Chapter 5: The Voice of Il Muto
Another wave of laughter rolled over the auditorium, and – despite her lack of enthusiasm towards the tales about the attempts of cheating one's spouse – Meg let herself believe that maybe, in spite of the remarks reported by other employees, the performance would turn out to be another success.
Regardless of the shortcomings made by the managers, the preparations for the opening night had gone relatively well. But it had been hard not to notice a slight tension hanging in the air. The closer they had gotten to the premiere, the more hushed whispers about the Opera Ghost's ignored letters had arisen at the coulisses. Some even said he would not be pleased. And a tiny part of her couldn't help but start to worry a little about it too.
As of their own accord, her eyes flitted to box five, occupied by Raoul de Chagny, and the action almost made her miss her cue. Scolding herself inwardly, the dancer whirled and joined the other members of "the staff", moving in harmony with the melody of the refrain. The spectators seemed to enjoy themselves, and that certainly was a good sign. As the countess, Carlotta Giudicelli took a deep breath to begin a new line.
Then, within a blink, the atmosphere changed entirely. A cold, harsh voice filled the air, making everyone freeze in place.
"Did I not instruct box five was to be kept empty?" it drawled dryly, seeming to resound in every corner, and against her will, something in Meg's stomach twisted into a knot.
It was not the first time somebody had interrupted the performance; occasionally, the conversations in the boxes would grow a little too loud, voices and laughter rising so much that they could be clearly heard over even the most thunderous scenes. They once even had a man who – presumably emboldened by too many glasses of wine – had started trying to sing along. And yet, somehow this interruption was something entirely different. It was just one short, roughly pronounced sentence, but it had enough force to paralyse both the cast and the audience.
Meg swallowed hard. Awaking from their shock and realising it was not a part of the show, the people in the auditorium shifted in their seats, unsuccessfully trying to see the perpetrator of the commotion. Meg glanced towards her friend. The expression etched in the soprano's features gave her the answer before she heard her whisper.
"It's him… It's the Phantom of the Opera…" The blood drained from Christine's face.
With a pang of worry, Meg abandoned her position, rushing towards her only to be cut off by La Carlotta's muffled scoff.
"Oh, don't you two start that nonsense too now." The Italian diva sent them both a glare. "It's just another tasteless joke, so it would be better if you stopped feeding it and focused on the play we are actually trying to stage." Her eyes, partially hidden under their heavily painted eyelids, rested briefly on Christine. "Truly, there is nothing to be afraid of, little toad."
Meg wasn't exactly sure if the last statement was supposed to be an offence or encouragement, but before she could ponder it, the older singer smiled charmingly at the audience and, excusing herself, trotted away to get her vocal spray. A moment later, it could be heard that she started her usual bickering with her maid, but Meg almost didn't pay attention to it. Her gaze rose to the gallery, encircling the dome above the salle, and focused on a vague shadow moving along it. A few members of the cast from the edge of the wings had been pointing it out with agitation, but no details could be discerned.
Her insides knotted again. The Phantom must have deliberately chosen a place where he could make good use of acoustics and stay mostly hidden from view by the distance and the large chandelier.
Once again, the music began to play, announcing the resume, and she forced herself to focus on the performance again. La Carlotta took her position, starting the refrain verses. Meg swayed to the rhythm along with the assembly and–
"Argh!" A loud croak echoed against the opera walls, and she almost stumbled over her own two feet. For a brief moment, the shocked silence hung over the theatre, and then the auditorium filled with soft chuckles. Glancing back, Meg saw the diva's cheeks flush despite the thick layer of white powder.
The singer blinked a few times, as if she herself couldn't believe that such a strange sound had just left her lips. Recovering from his own shock, Monsieur Reyer gestured at her with his baton, and Carlotta Guidcelli swallowed nervously, beginning again. However, she had only managed four words when a hoarse hiccup – even louder than before – ripped out of her throat.
This time, the audience burst into unconcealed laughter. And then everything went in a flash.
