chapter 7

D o you see me, little mouse? Impulse urged me to look upon her, not once, but twice on this day. Luck would have my hand in the end. I continued unseen. Unknown.

Still, the disdain I held for myself rotted within.

I have declared no care for this woman, circumventing any area of her. And here this creature hid within the shadows above, straining once again to glimpse her cherub face.

As the music bled in, she turned back to watch the story play.

My eyes widened as she reached beneath the hem of her skirt and slid it up. Stilled in my breath at such a sight, I gripped the rope tighter.

Dark ink branded the skin of her sturdy legs. Was she in a traveling show as I was?

Who are you?

From her unusually tight black underthings, a small flat rectangular item was pulled from her pocket. Quickly, she held it up, and as hastily, returned to her pocket.

Very odd.

While I found myself wishing my feet dangled next to this stranger, who meant nothing, she laid back onto the board and sighed a breath of relief.

Torn between goals and desire, I cautiously continued to peer over the ledge. The state of pleasure on her face warmed my own. A feeling I had not known in decades, or perhaps ever. The memory of it eluded me.

Melodies engulfed this angel. Wrapped itself around her and ran its fingers over her as a lover would do. As I had dreamt of doing.

Wishful thoughts of a condemned man that would further delight in another's hell.

Would it be so terrible if she knew me?

‘Most definitely,' the Ghost said.

The ache of life returned, eroding the fantasy flowering inside.

"Excuse me. Excuse me," M. Fournier called over the stage, M. LeBlanc following behind like a prancing canine per usual. "Everyone stop rehearsals please."

A snarl escaped these revolting lips as I was ripped from my broken promise. The great bore seemed to gush with excitement. Or panic. Impossible to tell with the human embodiment of a flea.

No matter the minor delay. Either way, Carlotta was not going anywhere. Not yet. Though, this could turn even more a savory moment with their unexpected presence.

I grinned with every step the Banshee took closer to her surprise for her unending reign as resident diva.

So close. Just another few steps Madame d'Espagne.

The itch for rehearsals to continue with Christine in Carlotta's place dug deeper than it ever had. The maneuver would be executed without a hitch, no doubt.

She was ready. The young soprano was everything this grand place wished they had and everything I needed to perfect it.

Ah. The Pompous Playboy and Witless Puppy had come along with my managers. Hence M. Fournier's current state.

The younger one, with his fair hair and tailored, modern fashions I seldom saw until recently. However, the older one, Comte Philippe de Changy, that was a face I knew. One that frequented the salon at the back of the opera. Often preferring the company of the head ballerina when available and running through as many chorus girls when she was not.

The Changys were pinnacle society. Not a hardship to be had. Born perfect and given everything simply just for that.

Foul.

The hate boiling, softened as a familiar voice crept in through M. Fournier's babbling.

"I am the best manager in the world! My skinny mustache doesn't look like I used a weed whacker in the dark! And I love the electric stick in my ass..." she said in the worst accent I had ever heard.

So playful and lively. How easily I was distracted.

Her presence unnerved me.

Full of surprises, are you not?

The hollering Baboon started up again at M. Fournier's request.

Relieved, I redirected my focus properly. My ears longed for the days that her voice was silenced once and for all.

The new patrons winced uncomfortably as they listened. Most definitely the only thing we had in common.

M. Fournier watched on, forcing a smile through worried lines. Meanwhile, M. LeBlanc was nothing but reassuring grins. With how much drink he ingested regularly, it was a wonder the man functioned at all.

One would need to be intoxicated to tolerate anything that came out of that Banshee's mouth.

Nearly salivating as she slowly took her steps towards her mark, I gripped the rigging eagerly. "Keep going, just a few centimeters more," I urged in quiet breath. "3...2..."

A scream filled my great hall and the snake disappeared through the floor of the stage, a plume of white flour taking her place.

"Holy fuck!" the little mouse said.

Was she disgusted? Or perhaps enjoyment blessed her face? It was difficult to tell as she gawked.

"Long live the Diva!" I laughed, watching as they scattered like cockroaches below.

"The ghost! The ghost!" they shouted, looking around aimlessly. What ecstasy flowed through these veins.

My favorite trick of ventriloquism. "Never was the Ghost to be found, for he was everywhere."

There's a fucking Phantom.

Covered in what I hoped was flour, Carlotta emerged from the hatch that had opened beneath her feet in the stage. She screamed and cried as the people helped pull her out.

And I couldn't fucking care less.

There was actually a man running around this place doing fucking Phantom shit. The moment was so fucking over.

The creaking above was more erratic, urging my feet faster towards the stairs at the end of the catwalk. Only five long, slightly swaying platforms from where I was...

He's real. She's real. They're all real. And I'm fucking losing my mind.

Screams continued as more of his laughter rang out. Sandbags from the rigging had fallen onto the stage, knocking at least one person over that I'd seen.

"...Christine Daae'..." M. Fournier said, pulling a tiny woman with dark hair from the crowd.

Finally, at the end of the catwalk, I stepped from the last platform onto the stable wooden rise leading to the stairway.

Without warning, a force stronger than surprise yanked me so hard that it left my breath behind, as the breeze of the sandbag grazed me, and landed in the spot I'd stepped into.

