1845
To an audience, the Opera house was but a grand stage where they can spend an evening enjoying the rich talent that Paris has to offer. But what they were unaware of was that beyond a mere stage, it was a labyrinth of passages, trap doors and hiding places.
For those that lived and worked in the Opera Populaire, there were numerous hidden ways in which they could manoeuvre themselves around the premises without even a shadow being cast. Costumers could easily be by their Diva's side should her dress be stood upon; artists can move from one side of the stage to the other to adjust the fallen scenery, and the stage hands can be on hand high above the audience's heads to ensure that the performance runs smoothly from curtain to final bow.
That, of course, did not include the number of hidden locations where any one of these hard working folk could take the time to sit and watch the performance completely out of sight, without anyone knowing they were even there. This was common, particularly among the young stage hands, who when they were not needed, gathered in the high alcoves of the roof to have a drink and watch the young Ballet corps practice of an afternoon, or the performance during the evening's opera.
For one particular stage hand, it had taken him a week's worth of cigarette wages to convince a friend to cover his shift while he watched the performance from high in the roof. A smile on his face as he watched the corps flutter across the stage; young girls that have spent their lives dreaming of this chance to glide across the famed stage in front of an adoring audience. They were graceful, impeccably taught with such determination and precision, appearing as though they were far beyond their years. And of course, they were beautiful.
Though Luc only had eyes for one.
Performing centre stage, dressed so elegantly in white, was their Prima Ballerina. Tall, lean and blonde, this statuesque creature was the pride of the Populaire Ballet Corps, their leading lady that they had been grooming since she was but a small girl. The girls both envied and adored her, the men fawned over her.
And although he still at times could not believe it, he was the one that was able to call her his wife.
As he gazed lovingly down at his young bride, the fact that he had been able to call her such for the past year now still astounding him, he was filled with immense pride. She worked hard, was strict with herself, and had made it thus far. In his eyes, she would be the greatest dancer the Opera Populaire would ever know, and he strongly believed that, long before he ever mustered up the courage to speak to her.
The music swelled and he got to his feet, knowing that should he wish to beat the crowd, he would have to leave now and sneak his way outside to wait for her. Her adoring fans would seek her out that was for certain. Offers to join them for dinner or drinks in celebration after would be chorused, but she would politely decline, choosing instead to accompany him home to their small and modest flat down the street from the opera house.
Luc made his way down to the street, bypassing the dissipating crowd that was vacating the theatre. Away from the main entrance, heading out into the street was a side door that the corps and performers used at the end of each evening to head home. He stood, shifting his weight on his feet as he waited; a bouquet of sweet daisies in his hand as one by one, the young performers made their exit.
Before too long, his face broke out into a smile as a familiar beauty stepped outside. Her eyes searched around expectantly until she finally landed her gaze on him. A beautiful smile broke out on her lips as his bride made her way over to him.
"A triumph, as always, mon ange." He beamed with pride, bowing slightly as he offered her the small bouquet. A light tinge of pink hit her cheeks as she gratefully accepted the flowers with a smile.
"They're lovely, but you shouldn't have." She admonished lightly, though her heart was only partially in it. Luc could only grin in response. They were hardly much; his wife deserved roses and diamonds and every other beautiful thing that in his opinion, paled in comparison to her. But with his salary, they were but dreams. Though they never went without, and Antoinette adored the gesture more than anything.
"I am here to escort you, Madame Giry, to your humble abode. Where, for the evening, your loving husband shall wait upon you til your heart's content. Foot massage, a warm bath perhaps?" He offered, taking her arm and turning down the street. Antoinette let out a small laugh and shook her head as she held him close, nuzzling against his side as they headed off down the darkened path.
"A night at home with my husband?" She wondered with a smile.
"Anything your heart desires, my love." He promised, leaning in to press his lips softly against her temple. The young couple made their way past the crowds, huddled together and blocking out the rest of the world. To the pair, it was just the two of them.
