Chapter Three

She dresses all in black before the sun has a chance to rise. Ash knows it is risky to be caught in a hoodie, but what other choice does she have? The hood will keep her face obscured, leading to a lesser chance of detection . . . or at least that is what she hopes will happen. For extra protection, she takes a slip of black cloth and ties it to cover the lower half of her face and wears her gloves to keep from leaving fingerprints.

She doubts that they can use fingerprinting in the 1880s, but it is better safe than sorry.

She takes the notes from the vanity, noticing one that is not sealed beside them. It reads, "The roses with guide you." Nothing more. Ash slips this into a drawer and heads out the door. As she creeps down the hall, she ponders on the meaning behind the "roses".

To reach the offices of Armand Moncharmin and Firmin Richard, she'll have to go to the third level of the opera house, while remaining undetected by the janitorial workers and the stagehands that may be wondering about drunkenly. Ducking behind a statue, she avoids being seen by a vomiting cleaning lady, but finds herself in a painful position against the wall with the shaft of something on the statue against the small of her back.

Christ Almighty, learn to hold your liquor, you lightweight. Forced against the stone, she sees something strange from the corner of her eye. Painted lightly in red, the outline of a rose bud and stem. Keeping balance with her left hand and both feet, she reaches with her right hand and runs her finger from the stem up, feeling along the slight crevice that is along it. Touching the topmost petal, she feels a circular bulge and presses it.

She hears a light click, and a thin slab of the marble going in and slide behind the rose. "The roses will guide you. Sly bastard." She slips though, the door sliding closed behind her. Ash lets out a groan after she is plunged into pitch black. The only thing visible, if she could see herself, would be her eyes, which glow unnaturally. "I could go for some illumination," Ash muses taking out her lighter and clicking it.

There are multiple ladders, each labeled with a different location's name. One reads Box Five, one The Pianist's Room, and another Her Room. "Her Room? Peculiar." The two remain to the right. One reads Offices and the last one says Toad's Room. Laughing at the bold titles, Ash thinks on where to go first.

#

There has not been a moment of silence since noon. Ash hides away in her room, her face locked in a pleased smile as Carlotta rants back and forth throughout the opera house, screaming about how everyone is against her and how dare the Ghost try and tell her what to do. Ash, now with bandages around her breasts and wearing nothing else but her trousers, rolls from the bed and stands straight.

She hears a knock at her door and forces her body against it.

"Monsieur Knight?" A male voice penetrates the door. Ash thinks for a moment when it hits her. Raoul, the Count's little brother. Muttering a curse under her breath, Ash lunges to the wardrobe and yanks a shirt off the hanger. "Sir?"

"Come on in," She gasps pulling her arms through the sleeves. Raoul enters right as she buttons the bottom of the shirt. "Hello, sir. How can I help you today?" Raoul rakes his hair back, his eyes downcast. He meets the strange eyes of the newcomer when he sees a peculiarity on the young man.

Bandages around his pectorals. An injury? A deformity? His mind swims for a moment before focusing on Ash, who has a brow cocked in confusion as he finishes with his shirt. Ash sits while Raoul finds his voice.

"I have come to apologize for my behavior the other night, Monsieur Knight. It was childish of me, and completely uncalled for."

"Okay then . . . you are forgiven. I understand your actions, though. There was never a need to apologize, though I imagine a man of your standing can't afford any enemies, even small ones." Ash grins wickedly as the eyes of her visitor widen ever so slightly. "Let's just say there is no gain or loss in our relationship, Viscount." Ash's eyes move to a bottle on the dressing table. It is square in shape, a long neck, and the liquid is as addictive as cocaine.

Ash takes the bottle of opium from Carlotta's dressing room and uncorks it. She takes a small sniff, wrinkling her nose, and seals it. She puts it in a drawer, noticing the curiosity in Raoul's eyes. "Don't ask what you do not need to know, Viscount. Is there another reason for this intrusion?"

"No, sir."

"Then, if you would, get out."

