A/N: Hello! I'm going for mostly a mix of the books and TV here in my portrayals of the characters (to be frank, I always see Rory McCann as Sandor, so just shave ten or so years off him and that's who you've got here).
Although this takes place in 1880s Westeros, I do use language that isn't exactly Westerosi: soprano, contralto, rendezvous, brandy, etc. Hope it's not too jarring.
I highly recommend checking out WildConcerto's story "The Dragons' Song" which has the opposite premise to this: Phantom of the Opera characters in the GoT/ASOIAF world. It's fantastic!
Hope you enjoy!
The opera house in King's Landing was just over a century old – nothing, a mere blink of an eye in the vast history of Westeros.
Yet to the young woman standing outside its doors, she was as awed by this monument to artistic ambition as if she stood at something as ancient and august as the ruins of the Wall.
This was Sansa Stark's first visit to her country's capital. Growing up in the Northern village of Winterfell, where logging and trapping were the principal means of commerce, all she knew of society came from magazines she poured over with Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel. Each girl imagined themselves in the latest Reach fashion as the snow howled outside.
Sansa stood almost trembling staring at the…the palace before her. Now to make a dream a reality!
She nodded happily at that thought. Yes. That is exactly the sort of sentence a heroine would think in a novel.
She picked up her large carpet bag and started nimbly up the opera's gilded steps. She felt a foreign thrill as she passed through the curved archway of the entrance, past the statues of Valyrian gods. M. Garnear, the architect who rebuilt the opera house after…after the fire, had been heavily influenced by classical Valyrian design. He'd even brought in sculptors from Essos to carve from marble the figures of Valyrian mythology lining the roof and exterior stairway, often depicted riding their long-dead dragons. This served as an odd contrast to some of the more "Second Empire" contemporary designs of the building itself, with its soft pastel colors and intricate carvings.
Nowhere was this more apparent than when Sansa – juggling her carpet bag – pushed her way through the large doorway and into the room of the grand staircase. The murals of cherubs, knights, and horses along the walls and domed ceiling were a far cry from the half-naked Valyrian gods standing outside the establishment.
Sansa stood dumb at the foot of the staircase. Now that she was here, she felt her nerve fail her. It is no small thing to run away from home - into the very scene of her family's near ruin.
She thought for a moment of how her father's kind but stern face would look if he knew his eldest daughter was taking the very footsteps his departed sister once took.
But Sansa wasn't Lyanna. And that whole nastiness was over twenty years ago! Although her father seldom spoke of Lyanna or the past, the haunted cloud that fell over Lord Stark's sad gray eyes when she was mentioned made it seem as if he were freshly seeing that past all over again.
Sansa straightened her back. Hesitating no longer, she marched up the long staircase with sure, resolute steps. She would not be so beholden to the past. She would not let her one true dream –– to sing and sing and sing onstage (and also fall madly in love with some fiery-eyed, brooding hero of a man, but that could wait for now), be held back by tragic figures long dead.
Yet as Sansa grew closer to the foyer, empty of almost everyone but pageboys and a few clerks hurrying this way and that, she could not ignore a deep shiver within her. Her mind would not obey her. She'd start thinking….
Was it here, at this pillar at the top of the staircase, where Rhaegar Targaryen, a nobleman who had left his family behind to compose and teach (a runaway, like me, like Lyanna) was confronted by Robert Baratheon, the fiancé Lyanna had left behind when she came to the opera house to sing?
It was said that no one had heard such a voice as Lyanna Stark's before or since. Rickard Stark, Lyanna's father, even forgave her for leaving home, since the notices she received were so glowing it eclipsed the shame of a lord's daughter in the arts. She and her tutor Rhaegar were considered a fantastic theatrical team, and no one dreamed that the charming, wild singer from a Northern family of good name but somewhat modest means, and the dignified, married Targaryen genius, born from a family that according to legend once ruled Westeros, could ever be more than that.
Until it was clear they were.
As Sansa neared the foyer, she wondered how differently things might have gone that day if Baratheon had asked Targaryen to speak outside before challenging him. If Baratheon hadn't sought help from the opera's chief patron, that master tycoon Tywin Lannister. If Baratheon had waited for Sansa's father to arrive to act as his second rather than impatiently accept Tywin Lannister's offer of his lackey Gregor Clegane.
