The Magician's Witch

Down Once More...

The fateful day arrived. The viscount, as promised, hired several police officers to guard each exit of the auditorium. They were mightily conspicuous in their blue wool uniforms, but it left Raoul feeling reassured as he counted a man at each door—no escape from his dastardly enemy.

The managers followed Raoul around as he gave instructions to the chief of police. He was informing the man in the orchestra pit about Box 5, when a disembodied voice chuckled, making everyone halt what they were doing, listening with bated breath.

"These little toy soldiers, lined up so pretty, setting their snare for me. It seems they wish to seal my fate, but I wonder will their trap work, or shall it spring too late?"

The silence following the voice was deafening.

"Why don't you show yourself, coward, and we can make quick work of this contest," Raoul called out, shaking with thinly veiled contempt.

"I am here," the voice said from the balcony. The men turned to face it.

"I am here," the voice moved to behind them.

"I am here!" The voice came from next to them.

One of the uniformed men aimed his weapon.

"No," Raoul cried, holding up his hand to stop the officer from firing. "He is playing with us! Save your munitions."

"For once, we are in agreement, Monsieur le Viscount," the voice simpered from above them. "This game has lost its thrill. We shall see tonight who wins the day."

The voice faded away, leaving the little group standing there gaping at each other, some trembling, some searching for the source of the voice in every obscure corner their eyes laid on.

The day passed quickly enough. Even the atmosphere outside seemed to understand that there was a plot afoot. The clouds gathered, blanketing the city below.

The players set the board, ready to use their strategies to thwart their opponents, each piece imbued with their own unique competence.

Those who attended the opera that fateful night had no idea what they were about to witness. The cream of the crop of Paris gathered as they usually did, speaking in clusters of lace and silks and furs and wools, awaiting the signal to enter the auditorium. Some commented on the blue-clad police officers lining the entrances. Some paid them no mind at all.

In the managers' office, both men paced anxiously, sometimes nearly running into each other as they trudged back and forth in opposite directions. Had it been the right thing to follow the viscount's instructions? What if something went horribly wrong?

But to be rid of their invisible tormentor for good...it was worth the risk...they hoped.

Christine sat at her dressing room table, her hands folded in front of her, her elbows resting on the edge of the table. She leaned her forehead against her overlapping fingers, her eyes closed, praying fervently to every angel she could think of to get her through this night.

She was deep in her reverie when a knock on her door tugged her back to reality, making her flinch. She took a moment to collect herself, her heart thumping harder than usual. She assessed her reflection in the mirror in front of her; her eyes were wide with anxiety, but the rest of her remained exactly as it should.

Christine pushed away from the dressing table and got up, going to the door to answer it.

It was Raoul.

Christine gave him a small, timid smile and opened the door further to admit him. When she closed the door and turned back to the room, Raoul handed her a bouquet of flowers. They looked expensive. She took them, sniffing them delicately.