Chapter Five

Knock, knock, Meg rapped on the door to Carlotta's room. There was no response, so she quietly opened up the door. The old wood scraped over the floorboards, and the hinges creaked loudly. Carlotta stirred on the bed that she slept on. Meg glances at her face, her tear-stained, olive skin, then at her bandaged nose. She smiled, spying a golden goblet near the bed nearly filled with liquid. She reached into her pocket, a curl of pleasure rippling through her as she pulled out a small vial filled with a pink powder. Fairy dust, she thought. Oh god, what can't th e gypsies do? She emptied the vial into Carlotta's ale, being careful not to spill any of the precious powder. Carlotta stirred in her sleep, and Meg's hand shook, causing some of the mixture to fall on Carlotta.

“No!” she cried, the goblet clattering back into its place. She jumped back as Carlotta sat up straight amongst the satin sheets.

“What 'ava you done, you little brat!” she shrieked.

“I was getting you more ale!” Carlotta glared at her, then flopped on her side. Meg groaned inwardly. “Actually, I came here to apologize.” There was no response. “Look, I shouldn't have hit you, and I'm sorry. We need you!” Carlotta rolled over to stare at her, an eyebrow quirked in amused curiosity. Meg watched her, then with a sigh said, “You're going to make me beg, aren't you?” Carlotta grinned slyly, still not saying a word.

Meg closed her eyes for a moment, clenching her fists, then got down on her knees, spreading her skirt on the ground. “I should not've hit you. We need you on the stage! Without La Carlotta, the Opera Populaire is nothing! Please, as soon as your nose heals?”

“No.”

“Carlotta! I'm begging you!” she cried, an idea bursting into her mind. Christine, forgive me. “Carlotta, my mother cannot direct a ballet. Christine cannot sing like you! There is no romance between Christine and Piangi, either! Please, on behalf of the Opera Populaire, I ask you to return, to show up for your public tonight!” This got Carlotta's attention.

“Fine. I be dere!” Meg held out her hand.

“Shake on it?” she asked, loathing the idea of shaking Carlotta's hand as much as Carlotta dreaded shaking hers. The diva shrank back, a disgusted look on her face.

“No! I will not shaka da hand of a lowly ballet girl!”

“Please?” I can't believe I'm doing this, Meg thought as she rose. I'm going to get back at Mother for this.

Carlotta swallowed, feeling ill. She reached out and pinched Meg's right forefinger between her thumb and pointer, shaking it slightly. “Thank you,” Meg whispered, backing out of the room. Carlotta laid back down, tears filling her eyes. No one ever thanked her!

As Meg entered the hallway, she closed her eyes and clenched her fists several times. Oh, god, how had she gotten into this? No one wanted Carlotta back on the stage, except the managers, and that was only because this was their first time in an opera house position! And now, here she made Carlotta swear to return, just to please her mother!

She groaned, and leaned back against the marble column, glad for the cool stone against her back . She tugged at the tight fabric pressing on her stomach. She hated dresses, and what did her mother make her wear? Maybe I can get away with a leotard and tutu. She pushed away from the column eager to get out of the blue velvet. It was just then that Firmin came around the corner. The two collided, and Firmin caught the girl in his arms as she began to topple.
“Monsieur Firmin! Get your hands off me!” Meg cried, pushing him away. He stared her, at the blue velvet trimming her delicate body perfectly.

“My apologies, Mademoiselle. I was looking for Madame Giry. Have you seen her?”

Meg rolled her eyes. “Yes, but not lately.” She watched the disappointment cloud his eyes. “She may be in her room.”

His face lit up again. “Thank you!” he cried, rushing off in that direction.

Meg's prediction was correct. Catherine sat at her vanity, taking down her hair to brush it before the next rehearsal. She jumped at the knock at the door, and went to open it, thinking it was her daughter. “Yes...” she started to say, halting abruptly when Firmin's face greeted her instead of Meg's. She gasped, clutching desperately at the doorknob. “Monsieur!” she cried, looking down at her dressing gown of green satin. Embarrassment made her pale cheeks flush red, and she ran her delicate hands through her loose blonde hair. Her breathing quickened as Firmin ran his eyes over her scantily-clad body. He grinned, her ruby lips taunting him. The perfect legs revealed by her skirt caused his heart to beat quickly, and the perfect, white breasts that peaked from the bodice caused heat to curl throughout him.

He couldn't resist; he reached over and wrapped his arms around her, their lips meeting in a kiss more powerful than a tornado. Catherine caught her breath, resisting him at first. But then, as he held her tight, her lips began to soften and she kissed him back.