If only Lyanna hadn't tried to make them both see reason and had instead left while she still could. If only Rhaegar's wife Elia hadn't shown up in the middle of the conflict with their children, in an attempt like Lyanna's to make Rhaegar come to his senses.
If only anyone else had been in that part of the opera house. If only anyone had seen Gregor Clegane, that mountain that moved, before in a blind rage he shot the chandelier swinging above. If only the chandelier had been sturdy enough not to fall…if only all the candles hadn't been lit...the fire spread quickly….
Baratheon was struck in the head in the struggle, and fell unconscious lodged between a pillar and a doorway. This saved him. He was found without a scratch beyond the bump on his head and the soot covering him.
The five corpses were burnt beyond recognition. The officials were finally able to identify Rhaegar, Lyanna, Elia, and the children only when Robert came to and he could think straight enough through the fog of his grief-induced brief madness to identify who had been present. There…there might have been someone else there, too…but Baratheon could not remember…his concussion…and there were so many in the opera house running screaming from the flames….
Naturally, everyone assumed the other person he alluded to was Gregor Clegane. A chance witness (name lost to history) saw the Mountain run out of the opera house just as flames started licking the sky.
He was never seen in Westeros again, since he would obviously pay the severest of penalties for his hellacious crime if caught by the authorities. Not even Tywin Lannister's influence could shield him after the Scandal his act created.
Sansa shuddered and swallowed down the bile the thought of the Scandal always brought to her throat. She was too honest not to privately acknowledge to herself that, yes, lying to her parents about going back to Madame Mordane's Finishing School while secretly pursuing a singing career in King's Landing, did, perhaps, echo Lyanna's rebellious actions over two decades ago.
Yet…wasn't it that part of why Sansa was doing this?
Sansa, always the obedient one, the good angel of Winterfell Manor. The one who dutifully followed her mother on her charitable rounds in the village, who always sat at her needlepoint when there were visitors.
Sansa, the boring, insipid damsel, as her sister Arya put it during their last nasty fight. Sansa who couldn't do anything brave and daring to save her life! Sansa who had no ambition but to marry and make babies and read her stupid gothic romances and sit tra-la-la-ing at her piano all night!
At that, Sansa lost her temper and screamed at little Arya Horseface her deepest secret. She did have an ambition, an ambition so great it consumed her: to sing opera in King's Landing!
She felt a brief flash of triumph as Arya's face went slack, her eyes round and wide. Sansa quickly realized that this had little to do with Sansa's words. Arya was staring at something behind her. Sansa turned and the triumph sunk like a stone in her stomach.
Their father stood there. His eyes were gray pools of misery. He'd heard everything.
He and her mother spoke in very quiet, measured tones as they sat her down after telling Arya and Bran to play outside. She was glad Robb was away at university. She couldn't stand him weighing in on all this as well.
Ned, the misery never leaving his eyes, told her that he regretted now letting Old Nan teach her singing – yes, he'd been aware of the continued lessons, beyond those rudimentary ones she taught them when they were young. Sansa should have known better than to let an old woman teach her who might not have her wits about her, and might mistake Sansa for her prize pupil, Lyanna.
"But Old Nan does have her wits about her, Father!" Sansa interrupted. "She does! Oh, she tells me the most fantastical stories." Her face was dreamy. Old Nan was a retired governess of Winterfell Manor who had stuck with the Stark family through the economic downturn in the last Great Winter. She'd been an able and sharp governess in her time, but she was best at teaching singing, having once nurtured young hopes herself before her family's poor needs dictated a life of servitude.
To reward her for her devotion to their family, the Starks let her a cottage of her own on their lands, a grand piano its greatest possession. This is where the Stark children would run to for stories of the First Men, of ghosts, of the fall of Valyria, of the destruction of the Iron Throne (what a romantic tale!).
This is where Old Nan first noticed Sansa's talent when she'd make the children stand and sing scales. The boys sang like hollowed out trees swaying in the wind, and Arya like a rusty hinge.
But Nan recognized eight-year-old Sansa's voice right away.
And so her brothers and four-year-old Arya got their stories about the last hero, the ice dragon, and the children of the forest.
Sansa got the story of the Angel of Music.
"The Angel only visits once or twice in a generation. The Angel takes the voice of one who works hard at her craft, who has the true soul of song within her, and teaches that voice to grow. And when He visits…." A light appeared in the old woman's eyes that made her look like a child of the forest herself. "Oh, my child, those he visits are blessed with the Angel's voice. True, true genius."
