Madame Giry

My hand turned the knob slowly; I did not want to awaken any of my girls. I had left my cane against Meg's dresser when the manager called for me excitedly. The only thing that ever excited M Lefevre was money, and I was coerced into listening as he recited the night's numbers for a full five minutes before I could escape. But I had forgotten my cane, and wanted it now, before I departed for my bed. Mornings could sometimes prove merciless on my leg.

The door cracked, and I stepped silently into the darkness. The starlight provided just enough illumination to guide my feet around the cots. I nearly tripped on a careless ballerina's shoes, but caught myself, and made a note to scold her for it come morning.

"Christine, mon ange, the sleeping beauty

"Why is your face troubled?"

My body froze before Meg's bed as the impossibly soft whisper sounded on the still air. I glanced to my right at Christine's bed; I could hardly make out her features, but I could see as she stirred beneath the blanket. I didn't dare to breathe. "Angel?" she returned, just as softly. I stilled; this would be the first time that I would hear the two of them interact, together, since I first discovered his tutelage.

"Shhh," he chided. "You must sleep." My heart fluttered at the sound, for it was something I hadn't heard in a long, long time—compassion, care. There was no doubt in my mind that he cherished her. Not even he was that great of an actor.

"I can't." Her voice was light with tears. A nightmare, no doubt.

"Did I hurt you, Christine?"

Did he hurt her? I strained to hear their voices, all the while telling my heart to cease its loud pounding. I had thought she meant she couldn't sleep because of a nightmare—but that was not the case. He had hurt her, somehow.

"I hurt you far more, Angel. How can you still sing to me, when I have done such a terrible thing to you?"

"My child, you've done nothing wrong. Will you forgive an Angel for needlessly hurting your heart?"

Of course, my conscience would choose this moment to harass me of our deception now. Merely hearing him refer to himself as the Angel in her presence tore at my heart with guilt. Trust him.

Christine was silent for a moment. "You mean I didn't hurt you?"

"No, my Angel. You could never do anything to hurt me. I was weeping at the beauty of your song."

I could almost hear Christine smile, and I was stunned for a moment at how childlike she sounded—she always tried so hard to behave in a mature, adult way, as life's circumstances had forced her to grow up quickly. But she was, still, a little girl. "Then I did please you. I was afraid when I heard you cry, Master."

"Tears are not always as they seem."

"Then why did you yell at me?" she asked hesitantly.

Alarms rang between my ears. Surely he knew I was here, listening, only two feet from Christine. How would he answer? "I have raised my voice to you before."

Another pause. "But this time—"

"The performance was about to begin, Christine. I was merely encouraging you to hurry, as you were near to missing the opening act. I will only tell you this once; I wish never to speak of it again."

Something was wrong.

"Of course, Angel."

"Goodnight, my child. Dream of me."

"I will…I always do."

I stood ramrod straight and just as still for another moment before daring to approach the dresser where I was sure my cane lay. I felt around, all the while listening as Christine's breath steadied in sleep.

His voice came once more, and chilled me from my skull to my feet.

"Sleep overwhelming, peace surrounding

"Tranquility reigning

"Smiling in slumber, bathed in moonlight

"Dreaming of your Angel."

Was it possible that he had not seen me? Perhaps his hiding place did not permit him the aide of vision. But he had always been able to sense my presence. I continued to fumble for my cane in the dark, as soundlessly as possible. When it became evident that my hands had roamed over every vacant inch of the dresser's wood, my suspicions immediately centered on the Phantom. I was alike in the superstitions of the theatre's residents in that I had grown to blame him for everything.

But of course, I had reason to.

I walked silently from the blackened room and slid through the door. Before closing it, I let my eyes wander in its darkness.

"Come now, my curious Madame

"Haven't your ears had their fill?

"Eavesdropping never did suit you

"Neither—"

I whirled on the voice, closing the door with me. "What do you want with my cane?" I hissed.

He wasn't in sight, though. "I am merely having a bit of fun at your expense. It is safely in your flat, where you should be at this hour as well."

I rolled my eyes and turned in the direction of my quarters. "I was not eavesdropping. I am not like you."

His voice followed me. "Must all the haunting be left to me?"

I rounded the corner, keeping my voice low, and not looking for him; I would not give him the satisfaction of my uncertainty. "It is your task to execute, and your amusement to fancy. I am merely a ballet mistress."

"And O.G.'s gracious assistant."

"Assistant, at least."

His soft laughter rained from the rafters as he followed me invisibly through the corridor. "You are not pleased with the duty you requested."

"Pleasure and necessity are not interchangeable."

"A necessity for whom?"

I approached the doorway of my flat and fumbled for the key. "A necessity for you, and for the good of everyone at the Populaire."

"Do you fear for their sakes so much?"

I turned the key. "Sometimes."

He was silent for a moment. I pushed open the door and turned, closing it behind me. His baritone sounded within the room. "Don't you trust me, Madame?"

Of course. It was his nature to arrive in my room before me. He could make a grand entrance even by showing up before anyone else did. I turned back to him and crossed my arms. "Have I not told you already that I must?"

