Between Mirrors and Roses (A Phantom of the Opera Fanfiction) ✓

10: Unmasking the Phantom

Christine

I'd been pampered with the prima donna dressing room; the dressing room I shared now with five other ballet girls was barely larger than a closet, it had no bed, and the six of us shared a mirror that would have been small for one person. Nevertheless, I couldn't say I missed the solitude. The prima donna room was too stuffy and pompous; here, the other girls brought a liveliness to the formerly dreary process of putting on costumes and makeup.

At the beginning of rehearsal that day, the full cast crowded onto the stage to listen to a lecture from the managers about being timely and cost-efficient: one that I could tell from the expressions around me had been heard in some version many times before. Then we were off.

A show required a veritable army of people to run. I passed stage managers in silk vests ordering people about like drill sergeants, men in rolled-up sleeves hefting enormous pieces of lumber to-and-fro, and formidable women with pins in their mouths (in their hair, stuck into cushions on their arms...) who would somehow transform the bolts of fabric that had just been delivered into a myriad of sparkling, shocking costumes.

The cast moved like puppets across the stage as the directors blocked the new opera's first act. I learned that the beginning and end of an opera couldn't contain any vital plot information because so many audience members arrived late and left early, a fact which, I was sure, vexed Erik to no end.

The lead roles and the chorus, the parts that sang, and those that danced all had different rehearsal schedules. I had one of the shortest, as my part was silent and unimportant. I only had to show up when they called the full cast.

In only a few weeks, we would present the first show. Posters featuring "La Carlotta" already hung around the city's wealthier districts.

In the dressing room that afternoon, while a woman mixed brown and pink cosmetics on my arm to match my skin tone, I listened to the ballet girls gossip.

"I heard that Lisette slept with her beau—" said one.

Another cut in: "Do I know him?"

"Yes, you met him at the party last month—the German man."

"Oh, that's right. He had that enormous mustache."

"Exactly. But as soon as he bedded her, he disappeared—told her he had no intention of marrying a woman who had already proven herself loose."

I leaned surreptitiously toward Meg and whispered, "Lisette—is that the girl who stole your ribbons?"

Meg answered in matched hushed tones. "Yes, and she also put a frog in Little Jammes' bed. Serves her right."

After chatting with the girls, Meg and I walked arm in arm to the chapel. I told her I wanted to make it a habit to pray after rehearsals. She parted with me at the door, and I went inside the pretty little room alone.

There was something that felt holy about it, with the afternoon sun filtering through the glass, and though I wasn't very religious, I sent up a quick little prayer to Whoever might be listening. I asked for guidance in pursuing my relationship with Erik.

I opened the hidden door in the wall and closed it carefully behind me. There was a torch set into the wall of the passage, and, under its light, I pulled out a letter I'd found in my new dressing room. "Christine" was printed on the front. I hadn't wanted to open it in front of the other girls. I unfolded the paper now and read the message:

'Stay out of the spotlight.'

The handwriting was the same as it had been in the last letter, and I had a sneaking suspicion that I knew who would want to keep me from stealing the show. I doubted she could do any real damage, though.