Disclaimer: I don't own the Phantom, although he has been my constant companion since I was five. I would like to dedicate this work, my first in the phan phic phield, to one author who inspired me with her genius and humor in her wonderful phic, "Phantom Companions". Misty Breyer, I can't thank you enough, I hope I can do you proud in this. Alright, let's get crackin'! Thus begins, "The toilet did it! (Aka CRAP!)
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You wait for something your entire life…or at least since you were five, and suddenly, isn't it strange – when you finally get there, when you finally can see, and hear and touch and smell what you could only have imagined before... It's not what you expected it to be. Beautiful? Yes. Interesting? You bet. But even so, after all the idolization and obsession, it is somehow less. I mean, what were you thinking as a child? What were you expecting now? An adventure? Maybe. But that was my mistake, reality is the currency of today, and adventures are for storybooks. Reality is an empty theater and an ordinary box seat, with no hidden passage ways. Reality is knowing it was after all…just a tale…told to beguile and bewitch the senses and the mind…a clever deception that made you believe for one brief moment that it was possible. Reality is a tour through an old Opera House, where there is nothing to be found. Because there was nothing there to begin with…
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That is what I learned while following behind a somewhat cold and dry French tour guide. Well, why am I surprised? The French hate us. Fine. Well, I hate this stupid tour, and this plain Opera House and…damnit! Tripped on the stairs…I HATE the bloody stairs. I could not count the total number of times I had found myself tripping on the surface of the Parisian streets. Everything in this city seemed to disagree with my nature, especially…the Opera House Garnier.
Phantom of the Opera my eighty dollar boots.
This field trip was a waste. The school had paid a good fortune, you'd think I should be grateful but I was just plain disappointed. And I knew I was sulking, but I just couldn't help it. I mean I tried to get in the mood, I really did. I tried to be chipper like my friend Lauren (another Ghost fan who had also signed up for this once in a lifetime opportunity.) She wasn't dragging her feet behind her in defeat, quite the opposite. Bright eyed, and bushy tailed, she was perhaps the very epitome of excitement, fulfillment and happiness. Lucky duck.
"Can you believe this?" She whispered to me as we made our way down the grand stair case to the main foyer. "Isn't this amazing?"
"Yeah…" I murmured, secretly thinking, 'If by amazing you mean totally sucks ass, then yeah, it's frickin' amazing.'
I really just wanted to get back to our hotel, maybe hang out with the clan of Irish men that were staying there as well, take a bath, and go to bed. I didn't want to stay in this building another second now that I KNEW I had been so dumb as to believe…well, that was the problem. I had believed until now…and I really didn't want to talk about it with Lauren at the moment. Not that she noticed I wasn't making any effort in joining her animated discussion. She was talking enough for the both of us.
"Listen," I said cutting her flow of words sharply, "I gotta go use the el bano. Tell the bus to wait."
Her head bobbed up and down in a frantic nod, and I left her there as I went in search of the Ladies I knew we had passed a way back.
You know we take out bathrooms for granted. We really do. God, I was dying to go back to the Old U. S. of A, just to see the bathrooms. I flushed; I washed my hands like a good little girl. I even took an indulgent glance of myself in the mirror, put a bit more lip gloss on (well there were a FEW good looking guys from our school here (Matt, was looking especially sweet) and it was social potential date suicide if you didn't at least try to look good) and with a half hearted tug of my braid I exited the loo.
What the hell?
Why were all the lights out?
Shit, how long had I been in the bathroom?
The Opera House couldn't be closed now…it wasn't a minute past five. I tapped the protective glass covering of my time piece lightly, then placed it next to my ear.
No tick.
No tock.
Fuck, my new watch was busted.
Cheap foreign piece of crap.
Lugging my huge tote/mail carrier bag higher onto my shoulder, I began to power walk back to where I had left the rest of the class. Or at least where I remembered leaving the rest of the class.
Alright, where was the rest of the class?
I ran a frustrated hand over my head.
Well this was just…grand. Just grand.
They had left me.
Feckin' feckmeister.
Whipping out my cell, I dialed Lauren's number, tapping my foot impatiently as I waited in the dark. She was paying for the Verizon bill at the end of this.