It was a short walk down the cobbled streets towards the home that they had made for themselves; a small one room space, perfect for the newlyweds who spend most of their days and nights at the Opera house. Of course, they had dreams for something bigger one day, and perhaps in the future it would happen for them. But Luc's pay could barely afford it, and Antoinette was focused on her career to want much more, so it suited them just fine.
They crossed the street; the street ahead delving into darkness and the sound of their feet on the pavement was the only thing heard for miles. Paris at night was beautiful, but it was nice to get away from the hustle of the city and away from the Opera house, if only just for a few hours. A crack of thunder sounded above and before too long, rain had begun to fall. Not at all dressed for the weather, Antoinette huddled under her husband's coat as they quickly carried on their journey, wanting to get out of the rain before it got too bad. Neither of them had the time to catch a cold.
A sudden cry stopped them in their tracks, almost inaudible against the sound of the rain. The young couple looked at each other, unsure of whether they had heard something or if it was just a figment of their imaginations, an echo from the storm. But soon it sounded again; a harsh whimpering cry coming from the steps of a building up ahead.
Luc stepped forward, though his wife pulled him back. They had no idea what it was, and she wasn't in the right mind for her husband to foolishly go and investigate when he had no means to protect himself. But he patted her hand reassuringly and pulled himself from her grasp, making his way toward the steps to find the source of the cries.
Antoinette stood there on her own in the rain, watching his retreating back as he stepped forward. After a moment, he stopped still suddenly, and moved to bed down to pick something up. Finally, he hurried over, not knowing what had gained her husband's attention. She stopped however, when she grew closer and noticed the small, squirming bundle that was whimpering in Luc's arms. Peering over his shoulder, Antoinette was shocked to see a small baby, wrapped in a dirty worn out blanket, crying softly. A small tuft of wispy red hair atop its head.
"The poor thing can't be more than a day old." Luc said quietly, gazing down at the small child in his arms. He started rocking it gently, trying to soothe it's cries. "There's no sign of a mother or anyone. It's all alone."
"It could be sick. We need to get home." Antoinette said, glancing down the street, their home already in sight despite the darkness. Luc turned to her, honestly surprised by her lack of compassion in this moment.
"Mon Ange, it could die. We cannot leave it out here." He whispered aghast. The child's whimpering had softened, though not stopped completely. It was clear that it was cold, hungry and undoubtedly frightened. It was unlikely that the poor dear wouldn't last the night. "Could you have that on your conscience?"
Antoinette looked at him, feeling it rather unfair that he would ask such a thing. Of course she wouldn't, but this child barely had a chance as it was. Perhaps it would be a mercy to leave it with God? Nobody but them would know.
"Oh, look at her. Look at those eyes."
Her? The crying had ceased somewhat and was replaced by a soft coo of sorts. Antoinette looked over her husband's shoulder and was met with a pair of green eyes looking up at her curiously. Bright, wide eyes that knew nothing of the world; two green orbs gazing up at her. Eyes that had apparently already managed to get her husband under their spell.
"Nettie, the least we can do is take her in and make her comfortable. Perhaps she will not survive the night, but we cannot leave her here." Luc told her, a hint of desperation in his voice. There was flicker of something over his face before he smiled softly. "It would not be the first time you opened your home to a stray."
Antoinette looked at him in shock. There was no comparison there, how could he think there was?
"That was different. I did not open my home. I do not take care of him." She reminded her husband, though there was something in her voice. Luc merely looked at her knowingly, though decided against the argument. Now was not the time and he didn't particularly want an aggravated wife, despite knowing he was right. His gaze softened, almost pleadingly. The small child nestled in his arms, taking advantage of the safety it provided her, though not entirely sure for how long that may be.
If she only gave him tonight, to see if there was something that could be done. Tomorrow, if the child survives, they will figure out the proper course of action; find somewhere safe for her, a new home, just as long as she gave him that night.
