~White Lily, Blue Ribbon~
The next morning, for the first time in his life, the Phantom of the Opera was woken by the sun.
He frowned in confusion, his eyes still closed, and seeing red through his eyelids. He rolled over to face the other direction, trying to ignore it, but the burning light still penetrated his drowsiness.
Finally, he could no longer stand it so he grudgingly opened his eyes, groggily muttering "But the room has no windows", rubbing his eyes as he rose.
Once his eyes had grown used to the light, he was able to determine the source of it. He sighed.
Of course.
It streamed in cheerfully through the clock face, the hands and gears casting long sharp shadows across the room. He stared absently at them for a moment as he cleared the cobwebs of sleep in his mind, then set it to work about how he would overcome this problem of being woken up early each morning by the light.
He found that he would easily be able to hang some of his heavier cloth from the rafter that ran just in front of the clock face, parallel to it, and so be able to curtain off most of the light. But first was first.
He went to work immediately, opening crates and removing their contents, placing them where they belonged. He worked on this for the remainder of the morning, and into the afternoon, scattering the empty crates here and about the room. He preferred a cluttered space to think and work in, he found it let his creative mind flourish. Slowly but surely the little room began to resemble more how the caves underneath the Paris Opera used to be.
He unearthed his old broken mirrors, and though they reminded him painfully of his last days in Paris, he was loath to part with them, so he aligned them along the length of the southern wall, similar to that of an arrangement in a ballet studio. He smiled, thinking of Madame Giry and her kindness to him through the years. The only true kindness he had ever really known. He sighed. Even she had feared him.
Time passed as he unpacked crates upon crates of sheet music, empty paper and writing materials, gathering the quills and ink bottles; the majority of them red, on his desk. He enjoyed writing in red ink, it intimidated the reader of the letter or if he was using it for notating his music, it gave the page an otherworldly quality.
He unloaded all his different fabrics nest, and in no time, was able to fashion a large, heavy pair of bottle green curtains blocking off the clock face, but rigged so that the pull of a chord would open and close them when he chose. He looked on his work with pride, once he had finished.
The other various fabrics were scattered about the room. Lastly he opened the crates that held his hundreds of candles and candelabras, and spent a few hours setting them up, about the room, in places where they wouldn't be at risk of setting anything on fire. Finally, he set the last candle upon the organ and surveyed the room, satisfied. Then he frowned. Something still annoyed him.
That was it.
He kicked at the dust that caked the floor disapprovingly, and the movement sent a little puff into the air. He would need to tend to this, but not today. He had one more thing he had to do today.
He moved into the centre of the room and knelt, brushing away dust with his gloved hands. Gradually the shape of a square began to emerge out of the dust, and a small metal circle. A keyhole. A smile graced his lips.
Just as Madame Giry said.
He inserted the gold key that had hung, unseen, on a chain around his neck and it clicked in the lock. The door swung easily up, revealing a dark tunnel that led straight downwards. Through the centre of the staircase, it went unknown. The Phantom grinned and swiftly lowered himself into it, swinging the door shut as he entered. He fell freely for a few moments then landed on a sturdy wooden platform, his boots making a satisfying thud.
He searched his pocket in the darkness and found a matchbox. He struck up a light, illuminating a pulley system and after a few moments of examining it, he found the right rope and unhooked it, slowly lowering himself down through the belly of the clock tower and underground. He stepped off the platform and found himself in a low, dark tunnel that stretched out before him in blackness. He had to crouch as he walked, and when he got to perhaps halfway the match flickered and went out.
"Dead air." He muttered to himself, annoyed. He had no choice but to press on in darkness, his hands feeling the walls either side of him as he moved.
In perhaps five minutes he reached a stairway that rose steeply upwards. He followed it, slowly and carefully as it climbed, turning short corners every now and then. He tried lighting another match, and it flickered into life, its light dancing about the cold brick walls and making it easier to navigate the stairs.
Eventually they came to an end.
The Phantom found himself at a very small wooden door, which had a lever, not a doorknob to open it. He pulled the lever downwards and the door moved aside.
He found himself in a fine, high box, overlooking the audience and stage. The brass sign on the door behind him read "Box Five"
"You have to be joking" the Phantom murmured.
He turned from the sign and was interested to see a cast and crew busily preparing for an Opera. There was much running about and shouting and instruments trying to play over each other as they waited for the cue to begin a specific song. A thought striking him, he glanced around quickly for any witnesses to his arrival in the box and seeing none, he turned back to examine the doorway through which he had come.
In the row of chairs in front of him one had sprung up to reveal a stairway that descended into blackness. He smiled.
Very clever.
He reached forward to pull the chair back down over the entrance when he heard a commotion from the stage far below. He went to the railing and peered curiously.
"NO! I WON'T! I WON'T!"
"Miss Evelyn, please," an anxious voice floated from the music pit. The Phantom looked on, intrigued. This voice seemed to belong to a rather frail looking old man with a scraggly beard, who stood in the conductors place with a violin and bow in his hands. He was rocking on his feet nervously.
"The Prima Donna requires-"
"The Prima Donna can go shove bar forty seven up her arse! I wont do it again!" This voice belonged to a young girl, of perhaps twelve years, who stood in the centre of the stage.
