Chapter 27

"You're still sleeping?"

I had heard Madeline enter the cavern, but made no attempt to appear the least bit awake or coherent. Belly-down in bed with the covers up to my chin, I was well aware that she was going to stay and make as much noise as possible until I joined her for breakfast.

"What time is it?" I groaned.

"Almost noon," she huffed.

I would like to think all of the time spent underground gave me good reason to sleep at odd hours, however, for the last month I had spent most of my time elsewhere in the theater and saw a surprising amount of daylight thanks to doors left open for deliveries and a rooftop that was never occupied.

I rolled onto my side and stretched. I had fallen asleep some time after ten in the morning, which meant I had less than two hours of sleep.

"You are like a lazy tom cat," Madeline admonished.

I smiled, thinking of how I had come across a lazy orange tom cat with chewed up ears and more than a few battle scars, relaxing in the sunlight a few days previous. The cat had sauntered over, sniffed me, and gave me a head butt to the shin before he rubbed his body against me and purred. I had envied his sunbathing, and if the delivery carts hadn't bumbled noisily down the alley, I probably would have joined my new friend for a while and stretched out in the sun.

"Am I needed?" I asked. I yawned, sat up, and found Madeline standing over me. "Did the Emperor of France send for me?"

"No, I did," Madeline replied.

"Even better." I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and gave a bow, which earned me a light slap against my upper arm followed by a soft chuckle.

Once I stood and met her eye, I thought of the last time I had seen Madeline, how she had sat with me until I cried myself to sleep. I wondered if she thought of the same thing, but it didn't show on her face.

Madeline tucked her hair behind her ear, then grabbed me by the wrist. "Do you want to eat something or not?"

Madeline was unaware of my excursions, which meant she did not know I had stuffed myself like a calf about to go to slaughter. Since she had gone through the trouble of bringing me food, however, I obliged and asked for a moment of privacy to dress and take care of my very full bladder.

We ate a small meal, Madeline brought me more soap to launder my own clothing as well as some other items she had bought while out at the festival.

"He is gone then? What was his name? Giry?" I asked, making every attempt to sound disappointed on her behalf.

She nodded sullenly. "Yes, Gaetan Giry left two days ago. I apologize for not stopping by to see you yesterday, but I would not have been good company."

I nodded, silently wondering if I had ever provided decent company to anyone at all. The last time I had seen Madeline I had most certainly had been intolerable.

"I've kept busy," I said with a shrug.

"I am sure you have."

Madeline eyed me as she straightened her cup of coffee and scraped dirt off the table with her fingernail. I looked away from her, my gaze trained on a knot in the wood. My heart thudded and I was certain someone had found my note in the servants' hall. Rumors were spreading and undoubtedly every chorus girl shrieked that the ghost was back and ready to swallow children whole.

"I am very tempted to start cleaning up after you," Madeline said at last. She arched a brow and took a sip of her coffee before surveying the cavern. "But I will not meddle in your space."

I followed her eyes and grimaced at the disarray of boxes, scattered music, and an unfortunate amount of clothing and a towel or two I had not bothered to pick up from the ground.

Pigs in styes lived better than I did. Rats in holes were more tidy than me. I looked around as though noticing my surroundings for the very first time.

"I see," I mumbled. I started to think of an excuse for my disorganized lakeside abode, but Madeline folded her arms and gave me a stern look. It did not matter if I had never had a proper bed of my own; I needed to make mine, pick up all of my clothes, sort and stack all of the boxes, and keep my music organized.

"I knew you would."

Madeline relaxed and gave me a gentle nod of approval. She placed her hand over mine and smiled. "I must be off to rehearsals. Carlotta Vicari is scheduled for the matinee on Saturday. I do hope she's ready." Madeline gave a dramatic, world-weary sigh and shook her head.

"How is she?" I asked. "Compared to Cathedra?"

"No one compares to Cathedra." Her tone was somewhat mocking, but I didn't argue. In my mind, no one did compare to Cathedra, both on and off the stage. I was her ghost and I felt as though she was my soprano.

"Yes, but...is she any good?"

"She is very good," Madeline admitted. "But she is not as good as she thinks."

That had been my opinion as well. I hoped for Carlotta that she would eventually fill the shoes she thought fit her already.

Without asking, Madeline began picking up sheets of paper and neatly gathering them into a pile, which she handed to me before taking another long look around. I had never felt more like a child admonished for my untidy room than I did in that moment.

To soften the blow, Madeline squeezed my shoulder. "I will see you after the show tonight."

I nodded. I intended to be there under the stage, listening to every sweet note Cathedra sang. I feared it would be one of her last.

oooOooo

I lost interest in cleaning up my disastrous apartments about eight minutes after Madeline left. Every article of clothing was removed from the floor or the backs of chairs and neatly folded and returned to the dresser if it was clean or placed into a basket for washing later. Once that dreadful task was finished and I realized the mess seemed overwhelming still, I felt quite discouraged.

