Erik had spent most of the evening cleaning up messes left in the wake of the battling felines. It had taken over an hour to reassemble the silver samovar and he was constantly being interrupted in order to rescue George from the tiny Siamese, Ayesha. He was mystified at the odd relationship the two cats had developed. While George appeared to be terrified of the viciousness the little female displayed, he could not be persuaded to leave her alone; it was a strange mix of fear and fascination. Time and time again George would be chased from the room only to return a short time later to cautiously sit at Ayesha's side, as if she had silently called to him to do so. Ayesha, for her part, seemed to welcome the large tabby's presence one moment, allowing him to sit nearby and even play with some of her many toys, then the next moment fly into a fit of unexplained rage, hissing at the poor confused creature and driving him back into hiding. After several hours of this, Erik was forced to shut George away in the guest room for his own protection, during which time Ayesha sat outside the door like a little sentry.
With his home back in order Erik retired to his room intent on sleep. He undressed and sank into bed, physically exhausted but mentally alert. This was not new; his mind was often restrained by the frailty of his own flesh. For days he would sit at his organ composing, desperate to translate the music in his mind to paper; during which time he would forgo food and rest for his art, but it was not music that occupied his mind tonight. Removing the white mask from his face he placed it gently on the bedside table. He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes and raked his fingers back through his dark hair. Something was out of the ordinary. It was not the caterwauling feline in the next room either. He felt genuinely different; more alive today than he had in months, maybe years. He thought back on his encounter with the little monkey girl. He had not laughed that hard in ages, his sides still ached, but he didn't think that his mirth over her vicious attack on Bouquet was the difference. No, it was the fact that once she knew he meant the little cat no harm she had no fear of him; for a short while this evening he had ceased to be the Opera Ghost and had become nothing more than a stranger met by chance. He had taken it a step farther by introducing himself and became not a stranger but an acquaintance. She knew he had a name; she had spoken it, making it real. The same foreign sensation he experienced earlier came rushing back; constricting his lungs and making his arms feel weak
Rolling over he pressed his face into the cool satin of the pillow case. Releasing a moan of muffled frustration, he knew sleep would not relieve him. She had spoken his name. He hadn't heard another human do so in years. He was angry at himself for being so affected by something so trivial. He rolled over on his back once again, kicking the sheets off in annoyance. He had more power in his voice than any man; if he spoke her name she would melt like honey in his hands. But he didn't know her name. Bolting upright in the bed he remembered the locket. He had meant to inspect it upon his return but had been so occupied with his new house guest that he had forgotten. He didn't bother to light a candle as he made his way out into the living room. His eyesight pierced the dark like a cat's and he halted in front of his roll top desk. He absently lit the oil lamp upon it as he searched the drawers looking for the trinket. Sitting down he withdrew the small locket and held it to the light. It was old, probably an heirloom, with a delicate filigree pattern etched on the front. Turning it in his hand, the back proved far more informative. Engraved in an elegant script was her surname.
"LaFreniere," rolling the name over on his tongue he once again opened the tiny clasp revealing the two faces. At once he was struck by the likeness between the dark haired woman and the girl. They must be her parents; her dark hair and eyes belonged to her mother, the jaunty cleft in her chin was her father's. Erik took up a soft cloth and distractedly began polishing the tiny locket. He thought of his own parents; Charles, who had died prior to his son's birth, and Madeleine, whose beauty had both frightened and captivated him as a child.
Wiping years of age from the gold finish, Erik examined the eyelet that had allowed the locket to hang on a chain. Worn thin and broken, it was now useless as a pendant. Erik mused that it could be easily repaired should he want to take the time and effort. He sat there staring at the locket as the gold letters of the girl's last name flickered in the oil lamp's dancing light. She had lost it while helping the kitten from the street and he admired the noble, if not irresponsible, act. He would mend it for her as a token of appreciation, nothing more.
"LaFreniere," he whispered the name again. His reverie was broken by the sound of a loud raspy meow from behind the guest bedroom door. Glancing down the hall, he watched as Ayesha lay on her side, batting a paw under the door. She had a small pile of her toys, mostly automaton mice and jingle balls, gathered at her side and was systematically pushing them under the door, one at a time, with her long forelegs. Apparently she believed their house guest to be bored in his posh little prison.
Turning back to his desk, Erik replaced the locket in a small drawer. Hearing the clock strike 3am, he rubbed his eyes and yawned. The great carved grandfather clock had come from his mother's home in St-Martin-de-Boscherville. Like all the furniture that graced the guest room, it was old, ornate and riddled with memories. He remembered attempting to disassemble the large clock as a boy, curious about its inner workings and the mechanisms that produced such a smooth and mellow tone on the hour. He had been beaten soundly and forced to stay up all night reassembling the clock. He had found the experience extremely enlightening and had filled the following weeks building smaller clocks in his attic room.
