Beneath the Porcelain Mask

18. You Shall Never See Nikki's Face.

Happy New Year, everyone!!

Christine Daae had not been seen in three days. Some said she'd been kidnapped by the Opera Ghost, who was rumoured to have been her voice tutor. Others insisted she'd taken leave and was staying with Monsieur le Vicomte de Changy and his older brother, a story with equal scandal.

I kept my mouth shut for a while, hoping the stories would die down with time. But as the days went past and the fair maiden was still nowhere to be seen, they only grew.

By the third day, even Beatrice had involved herself in the Opera Ghost story. Dares of going to seek him out were being thrown all over the place. Jeremy and I had scoffed at them over breakfast yesterday, yet I felt as if we both knew the same thing, a silent, shared knowledge of how dangerous the Opera House was becoming. We both knew what would happen if someone went Down Below for a dare, but never shared a word of the consequences.

Now, as I swept some dust from the bannister of the Grand Escalier, the feeling of dread that had haunted me for the past three days only grew with every whisper of the Ghost and Christine Daae.

"Well, well, well. Bonjour, Mam'zelle."

I looked up at Guillaume and the troop of stagehands flocked behind him at the bottom in the foyer. He rocked uneasily on his feet, his eyes deeply bloodshot. Swallowing, I gathered my equipment and hurried down, trying to push my way through the posse, eyes fixed on the exit.

I'd dealt with people like this before, but if I pulled my usual tricks, Jeremy would never talk to me again. There would be no murder if I could help it; I had too much to lose.

Guillaume caught my arm with a leering smile. I stumbled and dropped the bucket. The other stagehands exchanged devious snickers, nudging each other in anticipation. I glared at him and fought my way free from his grip. Someone else caught me, and I shrieked as a hand went where it shouldn't have. The man earned a slap and reeled back.

"Now, now," a third coaxed, his voice like honey laced with poison.

"Cat's got claws," another laughed.

"A little more than you think," the second muttered, taking his hand away from a bloody scratch on his face. I bit down a surge of triumph and glared at all the others.

"I beg your pardons, Messieurs, but I have other work to attend to. Good—"

Guillaume caught my shoulder and pulled me back as I tried to flounce off. I slapped him like the second stagehand, but he wasn't fazed and only smirked further.

That was when I began to panic and wrestled with every bit of strength I had. My hand reached for the knife I kept in my dress, but it grabbed about in vain.

I left it in my bedside cupboard last Monday.

Guillaume let out a bark of laughter. My lungs filled with the stench of alcohol. I coughed, distracted for just a moment. It was a moment he used to pass me to one of the others. Before I knew it, I was the ball in a sick sport they'd invented. I screamed and Guillaume caught me again. My world spun before my eyes in every direction.

"Let's see Kitty Cat's face then," he grinned, and his hand slipped beneath my mask.

I swore a filthy curse and twisted about, trying to shake him off as his fingers worked the porcelain up. I threw my head back, trying to bash his nose, but he dodged, earning whoops of laughter from the stagehands as if I were a mustang in need of breaking in. My heart thudded in my ears like a drum. I screwed my eyes closed and tried to prise his hand away from my face.

The untidy knot beneath my curls of hair came loose. The mask slipped over and off my head entirely. Cold air hit my face like a cricket bat. I opened my eyes again in panic, slapping a hand over my skin, a fraction of a second too late. Between my fingers, I dared to watch their reactions.