Lefevre

I jumped from my seat at the sound. Signor Morelli and the other agent—I couldn't quite remember his name—swivelled in their seats to look at the door.

"What on Earth—" began the second.

"Signora Giudicelli," gasped Morelli, and the three of us leapt at the door, promptly smacking into one another, before scrambling out in single file toward the horrible screams.

We were clearly not alone in our shock and curiosity. Around us, maids and stagehands and dozens of performers had emerged from their respective rooms and duties to discover what was the cause of such a racket. "Follow me," I murmured to the two Italians, who nodded brusquely. We tried inconspicuously to make our way backstage of the auditorium, but at the first sight of their manager, the residents and employees of the theatre gathered to follow us.

"Blast," I muttered.

The wails sharpened, and beneath them I could hear a desperate masculine string of Italian pleas. I was truly beginning to despise foreigners and drama of any sort! The hollow footsteps of dozens of inquiring feet clapped on the wooden floor backstage. The corridors were a bit narrower; perhaps that would deter them.

It didn't.

I finally stopped and turned around to face the mob…some were dressed in their nightclothes, others were covered in sawdust. "Ladies and gentlemen," I called over the noise, and they settled a little to listen to me. "Resume your stations, or back to your flats, at once."

A few departed to do as I had asked, but most remained. I cursed. Even as the manager, I did not have authority here.

Carlotta's dressing room came into view. The door hung open; inside I could see her in her elaborate blue frills and unnatural yellow hair, tears smudging through the rouge on her cheeks.

La Carlotta was standing on top of her dresser.

Beneath her was a portly, olive man with a refined black goatee—typical of Italians. His hands reached for her, imploring her to come down, but she spat curses at him and bawled. It was not that sight that dropped my mouth, however. Bottles had been knocked over and crushed, makeup smeared and dresses trampled, and much of the furniture had been overturned and the pictures hung sideways on the walls. The dressing room was positively in shambles and reeked of spilt perfume. Spilt perfume and…what was that? It smelt of…good Heavens, it smelt of….

"Maiale!" squealed the diva, pointing at the closet.

Through the murmurs and questions of the mob behind me, the whimpers and screeches of Signora Giudicelli, and the desperate pleas of the Italian below her, I could hear muffled grunts, distinct in nature. It couldn't be! I reached behind me and grabbed at the collars of two stagehands, directing them toward the closet. Silence—even from Carlotta. Had I been in a less stressful state, I would have thought to savour the rarity of such a moment.

Hesitantly the stagehands moved toward the closet, and the grunts from within stilled. I held my breath.

The stagehands pulled the doors apart, and bounding out of it came a frenzied white pig, snorting and squealing, toward us. Ladies' screams and men's shouts followed, and I cried out, flinging myself out of the hog's path. What in Heaven's name was a bloody pig there for? It scampered destructively about the room, trampling the clutter on the floor, and something like a cape fluttered behind it. Human bodies tossed themselves in every direction to escape the path of the huge, angry pig, and someone meanwhile threw himself at the dresser atop which Carlotta stood.

She screamed as she tumbled from its rocking surface.

The hog changed directions immediately as soon as it caught sight of the open door. It charged through the frantically parting crowd, and dozens of pairs of crazed eyes followed it as it ran noisily through the corridor—straight into the path of Madame Giry herself.

"Look out!" someone cried.

Madame's face contorted with shock, and then fury. She stepped aside and plunged her hands into its flight, as we looked on in horror. The hog, however, continued and vanished around a corner, squealing all the way. Left entangled in the ballet mistress's hands was its makeshift cape.

Four men took off after the pig, shouting to and fro between them, and their echoes settled back in the corridor long after they had disappeared.

People slowly began to pick themselves up off the floor as Madame Giry studied the cape, and walked gracefully, purposefully, toward us without removing her eyes from it. Murmurs rose from those who tried to determine what it was she was holding. She stopped directly in front of me, and I stood from my crouched position beside the divan. Madame Giry's hands beheld the cape before my eyes, and for all to see.

