To Outwit an Angel

12. Finding Out How Firmly That Chandelier Is Attached to the Roof

Sharlene's POV:

Drowning in lace and frills was every girl's dream come true. Sure, the Il Muto costumes were hideous in their own ornate way, but so were fake Tiffany heart necklaces, chunky belts, and wearing jeans under my dress back in 2003.

 My head surfaced above the tiers of pastel frippery, and the costume attendant laced up the giant gown's back.

 "Shouldn't it be tighter?" I asked, surprised that no sharp pain dug into my ribs. What type of half-hearted corsetry was this? I wanted to be an hourglass on legs! "You know, so I look nice and skinny?"

 Over my shoulder, I watched the attendant's eyes nearly pop out of her head.

 "And stop you from breathing?" She asked, tying the laces in a bow. "How would you sing then, signora?"

 "Oh, all right."

 Maybe the lady with a nine-inch waist was a stereotype? Maybe the Victorians weren't actually fans of fainting?

 Whatever.

 The costume attendant adjusted the layers of chiffon and lace, then declared me ready for the show.

 Before I knew it, the massive curtain was drawn up, the audience's chatter died into an expectant hush, and I stood before glaring lights. The singing was flawless, especially mine. I had slaved over my technique in the past few weeks, and I was determined to be the shining star of my own show.

 Lori did well enough in her role, the pageboy. Her movements were mechanical, and she could not plaster on a smile to save her life. How absurd! She wasn't the one with thirteen different arias rattling around her brain and stretching her voice past its limit with intense trills and arpeggios.

 But Christine would act like the frightened, silly little girl she always was. At least this debut was better than the Hannibal debacle when she usurped my role.

 I just barely kept my voice from cracking, as a portion of my mind fractured. That pain twinged in the back of my head. God, what horrible things had I been thinking of Lori? I needed to get that under control.

 One thing heightened my spirits through the entire show. The Phantom was completely silent. Mine and Lori's acid plot must have worked, and he was dead. Either that, or he was trapped in the basement and nursing corroded vocal cords. And wouldn't he slowly die then too? No matter what, Lori and I had prevailed. We saved this whole musical universe from both murder and kidnapping, and nobody had any idea of it.

 We did it. We passed the section of the opera where, in the soundtrack, the Phantom destroyed everything. I tensed during that scene. Even Lori's moves were rigid. Any second now... any moment... What if he wasn't dead?

 No, he had to be. We transitioned into the next scene, and nothing betrayed anything except a typical night at the opera.

 All too soon, we reached the final song of my wonderful, perfect show. Nothing had failed. My voice carried me through each difficult hour and song. I went to take my final bow, to feel the rush of elation in applause dedicated to me alone. Who knew the nobody from Kentucky could shine so bright in a Paris opera house?

 "Did I not instruct that box five was to be kept empty?"

 That horrible voice—his voice shattered my delight. But he sounded different than in the soundtrack, different even to his voice in this musical-verse. Scratchy and hoarse, which only increased his menacing effect. Fear snaked through my spine.

 Clearly, he was alive. Had the acid not worked? The fuck? Could he still speak, strained as it sounded?

 Lori, so help me, the acid was meant to kill him! Screw your gentle pour down his throat!