Beneath the Porcelain Mask

26. Masks of Gaiety

  "None will ever be a true Parisian who has not learned to wear a mask of gaiety over his sorrows and one of sadness, boredom, or indifference over his inward joy."  

~ Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera.

  ~•~•~•~■~•~•~•~  

A ploom of dust flew into my unmasked face from a cupboard. I choked on the particles that went down my throat. Spluttering, I backed away, batting the air and coughing into my glove. It would be me who got the dusty old costume department to clean out; Firmin had ordered a record of every salvageable thing in here, all costumes, all props, everything, all in a bid to cut some expenditures. In my absence, I'd been nominated and had spent the entire day up to my neck in dust and shadows, which made it all the more impossible to tell the time. I could only assume that night had fallen by now.

I coughed again and fought my way back to the cupboard. Half convinced something would bite my arm off, half genuinely wondering what secrets the shadows held, I reached into the darkness.

My hand touched something creased and fabricy. I tensed. At least it wasn't a plague of tarantulas or snakes. Another cloud of dust swept into the room as I pulled the heavy item from its hanger and out into the dim candlelight, setting it on a workbench I'd cleared.

I picked up my pen to make another note of inventory, smoothing the fabric of the dress with the other hand.

Violetta's gown, Act One
La Traviata, 1860
Giuseppe Verdi.

I took another look at the dress, imagining Carlotta, in her younger years, parading it around the stage. This dress had seen such glory before, had been a marvel of embroidery and dressmaking. Now it simply lay limp and heavy, spoilt with dust in a forgotten corner of the Opera House, and, for some reason, that put more of a damper on my mood than before.

I stifled a sigh and reached to stroke the few remaining sequins that would once have caught the light of gaslamps and shone for all the audience to see.

"Addio, del passato bei sogni ridenti."

I jumped, looked over my shoulder at the voice and groaned, turning back to the dress. "I should have known it would be you."

"Unless someone else with such an extensive and, dare I say, impressive knowledge of opera walked in through the passage behind the wall, it could only have been your humble, resident Ghost." Erik walked towards me and set his own lantern on the bench next to mine. "Have you drawn the short straw?"

"It was drawn for me."

"Typical. And it's two in the morning."

I groaned, wanting nothing more than to collapse and just sleep, even amid all the dust. "Firmin wants this place clear by midday, and then I'm meant to go back to scrubbing the floors by the dance foyer."

"Did you do it?"

"Do what? Tidy up? What does it look like?"

"Kill Desrosiers."

I froze. The ink began to blotch the paper and I lifted the pen. "No."

"Why not?"

"There was no reason to," I shrugged. "I left your dagger by the piano forte."

"I saw it alright." He leaned against the bench and folded his arms. "The state in which I found it indicated it had not been used. I came to look for you."

"I suppose I should be grateful. Am I allowed back in the House now?"

He traced something into the dust on the table with a light smile. "I'll think about it."