It rang several times before a click echoed in my ear.
"Thank god, Lauren, finally." I expelled a harsh sigh, "You bitch. How could you just leave me here? I mean, am I that insignificant that you would forget me? Do you KNOW how creepy it is in this place on your own? Now come and get me, or so help me god, I will break your Phantom cd. Why haven't you said anything? Lauren? Lauren, you there? Lauren…"
"I'm sorry," a metallic sounding recording uttered from the receiver, "the number you have dialed in unavailable."
I pounded the off button.
I was gonna kill Lauren when I got back. Don't know why her cell wasn't working though. She probably forgot to recharge it. Just like she forgot her friend in the bathroom.
I looked around.
There was no way in hell I was staying here for the night. I'd just have to walk then. Are you ready boots? Start walking. Jesus Christ, I was turning into Nancy Sinatra.
I began to trudge down the hall. The guard offices would still be open. Sure they were French. Sure they'd beat the living shit out of me and throw me out for being in here after shut down, but getting thrown out was MY master plan…so it was all good.
It was only when I had passed the same portrait twice (a man with his dog hunting a fox) that I realized I had somehow gone around in a circle, and even more unnerving was the fact that not one cubic measure of the halls looked familiar. I shrugged my shoulders, chalked it up to the fact that the lights were out and my paranoid nature and continued on my way.
But that was another problem, of the many that were stacking up against me. I didn't know my way, I didn't have A way. After a time my feet just went on their merry own, in any direction they wanted. I tried several times to get Lauren's cell phone again, but all that did was succeed in making me (if possible) even more pissed off than I already was.
"Alright, last warning, Lauren." I hissed into the phone, "You come and get me RIGHT NOW or I'll push you off the Eiffel Tower when I get back. Splat! Not pretty, don't make me do it. Come now and get me the freak out of this place!"
That annoying recording yapped away about the call unable to go through and I cursed again, smothering it at the last moment. Yeah…yelling profanity whilst in a major country monument, beloved by many of citizens probably wasn't the best thing to do at the time.
I looked around hopelessly. Where the GUMMY BEARS was everybody? I hadn't even happened on one ill tempered guard yet and that was suspicious in its own right.
As it was I was getting tired. Wandering around a place this size, well that'll do that to you. I stifled a violent yawn. I guess I was spending the night. My hands drifted idly over the surface of the walls, still semi blind in the darkness, searching for a door. ANY door. I'd take what I could get. Maybe I could even find a vending machine room with a couch in it.
I bit back a yelp of pain as my fingers jammed into a door handle. Found the door.
Yanking it open with a scowl I moved into the room and searched for a light switch on the wall…and walked right into a chair and nearly fell over, or would have, if I hadn't grabbed onto it at the last second. It was plush, hard but made of velvet. I supposed it was the best I could do given my circumstances. I felt around blindly until I hit upon another chair to its mate. Pushing the two recliners somewhat together to make a little bed, and clutching my carrying case to my chest like a teddy, I plopped down into my makeshift bed and curled up and tried to sleep.
I dreamed of pushing Lauren into the river when I finally caught up with the class the next day.
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A scream made me jump up from my fetal position amongst the chairs, snapping open my eyes. With a moan I shut them instantly. Too light. Bright light. Not good. Too early. Grouchy mood. Gonna hurt someone for waking me up this soon.
A few chords from a piano echoed in my ears and another earsplitting screech ricochet off the walls, making me wince. Make it stop. Please, god make it stop. I cracked a lid, squinting against the harsh light. Slowly blinking my eyes open I took in the scene in front of me.
I wasn't home (where on first thinking I thought I was) and I most definitely wasn't in my hotel room. I wasn't even passed out with the Irish men (which I would have preferred.) I was still in the Opera House. Oh right. My mind sped forward to fill in the story I had temporarily forgotten due to the wish I was anywhere else. Lauren was dead a thousand times over than she was the last time I wished her dead for this. She was deader than dead.
I took a look around. I was in a booth. One of those fancy boxes. Just great. The stage before me, but a few yards off, was bustling with activity. Dancers stretched in the corners. Actors were being measured for their detailed costumes, script writers ran about as the critiqued each others work, stage hands pulled on the riggings of the sets and somewhere off to the far right a woman was screaming.
