Author's Note: Everyone repeat after me: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera. Also, warning, Kayla swears briefly.
28
When Kayla woke up the next morning at seven thirty, she had to drag herself out of bed. She had slept in the French braid, and when she untied the ribbon, her blonde hair tumbled down her back. The locks did not reach their normal level under her shoulder blades, because the braid had curled her hair into short, wide waves. "I look like a poodle," she moaned to herself despondently, glaring at herself in the mirror. She took a cursory glance over at Christine and Meg. Golden and brunette ringlets cascaded smoothly over the white pillows, framing rosy cheeks, pink lips, and fluttering long lashes. Kayla frowned and turned back to the mirror, tugging at one of the accidental curls. "I am in a movieverse, can't I get some nice hair too?" she pleaded to the air. The blonde locks stayed crimped. She gave up on the powers-that-would-provide-beautiful-movie-looks, brushing her hair none-too-gently and piling it up into a messy bun on the top of her head. Rummaging through her trunk, she found her second pair of work pants, grabbed her bra and her navy button-up, and quickly changed. She stuck her phone in her back pocket and snatched her boots out from under the bed, pulling them on as she hopped to the door.
"What day is it?" she called softly to Jamie as he walked into the wings an hour later.
"It's Wednesday," Jamie replied, his long-fingered hands stuck in his vest pockets as he sauntered over to join her. Kayla was leaning against one of the beams of the set, peering out of the wings at the two prima ballerinas running through their solos on the stage. They had arrived about half an hour ago; in fact, Meg had accompanied her down to the stage from the dorms. Madame Giry and a male flutist observed from the orchestra pit, the soft shrill music echoing quietly around the dancers. Meg was shorter than her fellow lead, but was just as graceful, jumping just as high and stepping just as lightly as Gaelle. Kayla turned to look at Jamie. His brown eyes were following Meg appreciatively, a small smile waving from the corners of his mouth. "Your eager puppy-like behaviour is appalling," Kayla informed the chestnut haired boy teasingly. "You're drooling."
A tanned hand shot up to his face and felt around his lips. Jamie glowered and lightly punched her shoulder. "Am not," he protested childishly.
"I ship this," Kayla commented, grinning at the look on her co-worker's face as he was distracted by Meg leaping across the stage, her arms floating gently over her head as she kicked out her legs into the splits, hanging in the air for an infinite moment before landing silently and going straight into a spin. "You should go for it."
Jamie's eyes narrowed. "Do you use different vocabulary in Canada? Because I consider myself to be a rather intelligent gentleman-nobody, and I understood none of that," he said apologetically, glancing at Kayla briefly before his eyes locked onto the young Giry once more.
"I mean I want you two in a relationship," Kayla translated, making a mental note to stay clear of Tumblr talk. "Have you even talked to her?"
"We say hello when we run into each other backstage," Jamie shrugged. "We're kind of friends, I guess, not really, but we are friendly. Oh, and there was that thing you made me say… the pickup line?"
Kayla snickered. "Yes, that worked well," she laughed, waving at Meg as the dancer faced the wings momentarily. The golden-haired ballerina grinned back widely, blue eyes silently greeting both Kayla and Jamie. When she turned and pirouetted across the stage, Kayla could have sworn there was a noticeable lightness in her steps that had not been as clear before. A helpful burst of strength thanks to adrenaline, originating from the need to impress someone. It was a feeling Kayla knew well, thanks to her junior high and high school years as a volleyball player, when it was almost always guaranteed that there would be either recruiters or cute boys watching from the stands. Not that it had helped very much, in her case, and she had given up volleyball when it was made clear that the U of C varsity team was out of her league. Nevertheless, she still felt similar energy surges on occasion in the years since.
"Look at how light her feet are," Kayla muttered, gesturing at Meg's pointed, satin-shoed toes.
"Wonderful," Jamie murmured. "I mean, yeah, she's beautiful. I mean talented. As a dancer," he amended as Kayla raised one knowing eyebrow at him.
"Sure,"' Kayla smirked.
"Watching Mademoiselle Giry again, are we Blanchard?" Clemens exclaimed, appearing out of nowhere and slinging his arms around Jamie and Kayla's shoulders. The rest of the crew materialized behind him. "There's rehearsal today, at least for the dancers," the redhead recited proudly. "But Madame Giry apparently requested that we be there so the rats feel some more pressure. We don't have to move the big sets, but we have to adjust the smaller pieces and stage props, just to get them in the mood."
"How about the performers?" Kayla inquired. "Are they working today?"
"Private rehearsals, I thought? The chorus is with the vocal coaches, and Christine and Carlotta have apparently locked themselves in their own practice rooms on opposite ends of the Opera House," Clemens shrugged. "Madame Giry's starting full dance rehearsals at nine thirty, with the full orchestra starting at nine."
"I know it seems unstructured, lassie, but it's always different during performance periods," Claude added soothingly. "Just wait till we start rehearsing Faust, then you'll see what working at the Populaire is really like."
"Abbots can handle it," Jamie declared, nudging her.
"Half past eight now," Germaine mentioned, snapping open his pocket watch.
