The opera had not been finished, and Erik and Desiree were now back at his house. Desiree had not said anything on the way there or even since the director's words onstage. She had remained silent, as if what had happened had not quite registered in her mind.
Desiree was sitting on the sofa she'd woken up on the night before, and Erik was seated on the couch opposite her, waiting for her reaction, smiling slightly. It took a while for her to say something.
"…I didn't even get to see the end of Faust."
Erik burst out laughing, this being the last reaction he expected. She blinked at him.
"Was he referring to me when he said 'the Phantomess'?" she asked, still in some state of shock. Erik regained composure fairly quickly and nodded, still shaking with withheld laughter. She thought for another minute. "But I'm not a phantom…ess."
"You could be."
"What do you mean, I could be? Like I can just become a phantom-like being or something? Like it's a taught trade, and not a… thing that they're born with? Or created with… or however phantoms come into existence." She seemed to be recovering fairly well and very quickly.
"Of course it's a trade."
"It can't be!"
"You don't know that. You don't know how phantoms become phantoms, so who are you to say that it's not a trade?"
"But… but don't phantoms live forever?"
"They can."
"All of them?"
Erik sighed. "You ask too many questions. Why don't you just accept something on faith? You could be a phantom."
"The becoming of phantoms is definitely and odd thing to ask me to have faith in. Was that your plan? Your reason for bringing me here? To make me a phantom?"
"Actually, I have no idea why I brought you here. I'm just a nice guy, I guess. I didn't like the idea of leaving an innocent girl to freeze to death in the Paris Opera House subbasements." He smiled a little.
She looked straight ahead again, thinking. He couldn't have intended for her to become "The Phantomess." That had been the director's title for her, not his. But why had this stranger invited her to stay with him. Surely he had some idea of what he was doing? It almost seemed that by accepting his offer, she'd gone out of the frying pan into the fire. But had she really? Anything had to be better than… the necklace. Even phantomhood. She was already into it up to her neck, and she was ready to submerge herself completely in it. She looked at him and narrowed her eyes in thought, twisting her mouth to the side and pursing her lips.
"You say I could be a phantom?"
She took a deep breath. "And how would that be accomplished?"
"I'd coach you in phantomism as well as singing. You already have the whole look. Can you imagine what you looked like when we jumped off that catwalk, with that cloak trailing behind you?"
She twisted her mouth again and looked to the side. Her eyebrows lowered and her nose wrinkled slightly. "A phantomess, huh?"
He smiled and nodded. "A phantomess. You'd make a very good one."
She stood up. "I'm going to bed, if it's alright. I have a lot to think on."
"Of course. Rêves agréables, Mademoiselle."
"Merci, Monsieur. Rêves agréables."
She went to her room, set the mask on the vanity and draped the cloak over one side of the mirror. Her hair fell down over her shoulders. The black dress fell to the floor and she hurriedly slipped into a night gown. She laid the dress over the back of the vanity's chair and looked into the one half of the mirror that was not covered by the cloak. A dark-haired, hazel-eyed, fair-complexioned young girl gazed back at her. Her head tilted barely, but just so finely that the light hit her eyes perfectly, making them explode in a dazzling burst of awe-inspiring, emerald fireworks. Those beautiful eyes gazed out from behind the band of white that was her mask. Dark, brown hair framed her face and spilled over her shoulders. The corners of her mouth twitched upward momentarily, before her lips curled into a grin.
She finally put out the gas lamps and crawled into bed, collapsing backwards on the pillows with a groan. One hand laid over her eyes in exhaustion. She had lain there like that for several minutes before she jerked upright with wide eyes and a slightly open mouth. It had occurred to her in those quiet minutes of her deep thought that something had been deeply wrong about that reflection. She had tilted her head, she had not smiled, and nor had she been wearing that mask.