Author's Note: Phantom of the Opera belongs to Leroux, Webber, and others.
18
There was no such peacefulness deep within the catacombs of the opera.
Certainly, the Phantom's lair was perfectly quiet, but the serenity of the caves did not reflect the state of the Phantom's mind. The Opera Ghost's thoughts were in utter turmoil. He sat at his desk, staring at the model of Il Muto, his anger escalating no matter how hard he tried to stay calm.
Betrayal! How he despised the word. He had not believed Christine to be capable of inflicting such a wound. Fault lay with the Vicomte also; what right had that ridiculous boy to take his angel of music? Seething with fury, he grabbed a ceramic paperweight off the desk and hurled it at the stone wall. The smash of the shattered pieces hitting the stone floor was fairly therapeutic. Fingering the lasso tied to his belt, the Phantom lamented that he no longer had a readily expendable employee of the Opera Populaire; at this point the only thing capable of distracting him would be murder.
Pushing the chair back, he stomped over to the organ and sat down. Running his hands over the ivory keys, the Phantom willed himself to play, to compose, to channel his rage into his masterpiece. He shut his eyes and lightly pressed the keys. About a minute in, he realized that he was not playing Don Juan Triumphant, but the soft, simple chords of the song that Ms. Abbots had so mysteriously produced on the stage that morning. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
Abbots. He mulled the name over in his mind as his fingers coaxed the bittersweet notes from the organ. The girl was a mystery, never fully explained. He did not even know her given name, and he had far too many questions to count. How on earth had she convinced the managers to hire her so quickly? Granted, her work was so efficient that he had no complaints, but where had she come from? A young lady working in the set crew was a phenomenon that the Phantom had neither seen nor heard of before. What qualified her to do manual labour rather than perform? Why had she been able to mimic his speech before the words had even crossed his lips? And most disturbingly, why was his face in her sketchbook? Not once, but multiple times his image had appeared in the creamy white pages.
When he had seen the image of himself unmasked, his first instinct had been to tear out the page and destroy it. To tear it up, to set it on fire, anything that would erase all evidence of its existence. But the workmanship stayed his hand.
The drawing was in colour, and accurate enough to be a photograph. Every detail of his face had been carefully captured, and the proportions were practically perfect. But his likeness was smiling, grinning at something the viewer could not see. The image had looked so happy that the Phantom had stared at the coloured drawing for many minutes before turning the page to an even stranger picture – him, with arm around Christine, standing with Raoul de Chagny and an older gentleman whom the Phantom did not recognize. The black and white figures smiled at the Phantom from within the page.
The representations of him were so oddly intriguing that the Phantom was hard pressed to be angry, and they were so beautifully drawn that he could not bring himself to destroy them. Leaning back in his chair, the Phantom considered the sketchbook thoughtfully. She was a very skilled artist, and evidently a hard worker, and though she knew who he truly was, he could not afford to get rid of her. So he had simply returned the sketchbook to the empty dorm before going to interrupt the performance.
Now, as he recalled all this, he realized that the situation could work to his advantage. A very faithful assistant could be created if he played this right. Her art skills and her background role in the opera could be just what he needed…
"Erik?"
The Phantom lazily turned his head and saw Madame Giry standing next to one of the secret passages. The ballet mistress was staring at him intently, her hands on her hips. "Antoinette!" the man greeted, sitting up and folding his hands casually behind his head. "How lovely of you to visit! You enjoyed the performance, I trust?"
His friend shuddered at the morbidity of his statement before she replied. "God knows we needed to be rid of Buquet, but could you not have disposed of him without scaring my dancers half to death?"
"They were frightened," the Phantom mused. "Good."
"They were more frightened for Mademoiselle Abbots' safety than of Buquet's corpse," Madame Giry corrected, rolling her eyes at his pleased look.
"Ah, yes, how is Mademoiselle Abbots?" the Phantom sneered. "Safe, I presume?"
"Surprisingly calm, after a shock like that," Madame Giry admonished. "She thinks you want to kill her."
"Why in hell would I want to kill a young girl?" he growled, disgusted with the very idea.
