Chapter Three: Refusal

My dreams were dark and riddled with a nightmarish fear, yet no horrific images appeared. I woke some time before dawn with a gasp, staring about my room darkly. I caught my breath and rose shakily, crossing the floor to the window. In the dim light that seeped in from outside, I could already see the waiting letter. I lit a candle and tore into it almost desperately, eyes going over the fragile script as though it was the answer to life.

'Good morning Miss Lavonne,

I trust you slept well last night. I have a request of you, which I failed to mention last evening. You are to tell no one who I am. I exist to no one but you and Madame Giry. It is a priority that my lessons remain secret, please do not ask for reasons that would explain. Also, there are certain young men who tend to get tangled up in a promising star's success. I suggest that you avoid these types readily, as they will severely intercept your career.

All of this remains in the best interest of my student.

Erik.'

I raised a brow at the letter. Young men? Secrets? Interferences? Erik seemed to address these matters almost lightly, but sternly. There was a purpose behind his suggestions—or were they commands? I sighed, rubbing my temples and recalling the events of last night as if I'd been drunk. Perhaps I had been. But who was I to say?

Pulling out a fresh piece of parchment, a quill, and my ink, I seated myself by the dim glow of my one candle and pondered what to write. Suddenly I didn't want to go to lessons tonight. I had a bad feeling about it. I'm not sure how that would be taken by my instructor-extraordinaire. But was not attending my only hope of rebelling? My quill hovered over the paper indecisively. Why did I not want to go? I pursed my lips. Was it my nature? Was it the fact that I could not see him or speak of him? I had thought I'd seen a mask somewhere in the shadows. Who was this man? O.G. The initials set in my head. Why would he sign something to Mademoiselle Duprey with these letters?

Opera Ghost. No, that was ridiculous! I nearly scoffed at myself for the thought. Well, there was only one way to find out. Breathing deeply, I began to compose my letter.

'Dear Erik,

Your letter was well received, but under the assumption of too much on your part. I did not sleep well at all with the Mademoiselle's presence gone. It is something I may or may not grow accustomed to over time, but for now my discomfort grows. Something strange is at work and my conscience will see these mysteries solved. You speak of avoiding certain persons that may interrupt my singing, but I warn you, this is the least of your troubles. I would not reveal your identity for the world, Opera Ghost.

All of this remains in the best interest of the WORLD.

Faye.'

The letter was a complete mockery of Monsieur Erik and perhaps a little too haughty on my part. Still, I found myself sealing the letter with a triumphant smile, leaving it by the window. I knew very well that I was playing with fire. I dressed and left to go find a quick breakfast before rehearsals.

As I passed Madame Giry in the hall, I flashed her a suspicious look before tromping off. I felt she knew something about this, but let the suspicion wade in the back of my subconscious thoughts. After a pastry and a quick cup of black coffee, I had some time to explore the place. I found my way to a small chapel that lay away from all of the action. It was very dusty and relatively abandoned. Though I could tell it was still used on occasion, as a few candles seemed to be lit. Raising a brow, I looked around at the stained glass windows and paintings. A draft wafted through the place, moaning softly along the cracks. A chill tingled along my spine and I looked around to see if anyone was there. No one was present. Shrugging, I exited the chapel and made my way to another grueling rehearsal.

Carlotta was more annoying than what she'd been the other day. After inquiring about it to a chorus girl, she informed me that Carlotta would only get worse. The thought was more than discomforting. All hell broke loose when her mouth spray went missing. I seriously contemplated quitting when they motioned to practice my aria, and Mademoiselle Carlotta started throwing a tantrum about them paying more attention to me (which was entirely not true). Needless to say, all were dismissed except Carlotta, who was given the 'honor' of a private rehearsal for her aria. At least it gave me a longer opportunity to research Monsieur Erik, or rather, the Opera Ghost. I'd also neglected my journal, which I'd update with my research.

Dressing simply, I went in search of the theater archives. I was also armed with a knife, as people were less apt to notice that rather than a rapier. I loved my rapier. A boy from my hometown had bought it for me off of a traveling band of Gypsies. He had told me to think of him whenever and if ever I used it. Somehow he seemed to doubt there'd ever be a need. I smiled at the thought of him. My smile faded to a frown, however, as I came across what appeared to be the archives. I should have known that they would be locked.

I looked to see if anyone was around before whipping out my dagger and fiddling with the lock. It was an old lock, which luckily opened quite easily under my tampering. The door gave way with a resounding creak. Looking around one last time, I walked in and shut the door. The only light streamed in from two small portals near the ceiling. The place generally seemed to be well kept, rows of neat book keeping organized by year and month. Lighting a candle, I browsed the place thoroughly. I needed to narrow things down a bit. I wasn't even sure what exactly I was looking for…mysterious occurrences, perhaps?

I randomly selected a handful of documents from several years ago. Skimming, nothing sparked my interest. I replaced the papers and selected a brief account of last year's events. The word 'mysteriously' caught my eye and I seated myself, beginning to read avidly.

