Chapter Twenty-One - In Their Midst

"Mademoiselle Giry?"

Meg turned to see a young man. He was dressed in black velvet all trimmed with gold. The slim, sparkling domino barely concealed a boyish, aristocratic face.

She recognized him as a regular patron, a wealthy student from Normandie who often sent flowers to ballet girls.

"Will you please dance with me, Mademoiselle Giry?"

She glanced down at his outstretched hand in its spotless white glove. And found herself remembering other hands in black leather.

Would it always be like this, would she forever compare each man to him…to a ghost in human flesh.

She shook her head and politely excused herself, finding her mother again in the dizzying swirl of the crowd.

A footman approached with a silver tray, ready to offer them champagne.

As the lights of the Grand Foyer suddenly dimmed, the glass slipped from Meg's hand. The delicate shards gleamed as the lights flared as abruptly as they had lowered.

The crowd of revelers fell silent as if Death had appeared in there midst.

A man had appeared at the head of the stairs, a man in crimson, a gray-white skull of a mask covering his face.

He surveyed the stunned guests, his lips curved in a confident smirk as he came down the steps slowly, prolonging the fear, enjoying it. The scarlet silk of his cloak trained down the steps, a river of blood.

"Who is he," a woman behind Meg dared to whisper. No one answered her.

It was his eyes…gray-green and burning beneath the hideous mask…that betrayed him to Meg.

And she found that she could hardly bear to look at him, yet she lacked the strength or will to turn away.

An old story drifted into her mind…she was not sure if it was a fairy tale from childhood or some half-forgotten opera…a story of a prince or god or hero so beautiful that no one could look upon him without being reduced to dust and ashes.

Yet she knew…she was certain that some darkness lay beneath that mask, not radiance.

The others recognized him when he spoke, recalled the voice that had taunted and threatened during Il Muto.

"Why so silent, good Messieurs? Did you think that I had left you for good?"

He held up a black portfolio, its cover embossed with gold letters.

"I have written you an opera! Here…I bring the finished score…Don Juan Triumphant!"

It what seemed to be one single motion, he flung down the portfolio…a few pages sliding out onto the marble floor…and drew his sword.

"Fondest greetings to you all," he said, knowing that a faint murmur trembled through the foyer…

He's here…the Phantom…the Opera Ghost…