It was the Italian flag!

A collective gasp went up, and I straightened my shoulders, taking the flag from her, avoiding her hard gaze. I held it up into the light, and my eyes surveyed the red words that were written atop the threadwork. Familiar red etchings. A knot of fear and resentment twisted in my gut, and I read the words aloud.

"Are you humbled yet, Signora?"

Frightened whispers filtered through the crowd, and the Italian diva burst into another onslaught of tears—no doubt half for show, as she adored attention. I turned to her and glanced about the room once more. My eyes rested on that which I looked for: a red rose, tied with a black ribbon, trampled into the rug by the hooves of his practical joke. My gaze drew others, and the voice of a little ballerina trilled: "It's from him, it's from the Phantom of the Opera!"

A cry of little female voices rose, and I heard Madame Giry's sternness above them. "Hush, girls! Prepare yourselves immediately for bed! Marguerite Giry, I will see you in my quarters."

My hands shook, and my brow was tightly knitted. I crammed the flag into a tiny, compact ball, grunting like the pig himself, and tossed it aside. The male Italian beside Carlotta huffed at me indignantly as she brushed her elaborate self off—as if it was my fault! I turned to them, searching my intelligence desperately for an explanation or an apology, but nothing came.

"Ubaldo!" shrilled the soprano. "Pigri, idiot, Ubaldo, i miei vestitos!"

"Monsieur," said the nameless agent behind me shakily. "Allow me to introduce you to Signor Ubaldo Piangi." He glanced at the kempt, portly man briefly, and then back at me. "Well…are we still up for an audition, then?"

"Who is responsible for this?" exclaimed the tenor, motioning widely with his hands at the chaotic mess around him. Though his Italian accent was still clear, at least his enunciation was correct.

Carlotta's lined lips formed a pout, and she crossed her arms.

"Signor, Signora," I said, glancing about me, "I apologise…clearly we have been vandalised."

A great, sarcastic huff burst forth from both of them. "Someone dare call me Italian Pig," shouted Giudicelli. "I not put up with dis, no!" She proceeded to send icy glares to everyone in the room, and pointed at us. "One ahv you do dis, you all jealous nobahdies!"

"It wasn't us," a chorus boy piped up. "It was the Phantom!"

A dozen hushes attacked him.

"Who is this Phantom, Monsieur?" enquired Signor Morelli.

I glared at the chorus boy, and averted my gaze to the agent. "No one, of course, just a superstition of theirs…" and I gave a little laugh, clapping the agents on their backs and leading them from the dressing room. I motioned for the two singers to follow, and ordered the service to clean the room and the seamstresses to repair Carlotta's dresses. They assumed their roles without complaint.

I caught Madame Giry's disapproving eye before she brusquely turned and departed from our presence. Blasted woman. I never did anything to her.

Christine

I listened from my bed as Meg recounted the whole storey to the girls who had not been present. Of course, she added a few of her own embellishments and swore that she had seen him in the shadows of the dressing room, but I said nothing. Instead I smiled, shaking my head at her giddiness.

It was rather funny to see the snobbish Italian in such a state. I couldn't help but feel a little jealousy toward her; I had always dreamt of being the lead soprano at the Populaire, but my dream had not yet been granted. He still wanted me to keep my talent in the darkness and sing only for him. Certainly, he was a better audience than all the theatre-goers in the world, but secretly I couldn't wait until he found that I was ready to perform for them at last.

I fiddled with the lace on my nightgown.

"And then Maman became terribly upset with me for revealing who was responsible," lamented Meg to the eagre circle of ballerinas. She brightened just as quickly, and her blonde braid bounced behind her. "But do you know what she told me?" The girls leant in, greedy for another piece of gossip. Meg lowered her voice deliberately before continuing. "She said that O.G. despises La Carlotta and the mess he made was an attempt to scare her off!"

