Paris, 1867
Gabriel Reyer shuffled through the stack of papers on his desk, trying to organize who was coming when for which interviews. Ever since the opera house started remodeling two years prior, the place had become a hectic blur of new staff members and promotions and the occasional messy dismissal.
Reyer's blood was particularly up because how efficiently he could prove himself now would surely lean him toward promotion instead of the other. He'd started out as a clerk before the opera house was redesigned, and now he was the secretary to the new manager, a pleasant but distant and troubled man named Lefevre. If he particularly pleased Lefevre, perhaps Reyer could finally be allowed near the stage, maybe as an assistant director, and then possibly finally as an actual stage direct—
"Blast!" He cried out as the papers spilled from his grasp onto the floor beside the desk.
"It would appear M. Lefevre's secretary is in need of a secretary," a cool voice spoke from the doorway.
He looked up. A woman was standing there. She gave one the impression that you should straighten your posture immediately and never look her in the eye. She seemed taller than she actually was due to her proud stance and bearing. Black was her main theme—black dress, black hat with veil, black stole, black gloves, black hair pulled severely back. She was pale but didn't seem naturally so, so that her complexion held an odd sallow glow. Her angular face could have been that of anyone from age thirty to fifty. Had her large dark eyes held any sort of softness in them, she could have been called handsome for all her stark features.
Overall she was an impressive figure, inspiring a nervous awe. Reyer's disposition, however, was to always tend toward prickly irritation, ignoring impressive figures altogether. "Do you want something, Madame," he practically spat out, rankled by her comment and the stress of his current occupation scooping scattered papers off the floor.
She removed her gloves, bemused smirk still on her face. "I have an appointment for the position of Ballet Mistress here. My name is Antoinette Giry."
Flustered and red, he returned to his papers, rifling through them. "I do believe you're early," he responded with tentative annoyance creeping into his voice when he couldn't find hers among the many appointment slips.
All at once Lefevre was there, more animated than Reyer had ever seen him, leaving his office and extending his hands toward Madame Giry. "Not at all, not at all! Madame Giry, yes?" Though his smile was wide and his manners ingratiating, both Giry and Reyer noticed the look of a frozen deer in his eyes.
Even the composed figure of Madame Giry seemed vaguely perplexed as he hurried forward, giving her hands a vigorous shake. "We have been expecting you, dear lady! You arrived from Brussels all right? Excellent, excellent. We have heard so much about you." He led her into his office, leaving his pestered secretary behind.
"Who do you mean by we?" Antoinette questioned once Lefevre shut the door.
He didn't respond, simply repeated what positive reports he'd heard of her, running his hands through his bushy hair. He seemed distracted, Giry noticed. He would not keep still, was asking if she wanted a drink, was opening and shutting the drawers in his desk, never truly looking at her. She ran her eyes over him. He was in his forties, or close to it. Pointed goatee, profusion of sandy hair that was beginning to gray.
There was a hollowed look in those eyes the few times she was able to look in them, dark circles underneath. This was how she knew the man was troubled. Deeply troubled.
She shifted annoyed in her seat. She was in no mood for nonsense.
"Might I inquire as to why your current dance mistress was dismissed? I'd read she'd been with the theater for twenty years."
He paused for a moment. Then he busied himself wiping some dust off his desk. "She was deemed unacceptable." Before she could pursue that line, he quickly blurted out, "Oh, you know how it is when a place is remodeled! Not only the structure, but the staff! The poor dear lady was simply too old and set in her ways. What we need," he said, at last taking a seat on the corner of his desk, fingers strumming agitatedly in his lap, "What we need is a fresh perspective for our choreography. Fresh blood as it were. Your resume speaks for itself, Madame!"
Instead of a resume, he pulled out a newspaper clipping from one of her performances. "A glowing review of you in a performance of Giselle in Frankfurt! Another but five months later in a theater in Milan! A few positions teaching poor children in Belgium and Switzerland before that, which is very nice…but surprising to picture such an elegant lady in such a rustic setting!"
"We do what we can only to survive," she said unromantically.
He cleared his throat. "And all this in just the space of but two or so years! You went from humble teacher to renowned artist in the blink of an eye! Remarkable, Madame. Just the sort of perseverance and talent we need here in the opera house. We can afford you living arrangements here that are most accommodating. Instead of placing our dancers in a boarding house, we've connected dormitories to the opera house with a corridor. Yours will be the most spacious flat, necessary with your little daughter in tow. Perhaps we may see her one day in our ballet chorus, eh?" His chuckle was too forceful, too rehearsed.
