A/N: Thanks SO much for the wonderful reviews! I'm happy to say, that I saw the movie for the second time yesterday, so I now have some splendid ideas for the story. Gerard Butler 'wows' me every time. He's such an amazing actor, and his voice is beautiful. I get shivers when I hear him sing sometimes!! Anyways, here's the latest chapter. I hope you all like it. Remember to please review. Thanks a lot! Also, since this is finals week, I've got lots of homework to do, and I'm rewriting a bunch of chapters to make them better, so I'll probably update in about a week or so. Thanks for your patience.
Doomed Delight: Lol, I'm glad you thought the chapter was ok.
Gerfan: Yeah, Gerry's awesome. Have you seen him in Timeline? Tehe…I have!
Lisa Citron: Yay! I'm glad you like it, and I'm glad you like Claire!
Chapter Two: The Mask of Gold
Claire soon grew bored with the play. They'd been rehearsing the same scene over and over and still the director seemed unimpressed. "From the top!" he'd cry repeatedly.
His old raspy voice grew hoarse in Claire's ears. She glanced at the roomy area around her. Her father owned this theatre now, and she had every right to explore it, she thought with a grin.
While the dancers were busy twisting and turning on stage, Claire carefully and quietly slipped away, unnoticed.
As she explored backstage, she soon found herself in the prop room of the theatre. It was packed with delightful and wonderful things.
Wooden swords and pistols, kitchenware and rubber food lay sprawled about three long tables. On one table there was a great selection of masks. Big masks, small masks, colorful ones, and white ones, with all elaborate designs and markings upon them. There seemed to be a half of a table entirely devoted to them.
Claire grinned, picking one out in particular. She picked it up in her hands. The mask shimmered with golden sparkles. Lying just beside it, there was a small hand held mirror.
Claire placed the mask on her face, looking at her reflection in the mirror. She looked awfully silly in it, but she thought it was fun to wear, though it only covered one side of her face.
As she shifted the mirror from left to right to see her reflection from a better angle, she thought she saw something behind her. Something white flashed behind her.
Startled, she gasped, dropping the mirror and the mask to the floor. She turned around swiftly, backing into the table. "Who's there?" she called out. There was no answer.
She thought she saw the shimmer of white disappear behind a giant painting that rested against the wall; she warily stepped closer to it. "Claire?" she heard her father call from the entrance to the room. Claire jumped, startled.
"Father," she sighed in relief.
"Claire, you shouldn't wander," her father scolded. "Come; rehearsals are almost over for the day. Aren't you ready to go home? I'll have the new maid cook us a nice warm dinner."
"Of course," Claire said, placing a trembling hand on her fluttering stomach. "I do feel parched of food."
Just before she exited the prop room, Claire glanced back at the painting- nothing. But the room was not empty.
A tall man, cloaked in black with a white mask upon his face kneeled down beside the mirror and golden mask that had fallen to the floor. "Who is this?" he said quietly to himself. "Who is this child of the Lost Voice?" he picked up the mask and the mirror, handling the objects with care.
Then the Phantom of the Opera walked over to the wall behind the painting, and disappeared behind it.
Claire sat down eagerly at the long dining table. The room was nearly empty beside the select few chairs and dinner plates on the table; she and her father had not yet finished unpacking.
Andre Bonamy sat at the head of the table, looking quite pleased at the steaming meal that was sitting in front of him. The maid placed it there, and then placed a similar plate with food before Claire.
"Thank you, Margaret," Claire said.
The maid nodded, not uttering a single word, and headed back toward the kitchen.
After a few minutes of unbearable silence, Claire asked her father, "How were rehearsals today?"
"They went very well I think," he said, dabbing his lips with his white napkin. "Did you enjoy your exploration of the prop room?"
Claire smiled. "Actually, I found several interesting items in there."
"Oh, really?" Andre asked.
"Yes," Claire lifted her silver fork to her mouth, tasting the plump turkey on its base.