"Okay, let's get to it," Kayla announced, nodding. "Breakfast. Stuffing faces time, let's go."
The morning of rehearsals went quite smoothly. The only large prop they had to move was the bed, and they simply moved it into the corner of the stage, so the dancers would have room and the crew would not have to waste valuable time moving it all the way to and from its place backstage.
To say the ballet rats were pleased to see Kayla would be an understatement. They were bouncing around her like enthusiastic puppies. Because Madame Giry had decided that none of the hanging pieces were necessary for the rehearsal, Kayla stood in the wings opposite Box Five with Jamie, Baptiste, Germaine, and some of the rest of the crew; the others were in opposite wings, sticking out their tongues and making faces. Whenever the ballet rats were offstage, there would be at least five little girls clustered at her feet, fidgeting with the tulle of their practice tutus and jabbering at Kayla cheerfully. There were only a few stops for Madame Giry to correct technique and provide other advice. It was the calmest high-pressure rehearsal Kayla had ever experienced, and despite of the fact that there was a performance later on, there was an air of relaxed camaraderie onstage. Even the strict ballet mistress cracked the occasional smile.
The rehearsal was only about two and a half hours, the amount of time required made shorter by the lack of the songs and of Carlotta, who seemed to extend the length of rehearsals significantly due to her consistent tantrums. After the cast and crew were released, the ballerinas headed off to have lunch, while the set crew re-arranged the stage for Act 1 scene 1.
"Where are you going, Abbots?" Clemens queried, sounding slightly off-put.
Kayla turned back to face the rest of the crew, who were heading down the passage to the kitchens. "I have to go check something," she said, which was not technically a lie. "I kind of wanted to check that the key worked for the office." The latter was a lie; Madame Giry had slipped the, old-fashioned brass key into her hand as the older woman left the stage, and had informed Kayla that she had already checked on the office, and Buquet had not destroyed anything the night he died. Along with the brass key was a tiny one made of black iron, and Madame Giry had nodded her head in confirmation when Kayla had raised a questioning eyebrow. So really Kayla had no reason to go into the office. Guilt poked its sharp little claws into her stomach, but she shoved it down; this was Phantom business, and the less the crew knew about it, the better. "I'll be fifteen minutes, tops," she promised, grinning at her boys.
"She's a grown woman, she can take care of herself. Nothing to harm her here," Germaine agreed, slapping Clemens good-naturedly on the shoulder. Kayla's smile faltered.
"See you guys in the dining hall?" she proposed. With a chorus of approval and waving hands, the set crew made their way down the corridor, while Kayla ventured deeper into the shadows of the backstage. She scared herself a number of times, mostly when she spotted things out of the corner of her eye, such a plaster mannequin wrapped in a long black cloak. "Seriously people. It's like you want a horror movie to happen," she muttered to herself, keeping one eye on the silent statue. Drifting through the high shelves, she ducked past mannequins and props, her boot heels clicking on the wooden panels of the floor. It was eerie, especially as she could her the haunting notes of a distant viola, probably from one of the orchestra practice rooms upstairs. At least she hoped it was from the practice rooms.
She finally reached the furthest corner of the backstage, where a set of stone stairs descended into the depths, gold letters spelling out CHAPELLE over the narrow archway. She peeked around the corner. No one there, as far as she could tell. Kayla cautiously made her way down the steep steps. A frescoed angel presided over the front of the room, painted in fading pastel shades in an arched alcove above the altar. Two small, dusty wooden tables sat at the angel's feet, containing rows of candles and tiny portraits. To Kayla's left sat the almost depleted candle of Gustave Daäe, his brown eyes gazing solemnly out of the black and white photograph. On the other side was Monsieur Francois Giry, whose first name Kayla had not known until this very moment. His candle was practically new, the long, blackened wick peeking proudly out of the top of the smooth wax, but this was a recent addition, if the deep waves of shiny white around the base were any indication.
She swiveled on her heels, hands on her hips as she looked askance at the iron grillwork of the faux-window. Fishing the little iron key out of her pocket, she hefted it in her palm experimentally. The room was silent as a tomb; not exactly a comforting thought. She walked slowly over to the sill, the thump of leather boots on cold stone echoing up to the arched ceiling. Squatting down, she squinted at the swirls of black. There was no apparent keyhole – which was, she supposed, the whole point of this arrangement – and her brow furrowed in annoyance. Searching out a lock for a key smaller than the first digit of her pinky finger was going to make her job a whole lot harder. She ran her finger lightly over the bottom edge of the grate, but the metal was smooth and there were no divots. Cursing under her breath, Kayla began running both hands up the edges of either side. The keyhole was on the right hand side, about three quarters of the way up to the vaulted top of the iron work. She had to stand on the sill in order to fit the key into the lock, stretching her arm up and wrestling the tiny piece of metal into the hole. It was frustrating; she was a tall girl, and all five foot ten inches of her should be able to reach the lock no problem. The keyhole almost seemed to be mocking her lack of height. "I'm not short!" she hissed at the condescending metal frame. It would be easier for Erik, she supposed with a laugh. Gerard Butler, she knew, was 6'1, but she was not positive if the measurement would hold true here. But then again, Christine looked to be around 5'6, the same height as Emmy Rossum. Christine definitely would be unable to reach this lock.
