Madame Giry

I stood in the centre of his lair, my arms tightly crossed. He wasn't here. Christine was, though. She was simply everywhere. It still unnerved me, though I had been greeted by her many faces, in many different mediums, each time he brought me here. I had never fully explored his domain, as whenever I was here it was for matters of business alone. The Phantom was not here to stop me, though; if he was, he would have intercepted me by now.

Slowly I walked the circumference of the shore, letting my footsteps ring out over the surface of the water. His gondola was not easy to steer, but I had done it. Just the fact that his gondola was waiting at the foot of the great stair meant that he was up above, and he had used it. I felt safe to walk freely in his home, though my experiences with him wouldn't let me wholly abandon caution as I once might've.

I walked the gleaming steps and laid the newspaper carefully atop his beautiful organ. A leather binding caught my eye, and golden text glinted in the firelight. Carefully I picked it up. "Don Juan," I read aloud. Underneath was a symbol—I studied it. It appeared to be the letters O and G, intertwined. I smirked, and then wondered at its existence. Opening it slowly, I found music inside. There wasn't a great deal, at least not as much as the leather case boasted to hold. I flipped through the pages, greatly tempted to try and play what little I understood of the music, but I was not sure where the damper was located. His organ was loud without it, and could be heard by the entire opera house. No one would believe that the fumbling notes I could produce would have come from the Phantom and his talented hand.

I closed the book and laid it gently back in its place.

The great cavern branched off into smaller corners and appendages that I guessed served as separate chambers. One I recognised as a water-closet. I grinned to myself—of course he would have one. He was only human, after all. It was deeper back than any of the other chambers, no doubt for reasons of style. Inside, there was an ornate sink, and a chamber pot, and an actual tub—a beautiful tub, far larger and more expertly crafted than even the tub I used while living with Armande. It was ivory white, with gold lining to match the sink, and at its sides and on its legs were carved images of Angels and gargoyles. Beneath it was a furnace, and I marvelled over the genius of it: instead of bringing buckets and buckets of heated water from a stove, why not heat the water where it stood above a furnace? There was a mirror above the sink, and it was uncovered—this surprised me, as every other mirror in his home was hidden by a thick drape.

For a moment I wondered, a bit horrified, over his use of the water-closet, and where he emptied his chamber pot. Certainly not into the lake—no, of course not. The water was surely unsanitary as it was, but he would not have let me touch it had he…

My fears were put to rest. Further back in the chamber was a round, gaping crevasse with shadows as black as velvet. It surely plunged deep into the ground and deeper into oblivion. I smiled. No one would ever need know that the Opera Ghost had need of a water-closet, and the tasks of human being.

The other rooms did contrasting things to my curiosities—some sated, and others ignited. One room was stacked entirely of nothing but fabric, material of every sort—satin, silk, velvet, cotton, lace, wool, chiffon, gauze, and everything else. He did not make his own clothing. He sent me (and a purse healthy with coins) to a tailor with his measurements and specifications. I was not sure why at all he would need so much fabric. Did he even know the art of sewing well enough to produce anything wearable from his material?

Another room answered that question. It was filled, top to bottom, with books, of ever genre and author. On the table was a great variety of texts concerning sewing and costume design, and by the look of the pages he had worn them out with concentrated reading. I smiled, thinking of him then, pricking himself with a needle, or twisting himself up in the thread of a spinning wheel. Those were images of the man I loved, because I did love Erik, and wished hopelessly I could see more of him.

I let the smile fade as reality dampened my wishes, as it so often did. I was not one to entertain fancies, after all.

The third room was his music room, I supposed, where he stored a grand variety of instruments and even more music than I had seen scattered about his lair. Tuning utensils lay useless over half-finished music sheets, and the whole of the room was in disarray except for his instruments, which were neatly, with utmost care, rested atop cushions of velvet or inside decorative cases. Gustave's violin I recognised, and it seemed to hold a place of honour amongst the rest: it was granted a pedestal, and a curtain, and below it hung a portrait of M Daae himself. The last time I had seen the violin had been in my flat, before he stole it. Gustave had asked that I give it to Christine on her sixteenth birthday; I would never have that chance.

