Thank you to my first reviewer! You inspired me to write Chapter 2 right on the spot.

-Kate


He slept fitfully. His dreams were too vivid, too tantalizing, too full of softness and sweet, silky things that paid no heed to the cold reality of his waking hours.

He had throbbed as Christine's blinding soprano had pierced his heart, stabbing jagged edges of forbidden ecstasy into that weary, battle-scarred organ. He had scolded her, taunted her and pushed her to stretch her sweet throat further than ever before. He had grown dizzy, drunk with music, forgetting everything – even its source – for the space of a few moments.

As a reward, he had sung her a lullabye. It was a charming little Swedish tune – one that she had taught him, of all the ironies.

But now she was in his dreams. She was ragged and dirty, crying out to him. He pushed through the crowd to reach her, straw crunching under his feet. Hands clawed at him, threatening to rip off his mask. Devils screamed his most obscene desires into the black sky.

He woke up, sweating and angry. And hungry.

In a foul mood, he dressed and hurried to reach the kitchens before the Opera Populaire began to stir and search out breakfast as well.

After all, even a man who pretended to be an angel in the guise of a ghost had to eat.


Damn!

Damn all ballet teachers and gypsy ragamuffins!

Through a spyhole, he watched the pair sit cozily in front of the fire in the kitchen, eating that very bread and butter he wanted.


"Your accent is strange, Rose," Madame Giry said gently, refilling the girl's rough ceramic mug with more tea. "Where are you from?"

"I'm from Ireland, Madame," the young woman replied around a mouthful of bread and thick, creamy butter.

"Ireland?" Madame Giry exclaimed, studying the girl's features as if to trace the celtic lines in them. "However did you -?"

"End up with gypsies in France?" Rose finished, her lilting accent rolling her French around like berries in a bowl. She eagerly gulped down the warm tea, clutching at the mug with small, thin fingers. "Many strange things can happen to an elephant."

"You mean orphan," Madame Giry said with a faint smile, correcting the girl's French.

"Orphan," Rose repeated, a cautious smile spreading across her lips.

"How long have you been an orphan?" the ballet teacher asked, thinking back to the other young child she had brought to the opera house but ten years earlier.

"Five years now," Rose replied quietly, her countenance darkening in the firelight. "And it seems like just the day before, I was not alone. And now I am."

Madame Giry studied Rose. She had the perfect body for a dancer. Her frame was light but wiry, with small bones. Her bosom was small, which was good, as she would not have to bind it down. Her legs were slender but strong, with delicate ankles and high-arched feet. There was an energy to the girl, even in repose. Every movement seemed controlled, almost held back from an explosion of life and dance.

"You are no longer alone, Rose," Madame Giry said. "If you wish, you may stay here at the Opera Populaire as a dancer. I will teach you everything I know. It is a hard life, but it can be a good life if you are willing to work for it."

Rose's eyes went wide, and the fingers round the mug tightened. Madame Giry thought that the girl's eyes were grey like the cold, northern oceans she knew surrounded the green island of Ireland.

"Do you truly mean it?" Rose asked softly, her voice trembling, almost buzzing with the heady mixture of doubt, fear and hope.

"I never say things I don't mean, Rose," Madame Giry gently remonstrated.

And in the girl's silent, shaking sobs, Madame Giry had her answer.


And he had had enough, turning away from the spyhole with disgust. He knew Madame Giry would let the girl know what she was never to ask about and where never to go in his opera house.

His opera house…the phrase rolled around in his mind. His opera house, and he would give it to Christine. She would shine with happiness when she – not that obnoxious, overbearing parrot of a diva – took center stage and let her voice soar, winning the hearts of the crowd, just as she had won his. This opera house…his opera house…would be the sparkling jewel wrapped around her finger by the bands of his love.

He hurried back down to his lair, a faint line of melody having formed in his mind. It would be perfect for the ballet number of his opera!