Behind them, a voice rang out in the semi-darkness. “Insolent boy, this slave of fashion, basking in your glory!” Firmin jerked back, his eyes darting around the room. Catherine looked at him pleadingly, but as the voice continued, he frowned and turned away, closing the door behind him.

“Erik!” Madame Giry cried. Her voice was filled with emotion as she sprang to the mirror, throwing back the curtain . She yanked open the secret door, and a gloved hand reached out to her. She glared at it, then slapped it hard.

“Dammit!” Erik cried.

“You ruin everything for me!” Catherine wept angrily. “I hate you! Stay away from me!” She turned and threw on her robe, sending a final glance towards the closing wall. She grabbed her corset and her dress, then hurried to the dorms to dress.


Chapter Six
The Opera Populaire was filled the night of Christine's debut as Elissa in Hannibal. It helped that everyone knew that the Vicomte de Chagney was going to be there, but Catherine knew something else was going on. One of her ballerinas probably let it slip that Carlotta was not singing. She cringed as she glanced across the front row of people. Ugh, tomato throwers in fancy clothing! Heaven forbid, she'd had enough of them when she was the prima ballerina, and she knew that Christine didn't need them. The poor girl was nervous enough as it was! She would have to warn her.

Oh, dear, all was going wrong in the overture even! Instead of beginning to play Hannibal, those fools in the orchestra had begun to play music for Il Muto, the opera they had begun to rehearse that day. Monsieur Reyer was not happy, for he could not stop them. Instead, they had to keep playing the wrong selection.

“Ha ha ha,” Madame Giry sighed under her breath. The lyrics to the song haunted her as she swished offstage. Poor fool, he makes me laugh, ha ha. Time I tried to get a better half. That was what she needed: a better half. Firmin seemed a likely candidate, after that kiss. She pressed her lips together, remembering his tight hold on her. Until Erik came.

Erik. The very name made her angry. How dare he take any love she might get away from her?
Catherine paused to catch her breath before entering Christine's dressing room. What she saw shocked her. Christine was nowhere to be seen! The only sign of her was the single red rose on her dressing table, tied with a black satin ribbon. Catherine groaned inwardly as she picked it up. Erik, again! Only he would steal a girl away before her performance! She took a deep breath, knowing that she was going to have to hunt them down. It was as she stepped towards the mirror that she heard Christine's soft steps behind her.

“Damn,” a soft male voice whispered from behind the panel. Catherine grimaced.

“Erik, you need to leave.”

“Why?”

“Because you have no business in Christine's life. You ruined me as a sixteen-year-old, and I'll not let you ruin her, too.”

The latch clicked in the door. “Go!” she hissed. She turned just as Christine entered.
“Madame Giry?”

“I need to help you get into Carlotta's costume. You are going to have to be corseted more tightly than either of us has ever been before. Come.” She motioned the young woman to her, and began to unlace her stays.

“I'm so scared, Madame Giry. Is Raoul out there?”

“Raoul de Chagney? You are still sweet on him, aren't you?”

Christine smiled. “Every time I see him, my heart nearly fails me, and everything about me seems different. I hear his voice and the whole world stops moving.” Madame Giry nodded. The de Chagneys all seemed to have that power...

“But there's something else that confuses me, Madame Giry. My angel of music – he can't be my father like I always thought.”

Catherine caught her breath. “Who then, Christine?”

“I don't know. Meg say it's the opera ghost,” she laughed, “But Meg also thinks he's her father, so I don't think I should believe her.”

“What!?” Christine turned to look at Catherine, who had stopped unlacing to stare at her. “Meg knows that Monsieur Giry, my late husband, is her father.”

“Meg says she was born four months into your marriage.”

“The doctor wrote the wrong month on the birth certificate.”

“Oh.” Catherine grabbed a brush and started to stroke Christine's thick chestnut hair. “But Madame, it doesn't make any sense!”

Catherine put down the brush. “What doesn't, Christine?”

“Meg heard you talking about him one day. You said he wore a mask, and you only saw his face once!”

“Where's your dress?”

“On the bed. But really, Madame, I don't understand!”

“I must've been dreaming, that's all! Now, are you ready?”

She nodded. Catherine reached into her gown, and pulled out a delicate silver chain. Clasping it around Christine's wrist, she explained, “I wore this when I performed. Now it is your turn. Go sing, my dear.”

Christine smiled as she wrapped her arms around Catherine. “Thank you,” she whispered. Then she swept out of the room, leaving a stunned Madame Giry with a tear in her eye and a prayer in her heart.