I broke into a grin. Meg had told me what her mother had said, and it wasn't quite that…she had merely warned Meg and suggested that the Phantom wasn't pleased with the Italian's self-importance, and proceeded to give her a lesson in humility.

"But why on Earth would he not like her? She's gorgeous!"

"And she has the widest range I've ever heard!"

A third girl chimed in, "Or the shrillest."

Out broke a quiet argument over the talent that Carlotta Giudicelli had or didn't have. Myself, I was impressed with her voice. This was perhaps the one matter on which my Angel and I disagreed, though when I was with him I pretended to share his opinion as well. The few times I had mentioned her, his tone would gain a condescending air and he would instruct me to use her as an example of exactly how not to sing. Of course he was right—he always was—but I still thought that her voice was unique and powerful for not ever having been tutored by an Angel. I heard all of her mistakes, yes, and shrillness and horrible glottal starts were some of them, but it was evident that beneath such flamboyant show was a pretty soprano voice that could be perfect, if she had the right teacher.

Once I had even said to the Angel, "If she wasn't so pompous in flaunting her instrument, she would sound much better."

He had responded by saying that the world would never know.

I chose my moment to step into the conversation, and repeated my words to the Angel for the benefit of those in the room.

All eyes turned on me, and Lisette lifted a pencilled-in eyebrow in a lofty glance, and a bit of a smirk formed on the fullest lips I had ever seen. "Since when does Christine know anything about music?"

Lisette was a member of the chorus as well as the ballet de cour. She was secretly a hopeful for the merited spot of leading alto, which we had none, and had vied to no avail for the mezzo soprano role as one of the Three Ladies in the upcoming production of Die Zauberflöte. She was far too young, and only a chorus girl, no matter how pretty her alto voice was. The Angel had told me that I could easily sing the role of the mezzo, for my voice had the warmth and richness and "roundness" required for such a role. It wasn't meant to be, however; I was to be the Populaire's soprano, he was intent on it. It was my range that he was currently expanding, and my ability to maintain vibrato whilst singing such high notes. My thoughts briefly returned to the evening's lesson, which he had abruptly ended. I wanted to know so badly what I had done wrong that would make him act in such a way. If only he didn't become irritated when I questioned him….

The few candles that were lit wavered. The other girls had become silent, for different reasons, at Lisette's snide remark. She didn't know that I possessed an instrument more powerful than anything her slender throat and full lips could produce. But she was envious of my high-class dressing room, and she had heard storeys of how I would sing to my father's violin concerts, and we would travel all the way around France so people could hear us perform. It was obvious to me, and I believed to everyone else, that she enjoyed parading her talent in my face as a reminder that I would never have that fame again.

She was not the only one, of course. I had few friends amongst residents of the ballet dormitories, but I supposed that was my own fault. I did not approach them or make any effort to forme friendships, but my Angel had often encouraged me to distance myself as much as possible from them. Most were sympathetic, granting my shyness to the loss of my father so many years ago, but I was not the most talented ballerina and I held up our lessons often; that caused for annoyance, and many of the others disliked me for it. Some, like Lisette, were jealous of the dressing room my Angel had given me. And many were put off from the first month I'd arrived at my assurance that an Angel of music would visit me and tutor me…they would whisper cruel things at me for believing that I would be privileged above them to receive such a heavenly suitor.

I supposed I should have kept my mouth shut during that month, and kept my father's promise to myself. But I was a child, and I did not yet understand that the Angel was meant to be a secret.

I smiled sheepishly. "I suppose I just love music…that's all."

Meg immediately came to my rescue. "Christine went all over the country when she was a little girl! Her father was famous for his violin playing, and she was—"

"Meg, we all know about Gustave Daae and his little soprano," Evie cut in, and a few giggles bubbled through the circle. I put a hand on Meg's arm and sent her a grateful smile through a cautious warning glance. She nodded discreetly, and quickly changed the topic so that the girls would lose interest in me.