Carlotta's countenance took on a deep shade of pink. With one final croak, she turned on her heel, fleeing from the stage only to fall halfway into Ubaldo Piangi's outstretched arms to the even greater joy of those gathered. Seeing this, Misters Andre and Firmin leaped out of their seats, gesticulating vividly, and then the curtain finally fell, covering the dumbfounded actors. A moment later, the pounding of the two pairs of shoes could be heard on the wooden boards as the managers ran onto the stage, trying to get the situation under control.
"Ladies and gentlemen" – Mister Firmin's voice, barely hiding his nervousness, wafted to them from the other side of the veil – "we deeply apologise, but due to the sudden… er… indisposition of our lead singer, we are forced to announce a short intermission."
"M-meanwhile," Mister Andre stammered out, "we will present you a small sample of our orchestra's skills. We hope you will enjoy this little concert a-and–"
"And as for our performance, we will continue in around fifteen to twenty minutes, when the role of the Countess will be played by Miss Daaé!" his colleague finished for him.
Meg exchanged a shocked glance with her friend. But before any of them could say anything, both managers walked through the drapes, quickly giving new instructions and trying to somehow take control over the growing chaos. And so, with the first notes of the ballet from act three resounding in the air, Christine, accompanied by Madame Giry, was sent to her dressing room while Meg and the rest of employees were asked to remain near the stage.
As could have been predicted, despite the request to remain calm, the majority of the cast and the supporting employees had gathered in a chaotic discussion group at the centre as soon as the managers had vanished out of sight. Finding it strangely hard to listen to all the speculation, Meg quietly slipped out of the circle.
A part of her had fleetingly considered approaching La Carlotta, but the diva seemed to be well taken care of in the competent hands of the first tenor and her staff, so in the end she settled for sending her a respectful nod on her way towards the further part of coulisses. It could not be denied that the Italian prima donna had her own humours more often than was convenient for the company, but she also had some good sides. And Meg could only admire the fact that, after all that had just happened, she had still agreed to take the nonspeaking role of the pageboy – after just a short tantrum.
The ballerina bit her lip, wondering if the Phantom could somehow have something to do with that strange incident too. Carlotta's maid had already tearfully admitted that she hadn't time to prepare a new vocal spray and used the old concoction which might have been the cause, but still it was a bit strange coincidence.
And besides, what did the Opera Ghost actually want to achieve? Meg's stomach knotted, and she forced herself to push those thoughts away. Worrying about it all now couldn't bring anything good, anyway.
Exhaling loudly, she leaned against the railing of the technical staircase. At the edge of her peripheral vision, high above her, moved the familiar silhouette of Joseph Buquet. The man hastily weaved among the gears, pulleys, sandbags and ropes that were plunged in semi-darkness. And she, with a slight pang, realised that in their rush the managers had probably forgotten to directly convey the instructions to the chief stagehand.
Meg's eyebrows furrowed slightly as she tried to recall if at least one of the scene-shifters had been present at their impromptu briefing, but she could not remember. Did they even know that, according to the managers' orders, they were supposed to start not with the last scene but with a short ballet introduction preceding it? Her forehead creased a little more.
"Monsieur Buquet?" Her voice carried, but the answer did not come.
"Monsieur Buquet!" Taking a few steps up, she called out louder, but just as before, only the silence answered her. A moment later, the stagehand's vague outline vanished from her eyes into the higher, darker regions.
Meg sighed deeply, and then slowly started to climb up towards the shadowed labyrinth of footbridges.
Erik cursed under his breath as he looked down at the mess below that was graciously called the stage. The managers were supposed to change just two roles for the prepared understudies, so how the hell could everything else end in such chaos?
Gritting his teeth, the Opera Ghost headed back towards the higher, better shadowed levels of catwalks. His sight rested on Carlotta Giudicelli, who was still half enclosed in the bear embrace of Ubaldo Piangi, but he quickly averted his gaze. They hadn't given him a choice, had they?
It was probably foolish, but a part of him had hoped that once the new management were faced with the difficulties of directing their first performance fully on their own, they would at last have a better appreciation for his letters. Of course, it turned out to be another futile wish. And Misters Andre and Firmin had only continued proving their incompetence during almost every rehearsal. The opera they had chosen wasn't the worst, per se, even though he himself didn't find the libretto particularly amusing, but still they had seemed almost fixated on ruining it! His ears couldn't stop noticing all the shortcomings they had been letting slip, just as his eyes had constantly been focusing on the true havoc in scene-shifting and stage order.