She had thick, straight black hair that was cut at her shoulders and shone under the stage lighting. It had a bright blue ribbon in it, with a satin sheen that glinted in the light and seemed to shine with all the colours of the ocean and sky. It was a fascinating colour, he thought. It brought out the blue of her eyes, a more light, pastel shade, but clashed horribly with the dress she was wearing. It was an ugly salmon pink, and fell in folds and ruffles that reminded the phantom forcibly of the fungi that grew on the cave walls in underneath the Populaire.
It did not suit the girl at all. It hung shapelessly around her petite figure – she was small in every way, her hands, her body, her heart shaped face with a small button nose and small but full lips. Her skin was a milky pale, except covered with a generous dusting of freckles. Her eyes however were not small, but huge; like wide, blue moons. At the moment her face was screwed up in rage.
'A singer?' thought the Phantom, blocking out thoughts of Christine that threatened to overwhelm him again. The old man continued.
"Just once m-"
"NO!" the girl's fists were balled in fury. Her accent was peculiar, the Phantom thought. It sounded as though it had once been cockney, but then through rigorous training gained a more proper, rounded accent, although there was a hint of cockney still. 'Curious…' the phantom mused.
"You will do as I request." came another, older and higher voice from the wings, and a woman strutted on-stage. The Phantom was forcefully reminded of la Carlotta. Her cheekbones were high and proud, her hazel eyes sharp and glittering with annoyance. Her pasty skin was a pale mask, her hair long and voluminous and the colour of copper. She would have been beautiful, had her nose not been seriously damaged from a breakage at some point recently in her life.
"And you will not curse in my presence again."
Somehow, the little girl, Evelyn's towering and commanding presence that had been there a moment ago now had vanished, and in it's place, a meek and shy girl bowed her head in a mark of obedience. The Phantom found himself disappointed, and wondering where all her force had gone so suddenly. She was a curious girl, he had never before seen such tenacity in one so young, certainly not Christine, who had been manipulated by every single person she encountered, including himself. The girl gave a tiny curtsy to the woman which confused him.
"Yes mother."
Ah.
"Sing the line again." The diva commanded. She turned to the conductor once more. "Maestro."
The old man raised his bow and violin, giving the musicians the universal signal to be ready. They raised their instruments in silence. Evelyn sighed. They began to play a soft but swelling opening that began minor, but then was raised to the major, and the girl began to sing.
Her voice was unlike Christine's, though it rose and fell just as easily through the difficult passages. While Christine's voice was bright, clear, and powerful, it sounded hollow at times. Evelyn's was different. It was not as powerful, but it had a very special timbre, warmer and in some ways, gentler.
When Christine hit a high note it demanded attention, but this little dark haired girl managed to somehow ease in to her high notes, no less sweet and somehow gentler on the ears. This seemed to come naturally to her for she was much more focused on the operatic gymnastics she had to perform through the quicker lines. The Phantom now picked up on her mistakes; she was sacrificing some of her notes to keep to the tempo and she was having trouble breathing correctly.
She reached the climax of the piece and was stopped by the conductor at a wave from the Prima Donna.
"You are coming up to the note; you must come down from over the note." She instructed, and demonstrated, repeating the line. It was clear in the little girl's face, that she could not detect any difference.
"WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?"
The Phantom shook his head. 'Come now Evelyn dear,' he thought, a little amused, 'You will ruin your voice if you keep shouting like this.'
"That is IT!" the Prima Donna cried, throwing her hands in the air in rage. "I refuse to teach this appalling child any longer! She does not take her part seriously, and she will not have her role ready in time for Opening Night next month, I," She gestured to herself "Will have to perform it!"
All eyes had been fixed on the Leading Woman as she made her declaration, but then turned to Evelyn when the girl snickered. She gave her mother an amused look.
"But your nose-"
The Prima Donna turned and slapped her child. A bright red mark appeared on the girl's cheek, as she glared in fury and shock at her mother. The Phantom frowned, a thundercloud falling over the visible half of his face. The Prima Donna leaned down until her face was only a few centimetres from her daughters.
"You will respect me." She breathed. Her skirts swished as she turned and exited, and the girl burst into tears and ran from the stage.
The Phantom stood silently in thought for a moment, brows furrowed. That, as he understood it, was not the way to treat a child, Madame Giry had shown him as much in her raising of Christine and Meg. More than that, the girl's voice was good, and with the right guidance-
No.
Angered at himself, he returned to the passage, pulling the chair violently down behind him, and swiftly descended the stairway in darkness.
He emerged in the clock tower, calmer now. He went to his organ and sat, taking off his cape and setting it on the stool beside him. He ran his fingers through his raven hair and sighed. He tentatively picked out a B flat major chord, changing to C major and then to D major.
Slowly he began to work in the melody he had imagined the night before, changing the chords to match Once he had it worked out, he elaborated and carried the theme, working in harmonies and counter melodies. At points the counter melody would clash with the main, but then he would resolve it with a cadence, and the piece became harmonious once more. The piece progressed smoothly. Up until he reached the bridge. He paused, frowning. He played the chord again.
No…
He changed the chord, moving it to the dominant, but it still did not sound right. He tried another but when that one sounded even worse than the last, he shut the lid in frustration.
He rose and stood beside the organ, and gazed past the curtains, through the clock face. The Royal London Opera stood proudly across the square, the sun setting behind it, casting bright reds and oranges across the sky, the likes of which he had never seen before. It was beautiful. He looked back at the opera house, which was dark against the light. He smirked. In a few short weeks he would have the whole opera house living in fear of him, and bowing to his every whim.
He moved to the thick gold cord, and at a tug, the velvety green curtains swung gently closed.
He would conquer them.