Hello and welcome to chapter two! I know this took a while getting up, and for that I am sorry. But you lurkers had better leave some reviews, or new chapters will continue to be sluggish. Capice? Good, and remember that all offers of reviewer rewards still stand, because your Auntie Verity is generous like that. Now, on to the chapter!
Francesca had to admit, things were looking up at the opera house. Her aunt had only threatened to quit twice that week (it was Tuesday), she would be wearing a beautiful belly-dancer costume in the new opera the theatre was putting on . . . and she also happened to have Erik.
Nearly every day they would meet for what they insisted on calling "voice lessons," although that had degenerated into a thin excuse to spend some time together and just talk. The only downside to this was that she was becoming steadily more infatuated with him, day by day. Well how could she very well not? she asked herself. It wasn't every day you met someone so mysterious, so deliciously dark, and at the same time so kind, so sweet.
Today, however, was no ordinary day. It appeared that the opera house had been sold. Two men with comical facial hair had stopped by at rehearsals.
"Splendid, splendid," Francesca heard one of them say, watching the chorus girls do their slave-girl dance for the gala, while one of them just stared, his mouth open slightly. Managers, thought Francesca irritably. They were always such lechers, almost as bad as Buquet. These two seemed about average, though. They looked more than they should, but so far they had not tried to grab anything they shouldn't, and anyway, they were soon distracted from the scene by an argument about the difference between "junk" and "scrap metal."
As if reacting to her amusement with the new managers, a curtain chose that exact moment to fall, leaving Auntie Carlotta rather upset.
"'These things do happen?'" she was screaming. "You had better stop 'these things' from happening, or this thing does not happen!"
Francesca smiled. It was probably wrong of her to enjoy it, she knew, but her aunt was always so funny when she flew into these rages. Besides, Carlotta would never go back to La Scala. She might refuse to do a scene or two, but she would never up and go back to Italy. She had grown up with everyone there; thy would shrug her tantrums off like nothing. But here, she had confided in her niece before the opening of La Traviatta, here she got the red carpet. "Sometimes," she had told Francesca, "You have to act like a diva so that people treat you like one. Now where is my doggie, where is my breath spray, andiamo, people, it's almost show time and I have nothing! I quit!"
The scene had quickly turned into an elaborate groveling session ("the opera is nothing without you" "you are our princess, no, our goddess" "actually, we have the Act Three costume right here . . . but of course it doesn't do you justice"), and now that her aunt was looking pacified, she was wondering if she might just slip off for a voice lesson with her masked man . . .
"There is a note," Madame Giry called out suddenly. "From the Opera Ghost." As she read out its contents, Francesca smiled. Her Erik had style, that was for sure. She had connected the dots when she couldn't find him working with the stage crew, and noticed how he always wore that mask. It didn't bother her one bit. If anything, it made it even more exciting, clandestine meetings with the infamous Phantom of the Opera . . .
But then suddenly she caught the direction of nearby Christine and Meg's conversation take a sharp turn. They had been discussing the dubious merits of the opera's foppish new patron (if Erik was a dark chocolate souffle, this Raoul character was runny rice pudding), but now Christine had started up about the Angel of Music, and Francesca's breath caught. She knew about that, too. I mean, a mysterious voice coach?, she had reasoned. Who else could it be? But still, it did bother her to know she wasn't the only one. But then, Christine had nver seen his face, she reasoned. She had. That had to be something. Francesca scurried off to meet with Erik.
"Erik!" she cried when he appeared out of the shadows in one of the empty corridors of the opera house. He was sharply dressed as usual, smiling a bit to see her. Why did he have to be so dashing like that? she wondered. It was quite distracting.
Erik was a bit unsettled as well. Francesca was still wearing her slave-girl costume, and with her dark eyes and bright smile, she looked so pretty . . . but no! Had he forgotten his plan for Christine that very night? He shouldn't, he couldn't think of Francesca that way . . .
"Your letter was brilliant, by the way," she said. "You should see these two, between their worrying Auntie Carlotta has quit for good and trying to sort out the difference between junk and scrap metal, not to mention their fear that you're out to bankrupt them, I think they've forgotten they own a theatre. I swear I heard one of them muttering to the other 'I thought we were going into restaurant management . . .'." she laughed.
Erik's face split into a wicked grin; it was so good to share his opera-haunting schemes with someone. "Ah, fools. Well, I suppose we'll just have to get them accustomed to life in the theatre, won't we?"
Francesca was trying not to look too pleased that he had said "we," and wondering what would happen if she kissed him right then and there, but managed to respond, "I suppose so, but nothing too bad, at least at first. Give them a nice false sense of security," she joked. All Erik ever really did were elaborate threats and minor sabotage, and those were fun.
"Here," Erik, said, suddenly remembering and pulling a box of chocolate truffles from his cape; they had talked about chocolate the other day. "You cannot say you've lived in Paris until you have tried one of these."
The chocolate was exquisite, rich and dark. Francesca closed her eyes and sighed. Then she opened them and smiled. "I have lived in Paris," she said. Then suddenly she realized she was still wearing her slave-girl outfit. "Damnit! I've got to get this back to the costume mistress or she'll kill me!" Then, brave as she dared, she grabbed Erik in a quick, tight hug. "Thank you so much for the chocolates!" and she ran off, blushing, and marveling at how her whole body suddenly felt electrified. She was crazy about him, she had to admit. But still, who'd have thought one little hug could make her feel like that?
Meanwhile, Erik was feeling wistful. He had to admit it: tonight, he might finally win over Christine, his one, his only. But, if that happened . . . he thought of Francesca. Whatever happened with Christine, he'd have to keep in touch with her. Because, otherwise, he had to admit . . . he'd miss her.
