Salut,
Forgive my horribleness in delay, but I should be posting several chapters soon. The Opera Ghost has kindly given me enough information to draw several chapters from, so I will begin work on those soon. Again, a simple aye or nay is much appreciated. Perhaps even Monsieur O.G. will send another. One can only hope.
S.R.
---
The days passed quietly after Cecily's return to the Opera House. The sudden appearance of the wounded girl had sent rumors flying around the chorus dormitories like the thousands of flies that called the place home in the summer. Cecily thought they were very much the same: constantly buzzing around being a general annoyance. Her wound forced her to remain in the wings as the rest of the chorus practiced. Some operas could have been performed with a stiff side. This one, however, required far too much movement for Cecily to attempt.
She did her best to suppress her memories of the time she had spent below. She tried to quash all thoughts of the man who had so suddenly become a monster. The thoughts of his beautiful music, soft words, and awkward kindnesses were forcefully put away from conscious thought, but they could not be held back for long.
Nearly two weeks had passed without a sign of the Opera Ghost to anyone. Even the ballet girls had begun to change their whispers from his pranks to other matters. Cecily, as had been the case since her return, alternated between places on the catwalk and behind the second curtain. She watched as the youngest set of dancers worked with the ballet instructor, Mme. Giry. They worked with her only twice a week. Most of the time their instruction was given to one of the older ballet dancers, and their behavior seen to by whomever was assigned to watch them at the moment. Each girl, some no older than six or seven, though most were older, tried to balance on one foot as Mme. Giry counted.
Only a few girls accomplished the feat. One, Mme. Giry's daughter Meg, stood with her leg out and her arms holding her balanced, a strong imitation of the older girls. She had grown up in l'Opéra after all. The second that stood out to Cecily was a young girl with curly brown hair. She had a rather forlorn look upon her face as she tried to imitate Meg. A pout came to her small face, which did not make her look at all appealing. Finally, she managed to hold the position. A triumphant, almost haughty smile came to her face when little Meg lost her balance and knocked several girls over domino style. Mme. Giry scolded the shamed girl as she lifted the other girls to their feet.
Cecily shook her head and turned away. Poor girl. She moved without the stiffness that had at first plagued her, and she moved toward the stairs that would carry her toward the catwalks, another place she could watch the goings on of rehearsal without being in the way. She had taken the first step up when the rough voice of Joseph Buquet stopped her. He was chief of the flies in more way than one, thought Cecily as she noted the rather repugnant odor of old alcohol and sweat about him. She wrinkled her nose, trying to be inconspicuous.
"They'll be repairing that walk today. Best not try it." His breath wafted toward her in foul, and, she imagined, nearly visible puffs.
She smiled at him, holding breath while he spoke. And some of the girls were taken with him? "Thank you, monsieur." She turned to retreat into the dormitories.
"Oh, come now, Cecily. We know each other better than that, now don't we? All this nonsense 'bout calling me by my last name."
Her smile faltered. "I am sorry Joseph." The name sounded odd to her; she didn't really know him that well.
"It's all right, little one. Come on, I'll show you a far better place to observe the goings on of the opera." The sound of those words, 'little one,' was amiss coming from his stinking lips. And his offer of a new place to watch the opera sounded ominous at best. Still, she felt herself being herded toward an old hallway. "You never told anybody where you got doctored up." She looked up quizzically. "We all know you got a knife blade stuck in ya."
"I see. Well, it's none of anybody's business where I was taken care of." She tried to move past him, but he had a firm hold of her elbow, just enough to restrain her without seeming to be improper.
"I'm just saying, those noble dandies might help you out now, but they'll want some repayment for their kindnesses, if you know what I'm saying."
She wrenched her arm from his grasp. "And what sort of repayment," she spat the word, "will you be requiring for this kindness, monsieur?"
He was about to respond when a noise in the shadows drew his attention. He moved toward it warily. "What was that?"
"Probably just a rat."
He shook his head. "It was too big to be a rat."
Her eyes, so much more accustomed to the darkness than his, scanned the shadows.
---
Erik pressed into the shadows, covering much of himself with his cloak, the blackness hiding him from unfriendly eyes, particularly that wretch Buquet. He cursed himself silently for stepping on that board. He had known it was squeaky. He felt Buquet draw closer and prepared to move quickly. He had backed into a corner, no secret passages within reach. Damn!
It was the voice that he heard next, the last voice he would expect to protect him, that gave him his chance.
---
Cecily saw the cloak pulled over his form, the one she had thought was too skinny for his own good. A flash of a white mask before the cloak moved into place confirmed her belief. It was Erik.
She barely had time to think. "Joseph! I just heard something again! There in the corridor!" She pointed, trying to play the frightened little opera wench. "It was like the sound of a cloak!"
Buquet straightened, relishing his newfound role of protector. "You best head back toward the stage. I'll go see what it is. I would hate for a pretty soul like you to get lassoed by the ghost."
He took off in the direction she had pointed, leaving Cecily alone with the figure in the shadows. She stood in uncertainty, not knowing whether he had come back in his duties as the Opera Ghost, if you could call them duties, or to finish her off.
---
Erik listened as Buquet retreated, but noted that the second set of feet did not move. Gradually, he lowered his cloak, only to find himself staring into her face. It was chilled, like a marble statue somehow brought to life. She never spoke a word, and neither did he. He nodded, melting into the shadows away from the light, away from the bustle of the surface world, away from her.