Disclaimer: As this work attempts to emulate the language of the 19th century, there will be a word used for an ethnic minority that is very much outdated today.

We learn and we grow.

It feels like in a dream. Millions of candles are illuminating the grand entrance hall of the Opera Populare, crystal chandeliers and gold railings shine bright, elaborately dressed figures gliding over the marble floors. The theme was Black, White and Gold, and so countless harlequin and dominos crowd the place, golden suns and black cats. Tule, brocade and silk swirl and glide over the polished floors, paper masque masks float in front of countless faces. It is a festivity in its own right, a night of opulence, where champagne floods the glasses and exotic food is served, where dance and song prevail while all the horrors of the times are left outside the doors and for a moment forgotten.

Excitement had been in the air since it was first announced there would be a ball, most the theatre folk was to participate in it one way or another, and even those who were told not to be seen among the fine guests were looking forward to a celebration of their own. Most of the dancers and actors were allowed to spend the evening among the guests, though immediately reminded by Madam Giry to avoid "mingling" with those of a higher rank. As low-lifes they were to enhance the evening, but not themselves. Frederic only grinned at that warning, not willing to let enjoyment slip from his hands, while Colette and Lucille were nowhere to be found during this lectures, already successful in their pursuits of glamour. A joyful atmosphere among everyone was nevertheless there. The tailors and seamstresses had their hands full, always someone there who came with new ideas or new changes for their costume, yards of textiles and pearls and feathers finding new life on dress upon dress. Together with Meg, Christine had long thought about her costume as well, they both wished for their appearance to be splendid yet simple. Meg decided to go as a white swan, Christine a white rose.

"I am sorry my dear, but we ran out of white fabrics, and the one we have are already asked for. You will take the pink tule and chiffon." Christine stops mid-step as Madam appears on the stairs that lead down to the costume department, expression unreadable like always, the tone of voice offering no room for discussion.

"The pink? But the dress-code…" She tries nevertheless, uncomfortable at the idea of standing out in such way at the ball.

"It is how it is. A bit of colour will do no harm. Surely someone else will dress differently as well, it always happens on such events. I already talked about it with Madam Moreau." Madam says and turns around, leaving Christine with no choice but to comply. Later that day she talks to Raoul about the mater of her odd costume choice, but he merely laughs it off as no big thing at all.

"Well, if its true that a bit of colour is welcomed, then you will find in me a worthy companion."

Deep in the night of the first hours of this New Year when everybody is finally asleep, the pale moonlight finds her still kneeling by her bed, hands clapped together, head bowed down. In those silent hours, when all the world has become quiet, surrounded by the even breathing of a dozen separate lives, her thoughts are on this young day, its innocent beginning as daylight draws near and already grows soft on the horizon, its possibilities, and the hopes it brings.

And so the evening of the ball finds her joyful and full of life, full of dreams and hopes, dancing through the bright glimmer of candles, surrounded by laughter, in the arms of love. Nothing seems there that could mare this night, this moment.

Nothing.

And then he appears.

One could feel the cold that spread through the room when he appeared, the dread that filled all present in his sight, him dressed in the hues of Hell, his mask the one of death. Raoul can see all colour leaving Christines face, her body stiffen and her hands searching his own as he takes hers, giving her a moment of comfort and strength. But only for a moment, for he will not stand silently and watch, the need to act upon this foe a firm design in his mind. While the attention is drawn to the speaker at the top of the stairs, Raoul slips away, as quietly as possible, disappearing behind the columns, making his way away to be soon back again with his rapier, ready to fight, ready to end this madness once and for all. All that time his heart is racing, fearful and unwilling to leave Christine too long alone in this creatures presence, blood rushing to his face as he finally makes it back to the scene, the monster's glowed hand only inches from Christine's neck. With violent force Red Death rips away the ring she wears around on a chain, turning around and disappearing into smoke and thunder bellow ground, he himself at his heels, jumping down into darkness, not knowing what he might find there.

Landing hard and painful on solid ground his eyes adjust to the semi darkness only to be met by mirrors and mirrors, all around him, a maze of reflections, the monster looking back at him from some yet disappearing again without sound or trace. Illusion upon illusion is all there is as his rapier slices empty air, as a hand suddenly places itself on his shoulder.

"Come with me." It is the dance instructor, Madam Giry, that leads him away out of this maze of trickery, through hidden doors and countless passages back to the backstage premisses, heading for the building exit.