'January, 1864: In a production of "La Dame Blanche," a stagehand was discovered dead just after Act One. His body showed signs of struggle and witnesses attested to a masked man strangling the boy. There was never any proof of this story, however, except for slender rope-marks about his neck. The alleged witnesses are said to have suffered hallucinations by trauma.'

"A masked man?" I whispered to myself. Shaking my head at the absurdity, I copied the passage and moved on. Inside, my heart was racing. If any of this were related…

'February, 1864: Man found hanging from the catwalk during rehearsals. Phantom suspected.'

'February, 1864: Lead singer mysteriously vanished opening night, only to return the next morning to pack up and leave Paris with no explanation.'

'March, 1864: Mysterious voice heard from box five, followed by immediate sabotage of the production. Opera Ghost suspected.'

'March, 1864: Girl speaks of mysterious instructor and vanishes from Paris.'

'March, 1864: The Phantom of the Opera makes an appearance at a local gala, terrifying attendees with a vibrant show of smoke and flames. The mystery of the man behind the ghost remains to be unknown.'

'March, 1864: World-renowned detective comes to investigate the mystery of the Opera ghost. Declares masked man a hoax created by the theater owner to keep interest in his company.'

I documented all of these cases with a flourish, trying not to think about it too much. My heart was racing inside as every word flowed across my page. Then suddenly, I heard someone out in the hall. My heart stopped. Looking up, I shut my journal and gathered the papers, stowing them away hastily. I ducked behind an aisle as the door creaked open. There were footsteps as someone's shadow moved across the floor to where I'd been working. I stared through wide eyes and caught my breath on a silent air, my eyes draping their gaze across the shelves before me. It looked to be a mini-library of sorts. What particularly caught my eye was a dull ancient-looking book. Leaning over, my eyes grazed the title as a listless finger trailed over the faded gold lettering. 'Children's Tales,' it read. I don't know why the book caught my fancy, but someone was about to round the corner.

Thinking quickly, I grabbed a book and thrust it across the room. "Hello?" The voice was distinctly Madame Giry. Bolting, I fled the room and didn't stop until I'd reached my room. It was about nine 'o' clock when I settled into my dwelling to review my notes. My heart was pounding in my head relentlessly. Then I looked over at the window and saw a waiting note, the red mound of a seal sitting with a dead weight upon the starch-white paper. Gulping, I moved over and took it with reluctant fingers, prying the seal from the paper and opening it.

'Mademoiselle Lavonne,

You would do well to remember your place. Any threat you hold against me is petty in comparison to what I could do to you. As it were, mockeries of your teacher are NOT appreciated, nor will they be permitted. You will learn to hold your tongue, and your quill, to refrain from such obscenities. All I do is with good reason, and you are NEVER to question my judgement.

Ten 'o' clock sharp, my little parakeet.

Erik.'

I narrowed my eyes at the letter and thrust it to the floor. Whipping out my rapier from under the bed, I unsheathed it with an angry expression marring the lines of my face. "Who are you calling parakeet, my murderous ami?" I asked darkly. It took a moment for the immediate rage of the situation to settle out, but it did and I regained control. Sighing, I knew I'd made up my mind to not go to lessons. So what would I do?

I eventually set about arming myself with proper wear and such, should I meet any kind of attack for not appearing this evening. I was already well aware of the fact that he had access to my room. So where could I go where I would meet no disturbance from him? Away from the Opera house.

My feet marched me out of the room and down the stairs, just as the clock tolled ten. Pausing, I looked around and saw no activity, so proceeded to the front foyer. A certain fear stirred within me as I gazed across that vast expanse of darkness, uncertain if I would meet some kind of end for the fact that I was stealing away for the evening. I just needed to find a way to solve this problem of mine… my new teacher, that is.

Taking a deep breath, I moved across the hall, trying to make as little noise as possible. I was about halfway across the tiled floor when a nearly bone-shattering force tripped me. I felt a rope wind around my ankles and suddenly I was being dragged backwards. I fell with a thump to the floor as the strength behind the rope grew. I didn't panic. My rapier was out in an instant and even in the blindness of the dark, I sliced the rope with ease and wrestled my feet out of its embrace, fleeing towards the dim light of the front doors. I heard a whipping sound behind me but latched onto the handles of the front door, jerking it open and flinging myself out into the open.

I fell but quickly scrambled to my feet, stumbling down the steps and into the street. I didn't look back, but I heard footsteps. I ran. Then I realized I had no idea where I was going, but I ran anyway. Things shook in the rush of my flight, my vision almost a blur. Then suddenly I heard the whipping sound again and my ankles were latched together firmly. I went toppling into the Cobblestone Street, my hands catching my fall ever so slightly. I went for my rapier and moved it to slice the rope, but to my surprise, another rope wrapped itself around the weapon and sent it clanging off to the side.

