Chapter Fifteen - The Soft and Mocking Voice
Meg watched as Christine took her place on the stage with La Carlotta. Her friend was calm, but Meg knew she was also frightened.
And how could she not be frightened? Meg was all too aware of the black-edge note that demanded Mademoiselle Daae be given the chance to repeat her Gala triumph by singing the role of the Countess in Il Muto.
The managers had defied the Opera Ghost and given the lead to Carlotta.
Adjusting the striped bodice of her maid's costume one more time, Meg took her own place with Sylvie, Adolphe, Louis, and Martin.
Glancing across the stage, she could see Piangi, appropriately ridiculous in green silk.
She heard a heavy step on the catwalk about her Joseph Buquet was there.
At his post, but leering down at her. He winked when he caught her eye.
The curtains swept open.
As they stepped forward, Meg looked up at Box Five.
That had been another the Phantom's requests, that Box Five be reserved for his use.
Raoul de Chagny was seated there and Meg wondered at his nerve.
Surely he was there…somewhere, watching them.
Watching his beloved Christine banished to the silent role of the Page.
Meg had little time to ponder the consequences of denying the Opera Ghost twice in one night. She gave her head the expected saucy toss as they sang,
They say that this youth has set my lady's heart a-flame.
Minutes later, when the new maid was revealed as the Pageboy in disguise, the air itself seemed to tremble around them as a low voice echoed through the auditorium.
Did I not instruct that Box Five was to be kept empty?
Even the great chandelier seemed to shiver at the Phantom's words. A frightened, confused murmur moved through the audience as they looked around, vainly trying to see who had spoken.
"He's the Phantom of the Opera," Meg gasped aloud before she could stop herself.
Biting her lip, she glanced across to Christine, hoping she had not given herself away.
Christine did not see her. Her eyes were fixed on the chandelier and, for a second, Meg thought she saw a shadow, a dark movement against the bright murals.
"It's him," Christine whispered, the terror edging her voice, "I know it. It's him."
Carlotta glanced at the younger singer, murder in her eyes.
"Your part is silently, little toad," she hissed.
A toad, Madame…perhaps it is you who are the toad!
Carlotta tried to pretend she had not heard the soft and mocking voice. She gestured for her throat spray, then snapped her fan in an impatient gesture at Monsieur Reyer.
Serfimo, away with this pretense! You can't not speak, but kiss me in my husbands….
Croak….
