This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.
It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.
Disclaimer – same as the other parts.
London, England, UK – 2000
"Christine Chagny," she said. "You, of all people, child, should know better." She grabbed my ear and hauled me into her room, shutting the door behind us. "All this trouble for a pair of shoes, Kit? You could have just…" She looked at them and saw that they had already been prepared. "Now, how in the world…?"
"Meg, there's someone – or something – down there," I said quietly, not wanting to wake anyone. "I found these like this, and they're the only pair in my size. Someone – or something – is down there."
"Well of course something is down there." I looked at her strangely. "Ernie has to live somewhere, doesn't she, poor dear."
"No, Meg," I said, impatient. "Someone is down there. Some…there's a man down there! I heard him! He said my name!"
She looked at me strangely. "Kit, poor thing, my lecture must have frightened you. Now back to bed with you, child." She started leading me back toward the dorm.
"Meg, I swear I heard a man!"
She clucked her tongue. "Dear, dear, poor Kit." She forced me back into bed and left.
I sat upright, listening as she returned to her room. I could have sworn there had been a voice down in the basement. Or perhaps Meg was right – perhaps I was just imagining things, perhaps her lecture had just frightened me into thinking there was someone in the basement. I lay down and went to sleep.
His hand held mine tightly. "Try once more," he said, his voice breathy and soft. "I will steady you if you fall. Try once more." I prepared and attempted the pirouette, and nearly fell, but felt his hands steadying me as he had promised. "Do not worry, Kit – I am here. You will not fall while I am here."
I smiled. I tried to thank him, but my mouth could not form the words. "Do not speak," he said. "Just dance, little angel." I turned to look at him…
"Christine! To your feet now, child!" Meg's voice pierced the morning air like a hacksaw. I yawned, turning over. I didn't know why, but for having slept so soundly, I was quite tired. And my legs hurt as though I'd danced quite a lot the previous day – and I'd done very little dancing the previous day, I knew it.
"Meg," I said. "I don't feel well."
"You never feel well," she said, waking the other girls still in bed. "Now get up."
I rose dutifully, pulling on a pair of tights and a leotard. As I grabbed my shoes, Margery sat down next to me on my bed. "Wow. You look awful."
"Thanks. I'd hate to feel this bad and have no one notice."
"What happened? Did you practice all night or something? Your shoes look worn out already." She giggled. "The thought of you practicing – that's a laugh riot." Leaving – presumably to get food – she was still laughing.
I looked at my shoes, confused. They had been new the previous night, but lo and behold, they now looked already danced in – not as bad as the ones I'd replaced them for, but still worn. "What the…"
After breakfast, I tugged on Meg's sleeve. "What, child?" she said, sighing.
I showed her my shoes. "Do you still think I'm going 'round the twist?"
She blinked. "Child, you practiced. I'm impressed. Let's see how well you did." She walked away before I could correct her. Stomping my feet, I followed to the dance floor, put my shoes on, and followed in the warm-ups for the day – without falling over the barre or any of the other girls. Meg seemed slightly impressed, and allowed me to participate in the routine.
I managed to execute a perfect pirouette in the center of the stage without knocking myself or anyone else over. Not once – not twice – six times in a row.
At the end of rehearsal for the day, Meg pulled me aside. "How on this planet did you manage to learn that in one night, child?"
"I…" I shook my head. "I don't know." I decided not to tell her about the dream – it was simply better if she didn't think me mad. Bad enough I bore the name of my mad ancestor – I didn't need the stigma attached to the name, too. "I really don't know."
"Just don't lose that for tomorrow," Meg said. "We need you now that you're finally able to dance at full capacity." She left the stage as I took my shoes off, looking at how dirty they were. Surprisingly, for having danced so much, they were relatively clean. How on earth, I didn't know, but I just shook my head and started from the stage.
A draft of cold wind ruffled my hair. I looked around, making sure no one had carelessly left a window open by mistake – but they were all shut. Puzzled and a little frightened after my trip to the cellar the night before, I started to shake. "Hello?" I called. "Is…is someone there?" I looked up, into the hangings for the stage lights – something told me that if anything, I should look up.
Something rustled overhead, and I heard footsteps – distinct, running footsteps – on the walkway over my head.
Eyes wide, and choking back a scream, I ran from the stage – and slammed into Meg in the hallway. "Child, what has gotten into you?" she said, turning and holding me by the shoulders.
