Unmasqued

Joseph Buquet's body had been found, tangled and gently swaying, in the stage lines that he had manipulated for nearly twenty years. If anyone noticed that Monsieur Moncharmin's trousers were buttoned up improperly, it was not deemed important enough to mention. There was too much commotion and apprehension permeating the Opera House for anyone to worry about anything but the Opera Ghost.

For, as Erik and Maude had expected, the blame was immediately attached to him.

"But look at how the cords are wrapped around his neck," protested Madame Giry. "What an imprecise way it would have been to try and strangle someone. Surely it was an accident."

"The ghost frightened him and made him fall to his death." shrieked one of the girls. Madame whirled upon her with frightfully sharp black eyes.

No one, not even Monsieur Moncharmin, would have recognized her as the wanton with the spilling breasts and groaning, openmouthed exertions from only moments before.

"You do not know of what you speak," Madame told the girl sternly. "You had best learn to hold your tongue; else you might find yourself amp; victim of the Opera Ghost."

After the police had been called and the stage was cleared, the managers stood off to the side. Monsieur Firmin Richard turned to Monsieur Moncharmin and showed him a thick parchment note with his name written on it. "I have received this letter," he told him.

"And I have received one too! This Opera Ghost requires that we pay him twenty-four thousand francs per month or he will not allow us a peaceful existence."

"And my letter states that we must allow Christine Daae to perform Marguerite in Faust tonight."

"But that is Carlotta's role! She did not sing last night, because she was angry about the backdrop falling… but certainly she has heard of Miss Daae's success and will return tonight to retake the stage." Armand sounded ill. "What shall we tell her?"

"Of course Carlotta will sing tonight," Firmin replied, tearing the parchment into two long strips. "Madame Giry is right; Buquet likely had too much to drink and fell off the catwalk. Do you not remember Poligny warning us about him? The Opera Ghost is nothing but a foolish person trying to scare us into paying him blackmail. Well, it will not work in my Opera House!" He dropped the parchment and watched it flutter to the floor.

"And what of Box Five? The Phantom has insisted we leave it empty for his use. Madame Giry has explained it all to me."

"The ghost, specter that he is, does not need a box to sit in."

Firmin replied with disdain. "He is a phantom, and he can fly about the stage if he wishes to watch the performance. We shall let the box for this evening's performance."

Late in the morning after her grand performance, Christine was in her dressing room. The masses of flowers from the night before had been organized onto one small table and the floor next to it. The mingled scents of rose, lily, gardenia, and gillyflower were cloying and sweet.

Three heavy gowns-rose, lavender shot with silver, and sapphire blue-lay carefully arranged over a chair. They were gowns that she never would have been close enough to touch if La Carlotta had not stomped petulantly out of the Opera House.

If the backdrop hadn't fallen and startled the diva, Christine would still be sharing a dressing room with the other chorus girls. There would be no floor-to-ceiling mirror of her own, but instead, a long narrow one, around which the twenty girls would push and shove and gather as they dressed.

If the. backdrop hadn't fallen.

She gasped.

He had done it. He had made the heavy canvas drop to the ground, knowing that it would send La Carlotta into hysterics… certain that it would cause her to stalk away, to act the prima donna and refuse to sing.

Carlotta had expected to be soothed and coaxed back. She had not known that the Angel of Music had made other plans.

Christine had heard about the death of Joseph Buquet, and felt a tremor of fear. Her ange was a strict and demanding tutor, but he had never given her cause to be frightened of him. Even the first time the angel approached her, she had not been frightened.

She had been praying in the small chapel, tucked beneath the grand stone staircase of the Opera House. It was the only place she felt close to her father, even though he was buried in a graveyard near the Bay of Perros. Even after nearly eight years, she grieved for him, missed his absentminded smile and faraway eyes, missed the way his fingers were always moving, always playing something on an invisible violin-even when he hugged her, or sat reading in his chair, or riding in a carriage.