She raised an eyebrow. "Does that mean you are definitely offering me the position?"
He laughed too heartily again, slapping his knee in such an unnatural fashion that it was almost grotesque. "You are most charmingly direct, aren't you, Madame? Yes, we—everyone here at the Opera Populaire, that is—would be honored to include you in our ranks."
He stood, hands in pockets, frozen smile on his face. He acted as though the matter and the interview were concluded.
Madame Giry found herself perplexed again, and it was such a rare emotion it irritated her deeply. "But monsieur, don't you want to see me in practice, or discuss with me the matters of salary, of dance style, of"—
He placed his hand near her elbow, not touching it but with palm open in a way that suggested he wanted to lead her toward the door. "I trust you implicitly, Madame. I've heard such positive reports. As for compensation, well, we are quite generous here, I assure you."
She was almost to the door when she stopped him. "Monsieur, I insist at least on a tour of the theater I'm to direct in."
"Assuredly," he answered, steering her to the door again, opening it for her. "Monsieur Reyer will be pleased to conduct you."
Reyer, who heard this exchange, protested wordlessly, mouth open. His papers….
Lefevere bent down suddenly and put her hand almost to his lips—again, not quite touching. "Madame, a pleasure." He turned back to his office.
Giry was burning with displeasure at the hasty way she'd been offered the fate of one of the most famous ballets in the world and her quick dismissal from the office, but she was in no financial position to argue. She was just able to call out one more question. "Was it my friend and former employer Madame Valerius who recommended me to you?"
Again a moment's hesitation, hand on the knob. Haunted eyes criss-crossed around the room. He said at last with another false laugh, "It is embarrassing to admit, Madame, but I can't quite remember how it was we learned of you. It was probably just the glowing reviews I read in the paper. I'll have to check my files someday to verify. Good day!" He disappeared behind his slammed door.
It did not take much maneuvering on Giry's part to convince Reyer to leave her alone on her tour of the opera house. He hurried back to the office, determined to be everywhere at once, which he was sure would please the overworked Lefevre.
Giry examined the backstage, the dance studio, her future living quarters. Construction was still underway, and with her dancer's nimble grace she was successfully able to dodge laborers with their heavy planks and carpets.
She stood now on the grand stage.
She looked out at the velvet seats, the slanting gilded banisters lining the balcony above. The royal purple color of the curtains and long silken tassels looked overtly Oriental in design. She liked it. She recognized the architects were brilliant men, melding the classical and the modern perfectly in their redesign of the opera house.
She liked sparse things by nature, so there was one point she was wary of: the over-reliance on gothic sculptures such as the gargoyles lining the rooftop and the somehow menacing-looking cherubs perched on the edge of the box seats. However, she'd never stood on such a perfect stage. It was vast and the wood beneath her heels felt strong and sure, no splinters.
Most mesmerizing of all was the large, ornate chandelier that hanged majestically over the seats. Polished and sparkling, it gleamed an ominous golden-red in the dark.
She breathed in the vague scent a theater always has, of pressed velvet and polished wood. Her career was settled then. No more hopping from place to place; her daughter would have a home now. An odd one, to be sure, but conventionality was never to Giry's taste.
She stiffened suddenly. She glanced down into the steep orchestra pit. Was someone down there, singing? She heard singing. She looked to the left, and to the right. Nothing in the darkness.
The voice….
The voice was moving….
She glanced to the left. Her gaze landed on the box nearest to the stage, separate from the rest. A golden number five was above it. The singing settled there.
She knew what was happening without realizing it. She felt herself moving backstage, up the stairs, and through the doorway into the foyer, the voice louder and louder until she finally entered the box.
The voice was all around her now. Her heart beat wildly, yet no one was there, of course not, because it was—no, it can't be, it can't—she gasped as the words transitioned into another song. A song she knew too well.
Though the voice sang in a tongue foreign to most Europeans, she understood it perfectly.
"Look at your face in the mirrors…they are there inside!"
"The Ballad of Mirrors," she whispered faintly, her body quivering, her senses pounding.
With cat-like reflexes, she knew he was finally there. She turned around and he stood behind her.
She would not have recognized him were it not for his mask. It was a different mask than the silk one from court. No, this half-mask was finely made, out of what looked like molded leather combined with paper-mache. A tin alloy, perhaps, was used to make it shine like porcelain, elegant and austere. Like the rest of him. He had hair now, rich brown, clean cut, and slicked back. A wig. He was dressed in coat and tails, and was taller and more muscular now. A man.
"Erik," she said weakly.