The humoured timbre of his voice from only a moment ago was in jagged contrast to the clear unease across his face. "I want you to trust me, not because you must, but because you feel within you that it is right."

I did not want to broach this matter; not tonight. It required far too much thought, and anything from him that required thought was exhausting. "When have you ever been concerned with what is right?" He clenched his teeth, and I knew what I said was wrong. "I did not mean that. What I want to say is, when have you ever been concerned with what I feel is right? My own convictions are of no importance to you."

That, too, was wrong. "You would do well not to ever think such a thing." His brow was furiously drawn beneath his white half-mask, and he shook his head slightly. "Regardless of who I am—the Phantom, or your Erik—you have always been of utmost importance to me. Never doubt that, Madame."

My heart softened, and I even managed a smile. "I know. I've always known."

"Then never say that again." He, too, crossed his arms, and studied me thoughtfully. "I want you to trust me because you choose to; not because you are forced to by some obligation, or, necessity. I want you to believe that I am trustworthy, and capable of making the right choices."

I returned the scrutinising gaze. "What do you mean?"

He was clearly troubled, and I was both flattered and unsure that he had chosen once again to seek my council—or if not my council, at least my presence. "You are the only soul I know who knows me, who cares for me."

"Christine cares for—"

"But she does not know me." His glowing eyes left mine, and his hands clasped together behind his back. "I have failed you many times…but I have also accomplished much."

"You have."

"Do you trust me with your life? No…does your heart tell you that you can trust me with your life?"

I nodded slowly. "It does now."

"And with Christine's life?"

I inhaled silently. "Where are you going with this?"

"I need you to trust me in all things, Madame Giry. I need it."

The feeling returned; the same feeling that had struck alarms within me while he sang to Christine. "Something is wrong."

"Nothing," he started, and paused before continuing more softly, "nothing is wrong. I only need your trust."

I did not know how to answer. His mind was elusive, and his words would never fully betray him. I stood in front of my divan and watched myself in the mirror so I could not meet his eyes, and began to unravel my braid. "Do not make yourself such a mystery when you are with me."

"I have nothing to hide."

I turned sharply to him with a lifted eyebrow, my hair still in my hands.

His shoulders seemed to broaden, and he glared at me menacingly. "I see."

I swivelled back to face the mirror, struggling with the hairpins in my long, light mane. "What do you see?"

"You don't trust me." He turned so that his thick back was to me, and his cape swirled gracefully at his ankles. "There is no winning with you. You are embittered, and untrusting, and I have made you that way. Good night."

I flung myself toward him and caught his elbow. He jerked from me, and his eyes bore holes into my skin. I sighed in vexation. "I trust you. I trust you know what is best for yourself."

"That is not what I need."

"Let me finish," I said, straightening. "I trust that as long as you are at peace with yourself, you know what is best for Christine. I trust that."

He simply stared at me, processing my answer. It seemed to satisfy him, and for that I was grateful—there was not much else I could honestly admit. "Thank you, Madame." His voice deepened, and his eyes fell to my cheekbones. "You have proven yourself to be…a good…assistant." He swung his head in an exasperated gesture and left my room through the invisible seams of the hidden door.

…

Lefevre

"There is nothing I can do."

"No, no, is sahmting you can do! You dah manager!"

"One would assume!" I spat at the obnoxious diva.

Like the bird he said she was, she rose to her full height and ruffled her feathers in indignation. "Ma French not so good? You say you not-a ma manager?""

I shook my head, bringing my palms up to face her. "No, Signora, I am the manager, I assure you. But some things are simply out of my control." I eyed her wearily. "The laws of nature, or the powers that be, or what have you."

Exasperated, Carlotta pursed her lips and glared helplessly at her husband. Piangi spoke for her. "Neither of us have any idea what you are trying to say."

"Madame Giry," I begged feebly at the fair-haired, angular woman in black.

The ballet mistress raised her hands in forfeit. "This is not my decision; nor is it my quandary."

"Then you explain to him why I can't serve two masters! He likes you."

Piangi scrunched his face, misinterpreting the 'him' I spoke of.

Giry's sharp gaze squared on me with a mere turn of her head. Blast the power of that woman. "You want my council, Lefevre? I give you this alone: you must remember which master's wrath you fear more, Monsieur, and devote yourself to such wholeheartedly."

The two Italians glanced at each other. I ignored them. "Then plainly you say I must choose between the well-being of the Populaire," I motioned with my head toward our leading soprano, "or the well-being of…myself?" At that last ominous statement, both Giry and I threw subtle, apprehensive glances toward the ceiling.

Without looking at me, she responded, "It is your call." With that she stood. "I know which I would choose." And then the woman left my office. I hadn't even dismissed her. Well, naturally! I had no authority whatsoever.

Carlotta's voice was far too loud for my tiny bureau. "Well?"