No, wait not screaming…Was she…? She couldn't be singing, could she? Good god, she sounded like…well like something I'd never like to hear again. I shook my head as I gazed at her. It wasn't that she had a bad voice, but there was a sharp edge to all her notes, that made the sound disagreeable to the ears, at least in my opinion. She held herself proudly, no, no not proudly, with an air of arrogance. Every gesture she made reaching for a higher and higher octave oozed conceit.
I stood, slinging my bag over my shoulder and took it in.
Well, the day had officially begun at the Opera House and obviously I wouldn't be very welcome, but maybe now I could at least get someone's attention long enough to find out where the exit was located.
I smoothed down the wrinkles in my shirt from sleeping in it all night and placed the chairs more or less where I thought I had found them. I stood up straight to admire my handiwork. Not all that bad.
A real scream split the air. I spun around to find one of the dancers was halted in the middle of her routine, and pointing a fearful finger at me. Now I'll admit seeing a total stranger pop up from a box seat while you were practicing from seemingly nowhere would give anyone a start, but then they ALL started screaming. I was able to discern one word I could understand.
"Le Phantome!"
"Le Phantome, que le Phantome!"
The Phantom! It's the Phantom!
I rolled my eyes. Now, that was just stupid. I would have thought the performers to scorn such demonstrations about the Opera Ghost. It was a touchy subject with those in the theater. Only silly Americans did that or so I thought, evidently I was wrong. They kept crying, "Phantom! Phantom!"
Marching over to the edge of the box, I leaned over, "Oh, give it a rest, girls! Honestly! I thought better of you…"
Well that got them quiet. Their brows pulled together in angelic expressions of confusion. I figured I might as well continue seeing as I had their attention.
"Listen…" I continued, "You're all sensible young ladies so there is no reason for you to be fluttering mindlessly about like hopeless fans. Okay, I get it. We Americans are royal pains in the ass when it comes to all the Phantom stuff…"
The girls paled drastically and several bit back gasps of fright.
"I see that, so…you really don't have to rub it in anymore that we're rabid fanatics who have no life. And I'm happy to say I'm no longer like that so just KNOCK it OFF, alright…"
I was cut off mid speech as the door to my box (or as I had come to think of it) banged open against the wall to reveal a rather imposing shape.
"Whoah…! Hell…o…" I saved my French faux pas of cussing at having the sneak attack pulled on me. "Hi."
It was a silver haired lady to who I addressed myself. A part of the production, as her costume (a long black number with corset and final touch of long dangerous looking cane) suggested.
She said something in French. More like demanded it. I couldn't understand what she was saying, but I could get the gist of it by the threatening way she was wielding that riding crop of a cane, 'Where the hell did you come from? Tell me now or DIE!'
I struggled trying to figure out a way I could explain this without my body being found mutilated on the eight o' clock news. This woman and her cane looked like they could pull it off easily. I cleared my throat and began nervously.
"I am really sorry…I mean this has never happened to me before, at least not since I was six and stupid, but I was separated from my school on their tour and they left me here…and well I'm sorry I interrupted your practice but I had to sleep here all night, and I'd just really appreciated it if I could use a phone to call my teachers so they can come get me…"
The tall intimidating woman held up a hand to silence me.
"Enough." She commanded.
Jeeze, okay…wait…
"You speak English? Oh thank god, cause I can't speak a lick of French, well maybe a little. Like I know how to say 'hello' and 'goodbye' and 'will you come share my bed'…okay, I'll shut up now. Sorry."
"Who are you?" Her accent was thick and full.
Ok, I guess formalities came first in the face of a crisis.
"My name is Sally…"
"I did not ask your name," She snapped, "I asked who you were."
"Okay…I'm a student."
"A student from where?"
What was this the Spanish Inquisition?
"America. We were touring the Opera House yesterday. Look, I don't mean to be rude but could I just please use a phone? Mine's been on the fritz. Then I'll get out of your hair, I promise."
The woman sighed in irritation.
"Come with me."
"What?"
She fixed me with a glare, "Come here."
