The next day I was sure it had been a dream. It must have been.
Why? Because the travelers hadn't returned yet! Their ship did not even dock until noon. I'll admit, I pouted about this. I'd felt something, something alive and beautiful, and it was so vivid. Dreams faded, didn't they? But Mr. Y wasn't even in America.
We spent the day preparing for the return of our master, and that included entering Main Stage for the first time in three years. The abandonment had been a mistake. It was musty and dirty inside, and I cursed myself for not having thought of it sooner. We closed down most of the tents in the morning and early afternoon just to get the work done.
Once Main Stage sparkled, all my energy went towards perfecting that night's performance of Belle and the Pirate. He would be here tonight, I knew, and first impressions were the most important. Part of me was annoyed that he had missed the triumph last night. Well, we just had to repeat it.
Around four in the afternoon, Louis shoved his way into my dressing room, red and drunk and raging.
"I told you!" he stormed. "I fucking told you, didn't I?! Shunted aside like garbage!" He kicked my trunk, stubbed his toe and sat down furiously on my cot.
"Explain," I demanded, turning from my vanity with a hairpin in hand. But my heart sank. The show started in three hours… unless…
Louis fished inside his jacket and brought out a piece of thick, creamy parchment. Opening it, he slurred the words there, "Tonight's performance of Belle and the Pirate in Tent 3 is cancelled, in lieu of a time conflict with the production on the Main Stage - Mister Y's Phantasma Exotique. The attendance thereof by Louis St Regis and la mademoiselle is requested. Signed, of bloody course, Y."
I was la mademoiselle, I knew. My pulse fluttered, at the same time as my stomach sank. And there was a hint of annoyance in my gut, too - I found a wry, dry humor in his words, as though he was mocking me from afar.
"He hasn't even seen it!" Louis complained, falling backwards onto my bed. He was even drunker than I'd thought - apparently it had been some time since he'd received the letter and gotten into the whiskey. I was irritated that he hadn't told me earlier, but I let it pass for now. I supposed my hair would just have to look this fabulous all evening.
"Oh, yes," Louis flipped the letter over. "On the back it just says 6 PM sharp. What a bastard."
He turned to me expectantly, wanting kindred anger, but I only shrugged.
"It's not fair," I agreed. "But we'll just have to convince him to let us show him some night."
Louis looked at me, sly as a drunkard could be. "How do you plan on doing that, la mademoiselle?"
I sighed, fed up with his innuendo.
"By talking to him," I said. "Christ, you all act as if he's some being. He's just a man. He'll listen to sense."
Loui smacked his lips, rolling his head back and forth over my sheets. "Come over here, Beauty."
I rose, resigned, knowing his mood. He only called me Beauty when he was drunk and affectionate, and I was inclined to humor him for the moment. He needed comfort, and I did, too.
I sat on the bed by his legs, and he sat up, staring me blearily in the eye.
"Why haven't we made love, yet?" he asked me, reaching toward my bosom. I rolled my eyes and slapped his hand away, standing again. I wouldn't hear that kind of talk with him, and he knew that.
Louis laid back on the bed again, all defeat. "I know why," he pouted. "Cuz you're obsessed with that White Mask."
I snapped my fingers at him, and pointed to the door. "Out," I barked. "You're being a bastard, Louis, and I won't have it."
"Admit it!" Louis said, clambering off the bed. "Your little core is aching for Monsieur."
"You're an idiot," I shot back.
"It's ridiculous, if you think about it," he said, swaying towards the exit. "He doesn't even have most of his face. It was burned off, you know. He came to Coney Island a freak like the rest of us." He turned back around to face me. "But you ignore me and everyone else for stupid White Mask. For the mystery of someone you don't even know. Just like Molly."
There was a moment of silence after he spat her name. I hadn't known.
"He has nothing to do with why I haven't slept with you," I said, coldly ignoring his hurt. He didn't deserve my sympathy at the moment.
Louis laughed bitterly. "Beauty and the Beast," he scoffed. Then, with a flourish, he left the tent.
I sighed, wondering if he'd be at the show, and looked around my dressing room in something close to despair.
