MAGICAL LASSO
A lump of unshed tears constricted my throat. My breathing was shallow and ragged; my eyes burned. But I clenched my fists in fierce determination.
I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry …
From somewhere deep inside, I found my self-discipline, and pushed the tears down. I regulated my breathing, straightened up, and resolutely surveyed my room.
It was just as I'd left it, in organised shambles. None of my works had been touched, no needles or pins out of place. But I knew what was missing.
Claire. My sweet, sunny canary Petite Claire Jaune's silver cage was missing from its hook in the corner. The room was hauntingly silent without her cheery song.
I sighed; only one person would have taken her. Meg Giry.
Thinking of Meg filled me with guilt; I'd treated her so horribly that last night we had met. I owed her an apology, first and foremost. She would have taken Claire to her mother's flat, on the other side of the opera house.
It was still very early in the morning, probably just before dawn. There were likely few stirring in the theatre yet. I listened, but heard nothing. Casting a wary but pained glance at the impassive mirror, I strode to my changing screen, and dressed in the nearest clean frock, a thing of charcoal grey homespun with no frills and a modest cut. It was very much like all of the dresses I owned—so different from the lavish concoctions of thread that Erik had provided.
Erik …
I paused as I was tying my maroon apron over the simple skirt. Just the thought of him—angel, father, phantom—conjured a whirlwind of emotions so vast and varied I was unsure how I truly felt about him. These, too, I pushed away, at least for the moment. I rummaged for a scrap of ribbon and tied my forelocks back. A few locks of hair fell forward, so I tucked them behind my ears.
Madame Giry lived near the ballet dormitory, where my mother had spent her youth, upstairs. That meant I had a few flights of stairs to climb. With resignation, I fetched my braces, and fastened them onto my legs. Then, I found my worn day boots and slipped them on. I grabbed my cane, and carefully opened the door. I poked my head out the threshold, but no one was there.
I exited my workshop, and quietly shut the door and locked it. Putting the key into my pocket, I hurried along the Opéra's corridors with the expertise of long tenure. I climbed a narrow cast iron spiral stair case slowly. Spiral stairs, while beautiful, were treacherous for me. I clung to the hand rail, refusing to look down. I made it to the correct floor without incident.
The hallway was narrow, dreadfully so. When I heard heavy footsteps coming toward me, I glanced up and saw Joseph Buquet. He was the chief scene-shifter, balding and bearded, and had always seemed to be a harmless old man. I always treated him with the same passive deference everyone received from me. But it seemed he had been drinking … and things were about to change.
"Well well well … the Opéra's new star had returned," he sneered unpleasantly.
"Please let me pass, monsieur," I said politely. Buquet only gave me a mocking bow.
"As you wish, mademoiselle." But he didn't budge.
"Let me pass," I snarled. I did not have the patience to deal with a drunkard this morning!
"Yes, prima donna! The world will bend to your will!" he said sarcastically. "You little crippled birdie … no one would care if you lay drowned at the bottom of the Seine."
I held my head high, hoping he wouldn't see how deeply that had hurt.
"No one … except perhaps the Ghost!" he mocked, leaning close enough for me to smell the alcohol odour that emanated from him. I prayed that he wouldn't touch me …
"Let her be," came an icy command. We both turned, and saw Marie-Louise Giry standing outside her door, glaring like a cat about to attack. Surprisingly, Buquet obeyed without a word. I rushed blindly over to the ballet mistress who guided me inside her apartment deftly. She gave Buquet a few choice parting words that would have made me snicker if I wasn't so shaken.
The gas lamps were on, giving a soft glow. I'd always loved Madame's flat, with its cosy clutter and memorabilia from her time as a dancer—toe shoes, costumes hanging on the walls, programmes that bore her name in the listing of the corps de ballet. She shut the door securely, and gestured to a seat. I sat down.
"Did he hurt you?" Madame Giry demanded with her trademark sharpness.
"No," I said as steadily as possible. "Buquet only—"
"Not Buquet," she cut me off. "Tell me: did he harm you in any way?"
"Madame?" A piercing epiphany was cutting its way through the fog of confusion: She knew!
"You know, child. Erik. What has he done to you?"
"I—" I stammered, eyes wide. "Nothing. We—we studied music, and—"
"The Vicomte de Chagny said he saw you in the Bois de Boulogne with a stranger. Is that true?"
"Yes," I whispered miserably. "I was there."
"Erik is a very dangerous man, Christine. You don't know what he is capable of, if his temper is roused—"
But I do, I thought, wincing at the recollection of Erik's violent, enraged curses.
"—or what he wants from you—"
Did I?
Without warning, all the tears I had suppressed that morning broke through my last barrier. My face crumpled like a tissue, and the tears came hard, hot and salty. They dripped off my chin and nose in a most ungraceful fashion, making spots on my apron. I pressed a fist to my eyes, but I couldn't stop the sobs that now wracked my chest. I hunched over in the chair, covering my face with my hands.
"Oh, my dear Christine," Madame Giry murmured, holding me as though I were still a child.
And I hated it. I hated myself! Hated that I couldn't have hidden my pain better, so that no one in the world could have found it. My mask had come loose.