With the familiar lewd sneer, he swept his cape over his arm as he bowed. "Bonjour, Anahid."
Then he flew at her and she felt him press something damp against her face.
Julien was stroking her hair, staring at her with such intense reverence she felt her heart twist painfully.
"Anahid…" he whispered, lost in the sight of her. He buried his face into her shoulder and murmured against her neck, "Anahid…."
"Anahid. Wake up, Anahid. Or shall I say Madame Giry now? Were you ever Madame Girard?"
Her eyes flew open. She was lying on some soft padding. There were long black wooden panels to the sides of her—
A coffin. She was lying in a coffin.
With that startlingly morbid realization, she shot up into a sitting position. Erik loomed over her, cat-like smile on the half of his swollen lips she could see. "I apologize for the unsettling bed, but I have no other currently. I get so few guests." The eerie laugh that still haunted her nightmares returned as he expressed glee at his own joke.
As she massaged away the rest of the chloroform pounding in her temples, she assessed her surroundings. Everything was cool, dark. There were only a few candles lit here and there, allowing her glimpses of a spacious lair with minimal furniture. An ornate throne was situated a few feet in front of the coffin. At the other end, where the candelabra sat, was a pipe organ.
Twisting around, she gasped as she took in the dizzyingly long portcullis that served as the gateway to this strange abode. Squinting, she could just make out that…that lake there in the darkness. An old-fashioned gondola was moored on the concrete bank.
"Welcome to my home, five cellars beneath the opera house!" He announced, spreading out his arms theatrically. He threw his cloak onto the organ bench. "To celebrate, won't you have some port? You are my first visitor, after all." Another grim chuckle.
Her mind was still swimming a little. "Yes."
He looked at her quizzically amused. "You will join me?"
She wrinkled her brow, shaking her head, trying to recall... "No…I meant yes, I did become Madame Girard. The first thing we did once we crossed the border into Bulgaria was marry with our own names. In a swift, secret ceremony." She shook out the rest of the fog in her eyes. "Then we took our assumed names once we reached Belgium."
He said nothing, simply stood there, smiling.
She stepped out of the coffin, and he was impressed how whatever had transpired in the past four years increased the impassive expression she schooled her features into.
At last she spoke. "I did not think to ever see you again."
He shrugged carelessly, brushing away some lint from his elegant sleeve. "I don't suppose I'd given you much thought at all until I decided the time was right to hire a new ballet mistress."
She betrayed no sign of surprise at his statement. "You are working with M. Lefevre, then?"
He threw his head back and howled with laughter. She was tempted to hush him like old times, then realized there was no need to down here, so cut off from all prying eyes and ears.
He stared out from behind his mask with searing amusement. "Me, working with that ludicrous man? He is but my puppet, my lackey. I am no man's lackey now." His tone turned ferocious. "And I am not 'Erik' anymore. That creature is dead. I am the Phantom of the Opera!"
He pronounced it with more pride than even Naser had his title of shah. Giry would not allow Erik the pleasure of seeing her cowed by such a ridiculous moniker, so the only change in her expression was a skeptical quirked brow. "The Phantom of the Opera? How quaint. And how…?"
"And how did I earn this lofty position, you ask? I shan't bore you with details, dear lady. I'll only tell you that once M. Lefevre bought the opera house and was seeking contractors to redesign it, I offered my services, providing leverage with certain…information I gathered about his last business venture."
"Extortion, how lovely. And your terms included carving out a space of your own down here?"
"Exactly. And that he value my input when I see fit to impart it." The jerk of her features betrayed her momentary discomposure when all of a sudden that damnable Punjab lasso was again in his hands. "I have other methods to put him in line with when the prospect of his shady past dealings doesn't seem so horrible as the things I ask."
She closed her eyes. "Oh, Erik, I intended a fresh start for you."
She stepped back as he suddenly lunged at her, exposed side of his face contorted with fury. "Intentions! Intentions! I spit at your good intentions! All your intentions have ever given me is taking me back where I first started when I left home at eight years old: a freak to be gawked at and then abandoned."
She was fierce too. "But Julien and I didn't abandon you! You were the one to leave us!" She recalled the empty road to Bulgaria on board that merchant's cart. She and Julien were sitting in front with Erik in the back. A stop to feed the horses, and when Anahid checked he was gone.
She grabbed his arm now, shaking it, pretense of impassivity gone. "Why did you run away, Erik? Why?"
Though his half-face was empty of emotion she recognized in his tone the boy that rescued the songbird. "On your own, you and Girard had a chance. But with me and my miserable excuse for a face? The odds were not in your favor."
