"He (Raoul) stared dully at the desolate, cold road and the pale, dead night. Nothing was colder or more dead than his heart. He had loved an angel and now he despised a woman."

~ Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera.

(You would not believe how difficult it is to find accurate info, or any info at all, about the acts and scenes in which Gounod wrote a ballet part in Faust. Therefore, if I'm wrong about the Danse de Phyrne, I am more than open to hearing someone who can tell me when exactly it takes place in the opera)


I didn't sleep a wink that night; instead, I spent six hours tossing and turning in my bed Up Top, staring at cracks in the walls and counting hundreds of thousands of sheep.

The entire day replayed through my mind. How was Erik? I'd left him sleeping at the organ at two in the morning with the Don Juan score open before him, a couple of hours ago now. And what about Jeremy? I'd never seen him so upset!

He'd be back.

Wouldn't he?

I frowned and tossed again, facing the Angel of Music in the corner. He looked up to Heaven with a pious innocence in his eyes, hands clasped in eternal prayer. Was this Erik's idea of a joke? Not everyone could be as pure as gold.

As the clock in the square chimed six in the morning, I swung my legs out of bed and gathered my work clothes and bonnet. Hoping that this morning would be a better success than yesterday's, I fetched the ten francs I'd borrowed from the safe in the House and headed out to the foyer.

Jeremy was not there.

Never mind, I thought, pushing the doors open and walking out into the square. Perhaps he was already in the café. But as I walked past the window and glanced in at our usual seat, only my reflection stared back at me.

The cups and cutlery remained neatly set on the table, with the newest copy of L'Époque folded beside it, just like yesterday's breakfast. The only difference was the lack of a Jeremy. Something very small and very deep down within me sunk.

What had I done?


There were voices from behind the door to Box Five again that night. I gritted my teeth; not this time. I'd been shocked the other night, but no longer! I rapped thrice on the dark panels and walked in before they had a chance to complain.

"Good evening, gentlemen."

A slight pause. Then:

"Aren't you the demoiselle from before?" Monsieur le Comte said, standing from his - my - seat and straightening his jacket. I stood straighter in my dress, raising my chin at him. From Erik's seat, Raoul peered apologetically over his shoulder at me.

"The Opera Ghost has very clearly instructed that this is my seat for the performance," I replied, fixing my gloves nonchalantly. "Understand Monsieur, he's demanded this and threatened murder in the same letter. Ah, Monsieur le Comte, I simply fear for your-"

A hand caught my arm and gripped. I squealed and went to hit my captor on the nose, but my other hand was caught in another grip of iron. A guard stared back down at me and then up at the Comte.

Philippe de Chagny nodded and waved a finger towards the door.

"Wait—!" I cried, kicking against the guard as he picked me up by the arm and carried me out of the box. "Monsieur—!"

"Sorry, Mademoiselle," the guard said, putting me back on my feet at the door to the auditorium. "But we both know better than to disobey a patron's orders."

He tipped his helmet with two fingers and turned on his heel, marching back to his post.

"I'm a bloody patron," I muttered once he was out of earshot, fixing my dress indignantly. Was it so much to ask to sit in my own box? Were the managers that stubborn?

Fine. If the de Chagny brothers ended up strangled to death in their - my, again - seats because I wasn't there to protect them, it would be because of Philippe's own stupidity.


"Enjoy the performance?" Guillaume smirked as I descended the stairs to the scene shifting department. The performance in question hadn't even begun and I glared at him for being so trying, however hidden the expression was behind the mask.

"Is Jeremy here? I need to... ah..."

To make amends?

Will you just—

I shook off the thoughts and scanned the cold, dusty department once more, checking each man as he hurried about between horses and ropes. None looked familiar and I sighed quietly.

Guillaume shook his head. "It's his day off. Usually watches the performance upstairs. Why? Going to watch the steamy opera and sneak a few—"

But I was already gone, not hearing the rest of his boyish insults or the laughter of the other men that followed.

"Jeremy!" I called, raking my gaze over the crowds in the audience as I hurried through the wings. The orchestra began to tune up, cutting my stride in half before I could run out onto the stage. And still no sign of him.

"Mademoiselle?" I turned to see the little Meg Giry, her forehead creased into knots, her hand hovering over my shoulder. She stood like a dainty china doll, her raven hair curling over her shoulders and the top of her townsperson costume. And her face. Perfect in every way. Unblemished, big eyes and lashes, an elegantly curved Cupid mouth. I smiled at her, secretly envying her fortune. "Monsieur Desrosiers is in the audience. I saw him when he was buying his ticket."

"That's alright," I said, glancing back at the drawn curtain that blocked my view of the audience. "It isn't urgent."

Isn't it? Seemed urgent when you were running about in panic trying to find him.

I will get a head check tomorrow and then we'll see who runs about in panic.

"Mademoiselle—"

"Nikki," I insisted, flashing her another smile as a number of actors assembled on stage. From her spot in the opposite wings, in the shadow of Carlotta's mighty Marguerite, Christine caught my eye, as if begging for reassurance, and I nodded at her smally. Her costume actually suited her, if a woman could wear trousers and a waistcoat. Erik's waistcoat. I'd dug it out from the depths of his wardrobe two days ago and hid it amongst the others in Costume, pretending he wouldn't notice its absence. A girl can dream.

Meg followed my gaze. "Christine Daae? Hasn't she caused quite a stir recently? I heard the Phantom wanted her to be Marguerite."

"Are you friends?" I asked. It wasn't that I didn't trust the Little Giry. Word spread like wildfire, especially here, and the fewer people that knew Christine meant fewer people could find out about Erik, which made my life so much easier. Besides, I'd never pictured Christine and the Little Giry together, sharing chocolate at midnight or whispering dirty secrets of girlish amour, the usual rituals I imagined came with having a female friend. But Meg shook her head.