My feet moved without my knowing. Very persuasive.
"Follow me."
Something I've learned. Never argue with a Parisian lady who can beat you over the head like a red headed step child.
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She led the way through twisting corridors and I lost sight of her a few times, but a guiding and threatening tap of her cane from ahead would lead me in the right direction and I would hurry to catch up. We passed many things in the halls I had no recollection of having been pointed out the previous day during the tour.
And then striding forcefully through a door to the right, we were both back stage. Stage hands hammered away at some beams and more dancers practiced their positions at a barre. A few looked up in surprise at their intruders but most just continued on with their stretches and routines.
I watched them in admiration. As long as I was making this detour before I was picked up, it really was no skin off my bones, I might as well enjoy it. Most people didn't get to see this; it wasn't in the tour brochure that was for sure. The costumes were dazzling and wonderful. One dancer was stretching so that she conformed her whole body into the formation of a Tartar bow, as if she would launch herself into flight at a moments notice. Such control, poise, and natural grace. I couldn't do that, never could, never would. I wasn't built for that kind of performance. I wasn't a dancer but I could appreciate the beauty of it.
One girl in the back row was a little off cue from all the others, as if she wasn't…wasn't quite there. Her heart wasn't in the movement of the dance. Her companion nudged her into the correct time and pace and the girl offered up a hesitant, shy smile in return.
One sharp rap from Milady Strict's cane of DOOM and all fell silent.
"Angelina Marguerite Dubois."
A sprite like angel faced girl turned a haughty gaze to my guide.
"Come here, girl."
Tucking a loose strand of wild blond ringlets behind her ear, she approached us, shooting me a glance that seemed to declare I was a bug she couldn't even care less about crushing between her dancing shoes.
"Qui, Madame Jiry?" The girl inquired delicately. Her accent wasn't as sharp or as thick as the woman's I stood beside. For one ridiculous second I was sure the girl had said, "Madame Giry" but shook that thought from my mind. Thinking too much like a fan girl, I accused myself, just let it go. I turned my attention back to the conversation at hand.
"Your pronunciation needs work, my girl." Missus Strict admonished her severely. The girl's jaw clenched, "But that is not the issue at hand. Now…do you recognize this girl?"
I was pushed forward to the dancer's scrutiny. What was going on here?
The pretty girl in front of me barely spared a glance in my direction, even so what little I saw of it made me glad I only saw that much.
"I've never seen her in all my life, Madame." The girl answered coldly. The accent was now British. Ah, she was a British dancer, so that explained the hostility. You see, the English either think we're funny idiots simply around for amusement, they are smitten by our colonial like ways, or they think we don't even deserve a greeting. Well, they have every right to be that rude to us. We did win the war after all.
Miss Strict's eyes narrowed sternly, "You are positive of this, child?"
The steel in the girl's eyes vanished and her expression now resembled one of guileless puzzlement, "Very, Madame Jiry. I have never before laid eyes on her."
That was weird. Even the snobbiest of the snobs in London didn't speak like Shakespeare. What was up with this girl?
Miss Strict hummed with a certain skeptic air and then sighed. "Very well. Return to the barre, Mademoiselle Dubois…" Madame Whatever grabbed my elbow in a sharp grip and turned to go but not before she snapped out a last order, "And watch those toes, girl! Your piroesques are disgraceful."
I was pulled along at a pace that brooked no argument, but I had enough time to glance back over my shoulder at the girl we had spoken to, who was glowering steadily after us. After getting a good look at that gaze I didn't need Madame Crack the Whip to hurry me along, I ran ahead in an effort to distance myself from Ballet Shoe's fuming glare.
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She took me to an office…of sorts. Mind you all the furniture was out of date and most were obsolete at best. But whatever, I wasn't going to begrudge it. It was kinda cool in an antique way. My hands immediately began to itch with the desire to fiddle around with things. I inched nearer to a painting on the far left wall but was halted by the strict tone of the Morbidly Dressed One.
"Wait here." She commanded, and then hissed as an afterthought, "Do not touch anything."
I quickly shoved my hands into my pockets to prove I'd be no trouble.
With a final untrusting glance, the woman swept from the room. I let my shoulders slump.
