The boat's hull scraped lightly against the makeshift dock he had built from borrowed odds and ends of lumber. He stepped out of the boat and began the nightly task of lamp lighting. Though he had never figured out how to channel the natural gas that lit the rest of the Opera House, he had managed to 'find' numerous oil lamps and a steady supply of lamp oil. These acquisitions allowed Erik to extend his days late into the nights without fussing over sputtering candles which never provided enough light.
The lanterns cast soft light over a fantasy in process. Erik's imagination was naturally rich; years of living in a place devoted to the creation of beautiful dramatic illusions had informed his fancies. The beginnings of twisting passages and looming walls of purloined brick and mortar rose here and there in the cavernous Opera House foundations. On his island stood a little complex of structures. His simple cottage dominated the center of the mound. Over the years he had improved on it whenever possible. Now, it contained most of the comforts of a real home, including a furnished bedroom, washroom, and improvised kitchen. To the left of his home ... Erik shuddered as he allowed his gaze to skip over the newest structure. Its construction had taken weeks and left him exhausted, more from the emotional strain than the physical work. The room was necessary. He'd built it next to his home as an ever-present threat in his mind, to squelch any evil that might be lingering there.
To the right of his cottage, he had begun construction on acoustic walls to surround his organ. The final details of tuning and priming the old pipe organ were done. He had lovingly pieced together and reconditioned the neglected old instrument, allowing days for study and research before adding the next piece. Now he looked over it with affection. The last piece, its tiny steam-engine, was entirely his own creation. There would be no altar-boy to work the bellows for him.
That he had yet to play the thing was not an obstacle in his mind. He had mastered the piano in a short time; he had no doubt the pipe organ would similarly teach him its secrets. Piles of paper, broken pen nibs and emptied inkwells lay scattered about on a large oaken desk next to the organ, a testament to the compositions Erik would play –as soon as the room was finished.
Erik's pride in his home swelled, then diminished. It was beautiful, and would become more beautiful with time and effort, but no one else would ever appreciate his work. He could build Heaven on Earth and it would never be populated by more than one lost soul. At least now, with the Daae child, his music would move beyond the confines of his mind.
His bitter countenance softened in recollection of the ease with which he had assuaged her pain and put her to bed. Her Angel of Music had come to her, restoring her to the world of the living. Erik smiled with the thought that he could bring life and joy as well as fear and death, at least to this one small girl. Before considering sleep, he quickly composed a letter to Mme Giry, explaining his plans for his little ingénue.
Dear Mme Giry,
I think you will find Christine much mended today. She and I "met" last night. She believes I am her Angel of Music, and you will do nothing to disillusion her. I intend to teach her myself; the clumsy instructors employed by our dear M.Poligny and M. Debienne can do nothing but mar the perfection of her voice. You will be responsible for keeping her away from those bumbling fools. She will make this Opera House a legend someday.
Regarding my contributions to the well-being of the Opera House, I believe it is time I received some compensation. Tell our good Messieurs that I require one percent of our quarterly profits. They will pay you, and you will leave the money in Box 5. If they object, please do remind them that they, not I, were responsible for hiring the rapist of young girls.
Your Obedient Servant,
The Opera Ghost
Mme Giry watched Christine dash across the dance studio floor and embrace Meg. Her hair was clean and neatly arranged, her eyes sparkled. Only the day before, her bedraggled form could barely be pried from bed long enough to attend her father's funeral. Now she was dragging Meg bodily across the room to a more secluded corner. M. le Phantom's letter understated the effects of their meeting. The child was more than improved, she was entirely revived.
Meg smiled at her friend, confused, but happy for the return of Christine's spirit. Christine was apparently bursting with some good news, so Meg waited for the explanation. When Christine was content with their distance from the other girls she leaned close to Meg and whispered, "I have a new voice teacher, but I am not supposed to tell anyone about him, except your mother. But you and your mother are very close, so I think I can tell you – if you promise to tell NO ONE else. Do you promise?"
Meg nodded, but that did not satisfy her excited friend.
"You have to swear to me."
"All right, all right. I swear it on my right foot. Will you tell me?" Meg was laughing, but also beguiled by this momentous secret.
"I have talked with the Angel of Music. He visited me in my parlor last night, like a proper gentleman caller."
"A man visited you!" Meg nearly squealed with horror, but remembered that this was a secret.
"No…he wasn't a man. He was just a voice. Nothing but a voice."
"How do you know it wasn't just someone playing tricks on you?" Meg hated to dampen Christine's spirits, but the possibility had to be addressed.
"Oh no Meg, you never heard such a voice in all your life. No one here has a voice anything like that. If we did, we would sell out every night. He sang to me so beautifully. He sang the Requiem, and I cried so hard I thought I'd die. Then he told me that he would teach me to sing…"
"Maybe it was a dream, Christine. You have such a vivid imagination…"
"It wasn't, Meg. I know it wasn't, because in a dream there wouldn't be so many rules to follow! We haven't had our first lesson yet, and he already says I must do this and I mustn't do that…I think he will be a very strict teacher, even more than Mme Joullard. After he told me he would teach me, he made me go to bed and sleep. No dream would put you to sleep in your own bed." Christine's assurances were beginning to convince Meg that an Angel really had visited her. After all, her father had just been buried, and he had talked about the Angel of Music when he was alive. Besides, if there was an Opera Ghost, why couldn't there be an Angel of Music?
"Well, mon amie, if there is an Angel of Music, I am not surprised he chose you. Do you think we should tell Maman?
"Yes. He told me I could tell Mme Giry," a worried look creased her brow. "I hope he won't be cross that I told you, too."
"I wouldn't worry about it. Come, let's tell Maman before practice begins. I hope your pas de chat has improved, or that you at least don't trip over your left foot this time."
