Beneath the Porcelain Mask

1. The Angel of Music

"Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing. Her hair was golden as the sun's rays and her soul as clear and blue as her eyes. She obeyed her mother, was kind to her doll, took great care of her frock and her little red shoes and her fiddle, but most of all loved, when she went to sleep, to hear the Angel of Music."

~ Gaston Leroux, the Phantom of the Opera.

Chapter One, from the perspective of the Hon. Mme. Nikita Desrosiers, née de La Chance.
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15 February 1882.

On the night of Don Juan Triumphant, Erik sang his heart out. His voice alone sent rushes of ecstasy to the women sitting around me, and not even their husbands could protest. But Jeremy sat with tense shoulders, constantly glancing around or biting his nails. Once or twice, his gaze would lift to Raoul and I'd catch them glancing at each other at certain times in the show. More than a few times, Christine would seek me out in the audience, looking as if she was begging for something I couldn't understand or provide, but Erik would be at her side in moments, touching, singing, luring, and once more, she was Aminta.

"What are you doing?" I hissed as Jeremy stood from his seat and edged out to the aisle with muttered apologies to the rest of the theatregoers. I tried to catch his hand, but he moved too quickly, not looking back but walking calmly down the aisle to the side of an officer in the middle of the auditorium. I chewed my lip.

Erik sang on, his proud, strong voice booming around the auditorium, so sensuous it would make even Don Juan quiver. Christine tried not to grimace as she fought the trance he was putting her in, but the creeping of his fingers over her shoulder snatched her breath away and her eyes closed at his words.

I glanced back at Jeremy, whose hissed conversation with the gendarme I couldn't hear from my seat.

"Aminta!" Erik sang, turning Christine to him. "The angels weep in ecstasy! Hark, we shall away to-"

With one deft flick of her hand, Christine ripped his mask off. I couldn't help but gasp. The crowd was silent for a split second.

Then, it happened. The place erupted into deafening screams of disgust, and everyone around me turned their faces away or shielded their eyes from the repulsive sight, the face that was not even a face. After all, what face has no nose and no eyebrows, or cheekbones that protrude alarmingly, with skin covered in bumps, folds and scars?

I stood from my seat uselessly, unable to get to the aisle with everyone panicking. The woman beside me was violently sick all over her dark dress. Another in the row ahead screamed until she went hoarse and fainted in her husband's arms.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jeremy struggling with the guard, wrestling something from him. Erik spotted me at last, his shadowed, sunken eyes wide, and followed my gaze.

Jeremy took careful aim, a steely look in his eyes. Erik ducked as the shot went over his head and splintered the set behind him.

"Shoot to kill!" someone cried. "Shoot to kill, men! Fire!"

A volley of shots rang out from all directions, accompanied by hundreds of horrified screams. I barely caught sight of the gendarmes hiding in the boxes and gallery, filling the auditorium with gunshots, before a surge of people desperate to escape almost trampled me. I jumped onto my seat. Erik scurried across the stage to Christine with a ferocious bark of rage, where she was making a break for the wings. He made to catch her, his fingers so close to her arm and yet-