Christine jolted in her seat in her dressing room as the orchestra boomed out the opening strains of the overture. She was alone in her dressing room now, for the first time since...
For the first time since...
She couldn't control the shaking hand that she leaned her forehead into, her elbow on her vanity. She massaged her temples. The rush of confidence she'd felt just moments before vanished.
Without Raoul, Meg, Madame Giry, or Mamma Valerius by her side, Christine felt weightless, unmoored.
And frightened. Most of all, frightened.
She tried distracting herself smoothing out a wrinkle in the voluminous white skirt tied loosely around her breeches. She'd lost so much weight recently that the clothes hanged off her as they would if she really were a young boy, she thought ruefully.
She picked up her hand mirror and breathed in deeply. She looked hard into the glass, trying to will herself calm.
She would not look in the wall-mounted mirror anymore.
Christine closed her eyes and tried counting back from one hundred, a trick her father once taught her to calm her nerves.
"Christine, Christine..."
At once her eyes flew open, everything in her frozen. That...that wasn't in her mind. Oh, God, no, no, not again...
"You look lovely even in that undignified and unworthy get-up, my dear." She still couldn't believe the voice came only from behind the mirror – it circled her, surrounded her.
"Please...what...what..." She couldn't bring the question "what do you want" to her lips. It was too forward, too brusque. And she was afraid to stir his anger again, just afraid, afraid.
"Do not be nervous, my Christine. Are you downhearted because of your senseless demotion to the role of the wordless page-boy? Fear not, sweet one. It shan't be for long. Tonight will be the sequel to your great debut!"
"No...no!" She brought her hand mirror down with a crash, the glass shattering.
Meg rushed in at the sound, the upper half of her face almost submerged in the ridiculous large cap she wore for the show. Madame Giry loomed behind her, unnoticed.
Meg reached for the shaking, weeping Christine, pulling her away from the broken glass on the table. "Christine, what is it? What's happened?"
"It's him again, it's him!" Christine sobbed resignedly, her head back as she stood limply in Meg's grip.
"Shhh, shhhh," Meg calmed her, sitting her back down again. Once more Christine buried her head in the crook of Meg's shoulder. The little hand stroked her back. "Come now, come. Don't worry so! Mother and I will always be here for you." She tilted Christine's chin so that their eyes met. "And so will a certain someone else, too. A handsome sailor." Her eyes sparkled meaningfully, a lightly teasing smile on her face.
The tension seemed to drain from Christine's body as she returned the smile. It was shakier than Meg's, however. Still, Christine squared her shoulders, wiped her eyes. "I'll...I'll be all right. Please don't bother poor Marie about the glass, I can get it. Really, I won't cut myself. I'll be able to go on."
Giry watched as her daughter hugged Christine one more time.
The mother's lips were a hard tight line. Her eyes gleamed like fire as she stared at the mirror, imagining the dark figure behind.
Firmin and Andre were silently impressed from where they sat in the box adjacent to Box Five, watching the impassive figure of Raoul de Chagny as he sat with quiet defiance in the Ghost's box.
In truth, Raoul's mind was running faster than a deer through the wood.
He was a rare soul who was too intelligent and brave for his station. He'd have been better served were he allowed to fight his own way in life, using his sharp wit, his keen skills of observation, and his nerves of steel to advance.
Instead of scanning the crowd bored for the nobility present, or trading smoky smirks with the pretty ladies sitting across the way, he appeared to keep his eyes strictly on the stage. In reality, he watched carefully through the corner of his eyes every possible hide-away both in his box and around the theater, searching.
He'd failed Christine once, laughing off her story about the Angel. He would not make that mistake again. Oh, he didn't believe in an actual Phantom, but obviously some perverse, obsessed fanatic was running rampant. A stagehand, maybe...? That leering, lecherous old Buquet...?
His placement in the box was strategic. Instead of anxiety, what he felt now was a strange exhilaration.
He remembered her sobbing in the guest room at Madame Valerius's. Her fear and her utter vulnerability, contrasted with the strong grip of her hand on his.
There was fire in Christine Daae, but a tentative, uncertain one. The desire to shelter her conflicted with his desire to encourage her to stand tall, fight her foes.