Flickering lights from the table candles danced gracefully, softening the mood for dinner, and calming Claire's anger at her father. She knew she'd forgive him for not letting her perform; she'd come to accept his denial long ago. Though, every once and a while, she thought she should try her luck, but to no avail. He never could be convinced to let her sing.
Andre chuckled to himself. "Did you find any interesting phantoms while on your rounds?" he teased.
"Phantoms?" Claire asked, startled. That couldn't have been what she saw; was it?
"Ahh, it's an old legend. He seems to have a long history with the theatre. He's apparently lived there as long as anyone can remember," Claire could tell by her father's tone that he thought it all complete and utter nonsense.
Claire bit the side of her cheek, and a sudden chill rippled down her spine as he said this. "Well, I didn't mean to scare you," her father joked. "Goodness, Claire, you like as if you've seen a ghost!"
"I have not!" she quickly argued, as if denying something terrible.
Margaret eyed her suspiciously as she placed a new bowl of steaming rolls at the end of the table, near Claire.
"Thank you," Claire said again. "This is a pleasant meal, don't you think Father?"
"Oh, yes, yes, of course," Andre agreed.
"Oh, and speaking of pleasant things," her father continued, a slight twinkling in his eye. "I met the loveliest woman in the square today."
"Oh, did you?"
"Yes," he repeated. "Madame…Asthore, I believe; and her son, Aubrey. He's just a few years you're senior," Claire didn't seem o care much. Nonetheless, her father continued. "And I'm sure I will visit them again, in the square."
"Really?" Claire seemed a little surprised. "Well, I'm glad you're getting acquainted with people so fast." Her father had not mentioned a single woman in this manner since her mother died.
"Well, she seemed nice enough, and she told me a little about the city. I thought it was awfully kind of her."
"And it was," Claire still was stunned, though she hid it well. Her father seemed to be quite pleased with himself for making a new friend.
"Oh, and I told them all about you," Andre continued. "Aubrey seems keen on meeting you," there was that twinkle again. Claire instantly understood her father's intentions, but perhaps there was more than met the eye.
"Don't be silly Father. He doesn't even know me."
"Your paths will cross at some point," said her father with a grin. "His mother is quite wealthy, you know?"
"Really?" Claire asked, not really caring.
"Yes," Andre said. "She owns a small glass shop in the square. It was her husband's, but since his death a year ago, she's been running it on her own. I think I shall go buy some glass ware," he added.
"But we have such things," Claire retorted. "Mother's china! We have glass ware. Don't waste your earnings on such things we don't need, Father; spend the money on other things- like lighting in the prop room, for example. It's dreadfully dim in there."
"Tell me now," Claire turned the subject. "What is this you heard about the Phantom of the Opera? You never finished telling me about him."
"Well, they say he wanders here and there, as if he owned the opera house, but very few think they've seen him," he chuckled. "The Phantom of the Opera chooses to dress in black, with only a white mask upon his face. They also say he is a brilliant Phantom, choosing never to appear fully; he hides. Many of the cast and crew actually believe he exists."
"Sounds like a bit of silliness to me," Claire tried to convince herself.
"Well, yes," Andre agreed. "Probably just actors or dancers playing tricks in the dark. You know how thespians can be," he added smiling. "Their minds often get carried away in their work. And speaking of such, I've too been told that the very opera we're going to perform next was even written by this Phantom!"
Claire's insides were spinning now- as was her head. Was it the Phantom she saw in the darkness of the prop room? She froze just at the thought of it. "Again, probably an- an anonymous actor," Claire suggested hopefully.
"That is what I suspect," her father announced.
That's probably just it, Claire thought to herself over and over again. Just a prank; nothing more. Have they even proof of this Phantom's existence? Hopefully not.
Don't worry; Erik will get more involved in the story as time goes by (duh). These first two chapters aren't my best. But the next ones will be better, I promise. Please review! Thanks.