Unmasqued

Carlotta bolted away as quickly as her generous form would allow as the length of heavy canvas tumbled to the ground, her bosoms and jowls bouncing and her outraged screams echoing in the sudden silence. She clapped her hand to her chest, sending off a puff of white powder from her bosom. "How dare it! How dare it!" she shrieked, yanking off her tall, feathery headdress and tossing it at one of the costumiers. "La Carlotta is ill! La Carlotta shall not sing!"

She stalked off the stage and disappeared in a froth of skirts and feathers, the new managers staring after her in shock.

Horrified whispers skittered around the stage and pit in her wake.

"It is the Opera Ghost!"

"He has done it again."

"She could have been killed!"

"It was he who stole my powder puff," hissed one of the dancers.

"He moves like a shadow," added another.

"An evil creature he is," chortled Joseph Buquet, the chief stagehand, bugging his eyes out to frighten the young dancers. "His eyes are like coals! His teeth blackened and rotted. His face is stretched tight, and yellow, and his black clothes hang from his bones. He will hunt you down and eat you for dinner!"

Madame Giry, the mistress of the corps de ballet, silenced the gossip with a sharp snap of her fingers and the glare of her jet-bead eyes. "Do not speak of what you do not know," she ordered, looking sharply at Buquet, who had not troubled to keep his voice to a whisper. "Now, to work! You also, Sorelli. You might be our star dancer, but you must still focus on your practice!"

She directed the dancers behind the steel curtain that separated the ballet foyer from the rest of the stage. Mairie, the lead choreographer, bade the performers to continue their practice. If whispers and undertones continued, Madame Giry did not hear them… or, at least, did not acknowledge them.

It was surely a most unfortunate occurrence to happen on the very day the two new managers took over the reins of the famous Paris Opera House. The outgoing managers, Debienne and Poligny, had been respected and feared by the performers. But these new managers, Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin, who came from the trash-removal business, looked merely wide-eyed and full of consternation.

"Opera Ghost?" Christine, who had been standing near enough to hear their conversation, overheard Monsieur Moncharmin ask his companion. "Debienne and Poligny mentioned nothing about such a thing when they turned over this Opera House! What can be meant by this?"

Monsieur Richard, the taller and more dapper of the two men, tucked his hands in his waistcoat pockets and tipped onto his toes, murmuring in response to his companion, "Likely it is nothing but some bizarre legend, Armand. We are now in the theater business! They have many superstitions and stories and we shall learn of them as we progress. I'm sure it shall prove to be quite entertaining, in more ways than one." He chuckled indulgently, then sobered. "More importantly, how shall we replace La Carlotta for tonight's gala performance? There is no one else who can sing with such grace."

"We cannot cancel the performance," Moncharmin muttered. "Chagny shall be attending and everything must be in order."

Then before Christine could blink an eye, Madame Giry had whisked over from her management of the dancers and pulled her forward, thrusting her in front of the managers. "Miss Daae will be a more-than-adequate replacement for La Carlotta this evening. Her singing has improved enormously in the last three months."

Monsieur Richard looked down at Christine, arching one brow as he scanned her simple chorus costume, patched where it had been burned by a careless hair-curling iron, and frayed at the skirt's hem. Christine's palms dampened as she clasped her hands together, uncertain whether to dread or hope. It was the chance she'd never thought she'd have. "One of the dancer girls? I do not see how-".

"Come, Richard, it cannot hurt to give the girl a chance," Moncharmin prodded. "After all, who else is there?" He made a sweeping gesture for Christine to step forward onto the main part of the stage, then turned to the maestro and snapped an order for him to play.

Her throat so dry she wasn't sure any note would come forth, Christine walked to center stage, her full, calf-length skirt bouncing with each step. The platform, which pitched at a gentle slant from the back down toward the gaslights along the edge, seemed vast and frightening, despite the fact that the seats in the stalls were completely empty.

A few awkward notes as the violinists found their chairs again, and the cellist readied his bow, for the orchestra had left their seats when the accident with the backdrop occurred and had to get resettled… and then, as if she had waited an eternity, the melody.