsal before the dress rehearsal. Her mother was walking between the two rows of dancers, tapping her cane on the pale wooden floor for a tempo.

Meg tried to be as unassuming as possible, but her plan to slip in quietly without anyone noticing failed. Brown, blue, hazel, and green eyes all looked at her as she went to her place on the barre— evidently they had all heard the news of Sorelli. There were no secrets in an opera house.

"Focus, girls," Mme. Giry said, trying to bring the girls' attention back to the warm-ups. "Let's start again."

"Meg, how did you get to be Sorelli's cover?" Cecile Jammes whispered. "Honestly, I've heard in every rehearsal how Madame thinks you're not good enough to be the understudy for the prima ballerina!" Cecile's sharp green eyes, framed by long, thick lashes, stared at Meg. Meg tried not to feel jealous. Cecile had the lithe hourglass figure, the swan-like neck, the long slim legs that every ballet mistress dreamed of, including her mother. Along with the green eyes and lush dark hair that turned heads, Meg wasn't sure why Cecile wasn't the cover for Sorelli.

Meg, on the other hand, was shorter and did not have long, graceful limbs. She was slender, but not to the point of Cecile— or Christine, for that matter. Meg's light hair was thick and naturally curled, true, but it was an absolute nightmare trying to fit it underneath a wig of a different hair color. She was a good dancer— she had worked on nothing else for years— but she didn't look the part like Cecile did.

"I don't know how I got it, Cecile," she answered.

"Of course you do! Everyone's saying it's the Opera Ghost, though why he's interested in you, I have no idea. Ishould have gotten it." Clearly, humility was not one of Cecile's virtues.

"It wasn't the Op—"

"Meg!"

Meg started and turned to see her mother looking at her disapprovingly. "How can you be the prima ballerinafor tonight and talk during rehearsals?"

"Maman, it's not like that—" And after all, Cecile was half to blame.

"No excuses, Meg. There will be a fine the next time you talk." Meg almost retorted, but bit her tongue. It wasn't fair that her own mother was threatening to charge fines on her own daughter. Mme. Giry continued: "Meg and Cecile, come to the front, and everyone else assemble for the ballet interlude during Annibale's first number."

Meg ran up to her mother before Cecile reached the front. "Maman, please don't put Cecile in the front. She's the one who started talking. Why not put Christine in the front?"

"Meg, you know that Cecile is a better dancer than either you or Christine—"

That stung. "Please, maman, Christine has been working hard—"

"She has been missing many rehearsals, Meg."

"But she practices on her own, I've seen her."

"She has too many black marks on her record."

"Please, maman, for me. Christine is my friend, and Cecile is the one who got me in trouble in the first place."

Mme. Giry looked Meg in the eye. "Are you sure she is qualified?"

Not really. Almost, but not quite. "Yes."

Her mother sighed. "If it's that important to you. And we will discuss your fine later. Christine!" Christine looked up from the back of the room. "Come to the front of the room, please."

"Christine, you will be dancing with Meg in the front," Mme. Giry said once Christine had joined Meg and Cecile, "and Cecile, you will be taking the spot that Christine had taken."

"Madame!" Cecile gasped.

"Madame, are you sure I should?" Christine asked nervously.

"Meg specifically asked for you to dance alongside of her." Cecile glared at Meg, seeing the implications.

"Thank you, Meg, but really, I don't think I'm ready—"

"Christine Daaé, do you want a fine for talking back?"

Christine stared at the floor. "Non, madame."

"Good. Cecile, to the back of the line, please."

"But, madame—"

"Do you want a fine as well, Jammes? What is it with you girls?"

Before Meg could stop her, Cecile said— loud enough so the entire corps could hear— "We all think it's strange that Meg is La Sorelli's cover. Everyone's saying that the Opera Ghost made Meg the prima ballerinafor the gala."

"There is no such thing as the Opera Ghost, and no spirit made Meg the prima ballerina."

"Who did, then?" Meg couldn't help but ask.

"I did," replied her mother. "Enough talk about things that do not exist! Everyone into their places, please! We are wasting time!"