Well…
Now what?
I felt the familiar ache of boredom set in. I took a fugitive look around. No one would know…I felt like snooping around. I wandered first over to a towering bookcase. I couldn't recognize a single title. I selected a random one from the shelf and flipped through it idly, then put it back.
The large ornate desk toward the wall length window drew my attention almost immediately after the books. Whistling innocently and dilly dallying my way around it, my fingers brushed its spotless surface. Squeaky clean. Why was I not surprised, I thought with a quirk of my lips.
A letter lay discarded and open on the desk's expanse.
No, it would be wrong…
I peered closer.
Wow, nice calligraphy, I noted with interest. Mind you, I couldn't read a word, but I could appreciate the style and flow of the script. It was beautiful, and while I couldn't tell what it said in whole, I COULD pick out a few words which seemed familiar. Sixth and Seventh grade French classes kicked in that much. But other than that, the note went over my little American head in every way.
"Blah blah blah…I…" I murmured, pretending to try to read it, "Blah blahdeblah…you…francs…something in French, blah blah blah…" I skipped down to the end and stopped my mocking, when something disturbing caught my eye. I stared at the parting signature incredulously, and let out a bark of surprised laughter, which died instantly in my throat.
"What the hell?" I hissed as I snatched up the letter, just as a rather portly gentleman came through the door. He stalled violently seeing me poring over the document.
I let the letter drop and put my hands up in rapid succession of the other action, my face proving my guilt, not to mention the position of my arms high in the air had the distinct impression of a convict pleading, 'Please, don't blow my brains out."
The man stood gaping in the doorway for such a time that he was almost bowled over when a slightly thinner man came barreling in behind him, with Madame Break-You-With-A-Rod not too far behind.
Before I knew it they were uttering a tirade of French sounding curses to which I had to cover my ears for protection. I hastily stepped away from the desk, thinking perhaps that was the reason for their shouting. Wrong. Now with the desk no longer between us, the two gentlemen came at me, their faces ruddy with outrage or something similar to it. With a yelp I scampered away for my life. Angry French people on a warpath…RUN!
Thankfully the insanity was reigned in with a sharp rap from the Madame's cane, in which she addressed the men, who in turn stilled at her voice. Her words were rapidly spoken and the men interjected a few times while shooting me several wary and incredulous glances.
And then to my complete astonishment, one of them, the slightly skinnier of the two, spoke to me…in English.
"Please forgive us…"
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"Monsieur's!" Madame Giry barked, "The young lady is English. She cannot understand a word."
"English!" Andre exclaimed, shooting the cowering girl a look of surprise, "Another one?"
"So it would seem." The dance mistress replied, "She appeared this morning in box five." The two managers shared a look at this, "She interrupted our rehearsal." Giry's tone was displeased at best.
"My god, woman!" Firmin sputtered, "That makes two in the past month alone! Why are they all coming here?"
"I can assure you I do not know, Monsieur."
"Well you must have some idea, Madame. They do keep turning up during your rehearsals." Andre quipped back.
"Yes," Firmin picked up on his partner's thinking, "That new dancer…"
Andre nodded frantically, "Did she not just join us four weeks past?"
"She did at that, Andre, she did at that…" Firmin agreed wholeheartedly.
"And just popped out of nowhere, with credentials none the less. Do you not find that peculiar?" Andre posed the Madame.
"I have not denied it is thoroughly uncommon, sir." Giry responded sensibly, "However, it was your decision to have her stay on in the Corps."
"Well, she is a fine dancer…" Andre put in defensively.
Firmin waved a hand, "Yes, yes, yes…she is not without talent…but," at this he rounded on his partner, "this is an Opera House, Andre, not a Charity Hall. We cannot possibly take in another wandering, penniless ragamuffin."
"I say, that is rather harsh…" Andre remarked, feeling a bit of pity for the ragamuffin in question.
"Well look at the young woman!"
"I can see her clearly, Firmin, there is no need to shout." Andre made an effort to calm the poor man.
"Why just look at her appearance…breeches? And that shirt, Andre, is disgraceful…"
"Perhaps, gentlemen," Madame Giry interjected slowly, "It would be best to ask the girl herself, what her business here is about. That way we can be certain as to whether charity may, or may not, be needed."
