Chapter 28: The Kingdom of Unending Night
Erik stood inside the secret space behind the wall of box five, carefully observing the scene. The month of feverish preparations had flown by almost as quickly as a flicker of a curtain, but despite the short time, everyone seemed to be in top form. The final costume rehearsal had barely begun, but from what he could read from the hushed whispers and dimly lit silhouettes in the front rows, the invited journalists and guests were already captivated by the play.
A ray of pride slipped into the Opera Ghost's chest.
His cooperation with the managers was a bit… strained, to put it gently, but regardless of their past animosities, Messieurs Andre and Firmin were trying to listen to most of his advice. Of course, there had arisen some points of disagreement, but every time, Erik had done all he could to tame his temper and ambitions and find a compromise. Even though there had been a few times when he dreamt of using the magic lasso from Joseph Buquet's tales to teach them how opera management should be done…
The Phantom scowled at the reminder.
Coordinating all elements of the play had taken him many hours. Additionally, he had been hard at work corresponding with the lawyer and gathering statements for the trial. All of that had left him a bit on edge. The sleep deficiency definitely didn't help either.
The last, of course, had led to another argument with the ballet mistress. At the end of the first week of preparations, Madame Giry had barged into his quarters to enlighten him with a ten-minute tirade about the importance of enough rest and proper meals. He had also been informed how much his disregard in this scope was evident in the awful shadows under his eyes (as if that mattered at all, when half of his face was already as charming as the worst depths of hell).
Erik twisted his mouth.
He resented all interruptions to his work, but both ladies Giry had seemed honestly worried about him, and somehow that had been something he couldn't fully ignore. As a result, the visits to discuss the choreography had been extended by occasional dinner preparation and other activities.
He had needed time to accustom himself to having someone bustle around his usually isolated domain, but soon, with a pang of astonishment, he had found that the soft accompaniment of voices in an adjacent room had become something he began to look forward to. Madame Giry still got on his nerves sometimes, but he was usually able to tolerate it, and to her credit, he had to admit she did try to be a bit less irritating. As for Meg, he had already enjoyed her company more than he wanted to admit aloud. The girl had quickly developed a habit of peeking into his main room or library with a smile to invite him to dinner or the preparations for it, or simply to talk. He had no idea how it worked, but when she was around, all unnecessary intermissions seemed much more acceptable.
Blazes, he had even followed that absurd plan of hers!
The Opera Ghost flushed and rubbed the nape of his neck.
Lowering his mask in someone's presence had been stressful, even when said person had been sitting on his left side with her eyes obediently fixed on her plate. Nevertheless, Meg had managed to change even that awkward experience into something nice, filling the silence with her good-humoured chirping and engaging him in conversation as if there wasn't anything strange or repulsive about the whole situation.
Something inside him shifted in a peculiar way. His eyes travelled back to the stage.
Meg was dancing among the crowd of "townspeople" as one of the main heroine's friends. Her golden locks and fair skirts fluttered in the air as she glided between the others with a radiant smile. She looked dazzling. She was undoubtedly born to play such optimistic characters. But he also liked her in the more complex role of the shadows representing Nadir's power and emotions.
A memory flashed through his mind.
Music flowed through him, pulsing with each violent hit of the bass piano keys. Wrath and despair were tearing the air, growing and growing until they became almost unbearable. With an excruciating cry, "Nadir's Lament" reached an apogee, then broke into pieces. In the silence that followed, a few shuddering notes welled up and rolled down on the ground.
It seemed like the end, but after a painfully long stillness, his fingers brushed the keyboard again, slowly creating another melody. The delicate song gradually grew louder, filling with an increasing resolve and feelings of an entirely different kind. The last chords resounded with a new strength, like a vow.