Meg couldn't shake off the feeling that her mother wasn't being quite truthful.


The rehearsal ended late, with just enough time to get a quick supper before the dress rehearsal. Nerves were high, and the general unspoken consensus was that the dress rehearsal would not go well. As a rule dress rehearsals never went well, anyway.

Meg was already dressed in the slave girl costume, jittery and feeling as though she shouldn't have changed so early; the costume was quite revealing, and she was getting looks from the stagehands.

"Giry!"

Meg turned, her blonde curls like stacks of gold coins in sunlight, and saw Joseph Buquet, the chief stagehand. He was holding his customary bottle of whiskey— or perhaps today it was ale or gin or beer or cheap wine— in his hand.

"Do you need something, Buquet?"

"I wanted to show you something, Little Giry, since you're the one interested in the horror stories."

"How did you know that I— what on earth are you talking about?"

"I'll show you." When Meg did not move, he added, "It has to do with the Opera Ghost, if that means anything to you."

He laughed, softly, when she began to follow him.

He led her to the third level of cellars, to an out-of-the-way workshop that doubled as a storage space. It looked as if it had rarely been used; the old, damaged set pieces were covered in cobwebs. They stopped in a dark, cobwebbed corner, by a set piece for Roi de Lahorie.

They were the only ones in the cellar.

"And this relates to the Opera Ghost..."

Buquet looked around and lowered his voice. "I saw the Opera Ghost, right here. They all think I was drunk, but I'm probably the only one to have seen him. What do you think of that?"

Meg privately thought Buquet had, indeed been drunk, and had dragged up a hallucination that he attributed to being the Opera Ghost. There couldn't be any other explanation.

"You don't believe me, now," Buquet said. "I'll tell you what he looked like, if that'll convince you. He's pale, got black eyes and hair, wears one of them fancy dress-suits, and has a white mask over half his face. That good enough?"

It was, actually, because Meg had seen someone who had fit Buquet's description.

She had been running to the stage from the green room after changing costumes for a ballet in Faust. One of the sleeves in the particular costume would always come undone, so she would be forced to stop constantly to fix it.

Then she saw a shadow in the catwalk above her.

At first she had dismissed it, thinking it was a stagehand. But she looked closer, because no stagehand wore a white half mask.

The man was kneeling on the floorboards of the catwalk, a beaded cloak around his shoulders, and looking at Meg with his dark eyes, and she felt as if she couldn't do anything else except look back at him.

Then a call boy ran up to her and told her she would miss her cue, and she ran off.

Buquet's description fit, strangely enough. But he couldn't have seen the Opera Ghost.

"Buquet, I'm not sure about this... are you sure you saw someone you claim is the Opera Ghost?"

"Would I lie to you, Meg?" he leered.

"It's Mademoiselle Giry to you," she snapped, "and yes, I believe you would."

"It pains me that you think so low of me," he countered back. "Let me make it up to you—"

"It's perfectly all right, Buquet." She took a step back. He followed her.

"Don't be so stiff, Meg—"

"—Mademoiselle Giry, Buquet—!"

"—surely obeying your mother's every command gets old."

"What do you mean by that?"

"You're still a virgin, aren't you?"

Meg raised her right hand to strike him as hard as she could, but he gripped her wrist, stopping her. "You can't stand not being little Mademoiselle Goody-Two-Shoes, not being Giry's favorite."

"Let go of me, Buquet!" she hissed.

"Why not run back to rehearsal, Meg?" he whispered maliciously. The scent of his alcohol-tainted breath was overpowering. "You certainly won't find out anything about the Phantom that way, if that's what you want."

He finally released her wrist, which was now red and throbbing. "I know Giry won't talk about it," he concluded. "I could tell you more after the gala, but only if you come alone."

She ran then, sprinting as fast as she could out of the cellar, up the stairs, and into the backstage area. The ribbons of her pseudo-skirt tangled together so she was forced to stop.

The shadow was in the catwalk, just like the first time.

He only looked at her for a few moments this time. He stood up and moved towards the gigantic pillar-set piece that was stored above the stage.

Meg ran, praying nothing would go wrong.

But, of course, it did.