With an impatient twist, the lock gave way with a loud click. The ironwork swung inward on creaky hinges. She stuck her head through and peered under the ledge. Squealing delightedly, Kayla crawled through and knelt on the light grey stone of the hidden inner hallway, pushing the ironwork slightly shut behind her, though careful not to lock herself in. Underneath the smooth overhang was a pile of art supplies, a pile of rough, creamy yellow newsprint, a thick stack of textured white watercolour paper, a cluster of brushes tied together with a black satin ribbon, bottles of black and red ink, ink nibs and their pens, moderately sized tubes of vibrant watercolours, and graphite sticks and dark wooden pencils stacked haphazardly on top. A white envelope with the distinctive crimson seal leaned against the wall of the little alcove. Snatching it up, she worried it open, not wanting to rip the note or ruin the seal.
Mademoiselle, the note read.
Here are the supplies you requested. I hope they prove useful to you. Now, I would recommend taking them into your office, though wait for a moment when you will not be seen. Such an excess of materials may prove difficult to explain, and it would not do for you to have any tangible connections with my work. You will leave your drafts here daily, and any future correspondence will be left under this alcove. A synopsis of the first scene is enclosed.
I remain, your faithful patron,
O.G.
She rocked back on her heels, beaming at the note. He was a cryptic bastard, but now he was her almost-friend-cryptic-bastard. "Hey, buddy, you here?" she whispered. Her whisper bounced alone around the cramped passageway. "Thanks," she tried again. Still nothing. She tore a piece off of a sheet of newsprint and grabbed a graphite stick and began to scribble.
Thanks bro, I'm looking forward to this. I might need a place to work though, so perhaps you could maybe find me a place where I can work and store my crap supplies? I'd say I can work in your lair but I don't know if you'd appreciate the overt invasion of privacy. ;) Maybe there's an unused practice room I can steal? Let me know either way.
I'm gonna leave the stuff here for now, cause I'm supposed to meet the crew. I'll try to pick it up after the show tonight, because I'm supposed to meet the crew in a couple minutes and there were rehearsals going on. But I'll ninja them out of here, you can be assured of that. (A ninja is sneaky double agent person from Japan. That's the best I can explain it without getting too in depth.) Lemme know about the secret art studio idea! And talk to me for heaven's sakes, I'll need the advice in person at some point!
Your partner in crime,
K.A.
P.S. Thank you for the supplies. I'm going to have so much fun.
She folded up the paper and scribbled "To O.G" on the front. She shoved the watercolours and the brushes into her pockets, thinking that she might as well lighten the load she'd have to carry later. Crawling back out of the faux-window, she awkwardly locked the gate again behind her. She jumped childishly off the sill, unable to keep herself from smiling. She grinned up at the ceiling. "Thanks again, if you're listening," she addressed the air. A faint chuckling sound wafted from somewhere, and she shivered. "Well okay, then, thanks for creeping me out, I'm going now," she stated firmly. She began to back towards the stairs.
"Kayla."
"WHATTHEHECKYPADALECKISONOFABITCH!" Kayla yelped, whipping around in the direction of the voice. Christine stood confusedly in the doorway of the chapel, wrapped in a wide skirted chocolate dress and a cherry hued cloak, snowflakes still hanging on for dear life in her dark curls. Realizing almost too late that she still had Erik's note in her hand, she did the only thing she could think of doing. Forced to hide it before her body turned to face Christine, she followed the only course of action that could possibly work. Kayla stuffed the Phantom's note into her bra. "Satan's grandmother, Daäe, you can't sneak up on me like that," Kayla gasped, her heart palpitating in her chest. "You scared me, my gosh…" She could feel stinging on her chest, and realized exasperatedly that she probably just gave herself a paper cut.
"What are you doing down here?" Christine questioned, her doe eyes narrowing.
"I could ask the same of you," Kayla breathed, her heart rate refusing to lower.
"I'm lighting a candle for my father," the soprano replied, gesturing at the little altar of melted wax.
"Right. Of course, sorry," Kayla apologized, tugging nervously on a strand of blonde hair that had escaped from her bun. She stepped out of Christine's way and strode toward the stairs.
"What were you doing down here?"
Kayla cast a glance back, meeting the eyes of the curious soprano. "A girl can explore, can't she?" she quipped, grinning teasingly, but she knew that it did not reach her eyes. The stage manager bounded back up the stairs, feeling the soprano's confused stare burning a hole in her back.
Author's Note: I almost didn't get this chapter finished, but I pushed through and did it! Thanks to everyone who favourited, followed, and reviewed. And to Guest, Samantha, E-man-dy-S, and thetasigma, thank you as well.
So, in addition to taking requests on events in Elysian Peace, I am also wondering about possibly starting another fic. Therefore, I am asking you, my readers, are there any other fictional worlds you would like to watch me explore?
Let me know what you think! Thank you all for being wonderful readers.
Tierney