Finally, after what seemed like an age of him silently pleading with her, Antoinette sighed, rubbing her eyes tiredly.
"She is your responsibility. You take care of her for the night and then figure out a course of action." She told him pointedly. She didn't mean to sound so cold, but she could not have something like this jeopardize her career in the ballet. Not after she had worked so hard for it, and her husband knew that. Of course they planned for a family someday, but not now. They were both still so young, she was only seventeen and he not even nineteen as of yet, and they had only been married a short time. No good would come of a baby.
"But Luc, you cannot get attached."
Luc smiled and leaned in to press his lips to hers lightly; it was a promise and an agreement, as well as thanking her kind heart for agreeing. Carefully, he shrugged out of his jacket and wrapped it around the shivering bundle in his arms. With his free hand, he rested his arm at the small of his wife's back as they continued on their journey home.
Perhaps God would be forgiving and take the child before it could suffer any more and their lives would go on as normal.
oOoOoOoOoOo
There were times behind the scenes at the Populaire, where tensions were high and people were in bad form. Stress and laboured days, matched with a low income could strip workers of their humour and their will to work. In cases like these, however, there was usually a tiny spark that flitted around the backstage that could put a smile on even the strictest of characters.
Rose, or Rosie as she was affectionately known throughout by those at the Opera House, was such a spark. The small but bright young girl with red hair had a habit of bounding through the opera house and bringing nothing less than a curl of the lip to those who seemed to need it the most. There had been times where she had been told repeatedly that she must know her place and stay out of the way nobody really had the heart to reprimand her too harshly. One look in those big green eyes and many forgot why they were put out in the first place.
To Antoinette Giry, she needed to be disciplined; gallivanting around as such was no way for a little girl to behave, particularly in a place of work and distinction such as the Opera House. But despite this, she was her father's absolute pride and joy.
Luc had taken to fatherhood instantly, since the moment they brought that little girl into their apartment. By some miracle, she had survived the night. When Antoinette woke up the next morning, she found her husband on the sofa with the child cuddled against his chest, both fast asleep. She knew from that moment that despite her wishes, the child didn't seem to be going anywhere.
He had named her Rose, after the gorgeous deep red hair that she seemed to have despite her young age, and her rosy cheeks that he had woken up to the following morning. After some discussion with his wife, they had decided to give her his mother's maiden name of Devereux
He had kept his promise to his wife, spending the days when she was rehearsing to care for the young girl, making her well and building her strength up, all the while continuing his work as a stagehand. Every day he would bathe her, feed her and change her, then take her with him to work and convince one of the seamstresses to watch her while he managed the more dangerous tasks.
Despite the distance kept by the woman who was helping raise her, Rose was loved. While they hadn't planned on being parents for quite some time, their opportunity was seized, particularly by Luc, who lavished attention on his little girl with pride and love that only a father can give.
When Rose reached her first birthday, the crew had a small celebration in the wings, a toast among the adults and the laughter and joy of watching the small infant happily help herself to a small cream cake, much to her squealing delight.
As she grew, her involvement in the workings of the Opera house did too. She would often sit on her father s lap, high up above the stage and watch the performances, cheering her mother on as she took centre stage with the rest of the ballet. While other little girls were being looked after by governesses and being taught how to act in proper society, Rose was learning how to fix rigging and exactly how many pulls of a rope it took to lower the scenery sheets, and sneaking into the orchestra pit and listening to the beautiful music they played.
At age three, Rosie wanted to be a ballerina.
She would spend the time she wasn't working with her father or one of their friends, watching the stage in awe as the ballet corps danced ever so gracefully across the stage. Her mother told her than when she turned seven, if she practiced hard, she could train to be a ballerina, just like her. Every evening like clockwork, in their small living room, she would practice. Hours would pass and soon her father would come home late from work and find his little ballerina to be, fast asleep on the floor in her shoes. He would hang them up over the bed and put his little one to sleep, only for it to repeat the next evening.