"There's someone on the stage!" I said, now not caring what she thought of me. I knew what I'd heard.
She looked at me as though I'd lost my mind. "There's no one on that stage but you, Kit. Now stop this foolishness." She turned away from me, shaking her head and clucking her tongue.
"Meg," I said, tugging on her sleeve before she could walk away. "Meg, I think it's the Pha…"
She turned back and clapped a hand over my mouth. "Don't you even start with that nonsense. Just because of your name and mine, you suddenly think this place is Paris and you're entitled to blame every strange knock and ping on a fable?"
"But he's not a fable, Meg."
"He's Paris myth, child – my mother brought me up with stories about how my great-great-grandmother was godmother to Etienne." She shook her head. "Kit, do me a favor – stop thinking he's real, or ever was real. Even Raoul denied his existence. Christine was mad – we all know this. Something about the things she did drove her mad – losing her father and being essentially on her own at so young an age, perhaps. Definitely marrying Raoul – that's a given…"
"But didn't Raoul have competition for her? Even she says he did…"
There was a long sigh. "She was 'round the twist, child! Good heavens, you believe any of the trash she said in her confession?" She stalked off, muttering under her breath – I knew it was probably about my sanity, but I didn't care. She was probably thinking of bundling me off to hospital along with poor psychotic Lottie.
I walked back onto the stage, looking back up into the lighting grid. I couldn't see anything. "Is anyone there?" I called softly.
I heard a snicker from behind me, and turned. Margery was standing behind me. "Who the bleeding hell are you talking to? The lights?"
"I could have sworn there was someone up there not five minutes ago, Margie," I said. "Help me look."
She laughed, shaking her head, and walked away. "Right sodding loon is what you are, girl." I looked up into the grid again, but didn't see anything.
As I walked toward the stage door, I heard footsteps above my head. I looked up quickly, but couldn't see anything. "Hello?" No reply, but I definitely felt someone else's presence above me. "Hello?" When no one answered me again, I left the room.
Talking in the dorm after class that evening – Meg sent some of us to the local school to be taught our regular subjects like English and mathematics, being that some of us had not yet reached the age where we could officially drop out of formal schooling and dance full-time – I found myself quite left out of the conversation as usual. The other girls loved to talk about petty things – shoes, clothes, boys. I, on the other hand, wanted to talk about dancing – occasionally singing – and, more often than not, something they all only considered a fable.
"Kit?" I looked up as I heard Qusanna calling my name. Poor Qusie – Etienne's brother, Guillaume, had adopted a son – thereby taking Qusie's entire family line out of the prophecy for good. My poor cousin – even if she was a bit like Christine, it didn't matter now – she didn't have the blood to back it up. "Do you want to add to the discussion, Kit?" And so condescending for being four months younger than me, too.
I put down the book I was reading and looked around the room. There were twenty-two eyes on me – eleven pairs, including Qusie and Margie. I shook my head. "No – I feel quite happy just listening to you all prattle on about nothing, actually."
Only Bonnie – the youngest – snickered. Everyone else looked like I'd just cursed at them. "Oh, what?" Celine said from her top bunk, wrinkling her nose. "You want us to talk about…oh, let's see, what's your usual these days…the Phantom of the Opera?" Now everyone laughed as my face turned bright red. "Kit, he's a myth, nothing more, and we're sick of hearing about him."
"Here's an idea," Sarah said, staring at me from her place on the floor. "Let's hear you describe your perfect man. And for Heaven's sake, if I even hear the words 'mask,' 'cape,' or 'angel,' I'm tossing something heavy at you."
I sighed, preparing myself for the onslaught. "I don't have a perfect man. I think I'd love the Phantom of the Opera if he'd love me back." Within seconds, several pairs of toe shoes hit me in various places – it hurt, but not nearly as much as the next voice.
"It does not do well to live in a dream, Christine – you ought to know that at your age, child." I looked over at Meg, framed in the doorway. The room was eerily silent. "Please, girls – it's supper time now, do come eat." The others scrambled to their feet and ran for the door, but I stayed sitting for a moment, listening and thinking about what Meg had said.
And I heard it. So soft I could not have detected it if I had been moving – laughter. Male laughter. After a moment, it stopped. I looked around, trying to see where it could have come from, but I couldn't possibly tell.
I shook my head, getting to my feet and heading toward the dining room. "Margie's right – I'm a sodding loon."
