Author's Note: Good messieurs and mesdames, I would like to welcome all of you to my first venture into the Phantom's territory! This is actually a rewrite of a fic bearing the same name; I still consider it my first though since the old version only got as far as six chapters before I decided to revise it. This will be quite a challenge for me seeing as I don't typically write for other time periods besides the current one we're in so wish me luck!

I'm going to go ahead and apologize for any inaccuracies, and say that you're welcome to point out anything that needs to be corrected. That said, this story might still be anachronistic by intention in some parts. That first chapter was a rocky start, I'll admit, but it served its purpose of setting things up and establishing characters! Last note, this story will be a mix of the books, movie, and musical, but dominantly the movie and musical (I'll be following the years/time period of the musical more closely though). Alright, I'm going to stop here now. Enjoy!

( two )

TALES AND TRICKS

Two months. About two months had passed since she arrived at Paris' most prestigious opera house yet it already felt like a year.

Jovan stared at her hands, the skin on them beginning to thicken and harden after two months' worth of working as a stagehand. She could've chosen to assist with the costumes, but she hadn't really liked the idea of having to help dress up some of the pompous chorus girls and having to deal with the close quarters of the dressing rooms. She could've chosen to work in the art department but, alas, her fingers were clumsy with a paintbrush and having to deal with the production design required her to socialize with far more people than she desired.

So here she was, helping with the rigging along with her fellow stagehands while the ballet rats below performed their dance number from the second act. To the side of the stage, Madame Giry watched over her dancers and stood not far from Christine who was being taught separately by another ballerina of the steps that were currently being performed onstage. Once the backdrop had been changed according to the scene being performed, Jovan and the rest of the stagehands allowed themselves to relax for a moment as they watched the dance number unfold below.

A wolf-whistle came from one of the men to her right side but he was ignored. Jovan couldn't help but admire the unwavering focus of the ballet rats below as they continued moving with unrivaled grace, their expressions changing to match the mood of the music they were dancing to. She even felt a small pang of jealousy as she watched their limbs move, fluid as flowing water.

From the corner of her eye, Jovan saw Mateo walk to her side. "The Phantom won't be pleased with this," he whispered.

"What makes you say so?" Jovan answered. The younger stagehand seemed a tad too invested in whatever their Opera Ghost thought about the productions.

"Cassie's moves are a beat late, if you watch carefully." He proceeded to point at a girl of sixteen with caramel-colored locks.

Jovan gave a shake of her head. "I didn't even notice."

"Believe me. If I noticed, our Opera Ghost's sure to notice."

A quiet sigh slipped from her lips. She might be fairly new in the opera house but two months had been more than enough to learn that majority of the staff were actually an overly superstitious bunch. Not a single week passed by without at least a single whisper about the Phantom circulating around the cast and crew. Murmurs of a shadow moving backstage and footfalls in the corridors at night. Ghost stories were not foreign to Jovan but she knew one when she heard one, and the tales of the Opera Ghost were not among them. At least, that was what she thought.

Jovan felt Mateo's concerned gaze on her. "You don't believe in him, do you?"

"Oh, I believe in him. And I believe in ghosts, yes," Jovan faced him with arched brows. "But I don't believe that your famous Phantom is a ghost."

Jovan impatiently tapped her pen against her knee. Behind the curtains of her bed, she quietly chewed on her bottom lip as she waited for the words to come. But they never came. For over an hour, she'd been waiting for any inspiration to hit her while she stared at the blank paper on her lap, but it seemed that this night won't be any different from the previous nights since she arrived at the Opéra Populaire. Writer's block had to be one of the most frustrating things she'd ever had to deal with. A quiet sigh left her lips.

A hand clutched the curtain to her right as it was pulled away. Elea's face greeted hers in the dark. "Have you seen Maeva?"

Jovan arched a brow, recognizing the name belonging to one of her roommates. She gave a shake of her head. "No, I haven't. Isn't she here?"

"We haven't seen her since dinner," her friend replied, eyebrows furrowing in worry. "Don't you think..."

The redhead dropped her pen and parchment on to the bed with an exasperated sigh. "Are you thinking of the Phantom? Taking her? Honestly?"

Elea shrugged with one shoulder. "I mean, we can't cross that off the list of possibilities, can we?"

"But I thought you said that he'd never taken anyone else before."

The door to their room opened with a bang as two people walked in. Jovan rose from her bed to see who the newcomers were and was stunned to see their missing roommate swaggering in with a young man's arm encircling her waist. Her face was flushed and her skin glistened with sweat. It was quite obvious as to where Maeva had been and what she had been doing with the stagehand by her side. Jovan unconsciously backed a step away at the intrusion, her eyes tapering on the young man and his audacity to intrude into their dormitory at such a late hour.