By age six, Rose knew the ins and outs of the Opera House as well as any adult employee, perhaps even better. She knew the quickest path from the costume room to the stage, how many ropes held up the scenery and which one to undo and when, and she knew the best alcove seating to watch a performance. Fir six years old, she was far beyond her years in intelligence, and her curiosity often outweighed that significantly.
But there were still some things that she had yet to find an answer to. Who was the person that her mother and father were referring to as 'always listening'? Where did that beautiful music come from when the orchestra had gone home and the stage was dark? Why did she get the feeling that someone was watching her, but when she turned around, there was nothing but her own shadow?
She knew there was someone watching her, they had been for years. Though, whenever she turned to catch them, they were gone. The only glimpse she could ever catch was a flash of white. When she was younger, she asked her parents about it. Her mother's face went pale and she turned her attention elsewhere. Her father, though faltering slightly, told her that the Opera house was very old, and was often capable of tricking someone into thinking there were things hiding in the shadows.
Though she was young, Rose was no fool, but she didn't question her parents on it again. But soon, her curious nature got the better of her. While she knew there were places that her parents would tell her not to go, that did not mean that they weren't there. There were hidden secrets within the walls of the opera house, and Rosie made it her mission to discover them and solve the mysteries that plagued her young mind.
Though she had her parents and the friends who lived and worked in the opera house, a never ending parade of people and familiar faces coming through those doors every day, Rose felt lonely at times. There was nobody there her age, and though she was intelligent for her age, there was nobody to sit and talk to for more than a few spare moments at a time. She wasn't unhappy, but she knew she had come into this from another life. This was all she knew, and part of her often wondered if there would be someone there for her to talk to.
Then, there was him.
He was always there, the shadow within the shadows. Rose didn't know who it was, but it was a he. But who was he? Surely not a stagehand she knew them all like family and they would not be so secretive around her. A dancer? No, they were too frightened of the dark. Whoever it was, they had a great love of the music and performances, evident by the amount of times that Rose had found him watching from the shadows. But just as quick as she did, he was gone. He left no footprint, nor sign that he was there, other than a small flash if she was quick enough to look. It was almost as though he were a ghost, though Rose despised the thought. Not for fear of ghosts, but that the fact that this was clearly a person who knew his way around the opera house well.
But then again, so did she.
oOoOoOoOoOo
While she knew the best view of the stage was above, Rose soon discovered that the best way to hear the music was down below. It took her no time at all to figure out a way under the stage, stumbling upon it when she had been watching the ballet corps rehearsing. It was dark and dank, and the feel of cold stone was all around. Glancing around, Rose soon discovered that she had landed directly below the stage. The swell of the music seemed louder, radiating off the stone walls in a beautiful echo that made it sound far richer than even in the orchestra pit itself.
It soon became her new favourite place. When the orchestra was rehearsing, she would slip away from whoever had been 'watching her', something she did so often so nobody bat an eye these days. Rose would sit herself down with a blanket upon the ground and simply listen to the music dance its way through the air. She could not play an instrument, nor could she sing as well as the Diva, but she loved the music all the same.
It soon became apparent to her that she was not alone in liking this particular spot. She didn't have to look to know that it was him; staying his place in the shadows, not saying a word. Rose had to wonder at times if he was even breathing. Sometimes he would leave quickly upon knowing she was there, others he would stay and the two would listen to the music in silence before the soft sounds of footsteps told her of his departure back to wherever it was he came from.
This happened almost every day, the same routine between the two and yet not a single word was spoken. It was strange, but Rose had come to enjoy her visits with this mystery figure. Eventually, her curiosity peaked once more and before he disappeared one afternoon, she asked him a question.
"...What's your name?"
Every day she asked, and she was met with a resounding silence, followed by the sound of retreating footsteps. But she was no disheartened. Every day, he would come back once again, quelling her fear that he would cease to appear one day, leaving her alone once more.