I listened with half an ear and turned on my side, my cheek hot against the pillow. The Angel was always so imperative when it came to my sleep—he said rest was crucial to performance. I once asked him if he ever slept; he said Angels do not sleep, but he assured that he watched over me in my dreams. Often times I would awaken in the middle of the night from a fearful dream, and just above a whisper I could hear him, in my half-conscious state, sing me lullabies. I smiled at the thought of him being with me as I slept, and closed my eyes.

A sudden clomp sounded from above us, or beside us, and then another. The girls quieted, and one of them tittered. I opened my eyes as the noises continued. A few girls looked around nervously, and one asked into the open, "What is that?"

"It's Joseph Buquet," said another. "He's drunk, and he's running into things."

The noises ceased for a moment, and then an extra-loud crash sounded. The ballerinas moved closer together.

Meg's hazel eyes were wide at the ceiling. "Where is it coming from?"

We listened with bated breath as the sounds continued—first from beneath us, and then from the far right wall, and then from the rafters. It wasn't distinct where they were coming from…but they were progressively getting louder. I shivered, and my fingers clutched my blanket.

The noises stilled once more, and after a few seconds I let out my breath, hearing others do so at the same time. Without warning, the mirror rattled in its frame, and our reflections were dizzied within it. A great frightened gasp went up, mine amongst them, and Meg whispered loudly, "It's the Ghost!"

The faint candlelight that glowed throughout the room flickered, and with a sudden, airy whoosh the flames extended horizontally and vanished within curling streams of smoke. Only the starlight filtered through the window, and with its faint luminosity I could clearly see the frightened faces of each girl in the room. Where was my Angel? I tugged at a curl nervously and brought the other hand to my mouth, chewing on my knuckle…remembering the night's lesson and his rapid departure from my presence.

Meg jumped on my bed and clutched at my arm.

"What will we do?" someone shrieked.

"Christine," Meg whispered, terrified.

"Don't worry, Meg," I tried to comfort her, but it didn't work, as I could not even comfort myself. Meg was absolutely intrigued by the Phantom when she was safe. Her fascination from a distance blinded her to the terror of his reign when he was near, and I felt it my duty to be brave for her—at least, I pretended to be. I trust the Angel, I chanted in my mind. He promised to protect me, and I trust him.

As soon as the thoughts formed in my head, I was surrounded by peace; I could feel him. He was there with me, in the room, and I could smell his unique scent of roses and ink and candles. The hairs on my neck stood on end, and I shivered happily. He was here, protecting me from the Opera Ghost, just as he always had—even after our short and confusing lesson, he had returned to protect me, and did not fail me. I closed my eyes and smiled, savouring his presence, and when I opened them again, Meg had furrowed her brow in confusion at my tranquil state.

A creaking noise and a bright flare blazed into the darkness, and I jumped; we all looked to where the light was coming from. Madame Giry had entered the room with a torch and a frustrated glare. "Little ones! You should all be asleep! How will you ever have the strength to practise tomorrow?"

The girls rose to their knees where they were all huddled on the floor, and I looked down, ashamed. A redhead stood anxiously. "But Madame! The Ghost just blew out all of our candles!"

Madame's eyes flicked to me, and then to Meg. "Meg, you will not keep everyone up with your tales. In bed now, at once." She left us with a long, solemn glare, and the door closed.

The noises of several scampering feet and frightened murmurs sounded as each rushed to her own bed. Meg struck a candle to give everyone more light, and I settled down into my comforter once more.

A horrified gasp reached my ears, and I raised myself from the mattress abruptly to see what had happened.

Lisette stood at the side of her bed, her hands over her lips, and she backed away slowly. I sat up fully to see what was the cause of her fright, still comforted by the Angel's presence, and several others stood completely.

Scattered about Lisette's white sheets were dark red rose petals, and a lone green stem, tied with a crumpled black ribbon.