But she was of no frame of mind to now. So her foe had become his. He would fight his foe and help his beloved. This was his solemn vow.
The lights dimmed. The opera began.
The audience murmured in anticipation of fireworks. Already the papers discovered Carlotta and Christine's rivlary (which in reality existed solely in Carlotta's mind). The house was now full, the onlookers excited to witness the two onstage, the sparks that would inevitably fly.
So far, both singers remained perfectly professional. A disappointment, but at least the opera was entertaining.
Meg was of course too swept up in the silent but ever-present role of the jeweler's assistant to make an objective assessment, but even so, she felt that maybe everything had worked out for the best casting-wise. As versatile a performer as Christine was, it was difficult for Meg to imagine her as the shallow and kittenish countess. Christine thrived in soulful, dramatic roles. Meanwhile, Carlotta with her glimmering, outsize personality fit the role of the countess like a glove. It was as if the role were written for her.
La Carlotta twirled around the stage in what Meg, with her love of all things pink and decorative, found a gorgeous gown, but people like her mother found groan-worthy and extravagant. Meg did wonder briefly how Carlotta was able to keep her head upright wearing that stiff white powdered wig as tall as a small hill.
"Serafimo – away with this pretense!" Carlotta saucily pulled away the loose skirt covering Christine, tossing it aside to reveal her breeches. The audience laughed at the reveal, at the masculine pose the delicate Christine struck.
Meg's eyes gleamed with pride from where she mock-giggled to the jeweler. Although Christine did excel in drama, she handled the subtler but more physical comedy of Serafimo beautifully. Her dancer's training suited the role to a tee, and maybe there was the touch of a dashing sailor about the daring smile and head toss she gave Carlotta...?
The philandering countess tickled her paramour with her fan, trilling with abandon. "If he knew the truth, he'd never, ever go!"
Suddenly a high, tight voice like a clap of thunder rained down on all assembled.
"DID I NOT INSTRUCT THAT BOX FIVE WAS TO BE KEPT EMPTY?"
A whoosh of stunned voices from the audience. Every neck in the theater twisted around in different directions, trying to spot where the eerie command came from. Raoul stood automatically, a look of steadfast concentration on his face.
Meg knew exactly where the sound originated from: the rafters, up near the chandelier. Did she see the shadow of a man there, just behind the chandelier's chain...?
"He's here, the Phantom of the Opera!" She couldn't help burst out, not that any of the other whispering and incredulous people present overheard her.
"Meg!" She heard her mother's voice hiss from the wings.
She blanched, expecting a round scolding for breaking character, even if the rest of the cast stared upward openly perplexed.
Instead, Madame Giry was actually beckoning her off the stage, her expression more fretful than Meg could ever remember it before. Not waiting a moment more, she hurried toward her.
Immediately Madame Giry pulled her to her side, her arms tight around her. The ballet mistress's eyes were locked on the chandelier, however.
From the stage, Meg could hear Christine announce as if in a daze, "It's him! I know it, it's him!"
Following the example of what she considered the cretins around her, Carlotta broke character by stomping toward Christine, pulling her back to the bed. "Your part is silent," she snarled. "Little toad."
The voice from above again, dripping with contempt. "A toad, Madame? Perhaps it is you who are the toad."
Madame Giry closed her eyes, muttering something under her breath. Then she turned to Meg. "Go and change for the ballet in Act III."
Meg was confused for a moment, but something in her mother's eyes made her nod quickly, then hurry off to the dressing room.
Madame Giry turned back slowly to the stage, watching with the helplessness of one stuck in a recurring nightmare, knowing what's coming but powerless to stop it.
The crew onstage managed to regroup, and start from the beginning of the countess's refrain. "Serafimo, away with this pretense! You cannot speak, but kiss me in my—CROOOOOOAAAAAACK!"
Carlotta's lovely hand clutched her powdered throat. Her eyes were circles of terror.
The sound she'd emitted was hideous, grotesque: a toad hopped in from a swamp.
The only noise now was his snicker, above.
All the pride and courage within Carlotta fought to the forefront now. She ignored the beads of sweat on her brow, the hammering of her heart, the whispers in the audience. Christine's gaping stare. Carlotta squared her shoulders and nodded to the conductor.
