Chapter 40
No amount of greasepaint could mask my pale, ashen face. I selected the prettiest shades of pink, running the heavy makeup over the apples of my cheeks to conjure the persona of a young woman at the peak of her desirability, secure in her charms and confident in her power to sway men’s wills.
Opening night was supposed to be a time for joyous nerves and giddy anticipation.
In just over an hour’s time, the curtain would rise, and we would share our production with the very finest of Parisian society.
It was a sold-out house, and we’d been told that reporters from all across Europe had come to cover it.
I was about to sing my first lead role, a part I’d rehearsed for weeks, a character I’d crafted into my own. I should have been on top of the world.
But the girl who stared back at me in my mirror only looked troubled and tired.
Were we truly going through with this?
Dress rehearsals had been quiet, as if Erik sensed the company needed a reprieve to concentrate on perfecting every facet of his opera.
There’d been no unseen outbursts.
There’s been no more messages.
Save for one.
Arriving at my dressing room, I’d been accosted by a series of enormous bouquets, each larger than the next and made up of dozens of roses in the same shade of pink that Aminta wore. A quick glance through the cards showed they were from Ubaldo, the opera managers, and Raoul.
But resting on the table before them all was a single Rosa Joséphine, tied with a black satin ribbon.
One of Erik’s telltale envelopes was near it, and I cracked open its burgundy wax seal with trembling hands.
Soon all the world will hear my score. Soon all the world will know the workings of my mind…Christine, your voice at last shall soar, and then the world at last shall find your voice and my spirit intertwined.
There was no signature.
One wasn’t needed.
No one but Erik would have left it.
I’d run through a long vocal warm-up while getting dressed, then set about doing my makeup and hair. We were using my own in this production, letting my dark curls hang loose and long, with a pair of tortoiseshell combs to sweep the locks from my face.
And now, I sat before my mirror with nerves jangling, wholly unsure of what to do with myself. Stage management wouldn’t come by to announce half-hour and house opening for another twenty minutes. I felt as if I would crawl out of my skin before then.
There was a knock at my door, and I looked up through the mirror to see Madame Giry standing on the threshold.
“I wanted to come wish you love this evening,” she said in lieu of a greeting.
“Don’t you mean luck?” I asked, turning on my stool to face her properly. “I’ll need every drop I can muster.”
She shook her head. “No. Only love. Luck is for people who are unprepared or without talent, and you are neither.” Her expression softened for an instant, looking almost motherly.
“I…I am very proud of you, child,” she murmured.
“I know the singers don’t usually take part in it, but I wanted tell you… you are welcome to join us for class.”
My eyebrows rose, inordinately touched. “Onstage?”
She nodded.
Before every performance, the company dancers took class onstage, hidden behind the grand curtain—running through pliés and dégagés on makeshift barres the stagehands assembled—as the orchestra filtered into the pit to warm up.
It was a wonderfully peaceful time of bonding and camaraderie. Every dancer, whether featured or corps, took class. It was something I hadn’t even known to miss tonight until Madame Giry invited me.
“I would be honored,” I said, rising. “Are you about to start?”
I expected her to snap that we were already late and that I was holding up the entire company, but she only gestured for me to follow.
That half hour onstage with the dancers was a balm to my soul.
My mind stopped racing and turned inward, focusing upon every stretch and flex of muscle, from the points of my toes to the curve of my fingers.
I closed my eyes and listened to the deep breaths and sighs of my fellow company members.
No matter how my position at the opera had altered, changing from dancer to supernumerary, or from featured soloist to prima donna, the barre had remained the same.
The barre was like an old friend. The barre was home.
I stretched my spine, letting my lungs fill and deflate. I breathed out worries. I breathed in strength and silence.
Until…
“Are the doors secure?” shouted a loud male voice. He sounded close enough to be onstage, on the other side of the curtain.
Every dancer’s head snapped toward it, though we kept on stretching.
Then, across the front of house, came a series of loud slamming doors. After each one, someone called out, “Secure!” and another would shut.
“Focus,” Madame Giry admonished, stalking through the rows of segmented barres. “If you are truly in tune with your body, there’s not a thing on earth which should distract you from class. Not one thing,” she added sternly, and I felt her eyes land on me.
“I’m here,” came another voice, seemingly from the fly loft. “The Phantom of the Opera.”
Erik.
“Hold your fire, hold your fire, men!”
I froze, recognizing Raoul’s voice now. What did he mean about holding fire?
“Do they really have guns?” I whispered fearfully.
“Focus,” Madame Giry scolded, tapping the back of my ankles with her walking stick.
“I’m here: the Phantom of the Opera,” Erik announced, this time sounding farther away, somewhere in front of house.
Even the most dedicated of dancers stopped their stretching and looked toward the curtain.
“I’m here…”
From the stalls.
“I’m here…”
From the pit.
“How is he doing that?” Meg squeaked, looking as if she were about to run to her mother.
“I’m here…I’m here…I’m here…I’m here…I’m here!”
The last cry came from house right, up in the mezzanine, where Box Five was.
Without warning, there was an explosion of gunfire.
Several ballerinas shrieked and ran offstage. I covered my ears, waiting for the next burst, but it seemed as if the marksman was going to fire only once.
A terrible silence passed, everyone too frightened to speak.
Was it over?
Had Erik been shot?
“You fool!” Raoul roared, his voice coming from the exact spot Erik’s had last sounded. “I said to fire only when the time comes!”
Realization thunked painfully in my chest. He knew the gendarmes had come armed. He’d instructed them to shoot.
He didn’t want Erik captured and cast into prison.
He wanted him dead.
Icy terror spread through my veins like hoarfrost.
Down in the pit, the gendarme stammered out an apology. “But, Monsieur le Vicomte—”
“No ‘buts’!” boomed Erik’s voice.
It was directionless now, filling up the whole of the auditorium. The stage. The wings. It felt as if everyone in the opera could hear him.
“For once, Monsieur le Vicomte is right. Do your duties well and seal my fate. While I hate to cut the fun short, this joke has worn thin. Open the doors, let the audience take their seats. It’s time for my opera to begin.”
All around us, lights flickered with a worrying pulse, but after a moment of darkness, they returned, shining as bright as usual.
A stage manager rushed by, flexing his hands nervously.
Madame Giry cleared her throat, attempting to regain our attention, but it was clear that any focus we’d had was lost.
With a deep sigh, she clapped her hands. “Class is over.”