Title : Voices In the Dark
Chapter : Chapter Three
Author : Marie Noire
Summary : We meet with our intrepid Ghost and find out that all is not well with him, particularly not after he discovers Miss Daae alone.
Rating : As of right now, PG… but will likely take a
turn into R later.
It was always dark down beneath the Opera; five stories down, to be exact. No sunlight could ever reach here, even on the brightest day. And since he rarely bothered with the affairs of the world above, he was long accustomed to it. His eyes cut through the darkness like a cat’s, picking up the guttering light of the infrequently placed lanterns. Had anyone seen him, they would have frozen in terror at the sight. A skeleton dressed in black from head to toe, all but invisible except for his glowing, golden eyes.
But there was no one to see him save the rats and mice and the occasional cat. So there was no to gasp or scream in fear… and that was how he liked it.
While it was early for many, the dawn barely born, it was late for him. But then, he rarely slept, being far too restless a creature for the human standard of eight hours a night. Even now, he was busy, skulking through the labyrinth of catacombs that had once served as dungeons during the siege and now functioned as foundations for the Opera… and a kingdom for him. An ironic twist a fate, he thought with a wry twist of his malformed lips. While pain and suffering was played out nightly on the stage above, down below he suffered next to the rotting skeletons of those who had long died from torture.
He paused at an intersection of the tunnels, pressing himself neatly against the left wall and taking the left tunnel. Straight ahead was a dead end, he knew… and the path to the right led to an old cell, set up to shut and lock on whomever was foolish enough to wander into it. He weaved underground like a tunnel spider, setting traps and false exits, leaving well-concealed escape routes for himself. However his precautions were not against insects, but people.
Closer to the surface, he traveled, though with no intention of breaching the Opera. He mechanically went his way, safe in the darkness, increasingly wary.
At first, he thought nothing of it. He often heard music in during these silent haunts of his, the product of his active mind. Truth be told, he had composed entire operas in his head while on long treks through the catacombs. But as he drew closer to the inhabited portions of the Opera, he slowly realized that this music was not from his mind.
It was coming from somewhere above!
A woman’s voice, pure and natural as spring rain. Unbidden, his heart jumped. Music was the cornerstone of his existence, after all; the one constant in his tumultuous life. He studied it with all of the fervency of a young priest in a cathedral. As such, the utter mediocrity of the music regularly performed in the Opera disappointed him bitterly. But aside from a little cast rearranging, there was nothing he could truly do.
But this voice! This sweetly ringing voice that had somehow found him past all of the mortar and stone of indifference! He had to know who it belonged to!
Swift as a fox, he ran up to the Opera, no longer bothering to check his traps. It took him some time to pinpoint exactly where she was, thanks to the unique acoustics of the building and his somewhat scattered wits. But he found her… alone in the chorus dressing room, sitting before a mirror and combing out her curly, dark hair. From where he was hidden, secreted in the hollow wall to one side, peering through the eyes of a gaudy painting that hung there, he could just see her. The words she sang were clear now, in English, but sung so gently that the hard sound of the language barely registered. With layers of air and marble now removed, her voice had lost that other-worldly quality that had made him think he was imagining it… but it was still an excellent voice, far better than any in the current company.
And she was young yet, he thought, looking at her… and utterly captivating to behold. Slim and white as a lily, her hair and eyelashes a rich contrast to her complexion in dark chestnut. Her eyes were downcast for the moment, looking for more pins; and when they flashed back up to the mirror, his breath caught. They were a startling green, the color of emeralds as they moved aimlessly over the glass.
Who was this girl?
He could not recall ever having seen her before, or certainly he would have noticed! Yes, chorus girls were pretty by virtue of the prerequisites for the job… but this girl would shame them all like a swan to a gaggle of squawking geese. And her voice! Soft and sweet as the nightingale’s! And even though he could hear some mistakes… technical faults that could easily be remedied by a diligent tutor… he was utterly spellbound.
You and I
Touch the sky
The eagle and the dove.
Nightingales
We keep our sails
Filled with love.Ever strong
Our future song,
To sing it must be free.
Ev'ry part
Is from the heart,
And love is still the key.And love it seems
Made flying dreams
To bring you home
To me..He could make out her words now, though English was not truly a language he used with any frequency. Still, this lilting, swaying melody soothed him… strange, he had not even known he was actually irritated until he heard her sing. Apparently, spending so much of his time in a constant state of annoyance had bred complacency in him. Not something
he cared for in the least.“Christine?” another voice called, the door opening to admit a slim blonde girl. She smiled upon seeing the singer’s handiwork on her hair. “Oh, that’s pretty, Christine. Ready to go meet Raoul and see if we can’t make ourselves useful around this place? Until we have concrete plans, we should stay around the Opera, I think.”
