It was midnight. Almost everyone who should have been asleep was. A few corners were occupied by lovers and their soft moans. And a small, solitary figure stood alone in the ballet studio, the moonlight pouring in through the great, high windows and casting oblong blocks of light onto the floor.
Everything was silent. But the slight figure shed the limp cotton robe it wore and took a place in the middle of the floor. Silvery moonlight made her white ballet costume glow with a ghostly radiance, and the icy light reflected in the deep grey pools of her eyes.
She had been restless, unable to sleep, her light dreams plagued by the image of Joseph Buquet's body swinging before her eyes, blocking her sight of the audience as she tried to dance away the tension of La Carlotta's now-infamous "croaking."
She alone hadn't screamed when his body had dropped into the middle of the dance. No, she had been frozen with a sudden, terrifying knowledge of exactly what had happened to him, who had done it, and what the reason was. Everyone had called the phantom of the opera a bloody ghost, a murderer. She had been torn. If she told everyone the true reason of what had happened, the phantom would lose his mystique but he would be exonerated. If she said nothing, he would remain branded a murderer, but his power would be undiminished.
In the end, she had remained silent.
Two months of silent torment for her had passed. Not a note, not a shadow, not the slightest sign of the phantom had manifested itself. People began to cautiously whisper that he was gone, that the death of Joseph Buquet was the end of the époque of the opera ghost.
She knew better. In her cynical, superstitious Irish heart, Rose knew that he was only biding his time. A man that loved as he loved Christine – for she had learned more and more of the story from her friend – did not give up that easily. No matter what lay under the mask. And she knew that somehow, she would be caught in the web he was weaving. After all, she now owed him twice over. It was a debt that weighed heavily on her thin shoulders.
Tonight, Rose wanted to exhaust herself until her body simply collapsed from physical exertion, and dancing was the only way she had available to her now. When she had been orphaned, everyone in the village had admired the seemingly endless energy she had shown in working to pack up and disperse her family's little cottage. But now, all that she had was dance to release those demons of fear and grief inside her.
There was no music, but she needed none. All she needed was the beating of her own heart to keep time with. She did not need to imagine footlights or applause. Unlike Christine and Meg, there was no thrill for her in dancing for others. She danced because she had to. Where words failed her and language was weak, movement spoke for her.
She struck a pose – a traditional, flamenco-style pose that she had seen other gypsy dancers use. Her slippered feet slid across the floor with only a slight scuffing as she slowly began to bend and turn her body. The movements were achingly slow and sensuous, a blend of sheer muscular strength and the delicacy of artistic sensibility.
Without thinking, she used ballet movements to soften the sometimes raunchier edges of the dances she had learned from the gypsies. And yet, the raw desire of their dance and the unrestrained life of her native Irish dancing flowed together in a desperate reel that was terrifyingly beautiful.
She flung herself harder and faster into the dance now, as if the silent instruments had picked up the tempo. She leaped, twirled and bent herself uncaringly, seeming only to want to push every nerve, every sinew in her lithe form to its outermost limit.
But as she danced, her harsh breathing keeping time in the air, he watched her.
It was one of the rare moments he had surfaced from his labyrinth. He had immured himself in his musical tomb, writing like the madman he was, trying to finish his opera. Making his own music was the only way he could drown out the sound of Christine's voice as she had softly whispered her love to that insipid boy-noble!
Damn them!
His hand had cramped up painfully, and he knew he had hit a wall with the flamenco number he was composing. He had allowed himself to come up to the ballet practice room to see if the sight of a broad, open space would inspire him again.
He was actually surprised to find it was night. He could have sworn it would have been dawn. But then, he was not overly concerned about it. Time had so very little meaning, especially now that he was no longer paying attention to the comings and goings of his managers, cast and crew. He would once again master their every movement when it was time for him to reappear and triumphantly offer up his opera as the burnt offering of his heart for Christine.
These thoughts flitted lightly through his agile mind as he watched the dancer, Rose, in her silent, agonized, impassioned dance.
Seen one ballet tart, seen them all.
And yet, he knew the moment he tried to form the words of that platitude that it was not true. No ballet tart would care so little for an audience that she would dance by herself in the moonlight. No ballet tart would push herself artistically and physically with such unrelenting rigor. No ballet tart would put so much raw, yet naïve passion and desire into her dance when it could serve her better backstage or in the manager's office.
No, Rose was no ballet tart.
As he watched her, he felt those strange, forbidden stirrings in his body that he had only felt in the intoxicating presence of his angel. Her dance was innocent yet seductive. He couldn't deny the erotic quality of the moment – the unrestrained vigor of her dance, her hard, quick breaths in the air, the sight of her slender body bending and stretching.