Erik heaved a sigh and resigned himself to the fact that would be up all night again. The melodic chime of the clock had reminded him that the staff would be preparing for the new production of 'Pan de la Forêt' today. Like a clock, he kept the inner workings of his Opera running smoothly by making the managers' business, his business. Andre and Firmin's judgment could not be trusted when it came to auditions, though he could usually rely on Madame Giry and Monsieur Reyer to balance out their abysmal tastes. The two men had no ear for music and eyes only for fair young faces and firm bodies. Of course, La Carlotta, though neither fair of face or body, was their darling. She drew crowds with her name alone, for it certainly could not be her voice. She had excellent range but her voice held no charm for Erik. He likened her to a wretched mina bird, mimicking the songs of many but never truly embodying the soulful beauty of any.
He procured several sheets of fresh parchment from a box of stationary. Dipping his pen in a well of scarlet ink, he began his correspondence with a letter to each manager. He informed them that he would be present during this afternoon's auditions and would provide them with a full report of who had performed acceptably, who should be given a minor role only and who should be immediately relieved of their position. Next he penned a letter addressed to Monsieur Reyer, demanding that the second chair viola be replaced. Erik sat back from his desk staring into the flickering flame of his lamp. 'Please, monsieur, I must take George away now! Monsieur Bouquet threatened to restring the second chair viola with him if he is caught!' Those had been her exact words, he believed. It was true that the violist sounded appalling, but it was not due to the instrument's strings, more it was the hack wielding it.
Erik heard a bump followed by a clatter behind the door of the guest room. One of the automaton mice had sprung to life and George had given chase, no doubt under the small spindle table near the door sending the silver ring tray to the floor. Ayesha was facing the door, tail erect and twitching, and Erik had the distinct impression that, if cats held the capacity, she would be laughing out loud.
Turning back to his desk, Erik rubbed the back of his neck, absently tugging the hairs on his nape. When he had made off with George, he had every intention of keeping him. The girl had to know that the main Opera house was no place to keep a cat, especially with the likes of Bouquet around. Why had she kept him here anyway? A more responsible person would have brought the cat home. Another crash sounded from behind the closed door; perhaps he already knew the answer to that question. George was a furry wrecking ball! Ayesha was nearly skipping with glee and bounced playfully onto Erik's lap. Stroking her little head affectionately, he had a rare pang of conscience. If anyone took his little Ayesha away, he would undoubtedly hunt them down and end their lives gruesomely. He doubted the girl held the capacity for murder, but she had been more than willing to protect the feline at any cost and he was certain she would mount a search to get George back. She obviously cared greatly for the little stray. The thought produced another unexpected surge of emotion that Erik identified as jealousy, but it passed as quickly as it had come.
Ayesha leapt from his lap to the floor and romped back over to the closed bedroom door. The partition had had an odd effect on the two cats. When they were no longer nose to nose, Ayesha had become far more genial to the newcomer and George had lost his initial fear of the foreign feline. They had started playing games and mewing back and forth to each other. Erik found it odd that a closed door, a separation, would bring the two closer. He wondered what reactions each would have when he eventually opened that door and the two met face to face again.
The clock struck the hour again and Erik realized that he must hurry to finish his correspondence in order to deliver the messages before anyone arrived at the Opera house. He had but one last letter to write. Searching across his desk he found a list of names, each belonging to a member of the ballet corp. Madame Giry did not need reminder that the Opera Ghost should be informed of all decisions, and had submitted to him a draft of potential candidates for solo roles in the upcoming production. Erik had found the list sitting on his usual seat in Box 5 along with his last month's salary. Scanning the page he halted on the role of the Wood Nymph. 'LaFreniere, Magdalene' was written in Giry's tidy script beside it. So Maggee had not been her true name after all. First names were so much more intimate. They were even now, though the girl did not know it, and Erik found a smile playing at his lips. For a short time she had held the upper hand; the power of his name, but he held the cards now and control was something Erik relished greatly.
Retrieving one last sheet of parchment he hastily wrote:
Madame Giry,
As always, your talent for assigning appropriate roles is evident. Be that as it may, I shall still be present today during auditions. Your young Meg should perform admirably as the Water Nymph. As for Mademoiselle LaFreniere, she must not refuse her role. She is contractually bound to accept it.
Your obedient friend,
O.G.
Sealing each letter with a scarlet Death's head, Erik rose from the desk and walked back into his bedroom to dress for the day. Emerging a short time later, once again masked, he took up the letters and his cloak. Ayesha watched him from the guest bedroom door. "I won't be long, love. Do make sure our little friend remains comfortable, won't you?" Halting at the door, he doubled back and took a small oil can and a tin of grease from a tool cabinet. He needed to swing past the dressing room mirror and check the counterweight turning mechanism to assure its operation before his next trip to Box 5.