"Maybe because she knows too much," Madame Giry shrugged, not meeting his eyes.
"Because she has somehow seen my face?" he demanded. "And she knows it so well that she has multiple drawings of it?"
Madame Giry stayed silent.
"She tried to talk to me, Antoinette," Erik continued. "When I stopped her from falling last night, and this morning in the theatre, she knew I was there. Strange, isn't it? She seemed to sense exactly where I was. Who is she, Antoinette, and why does she know so much?"
"You have to promise you will not harm her," Madame Giry insisted.
Erik glared at her. "I already stated I do not murder little girls," he hissed. "Now, who is she?"
Madame Giry bit her lip. "She is Canadian," she began simply. "But from a different time, and apparently a different world."
"What?" Erik spat.
"All of this, this opera house, this… story, she calls it, is a legend where she comes from," the ballet mistress explained haltingly.
Erik rubbed the bridge of his nose. "What kind of evidence does she have to prove this?" he asked tiredly.
"She knows how we met and what I saved you from," Madame Giry listed. "She told me all about the caravan and the gypsies, and that you live under the opera house. She understands that you should be treated with extreme caution; you should see the trouble she takes to do everything perfectly."
"An intelligent girl," Erik commented. "Unlike the majority of your corps. Anything else?"
Madame Giry smiled, ignoring the barb against her dancers. "She described your mask – white porcelain worn on the right side – and informed me that the opera you are writing is titled Don Juan Triumphant. That is correct, is it not?"
Erik nodded mutely. He had told no one the name of his masterpiece.
"And she believes, and I quote, 'he is a genius in every sense of the word, he loves box five for some reason, and he dresses with more class than any man I have ever seen'. And though she has evidently seen your deformity, she told me she thought you quite handsome." The ballet mistress grinned at Erik's perplexed expression. "She was also aware that you take the role of an Angel of Music and that you are teaching Christine…"
As the final word crossed Madame Giry's lips, Erik picked a candlestick off the top of the organ and hurled it at the wall. It hit the floor with a satisfying metallic clang.
"What happened, Erik?" Madame Giry sighed.
"Do not speak of her," Erik snarled, tightening his hands into fists to keep from slamming the keys of the organ.
For a long moment neither of them spoke. "What are your intentions for Kayla?" Madame Giry asked tentatively.
"Kayla… so that is her name," Erik mused. After another pregnant pause, he replied, "I will busy composing, so I plan to have Ms. Abbots create the set book for me. Besides that, she will manage the backstage as per her current occupation."
"Why?"
"I need to focus on my music," Erik murmured distractedly. "Ms. Abbots will draw according to my exact instructions, and no one shall be any the wiser that it was created by her and not me."
"You never did like to be dependent on anyone," Madame Giry ventured. "Why the change?"
"Curiosity," Erik said ruefully. "I have viewed her art, and I want to see what young Ms. Abbots is truly capable of."
"Well, she will be relieved that you do not want to kill her," Madame Giry laughed, turning to leave. "Goodnight, Erik."
"Excluding you and I, she is the one with the least to fear. Sleep well, Antoinette."
Author's Note: A bonus chapter for all of you awesome people! Do not fear, there shall still be an additional chapter up tomorrow. Just thought I might as well post a chapter today since I had a minute and - pause for dramatic effect - my classes end this week! Plus since it's December I'm super excited for break and Christmas and all that jazz, so maybe that Christmas spirit will lead to some bonus chapters for you, who knows. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favourited, or followed, and please feel free to continue doing so.
And just a response to my two guest reviewers, since I can't PM you guys:
E-man-dy-S: You are very welcome. Hope you enjoyed this one!
Guest: Yes, the matter of Kayla's phone being fully charged at all times... Let's just say her phone is going to remain in power stasis until she returns home. Or it's magical. Whichever explanation suits you. :)
So, one final question: I need ideas for how I should fill up the time during the "three months of Elysian peace". Three months is a huge amount of time to cover, so I'd appreciate input. Review or PM with ideas!
Thank you all so much!
Tierney