With no desire to complete the task at hand, I dragged myself around the open space and groaned before I flopped onto my bed and stared at the ceiling. Really, I saw no point in continuing with stacking the boxes since I would sort through them again in a day or two. What did it matter? It didn't.

My heart began to race as I thought of my note to Cathedra lost somewhere between the chapel and the stairs leading to the cellar. Even though I wasn't sure of the distance, I felt as though there were miles between the chapel and the cellar stairs. Being that it was the middle of the day, there was no way for me to retrace my steps without being seen as the cleaning staff, seamstresses, and an assortment of other people employed within the theater would be bustling about.

Recovering the note was well out of my control, but that did nothing to ease my anxiety. I sat upright and walked back to the table where my violin sat neglected in a shrine of music I had not yet played.

It had been a matter of days since I had last played. I thought of bringing it with me the next time I walked to the chapel and asking if Cathedra would like to hear me play, but I did not want to be presumptuous. There was also the matter of drawing attention to myself.

I thumbed through the sheets, realizing there was really no order to the way I had piled the different compositions. In the back of my mind I could see both my uncle and Madeline standing side by side, both with their arms crossed as they shook their heads at me.

Vivaldi's concertos became my source of amusement for the better part of the afternoon, mostly because there was a box of his music labeled one hundred and nine to one hundred and forty-three. Playing his exuberant, almost playful music lightened my mood. When I closed my eyes, I could see my uncle sitting in the tall grass, the sun shining down on him, a smile on his lips as he nodded and encouraged me to continue playing.

Seeing the tremendous body of work Vivaldi had created in his lifetime made me want to compose my own catalog of music. Perhaps I was no Verdi or Mozart, but at the worldly age of thirteen I was confident in my ability to write music worthy of being heard for centuries to come. I smiled at the thought, placed my violin carefully in the box, and sat at the table with a jar of ink and pen to write my first symphony.

I have no idea how long I sat staring at the mocking blank page, but it felt as though I had aged at least a year. The middle of my back and between my shoulder blades turned into painful knots and I stood, twisting and stretching until I worked out the worst of the kinks.

Mozart wrote twenty-two operas in his lifetime, which was not nearly as impressive as the forty Vivaldi wrote, but of course Mozart had written ten as a teenager. What had I written? Nothing. Not even my name across the top of the page.

I placed my hands on my hips and began to pace, frustrated that music did not flow through me with the ease of water through a stream. No, a stream was not ambitious enough. I wished to be a wide, roaring river alive with inspiration. I wanted to be swept away in sweet melodies, nearly drowned in my own measures.

But there was no forcing genius. There was no forcing a bumbling melody, either, I discovered. Notes refused to be plucked out of thin air.

"Why is this so difficult?" I muttered under my breath. Mozart began composing at the age of six, damn him, and here I was without a single note committed to a blank page. Twice his age, none of the talent.

You are not Mozart, I could hear my uncle say. Do not compare yourself to him. Do not compare yourself to anyone, my son.

I snorted at the voice in my head. "I could be better than him," I whispered to the dark lake. If only the music would cooperate.

I could imagine my uncle chuckling at my pompous words. He would have said I enjoyed the challenge and proving others wrong and he would have been correct. Music was in my veins, I was sure of it, but today I could not bleed out a melody.

"I fear I have become anemic, uncle," I said as I walked back to the table and straddled the bench.

Perhaps you should focus all of your dramatic energy into an opera, my son.

I smiled to myself. Even if he was not beside me, I could imagine what my uncle would say as I returned to the table and sat with my chin resting on my palm.

Eventually I abandoned my pursuit of composing an overture and dressed for the performance. For the first time in over a month I looked at my reflection in the mirror and took a step back, barely recognizing myself.

I ran my fingers along the brocade waistcoat and admired the detail of the brass buttons. I looked up at my reflection and absently combed my fingers through my hair and saw the bald patches were barely noticeable.

If there were three things I had always recognized with my own appearance, it was the scars on my face, the patches of sparse hair on my head, and the overall gauntness of my frame. Only the scars remained, and that was hidden beneath my mask. I was thin, but not skeletal. My hair was thin as well, but the handfuls pulled out were no longer evident.

Cathedra would not be so taken aback by the sight of me. She already knew of the mask, which meant she would not be startled by my covered face. I could approach her, I told myself. I could walk into the chapel, take a seat in the alcove by the stained glass windows, and meet with her face-to-face.

"Senora di Carlo," I practiced. I bowed to my reflection. "I am your ghost."

I shook my head. No, I did not like the sound of it.

"Senora di Carlo." Another bow, this time deeper than the first one. "I am your angel."

That attempt made me wince. I cleared my throat and squared my shoulders.