Firmin grumbled an embarrassed sounding cough, "Yes, yes of course, precisely my idea…" The flustered manager pressed down his suit. He made to turn back to the young lady but stopped midway, "I'm a bit rusty on my English, Andre…could you…?"
"Certainly, my dear Firmin, although it has been sometime myself since I took on the language…" The flattered manager announced. Clearing his throat with much spectacle, he turned to the girl who looked at him with wide eyes.
"Please forgive us for our behavior, Mademoiselle, but you did give us quite a start, as it were. I am Andre, and this here is Firmin. Now, would you be so kind as to inform us who you are?"
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I blinked in shock at the names. Andre and Firmin? I couldn't have heard that right. And if I had, I reminded myself, there were plenty of men in the world who shared the same name of the historical Opera managers. Of course that was in the musical. Their real names if I remembered correctly had been Richard and Mochmirmin or something or other. I wondered if these men were purposefully trying to represent the Lloyd Webber version just to bring in more sales. That was a wacky thought. I blinked a second time dumbly when I realized, rather stupidly, that I had been asked a question.
"Oh. Oh…" I began, "My name is Sally Ryans. I'm…I was on a guided tour of the Opera House Garnier yesterday with my class. I had to pop into the ladies to…"
One look at their expressions told me I shouldn't be my regular crude, vulgar, American self.
"…ah um…to freshen up, and when I came out they had left me, and the place was shutting down for the night. I didn't know what else to do, so I slept in the theater. I'm sorry."
"A class, you say? Andre," The other man, it must have been Firmin, turned to the one who had just addressed me, "were there any tours taken yesterday by the Ladies Academy?"
The other man, obviously Andre, shook his head in puzzlement, "None that I can remember. But it is possible…" He trailed off.
Whether it was possible or not, it was painfully clear they didn't believe me. I shifted uncomfortably.
"My school isn't an academy…" They looked somewhat shocked by this, "I go to Duke Ellington but I suppose since I graduated last month, my new learning residence would be Wellesley…if that helps any…"
Apparently not.
"Look, I know you guys must be insanely busy…so if you could just let me ring my school, I'd be much obliged."
Smiling like goons, the one called Firmin, hissed at his companion from the corner of his mouth, through gritted teeth.
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"What the devil did she just say, Andre? I couldn't make head or tails of it."
"Something to do with insanity…" Andre returned just as taken aback, "and very possibly a ring of some kind."
"That can't be right. You must have misheard her…" A look of horror suddenly scrawled across the lines of Firmin's face, "Andre…was I so far gone at the Renard's last night that I might have propositioned this young lady?"
"You did disappear for a time after your tenth glass of port…but no more far gone than I was." His friend assured him with a smile hastily seeing his look. Quite suddenly he paused, his smile dropping instantly as a thought occurred to him, "Oh dear Lord…did I?"
"This is ridiculous!" Firmin shook away the idea from the both of them. "There is no conceivable way we proposed marriage to this girl! And I think it best you make it plain to her that we did not, lest she be confused as to the matter at hand."
Smiling weakly, Andre turned once again to their young guest.
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I wondered if maybe I had said something wrong because both men went pale as (well…pale things) after I spoke…and I KNOW I did when the kindlier looking one, Andre, turned back to me and said quite frankly.
"My partner and I confess some slight shock in hearing your speech, as neither of us by memory or recollection can recall making an offer of marriage to you."
One could have heard a pin drop.
"WHAT?"
"Listen here, young woman, we have no intention of marrying you!" The other exploded.
Now, keep in mind, I was confused by their rough English, scared by the fact my school group still hadn't noticed I was missing, and crabby because I had been woken up by a harpy sounding screech from a prima donna. I was tired, frightened, and fed to the teeth with this place. All of it. So…maybe that's why I did what I did next.
I held up a hand and stopped his cry, "Never mind. Screw this. Don't help me, I'll call them myself." And so saying, I reached into my shoulder bag and whipped out my cell. Long distance calling be damned. I was calling my mom.
