All Hallows Eve

by Kryss LaBryn

A/N: I, of course, own nothing, except the slightly worrying young man. If I did, I'd be rich, and could devote my time to writing more phics!

This is a sequel to Through A Mirror, Darkly. For those of you who haven't read it yet, a brief summary: Erik and Christine got together and are married. Raoul is no longer in the picture. She is (by the time of this story) the Prima Donna at the Palais Garnier, and while Erik cannot, of course, escort her to the various functions at which she is duty-bound to appear, he always, always escorts her to the Bal Masques...

As I have mentioned on my profiles page, I am rewriting the last chapter or two of "Through A Mirror, Darkly", to expand upon what's there. Things have gotten rather busy in real life, though, so it's taking a little longer than I had anticipated. In the meantime, I thought I would offer you this little story. Happy Hallowe'en!

Bal Masque: All Hallows Eve: First Movement

I smiled at my husband in the mirror as he stood behind me and brushed my hair with long, even strokes. Erik loved to brush my hair, and I loved the soothing, sensuous sensation. We both said that he did it because it was difficult for me to do a proper job myself, but we both smiled at the excuse.

But tonight, it was not the denouement to our day, but rather a prelude to our evening. For tonight, the Opera Garnier would throw its doors open to all and sundry in a massive masked ball!

Erik, of course, could not escort me to all the various functions that I had to attend, as the Opera's Prima Donna, but he always, always escorted me to the Bal Masques. We joked with the cast and crew that, while he always managed to be out of town on business when there was a boring dinner with some Minister or other scheduled, he somehow always managed to clear his calendar for the masked dances. "Highly suspicious, I call it," Carolus Fonta, the famous baritone, jested, never realizing the truth he spoke.

Erik had, as usual, dressed out of my sight. After almost six months of marriage, he was still not comfortable with my seeing, or even touching, more skin than his face and hands, although luckily he had no such qualms concerning me. But as he had also, as usual, managed to get dressed much more quickly than I, he had returned to help me prepare.

Tonight, for the All Hallows Eve ball, we were to go as pirates: Erik as a fierce captain, and I as his "saucy wench". He was dressed in a costume topped off with a scarlet coat, of a style a hundred years out of fashion, which would have done any buccaneer proud. His face was hidden behind a full white mask, an exaggerated smile leering from behind a neat goatee as a dark wig brushed his shoulders. A black tricorn extravagantly decorated with what seemed almost an ostrich's worth of feathers waited on the bed behind us.

I myself was not quite ready. I had donned a colourful skirt, artfully ripped, and an almost indecent white blouse, its sleeves cut daringly short for a married woman. My hair whispered against my bared shoulders as Erik arranged my curls in a cascade down my back. Tonight I would wear them loose, with only a scarf knotted about my head to confine them. I donned a small black domino mask, and with Erik's help, the scarf was knotted and adjusted to a jaunty angle, and we were ready.

As usual, Erik had hired a brougham for the evening, as we had no groom in our employ. It arrived promptly at nine; barely half an hour later we had joined the line of conveyances filing slowly past the front of the Opera, although it was quite some time yet before we were able to disembark ourselves.

How I loved the balls! Every light in the whole Opera, whether flame or electric, was blazing away, and a colourful, cheerful throng filled the foyer to bursting, and flowed down the steps outside. A few of the guests seemed slightly the worse for drink, the masquerade having started at sundown, but there was no hurry; the celebration would last until dawn, at least. Most seemed merely gay.

It was a rare treat for me to be able to appear in public with my husband by my side. I gripped his hand tightly for fear of being separated as we navigated the multitude. The guests were packed so thick at the entrance that one really had to force one's way through them, but once inside the press of bodies eased and we could walk, side by side, with something approaching ease.

Erik deftly relieved a passing waiter of two flutes of champagne; one he passed to me with a small bow; the other he merely held. He could not drink through his mask, and as usual would bare no part of his face in public; however, he had found at previous balls that he tended to draw the unwanted attention of courteous hosts without it.