A short silence prevailed. Before a true sad smile reached her lips, the mocking darkness returned to his expression. "Not that my sacrificial act did poor Julien any good in the long run. Or shall I say 'Jules'? That was the name he went by, correct?"
She had by now emptied her own face again of any softness. "Yes."
"Julien Girard to Jules Giry. I must say, not the most original switch. Weren't you two worried at all that his government and yours may not be so easily bamboozled?"
She gave a slight shrug. "In all honesty, we knew that as long as we kept silent and out of political sight, our governments were perfectly willing to turn a blind eye. The arrests of two previously loyal agents so close to their countries' courts would serve as a national embarrassment more than anything else. The only real trouble was getting out before Naser's assassins could reach us. Once we were out of Persia and the countries surrounding it, we didn't worry too much about how closely our new identities hewed to the old. Antoinette has a similar cadence to Anahid, I liked it, and so there you are. We took our chances at a normal life."
He was leaning against the pipe organ now, arms crossed. "He working as an accountant and you teaching dance to slum children just outside Lomme, you mean?"
"You certainly know everything, don't you?"
"Yes," he said frankly. He turned serious and his voice quieted. "Except for one thing. Was Julien's death really an accident?"
Her expression didn't change, but her lips whitened and her eyes dimmed. "Yes," she said truthfully. "At least as far as I know." She laughed humorlessly. "In a way I almost wish it hadn't been. Then it wouldn't be as senseless as it was. At least he died a hero, pushing that old couple out of the way before the carriage hit."
"How touching," Erik said bitterly.
"Look," she stormed, composure and patience gone at any perceived jabs at Julien. "I've humored you enough. Why did you really want me here?"
He shrugged. "Like I told you, we need a new dance mistress. Since your husband's death, I've been following your career and I admire your gumption, though I must say, any linguistic expert could sniff you out in a second. Your accent is too precise, too obvious; you must learn to restrain yourself. But ah, I've offended you!" He pretended to look abashed as she bristled. "Let me instead return to flattering your ingenuity. What an image you've cultivated! Antoinette Giry, striking young widow who's danced in opera houses all over Europe with Madame Carina Valerius's famous dancing troupe, making your debut in Belgium, in Italy, in Austria! Tell me, what motivated you to leave that all behind, eh?"
"I've earned enough now to seek something more...stable. After all, I never intended to lead such a globe-trotting life once I left Persia. But we do what we can"-
"—Only to survive, I know. I heard you say that to Lefevre." At her questioning look he said emphatically, "It will do you well to remember that I have my eyes and ears open everywhere around my opera house." She noted the "my". "That will serve you well in your career here."
"Listen, Erik. I'm not sure I feel comfortable about this situation. I don't think it's a good idea. I'm not taking the job."
"Yes, you are," he said calmly.
"Oh? And what makes you so confident?"
"That I know you are Anahid Girard née Najami."
The blood rushed to her head but before she could explode he continued. "If I turn you in, even as embarrassed as the government is, they'll have to arrest you. If you at all try to turn the tables and accuse me, I have mastered the art of escape so well I could elude the authorities in a heartbeat. You, however, might just wriggle out of a death sentence, but in the meantime…what will become of your little daughter?"
His quick reflexes caught her hands just before the fingernails clawed at his face. Secretly he was unsettled seeing Anahid, always so staid and composed, wrestling in his grasp, face like an enraged tigress's.
"Monster!" She spat. "Mention my daughter again and I'll"—
"You will do nothing," he yelled, throwing her away from him forcefully.
They both stood glaring at the other, breathing labored.
At last Erik spoke. "I need someone I can trust to do my bidding. Someone who is not a frightened buffoon like Lefevre. Someone I can show this place to in case of emergency, who is familiar with my architecture and can recognize a trapdoor, see themselves through a labyrinth. You possess all these qualities, Anahid. But I must be sure of you, and this is the only way I see how."
There was such sickened loathing in her face he felt an ache. "Such low, contemptible"—
"I will watch over her."
She froze. "What?"
He stepped forward tentatively, watching her reactions closely. "Your daughter. I will watch over her here." Before she could jeer at his offer, he continued. "Think about it, Anahid. You are a widowed woman with no friends, no family. A dancer. What sort of future do you think awaits your child?"
She said nothing.
"Knowing you, you've got her dancing already. All right, very well. Bring her here. Get her started in classes. As she grows, I will watch over her, make sure no harm comes to her, ensure no rich count without any morals goes near her."
"Getting fatherly, are we, Erik?" She asked sardonically. "You're not even twenty, I'd wager."
