Le Phantom de l'Opera

[psychette]

Rehearsals were always the best of times. Not for the singers and stage hands, but for Jacqueline one of the cleaning girls, it was a magical time. She paused, leaning on her broom in the wings, listening as the aria was reaching its highest point. Her eyes with a faraway look. Music always seemed like something other people created from nothing. Important, educated people who knew how to take marks on a page and turn it into songs.

She quickly snapped out of her reverie as the song was ending and the chorus kicked in, sweeping away from the chorus girls who were trickling on stage. If she was caught not working again, it wouldn't do to be fired and thrown out into the street. She was an orphan, came here as an orphan, and would likely always be where she was, sweeping the dust from the wooden floors.

"Moineau!" she flinched and scurried from the stage at the voice overhead. One of the stage hands, a thuggish man named Joseph had seen her lollygagging and was tromping along the catwalk to climb down. He took to ordering her around a little too much lately. At first, he had said he would look out for her, but lately he had been taking the back of his hand to her instead. Her nickname was petit Moineau or little sparrow and he used it like a swear word.

Jacqueline hurried away from the stage, hoping he would not catch her and he would forget. Not so, his large hand found her and pulled her aside with a firm grip. She knew better than to complain or beg, this was not the first time he had laid hands on her. Even now, she could smell the alcohol on him, putting him in a foul mood. A gasp escaped her as the back of his hand cut her lip in a sharp crack. "Too slow, Moineau, do you want to be tossed out with the trash again?" he hissed in her ear. None of the other people on stage were close enough to see or even care what was happening. Another slap across the face, a welt on her cheek. "Please, Monsieur Buquet," she tried to say but it was in vain. He had a head of steam and intended on taking it out on her.

Soon her face was a mass of lacerations and welts as she lay on the floor, cuts on her arms. The cruel man taking off his vest as he stood over her as if he was only getting started. She was barely awake but had not cried out during the whole ordeal. Fearing that he meant to kill her right there and now, she cried softly and tried to crawl away. "Not done with you, petit Moineau," he sneered, pulling her up by the collar of her blouse with a knife in one hand, a broken doll of a person. No one around to rescue her...

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[keening_phantom]

Erik had been watching from one of his many spots within his Opera House, minding the progress of the practice and only mildly approving. There was much work to be done as the chorus messily filed onto the stage, their singing interrupted by the crass tones of one Joseph Buquet. Erik had a distaste for the drunkard, his antics were distracting to the cast, and his work shoddy. He was too nosy, and if he found him in the lower tiers again he might just find himself unable to muscle his way out of trouble.

The interruption to the rehearsal made him wince behind his mask as he slipped from his little corner of shadows to lean over the edge of the nearest catwalk. Pity was not something Erik often exercised, and today was little different. He was more angry at the interruption and then he saw the man striking one of the new waifs.

The entire situation was unacceptable, and a quick glance over gave Erik the necessary inspiration. With a deft pluck of the rope, a hefty sandbag went plummeting for the man as he stumbled forward. The girl, pitiful thing she was, was crawling away and the exacting measure of the timing, like fingers upon a keyboard really, meant that the sack delivered a withering, glancing blow that sent Buquet howling to the floor at Jacqueline's feet, clutching at his bleeding skull.

[psychette]

He never saw it coming. The alcohol must have dulled his senses enough that the wack on the head just earned more curses and anger, this time aimed at the obviously careless stage hands who had dropped the bag on him. "You bungling idiots!!" he yelled up at the darkness, one fist in the air and the other on his head. He stumbled towards the ladder, intent on climbing up to give them a piece of his mind. Not knowing what danger there was in doing so.

Young Jackie, having been dropped suddenly to the floor with a jolt, kept very still. As if hoping his attentions had finally been diverted, she would just become very small and disappear. Pulling a handkerchief from her pocket with shaking hands as she tried to hold it to her face.

[keening_phantom]

If Erik had a nose he would be looking down it as Buquet made for the ladder. Perhaps the catacombs were too dark for him? If there was one thing Erik always kept on his person, it was a carefully cultivated string of the most unique kind.

He waits until Buquet starts unsteadily up the ladder before Erik makes his way over to it. Today the ghost is more readily seen in the shadows, wearing a porcelain-white mask instead of the usual black.

Buquet swears the entire ascent, his words an affront to Erik. Just as his head reaches the top, Jacqueline will hear the cursing stop quite suddenly. Joseph has spoken his last as he stares first at the fine shoes, then clothes and finally the skull-like mask and those piercing yellow eyes. His hands are too busy holding him to the ladder to save his neck.