For the second time in less than a day, a gleam of red caught my attention. There, over by my jewelry box…
A red rose, tied with a black ribbon, laid on my desk, slightly wilted. I paced to it, and when I picked it up the vivid memory flew back to me of putting it there after finding it on the stage last night.
So it hadn't been a dream!
Feeling triumphant and giddy, I found I no longer cared that Belle and the Pirate had been cancelled. Somehow, in his ever-enigmatic way, Mr. Y had arrived in America a night early, and attended my show, unrecognized!
And he'd liked it!
My heart was fluttering - there is nothing more rewarding than pleasing your muse. Fuck Louis and his concerns, everything was going so well!
They arrived silently and quickly. At five o'clock the lot behind Main Stage was empty. At 5:30 it was full of caravans, and the travelers were inside the theater, which had again been locked to us. I hadn't even seen a soul, but I figured that was probably the intention. To increase a sense of mystery, not only for the patrons, but for the rest of the cast and crew.
Mr. Y would want to come back with a bang - I imagined he could scarcely help himself (I had quite the mental picture of what I thought Mr. Y must be like personally, built up over years of wanting and worshipping the absent genius. It's laughable how wrong I was in some aspects, but in others I was eerily accurate).
I arrived at the entrance of Main Stage at 6 pm sharp, and frowned when I noticed a sign proclaiming that the show did not begin until 7. A queue hadn't even formed yet.
I had dressed up. My hair, which had already been done for Belle and the Pirate, was curled and set fashionably on my head, loose blond ringlets framing my face and neck. I wore one of my new dresses, created from scratch and with lots of help from the girls in costuming - it had been a long time since I'd sewn regularly, and my hands were clumsier than I'd left them. The dress was deep red, sleeveless for the warm summer night, and its square neckline was rather low cut. There was a short bustle in the back, and the skirt was long and slim against my legs.
I wore short, fingerless lace gloves and a thin choker of black silk - in fact, it was the very black silk ribbon that had been tied around Mr. Y's rose. I felt it gave me an edge. My lips were pale but my eye makeup was smokey.
Two carnies waited by the door, who I didn't recognize. One was a huge, muscular man with very dark skin and enormous gauges in his ears and lower lip. The other was a tiny woman, smaller than Max, no more than three feet tall and dressed like a living porcelain doll. I was positive that these two had not been part of Phantasma before their excursion to Europe. He must have picked up more cast in their travels.
"Ah, voici la mademoiselle," the human doll said in a high, sweet voice.
"Come in, lady," the man rumbled, pushing open the door to the theater. I froze, a bit startled, when a fine mist crept out from inside.
"Come on, come on," the doll said, putting her tiny hand on my calf and pushing. The huge man placed his meaty fingers on the small of my back and pushed too. Suddenly I was inside. The doors closed behind me, and I looked around.
His theater was different, far different than I'd ever known it. Suddenly, by his coming, it was alive again, lit with electric light in blues and purples. A mist floated gently across the floor, dispensed by hidden dry ice. I smelled rum and sugar and sweat. I felt I was in a dream as I made my way into the grand auditorium.
Through the huge double doors laid a different world, one of dreamscape and shadow. They'd really outdone themselves, improving the effects beyond imagination in the years they'd been traveling. The cast had grown, too, nearly doubled in size. So much talent.
Stars and fog seemed to lift the darkness, even though we were inside, and spotlights in blues and greens and purples swooped through the room. It seemed warm-up for the act was underway - performers danced in every corner, wearing glittering, dark costumes. Contortionists and acrobats snaked up the walls and flew overhead, while fire eaters and freaks and bellydancers took to the stage. I saw no one I recognized, but I knew they were there, hidden behind masks and makeup.
The music was pounding here, a wild, frantic bassline - the orchestra in the pit were all dressed as demons, backlit by red light.
And he was there, too - tall and commanding in his mask, standing center stage, surveying his work. He turned, and it seemed as soon as he saw me, the orchestra changed tune abruptly, to something I'd never quite heard before - something pounding and intense and passionate.