Little Sansa was hopelessly enthralled. "How about you, Nan? Has the Angel ever visited you?"
The light dimmed and the old woman bat her wrinkled eyelids rapidly. She smiled crookedly at the young girl. She took her wrist and squeezed it reassuringly. "No, my dear. The Angel has not. I am meant to teach others the gifts they need in case the Angel decides to visit them. And you, my dear. You will definitely be visited, but if and only if you continue to practice! Now, your scales again."
How could Sansa ever express how much singing meant to her? That when she closed her eyes and let the music take her away, she already felt half-possessed by an angel?
Sansa could not explain the parts about the Angel to her mother and father, of course. Not, obviously, that she still believed in any Northern Angel of Music. Of course not. But….
Still, even without bringing up the Angel, her parents refused to take her seriously. "I agree with your father, Sansa," Catelyn Stark told her in gentler tones. "That's why we're sending you back early to Madame Mordane's. I'm sure Mr. Poole won't mind sending Jeyne back as well, so you won't be lonely before the term starts."
"But Nan says my voice is so good I could sing in an opera! She did! And I just read in the paper that they'll be auditioning soon for a new understudy for Cersei Lannister! Cersei Lannister, the diva! Mother, you know Lord Baelish, the owner of the opera house. If you could just write to him that" –
"Sansa." She almost jumped. She'd never heard her father speak in such a sharp tone. He was standing over her, and she was almost frightened by the anger in his eyes, if it weren't for the deep sadness and fear there as well. "We are not discussing this further. Our minds are made up."
Seeing the tears in her blue eyes – so like her mother's – his own softened and he sat beside her, took her hand in his. "Little one. Don't worry so. I'm not angry with you or Old Nan. I shan't scold her or anything like that." He pat her cheek and pinched her chin like he used to do when she was a child…like he still did, though he never did with Arya or the boys. She had a doleful realization: of all the five Stark children, Sansa was the one most treated like a child. She, the second eldest.
She saw suddenly quite clearly that her father had a way of speaking to the others as though they were little adults, as if he was quite intent on understanding and reasoning with them. She recalled now many times he'd walk with Arya in a field, hands behind his back, as she prattled on about hunting or riding or whatever else was on her wild mind. His smile of sympathy was so warm and proud…like he gave to Robb and Bran and even baby Rickon….
Had she ever received that smile?
Of course, everyone who thought Sansa couldn't hear said Ned was partial to his youngest girl because she was so much like Lyanna in spirit and even in looks, before Lyanna had become a beauty.
Sansa, with her auburn hair, blue eyes, and classical beauty inherited from her mother, looked nothing like Lyanna. Her eagerness to please and her innate courtesy could not have been further from Lyanna as well.
As her father and mother tried to comfort her now like she was a three-year-old throwing a tantrum, Sansa sullenly thought to herself that they would never treat her seriously, never respect her, because she was such an agonizingly, stupefyingly –
"…good girl, Sansa," her father was saying. "You're a good, obedient girl and I know this little desire of yours will pass." He kissed her on top of her head. "I can always count on my little Sansa to stay out of trouble."
Looking back, that was it, she believed. The moment where she was determined to shut up Arya, and…and…show her parents that she was capable of being as strong and rebellious as her aunt…but without making the same mistakes! She'd show them!
And so as she and Jeyne boarded the train out of Winterfell to Barrowton and Madame Mordane, the two girls made their plans. Jeyne was to continue on to Barrowton, but Sansa would depart on the next stop and board a train to King's Landing. Jeyne would tell Madame Mordane that Sansa's parents had changed their minds, and she'd intercept any letters from her parents and send them along to Sansa, and vice-versa. Jeyne was giddy with the idea of taking part in such an outlandish adventure.
Before leaving Winterfell, Sansa acted the perfect contrite little lady (earning more mocking words from little Miss Arya Underfoot). And so her mother had no reason to suspect her when Sansa asked if she could look in Lady Catelyn's room for some cloth for a new dress. Sansa flipped quickly through her mother's address book and found Lord Baelish's.
She hadn't waited for a reply to her letter. She'd been very careful not to presume too much on his relationship fostered with her mother when he was a child and his father traveled for work, but if he could only see it in him to secure her an audition for Mrs. Baratheon's understudy, well…?
