The Girl Who Lied
Only forging the the letter's seal was a challenge, and even then she'd managed to flirt her way into the prop den. It felt lighter than a real one, less faded with less wax stuck to the OG stamp. Someone's idea of a joke, the prop boy had gabbled to her, before the Opera Ghost was taken as real. Copying the scraps she'd salvaged was trickier, though not impossible: she had always had a talent for mimicry. What was the alternative, in this case? She simply couldn't risk going back to her father and his, "Je le savais," at the prospect that, surprisingly, she hadn't been able to become a prima ballerina after only six months out of high society for all her passion, her beauty, her connections. Having destroyed her first twelve attempts, Marie elected for something laconic to limit her errors:
Monsieurs,
I hope you are well after the recent charade. I have noticed that among your ballet ranks there is a pretty new blonde girl. She shows promise. You would do well to keep her in mind in your next production… The Pharoah's Daughter, I believe?
Your obedient servant,
OG
Her audition dance was easy enough, almost surprisingly so for a new ballet: then again, who was going to watch a ballet the same night as an opera written by a ghost, if that was indeed what was happening? It all struck her as a bit melodramatic with no evidence but a man in a mask at a masquerade; why, even Joseph Buqet's unmourned death could just as easily be expl ained as a drunken fall or even a fight with another stagehand. Wasn't it the way of the world that fools brought themselves sorrow?
She dipped her knee and unfurled her arms as she floated down to the floor, smiling at the young patron. He smiled back, a little awkwardly. Perhaps he would put a good word in for her? Having been excused, she hung back a moment to see the next girl. An odd choice, really, for she felt certain she had nothing to worry about; with her downturned nose and lashless little eyes, the girl was nowhere near pretty enough for a major part.
The violinist took up his bow and in the very first note, the girl's face took on an expression of such dignity and sincerity that it was hard to look away from her. Her movements, practiced to a point that she might have been born in her ballet shoes, had such an eloquence that the story unfolded without background, prop or costume; this was the Pharoah's daughter, raised from the dead to find her country diminished and her father gone. Even without her jealousy, Marie could have cried. She searched the patron's face for favour and found it was already elsewhere. Steeling her posture, she slipped into a quiet corner of the dormitories and scribbled with agonising care:
Monsieurs,
I see you are continuing with auditions for that silly ballet. While I can't imagine anyone will go to it except to while away the hour before my curtain rises, I think that all the more reason to follow my recommendations. The Pharoah's daughter requires charm and beauty as much as skill. Therefore, Marie Henri is more suitable than that other girl. Her face is rather big for her features; in bright lighting, I worry the audience will struggle to find her face at all.
OG
So what if it was spiteful? Wasn't it spiteful of that girl to embarrass her like that when there was a perfectly good little set of minor chorus parts? Marie declined to feel guilty, opting instead for pacing, hand-wringing, scrutinising her mother's letters and fashion magazines. Upon learning the outcome of the part, she sent her mother tickets for her debut.
On the day of the opening her ballet slipper's bit her. With a yelp, she recoiled from the shoe, and peered in to see it had grown long teeth where someone had teased needles through the silk. Wrenching out the needles, she found that one had been stabbed through a folded piece of parchment. Its message was written with a thin nib: Your tricks are vulgar, and I thank you not for attaching my name to them. Confess and rise only through your talent - or not at all.
Him? No, she fretted, that's not it. A prank, someone's idea of a joke. A bad one. He would be busy with Don Juan – if he really existed, and was not himself a horrendous prank by some young composer.
The shining stage polishes by years of treading - the meticulously painted scenery – the gauzy gold light of the stage. Her solo, that she had lied and scraped and trained for, finally here. Why was chest clenched with fright? She tacked her smile on and scurried onto the stage.
Spin, leap, spin, spin, arms above the head, elegant and poised, like she was made of light and water. A white spot on the riggings above her caught her eye; she focused on it to keep her mark. Spin, elegance, unfold your hands, step forward. The white mark was longer than it was wide, with a black dot at the halfway point. She kept its gaze. She felt like she was made of air, whirling and turning and billowing along the stage, her eyes on that white half-face, smiling as terror slid into her stomach. Kick out a leg, step, step. Keep looking. Keep your arms straight and your movements soft. Something curled around her leg like a snake. Step, step, forward, smile, pirouette, again, again. Her toes stung in her shoes, her arms ached, she leapt again and the mask faded as she felt the stage beneath her disappear and saw the horror on the orchestra's faces as she hurtled towards them.
She saw her gauzy sleeve wave as she flung her arms out a moment too late, the ground gone beneath her for a long, sickening moment. She felt herself emptied of everything. The carpet burned her cheek as she skidded onto the floor, her legs curled together. Her toes touched her shin, the pain ripping through her like a scream. Her hand clenched around something to cling to in her pain. The room around her was very quiet, then suddenly alive with whispering, ushering, urges to move her, to help her, to do something. The moment they lifted her was even worse; her instinct was to try and stand on her mangled feet, to her immediate regret.
In the sick bed, she curled up, her pillow wet under her cheek, and realised her hand was still clenched. She uncurled it, and laying there, melted slightly at the edges by the warmth of her palm, was a red circle, imperfect from where the wax had spread over an envelope, with that familiar stamp of the Opera Ghost.