(Cue: "Beauty Underneath" from Love Never Dies)
Overwhelmed with the whole spectacle, I turned and reached out to touch the costume of a performer as he whirled past me up the aisle, spinning fire. When he was gone my fingers tingled, and I caught sight of Monsieur again - his arms were stretched toward me, and I felt compelled to approach him.
He sang in a voice I hadn't realized I'd missed, until it filled every part of me.
"Have you ever yearned to go
Past the world you think you know?
Been enthralled to the call
Of the beauty underneath?"
I knew he was addressing me, personally. This was for me. He was, perhaps, welcoming me to the cast - not just the crew, the cast.
Feeling hopeful, I stepped closer, and he tilted his head down to stare down at me. He gesticulated around him wildly, and I stopped in my tracks, distracted by the beauty of the performers and flames and effects.
"Have you let it draw you in
Past the place where dreams begin?"
Mr. Y raised a hand to touch the trailing hand of the acrobat spinning overhead.
"Felt the full breathless pull of the beauty underneath?"
He spread his arms and tilted his head to the sky as lightning seemed to dance around the chamber.
"When the dark unfolds its wings
Do you sense the strangest things?
Things no one would ever guess -
Things mere words just can't express?"
I found myself on the stage, though I can't remember the steps I took to get there. I was breathless with excitement and passion, and he held out his hand to me, waiting for my reply.
Without an ounce of hesitation, I rasped "Yes."
Again, he gestured around, wanting me to behold his world - but I had eyes only for his dark form. I followed his every move as he swept around the stage, edging closer and closer as he reveled in this performance.
"Do you find yourself beguiled
By the dangerous and wild?
Do you feed on the need
For the beauty underneath?"
He'd stopped before me, and I reached out to him, but he evaded me. Instead, suddenly he was behind me. I felt his commanding presence, the warmth of his hands as they skimmed lightly above my arms, just a hair's breadth from actual touch. His breath rasped into my ear.
"Have you felt your senses surge
And surrendered to the urge?"
His hands slid around my torso, not quite touching me, ghosting against the corset I wore. He slowly swept them up towards my chest, up my neck. I could feel heat radiating from his skin, but only the lightest flutter of his fingertips.
"Have been hooked as you looked
At the beauty underneath?"
My hand came up to touch the side of his face, over his mask - meaning no harm - but his fingers were clenched around my wrist in an instant, pulling it away, vice-like and violent. I gasped as he stepped beside me and looked straight into my eyes, his thunderous voice echoing through the space. He still gripped my arm in one long-fingered hand, while his other gestured to the sky.
"When you stare behind the night
Can you glimpse its primal might?"
The hand that did not grip me extended towards my face.
"Might you hunger to possess
Hunger that you can't repress?"
Looking deep into those ebony eyes, I nearly moaned, "Yes."
He snatched his hand away as soon as his fingers grazed my cheek and released my wrist abruptly, stepping back again. I allowed my attention to return to the acrobats flying across the ceiling.
"It seems so beautiful," I sang.
"So strange and beautiful…" I turned back to him and put my hand on his arm.
"Everything's just as you say."
He looked down to where my hand gripped his sleeve as though scarcely believing I touched him, his eyes softening, but I was already distracted by the fire eaters to my left. I was sure one of them was Corvo, but he'd shaved his white hair into a mohawk. I let go of the masked man, stepping towards them. In my distraction, I didn't hear the words he sang next, but his voice rumbled through my body.
The man I thought was Corvo turned away and disappeared among the other performers.
I turned back to Monsieur, to find him looking at me, just as he sang the end of his verse, the one I hadn't heard:
"...The very same way!"
I rushed to him, excited to my core by all of this. I felt enchanted, utterly magical. I had not known this feeling before him. His arms raised to accept mine when I grasped his sleeves again - I felt his long white fingers curl around my elbows. He was shaking, ever so slightly.
I sang to him with passion:
"Is the music in your head?
Have you followed where it led?
And been graced with a taste
Of the beauty underneath?"
I lifted my hands to to my head, mind whirling, wanting him to show me everything he knew. He lived in a world I dreamed of, one of darkness and mystery and beauty. One shunned by those who had too-little imagination.
