Chapter 2
Everyone had a story about him.
Some called him the Phantom of the Opera. Others claimed he preferred the title of Opera Ghost.
Though no one could agree on what to call him, everyone was certain he existed.
Theatre folk were, as a rule, a superstitious lot.
It was considered verboten to decorate a costume with peacock feathers.
A terrible final dress ensured a successful opening night.
Whistling backstage jinxed not only the offender but anyone else who might have heard the cursed notes.
Good luck should never be offered, and God help anyone foolish enough to utter the name of Shakespeare’s most infamous tragedy.
These superstitions were fairly universal, observed in equal measure from one theatre to the next, regardless of geography or the art form exercised within. But whispers of the Opera Ghost belonged solely to the Opéra Populaire.
Or rather…the opera itself belonged to him, the ghost.
I couldn’t remember a time when I’d not been aware of him. His presence was a constant, always in the periphery of everyone’s vision. He was either the hero or the reviled scapegoat of any bit of luck that befell a production, good or—more often—very, very bad.
The ghost was responsible for scene changes that went too slowly or props gone missing.
When Ubaldo’s Don José military jacket grew too tight, he claimed the Opera Ghost had altered it after rehearsals, taking it in by scant millimeters each night, until the wardrobe department was forced to make him an entirely new costume.
On occasion, though, the Opera Ghost was credited for things going well.
He frequently wrote letters to Monsieur Lefèvre, offering impeccable suggestions for new arrangements within the orchestra.
It had been upon his recommendation that our current first chair violinist was brought out of the obscurity of the third row and made concertmaster.
New pointe shoes were sometimes left in baskets at every dancer’s dressing room station, their pale-pink satin as bright and gleaming as a Christmas morning.
And though I did not relish being exiled to a haunted dressing room, given the choice to go there or remain under the fearsome glare of Carlotta, I’d take the ghost.
“Are we in full dress this morning?” I whispered, poking my head into the male dancers’ room. It was just two doors down from Carlotta’s, and—even though I knew our call time was hours before hers—I didn’t want to risk the diva somehow overhearing me.
Looking up from a deep horizontal split, Frederick shook his head. “No costumes till tonight.” He grabbed his flexed toes, his face momentarily pressed to the floor. “Heard you almost got sacked yesterday.”
“They moved me to the stage-left storage room.”
“The one with the ghost nuns?” He twisted his face sympathetically. “I heard it has rats.”
“Not as big as the one I see in here now,” I shot back, feeling mean. I’d woken up grouchy and out of sorts.
Frederick only laughed. “Steer clear of her, all the same. La Carlotta has a long memory.”
I nodded glumly before turning to my new room.
Despite the urgency of Monsieur Lefèvre’s edict, the room had not been cleaned out before I’d left the theatre last night.
In addition to the ghost nuns, the room had been stacked high with odd bits of scenery too unusual or fragile to store in any of the many basements beneath the stage.
The Opéra Populaire had four, though there were rumors of a fifth, partially filled with a hidden lake created during the building’s construction, when it was discovered how terribly saturated the ground was with runoff from the Seine.
Madame Giry had assured me that the stagehands would remove everything before today’s first rehearsal, and as I now stood in the darkened hallway, peering in through the half-opened door, I saw they had, mostly.
A wooden clothing rack was positioned beside a small table and a chair. Already, my costumes hung from it, and a mound of pointe shoes, in various stages of wear, were piled beneath.
An old upright piano was pushed into one corner. Several swags of moldering brocade drapes hung above it, set dressing from a long-retired production of Eugene Onegin.
The largest item that remained was a mirror.
It took up a whole wall, soaring into the darkened ceiling rafters.
Its frame was made up of mythological figurines painted with gold leaf.
I couldn’t imagine which opera it had come from.
It looked much too heavy for quick scene changes, and the glass was far too fine to have been used onstage.
Training my ears for the scuttle of Frederick’s rats, I took a step into the room and noted how large and present my reflection’s movements were.
It was almost as if another person were in the room with me.
I pulled the little table and chair to the wall opposite the mirror so that my back would be to it while dressing.
It would be all too easy to spook myself into believing the reflection was the Opera Ghost, come for me at last.
But it wasn’t a bad room, I decided, turning on the gas lamps. They issued a cheerful glow, banishing shadows to the far corners and making the great mirror sparkle.
I took off my cloak and tossed it over the back of the chair before quickly changing into a linen corselette and a tulle rehearsal skirt.
With a few minutes to spare before I’d need to take the spiral staircase up to the rehearsal room, I decided to stretch, stepping toward the mirror and tilting my body this way and that, to study my lines and make sure my hair was securely pinned in place.
The mirror was so large I felt as if I were approaching a living thing, a slumbering dragon or a drowsy giant. One wrong step would wake the beast, and it would—
“Oh my!”
I jumped at the unexpected voice before spotting Meg in the doorway. “You scared me!” I gasped, holding a hand to my chest and releasing a breath of nervous laughter.
“I didn’t expect it to be so big,” she said, stepping inside, curious. She was already dressed for rehearsal, but her hair was still loose, tumbling down her back in a riot of golden curls I envied. “It’s much nicer without all the nuns hanging down.” She pantomimed their hulking, lifeless bodies.
“It is.” I swiped up a pair of toe shoes. “Perhaps Madame would let you move in too. There’s so much space. We’d be the envy of the corps, Opera Ghost and all.”
Meg didn’t answer. Her gaze had fallen on the mirror, and I caught a shiver running through her limbs.
“Meg?”
She took a slow step toward it, reaching out as if to run her hand over the glass.
“How was the café?” I tried.
When her finger brushed the silvery surface, actual flesh aligning with its reflected counterpart, she let out a startled sound. “What? It was fine,” she said, then shook her head, clearing it. “Fine. Let’s warm up upstairs. It’s too drafty in here. We’re certain to catch a chill.”
I swept my eyes over the mirror once more, struck by a strange certainty it would show us the wrong reflection somehow. Our figures would move out of time, or it wouldn’t be Meg standing beside me. The glass felt alive, charged with possibility.
But our doubles acted just as they should, and the only thing I saw move was Meg’s brow as she frowned, waiting for me.
“Christine?”
Her voice broke the spell the mirror had cast. “Coming.”