No, he couldn't deny it, nor did he try to. He had often witnessed what he considered mildly erotic moments between the cast and crew. What really bothered him, though, was that he had been able to dismiss it with his steel-plated cynicism. This…this dancer was erotic in her very innocence.
He hated her in principle for so many reasons – she had this uncanny habit of undoing his spells on Christine with a bit of backchat and mocking of his own person; she knew more about his true existence than anyone except Madame Giry…even Christine was thankfully still confused about him; and, he hated her above all because she knew too much of what he had suffered, even if she only knew from her own experience.
Yet, at the moment of midnight, under the spell of moonlight and the soft, sandy rhythm of her dance slippers against the floor, he found his mind thick and cotton-like when he tried to summon his useful hate.
To the utter horror of his rational, self-protective side, he impulsively and silently darted out from his hiding place in the shadows, catching the full weight of her body as she spun around and threw herself forward as if in a lunge.
There was a beat of complete silence as they warily regarded each other in the shadows and moonlight. He felt the shiver of inspiration run along his spine – that one familiar sensation of pleasure when he knew that the magic of creation was upon him.
In the very next beat, Rose had taken him by the hand and had drawn him into an intricate step sequence. He quickly recognized the step as one that gypsies favored in their reels and rounds, and though he had never practiced it, he was able to use his native agility and quickness to pick it up.
Knowing the relative pattern of the dance left him free to concentrate on other things – things like the uncanny sensation of her eyes locked on his. Grey into green, he felt himself being pulled by the sheer force of her slight being as she asserted herself as a powerful, otherworldly creature of dance. It was thrilling and risky and frightening to him to hold the gaze of someone who knew so much and yet still so little of him.
He sought to capture and memorize the sensation of her warm little hands in his. He felt himself on fire in every nerve ending with the anticipation of the next steps in the dance. It was a series of spins, each of which ended with an increasingly tighter, more intimate embrace between the partners.
Oh, what was he doing? What was he thinking? The rational side of his mind wailed at his lack of caution, reminding him bitterly of how his broken heart could stand no more. Yet, this was a new experience for him. He had been utterly consumed by music, by notes, by all that could be heard.
In this dance, he began to learn the passion of what could be felt. He could feel his heart pounding in a ragged, urgent rhythm. He could feel the burning of the air within his lungs. He could sense the currents of the air as they swirled it with their movements. He could feel the dizziness of a woman's body thrown against his again and again with exquisite delicacy and control. He could smell the faint salty muskiness of her sweat and his.
This was magnificent! This was what his music had been missing! He felt rejuvenated, inspired, powerful again. He asserted himself in the dance, using his grace and strength to challenge Rose to be lighter and stronger. He glowed inwardly as he saw the comprehension, acceptance and delight at the challenge in her eyes.
Together, with only the sounds of their breaths and their soles against the floor, they danced. Spinning, lifting, leaping, lunging, bending, dipping and throwing. He grew almost drunk with the feeling of it all, reveling in his strength as he seemingly effortlessly lifted Rose into the air, his hands instinctively braced on her slender hips. He loved the sensation of being able to feel her muscles tense or stretch in his grasp, the way she responded perfectly to every move he made.
Finally, in a dizzying, whirling moment, the dance came to an end. She was held in his arms as he dipped her. They stayed that way for a few moments, panting to catch their breaths. He started to straighten up, but he noticed she seemed ready to sink to the floor in exhaustion. He suddenly realized why she had been dancing, and he felt a stabbing of unreasoning rage aimed at no one in particular except everyone.
He bent down and swung her into his arms, gritting his teeth against her gentle weight that felt still warm from dancing. Silently, he carried her from the cold, empty ballet practice room and up several flights of stairs to the prop room. He gently deposited her on the ornately gilt divan that had been used in Il Mutto.
Her eyes had remained closed the entire time, and he suspected that she had fallen asleep. He noted that her expression, which had been pained and impassioned while dancing, had faded to a vague frown between her brows.
Cursing himself, he covered her up with one of the cheap velveteen blankets that had been used as bed coverings in the performance and winced as she snuggled into it, still frowning.
Unable to help himself, he gently touched her forehead, using his thumb to rub and smooth out the furrow between her eyes. He nearly choked on his own self-loathing as she relaxed and seemed to almost smile at his touch.
Abruptly he rose. It was time to go back. He had his inspiration now for the rest of the flamenco. He only cast one look back at the sleeping dancer.
It was a pity she couldn't sing.