The rope came at me again and arrested my neck, pulling taught. Oh God, this was it. I was going to die. I screeched slightly as the rope slowly began to suffocate me. "Consider this to be my first show of mercy," Hissed Erik's voice from behind me. He dragged me harshly across the road to his feet and released the tension of the rope. I coughed and sputtered, hands going to my throat blindly, my eyes bulging at his now-lit figure. The visible half of his face was astoundingly beautiful, but the other half was covered by a white mask. An agitated fire burned in his eyes as he unhooked the second rope from my neck, and then the first.

He bent over me and swept me into strong arms, his ropes hooked loosely over his shoulders. Looking back now, I realized I hadn't gotten far from the Opera house at all. Maybe I had run in a circle… He picked up my rapier and slipped it back into my sheath, taking my hands and placing them over his shoulders as if to instate that I was not to touch my blade. I groaned as a certain pain set into all of my limbs. I felt as though I were catching fire between the running, the falling, and the taught sensation of his ropes. He said nothing, but carried me swiftly into the Opera house, all the way back to the stage. He set me on the edge and looked at me with a serious expression. There were more candles lit than what were lit the other night, and I could see his eyes.

"No running," he scolded, finally removing himself from my line of sight and sitting somewhere off in the shadows. I blinked back tears at the incident and cracked my neck in some vain attempt to stunt the pain. "Your scales, Miss Lavonne," he called.

"How am I to sing after that?" I demanded ruthlessly, sending a glare in the direction he'd gone in.

"You will listen to me—"

"—I most certainly will not!" A rope landed around my neck and drew me off the stage, face pressed flat against the un-swept floor. I gasped, my hands pulling at the rope desperately. He crossed into the light once more, gathering the slack in his hand and pulling me up to standing. He held me from the rope as if it were a collar, looking steadily, but darkly into my eyes.

"You will do everything I ask of you from now on. Else, not only will your beautiful vocal chords be out of function, but your entire neck will be snapped under the pressure of my lasso." He released me abruptly, and I fell in a gasping heap on the floor. Tears blinded my eyes as he retreated once more into the shadows. "Keep in mind, Miss Lavonne, that I am here to help you and if I must force my help upon you, I will do so. You will learn discipline or you will not succeed," he stated evenly.

"What if I decide I do not want to succeed?" I gasped breathlessly, trying to clear my thoughts.

"If you did not want to succeed, you'd have no reason to be here," he answered, "Now, for the last time, Miss Lavonne, your scales." I was fuming again, an uncontrollable hatred running rampant through my veins. The silence lingered and I abruptly lifted myself up onto the stage, taking my stance. I took a deep breath and relaxed myself, trying to tone down the urge to lunge at my instructor and show him the meaning of pain.

After going through my scales a multitude of times (until he was satisfied), I broke into the aria again. Just like the other night, he returned to the stage, hands pressing at my waist to keep me steady, his own voice urging me on. I tried not to let it affect me, but it did. There was something strangely intoxicating about the way his hands fell along my curves; his voice in whispers coaxing me into the high Heavens of melodies. It was inspiring, and I couldn't help the way I had begun to feel.

"Bravissimo," he whispered when I had finished, "You are progressing." He brought my hand to his lips and kissed it. I turned my head slightly to meet his eyes, his chin nearly resting on my shoulder. I blinked as his lips curved into a small but sly smile. I stared at him speechlessly for a moment before jerking away.

"Je te deteste. Bonne nuit, Monsieur," I called, exiting the stage. (I hate you. Good night). I didn't look back at him to see how he would react, but ran to my room, slamming the door behind me and leaning against it. I caught my breath and stared at the window through bleary eyes. What was happening to me? I had just been in the arms of a murderer. Forget the fact that he was the infamous Opera ghost; he was a murderer. I closed my eyes and sunk against the door, weeping like a child.

"Faye?" A voice whispered tenderly against the door, "Faye?" I cried harder.

"Go away," I whimpered, my hand gripping the handle to hold the door shut.

"Why are you crying my vicious little tiger?" The voice swooned.

"I am not your vicious little tiger." I deadpanned, wiping the tears fiercely from my eyes. The voice laughed softly. I could hear his fingers prying at the door-crack. I closed my eyes again, shivering at his laughter. "You are cruel…" I whispered.

"Somehow I doubt that I am the cruel one," the voice hissed back in response. I jolted against the door, suddenly realizing that he had been slowly inching it open. His foot was inside and I desperately tried to push it closed. His hand snaked around and grabbed me by the wrist, flinging me against the wall as he gained access to the room. A short cry escaped me but his fingers slid deftly over my mouth as he shut the door. He caged my body against the wall and drew the hair from my neck. "Now tell me…what exactly is your problem?" He whispered. I flinched against the short puffs of his breath that ran along my bare skin. He stroked my arm assuringly. "Tell me," he insisted.

"I will never tell you." I answered softly. There was a pause before he growled and threw me to the floor, stepping over the heap of my sorrow-stricken body to the door. He laid a hand on the handle, flashing me a dark expression.

"I offered you a shoulder," he stated blandly, "Just remember that it was you, and not I, that refused it." With that, he left the room and shut the door calmly behind him.