Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Phantom of the Opera. Only original stuff is mine.
AN: I thought I should mention that I'm using the Phantom from the movie, just so everyone can see him in their heads. Thanks, and please review!
Chapter 4: Life at the Opera House:
I didn't like not telling Papa about the note, but since Uncle had forbid it, I had no choice. Besides, Papa had enough to worry about with putting a production together with the Populaire's staff. First he and Uncle had to decide on which opera would be best, and they eventually settled on Mozart's 'The Magic Flute.' I though it a wonderful choice, but putting it all together would be quite expensive.
"It's nothing compared to what we will get after a successful opening night," Papa declared when I'd brought the subject up. "You worry too much, kitten; everything will be alright."
Yes, I did worry too much, but someone had to, especially since my father's claim to my Grandmother about involving me in running the Populaire had proven false. Instead, I was left alone, bored out of my mind while sitting in my rooms, watching the fire burn. As a single woman, Papa refused to let me go out alone, and since I had no governess or maid to accompany me (as we couldn't afford it), I was left to my own devices. I had plenty of books to read, as well as a lovely room to sit and sleep in, but there was only so much reading that I could do before going mad and hating the walls around me.
Thankfully, Meg Giry was kind enough to take a little time away from her dance practices and introduce me to Paris, showing me how she and other Parisians saw it. On the infrequent days she had free, Meg took me to nearby cafés, restaurants, and shops; she also took me to the best bakeries to buy breads and pastries for myself and my father. We had a great deal of fun exploring the streets together, tasting foods at the markets and looking through dress shop windows at the latest fashions.
Oh, how I longed for new Parisian-styled gowns, but I needed to be frugal now, and would not purchase them. Even though Papa would happily give me spending money when I asked for it, I would only approach him as needed; until we had a successful opening night, I would have to live on a budget that I designed for myself. My father and uncle might live as we always had, but I knew better than to think the way they do.
To save money, I scrimped and saved every penny (or franc) that I could. I re-wore my gowns, trading off sashes, bows, or whatever trimmings I could from one gown and placing them on another, making them appear to be new. I made sure to wash my gloves as carefully as I could, keeping them from getting dirty or worn in order to preserve them longer. Handkerchiefs, hair ribbons, and any other clothing accessory would have to last so that more money could be saved.
Thankfully, no one knew about my saving. I never told Meg, who was my only friend, and of course Papa and Uncle were too busy overseeing the creation and design of the new opera to notice what I was doing. So, at the end of the day, I tucked each bit of saved money away in case of an emergency, though I did keep a portion of it for some necessities. After all, nothing lasts forever, no matter how hard you try to save it.
About a month after our arrival in Paris, I discovered that something rather odd was going on. In my frequent moments of boredom, I had taken up the hobby of walking through random hallways, then attempting to walk back to my rooms without getting lost. It was on one of these little walks that I discovered something strange about Madame Giry, something that made me believe that the stories Meg had told me about her were, in fact, true.
One of my discoveries was that the ballet mistress often walked where she had no business being in, such as in the boxes reserved for the wealthy opera attendants. At first, I had thought it a fluke of some kind, but when I saw her coming out of Box 5 with an envelope, I grew both worried and suspicious; Meg had said her mother had been a messenger and banker of the "Opera Ghost," and I was beginning to believe her.
However, I had to wonder where the envelopes were going to. I knew that my father and uncle didn't appear to act any differently than they had before, and they certainly didn't appear fearful or angry because of any notes. I was fairly certain that if it had been me receiving notes such as those, I would have defiantly been angry or frightened; since neither Uncle nor Papa were acting differently, I had to assume that they were either ignoring the notes or hadn't gotten them yet. In order to find out, I had to do a little investigating of my own.
It had taken several days of keeping a sharp eye on Madame Giry, but I had managed to finally locate her while she was walking around a dark section of the Opera House. Quietly, I picked up my thin skirt and followed her, thankful that I had decided to use the soft-soled slippers that Grandmother had sent me from England. Following her back to her rooms, I watched her go inside, and lock the door behind her. After approaching the door, I carefully leaned forwards and peeked through the keyhole, watching her with shock as she threw the note into the fireplace.
'She's burning the notes,' I thought, silently stepping away from the door and heading back towards my own. 'If that is what she has been doing for weeks, then I can imagine that the Ghost must be getting quite angry by this point.'