It's savage yet silent, as Erik slips the noose into place and then hauls the large man onto the catwalk. His body will serve a later purpose, but for now, with his work done, he slides it into a hiding spot above the stage before walking over to the ladder.

With the lazy curl of a cat, he leans over the side, dangling most of his form out over open air with an air of carelessness as he glances down to see about the state of Buquet's former victim.

[psychette]

The sudden silence is deafening. An ominous quality to it. Truthfully, the other stage hands are relieved that Buquet finally stopped talking and they can get on with their jobs.

Down on the floor, Jacqueline is struggling to her feet, fearing Joseph will come back at any moment to finish the job. But as she cast her eyes up at the darkened cat walk, her blood runs cold. That pale face, large dark eyes, looming over a black cape...it was the Opera Ghost! Her face drains to pale, frozen to the spot with fear.

She should call out, warn someone...but she cannot.

There had been so much talk about the Ghost but it was one thing to hear about such a creature. Now to see it hovering like Death himself, she was completely petrified. The blood stained handkerchief fluttering to the floor, forgotten as she stood there.

[keening_phantom]

There's an expression that flickers, completely in the eyes as that is the only part of his face which is visible, but it's also apparent in the way he crouches, one foot on the catwalk and one hand lazily holding a rope. It's all that keeps him from plummeting to the stage like the sandbag earlier.

That expression is something akin to a smile, though an unkind one. It's like a cat that has found a wounded bird and recognizes the opportunity for play. As quickly as he appears he slips back into the darkness of the catwalks but he's not done with her yet.

He moves quickly for one of the fly ropes, checking that it's tied off properly before wrapping gloved fingers around it and using the sides of his fine shoes to limit the speed of his descent. He takes the rope like a fireman's pole, quietly descending toward her with dramatic swirl of cape and still that spark of mischief in his eyes.

[psychette]

If one were to ask her later, she would have said it looked like he floated down without the need of the rope. In her dazed and frightened state, that is precisely what it appeared to be.

A gasp catches in her throat as she realizes too late how close he is. She should flee and run for her life...her trembling legs unable to do anything but remain where she is. With her pale face and the beating she had taken, it was a wonder she was standing at all.

Her hands come up as if to keep him away, lest he decide to finish where Buquet left off. But she still cannot speak, too frightened to do anything else. Too frightened to even look away at the Ghost who was supposed to not exist.

[keening_phantom]

He glances down at her throat as she gasps, that playful look turning dangerous briefly as he waits for noise, but it that scream never sounds. Still, this close to her he plays the part of baleful phantom, glaring at her victimized face.

She raises her hands to ward him off, and then the look from him turns dark, angry. He was a monster, no question, but he was not Buquet. He did not fully understand the concept of pity, but seeing her in such a state frustrated him now. She had never been kind to him, but neither had she been the prying sort in her short tenure.

"Do not make the Phantom regret this." He growls, his mask never moving, as if he had never spoken but the words are clear, like they had been whispered not an inch from her ear.

A gloved hand reaches out, palm up and offering for her own. His eyes glance about them, even in this secluded corner there is risk of discovery. The stage will be coming to a stop shortly for an interlude, and if he is going to take her from the backstage area he had to move soon.

[psychette]

She quails at the voice, certain in her terrified mind that no one had heard the Phantom speak and lived to tell the tale. None that she had heard of before this. The words and their meaning almost do not register, only the voice.

And then a hand. The last thing she would have expected to see. She did not, could not expect help from such a hand if she had been in her right mind. As it was, she could do nothing but reach for it as if on automatic with her own hand. Her hand shaking as she reached forward. Not knowing what would happen when the two met. Would he disappear? Would she disappear too and never return to this life of hers? Would her hand just pass through him leaving only a cold feeling like they say ghosts do when they are nearby?

But no, the hand is solid enough and is such a surprise she doesn't withdraw her own hand.

[keening_phantom]

His fingers close around hers, cold and vice-like, but not painfully so. He wisks her off, taking her to one of the few unoccupied rooms. It was stuffed with props, a former changing room relegated to storage but only recently. A chair from some production that clearly featured royalty is quickly cleared as he indicates for her to sit. He produces a clean, white kerchief with a small skull embroidered elegantly in black thread, and holds it out to her.

[psychette]

Jacqueline is unable to do anything but follow that firm grip where it leads, leaving the stage behind where people are only just starting to wonder why it's so quiet.