I crossed the lair to the other side, again surveying carefully to make certain that he had not returned. More rooms lay half-hidden on the right side of the cavern. The first I came across was surely his bedchamber; that I did not enter. The man was allotted some privacy as far as I was concerned, at least. Through the curtain I could vaguely see a bed with crimson sheets and frame of some outrageous nature, but I did not stop to study it. I was yet feeling guilty enough. Guilty, Madeleine? He owes his life to you, and you deserve to know all.

That thought did not compel me to enter his room, still. Confidence was easy to feign; not so easy to become.

I found with every passing moment that I was continually fascinated by him, and even more now that the character of his humanity was becoming clearer. I had never fully known the child, though he knew everything about me. No…he is not a child. He is a man. Now I wanted to lurk inside of his head as he did mine, and discover everything about him that I had missed, all of those years, until he was no longer such a mystery.

The next room was his art room. Paints and charcoal and ink lined the shelves of a great unorthodox case, and off to the side was a pitcher of clay and a hearth, where he certainly created his Opera miniatures. I had not seen them—I guessed they were in his bedroom—but he had told me of them years before, before I was married, when we were the best of friends. Blank canvases were stacked against each-other, and a half-finished painting was propped exquisitely against a stand. It was, naturally, Christine. He had completed her face and arms, but her dress he had not even begun. Atop her head she wore flowers. Wait…I looked again. They were not only flowers. Light pencil sketches that had yet to be filled in with painted colour revealed a veil, that circled her form. It looked nearly like a wedding veil.

My brow knit together as I studied the picture again. Sighing in resignation, I left his art chamber and fixed my sight on yet another small cavern—far smaller than the rest of them. It was shielded by a thick scarlet curtain, adorned in golden fringe. Glancing over my shoulder once again, I moved silently toward it, wondering at what he would hide so deeply below the earth, where his privacy was protected by everyone but myself. I had noticed the curtain the last time I had been down; it had never been there before, and the chamber it now covered had always been empty. Whatever it was that was behind the curtain, it was something he did not want me to see.

My indignation flared again, and my thoughts concerning confidence before now challenged my pride. "He shan't hide anything from me," I demanded at no one, and marched purposefully at the scarlet mass. My fingers closed around its velvety thickness, and I pulled it aside.

Most Holy Virgin!

My hands went to my heart, and I dropped the curtain, stumbling backwards. It was a body, a body behind the curtain, and it was alive—I was sure of it. Its eyes had been open, and it was standing upright. But no sound came from within the little chamber. "Come out!" I demanded, moving toward it again, my heart pounding heavily against my hand. Slowly I drew the curtain aside again.

It was not a body—it was a mannequin. I recognised the shape and the attachable limbs to be of the same style as the mannequins the seamstresses utilised. No doubt it was one of their own. The beginnings of a dress clung to the figure, a wedding dress. White and sprinkled with flowers and beads and hung with slight ruffles and lace. There were only the sleeves and the torso—the skirt and the train were absent, as it was unfinished. But these details I only noticed for an instant. The face on the mannequin transfixed me. It was of papier-mâché, and fitted atop the mannequin's neck, and it had no hair. But it was a face I recognised, and it filled me with dread as I looked again at the half of the wedding dress.

It was Christine.

The entire head had been painted the pale cream colour of Christine's skin, and her full lips were a subtle pink, and her cheeks blushed delicately with life. Her tiny birthmark rested there below the right corner of her mouth, and her dimples complemented the edges of her smile. Her eyebrows were set high above her cheekbones as Christine's were, and the soft angles of her jaw were expertly moulded into her very likeness. At first glance, it had appeared her eyes were open. Now I saw that she had no eyes—they were cavernous black holes into the interior of the head. The image chilled me, from my skull all the way down my spine.

It had no hair, and it had no eyes, but it was Christine, and scarily so.

And he had her in a wedding dress.