On this particular day, Rose had been the first to arrive. Her father had been busy all morning up in the rigging and her mother was tutoring the younger corps for the day. The orchestra were preparing a new piece for the evening and she was eager to hear how it had been coming along.
Before too long, there was a change in the air, and Rose knew that she was no longer alone. She didn't turn around to glance in his direction, she simply sat with her head against the wall and her eyes closed, listening to the music.
"You've been watching me." She said finally, breaking the silence. She had no idea who this person was, if he was dangerous or anything at all. Her parents would more than likely think her mad for talking to him. But they had shared a companionable silence for months now, even longer. And despite no words being spoken, Rose felt safe.
"...Yes." he said finally.
Rose opened her eyes, not bothering to hide her slight surprise that he had answered. He sounded younger than she had thought, like some of the newer hands that her father was training. She shifted slightly, turning her attention to the shadows.
"You can come out and talk to me." She told him innocently. "You know that I won't bite."
There was silence for a while before she received another response.
"No, I cannot." He replied. Rose wasn't entirely sure what to say to that. Did he not want to talk? If that was the case, why was he here talking to her now? It confused her, but at the age of six, almost seven, she wasn't without things that did.
The two stayed in silence for a while longer, falling into the usual routine. There was a pause in the music, and Rose knew that meant the orchestra were preparing the next suite. It took her a moment to realize that he was still there, hidden away out of sight as per usual.
"How come you never say hello?" She wondered, pulling her small legs up to rest her chin on her knees.
"Because I have no need to" the shadow replied. Rose's brow quirked in slight confusion as she turned to face him or at least the direction his voice was coming from.
"You would rather stay in the shadows?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
He seemed to be considering her question for a long while. The light rap of the conductor's baton against his stand signalled that the orchestra were ready to take up their instruments once more. It was a slower piece, more sorrowful than light hearted as its predecessors had been.
"...The shadows are safe." The voice said finally, pulling Rose out of her melody induced day dream. The shadows are safe. She had been warned her whole life thus far that that was not the case; the shadows were dark and dangerous, and you could be lost within them forever if you strayed from the light. But there was something about what he said, and the conviction in which he had told her that resonated with the small child. Rose merely smiled and nodded softly, pleased with his answer.
"Are you ever going to let me see you?" She asked quietly.
"No."
"Why?" She asked again. She could lose track so easily of just how many times the word had been uttered from her lips in childish curiosity. A small sound escaped his throat, and if she didn't know any better, Rose could have sworn it was somewhat close to a sound of amusement, though not quite a laugh.
"Because you do not want to see me." He replied, and she could practically hear the slight curl of his lip in his voice. Her brow still raised, Rose crossed her arms across her chest like an act of defiance.
"Would I have asked if I didn't want to see you?" She questioned. He made a sound of frustration and purposefully avoided her question.
"Are you always this annoying?" He asked. A small but bright smile filled her face as she nodded her head proudly.
"Yes."
The shadow sighed once more, though there was an air of finality this time. Once more, Rose could hear the sound of shoes on stone, telling her that their tine together had come to an end once more.
"What's your name?" she asked to his retreating form.
Once more, she was met with nothing but silence in the darkness.
oOoOoOoOoOo
Childhood curiosity was often something that should be embraced. The world was large with many things to discover beyond the steps of your front door. A child's mind is open to such wonders, seeing the world with fresh eyes and no tarnished opinions of everything around them.
But curiosity can bring danger if not handled with care. Icarus was curious and too sure of himself, and flew too close to the sun. Curiosity was what had done in the proverbial cat, and unleased demons on unsuspecting folk that can put an end to childhood innocence.
Curiosity also was the temptress that eventually brought Rose face to face with her first taste of fear.
There had been an issue with the set design; one of the ropes had been strung too loosely and there was no chance that the performers could take to the stage without it falling and inevitably causing some damage to staff or set. Almost every hand was called upon to fix the problem as quickly as they could. This meant that Rose was left with little to no supervision, something she didn't mind in the slightest.