But to my horror, I couldn't even get a dial tone this time. Just a blaringly loud crackling of static. I pleaded with the device. I begged. Little good it did.
The manager guys just stood by in complete and utter shock at my furious tears and ugly dripping nose.
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"Andre, the girl is quite mad. She is speaking to herself and is performing the fit of the century. It is clear her moods are unbalanced."
"Do you think we should send for the sanitarium?" Andre asked worriedly.
"I do. But do it discreetly, the last thing we need is a scandal. We already have half of the city believing we are incapable of running this Opera House after our predecessors long reign. What do you think they'll say if this gets out?"
"Quite right, quite right." Andre fumbled around.
"Monsieur's…"
Both men turned to regard the ballet mistress.
"If I may make a suggestion…"
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I lost control of my emotions for about a minute. I wouldn't let myself continue for longer than that. Making a blubbering mess of myself in front of strangers was not my bag, baby. Dashing the wetness from my eyes and wiping my nose on the sleeve of my shirt, I gulped loudly. Okay, I was fine. I was cool. I was good. But I was getting the hell out of here.
The three in the room were conferring amongst themselves. I huffed. Some help they turned out to be. Whatever. I'd walk. I should have done it first thing last night, I was mad I hadn't. But I would walk now. I was sure I could find my way back to the hotel if I searched most of the day. Alright, I'd made up my mind.
"Excuse me?" I ventured.
None of them paid me any attention.
"I'm going now…"
They were deep in conversation.
"Thanks for all the help." I muttered, striding for the door. Something one the wall caught my eye. It was a calendar.
"By the way…your calendar's about a hundred years off…just thought you should know."
I didn't wait to see if they noticed my exit or not.
Once in the hall, I picked a direction and started marching.
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"What if the girl is not mad at all, simply…dull-witted?" The dance mistress continued.
"That would account for her strange behavior…" Andre put in.
"But perhaps not her dress…" Firmin concluded.
"What matters is that it could be entirely possible she is one of the young ladies of the Academy…and that they are desperately searching for her. She might even have very wealthy family connections who would reward those who would care for her during this plight."
One could almost see the understanding fill the manager's eyes.
"And if that is the case we most certainly cannot send her to the sanitarium."
"Certainly not." Firmin agreed with his cohort.
"What should we do, then, Firmin? I, for one, am at a loss."
"Well, I think there is only one thing we can do, Andre. She'll have to stay, until her caretakers are found."
"Stay, and do what, Firmin? She cannot sing, or dance…nor does she have any talent that we know of that could be of any use to this opera house."
"Why don't you ask the lady for herself?" Madame Giry supplied.
"Of course, but first…Andre…" Firmin turned to his companion, "We must find where this girl came from. Contact all of the schools for Aspiring Young Ladies and see if they are missing a Mademoiselle Ryans. It will take time, but if this girl does have well known relations, we'd be fools to throw her out."
"We'd be fools to let her out of our sight…"
"Andre…"
"Yes, my dear Firmin?"
"Where is the girl?"
"Out of our sight, or so it would appear, monsieur's." A slight smirk raised the corners of Madame Giry's mouth as the new managers of the opera house scrambled out the half open office door in search of the theater's newest acquisition.
888
I ended up in the stables. Don't ask me how. I just knew I was in the stables when I stepped my leather boots in a huge smelly pile of horse droppings. That was the first clue. The second one was when a huge horse snout was thrust in my face, close enough to slobber all in my hair.
"Yeuch!" I hissed, jumping back from the stallion, "That's so nasty…now I know why I never asked Santa for a pony…"
"Tha's a shame…"
"Holy shi…" I jumped, spinning around.
"…they make wonderful pets. Now do ye mind? I've got ta get this fellow 'is bath…"
It was a boy, well definitely older than a boy but not quite a man. He had chestnut hair and a sunny disposition. Cheeky little smile too. And best of all he was most certainly speaking English.
"Oh, sorry…"
"Ah, tha's all righ', don't see much o' the dancers down in these parts." He commented jovially as he led the white horse he was riding into his pen.
I snorted, "Not a dancer. Not with this body anyway."
"Singer then, are yeh?" He asked, swinging down looking way too cool to make me think he hadn't practiced it a thousand times before.
