Less than a year after the fire, the Opera Populair was purchased and repaired. M. Andre and M. Firman sold it at a loss to a rather abdominious and portly Italian man. His thick mustache sat above his thin upper lip and the hair a top his head was receding. M. Burkley always carried a gold pocket watch in his breast pocket. Burkley isn't a very Italian name, but he says he's fully Italian. I sometimes doubt this claim.
It should be noted when one full year passed after the grand building was consumed in flame, strange things began to happen. Noises mostly, occassionally a prop would turn up missing. I wouldn't consider any of this particulary note worthy since it isn't anything out of the ordinary. But since it has been one year almost to the day (about a week from yesterday I think) the supersticious minds of silly chorus girls are filled with thoughts of hauntings.
Meg Giry was hired as Dance Instructor while her mother is now the stage manager. Many people from before the accident, as the papers are calling it, refused to return. Auditions were held for ballet dancers, singers and musicians; interviews were conducted for stage hands and the like. I was lucky enough to get in as a dancer. Being a dancer is much easier than having to sing, at least for me. My voice is too mature for my age and I think it draws attention to me. I've become rather shy and withdrawn because of it.
My name is Cassandra and at seventeen years old I have done nothing exciting with my life. Aside from dancing in an opera house I am the picture of perfection in society's view. My parents are extraordinarily wealthy, they've spoiled me at every opportunity, never saying I couldn't do something but always encouraging me. Despite this though, I am just like other girls. I wanted frilly silk gowns and bundles of flowers. I wanted my hair dome just so. I wanted people to think of me as charming and polite, a perfect little angel. Ballet is the only thing that sets me apart from other girls in my social class. It's seen as rather improper for a young lady to show so much skin even if it is for a professional display of art.
One advantage to being a dancer is not having to wear a corset all day, they are rediculously tight and I really think the only reason we wear them is to push up our breasts so men can enjoy the view. Not that I'm complaining; my only dirty little secret: I sometimes enjoy that kind of attention. I have dark, mossy green eyes. Dark eyes are not uncommon in France, neither is dark hair, which I also have. It is not onyx nor brunnette but a pleasant mixture of the darkest hazelnut and a touch of cherry that is usually only seen by the keen observer or under brilliant stage light.
We're starting rehearsals for the first act of Bizet's Carmen tomorrow morning. This is one of my favorite romantic operas. It's about a gypsy "lady of the profession" and a soldier who falls in love with her but she doesn't want to be bound to anyone, she's a little bird without a cage, completely free.
M. Burkley was very generous with his money when he comissioned the opera house to be rebuilt. From what I've heard from the only three chorus girls who returned after last year, the dormitories have much improved. They say the rooms used to be drafty and cold but our rich manager fixed all that. The floors are carpeted! They're so enthused it's amusing.
Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise. An American coined that phrase, Benjamin Franklin. Brilliant man, discoved elecricity too though what good it will do us I have no idea. I'm no man, but I am wise and I know we all have to get up early to begin practice so I am going to bed as soon as I finish brushing out my hair. Maybe I should get it cut, it's such a hassle to brush and braid and pin up knee length hair!
"It's true, the Phantom must be haunting the place, how else do explain those missing props? I heard one of the stage hands today while he was moving scenes backstage talking about all the things he just moved into storage yesterday all missing!" Josephine is the biggest gossip of all the girls in this room. She's plain looking and tends to stir up trouble to avoid people noticing her lack of personality and beauty.
"Oh, what if really is the ghost? I don't think I could ever sleep here again if it is back." That's Amelia, the youngest and most talented dancer in our group. I don't mean we're all friends, I mean all the dancers are put in groups and each group shares a room.
"What's the matter, you afraid?" Annette is a real tough girl, she doesn't believe there ever was an opera ghost. Like most people who grew up away from the house, she believed everything the papers said about it. The fire was caused by a psychotic and romantically obsessed man, not a ghost and he did not haunt the opera house. They never printed anything about the underground lair, or what this man looked like. Police claimed afterward that he died in the fire. I wasn't there that night, but I had spent enough time in Box Three, which is directly across from Box Five, to believe someone really did haunt this place.
"I bet you wouldn't last five minutes in her room." Her here refers to Christine Deae, and her room was in part of the opera house not touched by the fire, so it has been left alone. No one wants to stay there and M. Burkley considers it a part of history that should not be bothered. I wonder if maybe, just maybe, the ghost did come back and left a note for his new manager.
"No way will you ever get me in there!" Poor Amelia, frightened out of her wits by nothing more than a story. At least it is just a story to those of us who didn't live through it, it's just a story to me. "What if it's there? What if it tries to kill me?"
Josephine narrowed her eyes, "I dare you to spend the whole night there."
"No! I won't do it! You can't make me!" She's about to cry, this isn't right, I have to step in.
"Jo, enough. We don't have time for your trivial games, practice starts tomorrow. Go to bed, all of you."
"Who put you in charge Cassandra, you think you're so much better than us just 'cause you're daddy's got money. You aren't the boss of us. Tell you what, you want to go to bed right now you can, but we're all staying awake up here. Why don't you go to her room?" Sadistic bitch. Oh excuse my language, when did I start using words like that?
I roll my eyes and shrug, "Fine, but when you're too tired to go en pointe don't say I didn't warn you." I pick up the gas lamp beside my bed and head out down the corridor to what was Mlle. Deae's dressing room. It's really not that far, but I think the chorus girls were telling the truth, this building was very drafty before being rebuilt. I have chills, goose pimples, my hair is standing on end from the cool breeze.
I've never been inside this room before but I did not expect it to be so... so... pink. Pink is not a good color for a room, green or blue, even yellow is more appropriate. There's supposed to be a hidden passageway behind the mirror, filled with traps too. My guess is since that's the way the guardarms took to arrest the phantom, the traps must be disabled. I wonder what it looks like down there.
There's a rush of adrenaline coursing in me now, I'm alive with curiosity. I know I should just lay down and sleep but I really want to know. This could be the one chance I have to do something totally wild and no one find out. I could sleep naked in his bed and none would be the wiser. How do I open a mirror? Does it slide or swing open, am I looking for a switch, lever or button?
Starting on the right side of the mirror, working up, I move my fingers over the contours of the wooden frame and of the wall around it. Tediously I move up just a tiny bit, a few centimeters at a time. By the time I've reached the halfway point I'm ready to give in. I'm tired and my fingers are sore. I won't give up though, I have to open the mirror, it's like a puzzle waiting to be solved. Two hours later, I think I found it. A small notch between the frame and the mirror glass. It's like a latch I think. Moving the piece of wood upward causes a barely audible click.
Nothing happens. I feel let down somehow and push my hands against the glass in frustration. The glass moves. Just a bit really, I almost didn't notice it but it did move to the side a smidgeon. I put my hands on the cold mirror again and use the friction to pull the mirror sideways. A blast of cold, damp air floods the room. "I found it. I really found it," I smile and sigh in disbelieving relief.
The whole passage is damp, the walls are slick with built up slime. There's no telling how much mold is growing here. The further down I go, the more imposing the darkness becomes, it's like it doesn't want me here. The oil lamp I brought with me hasn't been filled in a few days, might have been a mistake to bring an almost dead lamp in to such darkness. I'm an intrudor, an outsider, I don't belong here. There's nothing I love more than a challenge.
A spiral, stone staircase is ahead of me three floors below the opera house, supposedly two floors further down is his home.