Erik felt his hands clench on the rope railing.
Christine, the managers… They all kept ignoring him. And this impasse, this cursed, hellish helplessness, was starting to drive him mad. The one-sentence note about reconsideration of Christine's decisions that he had left in her dressing room had not received any reply, and all the longer letters he could not risk sending her directly had not even been collected from their hiding place. What was more, the soprano was appearing in her dressing room only in the presence of another person, and even that was limited to the minimum, as she had returned to spending more time in the choir common room. He had wanted to give Christine some time, but this was not what he had expected. And the managers were even worse. They were literally throwing his suggestions into the rubbish bin without giving them even a single thought!
His hands constricted even more.
They had left him no other choice than to intervene personally. Yet despite his reminder, that foppish viscount with an overgrown ego who – by some cruel twist of fate – had become their new patron had been still sitting in box number five the last time he had checked.
And, as if that weren't enough, now Joseph Buquet was trying to follow him.
Again.
Erik's mouth pressed into a thin line.
Hell, that man was really starting to get on his nerves. Not only was he making up and spreading some idiotic stories about the Phantom of the Opera, but he also possessed too frequent inclinations for drinking alcohol and being obnoxious towards the other employees. The only reason he still had his post was the fact that finding a chief stagehand with his experience and skills bordered on the miraculous.
Though, perhaps recently that argument started to lose its value as Monsieur Buquet began committing oversights. Most of them had been minor, that was true, but there had also been one that could actually have caused an accident.
Or, rather, it would certainly have caused an accident if the Opera Ghost hadn't been nearby to fix it.
Erik scowled at that memory. Sure, he himself didn't usually have anything against dropping elements of scenography on Carlotta Giudicelli's head in particular while she sang badly, creating another of her exaggerated interpretations. But he certainly did not approve of cases in which she could get injured!
Unfortunately, that act of saving the diva had caused him to be spotted by the scene-shifter, and since then, Joseph Buquet had made it almost a point of honour to track him down.
So much for a reward for good deeds…
Erik's jaw muscles tightened again. He soundlessly recited a string of rather ungentlemanly epithets, directed to the burdensome opera worker, and then turned behind a row of gears and levers to hide in the semi-darkness prevailing there. A moment later, Buquet passed by his hideout, but with that Erik's luck ended. The chief stagehand stopped just a few metres farther, trying to pierce the gloom with his gaze.
"Too scared to even show your face now, eh, le Fantôme?" Joseph Buquet's tone was tinged with venomous contempt, and against his will, Erik's cheeks burned with heat.
The opera worker moved along the catwalk, his mouth twisted slightly in the faint light.
"I saw you coming here and I know you can hear me, so you better listen, O.G.," he hissed. "For years I found the stories about the Phantom quite amusing – a good way to lure more rich bigwigs, as well as something to tease the choir and ballet girls with. I didn't enjoy all those small modifications appearing in the fly system, but as long as I was convinced it was one of my boys, I could turn a blind eye to it. Bloody hell, I've even pulled a few pranks myself! But having someone else tampering with our gears?!" His features darkened. "It's just as sick as it's reckless, and I didn't dither to tell Lefevre what I thought about that deranged idea before he had left! Yet of course he just belittled it all, saying that he did not give his consent for any important alterations, so it should not affect our work! All he did was say that I could discuss it further with our current so-called managers. As if those two fools weren't as lost as kids in fog!" The man spat on the wooden boards, and his face darkened even more.
"I ain't stupid, O.G.," he ground out. "You might have fooled me before, but this has to come to an end. I certainly won't tolerate some cursed freak meddling with my and my boys' hard work!" Fury flooded Buquet's raspy voice, and Erik couldn't fail to notice how the stagehand gritted his teeth even harder at the lack of response.
"Ain't you got even a pinch of courage and dignity to talk with me man to man, le Fantôme? Or maybe frightening girlies like Mademoiselle Daaé and making pitiful shows from the shadows is all you can do?" Joseph Buquet's jeering hiss filled the air, piercing Erik like dozens of needles.