Maeva gave a giggle as the stagehand led her towards their bed. "Hector, I'm perfectly fine―"

Jovan watched as Elea strode over to the couple, tightening her robe over her frame as she did so to give herself some form of decency. Elea was the oldest girl in the room, and it automatically fell upon her to take care of her roommates when the need arose. She cleared her throat as Hector gave her a casual wave.

"Where on God's green Earth have you been? Have you forgotten that we still have rehearsals tomorrow? It's late!"

"Oh please, Elea. Nobody told you to wait for me. Besides, I was simply... having fun with Hector here." Maeva gave the older ballerina a smile that was anything but innocent as she sank into her bed.

From one corner of the room was a chorus girl named Tess who gave a yawn at Maeva's words. "Elea here thought that the Phantom had taken you," she coolly remarked.

Jovan watched Elea wince at Tess' statement. "I did not!" Elea denied. "Besides, why would a ghost want a tart like you?"

Maeva's mouth fell open. "Take that back!"

Before Elea could give a reply, Hector shushed both girls and took out a flask from his trousers' pocket. "Now, now, ladies. There's no need to fight at such a late hour―"

"Oh, shut it," Elea hissed. "You're not even supposed to be here. Get out."

Hector playfully waggled his eyebrows at her before taking a sip from his flask, seating himself next to Maeva. "Not so fast, love. Maeva actually brought me here for a reason. I came to talk to you about our dearest Phantom."

Jovan gave a roll of her eyes. She refused to deal with this tonight! She was about to climb back into bed when she noticed the other girls in the room perk up upon hearing Hector's words. Even Christine, the youngest among them who was supposed to have fallen asleep a long time ago, had drawn back her own curtains out of curiosity. With an audible sigh, Jovan deciding to give what Hector was about to say a chance, and positioned herself on the edge of her bed to listen.

The stagehand huffed with pride, seeing as he had gathered all their attention. Even Elea had failed to give him a reply after he spoke. Hector cleared his throat then pointed in Jovan's direction with a smirk playing on his lips.

"You, love. Tell me a story you've heard about him," he said, earning a giggle from Maeva. At that point, it became clear that the ballerina was not sober.

Jovan blinked at the unexpected attention. "A... story? What kind?"

"About how our beloved specter came to our opera house."

Jovan gave a shrug of one of her shoulders. She'd heard countless stories of how the Opera Ghost came to be but out of all of them, there was one that actually stuck with her. For what reason though, she was unable to fathom.

Perhaps it was just her penchant for tragedies. That didn't mean that she believed the story though, not one bit.

"I heard the costume mistress talk about this one a few weeks ago ― that the Phantom was the lead tenor a few years back. He died an untimely death, murdered in his room just after his first performance. She said that he'd left every man and woman believing that he was an angel sent from heaven, with a voice that could not be from this world. One of the chorus members killed him out of envy."

"Ooh," Tess whispered sarcastically. "An angel? How did he come to be the feared Opera Ghost then?"

"Well," Jovan cleared her throat. "He... came back as a vengeful spirit. Or so I was told."

Hector gave a thoughtful nod at her words before offering his flask to Elea, who refused. He took another sip before he looked back at the redhead. "Interesting. But what have you to say about his face?"

Jovan's eyebrows knitted in confusion. "His face?"

"C'mon, you must've heard of Joseph Buquet talk about it at least once!" Hector's voice echoed from below. "We work with him after all, and the buffoon loves to bring it up whenever he can."

Erik knew very well of the stories about him that scattered among the employees of the Opéra Populaire. That didn't mean that he was okay with them. Well, with most of them anyway. Mainly, he didn't mind the rumors and gossip about him because they helped boost his reputation as the fearsome Opera Ghost and scared everyone into obedience. They helped keep the performers and crew members on their toes at all times. But there were also times when some people tended to cross a line, much like the stagehand who was currently speaking, what with their exaggerations and whatnot.

"I don't know if you've noticed but I tend to stay away from that pig," Erik heard Jovan scoff.

While he didn't appreciate a large number of the stories that were being spread about him, it wasn't like he could do something about them anyway. If he caused a mishap or an accident for every single time someone dropped a foul rumor about him, he wouldn't be taken so seriously at all. Hence, he was left to carefully pick the occasions on when he could actually do something about a story being told about him.

This moment was one of them, he decided. If there was something that Erik couldn't stand, it was someone talking about the distorted part of him. The very face that condemned him to live the life of a ghost, of an outcast.

