Chapter Text
Chapter 1 Reminiscence
1st July 1871 Paris
He owed her nothing.
Yet he sat there, enduring their charade.
Shifting in his seat, Erik Duquesne didn’t bother to conceal his loud sigh. This child had no talent. Why he’d even answered Emilie’s note - when he’d already guessed what the result would be - continued to confound him. Then again, it wasn’t as if he could have feigned occupation. Parisian society was hardly beating down his door with invitations to dine at a different salon every night…
And her request was the first he’d heard from her in months - possibly years? He had to admit; his curiosity had been piqued by her words. She’d spoken of a dancer who was ready to be trained to sing. His heart had leapt at the possibilities that opportunity afforded, then crashed to the ground once she’d revealed exactly who the girl was. Even more so when she’d begun to sing.
Chewing on the inside of his cheek, it took every ounce of control to not shout at her to cease her insipid mewling and leave his poor ears in peace. But he supposed he should at least give her the chance to improve on her appallingly weak performance. “Again,” he ground out, “from the beginning.”
Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Meg Giry began the simple aria anew. Standing alone on the empty stage, the theatre around her was swathed in darkness.
Hoping to hide that she constantly glanced up into the auditorium her mother, Emilie, watched from the wings. Was that a sigh? Erik’s instruction had an exasperated edge; but whether that was from disdain at Meg’s performance, or his usual response to her, she couldn’t tell. She willed Meg to exhibit control and stop her voice from trembling, but the more her daughter strained to reach notes far above her limited range, the more Emilie knew it was hopeless.
The reed-thin voice scraped through him - this was rapidly becoming excruciating. There was nothing he could do with her. She wasn’t a contralto, let alone a soprano – he wondered truly, how she was even in the chorus? His assessment might be tainted by who she was, as much as her - ridiculously limited - voice, but he didn’t care. Glancing at her dispassionately, he noted the innate lack of enthusiasm for the task at hand in her anxious brown eyes. Would she die without music? He thought not.
He couldn’t argue that many of his sex would call her appealing, but he found nothing attractive in her long blonde hair and blossoming figure. Though the latter did lead him to determine exactly why Emilie had sent her absurd request. Her developing curves were creating quite the reaction amongst the men in the theatre. And he’d been privy to more than one lewd conversation as to what those men would like to do if they ever caught her alone. They all disgusted him. “Enough!”
Jumping a mile, Meg looked to her mother, who shook her head, then motioned for her to leave the stage without a word. Grateful for the exit, she ran back to the girl’s dormitory. It was terrifying to be alone in the Opera House at night. Why her mother had pulled her out of bed to sing to some stranger, she’d never know!
Walking slowly to the centre of the stage to take her daughter’s place, Emilie lifted her chin in defiance. “Well?”
“Concentrate on her other talents. She’s unworthy of anything more.”
Sighing silently through her nose, Emilie’s heart sank. His answer wasn’t exactly unexpected – but she’d hoped he’d find something – anything - in her young daughter worth his time and collaboration. Her precious, beloved child had become a young woman practically overnight and though her body had gained considerable maturity, her mind was dangerously naïve. It would only be a matter of time before Meg was taken advantage of in the most devastating of ways. If she was able to remove her daughter from the chorus, she’d automatically become ‘untouchable’ to a majority of the men working there.
And having the Opera Ghost being responsible for that elevation would add a jolt of terror to anyone who dared try to lay a finger on her as well. Meg had no idea what she courted with her giggling and a flounce of her blonde hair. In their world a naive young heart was ripe for corruption and viewed by many as an irresistible conquest. Bowing her head, Emilie closed her eyes momentarily, flooded with both disappointment and impotent rage.
Rising to leave, Erik turned to look down at the stage again. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “But I can’t fashion excellence out of nothing. She has a clear talent for dancing; I’ll see what I can do to promote her skills in that regard. Perhaps Prima Ballerina would suffice, in time?”
“Thank you,” she answered, careful not to betray her spark of relief. There was no doubt in her mind that he could do what he proposed.
Observing the eager fire in her eyes, he almost smirked, knowing she’d have hated him to see it. But her unwelcome request for help, after so many years, grated on him. Especially considering who that help would benefit the most.
Staring at the shadows consuming the stage once she departed, he flattened his lips. “And exactly how are you going to achieve Prima Ballerina?” he asked quietly. What part of Lefevre’s life could he expose now that he hadn’t already? What expensive prop or irreplaceable costume could he threaten to ruin? Maybe he’d completely destroy Carlotta’s dressing room this time? That would at least be a task he’d approach with relish...
Those kinds of ideas had worked before; but for it to have the desired effect, yet not implicate Marguerite or her mother in the execution, considering the outcome required... He sighed. This might take a little more than his usual parlour tricks, or a petty – though utterly satisfying - act of vandalism.
Deep in thought, he started his descent. Moving silently around the cavernous, seventeen-story building - through basements, passageways and dark tunnels - was second nature to him. Discovery still meant a cessation of this charade he called living. And though he’d felt a weariness these past few years that had never plagued him before, he wasn’t ready for the hangman’s noose.
