If she ever thought that being on the sidewalk in the middle of New York at rush hour ever felt disorienting, her experience paled in comparison to this. She almost felt like the heroine running through the goblin Labyrinth – every corridor and tunnel looked the same, not a single corner had anything to distinguish it from any other, one twisted staircase was identical to the other three she had climbed. Ang half expected David Bowie to suddenly appear in front of her in an explosion of glitter. Nope, wrong story. At least she knew she was continuously ascending. She had come to at least two stairways that offered her a chance to go down, but then she figured then she really would be walking in circles.
Her foot was growing sore. She hadn't removed her shoes or socks since arriving, however long ago that had been, and now she'd been hiking on hard stone for what felt like hours on end. Her eyes were strained from being in such dim light for such an extended amount of time, and a headache gnawed at the base of her head and stretched across her forehead from one temple to another. If it wasn't the stress, it was likely a lack of caffeine. What she wouldn't give for a hot steaming cup of her daily pick-me-up. She would even drink it black if it meant banished the pain in her head. Her pace had long since slowed to a hobble, and a new irritant registered, this time in her leg.
Pausing against a wall, she tugged the silk skirt of the entirely impractical gown up to her thighs and slid her fingers blindly down her leg, tucking the tips into the cloth sleeve that acted like a cushion between her skin and the hard plastic of the prosthetic. With a hiss, she snapped her hand back; the skin was hyper-sensitive and slick, a tell-tale sign that the outer layers had rubbed away and was close to bleeding openly instead of remaining just beneath the surface, barely contained. The sleeve wasn't exactly clean, so who knew what sort of bacteria was being introduced to her body through the open wound. And sadly, she couldn't remove it and set up shop in the middle of a pitch black stone hallway somewhere in the middle of French catacombs. She wished she had her own clothes; what a fool she'd been for playing dress up instead of remaining practical. She should have kept her own things with her, kept walking, and found a way out.
She wished she'd remembered to grab some of the food Erik had brought her, but after decking him across the face with the silver tray, Ang's only thought had been to get away. She was regretting her hastiness now.
She wished she could just snap her fingers and suddenly be outside in the sunshine again.
Hell, if she were wishing for things, she wished she'd never tried to catch that light. Better yet, she wished she'd called in sick and stayed at home. Her home. The tiny, mostly empty apartment save for the most minimal furnishings one could get away with. But a real bed, and clean bottled water, and her comfy sweats and lounge sweatshirt.
I wish... I wish...
What was that saying? If wishes were people horses would ride? Ang wrinkled her nose as she trudged on. No, that couldn't be it.
It was still dark as midnight in the tunnels, and while the sound of water had transitioned from rushing to trickling, and everywhere in between, it hardly helped her navigate her way. Part of her wanted to begin talking to herself, or at least humming, just so she wouldn't feel so damned alone. But then he might hear her, and if he'd been angry before she couldn't imagine how livid he would be now, and God only knew what she might suffer at the mercy of his temper.
If wishes were horses, beggars would ride! That was it! She smiled to herself, just a bit. It was a minuscule victory, but she was pleased that that wayward thought wouldn't torment her for hours by staying just out of reach. It's the little things, she realized with a snort. Right. What a time to wax philosophical. What better time than the present? Ang bit back the growl that threatened to escape, irritated with the uncontrolled thought.
I wish... more than anything, more than life, more than jewels... The King is giving a festival. I wish to go to the festival and the ball.
The smile on her lips spread wider as the familiar words played in her head, the playful tune fluttering in her throat.
Into the woods without delay, but careful not to lose the way. Into the woods, who knows what may be lurking on the journey. Into the woods to get the thing that makes it worth the journeying. Into the woods to see, to sell, to get, to bring, to make, to lift, to go to the festival!
Ang was fairly skipping down the halls now.
"Into the woods! Into the woods! Into the woods, then out of the woods... and home before dark!"
With wide eyes and a sharp gasp, Ang slapped a hand over her mouth and pressed herself flush against one wall of her current tunnel, her heart slamming in her chest. She hadn't realized that the innocent humming had given way to singing. And not just beneath-her-breath-so-no-one-would-hear singing; the kind of singing done with one's whole heart, as when performing for an audience or in the car simply for the joy itself.
All was quiet now, or so seemed to be quiet. She couldn't quite hear anything else beyond the thrumming of hear pulse and the blood rushing in her ears. For several minutes she stayed like that, cowering against the damp brick of the catacombs, hand over her mouth, praying that by some miracle she was out of Erik's hearing. Everything below the opera house's basement was his domain. Was it possible luck was on her side, and she escaped his notice?
Timidly, she pushed off the wall and hurried her steps, chiding herself as she went. No more showtunes, idiot.
Some time later, and what wouldn't she give for a watch, her latest chosen hallway appeared to have a dead end up ahead, but instead of a pure, inescapable darkness, the wall down the corridor almost seemed to shimmer, or glimmer, or... Creeping toward it, she realized she was on the wrong side of a mirror, the glass looking into what had to be a dressing room. Once she was right up to the glass, she could make out the details on the other side in the time moonlight that came streaming through one window. There was a vanity table and mirror to one side with an orate, padded bench and gilded iron legs. A wardrobe stood open, holding lavish gowns that could have no other purpose except to be costumes. Two ridiculously tall wigs stood on cloth, sawdust-filled mannequin heads, straight pins keeping them in place, although it seemed the wall behind them was holding them up, as well. A lounge sofa covered in some sort of dark upholstery sat beneath the small window through which silver beams of moonlight trailed inside. A few plush rugs covered the worn, wood floor. Oil lamps stood at attention, their wicks turned down for the night.