They hurried on. "Poor fool, he makes me laugh! Ha-ha-ha-haaa! Ha-ha-CROOOOOAAAAAK! CROAAAAAK! CROOOAAAAAAAK!"
As the croaking increased to the point where the audience wasn't sure to laugh or turn away, with Carlotta grasping for air, the manic laughter from above intensified. Christine paled, staring dead-eyed yet sympathetically at the valiantly struggling diva before her. Carlotta's face would have melted her harshest enemy.
Madame Giry slitted her eyes as the chandelier swayed menacingly back and forth, the light flickering, alarmed voices rising. "Behold! She is singing to bring down the chandelier!"
Her temper to her limit, Madame Giry was on the breaking point of striding forward and accosting that wretched voice, when a small "Mother?" made her turn around.
Her Meg stared with wondering, frightened eyes, craving comfort. The ballet girls were gathered behind her, the same look on their petrified faces. Meg looked like an angel in her pale green dress, a true country nymph.
My girl. So beautiful, so innocent.
Like magic, Madame Giry melted, and pulled her daughter to her once more.
Meg tentatively put a hand around her mother's waist, touched but not used to such a demonstrative display from her mother in public. From over Giry's shoulder, Meg could see Carlotta collapsing and sobbing in Piangi's arms, who was escorting her off the stage, murmuring sweet Italian words of reassurance in her ear.
The managers stumbled into the mother and daughter, looking as if they'd been struck by a passing train. Andre wordlessly opened his mouth once or twice before stammering out, "The ballet, Madame?"
Calm again, Madame Giry released her daughter and nodded gravely. "The girls are ready, messieurs." Nodding vacantly, Andre and Firmin trudged to the footlights to reveal the temporary change in program – after the ballet, Christine Daae would go on as countess.
The chandelier instantly steadied.
Meg furrowed her brow, staring at Madame Giry. "Mother, how did you know the ballet would go on now?"
She shrugged dismissively. "After working here as long as I and seeing what I've seen, you begin anticipating the next move in his ungodly, eternal chess match. Now go to places, all of you!"
Joseph Buquet enjoyed nothing more than his bird's eye view of the stage from the rafters overlooking the backdrops. He knew vaguely people mocked him, jeered at him, but here? Here he could laugh back, laugh at the blurry dark faces in the distance, sitting there and staring – and staring at what? Trash, that's what. Gaudy dresses and faces drowned in makeup, that's all.
His fleshy lips curled into a rictus-like smile as the ballet girls vaulted onstage in a confused rush, tangling their feet with the departing managers and gob-smacked singers still onstage. The Daae wench had called for her lover and then been dragged off by the Giry bitch. Now Buquet could look all he wanted at his dancers, at his little Meg.
He tilted his head, smile widening, eyes slitting. He liked the view from above particularly now.
How prettily she moved at the head of the line. Such a graceful dancer. Like a little porcelain figurine.
A thump jostled him.
He turned to see that pale blue eye again, glaring now out of that infamous mask.
Meg felt a giddy anxiety as she mechanically went through her steps, dancing around the clutter of props still not taken away from the last scene. Everything was so surreal. She had seen a lot in her years at the opera house, but never anything so blatantly hectic and disorganized. And in front of the audience, no less!
But her deeply ingrained professionalism guided her, and her lovely face showed only the thoughtless delight any nymph would feel, dancing gaily in the moonlight.
Until the moonlight flickered.
At first it was but a brief flash, nothing out of the ordinary on this chaotic night.
But then another, longer.
Meg couldn't help herself. She glanced behind her shoulder.
She danced out of step, immersed by the shadow show she saw on the lovely hillside backdrop.
A man leaning away with his lantern.
The face with its fedora again.
The music, her fellow dancers, everything shrank to a dull nothingness compared to the terror Meg felt.
Shadow of a noose.
A cape.
The man with the lantern again, lifting his other hand in self-defense.
Meg was dimly aware others were watching now, that she was not the only ballet rat stumbling and distracted.
The fedora, the face, and the noose once more.
Then the body dropped.
In the midst of her screaming, Meg thought in a detached, dream-like manner how pathetically and somehow comically small Buquet's body looked dangling dead there in its noose, compared to the shadows that had preceded him.