chapter 12

H ow does one get out of a date in 1880 without possibility of severe consequences?

The queasiness lingered as time counted down. Since lunch yesterday, I'd spent the rest of my day off trying to figure out how to decline the invite, that really wasn't an invite. There was probably a canal in the floor between the hall and the restroom for how many times I'd walked in and out.

I should have just said no. I was almost there. Damn, Antoinette. I could have still said no though.

My shoulders slumped and my mind weighed heavy.

Along with everything else, I was delivered a note moving me from the theater. From the music. From any bit of reprieve.

"Lucky number seven," I muttered and unlocked the dressing room door.

Dust filled the air in a room I was certain hadn't seen anyone in years. Through the coughing, I fanned away the particles as I searched the wall for a switch.

Cobwebs decorated the high corners of the room, stretching across nearly everything. Crates, mannequins and other random things were covered in at least an inch of dust.

How the fuck was I supposed to clean this without a vacuum? I suppose they couldn't wait another 20 years, could they?

It'd be easier to just set it on fire and rebuild.

"I hate this place," I groaned into my hands.

I tied a rag around my head covering my mouth and nose, trying to figure out where to start.

Feather dusters were useless. All the thing did was kick up the dust and move it somewhere else.

Without blinding myself I continued through the chaos of forgotten things.

Who uses a dressing room for storage?

Eventually, I got toward the back of the room, clearing some small boxes. The tail of a heavy sheet hanging over something against the wall got caught up around my foot and tugged, almost tripping me.

After calming myself after my near-death experience, I gripped the fabric to the sheet and slid it off gently.

A large vanity mirror and matching table appeared. Dark brown with gold leafed embellishments from the tip of the center mirror to the tip toes of the claw feet. The intricate metal details were cool beneath my touch. Elegant, high craftsmanship. Attention to detail and made to last. Nothing better. Or at least more beautiful.

Victorian era furniture was my favorite aesthetic. Especially Gothic-Romantic. Something I always wanted but could never afford.

The smile on my face was short lived when I caught sight of my reflection. Dirt covered me head to fingertips. The dingy woman hiding beneath a wig and long-sleeved dress, staring back wasn't someone I recognized.

I pulled the matching bench seat out from beneath the table and sat down. Tired of hiding beneath a costume made to appease, I tore the wig and bandana off, tossing them aside.

My nails dug against my scalp, relieving the itching I nearly always felt while I wore the damn thing. Another thing I could say no to but don't.

Apparently, I could kill a man, but that was the extent of my bravery.

When I was done scratching, I attempted to unflatten my hair trying to maybe find a little of myself again.

The sides were longer. I hated it. But where would a woman get a cut like this here?

I brought my filthy apron to my face to remove some of the smudges on it. It wouldn't budge.

Humming anything to quiet my busy mind usually helped, but not this time. The noise was too loud. I groaned and threw my face into my hands again.

"Just write to him and say no. That you're not interested like you wanted to when he asked," I said loud enough for the dust bunnies to hear.

It's not that I didn't find Philippe attractive. I do. He's honestly a very good-looking guy. It's super flattering in a normal situation. But, there's just something about him I didn't like. Not to mention the out of nowhere interest.

Why would he ask me out? We've never really even spoken.

I know Mom would want me to go. Sarah too. They think it'd be so good for me. Literally just because he asked me out.

Maybe if I just stayed hidden in here, I wouldn't have to go.

I looked at the tired face in the mirror again. She was begging for a hot bath.

What I wouldn't give for a scalding hot bath surrounded by candles. Bubbles piled high in a tub where the water could cover all of me. Maybe a pair of beautiful eyes staring from the dark end of the tub would be a nice addition.

I smiled faintly at the daydream I was suddenly lost in.

Yeah. A hot bath, my vibrator and a pair of beautiful eyes.

That.

What I wouldn't give for that.

Why does she haunt me so? The face I both know and do not.

Lost in her mind, she pushed back the hair that hung in her face as she stared into the mirror I was concealed behind. An unusual style for a woman, different. A lovely oddity to be seen.

It maddened me. Without a word spoken from foreign lips, curiosity called to me.

I had broken my own vow.

Tortured were my ears at the silence. She had spoken her inner mind so well moments ago and now smiled. What made her cheeks pigmented?

Was a lover on her mind?

To my surprise, I grimaced, and my insides twisted at the thought.

No, she has no lover. From her own lips she said this.

Lashes fluttered, and with a shake of her head the soft smile that once beamed, faltered and whatever sweet thoughts, fled.

Why on earth I had her moved to this room was lost on me. There was no plan. Only action after our last encounter.

She lifted a small crate and piled it onto another nearby, butchering whatever odd song it was she sang.

Apparently, her vocals could manage the beating.

‘Say something. Here she is,' the Ghost mocked.

She was as bad as the Banshee, however, it was her movements which kept me stationary.

This little mouse could act, this I knew.

"I see you are still alive, Mademoiselle," I said.