No supervision meant that Rose was free to make her way around the grounds and explore. There was always something new to discover, and she was almost sure she had yet to even scratch the surface. How did He get around everywhere? Surely there was much more to the Opera grounds than people assumed.
She made her way around her usual route backstage, weaving through seamstress tables and the crates where some of the younger hands decided to store their alcohol until their breaks. Slipping between frameworks from old deconstructed sets, Rose reached out and ran her hand along the length of the wall, feeling her way around. Eventually, she found a gap between the partitions. Smiling to herself, she wedged her hand into the gap and moved it around until the second partition shifted enough for her to squeeze inside.
The entry had led her into a tunnel like space, completely stone and rather damp. Rose had to wonder just where this particular path would take anyone, apparently leading its way further into the depths of the opera house. Keeping her hand on the wall, she followed the dimly lit path, trying to side step the puddles at her feet.
It seemed to go on forever, and Rose soon couldn't remember just how long she had been following the path. There were no twists or turns, or any indication that she was making any progress in getting anywhere at all. Exactly how far was she from where she began? Would anyone be wondering where she was?
A faint dripping sound could be heard in the distance, perhaps the reason for all the water on the ground at her feet. Rose followed the sound, trying to see if it was getting closer or whether it was just her imagination.
Soon, she could feel the floor give out from under her feet before she had a chance to realise what was happening. A strangled scream left her throat as fear ran through her entire body. Her eyes clenched shut as she waited for the fall and presumably death to follow. But as swift as the fall had come, Rose felt a rough had wrap around her arm, pulling her harshly out of the hall and pulled back against the wall with a thud. A sharp pain hit her head as she collided with the wet stone. Rose didn't dare open her eyes but she could sense someone lean in close to her in the darkness.
"You'll do well to not wander, mademoiselle. Next time you might not be so lucky."
That voice. It was him. He had pulled her out of the way of falling.
He released her arm as a throbbing pain shot from his tight grip. Rose was so struck with fear that she couldn't open her eyes or move. She barely registered being picked up and carried away. Before she realized it, she had been set on the ground once more, this time on familiar wood.
Opening her eyes hesitantly, she was in the orchestra pit. How on earth had she managed to get there? And where was her friend? The six year old barely had a chance to think about this before a voice rang out that the scenery was fixed and that rehearsal would carry on as planned.
Glancing around behind her, Rose rubbed at her arm, not noticing the slight red mark that had started to form. As quickly as her shaking legs would take her, she headed into the audience to sit quietly on her own.
oOoOoOoOoOo
The red mark on her arm faded by the next day, almost invisible, much to Rose's relief. She was thankful that her mother or father didn't notice it, or they would have asked questions. But if she was honest, Rose wouldn't have know what she would have said.
Her visits under the stage had been on her own for the past few days since what happened. She wanted to know why he wasn't coming to her. Did he think she was mad? That he had hurt her or cared her? Rose only wanted to thank her friend for saving her. Truth be told, she missed knowing that he was there, despite never really seeing him.
After promising her father that she would be back after the orchestra's rehearsal, Rose made her way down into the pit and snuck down to the stone passage. She had expected there to be nobody there and though she wasn't entirely wrong, there was something waiting for her.
There, nestled on her blanket where she usually sat, was a ragdoll. It was not like any she had seen in the store windows she had passed with her mother. They were immaculately made, with nary a stitch out of place. This was a little haphazard. The stitches were not messy, but noticeable, and it was made from scraps of various materials.
The doll had two mismatched buttons for eyes and red hair made from woven yarn. She was the most beautiful doll Rose had ever seen. She smiled happily and lifted the doll into her arms with great care. She ran her fingers over its hair gently and hugged it close to her.
But how on earth did she get there. As she ran her hand over the odd fabric, Rose noticed that there was a small paper tag attached to the doll's wrist. Written on the tag in beautiful elegant script, were but four words.
My name is Erik.