Her answer awaited her at King's Landing Station. He'd sent a carriage with instructions to first meet with the managers and then with him. He would secure her accommodations.
So here she was!
…Wait, where was she?
Sansa awakened from her musings to find herself in the theater's immense, glittering foyer. The grand foyer was to Sansa's mind the most beautiful place she'd ever been in. The pillars and low-hanging chandeliers were golden and the ceiling was covered in a beautiful fresco depicting the Seven interlocked with each other throughout history. Yet she could scarcely take in the glorious sight as panic set in.
She looked down dumbly at the polite but hasty note Lord Baelish had left waiting for her at the station. The manager's office…he…he didn't say where the office was. She got to the end of the hall, which branched off into two different directions. She wavered between the two. Oh, why didn't she ask one of the porters she'd seen as she walked up the staircase? Just like a child, she'd been too open-mouthed staring at the architecture and thinking about the past to attend to the present like she should. Now there was no one around! She'd just assumed there would be signs!
It's not a depot, idiot, with arrows telling you where to go, she scolded herself, ears red. Sophisticated people just know.
She sucked in a brave breath and prepared to imitate one such of these sophisticated people and guess when a heavy hand fell on her shoulder. In her shock, she spun around at a very unsophisticated speed.
"Do I frighten you so much, girl?" The low rumble of a voice asked her.
Indeed, Sansa had never expected her first encounter at the opera house to be with someone like this.
She trembled.
He was one of the largest men she'd ever seen; if not seven feet tall, somewhere in that near neighborhood. He was obviously some sort of workman. He wore no jacket and his shirt sleeves were rolled up on his massively muscled arms. He had on a brown workman's vest and thick boots, and his dark cap hid lank hair tied in a knot in back.
His face was his most arresting feature. Half consisted of a thick dark eyebrow drawn downward over a strong nose and an equally strong jaw, with stubble giving way to a beard.
The other half of his face was a twisted mass of burn scars, melting into his beard.
Sansa inwardly quavered at the sight, coming at the end of her thoughts of Lyanna and the Scandal, and here in the opera house, no less.
And yet his eyes: they were…coolly appraising her, mocking her, yet…they were not cold or mean eyes.
They were very sad, guarded eyes. There was warmth there, somehow.
She was at a loss to explain it.
When Sansa failed to answer him right away, this man continued. "Or if it's not me, are you frightened by the fact you obviously don't know where the hell you are, Miss Stark?" He pronounced her name with a mocking lilt.
She wasn't sure whether she should be more offended by his tone or his language. She certainly wasn't about to quibble with such a man, however!
Wait, how did he know who she was?
She at last found her voice. Beyond everything, Sansa was a lady, and proud of it. She spoke to this man with courtesy. "Forgive me, sir. You surprised me. Yes, I am Sansa Stark, and…yes, I am turned around a bit. How…if you don't mind my asking, sir…how do you know who I am?"
He raised his good eyebrow at her, and she couldn't tell if he was impressed or merely somewhat taken aback by her good manners. He snorted a laugh, like a bear's deep growl. "You might act the perfect lady, miss, but you don't exactly look like a Southerner."
Sansa felt her ears burn crimson again. She couldn't help but look down at her quiet gray dress, plain blue coat, and thick snow boots. Her outfit certainly wasn't the height of fashion. But she couldn't put on anything nicer, as she was meant to go to Madame Mordane's, and her parents would have noticed something right away if she put on one of the dresses she'd ordered from the Reach! And her hair, she knew her hair beneath her painfully country-like straw hat wasn't up in curls like in all the fashion magazines, but was instead pulled away from her face but down in back.
Still, a gentleman would never have pointed something out like that! Much better if he'd said that he'd heard a pretty lady was arriving or something. No, that would have been too forward, of course. But something gallant in that vein!
"Ruffled your feathers, didn't I?" He chuckled. He was leaning against the wall now, appraising her again with arms crossed.
What a horrid man! She refused to acknowledge the insult, straightening once more. "I take it you were expecting me, then?"
He laughed a bit again, in a rasping voice that didn't sound like it laughed much. "Aye, that I was, girl. I was sent out to fetch the little lady and take her straight away to the managers' office." An ungentlemanly big hand grabbed her arm, steering her to the right. "Come along."
Suddenly too tongue-tied to object to him manhandling her so, Sansa dumbly followed.
