Of Phantoms and Angels

XVII. The Phantom's Lair

     Lilienne woke in the morning, warm in the soft blankets of her bed.  She rolled over, eyes still contentedly closed, and pulled them tighter about her, not wishing to get up just yet.  She was sure there was still time before rehearsals.  She sighed, hoping to fall back asleep.

     But something wasn't right.  The warm, soft blankets didn't feel like her warm, soft blankets, and the air she had sighed was too stale, to damp, smelled to much of candles and water - an odd combination.  

     She opened her eyes, just a little, just enough to see the blankets she'd pulled up to her chin.  What she was wrapped in wasn't her blankets, but a large piece of black material.  She expanded her vision to the foreign bed, and then to the new room.  She sat bolt upright.  What is this place?  She looked at her blanket more closely; it wasn't a blanket at all.  It was a cape.  Lilienne gasped, jumping from the bed.

     The bed resembled a swan, with detailed wings fanning out from the front to guard Lilienne as she had slept atop the red sheets of velvet.  It was quite lovely, actually.  She looked about the rest of the room, her heart slowing; the whole space was decorated in the same way, with the same sort of antique, gaudy beauty, almost like an opera set - and it was astounding.  The place was rather cluttered with odds and ends, all placed haphazardly, but it had a sort of personality, a forgotten charm which could only be remembered in a place like this.

     She turned to find a vanity, all sorts of powders, creams and rouges cluttering the top, and all of them seemed untouched.  But what had sparked her interest was the fabric that had been placed over the mirror.  Slowly, Lilienne stepped up to it and pulled it away, revealing her reflection - she gasped as she saw the bandages.  

Her hazy memory began to reshape the events of... how long ago was it?  How long have I been down here?  She wondered as she peeled away the white gauze that had been fastened to her wound, seeing the red gash for the first time.  It really wasn't that bad, just a fine line above her left eye, and it was no longer bleeding. 

     Then, as she assessed her reflection, she heard the music.  The music of an organ, in particular, floated through the curtain that separated the sleeping quarters from whatever was beyond them.  She realized that must have been what had woken her.

     Slowly, she reached forward and pulled the curtain aside.  She took tentative steps through into the rest of the Phantom's dwelling, admiring it's odd sort of beauty and its particular charm; the light of a thousand candles reflected off the vast, glassy lake, sending a shimmering light through the haze of candle smoke.  She smiled; nobody but him could live down here, for only his mind could think of something so wonderful, so wonderfully unique.

     She looked over to where the music was coming from.  An organ sat on a small rise, and the Phantom of the Opera sat at the organ.  He kept playing, not noticing her, but she liked that.  She sat on a small sofa, stiff from disuse, and listened to his music.  She let it relax her and dull the ache in her head.  Suddenly, he faltered on the keys, his music stopping.

     "Forgive me," he said, "I'm not accustomed to an audience."

     "I'm sorry -" she began, but he cut her off as he stood sharply from his organ and strode briskly across the room.

     "It's all right."

     He said just these few words as he pour from a teapot.  He picked up a small china teacup and carried it to where she sat.  She took it from him, and the warmth felt good in her cold hands - a cool air was coming off the underground lake, chilling the stone that surrounded them.  She looked into the cup; milk; and took a skeptical sip; sugar.