I was duly sick of the Ghost. Despite Madame Giry's ill-omened warning, he had never once harmed me personally. I had already—bravely, if I do say so myself—defied him by upholding La Carlotta's contract, and for all his threats, he only terrorised her because of it. Defiance had gotten me loads of money thus far, and if I wanted to keep my source of income happy, defiance would do again. I slapped my hands on the desk and brought myself into a standing position to reinstate my position as superior. Unfortunately, the Italians stood as well. I stared both in the eye. "Very well, Signora Giudicelli. The dressing room is yours."

…

Christine

It was never all that important to me, anyway.

"Is that all?"

"Yes, yes, that was the last bag."

I didn't have much. In my possession were only clothes, shoes, and gifts from the Angel—books, and trinkets, and such. It was always his desire that I would have the dressing room. When I was much younger, the finery of the chamber made me feel important, and unique, but when I grew to understand the jealousy of the others and how they treated me in turn, all I wanted was to keep my uniqueness to myself and outwardly be just like them. I had a secret, heavenly tutor, and one day they would all know and love me for it, and love him through me. But until then, I wanted nothing more than to avoid their cold, harsh glances and comments.

But the Angel was never content that his student should be shrouded in oblivion.

I wasn't sure how he would react. We had both recovered after making up, and our argument…or ordeal, I suppose, as it wasn't an argument…was not spoken of again. But I feared his anger more than ever, and as fervently as he insisted that he was not upset with me that night, I just couldn't find it within myself to believe him. I had never felt such agony before then, and what confounded me most was that I felt his pain, and not merely my own. I had always been so detached. Now it was almost as if our souls were bound, and regardless of what he said, he couldn't deceive his own soul.

I had never known the Angel to lie to me before that night.

Nevertheless, as I did not like thinking on such things, I knew he was angry now. He hadn't said a word to me about it, for it was very sudden, but I could feel him near me and in my soul I was angry. It wasn't my anger, of course, but I felt it at any rate. The Angel was not pleased, not at all, that the dressing room was being given away.

Die Zauberflöte had only been performed a handful of nights, and we still had the majority of the season to complete…thank goodness. It kept the other girls on their feet and preoccupied, much too preoccupied to focus their attentions on me and the humiliating removal of myself from the first-class dressing room. It seemed fair that the reigning Prima Donna should acquire the finest room, where I was merely a member of the ballet and there was no obvious rationale why it should be mine. La Carlotta had done a great deal for this theatre. Die Zauberflöte was a smashing hit, and still sold out, and it was due to her extravagance on the stage. I still envied her, though the Angel assured that I had no reason in the world to.

The room was empty. Glancing around me to make sure of it, I walked about its floor slowly, touching the walls and gracing my fingers over the pictures that adorned them. Memory after memory came drifting back to me, and suddenly I was extremely saddened. Each caress of the wallpaper, each stroke of mahogany wood and magenta velvet against my fingertips, deepened this feeling. This was where I first heard the Angel. And the dressing room which had meant so little to me before became at once a very cherished and very intimidating thing.

I halted my slow sweep of the room at the mirror. It was such a grand structure, with its silver reflection and frame of detailed gold. There was not another mirror like it in the Populaire. The ballet dormitories had two full-length mirrors, but each were of such a size and shape that only one at a time may look into it. This mirror provided an ethereal glimpse of the whole of the rosy room, as if it were another world entirely beyond the glass—a world that disguised itself as natural and lovely, but where everything was truly backward and strange, where faeries were really imps and ugly was actually beautiful. I was always fascinated with mirrors. How very arrogant that makes me sound! I mused, but it was not the reflection of myself that fascinated me. It was the idea that mirrors actually weren't all that they seem.

Sadly I stared into my eyes, and a chill ran the length of my spine. I had my father's eyes, there was no doubt of it. I had most of his face. Time had done its best to try and erase his memory from me, but I fought against it, and would constantly look upon his fading pictures and memorise every detail of his lovely face. It was funny how the images you were most fond of would fleetingly try to escape you, but those you wished to forget forever shared the deepest intimacy with your memory. The most vivid and clear recollection I had of my father was the last glimpse I had of his face—white, and cold, with blue lips and a drawn brow and a frightened curve of his mouth. I had been so young, so unbelieving that death would truly claim him. And then, Death captured his soul from right underneath my eyes, and I was helpless against it.

I shuddered.

The doors creaked open, and I turned toward them, my heart pounding. Two men struggled with great chests and baggage of expensive décor, and behind them followed Signor Piangi and Signora Giudicelli. My eyes averted to the carpeting as I sulked along the wall, making toward the doors with the hope of going unnoticed. It didn't work, of course. La Carlotta looked upon me with a lift of her brow to match her arrogant voice, and huffed, "If eet eesn't de manager's favourite!"

My skin was so very white, even the slightest blush could flaunt itself ridiculously. I met the soprano's eyes. She was perhaps twenty years older than me and a great deal taller, but I wouldn't let her intimidate me. Thinking on all of the Angel's comments ascertaining to the woman in front of me, I held my chin high and skirted as gracefully as I could out of the dressing room.

I hope you enjoy it, you great feathered peacock!

I grinned and scurried down the corridor, wishing I'd have had the nerve to say it aloud to her face.