“Good idea.” Christine replied, her speaking voice just as sweet as her singing. “I suppose I can audition… maybe get a part in the chorus?”
Maybe? His mind whirled at the suggestion. She would not only be in the chorus, he would see to it that she become the new diva! That damned Carlotta could go to hell and good riddance to her! This was a far bolder response than he normally had to anything or anyone. But to engineer her status to stardom, he would risk everything!
The rest of the girls’ conversation was a blur to him, so intent was he on his wildfire ideas. He could do it! Oh so easily! A few letters to his stupefied management, a few “accidents” to place her close to him, a ghostly voice… it could work! Already his heart was thumping a hard staccato in his thin chest. Had he stepped back and looked at his plans with even a little detachment, he would have laughed at the sheer insanity of it! Slowly spiriting a girl to his own purposes in hopes of winning her heart… ludicrous! He was not a rash man. Control was his key and caution his law… he rarely made a single move that was not cleanly premeditated.
But this left no room for caution or timidity, no reason or thought… just need… hot, driven need. He needed to see her succeed. He needed her to see him as the instrument of her success. It was no coincidence that chorus girls often spent nights in the beds of rich patrons… and though he did not think of his possibilities in such a respect, he did hope that her gratitude might persuade her to look beyond… other things.
“Christine…” he whispered her name although the girls had long since departed. So delightful it felt on his lips; soft as a prayer and sweet as wine. Had he been Catholic, he would have crossed himself for her. But he was not… and he was far too busy setting certain things in motion.
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“Raoul… how dapper.” Christine smiled at her friend, watching him pretend to admire himself in one of the thousands of mirrors that lined the walls of the Opera.“Quite." he agreed, allowing himself a few Vogue poses before laughing it off. “I find I rather like this so far.”
“Easy for you to say.” Christine winced. “You’re not wearing a corset.”
“Well… I suppose I could remedy that.” Raoul suggested, winking at Christine teasingly.
“Ugh… now I’m going to have nightmares.” Meg wrinkled her nose.
Christine, however, laughed at Raoul. “Now there’s an interesting concept… the stage designer in a corset instead of the leading lady.”
“Speaking of leading ladies…” Raoul grew serious. “What are we going to do here?”
“Meg and I will audition, I suppose.” Christine blushed. “Though it may be wishful thinking on my part.”
“I think I have a slight advantage.” Meg said softly. “I was trained in the Russian style of ballet, which, if I recall, hasn’t become widespread yet. I may stand out enough in auditions to be cast.”
“In that case, I may have an edge too.” Christine nodded. “I learned to sing clearly and without so much vibrato. Maybe the fact that they can actually understand me when I sing will help me out. What about you, Raoul?”
“I’m afraid my skills are mostly useless.” he sighed, running a hand through his shoulder-length hair. “I know my way around a 21st century stage… not a 19th century one.”
“Well there must be something you can do.” Meg puzzled aloud. “You don’t play any instruments well enough for the orchestra… you can’t sing or dance.”
“I can so sing!” Raoul declared indignantly.
“Raoul… belting out that damn song from Titanic while drunk at a karaoke bar does not constitute singing.” Meg rolled her eyes.
Raoul very maturely stuck his tongue out at her.
Meg ignored him. “Scene shifter? Usher? Box-keeper? Accountant? Court jester? Pick something!”
“Patron.” Raoul said smugly.
“Doesn’t that require gobs of money that we don’t have?” Christine reminded him. Raoul was many things, but practical was not one of them.
“People may assume I already have money.” He said, fishing his necklace out from under his shirt. “My family’s from France, remember? The de Chagny name is very ancient. I’m willing to bet I have more than a few ancestors kicking around here and now… with enough clout for me to use.”
“Um… how will you prove you’re a de Chagny? Didn’t your dad… um… disown you?” Meg asked, flushing delicately.
Raoul grumbled. “Well… yeah… but mum still talks to me. She sent me back my family ring last month. Must have swiped it off of dad.” He said, holding out the huge golden ring, the crest of the de Chagnys gracing the red stone. “If I wear it, they’ll know I’m a de Chagny. If they believe me, getting you two into the cast will be cake.”
“And if they don’t believe you, you’ll be arrested.” Christine worried. “Are you sure about this, Raoul?”
“No, I’m not sure… but we don’t have any better ideas.” Raoul sighed.
Meg looked heavenwards. “Well… here goes nothing then.”
On to Chapter Four...