Raoul reads the American's face perfectly. He sees anger, distain, and utter hatred of the Viscount. In fact, Raoul knows that the feeling the American has for him is mutual, as he feels nothing for the black haired foreigner. With a respectful bow, Raoul exits the room, closing the door silently when he wishes to do nothing less than slam it in that arrogant prick's face.

Ash laughs lowly, waiting a few minutes for the Viscount to walk away before exiting herself. She wants a moment alone, and she feels a visit to the roof will be beneficiary to her mental health.

#

She sings the reprise to All I Ask of You. There is no reason for it, only the impulse to sing what goes along with the setting around her. Up here, she feels no eyes, senses nothing as she rushes to the corner of the roof for the climax of the scene. Below, she watches the carriages and horses, the wandering wastrels and the aristocratic masses.

"All these people . . . and they have no idea what is happening here. All but one." She imagines the photograph of Gaston Leroux, the man whose work the musical will be based on. The novel will be published in 1901 here, 1911 is the U.S. He has curly brown hair, and a beard, and round glasses like John Lennon and Harry Potter. He will know everything after it has happened.

Everything, and now her. Or maybe not her, she thinks after a moment. After all, she never once considered the idea that this is merely a hallucination of a stressed out brain. This could all be in her head, something implanted there by Charity's constant rambling about this story and nearly every detail.

Details that she never once took the time to memorize. How could she be imagining a story she never took the time to learn? No. No, he will learn of her. She will make certain of that.

Hours pass, and she realizes that she must get ready for the next performance. No Carlotta, no worries. This will be an enjoyable evening.

#

Oh how wrong she was.

Carlotta performs, much to Ash's complete dismay. She imagines what doom awaits her when something from above shifts. She curses and bangs on the piano, gaining the attention of the orchestra and the actors.

"The chandelier!" She screams, something hard hitting the back of her head. She sees the crystal start to fall and hears the many shrieks of fear before everything fades away.

#

"You failed me, Ashton Knight." The Ghost circles the young man, admiring the work he has done. Ashton is suspended in air, a noose around his pale neck. Ashton's arms are tied to his torso, his legs tied together. In a moment, the Ghost will kick the chair from underneath the poor, pathetic American and remove the constricting ropes, leaving the fool to die.

Two suicides for the opera, enough to scare any toad away, especially once she learns her mother was killed when the chandelier crashed. Ashton has his watery eyes locked on the Ghost, not fear but acceptance in their depths. This intrigues the Ghost, and he removes the gag from the American's mouth.

"Why are you not fighting me?"

"We all must die at some point in time. If today is my day, then so be it," and he closes his eyes. The Ghost feels a pang of guilt in his heart. "I just hope you will forgive me for my failure, sir. I am sorry for what has happened, and for the measures you had to take."

The Ghost hears footsteps approaching and in one simple movement, he removes the ropes and kicks the chair from under Ashton, disappearing before the dancer comes around the bend. Unfortunately for the Ghost, this dancer comes equipped with a knife and can keep calm long enough to cut the barely conscious pianist from the rafter.

Ash stares in her rescuer's eyes. Meg Giry removes the rope from Ash's neck, tears flowing down both girls' cheeks. The dancer runs her fingers down the rope burns on Ash's swollen flesh, thinking how it would not be a surprise if it scarred.

"Why?" She whispers as men from the flies come to assist the two. "Why?"

"I . . ." Ash's voice is strained, in pain. "I can't . . . I can't . . . tell you . . . sorry." Meg walks with the men to Ash's room, and they understand when she asks to be alone with him. For once, they don't think anything inappropriate will go on. There was too much sorrow in the young woman's eyes for her to think of that, and the man in too much pain to want anything.

Meg closes the door behind her, almost falling before getting to Ash's side. Eyes refusing to open, Ash feels Meg remove her belt, shoe and socks, her jacket and begin to unbutton her shirt. She hears Meg gasp when she sees the bandages, assuming the dancer has thought the worst. She feels the shirt slide off.

Ash wants to smile but cannot when she feels Meg lay beside her, feeling the girl shake in her tears. She knows what this is, but she can't bring herself to think of it. Meg must be in love with the man she thinks Ash is. Ash realizes that, even for a small crush, anything that happened to her would impact Meg greatly. With this in mind, she knows she must be careful from now on.

