"Through a Mirror, Darkly"
by Kryss LaBryn
I own nothing. Please, R&R!
The narrow corridor in which we found ourselves was quite black; I was barely able to see my own hand in front of my face, and even Erik's white shirtfront was but a pale glimmer in the gloom. The rest of him, dressed in black as he was, was quite invisible, except for his eyes. His eyes, as I saw as he glanced back and took my hand, glowing golden in the dark like a cat's eyes, much more brightly here than in my room. And perhaps they lent him something of the ability of the cat to see in that darkness; or perhaps he simply knew the way very well. In any case, he led me, sure-footed as I stumbled, through that perpetual night, until at last we rounded a corner and he paused. I heard a small clink, and a dim shaft of light from a small dark lantern gleamed in his hands, almost blinding me.
He leaned in close, and whispered in my ear, "The way we must take passes through inhabited areas of the cellars; we must be silent if we wish to avoid discovery." I nodded my understanding, and he continued, "Ideally I would have brought you by way of the lake, but it is too long a trip for you to make in the dark, and I cannot carry you all the way myself. There is another door into my house not too far away, though, but I'm afraid it involves some crawling. Come," and he again took my hand and led me along.
How strange it was to see my familiar Opera from such an odd perspective! You must understand that we were still in the upper cellars, where various 'properties' and sets were stored, and where much of the machinery that ran the magnificent building throbbed and ground in the dark. I had wandered around a great part of these cellars often, visiting various semi-retired stagehands and old property and costume mistresses, begging stories as I had in my youth. However, we now were taking new paths through this familiar ground; sometimes crouching behind a half-wall, sometimes darting behind a partition. It was as if we played some weird sort of child's game, hiding and tiptoeing about; but the consequences of being 'tagged' did not bear thinking about.
At last we reached the third cellar, and a room used to store unused set-pieces. Once again, Erik drew close to whisper, "You must follow me very closely. There will be a small passage in the wall; I am afraid you will have to crawl through it; it is far too small to stand up in. Be careful! There will be an opening, a trapdoor in the floor of it. I will drop in, and you must drop down after me; have no fear; I will catch you!" With that, he led me behind a discarded scene from Roi de Lahore. I do not know what he did to open the passage, but suddenly there was a slight grinding noise, and a portion of the wall, only a few feet square, slid aside, revealing the passage of which he had spoken. With a last backwards glance, Erik crawled into it, and, with some difficulty, I followed. A moment later, with a similar noise, the door slid shut again behind me. The darkness was complete.
I might have panicked, then, had he not called from ahead, "I am here, Christine. Come to me!" in a Voice that left no room for argument.
It was a struggle, I can tell you; I cannot had to have crawled more than twenty feet or so, but corsets and skirts and petticoats are not for crawling in! And my bustle kept catching at the ceiling in the most aggravating way. I was quite hot and dishevelled by the time I struggled to the opening, a dim square of light in the floor. Carefully, I looked over the edge, into a room whose size I could not estimate; its walls glimmered strangely. The lantern was still turned very low. "Drop down," Erik said again in the Voice; "I will catch you!"
It was nearly impossible to turn about in the confines of that small passage, dressed as I was, but the Voice commanded, and somehow I managed. I dangled my feet out into the opening, and, truth to tell, if he had not insisted, "Drop!" I might very well be dangling there still, shaking.
I fell for what seemed an eternity, and then Erik's arms were around me. I was safe. He held me a moment longer than required, it seemed, while I marvelled that such a slender frame could contain such strength, then set me gently on my feet. A third time he took my hand, and led me through another hidden door.
"Welcome," he said simply; "All I have is yours."
To my astonishment, we were in a perfectly normal parlour, with perfectly normal furniture, and a perfectly normal rug on the floor. Whatever I had expected, it was not this: only the lack of windows, and the profusion of musical instruments and sheet music gave any indication that we were deep in the bowels of the Opera, and not in some quiet Parisian flat.
"Come," he said again, and opened another door, a perfectly normal door, not hidden at all. Standing aside, he said, "You may freshen up here, if you wish; join me for lunch when you are ready." He bowed slightly and withdrew, leaving me at the threshold.
Within was a beautifully appointed bedroom. Where the furniture in the parlour had been plain, almost common, in here exquisite blue and gold Louis XVI reigned.
I explored the room in wonder. A second door led into a lovely bathroom, with, as I found, actual hot water coming from the taps, as well as cold. There were brushes and combs laid out, and the drawers and wardrobe were full of everything any woman could desire, from entire outfits, dresses, boots, hats, and all, to the smallest sundries. It gave me a queer feeling; he had obviously gone to a great deal of trouble. I wasn't quite sure if I should be flattered or nervous. I had known a moment's jealousy, seeing the sumptuous and obviously feminine room, and remembering the Ghost's 'lady' and her roses, but I quickly noticed that everything, from brushes and hand mirrors, to the great wardrobe itself, was engraved 'C.D.'; even the pillowcases and thick towels were monogrammed with my initials. I felt as though I were suddenly adrift in a fairytale. It all made me wonder…
I did not take a bath, although I did look longingly at the giant tub, but did take the time for a quick sponge bath before dressing in a lovely soft mauve tea dress, as my own gown would need tender care before it was fit to wear again. It fit perfectly. My hair gave me no problems; although it was, as always, awkward to brush the full length of it myself, I had managed to do so for many years, and there were more than enough pins and ribbons for me to make myself presentable. I found soft slippers in a matching mauve in the bottom of the wardrobe, and thus refreshed, I left to find my host. My Angel.
