Chapter Twelve: Maestro's Return
My… hands… are shaking so…
Let me compose before…
It is no use! I will make an account now, regardless of illegible scrawls. I cannot wait a moment longer. I am about to faint in earnest for the first time in my life.
No. I must pause and reflect.
I am engaged.
How it all came about…
A man has been killed.
I am not making sense. I must begin at the start.
I might be affected more by the prospect of my engagement, were I not so shaken over the demise of Bouquet.
I was steeled to make difficult decisions for the sake of my opera house, but murder!
Oh, let it all be a dream! A terrible dream from which I will awaken by morning's light!
The night before last, I was nearly asleep when the strange and ethereal sound of my father's violin began playing by my bed. I thought I had dreamt it. I thought in my anxiety, my mind had conjured the sweet melodies of my childhood in order that I might be comforted, and strengthened for what choices lay before me.
I slept well, and rehearsed better than I had for weeks—weeks since Erik's silence.
I never wondered if it was one of the elaborate tricks he is so fond of playing, rather than a fancy. I should have known it was a warning. I should have known he would not remain silent forever.
My spirit so restored, I grew bold. Foolish, perhaps. Raoul's visits were no longer shunned, or cautioned against. I spoke of my fear that an understanding might anger the angel of music, and Raoul insisted on a secret engagement.
We were on the rooftop. I thought us safe there. The maestro is cunning, and invisible, but his domain is below. I thought if there were any place we might escape those glowing eyes… but perhaps I was stupid to think there is anywhere he cannot haunt.
Raoul professed his love for me. I tried to be as elated, as I know I have no right to be otherwise. He has offered me a chance at everything I've wanted since first setting my heart on this opera house. However, I could not suppress an unnatural foreboding.
He mistook it as fear for the phantom, and comforted me as he only knew how. Raoul's embraces are loving and gentle, and though my own experience in such matters cannot rival even the chaste kisses he bestows, I could not help but compare them to the passion I felt when first singing under the maestro's influence.
Curious, that the latter should be so grand and self-consuming, while the first only cause a flutter. Something like warming yourself with a single candle, rather than a ravenous fire which may scorch you if care is not taken.
I allowed myself some comfort in his words and petting, as a grown child might still accept a pat on the head for fear of upsetting her papa. Snow was falling, but it was warm beneath his cloak, held near his heart. I was quite nearly happy for all of six heartbeats.
And then we heard the screams.
The imbecilic managers say it was an accident.
Mme. Giry says nothing.
Carlotta quivers and attempts to look insulted as I have now been cast in her place as the lead.
Bouquet is dead. Hung from the rafters over the set of Il Muto. This is—I am fearful even to admit—doubly useful to me, as it frightens the managers into giving me the lead, and rids the opera of its most vile inhabitant.
I cannot let on that I am secretly in absolute terror. I cannot let them see that I am aware of this man who could destroy us all. I fear one wrong step could result in our doom. Why does he not come to me? In any form; man or angel!
Our engagement must remain a secret. If Raoul breathes a word of it to anyone, our lives may be forfeit.