Come the Dawn, Chapter Four
Overture
The wonder of the music wrapped around him, and Erik leaned back, closing his eyes to the gilded distraction of the opera house interior and simply letting the music wash over him, through him, touching all the dark corners of his soul.
The tempo was a bit faster than he'd imagined, the strings a bit more pronounced, the brass slightly more muted. But Erik, for once, let the critical thoughts register without dwelling on them, lost in the sheer delight of hearing his music performed by a world-renowned orchestra, with the full approval—indeed, the enthusiastic support—of the conductor.
There had been no coercion, no threats; none were necessary. Richter had simply studied the music, quietly poring over the black-and-white pattern of notes on the velum sheets, saying nothing at all until Erik thought he would go mad. Finally, the conductor had begun humming softly, holding the music in his left hand while his right hand traced patterns in the air, moving with a flowing rhythm that mimicked the ebb and flow of the music itself. At last, reaching the end of the piece, Richter had looked up and met Erik's tense expression with a small smile. His quiet assessment, "This is quite…remarkable," was one of the least expected but most stunningly wonderful moments in Erik's life. As was the fact that Richter had decided, on the spot, to add the work to the opera's upcoming season.
Of the mask obscuring half of his newly-discovered composer's features, he'd said nothing. Not a twitch, not a twinge of facial expression had betrayed any shock—or even any interest—in anything but the music Erik had brought him.
That, more than anything, had stunned Erik into bemused silence while Richter studied the score. Never, in all his life, had his face been so completely…irrelevant. His face was always relevant, always a burden, always the damned albatross hanging about his neck. Never, in all his days, had Erik's physical appearance been so thoroughly dismissed. Richter had eyes only for the music. Any and all else barely registered.
Lost in his thoughts, it took a moment for Erik to realize that the music had stopped. Opening his eyes, he glanced down from the hidden recesses of the theater box he was ensconced in—if Richter thought it odd, or had indeed even noticed, that the composer whose work various orchestra members had called "riveting," "breathtaking" and, in at least one instance, "damned disturbing," hid himself in an unoccupied box to watch each and every rehearsal of his work, he said nothing.
At first glance, Erik noticed nothing that would have caused the disturbance. There was naught to be seen but the barely controlled chaos of an opera company in pre-production. Then he noticed the small group of individuals standing far off to stage right. The manager, a man named Goss, he recognized. The dainty, gray-haired sprite of a woman, who was gesturing animatedly towards the half-finished backdrop, he knew to be Teodora Daskalova, the head seamstress and costume designer.
But the other two individuals…
Erik registered a brief impression of a tall, veiled figure draped in black from head to toe, before his gaze was drawn to the shorter, younger woman standing next to her. Honey-colored hair, drawn back from a pale, heart-shaped face, large blue eyes, the poised stance of a dancer that managed to convey both grace and strength…
Erik felt his heart skip a beat as he recognized both the mother and the daughter, even as hideously out of context as they were here, in his new sanctuary.
New life be damned. His old life had managed to follow him all the way across the Alps, haunting him as surely and as mercilessly as the Opera Ghost had haunted the Opera Populaire.
The manager clapped his hands and spoke to the assembled company.
"Passen Sie gut auf!" He clapped again. "I am pleased to announce the arrival of our new ballet mistress. The unfortunate…circumstances...at the famed Opera Populaire in Paris have proved fortunate to us, indeed. We are very happy to welcome Frau Antoinette Giry and her lovely daughter, Fräulein Marguerite, who will be joining our corps de ballet."
Madame Giry nodded impassively at the assemblage while Meg curtsied and smiled briefly. There was a smattering of polite applause, which did nothing to drown out the roaring in Erik's ears. But it did manage to conceal from those below the low, feral growl that escaped his lips as he spun around and exited the haven of his theater box.