She can hear her heart beating in her ears and throat as she's led to the storage room. Sitting down where instructed as her knees threaten to give way. Perhaps this was where he was going to kill her, right? That must be how he does it, lures people into the spare rooms and does away with them. That sounded about right, anyone at the opera company would agree with that assessment.

She almost flinches away from the handkerchief before reaching for it hesitantly. Such a clean white square and here her hands were smeared with her own blood. The frightened rabbit watching the hawk. She dares not apply it to her face and so obscure him from her view, it would seem as foolhardy as turning ones back to the Phantom. Jacqueline does hold it over one of the larger cuts on her forearm to stop the bleeding. Such a cut will likely leave a scar when it healed. Her face might be salvaged in time if attended to. At the moment, it was quite bruised, a black eye beginning to show, and the split of her lip still red.

[keening_phantom]

Once she's sitting and appears to be dabbing at her wounds he narrows his eyes as he stands over her.

"Do not leave this room." His word is a stern command, and he will disappear through the door with an eerie silence. When he returns a few moments later he has in hand a water basin and, surprisingly, some gauzy fabric that will suffice for bandages. It may have been part of a costume at some point, it's impossible to tell now.

[psychette]

His words were as effective as if he had glued her to the chair she was sitting on. She dared not move from it when he leaves, not even if she had the strength after her ordeal. She should run away while she had the chance...something in his voice though compels her to remain. It was not a rough voice, on the contrary, it was rich and pleasant to hear. Almost a contradiction to what he appeared to be.

In those few moments, she nearly convinces herself that she had imagined the whole thing. Till he returns. Just as real as he was a moment ago. Her pounding heart has calmed somewhat though, replacing fear with a growing amazement. Questions bubbling over that she didn't dare voice just yet. Still unable to take her eyes off of him, lest he disappear before her. Some of the stage hands had said the Opera Ghost was invisible most of the time. Only a voice.

[keening_phantom]

And that he was. Most of the time. Today was a rare exception as he set the basin down on a small prop table and set the fabric next to it. He held out a hand for her to return his ruined kerchief. He would burn it later, but he didn't want her bleeding all over the props, nor did he want her to have a telling momento of his rare moment of humanity.

[psychette]

She slowly holds out the handkerchief in return. Not questioning why he would want it back. A small spark of courage igniting as her curiosity gets the better of her. Before she can stop herself, Jacqueline's voice asks tremulously, "...are...you the..." sweat breaking out on her brow for asking as her voice shrinks to almost a whisper. "...the Opera ghost?"

It had to be he. Even if she had never seen him before, who else would it be?

[keening_phantom]

He takes it back with gloved hands, folding it neatly even though it is far beyond recovery. He will just steal another from one of the patrons and make it his own later.

He pauses when she finds her voice, those yellow eyes and lithe form going deathly still as he turns his mask toward her, a curious tilt of his head. As if to say who else do you think I might be, child?

[psychette]

He didn't have to say it to answer the question.

She almost ducks her head in apology at such an audacious question. Looking down at his shoes instead. How strange for a ghost to wear such nice shoes, they were the shoes a gentleman would wear. Bringing her eyes, even the blackened one, back up to look at that mask. It was scary enough, the white face looking back at her. How frightening was it underneath? She didn't want to know.

"I will say nothing, Monsieur," she says quickly, hoping beyond hope that he might let her go. Not realizing he actually meant to help her with her injuries.

[keening_phantom]

The quiet huff of air that escapes from behind the mask betrays his amusement as he pockets the ruined thing and reaches out for the gauze. He tears a strip, dipping it in the water and handing to her.

"Swear to it, and I can see that this company never has reason to send you back to the streets."

[psychette]

Such a deal sounded too good to be true. Would it be Buquet all over again? Yet what other choice did she have? She did not know yet that Joseph was no longer a threat to her or anyone else.

Securing that she would never be on the streets again....that offer was too important to refuse, even if she wanted to. "...I swear," she says softly, holding the cool damp gauze to her bruised cheek. How it burned and stung where she had been slapped. A wince that she couldn't quite hide.

But how would he keep her from such a fate? It was possible she had already lost her position after tonight if it was discovered what had happened.

[keening_phantom]

"Good." He walks over, wetting another piece of gauze and gently wrapping it around one of the cuts on her arm.

"Tend to your face, child. I understand one of the ushers may fill an open vacancy backstage in a few days' time. The managers will need another volunteer for next month when the new season begins." His managers would get their orders shortly, once he could be certain she would say nothing. At that point he would be a ghost of his word.