I sipped and we wandered, admiring the extravagant and imaginative costumes. Some were intricate, some hilarious, some were merely clever; all were worth a glance. There were a number of nautical costumes this year; in addition to our own pirate selves there were a few mermaids or sirens, I couldn't quite tell which with some of them, and quite a few other sailors. A caricature of an unpopular political figure chased after several giggling and scantily clad young women, much to the crowd's amusement. Several Marie Antoinettes danced past, arm in arm; the width of the wake of their passing left quite a gap in the crowds.

Through that gap, much to my surprise, lurking in a less-crowded corner I caught sight of what I could only describe as a familiar figure. Nudged Erik with my elbow, I hid a small smile behind my hand. "Is that supposed to be who I think it's supposed to be?" I asked quietly.

He glanced where I indicated, and made a little sound of disgust in his throat. "Please do tell me I didn't look so... ridiculous," he murmured.

"No, you always had an air of dignity about you," I murmured back.

The object of our discussion was a slender man dressed in a slightly too-large black tailcoat, long black cloak, and a soft black hat. His face had been carefully, if not professionally, painted to resemble a skull. There was an air about him, a dreadful eagerness as he stalked about, that reminded me of those silly young enthusiasts of the Brontë sisters' works, who held tea parties dressed as Jane Eyre and the rest. There was something of the same horrid fanaticism in his over-bright glance; something of the same obsession, at once repulsive and pitiable, in the way he swirled the cloak. I found most of the few Brontë enthusiasts I had met to be rather ordinary, if one did not permit them to discuss their particular obsession, but there was something in his eyes as he glanced at me that made me shiver slightly, despite the heat of the room.

"Ah, Madame Daaé!" boomed a familiar voice, making me jump, and there was Monsieur Firmin Richard, one of the managers, bearing down upon us. "Enjoying the party?"

"Yes, indeed, Monsieur," said I, with a small curtsey. "And you?"

"Oh, very much, very much… Good evening, Monsieur!" and he bowed to Erik. "Managed to reschedule the 'business trip', eh?" He chortled, and Erik bowed slightly.

"Of course, Monsieur!"

"Ah, but Madame," Richard turned back to me; "We have a special guest tonight! A very special guest indeed," and to my horror he beckoned the worrying young man over to us.

"Madame Daaé," he continued, as I struggled to compose an air of polite indifference, "Please allow me to introduce Monsieur Jean Claudin. He is a student at the University; he is researching his thesis here. He has been most eager to meet you! Monsieur Claudin, it is my pleasure to present our Prima Donna, Madame Christine Daaé!"

"A pleasure, La Christine!" M. Claudin murmured politely, bending over my hand. "But surely Daaé was your maiden name?"

"It was," I returned, but Richard interrupted, "It's not at all unusual for artists to keep their maiden names for the stage, especially if they were known before their marriage. Why," and he laughed heartily, "Some doyennes of the stage would never be recognised at all, so often would their names change, were they to take their husband's names each time they married!"

"Indeed, said Claudin politely, then examined me again. "But was your father not Charles Daaé? A musician of some renown, I believe."

"He was," I murmured, slightly uneasy. My father's name was well-known indeed—in the countryside in Brittany, where we travelled. Here, in the great halls of the Paris Opera, no one knew of him but my intimates; or so I had thought.

"Did you ever have the chance to hear him play?" asked Erik, I was sure not casually.

"No, I never did," and the young man turned to him with an oddly measuring glance.

"Oh, M. Claudin has uncovered all sorts of secrets in his research here," Richard chortled. "Why, soon all our little peccadilloes will be a matter of public record, I'm afraid!"

"Well, not all of them," murmured Claudin modestly. "I am only interested in the ones that concern the Ghost!"

"You see," said Richard, "He came here to do a paper on, oh, what was it?"

