Note: Someone in the comments has volunteered to proofread my chapters and provide suggestions. I would like this someone to message me privately so I can send them a draft of the next chapter to proofread. Otherwise, ignore this comment.
Palais Garnier, Spring 1884
Emma's eyelids slowly fluttered open. She was lying on a soft bed, she realized, when she shifted. She slowly sat up. When Emma looked about the quiet middle-class room, she sighted waxed mahogany chairs and square antimacassars carefully placed over them, a chest of drawers, a clock on a mantelpiece, and a stand with shelves filled with shells, red pincushions, mother-of-pearl boats, and a large egg of some sort. An ostrich egg, perhaps. The furniture was ugly, but it was cozy and peaceful, at least. It reminded her of her own house, back when she lived with her parents, until they…
"Are you finally awake now?"
Emma, glancing in the direction of the voice, sighted a black-cloaked man. All his clothes were black, including… a mask?!
Yes, the man wore a black mask that covered his entire face. His eyes didn't seem to be there, as much as Emma peered at them—they were just twin holes.
Emma shrieked and tried to clamber backward. She reached the edge of the bed and screeched in a very unladylike manner when she fell over. A sharp arc of pain pierced her back when she hit the hardwood floor. "Ow!"
The man in the mask chuckled—an unnerving sound. "You are funny, Emma."
Emma felt a jolt of fear when she heard her name. How… how did he know?
As if reading her mind, the man said calmly, "You see, I have been following you for months, deducing the best time to strike. I know all about that silly friend of yours, Lucienne, and Meg. And I can tell you that Meg's wild story is true. The fall of the chandelier, the extortion, the death of Comte Philippe de Chagny—everything." He strolled over to Emma and held out a hand.
Emma, her fear overcome by a strange and sudden awe, extended her hand, grasping the thin, bony hand. "Who are you, by the way?"
The man in the mask paused before hauling her to her feet. "Forgive me for not introducing myself earlier. I am Erik."
Lucienne lifted the blankets on Emma's bed. "She's gone! Emma's gone!" she shrieked. "She's been kidnapped!"
Another ballet rat, Marie, rolled her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous, Lucienne. She probably got up earlier than you and left for the lavatory or something."
Lucienne sighed. "Okay." She sat down on her own bed, fiddling with the edges of her dress impatiently.
Several minutes later, Lucienne said, "Emma's probably lost."
"Emma's been here for several months. She knows the way to the lavatory," Marie pointed out. "Don't be ridiculous." She rolled her eyes again.
"Where's Emma LaRue?" Madame Devereaux snapped. She appeared fearsome, with a stick in her hands. She was scowling darkly at the ballet rats.
"I-I-I really don't know!" Lucienne cried, eyes wide with terror.
The ballet mistress glared at the girls. "Well, find her. Whoever brings Emma to me within ten minutes will be spared from a flogging. You girls are responsible for your peers, you know."
However, the last sentence was received by no one, as all the ballet rats rushed off to locate the missing Emma LaRue.
Lucienne rubbed her hands. Madame Devereaux knows how to flog a girl, she thought. Her hands still ached from the pain.
The other girls, on their way to their dorms, grumbled as well, wondering out loud if Emma had done this on purpose.
"That's ridiculous," Marie snapped at them. "Even I know Emma well enough that she's too timid a girl to do that. She wouldn't risk a flogging." Internally, Lucienne figured, Marie's probably thinking about how dumb we all are and how smart she is.
"Perhaps she ran away," a rat suddenly stated. "She was so scared of Madame Devereaux, she left for some other place."
Marie pointed out, "But this is Emma's only home. If she left, there would be nowhere for her to go."
Lucienne paused. "Or perhaps she was kidnapped."
A hush fell over the ballet girls.
"Don't be silly," Marie interjected. "Why would someone want to kidnap a timid ballet girl like her?"
The tension in the air was palpable and dense.
Lucienne shrugged. "I don't know. The idea just popped into my head. You girls know what happened three years ago," she continued, paying no heed to what Meg had told her. "A Swedish singer was kidnapped. Her name was Christine Daae."
The girls crowded around Lucienne in fascination as she recited the tale Meg had given her.
"And there were these rumors of an Opera Ghost—I think he was the one who kidnapped Christine. So he must have kidnapped Emma."
"Hold on," a girl suddenly blurted. "Christine was a singer. Emma's a ballet girl, like us."
"But don't you understand?" Lucienne asked. "Christine used to be a ballet girl, too. However, she had the most beautiful voice, so she became a singer."
"Actually, she sang horribly, but supposedly a mentor trained her to sing properly," a voice interrupted. "And Lucienne, what have I told you about telling the other girls about the Opera Ghost?"
Meg stood a few meters from the huddling ballet rats, her arms crossed, a frown on her face.
Lucienne gulped nervously. "Oh, uh, you see, Emma is missing, and I think she was kidnapped by the Opera Ghost."
Meg's face darkened. "Do not speak of such things, Lucienne. A loose tongue like yours would get you into trouble. After all, a loose tongue cost Joseph Buquet his life."
Erik, listening from a hidden space, smirked behind his mask. So Lucienne knew what he was up to. Luckily, no one believed her, but he would have to… dispose of her before she made any more deductions.
He thought of Joseph Buquet. That scene-shifter had a very loose tongue, and he had gotten a damned good look at Erik without his mask. He had to kill him.
Then there was that other scene-shifter… Louis Durand. His only crime was sighting Erik, but just in case, Erik killed him as well. It was best not to let the tales of the Opera Ghost rise from the ashes—for now.
And Emma—the ballet girl was in his house by the lake, sleeping on a cozy bed. Perhaps he should coach her, like he had coached Christine—except in person this time.
Oui, his plan was set and ready. He would find Christine, reclaim her as his, from that Vicomte. He would find her, at any cost.
The Opera Ghost would return.