"I've never spoken to her before. Mama likes to make sure I concentrate on my dancing; she wants me to become the lead ballerina someday."

"Marguerite Giry!" a sharp voice hissed, as if on cue. Madame Giry tapped her cane against the floorboards, catching the attention of everyone within a ten-meter radius. Meg went a deep shade of red. "You are a ballerina, are you not? Join the corps immediately!"

Meg shot one last look at me, but whispered a goodbye and scurried off to take her place with her peers, ready to bounce onstage at the perfect moment. I looked back to the stage, avoiding the accusing glances her mother threw me. Christine lifted the corner of her mouth slightly, but it fell within seconds and she returned to scanning the catwalks above.

Come to think of it, I hadn't seen Erik all day. Was that a good or a bad thing? One could never tell.


Ballets could be beautiful when people knew what they were doing. They could be moving, inspiring and leave you in tears. They could make your heart race or slow it right down. Some even gave you little shocks. The Danse de Phyrne in Act Five of Faust gave all that and more. I just wasn't expecting so much of it to be true.

Who knew the perfect time to hang a man was in the middle of a lovely dance?

I twiddled with my fingernails as the managers bustled everyone into place in their haste. Standing back here in the wings wouldn't last the whole Opera, but it gave me ample opportunity to spot anything suspicious, should a certain Ghost try to fulfil his threats. Christine, however, looked about as comfortable as Erik would have if he paraded through L'ArcdeTriomphe naked.

Someone bustled past me, a little too forceful for my liking.

"Watch it!" I snapped, managing to keep my balance before I could tumble onstage. A grunt. Joseph Buquet looked me up and down. I glowered. "Didn't your mother ever teach you not to push women?"

"Who are you going to cry to?" he said, raising a hairy eyebrow. "The Opera Ghost?"

"You tell me," I retorted. "I've heard you've met him."

A sickly, yellow smile. "I can tell you all about him tonight, if you wish, Mademoiselle."

I slapped his advancing hand away. "Scenes need putting in their places, I'm sure. Go on, have it!"

He grinned. "If you say so."

I didn't give him the satisfaction of watching him leave. Across the stage, Christine pretended to gag.

As the opera began and one scene faded into another, I rehearsed my apology to Jeremy over and over again. Voices blended together, from solos to chorus to solos again, until Carlotta's voice rang clear and shrill throughout the auditorium.

"No, sir! I am neither a lady,

Nor beautiful, not a lady-"

And then something I'd never expected in my whole life: she set to croaking like a frog, a toad. My jaw hung open. I could only stare at the Prima Donna, unable to take in what I'd just heard. Christine looked about in confusion, sending a frown over her shoulder at me. I had no answer for her.

A series of gasps arose from the auditorium. A stunned silence swept over the audience like a wave, which broke after a moment to the thundering of surprised laughter.

Carlotta cleared her throat and lifted her magnificent head high, and, with a deep breath, began her verse again.

"No, sir! I am neither-"

Another croak. Her hand flew to her mouth as one laugh rose above all and froze the company in their places onstage.

A hand grabbed my shoulder. My breath caught and, for a split second, I saw Jeremy standing behind me.

"What's going on?" Madame Giry snapped, panic rising in her copper eyes as they darted between Carlotta and I. Another loud, low laugh filled the auditorium, raising a second or third round of gasps. Her other hand found my spare shoulder and she shook me back and forth quite violently. "For God's sakes, Nikki, you told me he wouldn't cause trouble!"

"Keep your voice down, woman, you'll get me arrested again!" I hissed back, fighting my way from her grip in a hazy, spinning world. Yes, she'd caught me at lunch and made me promise that Erik would stay out of trouble during the performance, but he hadn't been in the House when I'd gone down, so it wasn't really my fault. "Antoinette, please!"

"The performance will resume presently," Firmin was announcing, his voice everywhere in the auditorium, "with Miss Daae in the role of Marguerite!"

Madame Giry's head snapped to the stage in unison with mine, watching as Christine was shoved back behind the drawn curtain and stumbled over to us.

One voice in the auditorium rose above the others. "An excellent choice."

"Madame-!" she started, cut off as Madame Giry caught her hand and dragged her to the dressing rooms a few corridors away. The wings flooded with panicking stagehands and ballerinas as Monsieur André announced the Danse de Phyrne as a replacement.

"You, the girl in the mask!" someone snapped, throwing me a length of rope. "Help me lift the props!"

I rushed forwards as the curtain went up, nearly crashing into Meg Giry as she led part of the corps onto the stage. The stagehand grabbed one end of the rope, throwing it around one of the biggest props of the scene. I knotted it as well as I could and stood back to let the men above lift it out of the way.

"Merci, Mademoiselle," the stagehand said, grabbing my hand and tugging me back to the wings. I glared at the Erikless auditorium as we scurried out of sight.

I nodded back, but he was already gone, rushing up the workmen's stairs to help the others with more errands. A swish of shadow caught my eye from above. I whipped my head up, though I saw absolutely nothing but tangles of catwalks and ropes.

I'd need that doctor's appointment sooner rather than—

Have you ever heard three or four hundred people scream at once? It's quite a sound and it feels as if your eardrums are about to explode there and then. I spun to catch a glimpse of the shape of a man, suspended — no, dangling — mid-air over centre-stage.

My heart stopped. I stared. Everyone around me screamed, yet I couldn't seem to make a sound. I simply stood there, with their screams a muffled, jumbled noise in my mind. I took a step back as the body plummeted to the stage, then another as the people around me rushed forwards to inspect it, inspect the lasso around its neck.

The 'It' in question was, unmistakably, Joseph Buquet.

To be continued...