Erik usually sent his correspondence through Madame Giry for convenience sake; however, he enjoyed reminding the managers of his presence, on occasion, and left them notes behind the locked doors of their offices. It was easily done for a man of Erik's particular talent since he had ways of entering and exiting any part of the Opera house. With a personal touch, he deposited each letter in the first place it would be found in the morning. For Monsieur Andre, the note sat beside the brandy decanter behind his desk; for Monsieur Firmin, the wall safe that contained the Opera's profits and portfolios held his letter. Similarly, Madame Giry and Monsieur Reyer's letters were left in their offices, simply upon their desks. Both the ballet mistress and the conductor had been established at the Opera long enough to accept the Phantom's presence and heed his council on matters.
Erik returned to the fourth floor corridor through a wall passage and double checked that the sliding panel on the pilaster in the hall was secured. Continuing down the passage he emerged in a darkened tunnel lined with empty sconces. The walls were roughly hewn stone blocks layered with dust, cobwebs and torch soot. The floor was damp flagstone and the sound of dripping water could be heard in the distance. The tunnel felt more like a cave than part of the largest opera house in Paris. Erik turned his head to the left and peered down the length of the channel. He could make out a light emitting from the mirror he had come to examine. Narrowing his eyes he made his way toward it; his shoes silent on the flagstones as he approached. The rear of the glass panel was extremely dusty and he cautiously wiped a gloved had across it. The room beyond was vacant at he moment, but Erik noted that the gas lamps had been left burning indicating the dressing room's current state of use.
"Damn," Erik grumbled. If he was to use this pathway he would have to force out its current user. It would be easily done. A series of unfortunate 'mishaps' had kept this particular room in disuse in the past. The last time a young singer had attempted to claim this dressing room for her own, Erik had shut off the steam register, effectively freezing the girl out once the cold winter weather had gripped the city. That had been years ago.
He finished wiping the thick glass pane clean of dust and set about inspecting the counterweight. It seemed intact, despite its age and neglect. Sliding his finger over a smooth metal switch along the frame, it gave easily and the entire mirror began to glide inward and to the left slowly. Erik made a note that the greased track needed to be re-lubricated; it had been moderately squeaky in its operation but not nearly as bad as he had anticipated.
Stepping through the empty frame he was surprised to find the room very chilly. The opera maintenance crews had obviously never bothered to repair the register despite the fact that the room was once again in use. Surveying the room, Erik found it to be rather cozy. The walls had been scrubbed clean of age, the floors swept and the furniture neatly arranged. Upon the vanity was a silver hairbrush and mirror, a box of stationary, and a small carved wooden jewelry box. Casually lifting the lid, he found the little box to be empty.
Turning around he noticed the little divan on the far wall. Across it was strewn a large knit afghan and a small pillow. Sitting beside it were a pair of slippers and a white nightie was folded delicately over the arm. It was immediately obvious to Erik that the current occupant was using this dressing room for more than changing into costume; she was as much a permanent denizen of the Opera as he was. How dare she stride in here and set up house! This was his Opera and no one else's! Not only was it against policy to reside permanently in one's dressing room but she was impeding his back up route to Box 5. She would simply have to go.
Erik was fuming over this when a sound met his ears. Someone was coming down the outside hall, humming a wayward tune. Swiftly passing back through the mirror frame he flipped the switch back to its original position. The mirror did not budge. "Dammit!" he cursed through gritted teeth. With a hand on either side of the panel he attempted to force the mirror door shut. It moved but a few inches with a sound like a troupe of screeching spider monkeys. "Ugh!" Erik's sensitive ears popped with the horrible noise. Pressing his shoulder against the frame he laid his entire weight upon it. The mirror slowing began to close with his effort, metal grinding against metal, in an earsplitting din. With one final heft it slammed into place again. The jarring motion had set the large pane wobbling and Erik pressed his entire body against the smooth glass in an effort to still its movement just as the dressing room door swung open.
"Who's there?" Her head peered into the doorway, looking right and left. Erik could not believe it. He almost didn't recognize her without the furry tail. Again she was looking terrified, but this time she didn't clutch a cat to her chest but a sheaf of papers and her practice bag. "I know someone's in here! Show yourself!" Her courageous words belied her trembling hands as she timidly stepped into the room. Shutting the door behind her she laid the papers down on the vanity desk. Erik noticed it was the libretto for the new opera.
She pulled open the doors of her armoire and checked under the furniture. She began to fold the blanket and tuck it away with the pillow under the divan, apparently satisfied that no one could be hiding in the tiny room. She moved over to the heat register and held her head close to it, listening. Perhaps she thought the loud noises to be repair work in the boilers. She gave an involuntary shiver and retrieved a shawl, wrapping it around her shoulders tightly.