With a sickening twist of her stomach, the epiphany came: this was the principle's room. More specifically, Carlotta's room, and what would become Christine's room. This was where Erik spied on the singer and lured her down to his kingdom below. Ang felt ill and part of her wanted to smash the glass. What an awful invasion of privacy! That poor girl! Christine hadn't been some mature woman; she was still a kid in many ways and he had totally exploited her naivety! Although, he hadn't done it yet, so technically she couldn't be too angry with him for crimes he hadn't committed. He kept you in a cage, Ang. Yes, yes he did; and back came the anger.
She didn't smash the glass like she wanted. Instead, she felt around the edges for the mechanisms that would pivot the mirror and allow her to leave the God-forsaken tunnels behind for good. One fingertip brushed a level, and she bore down upon it, pressing it with all her strength. There was a click, then a whir, and she stumbled back just before the glass spun half way in place on its center, leaving just enough room to slip through. With a sigh, Ang pressed through and into the room. It only took a few seconds of pondering before the pushed the glass back to its original position. While she was none too pleased about what would eventually happen on the other side of that damned mirror, she didn't want him to get killed, either. Not only would that be an awful end, but millions of people would hate her for ultimately ruining their favorite story. Perhaps in the future, all books, manuscripts, and librettos would suddenly become blank. She imagined that time didn't actually progress in a linear fashion. What had that one episode of Doctor Who said? A big ball of timey wimey, wibbly wobbly stuff? Smirking at the oddity of her brain's train of thought when left to its own devices, she stepped to the window and fairly collapsed on the chaise. After who knew how long on a cold and unforgiving metal floor, the cushions felt akin to paradise, and she moaned softly from the pleasure of her comfort. But she couldn't stay. Erik could be anywhere, and he could be looking for her. She hoped not, but if he had any desires to keep his presence entirely unknown, he would do everything in his power to make sure she never saw the light of day. That realization made her blood run cold, and she settled one palm against the windowpane and looked outside.
The glass was cold, very cold, but there wasn't any snow on the ground, not that she could see. It was hard to tell if the trees held any frost; the moon bathed everything in a soft silvery hue. The trees were skeletal upon first glance, but as she squinted and studied further, she was tiny evidence of new growth. Spring then. Perhaps she would be lucky and it would be warm once the sun came up. With no coat, no cloak, no nothing in terms of warm clothing, she dreaded trying to find her way alone outside wearing this silly opera gown. Beautiful, to be sure, but hardly practical for day to day.
A fleeting thought whispered through her mind, berating herself for not trying harder to specifically find her way back to the exact spot she'd first awoken. Perhaps there was some clue there and she could figure out how to get home. What that might be, she couldn't even begin to guess. She hadn't been in the water, and she'd been so disoriented that she failed to look up at the ceiling from where she'd presumably fallen. Stupid!
What? Like crawling up into some reverse trap door would suddenly dump you back well over a hundred years into the future?
Leaving the window, she picked her way across the floor to the open armoire. Hands slipped inside and she went piece by piece, by touch, to see if anything might be promising to her. Lots of silk, an obscene amount of tulle, a few corsets, a pair of silk stockings. That wasn't going to help her! What she needed were the jeans she's carelessly left below. She needed a pair of thick wool socks and fleece lined leggings. She needed a good, thick coat!
What you need is to get back home.
One problem at a time, please, she argued with her brain.
Nonetheless, the wardrobe yielded no help. Ang looked around again, and spied something she missed the first time she perused the room: a blanket folded and thrown over the back of the lounge. That would work! Snatching it up like a starving man pouncing on bread, she shook it out, folded it in half, and wound it around her shoulders, clutching it tightly in front of her like a shawl. For now, that would work.
Close enough that her breath left fog on the glass of the window, she peered straight down, judging how far of a drop it would be were she to exit from here. A wide smile split her lips; eight feet she could manage. The window was locked, but the latch flipped open easily, and after a few minutes of fighting with the old frame, she finally managed to push it open on its rusted hinges. A deep breath steeled her nerves as she carefully assessed her next move. Finally deciding to drop the blanket out first and then to follow it, she did so and slowly crawled through the narrow opening, hitching her skirts up around her hips, thankful she wore a pair of boyshort underwear rather than a more feminine cut. She hissed as the freezing brick of the outer building hit her bare legs, but she pressed on, wiggling and squirming until she hung from the window, very similarly to the pull up hang her gym teachers had grilled her on growing up.
It's better to drop than stay here and wait for him to find you, her mind urged her.
Holding her breath, she dropped.
A/N: Don't hate me for the cliff hanger. And I know it's certainly not the most exciting chapter, but it was needed all the same, if for no other reason than to get us from point A to point B. I hope you enjoyed the randomness of her brain - I think it's hilarious! And what else would you do if you were left by yourself for days in the dark and in the quiet? Can't you just see her skipping through the Phantom's catacombs singing songs from Sondheim's "Into the Woods"? I totally can. And if Erik was watching, I think he's just be shaking his head and wondering if she wasn't actually certifiable. It's possible she is.
Leonie - I love the Entrapment title idea, but as you can see, she isn't stuck below. Trapped in Victorian era Paris, yes, but that's a whole different type of trap. I so appreciate you reading and responding to my questions! 3 Thank you for staying with me! I hope you're okay with the new title.
PhantomBove - I love that line, too. I was so glad when Erik whispered that in my ear to use. *gleefully claps her hands* I do love a good villain, even if we know he isn't so villain-y.
Thanks all! Keep reading!