I contemplated my answer, "Someday maybe. But not here."
"Pity tha'. Why such a dislike o' me old Opera House then?" He questioned, brushing the horse down.
"Let's say, it didn't give me an enjoyable welcome…"
"Mrs. Ryans!" The shout drew our attention and I watched in incredulous shock at the sight of both of the manager guys heading in my direction, "Please, wait!"
"Speaking of which…" I muttered. I waited until the managers came puffing to a standstill in front of me. "Don't worry; I was just on my way out…"
"No!" They simultaneously chorused in distress.
"Miss Ryans…" The Andre one pleaded, "You must pardon us for the misunderstanding in the office. Of course we shall help you find your scholarly protectors…"
"But not for free!" The other, Firmin, made clear.
"Firmin, I'm handling this…"
I rolled my eyes. These guys were married to each other if their discussions were anything to go by.
"The point being, Miss Ryans, is that while we spend the time and effort needed to locate your school, you will be under our care and as such," Andre continued, "you will be asked to lend a hand…"
I looked on uncomprehendingly, "I'm not exactly Opera House material here…" I replied hesitantly.
Firmin guy sighed impatiently, "Well, what can you do?"
"Nothing that could help, I'm afraid. I don't have much experience with the workings of backstage. I guess I could clean…" Wasn't entirely looking forward to that, though, anytime soon.
"We are seeking a new maid for the ladies dormitories and dressing rooms…" Andre entered in hopefully.
"Oh!" I said remembering the previous summer, "I've worked at a library before. You guys do have a library, don't you? I think I remember the guide saying something about it on the tour…" Oh, please let me do the library. The choice between that and cleaning rooms was nonexistent. Another thought infiltrated my thinking, "Wait, this will be only for a day or so, right?"
"We do hope so…" Firmin muttered.
I still didn't feel easy about all this. I looked out the stable door. I could still just walk to the hotel, why get these two involved? I barely knew them…
"Please, Mademoiselle…" Andre pleaded, "The city is no place for a woman to be wandering around without an escort."
Whether it was the pleasant feel of that old chivalry in his comment, or that I just didn't feel like attaining blisters that would cripple me within an inch of my life by walking all the long way, I nodded.
"Excellent." Andre said kindly, "Now, if you will please come with us…there is a dress code needed to be looked over…"
I let myself be shepherded away from the rather striking stable boy. I felt bad that I didn't get his name. Oh, well.
888
Angelina Marguerite Dubois was not pleased. In fact, she was completely enraged. The new girl had come at the most inopportune moment imaginable. She would have to take care of this. Peeking through the door, at the sight of some of the other dancers swarming around the new girl, helping her into her new clothes (while the girl in question expelled the most colorful language at the intrusion and lack of privacy), Angelina pulled out a device from her bodice. No one in this time period would recognize it, but she couldn't take any chances of the new one getting suspicious at its appearance. It was a Razor cell phone.
Flipping it open violently and pressing speed dial, Angelina waited for a response.
"How's it going?"
"Oh fabulous!" Angelina exclaimed sarcastically, "Would you mind telling me what this little slut is doing in MY time frame? I paid good money for my chance at nabbing the Phantom; I don't remember anything in our contract allowing another member to join in!"
A chilling voice chuckled on the other end, "A mere miscalculation."
Angelina shivered. The voice was so evil, but as long as it was working in her favor, she could deal with it, "Well you better UN-miscalculate it, and fast! I was this close to getting him to notice me today, until this bimbo's miraculous pop up routine garnered most of his attention for the afternoon. Get her out."
"Working on it. And don't use that tone of voice with me, Missy. I can make your dream scenario the thing of nightmares like THAT." It seemed the air trembled at the claim, "Now, just put up with her for the time being. She'll be sent home as soon as possible. Until then…think of her as your arch nemesis. It's good for the reviews."
"Fine," Angelina snapped, "Whatever. Just hurry it up."
Dial tone.
888
Somewhere in a different time and place, the author sat back in her desk chair and laughed insanely, popping in a few razzles, "I just love screwing with Mary – Sues…they are always so unbelievably gullible!"