M. Claudin eagerly leapt in. "On the absurd superstitions that cloud the minds of otherwise rational people when they are in a theatre. Silly nonsense, such as it being bad luck to whistle backstage--"

"It isextremely bad luck to whistle backstage," Erik interrupted calmly. "During a performance, scene changes are signalled to the stagehands with a bo'sun's whistle. As some of the set pieces can weigh several hundred pounds, you can see why it would be simple wisdom that forbids any noises that might be confused with a legitimate signal."

"Well, er, yes, that's true," Richard allowed.

"There are several others, though," the young man glared at Erik, irritated, "But the one that interested me the most was the legend of the ghost who is said to stalk these very halls. You see--"

Richard interrupted, "Our good M. Claudin believes that the Ghost isn't a ghost at all, but a real man! –Oh, drat; there's M. de La Borderie. Excuse me, please." And off he went, calling out heartily to the ambassador.

"If you will excuse us as well, Monsieur," Erik murmured, much to my relief, taking my elbow.

However, M. Claudin was not to be put off so easily. "I have proof," he averred, eyes glittering; "I should very much like to discuss it with you, Madame!"

Erik went quite still for a moment; I myself was slightly stunned. Proof? Did he know that Erik..?

But no; Erik and I exchanged a glance, myself nervously; he, inscrutable through the mask. But M. Claudin paid no attention to him at all; all his attention was fixed upon me. The sudden tightness in my chest eased somewhat, although I remained uneasy. What proof could he possibly have? I wondered. In any case, it seemed best to play along until we could find out what he might actually know, and relieve him of his evidence.

Erik seemed to concur, for he said, with more interest in his voice than I would have been able to summon, "Proof? Truly? Do you have it here with you tonight?"

"I do indeed!" M. Claudin actually rubbed his hands, so eager was he. "Would you like to see it?"

"Very much so."

"Then, please," and he indicated the stairs with a half-bow and a flourish, "Our tour begins in the managers' office!"

This late in the evening, the offices were of course abandoned and locked. However, M. Claudin produced a key from somewhere about his person and quite casually let us in. "Here," he said, pulling a large and rather battered book from a shelf, "See what you make of this!"

It was the Opera's memorandum-book, which began, as usual, with "the management of the Opera shall give to the performance of the National Academy of Music the splendour that becomes the first lyric stage in France", and ends, ninety-eight clauses later, with the statement that the managers must follow the conditions stipulated within. M. Claudin quickly flipped to the end, where, after Clause 98, the usual four conditions had been laid out. However, to this copy, someone had added, in a queer, laboured printing in blotchy red ink, an additional condition: '5. Or if the manager, in any month, delay for more than a fortnight the payment of the allowance which he shall make to the Opera ghost, an allowance of twenty thousand francs a month, say two hundred and forty thousand francs a year.'

"What do you make of that, then?" he asked in triumph.

Erik and I exchanged a glance. It was hard to tell with that mask on, but he seemed slightly embarrassed. I had known that he seemed to have a great deal of money; I had had no idea that he was blackmailing the Opera for it! I was not very happy about it, I must say. But I could hardly say anything about it, not with M. Claudin standing right there, eagerly awaiting our reactions.

M. Claudin seemed to be put off by our lack of response not one whit. "And look here," he flipped through it a little further, to the part which states which boxes are to be reserved for which important people on what occasions, and pointed to another clumsily-inked addition, also in red: 'Box Five on the grand tier shall be placed at the disposal of the Opera ghost for every performance.'

"This hardly proves anything," Erik said, still not quite meeting my glance; "Anyone could have written that in!"

"And only an extremely foolish ghost would have left any kind of evidence of his existence about," I added, not quite addressing M. Claudin. This side of my husband's business dealings did not please me at all.

"It looks to have been written a very long time ago," Erik said rather pointedly. "Doubtless circumstances have changed, since then."

"Perhaps," I conceded, while M. Claudin narrowed his eyes at our by-play.