"It… it's a beautiful aria." Meg's quiet voice startled him from his trance. "It's one of the most heart-wrenching pieces I've ever heard, and the way you play it…" Glancing over his shoulder, Erik saw that she was wiping away the tears. "It's almost crushing," she continued, "but it also feels so very real. And then, the end brings hope, affection and a will to fight. I… I really like that." A tender smile brushed her lips. There was a peculiar edge to her tone, and suddenly Erik felt much too exposed, though his mask was in its place.
His heart started to thump in his temples along with a pressing urge to move away from the instrument.
"Well, the opera is supposed to affect emotions if written, directed and played correctly," he muttered, averting his gaze. "Anyway, I think we should finish for tonight. We can work on the rest of the choreography next time."
The Phantom abruptly rose from the piano bench and turned on his heel, belatedly noticing that the ballerina had also moved. Meg gasped as they almost collided, and he instinctively grabbed her shoulders to help her keep her balance. Her hands landed on his forearms.
It wasn't an embrace, but something close to it, and a wave of embarrassment crept up his neck.
"Forgive me."
To his utter surprise, Meg only smiled at him. "Actually, I don't mind," she replied. The golden specks in her hazel eyes gleamed in amusement.
She looked beautiful, even with sweaty strands plastered to her forehead.
Heat flooded him again.
"I…" There were many things he wanted to tell her, but they all got stuck half-way. "I was wondering if you would like to stay for tea before you go," he finished stiffly at last, loosening his grip.
It seemed it wasn't exactly the answer Meg had been waiting for, but still her face brightened in joy.
If he were a free man, then maybe he could say something more…
Erik swallowed hard, and chased the thought.
He wished to do something more for Meg too, and her upcoming birthday gave him the necessary excuse. A carved music box, which he had been tinkering on at nights, undoubtedly wasn't enough to express his gratitude, but at least it was a start.
The Opera Ghost forced himself to focus back on the performance. The first sequence had just ended, earning thunderous applause. Perhaps the managers weren't such incompetent amateurs as he had once thought. At least not when they had the right help.
The corner of his mouth curled up a bit.
Unfortunately, the feeling of satisfaction vanished merely a few minutes later, when Richard Firmin stepped onto the stage to announce a half- hour intermission.
Erik frowned.
They were in the middle of the first act, and since it was the final rehearsal, they were not supposed to have any additional breaks. What the hell were they doing?
Stifling an irritated growl, the Phantom turned on his heel and, with a swirl of the cape, slipped back into the tangle of narrow passages entwining the opera house.
So much for believing in other people's unsupervised competence.
Meg blinked in amazement, staring at Joseph Buquet. Her mother, standing next to her in the coulisses, pulled down her dark eyebrows.
"Why would the managers announce a break and call a cast meeting right now? It's our final rehearsal. We should treat it as if it were a premiere with the audience. Especially since the journalists and other guests are present at the salle." The ballet mistress's lips thinned with distaste.
Carlotta Giudicelli, who was hovering by her right shoulder, folded her arms.
"Exactly. Besides, I am an artist, not an errand boy. I do not run to the yard in the middle of a performance on the managers' whim!" Her features pulled down in a scowl; her dark make-up of Norn made her clouded expression even more severe.
The chief stagehand raised his hands in a defensive gesture.
"Ain't bloody happy about it either. I'm simply conveying the orders. I've heard it has something to do with some security procedures."
La Carlotta opened her mouth again, but before she could say anything, Ubaldo Piangi put his hand on her back.
"If it's about safety, we'd better obey, Cara…" His gentle eyes turned to his beloved, and the woman relented with a sigh. A moment later, the Italian duo headed to the exit, joining the rest of the employees.
Meg glanced towards the other side of the scene. Christine and the rest of the choir girls were being escorted there in a similar fashion by a few more stagehands and the two men hired by Raoul. The ballerina exchanged a confused look with her friend, and then, not having much choice, followed after the group.
Some employees started to joke, but she couldn't get rid of the unpleasant feeling that something was off. The wrinkle on her maman's forehead and the way Joseph Buquet averted his gaze only intensified the sensation.