Erik felt fire filling his veins. How did that man even dare to lecture him, let alone bring Christine into this?! His jaw muscles clenched so hard that they started to throb with faint pain, the anger dimming his usual caution.
Monsieur Buquet wished to have a talk with the Phantom? Well then, maybe giving him what he was asking for could be the best way to finally solve this. He had already seen him, anyway, hadn't he? Making his decision, Erik quietly moved towards the edge of shadows.
"If you are so concerned about your work, monsieur, shouldn't you better focus on your own duties instead of chasing ghosts?" His hushed, drawled words made the stagehand spin around with a twitch. For some reason, that reaction brought Erik a wave of malicious satisfaction.
Summoning a cold, stone expression, the Opera Ghost stepped out of his hideout, straightening to his full height. "I'm here if you wish to talk, monsieur. Personally, though, I think that you shouldn't look for something you don't actually want to find…" A dark grimace curved his lips as he regarded the shorter man, and when Joseph Buquet backed away, another tiny, satisfied note filled his chest.
Maybe that would be enough to finally solve that problem. The thought crossed Erik's mind, but before he could fully celebrate his triumph, the mechanic's face changed, a hint of fear in his eyes giving way to a burning hatred.
"Freaks like you should be behind the bars." The man's hoarse, contemptuous whisper resounded in the semi-darkness, and suddenly Erik found he could no longer breathe. The blood rushed to his head, and his heart started to hammer so fast that his lungs could no longer keep up.
Those words…the stench of alcohol…
It all had happened before.
Memories broke the dam that he had been building for so many years, flooding his mind with the force of an avalanche. Pain. Suffering. Fear. It all was coming back to him again – choking, crushing and swallowing him up into a whirlwind until he was no longer sure what was real. His hands clenched convulsively, yet as soon they had appeared, all the feelings and visions vanished, engulfed by one simple emotion.
Wrath.
He was not that scared little boy anymore. And he was not going to let anyone treat him like that ever again. With that thought, the Phantom gritted his teeth and slowly started towards the opera worker.
Meg had almost reached the end of stairs when a dull thud made her heart leap to her throat. Spinning around, she looked up towards the source, and that was when she finally saw Joseph Buquet again.
The chief stagehand was lying half sprawled on the boards of one of the many catwalks, high at the rafters level. He seemed to have tripped and was desperately tugging at the ropes he was entangled in as he gazed fearfully up. There, over him, loomed a tall figure attired in black. The half-masked face of the stranger was twisted in an expression of pure anger.
Meg felt an ice-cold fear slip into her stomach and slowly crawl up.
Heavens…
Was that the Phantom? Was he going to hurt Monsieur Buquet? The ballerina clutched the railing so hard that her knuckles turned white.
"S-stop at once!" She intended to shout, but the words that left her mouth were barely louder than her regular hushed tone, almost completely drowned out by the slightly muffled music coming from the auditorium below. At the same time, she realised with a pang that with the background canvas and scenography machinery quite successfully separating her from the others, it would be hard for anyone down there to hear or notice what was happening up here.
The Opera Ghost sent her a fleeting glance, then bent over the mechanic, grasping him by the collar with one hand and picking up the rope with the other.
No…
Her knees buckled under her, but Meg forced her legs to move and rushed towards the men, praying inwardly for help.
Erik cursed under his breath. What, for flames' sake, was Madame Giry's daughter doing there?
Hell. He had to hurry up, now.
The Opera Ghost focused back on the man he was holding by the collar, and for the first time, it crossed his mind that he might have gone a bit too far. What had he even wanted to prove?
Something in his stomach shifted, but it was too late to back out now. What had to be done had to be done. With that thought, the Phantom leaned closer to his victim.
"You have shared your interesting opinion with me, Monsieur Buquet," he drawled, "so I believe I should return the favour. And I think you shouldn't be so fast to criticise others, especially when you yourself are no saint…" Erik sent the man an ice-cold glare, and his voice dropped a few more notes in an already low scale.