She gave the man this: once he saw her struggle to keep up while holding onto her large piece of luggage, something in his cheek twitched wryly and he took it from her. "Here, girl, you'll fall over if you carry that thing yourself." His other hand never let go of her arm. He's like a jailer dragging a prisoner to his cell, she thought peevishly.
Still, Sansa never forgot her manners. "Thank you very much, sir."
"Don't call me 'sir'." He looked down speculatively at the carpet bag. "What all do you have in here, girl? You rob a department store on your way over?"
She was gob-smacked at how rude and – yes – nosy this large scarred stranger was proving at every turn! "No, sir, they were all closed. I had to settle for what I could find in the street." She could have bitten her tongue at her sass. How many times had her mother reminded Arya to follow Sansa's example, of never answering a discourtesy with a similar one? Yet her first time away from home outside of school, and here she was ruder than her sister ever was!
This stranger didn't seem to mind, merely raised that eyebrow again with a…well, not precisely friendly, but a pleasantly surprised gleam in his eye as he barked another rough laugh.
Sansa hastened to add, "Just my belongings, sir. The things I need for my accommodations. It's not too heavy, is it?" She suddenly asked concerned, reaching a hand out to take it. She didn't want to impose on anyone.
Another new look in those eyes of his: something softer, with still that hint of surprise. "Nothing I can't handle, girl." He frowned as he pushed open a door down a less glamorous and plainer corridor. "Your belongings? Where are you staying, girl? You couldn't leave the bag there?"
Sansa blushed. Apparently this stranger wasn't apprised of everything. "Er, no, sir. See, I don't quite know where I'm staying yet."
He looked at her sharply and her blush deepened. He must think her such a wanton! Coming to King's Landing without a place to stay! He stopped walking and looked her over, once. "So you do have some of the wild North to you after all," he said in a low voice, as if to himself. His look darkened. "Be careful, miss. Little birds shouldn't leap blindly out of their nests." He continued charging down the hallway, Sansa at his heels.
He was so difficult to read. Was he still mocking her, or was he genuinely concerned? The dark, glum look on his face as he stared ahead of him certainly did not speak to the former.
"I'm terribly sorry, sir, but I don't believe I ever caught your name."
"For the last bloody time, girl, don't call me 'sir'." That mocking twist was back to his face as he said, "I'm only the head stagehand around these parts, after all. Among other things." Sansa did not think it possible, but his look went even blacker at that last part. "People call me the Hound."
Sansa was perplexed. "But why?"
He smirked as they took a left at the end of the hall. "My family's run the kennels on the Lannister estate out at Casterly Rock for the past couple of generations. Me, I don't mind it. I like me a good hound. Better than people for most things, including honesty. A hound will die for you but never lie to you."
So, he's here from the Lannisters, Sansa thought. Why does that whole kennel scenario sound vaguely familiar? Something in connection with the Scandal?
She looked around and took in the fact that they were in a sort of dark hallway coated with cobwebs. "Where are we?"
"Shortcut," he answered. Another nasty laugh. "Away from the nicer corridors. They don't like my kind in there too often. Bit risky going to the grand foyer, but I figured you'd be lost."
She suddenly felt sorry for him. "Well, I'm very thankful for your timely intervention, sir."
He was merely annoyed. "Oh for – girl, what did I tell you" –
Sansa was annoyed, too. "Yes, yes. I'm not to call you 'sir'. But I simply can't call you Hound! That's not right. What's your true name?"
"My true name's not one to flaunt, girl."
Another voice suddenly spoke. "It's Clegane!" Sansa looked to her left, her blood running cold at that name. A rather fat but harmless-looking fellow stood there in clothes that were in worse condition than her present companion's. He swayed up to her, his face blank and his breath stinking.
Sansa had seen enough of the rowdy villagers of Winterfell at festivals to easily identify the man as drunk.
Well, that and the bottle he carried.
The man pointed to the now quite peeved head stagehand. "His name's Clegane, miss."
"Would you get out of here, Hollard?" Clegane snapped. "Go on, sober yourself up and then help Trant with the backdrops, go on."
Hollard looked kindly and curiously at Sansa. "You new here, miss?"
"I said go on!"
Sansa bristled at Clegane's strong tone, and so she answered Hollard politely. "Yes I am, Mr. Hollard. Thank you."