Christine was already at the end of the administration section's corridor when someone caught her arm.
"I need you to assist us with something, Mademoiselle Daaé."
Turning around, she found herself face to face with one of the men recently hired by Raoul. Though she had tried to learn their names, she could not recall his.
Lucien Buquet, who had been walking next to them, stopped too, frowning.
"Weren't we supposed to make sure Mademoiselle Daaé was evacuated with the others?"
The burly guard sent him an irritated glare.
"The plan has changed," he growled. "Now, Mademoiselle Daaé is needed on one of the platforms." Not waiting for her reaction, he pulled Christine back towards the stage. Too shocked to react differently, she obediently trotted behind him.
Lucien's freckled face paled a little. "B-but, monsieur, we left a few unsecured ropes there!"
The protest was met with another scowl from the man. "I can deal with that," he ground out.
Glancing over her shoulder, Christine saw the teenager nervously shift his weight from one leg to the other.
"I-I'll go with you then." The boy's footsteps thudded against the wooden boards behind them.
Slipping from the rafters level, Erik quietly landed on one of the upper technical bridges. To his surprise, the fly system and the stage far below him were almost completely abandoned. For a short while, he could still see a small group of the secondary cast members and mechanics, but soon afterwards, they all headed backstage to the administration part of the building.
The Phantom furrowed his forehead so that his right brow grazed the inner side of the mask.
The managers undoubtedly didn't share his views on the importance of practice; it had already happened that they had cut one of the rehearsals in the middle to meet with a few patrons. But why, for blaze's sake, would they do something like this a day before the premiere? And, what was more, call literally everybody out of their positions?
His frown deepened as he scanned the labyrinth of sandbag counterweights, pulleys, background canvas and levers. The whole area was plunged in semi-darkness, brightened only by the dim light seeping from below, but from what he could see, there didn't seem to be any serious technical problems. Not counting a few badly secured posts that had evidently been left in a hurry.
Erik scowled.
Making sure nobody was around, he sneaked onto one of the upper galleries and adjusted two too-loose hemp ropes, properly fastening them to a pin rail. Then, he couldn't help but notice a few more shortcomings on the lower levels.
His eyebrows pulled down again.
He wasn't proud of his intervention during Il Muto's premiere, but the good thing was that Joseph Buquet had definitely become more attentive after it. And his care to keep everything in order had only increased after his nephew and the other boy had been hired. It was strange that he and his crew had allowed themselves so much negligence, even if none of the errors were very serious.
The Phantom's eyes narrowed, and he crouched still in the darkness, observing the shadows below. After a longer moment, his patience was rewarded as he caught a glimpse of a figure hiding by the edge of the stage on the opposite side. The man wore the typical stagehand's clothes, but Erik was sure he had never seen him in the theatre before.
An icy chill went down his spine.
A trap. It all was a damned trap.
His chest constricted, only to explode with fiery fury.
Well, if the viscount believed that the Phantom of the Opera was foolish enough to be taken in by such a childish trick, then he was going to be met with sore disappointment.
Erik gritted his teeth. He intended to quietly withdraw, but that was when he saw one of the guards dragging Christine onto a platform down below. Just behind them followed Joseph Buquet's nephew, evidently anxious. The wooden bridge was supposed to be used later in the play, but right now they definitely shouldn't be there. Gesticulating nervously, the soprano said something in a hushed voice and tried to walk away, but the man yanked her back.
Erik felt burning rage flood him.
Christine unsuccessfully tried to free herself from the guard's grip. It all had seemed shady from the very beginning, but she hadn't wanted to believe somebody could have lied to her like that.
A tearful lump formed in her throat.
"I told you, monsieur, if it has nothing to do with rehearsal, I would like to join the others," she repeated. She yanked again, but the man only pulled her closer.
"I'm afraid you must stay here a little longer, mademoiselle," he said, unyielding.
Cold tentacles of fear slipped into Christine's stomach. Angels, what did he actually want to do?