"Abusing alcohol, neglecting responsibilities, not respecting other employees, spreading too many nonsensical stories… I might be wrong, but those are not exactly the qualities expected from the workers of my opera." The Phantom scowled, not hiding his disdain. "I might be just the Opera Ghost," he ground out, "but unlike you, monsieur, I take my duties seriously. Though, perhaps I could add something out of your stories to my repertoire just for you…" A corner of his mouth twisted in an unpleasant grimace, and Buquet's eyes widened, flashing with a trace of fear.
Somehow, that only made Erik feel worse. He winced even more.
"It seems, though, that you have finally realised your mistake, monsieur, so I hope we can put an end to that misunderstanding and your attempts to intimidate me, and thus move to the final point…" With a strong yank, he pulled the paling mechanic a few centimetres closer. His own countenance darkened.
"I don't like being threatened or insulted, Monsieur Buquet," he growled, "so if you have any further complaints, please, choose a different form of conveying them. And for your own good, better not try to annoy me ever again. I do not intend to disrupt today's performance even more by depriving it of the chief stagehand, but next time I might not be so merciful. Especially since I think spending a few hours tied in some dark corner could certainly teach you some respect, monsieur." With one last scowl, Erik pushed the opera worker back on the wooden boards, and then straightened up, throwing the untangled rope aside. Joseph Buquet's gaze fixed on him in a mixture of disbelief and shock.
For a moment, the mechanic just stared, and then his eyes moved slightly – first to the side, then back to his untangled feet. Realising that nothing tied him up anymore, he scrambled up, opening his mouth for a second as if he wanted to add something. Instead, his lips just pressed together again, and, having turned on his heel, Joseph Buquet hastily hurried away. A moment later, his receding silhouette at last vanished in the semi-darkness, and Erik allowed himself a deep sigh.
It definitely hadn't been a pleasant conversation, but a part of him hoped it would at least turn out to be effective. With that thought, the Opera Ghost finally turned to go. That same second, his eyes widened in surprise.
No more than one and a half metres away from him stood Meg Giry, holding on tightly to the rope handrail hanging along the platform.
How could he not have heard her coming?
Concealing his astonishment, Erik took on a stone facial expression again and looked down at the much shorter ballerina. The girl visibly paled under his gaze, but returned the gaze.
"I… I'm not sure what it's all about, monsieur," she said, her slight anxiety clearly audible in her tone, "but… uh… whatever it is, I believe we can talk about it calmly. I know that I don't understand the whole situation, but I think you, monsieur, are the one responsible for many of the mysterious incidents that have happened in the Opera Populaire over the past years as well as recently, and… Well, as an employee of the theatre, I would really appreciate some explanations." She glanced at him nervously, and Erik felt a sharp pang of irritation.
What a nerve to demand something like that from him! He had already made a risky move by showing himself to Joseph Buquet, but he certainly wasn't stupid enough to reveal any more information about himself. Besides, why the hell should he even explain himself to her? What would be next – waiting for the whole opera to form a queue for him?!
Something in his stomach and chest clenched unpleasantly at that thought. For the majority, the Opera Ghost was just an act or a sustained mysterious tale, and he definitely intended to keep it that way.
Anyway, he didn't have time for dealing with all that now – within a few minutes, Joseph Buquet would reach the stage, and he had to leave before the chief stagehand could alarm anyone about his presence.
Mentally muttering curses, the Phantom took a step forwards, trying to ignore the girl, but the way she backed away from him with a nervous twitch made something inside him constrict even more.
"Please, monsieur, let's just talk calmly. I believe we can settle everything peacefully, though if you do not wish to do so, we can simply part ways after a few words..." The dancer's left hand stretched in front of her in a defensive gesture.
Erik gritted his teeth, feeling his annoyance grow rapidly. If that was her attempt to calm him, then she really wasn't helping her cause by looking at him as if she expected to be strangled at any moment.
And why in blazes was she even so inclined to talk? He didn't owe her any explanations. What was more, "parting" was exactly what he was trying to do right now! The mentioned task would be much easier, though, if a certain irritating ballerina wasn't stubbornly blocking his shortest path!
His jaw muscles tightened even more.
Nevertheless, he did not intend to admit aloud that she had that advantage over him. She had already moved away almost enough for him to pass her in the wider part of the passage.