A red patch appeared on the drunkard's cheek, and he smiled weakly. "Well, you're a sweet little thing." He unsteadily lift his hand and wagged his finger. "Listen here, miss. Watch out for the Phantom. The Phantom of the Opera. He's the devil himself, you know."
Sansa frowned, but before she could inquire further, Clegane's hand was around the man's shirt collar. "For the last fucking time, Hollard, shut your damn fool mouth and go back to work." Sansa's mouth went slack at his language. He pushed him away.
Hollard struggled to keep his balance but then retreated like a whipped dog. He called over his shoulder again, "Watch out for the ghost, miss! That Phantom's the devil himself!"
He was gone into the back.
Sansa stared up at Clegane. "Phantom? What is he talking about?"
"Never mind, girl. Just a stupid superstition. Backstage gossip is all."
Sansa Stark was a lady, and a lady never acknowledged gossip, or was interested in superstitions like a child.
Then again.
Then again, if Sansa was to work here, she should know what goes on.
"Do tell, sir – I mean, Mr. Clegane." A quiet beat. "Your name is really Clegane?" That's right, Gregor Clegane's grandfather owned a kennel on the Lannister property….
He suddenly whirled around on her, eyes wide and frightening. "Aye, it is. Want to make something of it?"
He loomed over her, breathing heavily. His face held barely contained wild fury.
Sansa's first inclination was to reply quickly nothing no nothing at all no sir. But his fury shot through her and roused some warrior within herself. "Should I?" She heard herself ask.
Sansa guessed this Clegane fellow was very rarely surprised, so the fact she appeared to constantly bring that out in him today irritated him. He gave her another once-over. Then one more barking laugh (another rarity, she guessed). "Here and there you show signs of spirit, girl," he said as some sort of grudging compliment. He straightened and relaxed his posture. "The Clegane you're thinking of is my older brother." He spat angrily at the mention of Gregor. "And I ain't my brother." His very expression spoke his conviction.
Sansa felt herself relax as well. He gestured with his head out another doorway. "Come on."
She hurried after him. "You were telling me about the Phantom, Mr. Clegane."
"No, I wasn't."
All right. Sansa was curious, she would admit. "Oh, please. I want to know all I can about the opera house. Do tell! Do people really think it's haunted?"
"Aye, because people are stupid. They think some masked figure lives underground and kills people if the operas aren't done the way he likes. Some say he's a ghost, some a devil, others just a madman. But forget that shite, girl."
Sansa felt both a thrill and a chill. She hoped no one gossiped about her aunt's ghost. "You don't believe it, Mr. Clegane?" Her tone was lightly teasing.
Another wry twist in his burnt cheek. "There are worse things to fear in life than ghosts, miss." He stopped in front of a door. "Here you are."
Sansa had been so distracted she didn't realize they'd left behind the dark corridors and were now in front of a row of offices on plush red carpeting. "This is the manager's office?"
"Aye. Just knock and head in. You'll be all right, girl."
There was an undercurrent of warmth to his words. He'd sensed her anxiety.
And so it was with grateful, genuine blue eyes that she turned and smiled at him. "Thank you so much, Mr. Clegane." She curtseyed, once.
He looked fit for another mocking laugh, but then his face turned serious and he grabbed her arm again. "Look here," he said in a rough quick voice. "This Phantom shit. Don't talk about it much, do you hear? Don't…don't take part in any gossip. Right?"
Sansa tilted her head, lost. He suddenly sounded so awkward. "What do you mean? You said- "
He compressed his lips, impatient. "Never mind. Just do as I say. And…." His lips were a very tight line now and he darted an almost anxious glance at the door beside them. His voice lowered, and she trembled involuntarily at the rumbling timbre that she felt in her very chest when he spoke. "…If ever you feel yourself in danger, girl, remember this: put your hand to the level of your eyes."
Sansa was frightened now. So was this opera ghost real after all? "Hand to the level of my eyes? What in the name of….?"
"Remember that, girl," He said harshly. He turned and stalked off after setting her carpet bag down. He darted a quick glance at her behind his broad shoulder, broader than any she had ever seen. He disappeared around a corner.
Now that he was gone and she didn't have his warm hand on her or his warm voice in her ear, she felt cold, alone. All she had for company were his chilling parting words.
She rubbed her arms, looking all around her. The Phantom of the Opera.
Swallowing, she turned and knocked.