"Please, just let me go." She resumed her efforts, but it was clear she wasn't strong enough. "I really don't–"
Thud.
A large shadow landed on the wooden boards just before them, and she couldn't stop her muffled scream. A second later, with a strange mixture of trepidation and relief, she recognised her ex-Angel of Music. Right now, he looked more like an Angel of Death: the unmasked side of his face was twisted in wrath, and his black cape spread menacingly behind him like enormous wings.
The Phantom straightened, towering over her, and his face darkened even more. "I would appreciate if you released Mademoiselle Daaé, monsieur," he ground out.
The guard obediently let go of her sore wrist.
"Mademoiselle Daaé has fulfilled her role and is free to go," he declared. "Unfortunately, I can't say the same about you, monsieur." His mouth twisted unpleasantly, and Christine inhaled sharply as he pulled out a hidden revolver. "You are under arrest, le Fantôme. And if you don't fancy a bullet hole, you will come with me, so I can collect my prize."
The Opera Ghost's jaw tightened.
"I had no bad intentions, but I'll obey, if that's what Mademoiselle Daaé's safety requires," he said, tone grave. His expression was as deprived of emotions as his mask, but Christine couldn't fail to notice how his hands clenched into fists and his breath became shorter and more strained.
Her stomach knotted.
"I-I think it's some kind of misunderstanding." Despite all her vocal training, her voice sounded weak and too squeaky, but somehow she managed to muster enough courage to push past the guard.
The man sent her a fleeting gaze.
"I'm afraid it's not, Mademoiselle Daaé," he replied. "We received strict orders from the Vicomte de Chagny and the police to arrest the Phantom during this performance."
The words hit her with a force that tilted the world, and she had to grasp the railing for support.
It couldn't be the truth. Raoul would never do something like that without her consent, would he?
The guard winced and glanced over his shoulder at Lucien Buquet.
"Lad, could you escort Mademoiselle Daaé down?"
Lucien nodded uncertainly and came closer, looking almost as scared as she. The boy took her hand, but she was unable to move. Her legs started to shake. Heavens, what was she supposed to do now?
"Christine!" Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her ex-teacher start in her direction, only to be stopped by the raised barrel.
"Don't move!" roared the guard.
"Mademoiselle Daaé is clearly feeling unwell, so I propose we–"
"I've said don't move!"
"Please, STOP!" she yelled. "The weapon isn't necessary." With tears rolling down her cheeks, she tried to stand between the men, but as the revolver waved next to her head, she couldn't help but cower with a whimper.
The Phantom twitched again.
And that was when the gun fired.
The bullet tore Erik's left arm, and the whole world exploded in pain. A muffled cry ripped out of his throat, mixing with Christine's high-pitched squeal, and he plummeted backwards onto the wooden railing. The impact bent his mask, and one of the wires slashed his cheek, just before he thudded against the boards.
For a few seconds, everything went black, all sounds reduced to ringing in his ears.
Dazed, Erik clumsily pulled himself up to a sitting position, belatedly realising that he should have covered the exposed right side of his face. His right hand flung up, but loud gasps told him it was already too late.
Christine stared at him, eyes wide with terror and tears rolling down her paper-white cheeks. The Buquet's boy didn't look much better. Above them, on the guard's pale face, shock slowly gave way to loathing. His hand, gripped on the smoking gun, moved, shaking.
"Just what the devil are you?" he rasped.
All scraps of hope Erik had died at that moment. He had been aware that, deciding to intervene, he had been walking into a trap, but hadn't expected the situation to escalate like this. Suddenly, the documents he had recently delivered to his lawyer in case of any predicament no longer seemed enough.
And so, the Opera Ghost did the only thing his clouded mind deigned right in this situation – he scrambled to his feet and ran as fast as he could.
Raoul's composure crumbled to pieces as soon as a gunshot tore the air, accompanied by screams. One of them sounded definitely feminine and unpleasantly familiar.