I turned away from him, but felt him close behind me, listening intently. I continued to sing.
"Does it fill your every sense?
Is it terribly intense?"
I turned back to him and looked at him pleadingly, my hands coming up to clasp him around the neck. It was intimate, forward, and it seemed to surprise him.
"Tell me you need it, too," I demanded. "Need the beauty underneath."
He grabbed my wrists and whirled me around, then brought my back forcibly against him. His hands on each of my wrists, he crossed my arms across my chest and held me.
We sang together, him and I - the atmosphere bonded us, a hellish, beautiful symphony.
"When it lifts its voice and sings
Don't you feel amazing things?"
His hands released my wrists to slide across my body, this time actually making firm contact on my bodice.
"Things you know you can't confess -
Things you thirst for nonetheless."
His hands ran over me slowly, greedily, every finger spread. I smelled him - masculine and spicy - felt his ragged breath in my ear, his lean body pressed hard against my back. He was barely-controlled passion, wanting desperately to spill out but afraid - so afraid of frightening me.
I wanted to reassure him that I was not afraid of him - that I wanted his mad energy, his mystery. My voice rang out alone, but even to my ears it seemed too innocent for this place. Which, I'm sure, didn't help my cause.
"It's all so beautiful," I sang.
I heard his voice, a growl in my ear, asking, "Can it be?"
"Almost too beautiful," I sang out again. And he turned me, quickly, gathering me flush against him in his arms. His masked face was mere inches away.
Gazing into each other's eyes, we sang together, "Do you see what I see?"
I wanted him to crush his mouth to mine, but he tore away from me, walking quickly towards the side of the stage. I heard him this time, as he sang to himself, his voice roughened with feeling.
"To her it's beautiful.
My world is beautiful!"
"How can this be what it seems?" I asked him desperately, gazing around.
We turned and met eyes. He reached for me. His voice joined with mine again, rising and surging -
"All of my most secret dreams
Somehow set free!"
We sounded good together, I could reflect in that moment, as we had last night. But that was the last coherent thought I had for a while.
The cast around us resurged in chorus, Monsieur's voice leading their darkly beautiful harmonies. One of the performers had me around the waist suddenly, spinning me away from Mr. Y, across the stage in a giddy dance. I looked up to find it was, indeed, Corvo. He was grinning, widely, and I laughed, wrapped my arms around my old friend and whirled with him.
"You can feel the lift," the performers sang, Monsieur's voice rising powerfully above the rest.
"Yes!" others replied as I did, sensually, as though making love.
Faces and colors and flame rushed by me in a whirled as I was passed from partner to partner - I was quickly losing control of my feet, my timing, everything.
"Come closer!" the performers beckoned, others answering, "Yes!"
"Let me show you the beauty underneath."
I started to vocalize, impassioned and lost, as the song continued around me.
"You can face it.
(Yes!)
You can take it.
(Yes!)
You see through to the beauty underneath."
And then the crowd parted and I saw Mr. Y again, standing there at the back of the stage, tall and beautiful and staring. Dizzily, I reached out to him, and he beckoned me closer.
"To the splendor!" he cried.
I echoed, "To the splendor!"
"And the glory!"
"And the glory!"
"To the truth of the beauty underneath."
"To the beauty underneath!"
I'd reached him in the shadows, unseen by the others on the stage, who were distracted in their own music and dancing. Monsieur's hands hovered over my hips as I stepped close, his face closing in on mine, still singing passionately.
"You'll accept it," he cried.
"Yes!" I agreed.
"You'll embrace it!" His mouth inched closer and I wanted it - I wanted it so badly. I'd embrace anything he gave me.
"Yes!"
His voice reached incredible crescendo, his tone all true excitement.
"Let me show you the beauty underneath!"
I was too wrapped up in this. Energy pounded through me, his voice rang through my veins. In that moment, I lost control.
Forward and stupid, I grabbed his face in both hands... and slammed my lips against his.
He met my kiss with returned passion for the first few seconds - clumsy and flustered, but passion nonetheless. He took brief control, losing himself in the moment, his tongue slipping through my lips to deepen the kiss as the show raged on around us - movement and whirling darkness and fire.