[psychette]

So surprised is she at the unexpected treatment of her wounds that she keeps very still for it. At his suggestion, she carefully dabs at her face, washing the streaks of red and brown from it till there is only the bruises left. Trying to comprehend what he was telling her.

Not questioning how he knew what he knew, the Opera Ghost knew everything that happened in the Opera house. Box 5 was always reserved for him. Jacqueline had already been warned about going near it, whether the show was going on or not.

"Rigoletto will be the first," she says quietly, watching him bandage her arm. Yes, she had paid close attention to what operas were being rehearsed, even though it was not part of her job. Because secretly she did so love hearing the music.

[keening_phantom]

His eyes flash up to look at her, their depths narrowing briefly in curiosity. So, she was a hand who found interest in the opera, and not just keeping herself fed? That was promising.

"Yes." He nods, letting slip a small sense of his pleasure at her sharing of that knowledge. "Faust will follow. I believe, however, that after the production should provide some lighter fare."

[psychette]

It had not occurred to her till now the realization that the ghost was not only present during the operas but that he was watching them as one of the audience. It was easier to just think of him as a presence rather than one who enjoyed the music. All of the music, as Box 5 was never sold to anyone.

Her arms felt better after being attended to, as did her face. But before he was finished, there was a voice behind the door saying they would look for the crown in the storage room. Jacqueline froze, realizing that someone was about to come in and she didn't know what to do. The door handle jiggled and turned...

[keening_phantom]

Erik turns to regard that door with something of an angry glare at the interruption. Of course fate, which hated Erik so, would gladly try to make a mockery of this moment of goodness in him. Murderous rage flashes in his eyes, but then tempers. He could not afford to kill another stage hand without bringing more trouble, more inquisition down upon his own head.

"Come." He scoops up the basin and spare gauze, heading for a dusty panel of the wall. He built a good portion of this house, he knew of the many secrets within its walls. With a deft manipulation that's easily missed, the wall swings open on silent, well-oiled hinges.

[psychette]

Her eyes widen at the secret door and quickly she moves from the chair to hurry to it as the stage hand is opening the main door slowly, still talking to another person and not noticing them as they disappear from sight behind the wall. Jacqueline isn't certain how he got the wall to open up, it was like a magician's trick that one couldn't explain away.

She stayed silent, listening to the stage hand rummaging around in the next room.

[keening_phantom]

He turns to her, ready to clamp a hand over her mouth to silence her when he realizes she's gone as quiet as a mouse. He's both pleased and intrigued, and waits patiently for the stage hands to leave the room. They are noisy and upset a good few props without much care in their search. Eventually the sound of the door shutting heralds their departure.

Erik opens the trap door, leading her back out into the room again. He clucks quietly in dissatisfaction at the treatment of the room, turning Jacqueline's chair upright again, along with that side table. He motions for her to sit again.

[psychette]

She was too in awe of being hidden within the very walls of the opera house to say anything. Slowly coming out from the trap door like a cat that's not sure about where they've ended up. Even though it was the very same room.

Sitting down is a good idea, before her knees can buckle on their own. What would have happened if those men had discovered the Phantom? What would he have done? She tries not to think about that.

The strains of the rehearsal songs filter in through the cracks in the door as they start up again. Must be the tenth time they're running through it this time.

[keening_phantom]

Erik winces as the rehearsal picks up and gives a frustrated sigh. He wraps a little gauze around her arm with a shake of his head.

"They are off-key again." He growls. "The piano in the chorus room must need a tuning again. Or that Diva needs to be sacked. Which is it, do you think?" There was a dangerous edge to his tone as a mischievous look sparkles in his eyes.

[psychette]

Her insides shiver a little at his tone, not sure why he would ask her such a question. But she does her best to answer in a hesitant voice, avoiding looking at those dark eyes.

"...the....the piano was tuned." She saw the man do it yesterday. Ergo, if he thinks it's the diva, well she wasn't about to argue. Not that Jacqueline would ever speak ill of her but she definitely had a bossy manner about her. Never paying attention to those beneath her regard.

Hopefully that is the answer he was looking for.

[keening_phantom]

The pleased look that settles into his expression is like a lion who has just caught a kill. Her answer is the right one indeed and he emits the smallest of amused huffs.

"Perhaps we would be so blessed that she might leave of her own accord. Until then, we will have the misfortune to hear her croaking throughout the opera. Ah! That is it. We should have her play the part of Seraphimo one of these days."

[psychette]

The idea of the diva playing such a role....she can't stifle the amused sound and smile that suddenly breaks across her face for a moment. That was pretty funny to think about.