"Hm, smart girl," the stagehand commented, getting to his feet. "Anyways, I've been told that our Phantom has skin as yellow as parchment, eyes as red as your guts, and a black hole in the middle of his face where his nose should've been!" Oh, how original.

"This is ridiculous―"

This is outrageous! Erik clenched his fists as he felt his temper rise. He began to tremble with anger with what his ears were hearing. Insolent boy!

"Shut it, Elea!" Hector shushed the girl and was about to take a sip from his flask when he miscalculated the distance between its opening and his lips and the liquor spilled onto his shirt instead. "Damn it!"

Maeva rose and rushed to him. "Hector―"

"Let me finish!" He pushed her away, the alcohol's effects finally beginning to put its hold on him. "As I was saying, his skin also has a tendency to fall off his bones at inopportune times. He walks like death, they say, carrying with him a stench so awful―"

That was it! Without a second to waste, Erik quietly got down on his knees and began to feel around the wooden boards beneath him. He might've prided himself with his unparalleled skill in music but he was also well-versed in the art of mischief and chaos. This boy was going to regret the words that were escaping from his mouth when morning arrived, Erik was going to make sure of that.

He pressed around the wooden planks until he finally felt one of them shift in the slightest. A smirk tugged on his lips as he carefully held onto the wooden board and lifted it out of place. He placed it by his side and carefully peeked below. From his spot, Erik was positively sure that he would remain invisible to any eyes that happened to wonder near the ceiling of the room. Pitch-black darkness imbued every inch of the space Erik was occupying at the very moment that only the sharpest of eyes would be able to see his outline in the dark.

Careful not to make a sound, he pulled out a matchbox from his pocket and pulled out one of the matches. He held it near the side of the matchbox as he patiently waited now. All he needed was for the fool to walk under his spot and then...

Hector stumbled right beneath him, and Erik held his breath. The stagehand continued to detail the Phantom's supposedly grotesque appearance while he pointed a finger at Jovan for some reason that had slipped Erik's attention. But he had stopped processing Hector's words a moment ago, instead pouring his attention into what he was about to do.

"Hector," he whispered, throwing his voice just for the stagehand to hear. "Above you."

"Yes?" In his drunk state, the stagehand simply gave a smile before he looked above him. He narrowed his eyes in an attempt to see in the dark. With his chin now tilted up towards the ceiling, his chest was vulnerable for Erik to drop the match on. He lit it with a flick of his wrist then dropped it.

The match landed right on the area where Hector had spilled his liquor. The fabric of his shirt instantly caught fire and a panicked scream escaped the fool's mouth.

"FIRE! PUT IT OUT―"

Maeva gave a screech of her own as she ran straight for the door while Hector continued screaming, scratching at the flames on his chest as he tried to put them out. Erik silently replaced the wooden board from where he had taken it from before any of the girls could even come near Hector. He watched as Elea shrieked for a glass of water before Tess, now fully awake, bounded for the door to fetch said glass.

"Call Madame Giry!" Elea cried out as she grabbed the nearest pillow and began to slam it against Hector's chest repeatedly in an attempt to put out the flames. Hector clawed at his shirt, struggling to remove it, and he stumbled, his back making contact with the floor with a heavy thud. Elea had not stopped in striking him with the pillow while Jovan had long gone out the door to call for the ballet headmistress.

Out of the six girls who occupied the dormitory, only Elea, a girl of fourteen named Adèle, and Christine were left to tend to the stagehand on fire. Adèle was screaming for Tess and Jovan to come back while Christine was rummaging through the trunks and nightstands for God-knows-what.

All in all, it was a sight amusing enough to lift Erik's spirits up. Dark pleasure coursed through him as he watched the chaos unfold below him. The hour was late and the incident was sure to cause a racket that would wake up some, if not all, of the dormitories.

It wasn't long before Tess arrived and she quickly ran towards Hector and poured on his chest the glass of water she held in her hands. Jovan entered next with Antoinette in tow, dark circles surrounding her eyes as she screamed for everyone to vacate the room save for Elea. All the girls obeyed her and rushed to evacuate their dormitory while Antoinette calmed the flapping stagehand.

Elea held Hector down as Antoinette tore his shirt in two, pulling away what was left of the burnt fabric to see the damage that was done.

Erik's view of whatever wound he could've caused was blocked by Antoinette's form hovering over the stagehand, who had now fallen unconscious. Incomprehensible whispers were exchanged between the two females before he finally heard something coherent.

"Elea, call the doctor."

Erik heaved a content sigh.