I couldn't help but smile at that. If a man thought that he could frighten everyone by pretending to be a ghost, he was very wrong. My father and uncle were not going to give in and pay him, and if even Madame Giry, his 'messenger' and money collector, was disobeying him, then he must not be as great as he had once been.
Perhaps my worries were all for naught after all…
Unfortunately, I had hoped too soon. Not long after discovering Madame Giry's secret letter burning, my father received a note, one that was addressed not only to him, but to my uncle as well. I had been in their office, helping them select colors for the opera when Madame Giry had entered the room, her face pale and drawn. Even though the note was for my father and uncle, Madame had immediately set the note before me, giving me a pointed look before leaving the room.
Surprised, I had picked up the note and pulled it open, trying not to look at the red skull seal as I did so. There, scribbled in red ink, were the Ghost's instructions. Since I was a quick reader, I scanned through it and nearly fainted at the demands.
'Box 5! I can't believe he wants Box 5!' I thought to myself. 'It's the best seat in the house, and he wants it all to himself for nothing!'
Reading further, I saw that he also wanted a monthly salary of twenty thousand francs, to be paid before the opening night of 'The Magic Flute;' if we did not, something terrible would happen. Since the Opera House had been burned down before, I feared that this mad extortionist would no doubt have a terrible list of damages that he was fully prepared to do. After all, if he had been willing to burn down an entire building over a woman, what would he do for a salary such as this?
"Well, what does is say, Aria?" Papa demanded as he stalked over to me.
I cleared my throat. "It says that the Opera Ghost welcomes us to his Opera House," I began, intending to give them the sum of the note.
"His opera house?" exclaimed my uncle. "Who does this man think he is?"
"Hush, Gregory, and let her finish," Papa snapped, never taking his blue eyes off of me.
I began again. "He also says that, through means he had not been aware of, his previous notes appeared to have gone astray," I said, nervously reading through the red-inked letter. "However, the situation has been dealt with, and he is sure that this note will have reached us safely intact."
"What does he mean by that?" Uncle said, looking a bit frightened and nervous.
"Be quiet," my father growled. "Read on, Aria."
Swallowing, I did so. "He wishes to say that he expects his monthly salary of 20,000 francs to be delivered promptly, and demands the private use of Box 5 for every performance," I read. I couldn't help but smile at the next line. "It also declares that the new diva, Natasha Kavinski, must practice more often, or her voice will soon sound like a dying cat."
I couldn't contain the giggle that escaped my mouth. Whoever this ghost was, he had a humorous way of telling the truth, as Natasha did, in fact, need to work on her voice.
"Oh, Aria, be serious!" Papa snapped as he ran his fingers though his red hair. "Is there any more to the note?"
Quickly calming myself, I read on. "He advises that you carry out his wishes as soon as possible, preferably before the opening night. If his orders are not followed, a disaster beyond our imagination will occur. It's signed, 'Your obedient servant, O.G.'"
Looking up from the message, I watched my father and uncle exchange calculating looks. Oh, I knew those looks; my grandparents, parents, aunts, and uncles often gave each other those glances whenever they wanted to discuss something that either I, my brother, my cousins, or anyone else was not supposed to hear. They were not going to discuss this in front of me, and I would be forced to trick the matter out of them the next time we gathered together.
"Aria," my father said, interrupting my thoughts. "Your uncle and I were thinking about inviting some of your cousins here for a little while. Perhaps your Aunt Nancy's children would suffice? I'm sure that it would be good for them to try out their French in a true French setting?"
He was trying to distract me from the issue, of course, but I would allow it just this once. After all, with the performance coming up in a few weeks, Meg was far too busy practicing her roles in the opera to spend time with me, and I was often alone and bored. My little cousins being here would greatly amuse everyone.
I gave them my most winsome smile. "I would enjoy that very much, Father," I said. "When will they be coming?"
Our guests arrived much sooner than I expected. Apparently my father had arranged for their visit long before the note had been sent to him, so my Aunt Nancy and her daughter, Grace, arrived a week after the Ghost's note had. Aunt Nancy's husband was unable to come, and neither had her son, as he was sick with a small cold. I worried, but was assured that it was nothing serious.