Then, like a switch was flipped, he began to shake slightly, and his eyes squeezed shut. His lips were soft and perfect. They befitted his voice - this man, this angel, this genius.
I wrapped my arms around his neck, wanting to be closer to his firm body, and he gasped as I bit his lip, meaning to say that I wanted all of him. He could take me here, now, on the stage if he wanted - I doubted anyone would even look twice. No one was even looking our way as it was.
I hadn't had much experience kissing men, but I was hoping he wouldn't notice.
I wanted his hands to do more than they were, hovering along my body. I wanted his shoulders to lose that hunch they'd gained a few seconds after the kiss started. I wanted the tension to leave his body.
But it didn't. In fact, every moment my lips were against his, he stiffened even more.
Finally, he tore away from me, took a step back… and stared at me as if I was a monster.
"Enough!" he cried, loud and long and agonized. The orchestra ceased playing, the performers stilled and quieted. In the ringing silence around us, the only sound was his labored breathing as he stared at me, eyes dark and suspicious and angry. The fury in his eyes frightened me.
I opened my mouth, about to ask what the hell just happened? But he growled at me, waved a devastatingly dismissive hand in my direction, turned on his heel, and stormed away.
I let out a shaky breath, watching him disappear into the darkness.
Then, with horror, I realized what I had done.
How stupid I was! Where had that Belle come from?! Yes, I had longed for Mr. Y for three years, and we had sang together last night with undeniable passion and feeling. But the words we'd sang last night had not been from our souls, but from Belle and the Pirate. And his song to me just now, while passionate, had not been romantic in nature. So to kiss him had been totally uncalled for!
I barely knew the man! It was unprecedented. More than that, it was rude. I had been lost in the energy of the song, but that did not excuse such unseemly behavior. He could have hardly spared me a thought over the last three years. He did not want me. In singing with me last night, he'd been merely trying to coach me, or perhaps test me. And tonight, his music had merely been intended as an introduction to his new act. There was no romance meant by it.
I wondered if I'd just ruined my chance to join Phantasma Exotique.
"Mouse!" a voice called. And suddenly I was surrounded - Molly, Corvo, Max, Claudia, my dear old friends. Shaking off what had just happened, I beamed and hugged each of them tightly.
For a moment Mr. Y was forgotten and I reveled in their return.
They all looked different! Molly had grown her hair past her waist and dyed it bright red, and wore makeup that spiraled brilliantly from her eyes and down her cheeks.
Corvo, as I had seen, had shaved his head but for a short white mohawk down the center, and his lower lip was pierced once on either side.
Max had forgone his classic wrestler's outfit for a crisp, beautifully tailored suit in midnight purple and his short hair was now blue.
Claudia had tattooed green lizard scales on either temple, just as she had always spoken of wanting, and when she spoke I saw the tip of her tongue was split in half at the tip like a snake - again, something she'd always wanted.
We laughed and fussed over each other. They had apparently seen nothing of Mr. Y and I's little… experience. No one had noticed I kissed him. Thank God.
"You've grown up, Mouse," Corvo said, eying my dress appreciatively. "Finally living up to your name." I punched him lightly in the shoulder, and he winced. "Still a brat, though."
"Look at you," Molly gasped, her hand on my cheek. "A woman!" I hugged her again.
"Look at you!" I replied. "Look at all of you! You look fantastic!"
"Traveling was good to us, dear Mouse," Max said, clasping my hand. "And Phantasma has been good to you, in our absence."
"Or so we hear," Claudia added, and grinned at me with her sharpened teeth.
"Belle and the Pirate?" Corvo asked, smirking. I laughed.
"So you've heard."
"Were you aware that the master attended your performance last night?" Max asked. "He arrived here three days before us."
"I… suspected he came last night," I said carefully. And then, with more eagerness, "Did he say anything to you about it?"
"He liked it," Molly said, firmly, and I beamed.
"Well," Corvo corrected, more measured, "he said it was 'not inappropriate' for the spirit of Phantasma. Which, for him, is something of a compliment, I suppose."