An ice-cold fear slipped into his stomach.
Ignoring all the etiquette rules that had ever been drilled into him, the viscount jumped out of his box on the ground level and ran to the grey-haired commissioner of police disguised as one of the journalists.
"Monsieur Mifroid, what's happening? I thought that everybody was to be evacuated before the action. And there were not supposed to be any shots unless it was completely necessary." His wording was perhaps a bit brusque, but he couldn't help it.
The elderly officer's gaze was sharp and gravely serious.
"I have no idea, Monsieur le Vicomte," he said. "But I'm almost sure the shot was not from one of my subordinate's rifles."
The unsaid conclusion made Raoul's insides twist even more.
The sound of the shot still echoed in Christine's head, even though she had covered her ears when she had cowered. Spasmodic sobs shook her body, and she couldn't stop staring at the scarlet drops scattered around.
God. Why was there so much blood?
The Phantom's deformed countenance was as horrific as she remembered, but even worse was seeing him get injured. She knew she should do something, but she wasn't able to move, gripped by fear.
Seeing the Opera Ghost's retreat, the guard cursed under his breath and started forwards.
The soprano's stomach turned upside down, and she jerked up to her feet, grasping his sleeve. "Please, stop!"
Her sudden outburst made the man stare at her in shock.
"I'm sorry, but we have to arrest this charlatan." The guard tried to pass by her, but she moved again, blocking his path. Her hands started to shake even more.
"Y-you can't, monsieur. He wasn't doing anything wrong. He wasn't doing anything wrong, and you shot him!" Hysterical notes resounded in her voice.
A shadow flashed across the man's face. "I have no time for female vapours, Mademoiselle Daaé," he ground out, his tone colder and more patronising. "I think it really would be best if you allowed young Buquet to escort you down."
Christine shuddered. There was no chance that he would listen to her, was there?
Despair welled up in her chest.
She had always wanted someone to protect her and tell her what to do. But right now, she wasn't much different from a porcelain doll, which everybody could move around as they pleased. And with a painful stab, she realised it was not what she wanted.
Her hands clenched on the folds of her gown.
She was still a bit afraid of the Phantom, but he had been her teacher and guardian who had supported her for many years. And she just couldn't stand idly, watching him get hurt again.
Swallowing hard, she forced herself to look back up at the guard.
"I'm sorry, monsieur, but I can't agree," she said in a trembling tone. Then she turned on her heel and rushed after the Opera Ghost, ignoring the calls.
Blood trickled down from the reopened cuts on his back. The loose shirt, which he had thrown on, stuck to them painfully, but he didn't stop running. Hateful shouts echoed behind him, filling his head with a cacophony of sounds. A muffled sob ripped out of his throat.
Erik reached a darkened stagehand post and closed his hands around one of the ropes. An excruciating pain exploded in his left arm as soon as he tried to pull himself up, sending him back on the boards with a choked groan.
He wouldn't be able to climb all the way up in such a condition.
The panic flared inside him with a new force, almost taking his breath away. If he went down, he could probably use one of his lower entrances. But he would never make it in time with a chase right behind him and more people waiting to catch him on the stage level.
Hell, hell, hell.
His eyes frenetically swept the surroundings. He needed a solution. A distraction.
His gaze rested on a set of levers, and without further consideration, he lunged towards them, pushing them all one by one and uncoiling the loops fastened to the pin rail.
The pulleys shook, filling the air with an eerie clatter. The ropes slithered through them with an ominous whiz, bringing down the backdrops and the other elements. Someone shouted. A heartbeat later, it all hit the stage with a loud thud.
Erik spun around and reached for the last mechanism he needed. An emergency gas valve. With a muffled hiss, all the nearby gas jets went out, and everything was consumed by darkness.
Shocked screams echoed against the opera walls.