To my surprise, Aunt Nancy wasn't the only one to come and visit. Aunt Mary had come as well, bringing her two daughters, Kari and Andrea. I was now hostess to three blonde darling girls, and to my two youngest aunts, all of whom were incredibly excited about being in Paris. Aunt Mary had been here during her honeymoon, but had not been back in over ten years.
"It's so different!" she exclaimed over our first tea together. "I remember certain shops that I had been to years ago, and when I tried to find them, they had gone!"
Aunt Nancy and I chuckled as we passed tea cups around to everyone. Kari and Andrea were seated near their mother, two perfectly poised statues in their matching white dresses. Their golden locks had been elegantly curled, and their hands were folded neatly in their laps. I smiled as I passed a cup to each of them, each girl politely and daintily accepting their cup into their hands.
For girls so young, they were quite well-behaved. Kari was barely 12-years-old, and Andrea had just turned 10 years of age a few weeks ago, which made me wonder how my aunt had managed to get them to behave like young ladies should. After all, Aunt Mary was hardly the type to order them into etiquette lessons, nor was she dominating or insisting enough to drill the mannerisms of the upper class into their heads.
'Of course, Grandmother could have had a role in it,' I thought to myself as I picked up a sandwich from the tray and placed it on my plate. 'Yes, Grandmother would likely explain how stiffly poor Kari is sitting; she looks as though her spine were becoming glued in that position!'
"Kari, you don't need to sit so stiffly," I said teasingly. "We're all family here, so you and Andrea may relax for a little while. I imagine that the journey here must have been very hard, and sitting that way will only make you tired and irritable."
I knew that I was taking a risk of giving Kari and Andrea orders while my aunt was watching; Aunt Mary tended to dislike those who took charge of her daughters in her presence and was quick to rebuke them for doing so. Even I had come under her wrath from doing such a thing, but now it felt necessary to get my visiting family members relaxed. Little Grace was already fast asleep in the rooms she was sharing with Aunt Nancy, so why shouldn't everyone else unbend for a while?
Beside me, Aunt Mary sighed. "Your cousin is right, girls," she said, allowing herself to relax into the back of her chair. "We are in Paris, we are tired, and it is tea time. Relax and enjoy the best that the French have to offer us, hmm?"
I nearly laughed as both of my cousins nearly collapsed into the backs of their chairs. Barely containing my amusement, I sipped my tea and nibbled at the sandwiches, cakes, and pastries that the Opera House cook had sent up. As time wore on, we indulged in quite a bit of chatter, talking about what was happening so far with the family, the latest fashions in England versus those in Paris, and about how little Grace was experimenting with paints at such a young age.
"I'm not hoping for too much of anything," Aunt Nancy said with a smile. She was one of the drawers in the family, and hoped that one of her children would follow in her talents. "But if she's developing such an interest in paint, well…a mother can always hope."
Aunt Mary laughed and reached for another éclair. "Nancy, dearest, I'm sure that all children, when given the chance, have an interest in paint. They merely need to see and touch the stuff before they are covered in the colors!"
The rest of us giggled while Aunt Nancy rolled her eyes. She was spared from answering by a small knock on the door. The others quieted while I set aside my tea cup and went to answer it, pulling the door open just enough to peek out. There stood a rather flustered Madame Giry, little Grace standing before her with her head down and dried tears on her face. Alarmed, I threw the door open and knelt before my cousin.
"Grace, what's wrong?" I cooed, my arms reaching for her.
Grace didn't say anything, merely flinging herself into my arms just as her tears began to flow once more. I didn't hesitate one moment in picking her up and holding her close in order to comfort her.
"Forgive me, Mademoiselle," Madame Giry said with a small curtsey. "But I heard her crying in her room and thought to bring her to you."
I gave her a smile of thanks and hugged Grace closer. "Thank you for your kindness, Madame," I said, stepping aside. "May I introduce you to my aunts? Aunt Mary," I nodded in her direction, "and Aunt Nancy, this is Madame Giry, the Populaire's ballet mistress. Madame, these are my aunts and my cousins, Kari and Andrea." I nodded to each girl as I said their names.
Madame curtseyed once more. "Madames and Mademoiselles," she said. "If you will excuse me, I must attend to my dancers before they forget themselves."
I was surprised when she gave Grace a small affectionate smile before departing. Then again, I suppose I shouldn't have been that astonished; in all likelihood, Grace probably reminded Madame of a very young Meg. The two did have lovely golden hair, after all, though Grace's eyes had more gray in them while Meg's were a bright blue.