"In any case, you must admit that it has to have been written by an actual person, a real man, and not a mere phantasm!"

"Yes," said Erik doubtfully, "But this hardly proves anything else!"

"Oh, but there's more; much more! Backstage now, if you please!" He added, looking at me from under his brows, "This next bit concerns you rather closely, Madame!"

He led the way back downstairs and then backstage, chattering merrily all the while. "As you know, the 'Ghost' is rumoured to be a skeleton, with naught but a death's head. However, I am convinced, convinced, mind you, that in actuality, the skull effect was simply the result of the careful application of greasepaint."

"Why on earth would anyone paint their face up like a skull?" I wondered aloud, exchanging another puzzled glance with Erik behind his back.

"Why, it's because of the superstitious and credulous nature of the theatrical performer! If he looked like anyone else, he would have been kicked out immediately. But by painting his face up, like so," and he indicated his own grease-painted visage, "He would have found it easy to convince you all that he was no mere mortal, but rather a supernatural creature, and hence to be left alone! Besides," and he paused a moment to turn and give us a grin, "I rather suspect he enjoyed scaring les petit rats, the little chorus girls. I know I do," and he headed off again.

"Ah, here we are," he cried a moment later, and much to my surprise he stopped outside my old dressing room. As the new Prima Donna I had been forced, quite against my wishes, to take a much nicer, more convenient room; to the best of my knowledge my old room was still unoccupied. My old room, where the Angel of Music used to tutor me…

"Ah, so you are familiar with it, Madame?" he asked, somewhat mockingly, as he turned a key in the lock. "But perhaps it has some surprises left in it yet!" He opened the door and went in.

I held back a moment. "Erik, I don't like this," I whispered.

"Neither do I," he murmured in return, his voice hard, "But I need to know how much he knows! And to whom he has told it…" And with that, he pulled me in behind him.

It was dusty within, and seemed smaller than I remembered. My shabby old furnishings were still present, awaiting the next occupant. A large white sheet covered the mirror at the end of the room. With a flourish, Claudin flipped it free of the ornate frame. "You yourself have a connection to the Ghost, Madame Daaé," he said; "Behold!"

Erik and I regarded the large mirror apparently fixed to the wall. "It's my mirror," I said, then paused, not trusting myself to not give something away. Did he know, then, of the passage it hid?

"It is," and he smiled knowingly. "And more, as I think you know!"

"I'm not sure what you mean--" I began, but he cut me off rather sharply.

"There's no need to be coy with me, Madame; I know you talked to Mme. Giry about the Ghost; I know you disappeared for two whole weeks, without any warning; and I have found his note to you! Come," and he pressed two fingers to the frame.

Without warning, the glass of the mirror swung back like a door. I could not hold back a small cry of surprise, less, I admit, at the motion of the mirror, and more in shock and fear that he knew how to activate it.

"Do you still pretend to know nothing of this?" I shook my head. "Then look," and he stepped aside, motioning me forwards. "You see there, on the wall… Just a little way in…"

And like the fool that I was, believing that nothing could harm me with Erik near, I stepped through the frame.

Erik stepped forward a moment after me, but with a suddenness and a violence that quite alarmed me, Claudin gave Erik a tremendous shove backwards, and flew through the mirror behind me. Erik only stumbled, but Claudin had already thrown the mirror closed; with a quick sharp gesture he cut a rope to one side, and I heard a dull thud as weights dropped.

"Ha," he panted, stepping back as the glass shook under Erik's frantic fists; "With the pulley system disabled there is no way to open it again from that side. Oh, don't worry," and he took my hand as I shook in terror; "I have no intention of harming you. I simply want a word in private!" And with a slight cackle, he clapped a cloth over my face.

The scent of ether filled by nostrils as I struggled, and darkness descended.

Behind the mirror, all was silent.

A/N: Next update in three days, me hearties! Please, send me a review if you read! They truly do make my day...