Mid-lift she halted, her head slowly moving about. "Were your ears bleeding, Monsieur?" she asked, scratching her knuckles.

Relief left my lungs. "I came to see who was torturing an innocent cat, only to find it was you once again."

The smallest chuckle trickled through her nervousness. She knows who I am, yet does not run this time?

"Your heroism is impressive," she said. The sarcasm in her voice tickled my ears and delighted my mind.

"I am not known for such acts of kindness. I was prepared to fight off anyone for that animal, cruelty is not something I savor. And now I know not what to do."

"I am sorry to disappoint."

She smiles for me? My body trembled at the sight of her attempt to hide upturned lips.

"I shall forgive you this time, Miss."

I could not help but smirk as she roamed, searching the walls somewhat inconspicuously.

"I wouldn't mind being saved from this room though," she said. Obviously trying to figure my point of origin.

Clever little thing. You are close. Be careful.

"Ah yes. It is less than desirable. Decommissioned many years ago."

"All of the others are in use, why isn't this one? Did someone die in here?"

"Once Madame d'Espagne clawed her way up to diva, it was deemed unnecessary. Perhaps she thought it haunted with all the things that had gone missing and the voices she claimed to have heard."

Waiting for another quick retort, almost salivating for it, I found myself leaning into the mirror, straining once again to see her face.

Why was I always straining?

The lightness of her face fell and the air shifted. Where she seemed almost joyful to hear my voice again, was now a distant memory.

Turn back, please.

The next few moments might as well have been hours of nerve-wrecking silence. Like the silence she often had while she worked.

Sadness radiated from her as busying hands smoothed out the wrinkles in her apron. "You shouldn't talk to me. We shouldn't be talking." Every word that escaped her mouth sounded of regret as they fell.

Often people ran from me or cursed my name when I spoke to them. Then there was Christine who only spoke to me because she believed me an angel sent from heaven.

But this sad, lonely woman spoke to me as if I were any other man and warned me away with the same breath.

"Why do you say that, dear?"

Tears hid within her throat. "I'm not a part of this story. I shouldn't even be here. You shouldn't know me."

A curious analogy at best. "Then which story is it that you belong to?"

"Well. Um... That's actually a good question. I'm not sure I even know." She said it as if to herself.

Tossing a pillow onto the old chaise, Melody moved slowly toward the vanity. Toward me. "I watch others live their lives, progressing or whatever the case. Never really getting to be a part of it, you know?"

"I do." More than she could truly know.

I have roamed this world as an observer for years, witnessing the stories of its many changing inhabitants. Stories in which I have only played voyeur and villain to.

Lovers. Liars. Abusers and drunks. Good people. Bad. All of them. I watched from the shadows into their world and hated them for it.

Carlotta had been a main target for nearly nine years now, and recently, I live to further Christine's career. Her story. One I once hoped to be part of someday, though I fear that fantasy less likely as days went on as of late.

As if we shared the same space, a table, Melody sat across from me, swimming in her mind once again.

"What has your mind spinning, my dear Melody?" I asked.

"Of course, you know my name," she said looking into the mirror as if there were no barrier.

Gnawing on the lip I had dreamt of tasting once, she inhaled deeply. "If you were given the opportunity to… direct your favorite opera. Knowing every aspect of it, would you keep it as original as possible? Let it play out as it's supposed to? Or, would you be selfish and tempted to change it. Rewrite it. Even if it could be a complete disaster?"

It made me chuckle. Her sincerity was precious and her fidgety hands endearing.

However, if she wanted the righteous answer, she should talk to a priest. Or any other man that was not me. I was no saint. I have stolen. Lied and betrayed. Invaded the privacy of bedrooms. Done things that would make the devil blush.

And now, there was this nobody asking if I would do the right thing or the fun thing?

"The opera is my life. The idea of changing works from their original context is obscene."

She ran her hands over her face, a low growl rumbling in her throat. "Well. Yeah. Fuck."

"However." Her eyes hit the mirror deliberately again. "Chaos is embedded within me," I said.

A sudden spark of life entered her face as I continued. "The director makes the rules, do they not? What would you do if you were the director of this story, Melody? Would you rewrite it to be more exciting? Melancholy? Would you add sun bright days or sword fights? Perhaps Romance. Love?"

As if the turmoil she had been feeling were on the precipice of relief, with bright inquisitive eyes, she opened her beautiful mouth.

Just then, the clock on the wall which had held onto life after all these years, chimed. She jumped as if time itself had made a threat.

As quickly as her face lit up, it dulled again when her eyes left me to look upon it. "Sometimes, we don't have the luxury of writing our own stories." Defeated eyes fell to the false identity she wore and balled it in her fists. "I have to go," she said in the smallest voice.

As long as time would allow, I would have her sit with me.

"Why, if whatever it is displeases you?"

Time was not on my side either so it had appeared. She pushed the bench beneath the vanity, and as she furthered away, I pressed against the mirror. I should stop her. Keep her from telling anyone about this.