"He was particularly impressed by you, Belle," Max said. "I believe he means to offer you a part in his new production."
My heart fluttered. This was amazing news… unless I'd just ruined it by forcing that foolhardy kiss on him. And as soon as I thought of the kiss, it was much harder to keep smiling. Wanting desperately to put it from my mind, I changed the subject.
"So tell me about your trip!"
We talked for the next half hour. They had arrived in London, toured England, then gone onto the mainland. For some reason, though, they'd avoided Paris, passing by it in both coming and going, which had annoyed Molly. She wanted to see the sights of that proud, glittering city. It was where I'd lived until I was nine, and I told her it was overrated, remembering all the cold, cruel nights huddled under bridges.
The troupe grew every time the master found an exceptional performer or wonder. It doubled its number in eight months. In a year they'd reached Eastern Europe, then into West Asia - India and Persia, which Molly insisted were some of the most rich, beautiful and strange countries in the world.
Mr. Y seemed to have connections worldwide. They stayed at a palace in Persia - "a real palace, Belle!" - where Monsieur seemed to be acquainted with the shah himself.
It was then that someone called, "Fifteen minutes till audience!"
"Thank you, fifteen," the rest of the performers called back, confirming they'd heard (it was theater etiquette to do so). Max, Claudia and Corvo immediately ran off to do their last minute preparations. But Molly gave a squeak and grabbed my arm.
"This is my first time performing this aria," she told me, furtively. "He wrote three new songs on our journey, but I only just convinced him to let me touch one of 'em. Had to beg him for months."
I clasped her clammy hand in mine, feeling her tremble with nerves.
"Oh, I haven't been this nervous since my first show," she said. "If he doesn't like it…"
"He'll love it," I promised her, feeling a twinge of guilt. I'd forgotten all about Molly's feelings for the master. It made kissing him even more of a mistake. I wanted to take it back, so badly.
Yet part of me would give anything to feel his soft lips again, to smell him and feel his hands burn across my skin.
I had to apologize, I realized. I had to let him know I knew it had been out of line.
Molly, meanwhile, was bouncing on her heels. "I wish you could stay backstage with me, Belle." I laughed and petted her hair.
(Cue: "Only for Him" from Love Never Dies. I know, two LND songs in a row… can't help myself.)
She sang, in her high, sweet voice - but when I heard it again, with my now trained ear, I realized she wasn't quite the singer I'd taken her for when I was a child. She had a nasally quality to her voice, and went flat a few times too many.
"I'll be waiting in the wings," she sang, "wound up tighter than a string
As the house begins to dim.
And I'll practice every line,
Hoping desperately to shine,
Shining only him."
Her words made me sad. Molly's unrequited love for Monsieur was tragic, and it did not bode well for me. If he did not even notice Molly, Lovely Molly, with her seductive eyes and graceful body, after all these years - what hope was there?
And besides, I was being selfish! I couldn't want the man my best friend loved! She'd laid her claim to him over the years of wanting. I had to put this foolish crush out of my mind. I had to focus only on how he frightened me, not how he enchanted me.
So, smiling, I sang back to my dear friend:
"Just imagine how they'll cheer
At the moment you appear
Stepping out before the scrim."
Molly shook her head, looking up to the rafters dreamily, and sang, "Let them whoop and let them call.
I won't hear the crowd at all.
No, it's only for him."
She turned back to me, all aflutter. "Tell me how I look."
"Fine," I reassured her, smiling.
"Just fine? What about my hair."
I touched her lustrous red locks and answered honestly, "Beautiful."
"You swear?" she asked. I nodded.
"Trust me once the boss," I sang, trying to calm her nerves,
"Sees how you put that song across,
Molly, he ain't got a prayer."
"Oh, you mean it?" she said, her eyes sparkling.
"You'll stand proud into the light," I continued,
"Looking lovely, burning bright,
All vitality and vive!"
"Aha, and I'll rapturously float," Molly sang, turning toward the edge of the stage with a distinct air of invigorated confidence.
"Through the melody he wrote.
Singing only for him."