My heart pounded in my ears as I stood frozen, staring at the bag that could have killed me.

Amongst the chaos and short heavy breaths, my wide eyes sliced to the black sleeve, white cuff and black leather glove that vice gripped around my waist. With his other hand, he clasped my wrist against his chest. Neither showed no signs of letting up as I clenched onto them.

I swallowed hard before stealing a look at my rescuer.

Reminiscent of a dream I once had. I stared wordlessly into extraordinary, blazing eyes, one emerald green, the other stone gray.

Mischief or malice? They were unreadable.

This was him. I should have been terrified. Screaming even. Pulling away. But I stood motionless. My mind raced with every awful possibility of what could happen if he changed his mind. Every one of them ending with me dead on the stage below. Or locked in a dungeon somewhere.

This man had just saved my life. "Thank you," I said meekly. Granted, he was the reason it needed saving.

Hot breath brushed against the heel of my palm as he glanced it over. A glint of softness crept around the fire in his eyes when he locked in with mine again.

Prickles of fear and confusion stirred inside, and the air swirled. Familiar and comfortable. Laced in… safety?

" Fant?me d'opéra! le voilà! " a man's hoarse voice yelled out in the distance.

Those eyes flicked over my head.

Several platforms away and coming fast; a gruff, gray-haired man with a wild beard and baggy, dirty clothing rushed towards us.

The grip on my hand and around my waist vanished. Empty was the space when I turned back, like he'd never been there.

Déjà vu.

The grizzled man shoved me aside, searching around frantically. His rough hands grabbed me yelling, and shook. I fought the urge to vomit when his foul, booze-laced breath assaulted my nostrils.

Even if I wanted to get at my knife, I couldn't reach it.

I wriggled against his bruising grip, only freezing when glowing eyes peered over his shoulder.

They really were glowing. Like a jack-o-lantern at Halloween.

" Bonsoir, Monsieur ," the Phantom said.

It was enough to halt the man in place and flush the color from his face. He yelped, meeting the eyes behind him and let go of me.

I tore away and descended the stairs as fast as I could, ignoring the rustling behind me. I was running and bouncing so fast, I'd thought this stupid wig would fly off.

A sea of bodies had gathered at the bottom of the stairs, staring curiously. They opened enough to let me through, and directly into M. LeBlanc, Fournier and Philippe de Changy.

"Ms. Reilly?" LeBlanc asked.

Too frightened to say anything, I hurried around behind them and hoped for the best.

The stagehand stomped towards us, fuming, and wiping blood from his nose. This moment terrified me more than the thought of being pushed to my death.

" Que se passe-t-il, Buquet? " LeBlanc demanded of the man.

Joseph Buquet... The stagehand from the stories. Sure, why not. As if this all wasn't crazy already.

Anyone else?

The men yelled back and forth while I stayed cowering, looking for an exit.

I could run back to my room, hide there for the rest of the day. Maybe Antoinette would have me back and this wouldn't happen again.

A dark-haired man standing back from the chaos caught my attention in my search. Seeming unconcerned for the event at hand, his eyes bored curiously into me.

"Ms. Reilly, was there someone up there with you?" LeBlanc asked. His words calmer than the situation at hand, snapping me back.

"No. No one." Why did I just lie?

Fixed on me through the crowd of onlookers, the man's gaze flicked up the stairway and back with suspicion. Like he knew I was lying.

M. Fournier's chin quivered as he bit back a nervous smile, hoping I told the truth. Or at least kept it to myself if I had another one.

The last thing I assumed he wanted was everyone telling the new patrons there's a menacing Ghost in the opera. Even though they already knew.

Buquet sneered some more spiteful words. Spitting as he spoke.

"He's calling you a liar, Ms.," Philippe said. "He seems to think you were talking to the Ghost."

Oddly enough, it sounded playful. Like he was enjoying the show. At least one of us was.

"Are you sure you were alone?" M. Fournier asked.

"I was almost killed by one of those sandbags." I pointed at Buquet. "The only other thing I saw was him running after me and shouting."

Why was I lying? There's no reason for me to lie, but I found myself doing it anyway.

If this was the past, things would have to play out as closely as they would have, as if I hadn't been here. Right? Otherwise, I could change the course of history or something?

Right?

But what if all this wasn't real?

" Buquet, assez! " LeBlanc yelled.

"Alright. That settles it! It's obvious Buquet let the drink get the best of him today," M. Fournier said.

"Yes. Yes. That's enough excitement for one day," LeBlanc added. "Comte de Chagny. Vicomte. Would you please forgive us this excitement and rendezvous in the parlor, gentlemen?"

Philippe nodded. "Of course, Monsieur's." His eyes floated to mine, a glimmer of interest in them that made me uneasy. "Madame."

They disappeared into the crowd along with the managers who were trying to break it up.

The back of my mind tingled with that feeling you got when you think you're being watched, like in the hallway earlier. From where I was, I swear the faintest glow of eyes stared from the dark at the top of the stairs. A twisted feeling in the core of my body came back.

I swallowed hard, and hurried feet took me the other way.

I would run in and out of the doorways all day if I had to, not caring if Pierre or anyone else got upset.

Something's got to give and I think now was that time. They couldn't fire me if I was gone.