"Senora di Carlo." A third bow, followed by a long moment of silence. I extended my hand and forced a smile even though I felt absurd practicing what I would say. "My name is Erik. I am pleased to meet you."

I could picture Cathedra dressed for the stage as she sat in the chapel. I could see her accepting my hand graciously as she expressed how wonderful it was to see me in person, her living spirit, her beloved angel, her real-life…

I wasn't sure what to call myself. I admired her talent, which I supposed made me an admirer, although I assumed her husband would be less than pleased about his wife being in a secret meeting with an admirer.

"Your friend," I said. "Your friend Erik."

I looked away from my reflection. The words sounded so foreign to my ears that I almost regretted speaking them aloud. Perhaps she did not think of me as a friend. Doubt surfaced. I found myself taking a step back from the mirror, then another.

"Your obedient servant," I said, trying the words out for size.

Yes, that fit. I would serve her with praise, companionship, or simply silence if that was what the Incomparable Cathedra di Carlo asked of me. I would meld into whatever form she wished.

I turned from the mirror, grabbed my pocket watch and lantern, and headed up the long stairway toward the main floor. I was not quite three sets of stairs up when I heard the door at the top open and slam shut.

"Damn it," I said under my breath as I turned around and headed back toward the fifth cellar.

"Erik?"

I froze. "Madeline? What are you doing down here?"

She appeared a moment later, dressed in her regular street clothes instead of her stage costume. "The performance is cancelled for tonight."

"Wh-why?"

Her expression darkened. "Cathedra is very ill."

I felt my blood run cold. "Did she fall?"

Madeline shook her head. "No, no, she has been talking nonsense for hours. The house manager is afraid to let her on the stage and unfortunately he does not feel confident about Carlotta performing yet. The last I heard, Cathedra was unable to speak a full sentence. She's resting comfortably in her apartments across the street."

I stood gaping at her in the darkness of the stairwell, my heart thudding madly and my mind racing.

Madeline shifted her weight. "Here," she said, holding out a folded piece of paper in her hand. "This was in the chapel."

My eyes widened. "I...I did not-"

"You do not need to come up with an excuse. Cathedra found your note and responded," Madeline said before I could finish. "She said this morning the ghost came to visit her and left a note. As soon a she was taken home, I went to the chapel and found this."

I was too ashamed to meet her eye or take the note.

"I took this before anyone else could find it." Madeline forced the paper into my hand and folded her arms over her chest.

"I dropped the note on accident," I mumbled. "I swear to you it was not intentional."

"Then you did speak to her this morning?"

"Early, before sunrise," I confessed. "I did not think anyone else would be around."

"Why were you-never mind, that is a question for another time," Madeline said with a sigh. "You were simply carrying a note around with you? In your trouser pocket?"

"Yes," I blurted out. "I wrote it days ago, but I had no intention of giving it to her. I thought it was…" I swallowed. "I thought it was comforting."

"Comforting to hold onto it?"

I nodded.

"You are very fond of her."

"I am. She was kind to me."

Madeline studied me a moment. "You were in the chapel with her?"

"No, I stayed in the hallway. She asked me to come in, but I did not want her to see me." I looked away. "I wanted to speak to her again. One last time." My throat tightened, and my heart felt heavy as a stone in my chest. I wanted more than to simply speak with Cathedra di Carlo; I wanted to see her face-to-face, to have her know me. "But I will not be able to speak to her again, will I?"

Madeline was quiet for a long moment.

"Erik, I will tell you honestly they do not know if she will live another week," Madeline said softly.

I bowed my head.

"Her husband has called for a priest. The theater is closed until the managers are satisfied with Carlotta's performance and think she is ready to take on the role."

"What about the matinee?"

Madeline shrugged. "No further shows announced, I'm afraid. Carlotta will perform after Cathedra has passed. Right now Carlotta is at her cousin's side, which is for the best."

No performances meant none of the other employees in the theater were paid. I held the lantern up a little higher and looked at Madeline. "What does this mean for you?" I asked.

She forced a smile. "We will see."

"Will you return to London?" I asked.

"I cannot afford a ticket to London," she answered.

"Will you stay in the Opera House?"

"I'm not sure."

It was the first time since I had known Madeline where she looked more like a helpless girl than a strong, determined mother figure. Even when her brother had been wounded and she rushed to be with family, she was still in control. As I studied her expression, I saw none of that. She looked defeated. She looked how I had felt for years.

Without a word, Madeline sank to the ground and sat hard on the steps where she cradled her head in her hands. I placed the lantern at my feet and joined her. For a long moment we sat in silence and listened to the distant drip of water. I did not know what to say and wasn't sure she wanted me to speak.

With the cold, damp stone wall against my left shoulder and Madeline against my right, I had an idea. Perhaps she could not afford a train ticket, but I knew someone who could.