Not just yet.
Pausing for an instant backstage, he was momentarily stunned by the garishness of the fabric that had been delivered that morning. The vivid reds, blues and – God, how much gold? – to be fashioned into costumes for the Gala production of Hannibal, were practically luminous in the dark. The idea of Carlotta trussed up like a golden pig, shrieking what she considered singing. And Piangi - that over-weight, pompous imbecile – trotting three steps behind her… Erik’s dark mood only plummeted further.
His feet created no more than a whisper of sound as he walked through the empty backstage. The heaving mass of humanity that filled this area earlier had sought out the beds within their homes, rooms and dormitories long ago. He was thankful for that small mercy, for if he encountered anyone on his travels tonight, they would find a particularly unpleasant Opera Ghost at large.
How many years had he played that part? The longest-running position in the Opera Populaire, by far. Not simply a story designed to keep wayward ballerinas in their beds at night and out of the arms of any young suitors. But a reality; and one far more nightmarish than any fairytale could hope to be.
And how innocently it had all begun.
He’d only wanted something in his home besides dirty blankets and a single candle…
****
February 1846
Skirting the edge of the lake, Emilie bundled her cloak up under one arm and held a bowl of soup in the other. She didn’t need anyone spotting a wet hem later when she returned to the dormitory, lest questions be asked as to where she’d been. “Erik? Are you here?”
A quick scraping sound as she turned a corner revealed him standing next to the bundle of blankets he used as a bed. She wished she could have found him something cleaner, warmer. The damp air down here must chill him to the bone, and he was still weak from being held by those gypsies… “I brought stew tonight. It’s not bad, for mutton, and I think it’s still warm,” she chattered away to cover her nerves. Placing her lantern on the ground, she straightened to continue. “Dominque didn’t want her potato, she’s worried about getting fat, but she knows Madame gets angry if we don’t eat every scrap. I said I’d eat them for her, then put them into your bowl, under the table. I know you’ll put them to good use. Do you like – “ the next word died on her lips as she looked up and realised he was hiding something behind his back, “potatoes?”
She gulped. Is it a weapon? Staring at the scrap of dirty fabric strung across his face, she searched his eyes for an answer. The stew was covered with a napkin, but with the length of time it took her to reach him every night, it was far from scalding. She could still throw it at him if necessary though - it might give her the precious seconds she’d need to get away.
Standing there, staring at each other, they both tried not to show their mounting fear.
Emilie moved first. “I’ll put this down here then,” she said calmly, placing the bowl on the floor between them, praying to God that she wouldn’t feel a blow to the back of her head. Straightening rather more quickly than she’d meant to, she hoped he didn’t notice.
“Thank you,” Erik said slowly.
“Well?” she prompted; he usually pounced on everything she brought, devouring it to the last morsel. “It’s good, honest.” He knew she had to return the bowl later as well.
Glancing hungrily at the bowl, then back at her, his jaw clenched in frustration.
Then she understood; if he didn’t mean to attack her – after all, she’d given him ample opportunity mere moments before – then… “Erik Duquesne!” she demanded angrily, folding her arms. “What are you hiding behind your back?”
He startled, expecting Mouray’s fists to accompany her harsh tone.
Stomping over to him, she grabbed his left arm, wrenching it forward. Even at thirteen she had a temper to be reckoned with.
He gave no resistance, both weakened from his recent captivity, and too much of a gentleman - even at nine years of age - to skirmish with a lady.
When she saw the gold candelabra, her own hands flew to her forehead in shock. “Oh my God!”
Shrinking from her, his shoulders hunched, adopting his usual pose for a beating. But he didn’t let go of it.
“Where’d you get it? How did you get it? Did anybody see you?”
He shook his head quickly.
“Are you sure?” She grasped his forearm again.
“Yes,” he said, surreptitiously pulling away...
“How are you sure? If you were seen – “
“I’m sure,” he answered firmly, defiance straightening his shoulders. “Nobody saw me. They never do.”
“They never – you mean – ”
“I go up there all the time. I watch you dance; I hear them sing.” Turning his gaze to the ceiling of the cavern, he spoke of the theatre above. The unexpected beauty he’d found there filled his eyes with reverence and awe. “The set builders, the stone masons, the costumiers, they’re so talented, I - ”
“You promised you’d stay hidden!” She couldn’t believe her ears. After all she’d done to keep his presence there a secret and he was walking about upstairs without a care in the world!
“I do, nobody’s seen me - I told you,” he couldn’t disguise the hurt pride in his voice. “They don’t know I’m there - unless I wanted them to.”