"Why? Why?" She hears Meg whisper, the girl thinking Ash to be asleep. Ash moves her arm around Meg, takes her hand.

"There are some things, Little Giry, I cannot explain to you," Ash opens her eyes, forces her head to comply, and turns to face the tear stained eyes of Meg. "Why do men murder, why do men die, and why men kill themselves. I feel obligated to tell you it was an impulse, and I am a fool to do it. I am sorry for what I have done to you, to myself."

Meg presses her face into Ash's side, taking her words deep in her heart.

"Ashton . . ."

"You should be going to bed, Little Giry, before anyone thinks you have lost what cannot be replaced. Good night, sweetie." Ash lightly kisses Meg's forehead. The girl rushes from Ash's room, hesitance in every step.

Ash feels a sharp breeze rip though the room and wishes to God she had the strength to get up and hit the Ghost right in his masked face.

"Hello, attempted murderer. How can I help you?"

"Your little attitude might be cute to the ballet rats, but to me . . . a peeve."

"Yes, well, being assaulted and left to die peeves me, jackass!" Ash's voice is nothing but a harsh whisper, but the Ghost can hear every venomous word. "Now, how can I be of assistance?"

"I would say you can die for me, a pleasing thought after tonight's miserable failure. That will not be needed. Not anymore. So what you can do is go about your normal day, act like you have not a care in the world. I have what I want."

"And that would be?"

"Hmm . . . wouldn't you like to know," and he's gone.

#

Ash ignores the whispering and stares for one reason only. She is pissed off. It took her all night, all damn night, to think of what he meant in the room. Under her breath, more profanity that in a whorehouse flows as she barges into Christine's room and finds it as she suspected.

Empty.

"You son of a bitch!" She closes the door, locks it tightly, and stomps around the room. She grabs her wild curls, thinks of where she could be, how Christine could be found. Her eyes lock on the floor length mirror and it hits her. She takes Christine's hairbrush and throws it at the reflective glass.

It shatters inward, revealing a corridor. Satisfied with her discovery, Ash goes down the hall, knowing what she is looking for, and prepared to do whatever necessary to get the star soprano back.

#

"What do you think you are doing?" The Ghost's voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. She stares at the water to her right, prepared for water attach. An unlikely occurrence, but she is not taking any chances. Ash reaches in her pocket and takes her father's lighter in her cotton gloved hand, a plan forming in her mind.

"Where is the DaaƩ girl, Ghost? I know you have her. This has been your plan all along, hasn't it? Taking the girl for your own? You cradle robbing bastard!" There is a sharp pain in her abdomen, a thrust to the back of her knees. She is on the ground, clutching the lighter tightly as the Ghost wraps his fingers in her hair, lifting her head up.

"You do not talk to me like that, ingrate!" He slams her face on the stone, blood gushing from her broken nose, a gash forming on her right cheek, going down to the corner of her lips. He pulls her head up again, this time he is inches from her face. "I'll break your neck, and this time Meg Giry won't be here to save you."

"Go ahead, just let me know she's safe. She's just a girl, Ghost; she won't understand . . . anything . . ." Ash spits the blood from her mouth toward him, missing his mask by centimeters. The Ghost chuckles.

"Why do you even care? It's not like you have feelings for her, right?" The Ghost's voice sounds vindictive, almost jealous. He thinks Ash is a threat, just not in the right way.

"No, I don't have any feelings for her. We've only just met, I don't know her at all. I do, however, know what it's like to be stuck with a sociopath . . . to be trapped with someone you fear . . . to be with a lunatic . . . to be with a person like you . . ." She sets her glove on fire and grabs at the mask, feeling the cloth of the glove and mask become ash while the Ghost jumps back, shouting curses at the young woman.

"You bastard!" The Ghost rushes forward, Ash ducking out of the way in time for him to have enough momentum to land in the water. She listens to him swim to the edge as she stands.

"Consider this my resignation, Phantom."

"I will get you . . ."

"And I will be waiting."