I joined her at the front of the stage, just behind her, fueling her fantasy of the audience that had not yet filled the seats tonight.
"And before the music dies
Up the audience will rise,
Nearly bursting at the brim!"
Molly smiled and sang, "And I'll stand there in the glow…
And perhaps, at last, he'll know…"
Her eyes got sad, her voice fading away. I felt a deep surge of pity for her, and my guilt returned with full force. Put him from your mind, I thought.
"Molly, hurry up, it's almost curtain!" an acrobat called from the side of the stage. "And you! Belle la mademoiselle! Find your seat!"
Raising my hands in surrender, and giving Molly one last hug for good luck, I left the stage and found my place in the audience.
Mr. Y's Phantasma Exotique blew everything I'd ever known clear out of the water. It made Belle and the Pirate look like a burlesque tavern show.
The tunes were, at times, the most wonderful, enchanting music I'd ever heard. It could lift me up and bear me away to strange and wonderful new worlds, through the stars, behind the night. It made me sob dozens of times throughout the show, and not always from empathy for the characters, but from sheer beauty and emotion.
At other points, the music could become downright terrifying. It was new and edgy, pounding and violent, peppered with sadness or sweetness. I felt Mr. Y in every note, knew each had come from his heart. The lyrics were poignant and poetic and utterly profound.
The illusions were bigger and better than any I'd ever seen. There was an onstage beheading (fake, obviously), disappearances into puffs of smoke and shadow, and incredible, daring escapes. Bizarre and beautiful talent had a chance to shine here. There were pyrotechnics, contortion, acrobatics, daring stunts, freaks of nature… again, there was everything and more.
It was the tragic love story of an angel and a demon, which was what it had been when I'd first seen it at fourteen years old. But there were so many changes since then - to the songs, the script and the acts - that it kept astonishing me at every turn. I could find the bones of the show I had known three years ago, but it was clear Mr. Y had fleshed them out. It was beautifully thought through - the story managed to shine through all the splendors happening onstage and throughout the theater. It managed to invoke both feeling and awe.
Molly did shine, but I think Corvo outdid her. He made a dashing demon, and I was sure he would fuel the fantasies of many of the fine young ladies in the theater tonight. His voice was gloriously gruff - he would drop into a growl befitting a seductive creature from Hell - but other times it would soar. And the passion with which he and Molly looked at each other could be felt in the very back row. They made a lovely couple - I wondered why they did not love each other offstage. There was chemistry there, and you can't fake that.
Molly's new solo was lovely, but I honestly did not think her voice suited it. It had slightly too much range for her - she fell flat on a couple high notes and faded into nothing on some of the low notes. I could see why she wanted it, though. It was a song of love and lost passion.
(Cue: Excerpt from "Memory" from CATS)
"Touch me!
It's so easy to leave me
All alone with my memory
Of our days in the sun.
If you touch me,
You'll understand what happiness is.
Look - the new day has begun."
I felt Mr. Y in those lyrics - or, at least, I felt my idea of Mr. Y. I had to keep berating myself - You do not even know the man, Belle. But part of me hoped against hope that, when I had looked into his eyes, I'd seen the truth to him. His passion frightened me, but it intrigued me, too. I knew him and loved him through his music.
When the performers took their final bows, I shot out of my seat for a standing ovation with tears streaming down my face, clapping my hands and screaming as loud as I could. The rest of the theater thundered their approval, too - it was deafening. They wouldn't settle down, and Molly and Corvo ended up bowing three separate times.
All in all, the night was glorious. I succeeded in forgetting how I'd embarrassed myself with Mr. Y earlier by getting drunk with all my old friends. Louis had turned up at intermission, sobered and sheepish, and (after apologizing to me) he, too, joined in on the celebrations. It was wonderful to be together again.
My last thought, as I fell into bed with a spinning head, was that my apology to Monsieur would simply have to wait till tomorrow.
Thanks for reading! And, TheAlleyCat18, thank you for the review! I appreciate it :)
I know "Beauty Underneath" was originally sung between the Phantom and his son, but I think it was a missed opportunity for a kind of-romantic song. It's so pretty and passionate.