“But – ”
In lieu of an answer he moved past her, quicker than the wind. Whipping around, expecting to see him behind her, she was shocked to find he wasn’t there. Spinning quickly – thinking he’d run around her in a circle - yet again, he was nowhere to be seen. “This isn’t funny,” she said, suddenly terrified that he’d left her alone. Rushing to pick up her lantern, she held it aloft, staring into the murky darkness. Why had he insisted on living in so far below in this dark hole? Why couldn’t he have taken one of the storerooms under the stage instead, like she’d suggested? How could he even bear to be alone in this massive cave, with mist from the lake swirling around him. “Where are you?” Had he gone into the water? But she’d have heard a splash, surely? “You’re frightening me.”
“I’m here,” he said quietly.
Whirling around again, he was standing behind his blankets, calmly regarding her. He didn’t smile in triumph, but she could see a light of mischief in his eyes, which almost made her forgive him.
“Now do you believe me?”
“Don’t do that again,” she snapped, walking past him to sit down on a ledge cut out of the stone wall behind him.
He sat, cross-legged, on the nest of blankets to eat the stew, quite happy with his ‘performance’.
Even with his back to her, she could tell he was pleased with himself. Her heart still fluttered wildly in her chest. Would she ever stop being afraid of him? Even in her wildest imagining, she knew she couldn’t fathom what he’d suffered, being caged like an animal in that horrific fair. And no matter what his face was like, no child deserved that fate. But the simple fact remained, he’d killed a man to escape…
No matter how many ‘Hail Mary’s’ she said for him at night, nothing would erase that sin from his soul. Shivering at the memory, she caught sight of the candelabra again. He’d hidden it beneath his blankets, only a tiny portion of the gold glinted in the lantern light. “Where’d you get it?”
“Isadora’s dressing room,” he shrugged.
The Prima Donna’s dressing room! “Oh of course,” she said, rolling her eyes in anguish. “Silly me, I should’ve guessed.”
“At first it was a game,” he continued, oblivious to her distress. “I went in and out of her room, just to see if I could. Did you know,” he turned around to face her, still eating, “there are tunnels here? Secret passageways, doors that you can’t see - that you have to feel?”
She shook her head in amazement.
“There are ways into every room, hidden ways,” he continued. “Even if the door’s locked from the inside. Whoever designed this building was quite brilliant.”
He looked at her so earnestly and so full of admiration for his unknown benefactor that she couldn’t help but be moved.
“There’s only one so far that I can’t get into.”
“Which one?” She was intrigued, despite her fears for his safety.
“Yours,” he answered simply.
Her mouth fell open in shock.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “whoever built this warren ensured his little rabbits were safe from monsters that skulk in the shadows.”
Heat rose in her cheeks at the implication of his words. Lowering the lantern, she hoped to hide her blushes in the darkness. As much as she tried to hide her feelings, she still found it hard to look at his face. Maybe he’d noticed she’d been glad when he’d finally fashioned that scrap to hide it from her?
“I won’t try to get into the dormitories, Mademoiselle, and I will ensure that no-one else will either. Ever.”
He said it with such unerring conviction that she couldn’t help but believe him and found herself thanking him before she’d even realised she’d spoken.
“You’re quite welcome.”
“But you can’t keep it,” she said quietly, her eyes falling to the candelabra again.
“Why not?” he asked, turning his back to her once more. “Why should I spend my life surrounded by bare walls? Why can’t I fill my new home with beautiful things? She hasn’t even noticed that it’s gone, has she?”
“No… But it’s still stealing,” she answered firmly. Yet another Commandment he’d already broken. She wondered, not for the first time, if he even believed in God...
“Of course it’s stealing,” he laughed, not the least bit remorseful. “What am I supposed to do – walk into a store and buy one? How exactly would I pay?”
“You could earn money some day,” she began hopefully, though she knew what she suggested was absurd.
“Doing what?” he turned back to face her, scorn creasing his brow at her ridiculous suggestion.
“You could work here, the stonemasons perhaps – they give apprenticeships –“
“And what should I answer when they ask for my place of residence?” he sneered at her naiveté. “’Dear Sir,’” he spat, as if composing an imaginary letter. “’Please arrange for my monthly pittance to be sent to the bowels of this very Opera House, where I have resided for many years, right beneath your feet.’ I don’t think that would go over well.”
He was right, of course. How could he ever have a job, a proper home, any kind of life outside of this damp, fetid hole in the ground? “But you have to put it back. It’s too valuable. They’ll call the Police, and they might search the whole building and then they might … ” she couldn’t finish the thought.
“Find me,” he answered, frowning. He wouldn’t admit it to her, of course, but he was not ready to be dragged from his new home. He was only just beginning to discover its myriad of secrets and wonders.
“And no matter how justified,” she said quietly, “you did kill that man. Monsieur Mouray.” Even from behind and in the half-light, she could see his whole body stiffen at the memory. “You’ll still be wanted for that. If they arrest you, they’ll –“
“I know,” he snapped harshly, knowing full well what the conclusion of her sentence was. If they found him, they’d hang him. “I’ll put it back.” Glancing up at the ceiling, he thought it over. “I’ll make sure she finds it; she’ll think she misplaced it – it’ll be nothing.”
****