There were still some kerosene lamps used as part of the scene's decorations, but they didn't give enough light to see anything clearly. But, unlike the guards and the police officers, the Phantom didn't need sight to find the way. Every piece of scenography had been designed by him. And he knew his work better than he knew himself.
Using the time he had bought, Erik headed to the backstage staircase and hurried down, trying not to make any noise. His own pulse, drumming in his ears, was almost deafening.
He was just reaching the end when a loud crash, followed by more shouts, rose over the general chaos. Erik jerked his head in that direction.
On the opposite edge of the stage, flames from a fallen lantern started to lick the background canvas. Shadowy figures, lightened by the spreading fire, were moving hastily, but without the regular employees, no one seemed to know the right procedures. Nervous voices and the hurried thumping of boots resounded all around, filling both the stage and the backstage corridors that he intended to use.
The darkened part of the coulisses still hid him from view, but there was no longer a way out.
Cold tentacles of panic crawled up inside him, constricting his lungs.
Dropping to all fours, he crawled behind crates, trembling violently. He had managed to put some distance between himself and his pursuers, but they were still around. Their sneering echoes resounded in his mind, followed by the image of the scarlet pool spilling around the unconscious circus owner. His stomach twisted, and he curled on the ground, shaken by retching and sobs.
Erik bent, digging his fingers into his skull in a desperate attempt to stop the images and thoughts flooding his mind. Memories of Meg's words and her acceptance gleamed within the storm, somehow helping him stay adrift.
Focus on each breath. On the steady sensation of the floor underneath my feet.
The ballerina's kind face flashed before his eyes. He could not give up like that.
Too late, the sound of approaching footsteps broke through to his consciousness. A slender figure bumped into him before he could move out of the way. Familiar, dark curly hair scattered all around them.
"Christine?" Shocked, Erik steadied the girl with his good arm.
Even in the semi-darkness, he couldn't miss how the soprano's eyes widened in fear. With a painful pang, he instantly released the girl, covering his deformed cheek.
"You shouldn't be here," he whispered hoarsely.
He half-expected the brunette to flee, but she didn't move from her place.
"I… I want to help." Her timid whisper was filled with uncharacteristic determination, and he couldn't help but stare back in shock.
A woman of stern features but a strangely compassionate gaze kneeled next to his hideout and took off her coat, slowly holding it out to him along with her open hand.
Erik swallowed hard, trying to concentrate. Before he could say anything more, though, a male voice rang out just above them.
"He went this way!" The cry was followed by a loud bang, and Christine cowered with a whimper.
Erik's stomach clenched into a sickening knot.
"Don't shoot, Mademoiselle Daaé is here!" he shouted. He was betraying his position, but he could not bear the thought she might get hurt because of him.
His yell didn't seem to stop the advance, though. Another crash resounded nearby, and the frightened Christine clutched the edge of his tail coat. Erik felt an icy chill. Hell and blazes.
His gaze swept the stage, the fire, the approaching figures, and he realised that he had only one option left. His teeth clenched.
"I'm sorry, Christine, but I have to ask you to rehearse the ending of the first act with me."
The girl glanced at him, her anxiety mixing with a shocked understanding. Uncertainly, she nodded her head.
"Keep your other hand at the level of your eyes or cast them downwards," he instructed, voice throaty. When she obeyed, he lowered his right hand from his face to take her left palm. Even with his dimmed sense of touch, he couldn't fail to notice how much she trembled.
His muscles tightened even more. "We start when I count to three. Un… Deux… Trois."
On his command, they set off running towards the centre of the stage. More shouts followed as they got noticed, but he barely paid attention as he wove between the elements of scenography. Blood thudded in his temples.
The trapdoor opened beneath them, and together they fell on the platform a few feet beneath, ducking. Pain pierced his arm again, and he didn't manage to stifle a muffled cry. His knees buckled under him, but somehow he managed to keep his balance and reach for the mechanism closing the entrance.
Christine's wide, fearful eyes were the last thing he saw before together they vanished within the unending night.