Not saying a word, he took another two steps. This time, the ballerina's eyes flashed with a hint of fear.
"I-I apologise for saying that, but I would prefer if you kept your distance, monsieur. Otherwise, I will have to–" Meg Giry tried to step back again, but her foot caught on a slightly protruding board and she staggered backwards with a muffled gasp. For a split second, her free hand grabbed the air as she tried to catch her balance, and then she tilted to her right; her fluttering fingers closed around the handrail in panic, but the rope just bent aside. Next second, with a choked scream of terror, the dancer was leaning dangerously off the platform.
Blazes!
His hand shot forwards before he could even fully realise what he was doing, and with one strong jerk, Erik pulled the blonde back on the catwalk. With another gasp, the girl landed back on her feet and fixed wide eyes on him, breathing heavily. The blood had drained from her cheeks, leaving her face almost chalk-white.
The Opera Ghost cursed inwardly and didn't loosen his grip on her arm in case she decided to do something as stupid as fainting over a dozen metres above the ground. For a moment, they just stood like that, staring at each other, and then Meg Giry blinked a few times, as if she were waking up from the shock. Her gaze travelled to his hand, still clasped around her arm, and then back to him, her fair eyebrows furrowing slightly.
"Pardon me, monsieur," she said weakly, a tiny note of sternness slipping into her still slightly trembling voice, "but... well, I would prefer it if you let me go..."
Erik almost choked with indignation. Was that how one should treat someone who had probably just saved their life?! A stinging, scorching anger flamed up inside him again, and his features darkened.
"My deepest apologies, Mademoiselle Giry," he ground out in a venomous tone, withdrawing his hand. "In my ignorance I was just trying to prevent your possible fall, but if my efforts don't suit you, then, well" – the Phantom shrugged his shoulders and sent the dancer one of his most ominous glares – "with pleasure, I will help you return to your previous position half beyond the edge of the platform."
Christine could not stop herself from nervous hand-wringing as she slowly followed Madame Giry back towards the stage.
After she had mustered enough courage to leave her teacher a resignation letter about one and half months ago, he had tried to contact her a few times. But then everything had finally gone quiet, and she started to hope everything would be all right. Now, it had turned out to be a naive illusion. She hadn't known it before, but the managers had told her that, four weeks ago, the Opera Ghost had sent them another note with instructions to be followed. One of the requests was to keep box number five empty. The other had been about her playing the main role in a new production of Il Muto…
Christine felt her stomach twist into a knot. Though the letter hadn't included any threats in case of disobedience, she was almost sure that the Phantom had interrupted the performance just because his advice hadn't been fulfilled. And so, despite the managers' previous resistance, she ended up in the costume of the countess, just as her tutor had wished.
What did he actually want for her? Despite all that had happened so far, some tiny part of her still wanted to trust him to a certain extent. At the same time, she would be lying if she said that his strange actions weren't starting to frighten her more and more. And, no matter how hard she tried, she could not erase from her memory the image of his horrible, disfigured face twisted in that terrifying grimace of anger.
An ice-cold shiver ran down her back. Who really was that man? Her Angel of Music, or the ruthless Phantom? Her friend, or someone with a soul as distorted as his countenance?
She had tried not to think much about it before, but he had managed to steal the key and lock her dressing room just to prevent anyone from disrupting their meeting. And now he had interrupted the performance just because his instructions hadn't been followed. What else could be a part of his scheme?
Was he also somehow involved in Carlotta's sudden indisposition? And if so, what about that September incident with the dropped curtain, when the offended Carlotta had left the opera? The one that had allowed her, an ordinary choir girl, to get a lead role? Had it also been a part of his plan?
A wave of nausea crept over her. At that same moment, they approached their destination, and she was pulled from her thoughts. Rising over the music played by the orchestra behind the drawn curtain were the heated voices of the other opera employees.
"I swear it ain't a bloody joke!" A slightly raspy voice rose with irritation and, with a pang of surprise, Christine recognised it as belonging to Joseph Buquet. "That hellish freak is up there, and he is a threat to us all! He is undoubtedly only half sane!" His loud statement echoed around the stage, sending shivers down her spine. For a short moment, everything fell silent, before the room filled again with the murmur of whispered conversations.