"Yes, nineteen. Please don't mistake this as any genuine concern for your brat. What should I care for her? But just as I have my lasso to secure Lefevre's obedience in case extortion fails, you have my oath to protect your daughter in case extortion fails for you. You refuse, I go to the police and you lose your freedom and her in one fell swoop."
She wished she still carried her dagger concealed on her ankle. She would gladly, gladly gut him where he stood. However, one long deep look she gave him revealed there was something akin to…regret, sorrow in his rich brown eye.
Either way, she was trapped. "I suppose you win for now, Erik," she said resignedly.
He clapped his hands, the theatrical madman again. "Excellent, excellent! Come, I'll escort you above. I want you to memorize the route to and from my establishment, just in case you ever need it, you understand. Then a tour of the dressing room mirrors and the trapdoors, though they all haven't been built yet. It's a nuisance I will have to rebuild once the war with Prussia begins, since I'm sure their army will try to take such an ingeniously designed palace down a peg or two- yes, Anahid, I am sure that's what it will come down to in the end, mark my words and see if I'm wrong. Anyway, here's my boat!"
Madame Giry returned to her hotel late at night, exhausted both physically from the detailed guided tour Erik had given her and emotionally from…from her whole life, really.
"How is she?" Giry asked the daughter of the concierge who agreed to look after the child.
"She is sleeping, Madame. Such a sweet girl!"
Giry couldn't even spare a weary smile. "Thank you. You may leave." She handed the young woman her fee and the girl curtseyed, letting herself out.
Like one dying in a desert who sees water ahead, Giry rushed to her daughter's room.
She stood over the bed, looking at the strawberry blonde curls spread over the pillow, the small face turned to the side, mouth partly open and eyes gently shut.
Giry knelt beside the bed. With a feather light touch she stroked her daughter's hair. Meg. My little Meg.
Just Meg was all she was. Not Marguerite, not Marjorie. "I had a nurse when I was little," Julien said out of nowhere one evening as he fixed the cushions behind his pregnant wife. "Meg was her name. I never knew what Meg was short for. I'm not even sure what her background was, so it could have been a French Marguerite or even an English Margaret. All I know is that woman raised me from a babe to a young boy, was the only true kindness and motherly care I received in my household." His eyes were gloomy. "Then I was sent away to boarding school. When I came back, Meg was gone. I asked Mother and Father, and they shooed me away saying I had no need for a nurse now so she was dismissed. But to where? How should they know, they argued, it wasn't their business to know every detail about a former employee's life. They'd never even bothered to learn her last name."
He frowned. "Suffice to say, I never saw her again. But I swore one day I'd honor her." He looked at his wife, his hand on her stomach. "I know just plain 'Meg' isn't the most elegant name for a child, but if we have a girl"—
Her hand covered his. "Meg is a noble name. I should be honored if our child bore it."
Two months after Meg entered the world her father left it.
Giry smiled at the tiny toe shoes in the corner. Erik as always was not wrong. Yes, Meg was dancing. But it was little Meg's own idea. It had been one of her first requests once she could form full sentences, having grown up in her three years watching her mother dance from the wings of various opera houses across Europe to support her one treasure.
Meg's safety was the one sole point of her mother's life. She was worried before the child was born that her Persian heritage would appear too overt to go unnoticed, but once she saw the shock of fair reddish-blonde hair and pale skin she was comforted. After all, her own mother had been a redhead with fair coloring, and Julien assured her everyone in his family shared his blonde coloring, especially his petite young petted sisters he'd left behind when his family disowned him, and again when he went into hiding. Though such coloring was not uncommon in Persia, it would still do much to convince outsiders that Meg was fully European.
"My Persian yellow rose," Jules Giry said, touching his daughter's hair for the first time.
Madame Giry continued gazing at her daughter. She'd never loved anyone or anything as much as this child. What she felt for the girl twitching restlessly in her sleep was beyond what she once thought was the normal human capacity. Not even her vast love for Julien touched the all-encompassing devotion she felt for Meg. The child was quite simply her soul.
She pressed fervent lips to her child's temple, closing her eyes. "I will keep you safe, Meg," she whispered. "I will always keep you safe."
I'd like to give a shout out to tumblr users rjdaae, pleading-eyes, fdelopera, princeofconjurers, hopsjollyhigh, and neimhaille for helping me figure out what materials Erik's mask might be made out of. I kind of used an amalgamation of all you'se guys' suggestions. Oh, and an extra thanks to fdelopera for some historical info. If anything in these past chapters and the next has passed historical muster, it's thanks to this fabulous user.