The Phantom Ascending |✔| [Phantom of the Opera Fanfiction]

Nocturnal Preparations

Venice, with its channels, was a wonderful place at night. Cloaked and hooded, I could pass for an eerie gondolier, one that wouldn't stop to take passengers — not that there were many about in the darkest hours of cold November nights.

Tonight was such a night, moonless and adorned with mist. I had my old mask and wig on, since these actions called for the Phantom rather than the reclusive Mr. Dessler.

I reached the back entrance of La Fenice and, leaving my gondola as far as I could, sneaked in for what must have been a tenth time this month. By now, it was easy. I knew it all: how to enter, when no one will be about, and which is the fastest way to reach the backstage.

After all, this was a new place for me, one I had to get closely acquainted with before the Titania's opening night. For there was no doubt that I will be present to hear Christine in her full glory, even if I won't dare to join the audience.

With a small candelabra in my gloved hand, I climbed up above the stage, retraced my steps several times, explored all venues of escape and all places where one can hide. I compared the current layout to the one on my previous visit, memorized the differences, noted the progress.

Then down once more, to take a look at the props and backdrops. It was difficult to judge in the candlelight, but while some parts of it were quite suitable, parts of it I itched to improve with a few touches of my own... Still, it would be too much of a risk in case someone noticed.

Besides, I had another, far more important task to perform before dawn.

Upon returning to my gondola, I found my way through the mist to what I now knew to be a home of a certain journalist.

Three days ago, he wrote a rather sensational piece about Christine. About her once snatching La Carlotta's roles by being de Chagny's lover, about her now being a discarded lover, about her being a cursed soprano followed by the ghosts of her dubious past. Et cetera, et cetera. What a pile of disparaging nonsense that was! It made my blood boil.

The day those papers were printed, I heard Christine sobbing in the music room. Her musician had sent a note, cancelling his services.

"Not all of them are such fools, signora," her ever-present maid was saying to her. "I know an even better man to hire."

I had stood behind the wall as they talked, furious and frustrated by my helplessness, for the first time even regretful of the fact that de Chagny was absent — something that was otherwise an unexpected blessing for me.

I couldn't comfort Christine then, but I could make sure that the cause of her troubles disappears for good.

Refocusing on my goal, I picked the lock and entered the house. It was a poorly managed place. From what I had observed yesterday, the man lived alone with an elderly cook or maid of all work.

My lasso ready in hand, I slowly made my way upstairs in the darkness. I opened the door of the master bedroom soundlessly, and in a few swift movements stood by the man's bedside. A quick yank upwards, a swift strangling — I saw it in my mind's eye — a quiet, simple death.

But that wasn't quite the reason I was here.

I took a tiny bottle from my pocket, unplugged it and waved it before his nose. The powerful fumes would not only keep him in deep sleep, but also make him slightly disoriented and groggy in the morning.

In the darkness, I found the man's coat and carefully felt for its pockets. I had taken a big sum of money from the officials' safe in the palace. Tonight, I was to plant it here, and tomorrow, they will receive the note pointing to their culprit, and that will be the end of the nasty scribbler.

"Papà? I can't sleep," a small voice suddenly came from the doorway, startling me. A girl, perhaps five years old, rubbing her downcast eyes.

In my hood and with this mask, I must have looked like Death, my appearance rather faithful to my purpose. As I moved away from the coat, she noticed me and froze speechless, her eyes wide with fear.

I motioned her to keep silent and strode over, closing the door behind me.

"Wandering child, keep silent, silent, and follow my voice, in silence, silence," I sang in a soothing hypnotic tone of voice, taking out the little bottle once more and leading the child into the room from which she must have come.

"You must not wake your father. I am an angel, here to," my mind worked quickly, "catch his bad dreams with my magical lasso."

"I had bad dreams too," she whispered.

I twirled the lasso and the tiny bottle around her, my hands quicker than the eye, and I made the lasso vanish as if by magic, then covered her mouth to stop her from giggling.

"Hush... I caught them now and they are all gone. Return to sleep, now."

I nudged her toward her bed, and wrapped myself into the cloak, merging with the darkness, then quickly proceeded toward exit.

The vile man was lucky, very lucky, for I now decided to let him be. It felt wrong to buy Christine's peace of mind by making a child lose a father, when Christine herself suffered so much from such a loss.

And so, as I returned to the palace I took a small detour to return the money, and my plans came to nothing. I felt as if I had failed Christine. What if the articles continue?

What would you have me do, Christine?

I did not know, but I knew that the answer wouldn't include anyone's murder or arranged imprisonment.

I was content that at least the scandal and curiosity were doing wonders for the ticket sales, according to Manelli's latest report. The crowds will hear her, and once she sings for them, they'll care nothing for gossips.

Especially if the Vicomte returns as her shining bright fiancé — a bitter thought flashed. I pushed it away.

Home at last, I removed my gloves, cloak and the mask, and lowered myself into an old gilded armchair. I was tired and I was prepared, and all that was left for me to do was wait. To wait for the premiere, and to wait for the Winter Solstice.