Erik did not move a muscle. Still pressed against the glass, he watched her move about the room tidying up. This was the girl he was going to drive out of the dressing room? It made sense to him now why she had kept George at the Opera, she had indeed brought him home; the only home she had. The war had left many youngsters as orphans. War was always harshest on children and animals. She had no doubt been left alone and managed the best way she could. It could have been much worse for her. Many orphaned girls either died or ended up as prostitutes. The thought of turning the girl out to become a whore on the Parisian streets left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Taking up the libretto, she sat down on the divan and began leafing through it. With her attention focused on her reading, Erik took the opportunity to step slowly away from the mirror, careful not to let the wobbling glass betray his presence. He remained standing in the tunnel watching her. A small smile graced her face as she read the story of Pan and Carolle. 'Pan de la Forêt' was a trite but enjoyable little piece based loosely on Greek mythology. It had never before been performed at the Opera Populaire and many preparations were to be made prior to its debut in the New Year. Sets had to be built, backgrounds painted and costumes made.
Her foot bobbed and her head swayed as she read on. She seemed to be hearing the music in her head. Erik studied her features. When she was not dressed as a primate she was really quite fetching. She had large brown eyes and a small nose. She had a slight cleft in her chin and a beautifully lined jaw that led to a graceful neck. Though short of stature for a dancer, she had a light frame and she held herself in a manner that made her seem much taller than she really was. Her dark auburn hair spilled over her shoulders and she continuously tucked errant strands over her ear. It framed her fair complexion admirably.
Erik was surprised to find that he had unknowingly stepped back up to the mirror and had a hand held against the glass. He was startled as a knocking sounded on the dressing room door and he leapt back from the looking glass abruptly. The girl's head shot up and she stared directly at him.
"Who's there!" She seemed as startled as he was. Erik's heart caught in his throat and for a split second he believed she had directed the question at him.
"It's Meg! I've been waiting in the entrance hall for thirty minutes, Maggee!" The girl continued to stare at the mirror. In reality she had been looking up at the refection of her dressing room door, but as she had done so the image had wavered; as if she had knocked against the old glass and set it trembling.
"I'm sorry!" Getting up she let her friend in the door. Meg burst in berating Magdalene for her lateness.
"I can't believe you use this room! You know it haunted, right?" Meg glanced nervously around the room and fingered the tiny gold cross she always wore around her neck.
"Please, Meg! With you everything is haunted!" Magdalene laughed and took a long black cloak from a peg near the door. Stowing the libretto away in her vanity drawer she changed into street shoes and turned back to her friend. "Are you ready to go?"
"Been ready for thirty minutes, remember?"
"Oh… yes. I was reading the libretto and must have lost track of the time." She checked her dress pocket which jingled merrily with coins. "I'm starved! Where are we headed?"
"Just follow me! I know a great place where we can eat and then we'll go by our shoes. On the way I'll tell you the story of the last girl that used this dressing room!"
"Fabulous," Magdalene replied with a roll of her eyes. Erik watched Meg exit followed by the girl. Before she closed and locked the dressing room door she gave one last glance toward the mirror. It showed no further signs of movement and she snapped the door shut with a click.
Erik was once again alone, standing in the tunnel looking in on an empty room. He realized with a start that he too had forgotten the time and had already missed over half of the auditions he had meant to attend. He chose to skip them altogether. His mind was once again sent reeling by the girl and he had no desire to listen to the caterwauling of chorus singers. Taking up the tin of grease he had brought with him he set about re-lubricating the metal track of the mirror. Once satisfied with its silent operation he left to turn the steam register back on to the little room. His own home in the cellars was warmer than that dressing room had been. Erik smiled to himself. If he was to share his Opera House with a guest, then by all means, he must be a gracious host.
Welcome to the bottom of the chapter! Hope you enjoyed it! I have a hard time writing chapter's from Erik's POV, not being a disfigured musical genius myself, I sometimes find it difficult to get into his head. I try my best though. If you haven't already noticed, I'm doing a counterpoint story, back and forth, between Erik and Magdalene. That's why some of the chapters are short and some are long; they don't always have a lot to say I guess! I'm working on making the chappies longer though. We all like BIG updates and not rinky-dink ones!
For those of you wondering, no, there is no Christine in this story and I don't think there will be. In my little POTO story she doesn't exist. I've kind of replaced her with Magdalene's character. Thank you for saying that Magdalene is not "Mary-Sueish" even though I have no idea what that's supposed to mean. Like I said, I'm new to this whole fiction thing:-)
I'm doing my best to keep the grammer proper and the spelling correct. It annoys me to no end whena good story is riddled with mispellings. I have no beta-reader, though, so I do my best!
Please, please, please review me! I love reviews and my reviewers! As long as I keep getting them I'll keep writing! I've got lots of ideas for this story and can't wait to get them down on paper!