"Well, she was rather interesting," Aunt Mary commented.
I shut the door and carried Grace over to my chair, settling her in my lap so that she saw the food on the table. She instantly began to sit up and smile, one hand reaching for the pastries with white frosting and fruit on top. Aunt Nancy put one on a plate and handed it to me. After retrieving a napkin, I accepted the small plate and held it so Grace could take the tasty treat. She practically snatched it off of the blue-and-silver china and bit into it, grinning widely upon discovering the small bit of chocolate inside. Once that was gone, she accepted a small ham sandwich and a drink of heavily sugared tea before begging me to read her a story. My aunts and other cousins smiled and laughed as they left the room, claiming to need a rest before dinner. I waved goodbye to them as Grace fetched a book from the stacks on my vanity.
"Now, what story is it to be today?" I asked, glancing over the book that Grace had brought me.
"Dickens!" she cried, jumping up and down.
Charles Dickens was presently one of my cousin's favorites, though I couldn't understand why. However, the only Dickens story that Grace truly understood and loved was 'A Christmas Carol,' and even though it was two months after the holiday, I was happy to read it to her. Besides, I, too, enjoyed the tale, and the ghosts gave us both a delicious shiver whenever we read it together.
'And the subject of ghosts is certainly an appropriate one in a place like this,' I thought as I picked up the book.
Not wanting to give the Opera Ghost another thought, I settled down into a plush chair and let Grace hop into my lap, her head firmly tucked under my chin as I began the story of Mr. Scrooge.
Through the mirror in what was once the diva's room, Erik watched intently as she read to the child curled up in her lap. The little one's blonde head, her curls twined around her fingers as she played with them, rested gently against the young woman's collarbone as the she listened to the story. He barely resisted the urge to chuckle as the little girl began to suck her right thumb, shifting her position so that she was cradled like a little babe in her cousin's arms. It was a charming sight, something that truly belonged in a painting.
For some time now, Erik had been watching the Opera Populaire's new arrivals, calculating how they behaved to one another and to the stressful situations that came with running an opera house. They were stubborn about obeying his notes, but then, that was to be expected; most had been the same way and had learned from their mistakes before it was too late. However, the three Cravens were a bit of a puzzle, and it was the two managers, Roland and Gregory, that were truly something Erik had never encountered before in all his years as the Opera Ghost.
Unlike previous managers, the Cravens had a great appreciation for the arts. Erik had seen the sketches that both Roland and Gregory had done for backdrop designs, and had (grudgingly) been impressed. The two men knew about art, and, therefore, knew at least a little of what an opera should look like. Roland Craven had even given a few prop makers instructions on how things should be made and how it should appear to the audience! Despite his misgivings about the two men, Erik had a small bit of admiration for those who took art of any sort seriously.
However, there was one thing he had not anticipated when it came to the arrival of the new owners…
'Aria Craven,' he thought as he stared at the young woman before him.
The creature mystified him. A pretty thing with dark brown eyes and hair, she, too, loved art and music, but appeared to have no talents in it. However, he had seen her write in her notebooks and discovered that she had writing potential, though it would probably come to nothing; after all, she was rich and attractive, so she would probably marry and loose all interest in the arts after the honeymoon.
'A pity to see talent go to waste,' he thought, listening as Aria continued reading the story to the child in her lap.
Well, she would at least make a good mother. Her voice was soothing, soft and gentle like a mother's should be. Erik watched in fascination and longing as she ran her right hand over the little girl's head, combing through golden tresses as she read the story aloud. It was as enchanting a sight as one could hope for, and for one moment, it brought a sense of peace to his heart.
In a flash, the peacefulness was gone, and raw envy flowed through him like a mixture of fire and ice. He had never known the warmth of a mother's love. He had never had someone hold him, read him stories, or gently place a kiss atop his brow. The only small moment of tenderness he had ever experienced had been one of pity and fear, a parting kiss from the lips of an Angel.
Suddenly filled with a bitterness so powerful he could taste it, Erik turned and stalked towards his home. What had been a rather pleasant day was now ruined by memories of the past, a past that would haunt him until the day he died. He would have to find a way to improve his mood, perhaps by ruining that of another.
Or perhaps it was time to write another note to the managers about his salary…
AN: Sorry there's not much Erik, but there will be more coming up…lots more! Please review!