Immediately feeling it was wrong to laugh, she schools her face back to silence, trying to look more interested in what he was doing to her arm. Feeling a blush across her bruised cheeks.

[keening_phantom]

"Ah, the lady approves. Well then, I must have a discussion with my managers about the possibility." That look almost turns childish in nature as he chuckles quietly. He doesn't mind her laugh at all, in fact he approves as he finishes the work on her arm.

"Now." He very gently sets his knuckles under her chin to turn her face upward so he could look at it. He studies her face now with a calm calculation and sighs. "There is nothing I can do for your face at this moment. Return to your duties, I will see that you have what you need when the day is done."

It would require a shopping trip, but he needed food anyway. His paper face would suffice in dim lighting but until the daylight hours were waning, he would have time to deal with the body of the man he had killed.

[psychette]

His managers? It sounded so strange when put that way. As if the Ghost owned the opera house. Jacqueline had never been called a lady before, a lady was someone like the leading singers. Fine of dress and speech, feathers in their hats and the like.

Her eyes still avoid his, hesitantly letting him lift her chin to the light. Too frightened to look right at the mask, only a glance now and again is all she dares. She did indeed look abused, the bruises a startling sight and not one she wanted to be seen. Who knew how her employers would react to such a face on one of their cleaning girls? Perhaps she could hide it in a scarf till it healed.

"Th-thank you, monsieur," she manages to say in return.

[keening_phantom]

"Save your thanks. You must uphold your end of the bargain. Not a word, and I will uphold mine." He releases her chin; she can do what she wants about her face while it heals, hide it or explain it away. He doesn't care which.

[psychette]

"Yes, sir," she murmurs assent. She would say nothing, not even if asked directly. It would be the only way to save her skin in this situation. Besides, as strange as it may seem, the Phantom's intervention seemed to have saved her life.

[keening_phantom]

"Now, off with you. I will come for you when there is news." He simply steps to the side, clearing the way between her and the regular door out of the room.

[psychette]

Come for her...sounded quite ominous.

Jacqueline stood slowly and carefully before moving to the door. Glancing back to be sure he was still there before pushing the door open and going back towards the stage. It's not till the door closes that she drops to her knees shaking and hugging her arms about herself. The ordeal finally sinking in for her now that the danger was past.

She doesn't have time to hide though, one of the ballet girls gasps and stops in her tracks at the sight of Jacqueline on her knees, her face bruised and scraped up. Trying to help her back up and asking repeatedly what had happened.

Jacqueline says nothing, unable to reply. Not even as the girl helps her backstage to a chair, seeming to understand something terrible had befallen her, so much so that she couldn't speak of it right now.

[keening_phantom]

Erik takes his time cleaning up once Jacqueline departs, disposing of the ruined fabrics and basin before attending to the body in the upper sections of the stage. It will be a few days before it is discovered, but he puts it in a special location in the lower levels of the opera house for one of the stage hands to find. A warning from the opera ghost, but it will be a while before that happens.

His errands are uneventful, as he is wont to make them so. He doesn't like a fuss being kicked up about his appearance when he has to walk among mankind and deal with the masses.

He wouldn't mind in the least if Jacqueline's wounds are attributed to him instead of a drunken stage hand. All the more reason for others to fear him, and leave his spaces alone.

It's after dark when he finally gets around to bringing some balms and ointments to Jacqueline's dorm. There will be a knock at the door, but no one will be there. Only a small basket with a simple cloth covering the contents. Inside will be a rather cleanly scripted letter describing how best to use each of the little bottles inside.

[psychette]

When she had recovered her senses, Jacqueline found herself laying on her own bed in the dorm. Perhaps one of the hands had helped carry her there, she couldn't imagine the ballet dancer doing it all herself.

Her face ached and smarted and she got herself up to the water basin to wash it. The cool water was some relief even if it still stung in places. Slowly lifting her head to catch a glimpse in the mirror....how awful she looked. Her heart sunk down into her feet, someone was bound to find out and then she would be sacked. It would be her word against Monsieur Buquet, she would just be some troublesome orphan while he had been here for years. She tosses her meager possessions for something to use, a scarf, a piece of cloth, anything. Finally, she dares to peek over at the other beds, stealing a brown scarf from one of them and wrapping it around her hair and face as the Arabs do.

The knock starts her heart pounding again but there is no one in the corridor when she goes to look. Only the innocent looking basket on the floor. She quickly brings it inside before carefully opening it. Reading the letter as if she couldn't believe it was real. Who could have....

Surely not. But what if it was from the opera ghost? She had started to wonder if she imagined the whole thing.