"No! Listen, I will not leave this place until you tell me what devilry is going on here, until you tell me everything! Everything!" With force he had gripped the older woman's arm and now releases it in shock, yet unyielding in his demands for answers. She looks at him for a moment, expression unreadable, but nods in the end, gesturing him to follow her.

Her apartment is nothing more than a windowless room with only a grated opening that leaves some fresh air in from the outsides, at the far end a nook with a narrow bed, a chaise in the middle, cupboards and drawers along the walls with framed posters of performances long past. Turning on a bit of light, Madam Giry sits down by the vanity, its surface crowded with trinkets of various sorts, framed photographs and scraps of paper.

"Madam, you promised me answers." He says, firm and resolute, unwilling to be content with more ghost stories.

"It is a long and tragic tale, vicomte. One that I never told anyone."

"Well, you will tell it to me."

"I wouldn't even know where to begin… So much has passed since then."

"Then start from there."

She looks him in the eye as he sits down opposite from her, her hands placed quietly in her lap, the light of the lonely lamp casting shadows upon her unreadable face. With a calm voice she begins:

"Very well, if you wish. Where to begin? Ah yes, those many years ago when I was nothing but a young dancer myself here at the Opera house. Long is it since, but you wish to know. It happened to be that one day our instructor took us to see a traveling circus, such as they often come to Paris, with magicians and acrobats and Gypsies, sights such as young beings as us never chance to see. Like bewitched we were, following the crowd from one stand to the other, seeing snakehypnoteursand sword swallowers. Our path led us to one of the tents where you could see The Devil's Child, as they claimed to the paying audience. It was a hideous sight to behold, I still shudder at the memory, to see a boy not much younger than me beaten and tortured in front of shouts of mockery and insults, marly misused and taken advantage off due to his ugliness of face. What about the ugliness of their souls, of all those who laughed at such misery? I couldn't stand it and stayed long afterwards, praying to find courage to offer this boy some comfort. His master… a real monster who deserved his end. It was done in self defence or else the boy would have been beaten and tortured and starved to death! That rope was a necessary evil for the sake of salvation. I… saw my chance to help and with the cage standing open, I took his hand and lead him away, away to the safest place I knew. I couldn't leave him to the gallows, I couldn't when so much more was in him! I hid him from the world and its cruelties. He has known nothing else of life since then… except this opera house and its maze underground. It was his playground and now his artistic domain. He's a genius, teaching himself everything and mastering it with such bravado! He's an architect and designer. He's a composer and a magician. A genius, monsieur!" While all throughout this tale her voice had been calm, it took up a different colour now, the colour of admiration, and Raoul was surprised to find the cheeks of the strickt and reserved dance instructor acquire a slight blush near the end. His mind made haste to put together all the pieces that were presented to him, of underground mazes, Angels and Demons, murder and passion, trickery and fear, innocence and death.

"But clearly, Madame Giry, genius has turned to madness." He brings himself to say, hoping to bring some reason into all this.

"No, Erik… he never wishes to harm anyone." She implores with a last attempt, her resolve slightly faltering, her heart and mind in conflict with each other.

"And yet he terrorises and murders. Tell me, what does he want with Christine?"

"She is his muse. He desires her."

Often when they were little would Christine and Meg find themselves by each others side in Meg's iron wrung bed under the oval window in the attic dormitory, covers drawn up to their noses, their fingers intervened. The hearts of those two girls grew so close as only those of sisters could, finding happiness and comfort when the world seemed too imposing and too grand.

Those innocent days seem long gone, and still Christine finds herself lying in bed with Meg's hand in hers. It is late, very late in the night and dawn will be soon approaching, yet sleep had eluded her, her mind in unrest. After the abrupt end of the ball all guests had instantly returned to their homes, the theatre in an uproar like long not seen. Christine had found herself be led away by Meg up to their dormitory long before anyone else had a mind to leave the main floors, the shrill voice of Signora Carlotta heard all the way up to the attic. It was good they were the only ones up here, for she had no strength to face anybody, let alone feel their stares on her, the judging looks as she was always thrown into the spotlight, while all she wished was to be unnoticed. Long did she lie awake after the other girls had made their way to bed, their whispers unusually quiet, and then when everyone was asleep she noticed Meg gesturing her to join her, gladly doing so as silent tears streamed down her face.

If someone is wondering who Colette and Lucille are in this story- ever noticed the two dancers who threw themselves onto the new managers the moment they were introduced? Well, it seemed very clear what their intentions were (especially as they looked to be in their late 20s), so of course they also appear here and there in this story.