Christine felt her stomach clench even more. That couldn't be true, could it?
In front of her, Madame Giry stiffened for a split second, then quickened her pace. Christine nervously trotted after her, and so both of them entered the scene just in time to see Ubaldo Piangi take the floor.
"Monsieur Buquet," the tenor began, sending the stagehand an indulgent gaze, "I'm convinced that this so-called Phantom is only some sort of tasteless joke. What is more, I'm sure that you, monsieur, will agree with me too when you look at this matter with more of a" – he made a meaningful pause – "sober gaze."
A few stifled scoffs of laughter followed, but when Ubaldo Piangi spoke again, his tone was serious.
"Therefore, Monsieur Buquet," he continued, furrowing his bushy eyebrows, "I would appreciate it if you abandoned that story of yours for now and stopped frightening the ladies. Some of them have already had enough unpleasant events for today." He glanced down at La Carlotta – now dressed in a pageboy costume – with a fond expression. His half-embrace around her back tightened.
"But I'm telling you the cursed truth!" Joseph Buquet looked around with desperation. "Little Giry was there too. She could testify to that!" His words hung in the air, and Christine's heart went to her throat. Madame Giry, standing next to her, visibly paled.
"My daughter? What, for goodness's sake, could she be doing at the technical platforms level?" The ballet mistress walked up to the opera mechanic. He turned to her, and his face lost some of its colour too.
"I-I don't know," he said. "She was just there, and when I left the Phantom behind, she..." Joseph Buquet swallowed nervously. "Well, I think she was still there..."
"And you just left her there, monsieur?" Madame Giry's eyes widened in shock. "Knowing well that moving around the catwalks can be dangerous for someone inexperienced? Why didn't you even bother to tell us about it sooner?" She looked up at the chief stagehand, but he lowered his gaze, not answering her question.
Antoinette Giry's frown deepened. "I thought you were a better man, Joseph Buquet," she said quietly. Then, she turned abruptly and started towards the backstage stairs. "Stay here, Christine." The order thrown over her shoulder was filled with the usual unyielding strictness of the ballet teacher, but Christine ignored it and rushed after Madame Giry's billowing black gown. A few opera employees called after them, asking them to wait, but neither of them complied.
Their heels thudded loudly against the stairs as they hastily climbed higher and higher. The voluminous skirts of the countess costume even in the reduced, understudy version hampered Christine's steps, leaving her a little behind. She knew it was not an outfit fit for going much further than the end of the staircase, but she could not stop herself.
After a minute or two, more footsteps joined them, but Christine barely registered the sound. Her heart was pounding so hard that she almost couldn't hear anything else.
Her friend. Her best friend might be in danger and it probably was all her fault! A sob started to rise in her throat and it took all her self-control to suppress it.
A moment later, they reached the landing from which the catwalks began and started to frantically call, looking around until a muffled answer finally directed their gazes to a distant figure standing on one of the platforms a few metres above them. Her light dress and blonde hair stood out distinctly in semi-darkness prevailing there.
Meg…
Christine felt a wave of relief. The dancer was tightly clasping the rope-railing but – apart from looking a little shocked – seemed safe and sound. Reassured, Christine met her friend's gaze, and at the same moment, a strange expression visible in Meg's eyes dimmed the warmth that filled her chest.
Meg silently mouthed a few syllables – a chilling reprise of her own words – and Christine felt the blood in her veins freeze.
"It was him… The Phantom of the Opera…"
A few seconds later, Monsieur Buquet and one of his younger assistants pushed past her to get to the higher levels and reach Meg, but Christine found herself unable to move. Her pulse started to drum in her ears with a deafening force.
Was the Opera Ghost going to target her friends now?
Author's notes:
1) From what I have read, 19th-century opera was an entertainment for rather richer classes, but also a social activity, and the audience quite often behaved a bit differently compared to today's standards – some quiet conversations in boxes were normal occurrences. Apparently, occasionally some incidents happened – like talking too loud or even shouting/booing.
2) Extra thanks to librarylexicon for stepping in as my next beta reader! My English is far from perfect, so I really appreciate the help. :)