He must have heard my door, for he came into the parlour at once. "This way, he said courteously, offering his arm; "I have some small refreshment prepared."
He led me into a small but elegant dining room, where, indeed, the table was laid with various cold dishes: chicken I saw, and prawns, and salad. He seated me, and poured me a glass of wine. "Tokay," he said, noting my inquiring look; "From the cellars of the Königsberg."
He seemed somewhat stilted in his formality. I took a sip, then commented, "You have made me a beautiful room, Erik! Wherever did you find such furniture?"
"The Communists left it behind," he said, taking a seat opposite me. "They did not object to the finer things, so long as it was in their possession; there are any number of beautiful things hidden away in forgotten corners." He fell silent, fiddled with his empty wineglass.
"It is an excellent vintage; will you not join me?"
"Thank you, no."
"Will you not eat? I do not want you to go hungry on my account."
"I have dined already. Please, you must be hungry yourself."
"I am," I admitted, and at his gesture helped myself. "Tell me," I said, hoping to once again ease the stiffness between us, "How did you get the wine? Did you travel to Prussia yourself?"
"I did," he said, and to my relief, proceeded to regale me with a few anecdotes from his travels. He was an interesting and witty raconteur, and I found myself reflecting with sadness the shame of it, that his face should condemn him to the depths here, when by all rights he should have been the most sought-after dinner guest in Paris!
At last I finished, and, once again offering me his arm, he led me back into the parlour. "Would you like some more wine," he asked solicitously, "Or would you prefer tea, as do the English?"
"Wine would be fine, thank you, Erik," said I, and he fetched and refilled my glass for me.
"What is that curious instrument, Erik?" I asked when he returned. In the corner, upon a richly coloured cushion, lay a strange stringed instrument, twin to the one the young Indian woman strummed on the cover of my book.
"It's a sitar," he said, gently picking it up; "Would you like to hear it?"
"Yes, please," I said eagerly, and, seating himself upon the cushion, he tuned it, strummed it a few times, and began.
He played a weird, wailing melody; I do not know what chord progressions it may have used, but it was utterly unlike anything I had ever heard before, at once structured and wild, exotic and familiar. It was the sound of dreams, and I almost wept with the beauty of it.
And then he sang, and once gain I was struck by the sheer range of sounds the human voice could produce. It became a lively song, and it was only with difficulty that I was able to refrain from jumping up and dancing about the room in abandon. I did, however, indulge in a little toe-tapping and clapping. When he finished I applauded with enthusiasm.
He rose, and bowed. "Thank you, Christine! I take it you enjoyed it?"
"Yes, indeed! It reminded me of the songs my father used to play in the villages in Brittany, before we came to stay with Professor and Mama—Oh, Erik, Mama Valerius!" My hands flew to my mouth in horror. "I forgot about Mama Valerius! Oh, she'll be so worried, and what will she do without me?" Usually I prepared our breakfasts and suppers, and left a small lunch for her in the icebox; a girl would come in to 'do for her' when I was unavailable, if I was to be performing that night, for example, but without my summons, she would be unaware that she was needed.
"Forgive me; I forgot to mention it. I could have saved you some worry. I sent word to your housekeeper and Mama Valerius both, while you were refreshing yourself. She is well; she has been told you are with your 'Angel' in Heaven, and will return to her soon. The housekeeper has been instructed to stay with her until then. All is well."
I breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you for seeing to her!"
"Not at all," he seemed slightly embarrassed. "As I said, I should have told you immediately. I was… distracted."
"As was I," I admitted; "Still, I should have remembered!"
"She is well, and looked after: that is all that matters! You are free to stay here without concern."
"How long should I stay here," I mused. "Surely he must have left by now!"
"I should not be surprised if he was still lurking about your dressing room, awaiting your return. I think you had better stay the night, at least."
"I do not want to put you out…"
"Nonsense! In the morning we will see if he's still about; if he is you may stay longer. You may stay as long as necessary."
"Thank you, Erik, but--"
"In the meantime," he interrupted, "We can practice. I would like you to learn the role of Marguerite; I think it is time to expand your repertoire."
"As you wish," I said. In truth, his sudden imperiousness made me somewhat nervous; but truth to tell, he had been as commanding, nay, more so, while playing my disembodied tutor in my room. However, it was different, somehow, more unsettling, here in these hidden rooms so deep under the Opera. The mundane familiarity of my shabby room seemed suddenly very far away. I reminded myself, though, that he had never yet given me any reason to doubt his intentions, nor any reason to fear him.
Nevertheless, my life had certainly taken a most interesting turn!
A/N: My apologies for the delay in posting this chapter! I hope to have the next one up in the next day or two.