She paused, looking back over her shoulder towards the mirror. "I... um…" she stumbled. "What's your name?"

My mouth opened to say the words, I'm Erique. But they would not come.

A name held power. It was personal. Christine didn't even know my true identity, let alone my name. I stilled, choking on my fear.

Whatever battle it was which warred within her mind, seized and she was gone. Disappeared behind the door.

‘Coward,' the Ghost laughed.

"What would you do if you were the director of this story, Melody?"

I'd send me the fuck home. That's what I'd do.

The walk from the employee quarters at the back of the theater to the foyer dragged on for miles. Every step threatened to send me vomiting with what little food I could stomach throughout the day.

I still only had one nice dress; the blue one Antoinette bought for me. I hated it and these shoes. This stupid wig. The fact that I'd have to pretend all night. And I knew I would.

If Phantom dude was gonna kidnap me, this was the time to do it. I would actually let him too.

Maybe if I just go hide in "lucky number seven", I wouldn't have to go.

Get it together. It‘s only a date.

Really though, when would I ever get the chance to go out with a conventionally handsome, rich guy?

My stomach dropped when I rounded the corner and saw Philippe standing in wait.

"Miss Reilly," he said. "Thank you for joining me."

Philippe's driver opened the door for us, and we stepped out into the beautiful night.

As we bounced along the road I thought about his question, coming back to it over and over when I already knew the answer.

He wouldn't even tell me his name, and the problem was and will always be, the Phantom was dangerous.

To befriend him was stupid. To think about it was worse. The fact that I even stayed and talked to him this time - as if he couldn't have just come out and murdered me, kidnapped me, or whatever - was still shocking.

Yet, I think the most dangerous thing about him was his voice.

Alluring to no end. The way he said my name unnerved me. I swear my soul danced as he spoke. Like I had known it all my life.

I didn't know him though. I knew nothing about him other than the things Christine had told me. A few true I was sure, especially the murders.

Still, it was all I thought about during dinner too. Not that Philippe noticed.

He had commandeered the entire date, talking about his newfound love for the world of politics and how he was making his way into it. Yeah, ok. Guess a little bit about his family was thrown somewhere in there too.

The thing about politicians, it didn't matter where or when, you needed a shower after they spoke.

It was the longest two hours of my life. Only saved by the lamb, which I didn't order, because he ordered for us. However, it was prepared so perfectly, I couldn't taste the farm it'd come from.

I was surprised I could even eat at all, and was able to keep my vomiting level down to a minimum. Something I was getting better at. Even if you could literally cut through the cigarette smoke with a knife.

The carriage ride back was filled with the same idle chat. To my minds relief, it was a short to ride.

"Please allow me to walk you to your room," Philippe said. "I want to make sure you get there safely. There's ghosts running about."

I slipped from his grip, forcing my customer service smile. "The things that haunt me are far worse than any ghost. Good night, Philippe. Thank you for dinner. It was… an experience."

Not a bad experience. Just the same old one. Never asked me anything about myself. Nor did he really allow me to speak much on the rare occasion that I did - just to be polite. I bet he thought this was the greatest date because he was having such a great time talking.

A shiver slithered along my flesh as his jaw clenched. "All right then. Good night, Miss Reilly," he said.

Even though his face did everything right, there was nothing behind his eyes. The smile refused to touch them. I'd noticed it during the night, his perfect politician's smile. I didn't like it.

My own faux smile I held all night dropped the moment I turned away and a sigh of relief overtook as soon as I disappeared around the corner.

I laughed at how ridiculous this all was.

A world where Phantoms exist. Counts take me to dinner. I'm a murderer.

The new norm.

"Finally." The solace I felt when my door came into sight was unparalleled. I would never have thought I'd be so excited to crawl into my well-used bed.

The tension rolled off and true relief began when I stepped inside and locked it behind me.

A short lived feeling when the light switched on and something on my nightstand caught my attention.

My heart sped up a little and the hairs on my arms stood. I glanced around before landing back on the package bound with red ribbon.

Curiosity won, and with trembling hands, I picked it up. Hesitant fingers slid over the paper, finding the tail to the ribbon, which slid off without resistance. I entwined the ribbon around my fingers, then found a flap to open on the back.

Inside the nicely wrapped parchment was Mary Shelly's Frankenstein .

Hope told me Christine had left this. She would be the only one who knew.

Logic told me he left it.

My eyes flicked up from the book. I was certain I locked the door when I left. Was there a panel somewhere in the room? The wardrobe wasn't fixed to the wall, so it couldn't have been through there.

He was in my room. He could come into my room at any time. This should be the most frightening thing. And yes, my heart was pounding.

I cut back to the book and ran my fingers over the worn cover. The spine had for sure been opened at least a million times. When I opened the well loved book to a random page and saw that it was an English edition, suddenly, I didn't care where it came from. I'd never been so excited to read a book without sex in it.