Chapter Text
“No, no. You and your mother don’t know what my sister has done to that coquin,” a carefree twelve-year-old twin stood on the second step, from the bottom, of the grand stairs, nearby an exquisite sculpture. And when another twin, standing on the marble floor, glanced up at him, he tilted his head as a sign…
To exaggerate.
“You heard that she slapped, splashed her drink, and threw a silver glass to his face, right? But it was just few things she had done,” after noticing a sign, a thoughtful twin pushed eyeglasses up his nose, before smiling at the listener who stood next to him. “My sister had screamed at that coquin’s face, before grabbing a fruit — a bunch of grapes, right, Clarence?”
“Grapes, Terrence,” an easygoing boy on the stairs nodded.
“Grapes,” a bespectacled boy reprised his brother’s word.
A chubby boy, shorter than the twins, asked: “Did she throw grapes toward his face?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“She ate.”
Clarence, a carefree twin, giggled at a quick, dry joke that Terrence, a thoughtful twin, made. Then they giggled at each other’s giggles… which made the concentrated listener twisted his face and got goosebumps.
Clarence and Terrence Shirling were like reflection themselves; their brown eyes, their playful smiles, and their entire presences were too identical. Only eyeglasses a thoughtful boy wearing were a symbol of Terrence, and a carefree boy who had no eyeglasses was Clarence.
The Shirling twins looked terrified than Mademoiselle Florence, and these boys might know it too well.
“Twins!”
There she was… the older sister and the manager of the Opera Populaire walked after the crowd, heading to the main stairs where her brothers were enjoying the conversation.
“You should go or she will eat grapes in front of you,” Clarence winked at the listener, tilting his head toward the audience who made their ways to the theater.
When a chubby boy ran away, the lady in crimson guided the twins to walk upstairs before her. “People can eat grapes, you know.”
Terrence replied: “But for you, Florence, it’s not mere grapes.”
Clarence added: “It’s graves.”
Going to the wing where their loge was, the Shirling twins could know that their older sister was annoyed after them, and that made them chuckle.
“Both of you made me look like a madwoman,” Florence scratched her own temple.
The twins glanced over their shoulders. “Aren’t you?”
“I am.”
Clarence and Terrence always enjoyed Florence’s surrender, while Florence rolled her eyes with weariness.
They passed some audience on the corridor, then they noticed a man talking with an old woman; a male stranger stole a glance at the sister, yet all of the Shirling siblings could notice that demeanor.
The glint in his eyes told Florence that he was one of her admirers, and she was nervous about that. Two gloved hands placed on the twins’ shoulders, pushing them to walk quicker.
“I don’t understand,” when the Shirlings passed that man, the twins left their playfulness behind. Terrance asked his sister, his voice lowering, almost whispering. “Clarence and I have worked so hard to spread false information, but why many men are still interested in you?”
“You both may not work hard enough,” the opera manager sighed. “Well, it’s not your fault, nevertheless.”
Clarence noticed the despair in his sister’s tone, and he didn’t like it. Before entering their loge, he smoothly changed the topic: “Eh, by the way, I heard the concierge mentioned the cursed opera box or something perplexing… Is that Box Five on this wing?”
Over her usual melancholy gleam, brown eyes suddenly filled with skepticism. The welcome letter from the Opera Ghost stuck in Florence’s mind for the entire week.
No matter what she was doing, no matter what she was saying, his handwriting and sharp message could find the way to disturb her head. And, now, her brother was the one who brought them to her again.
“Clary, man,” noticing that his twin asked something like this for a reason, Terrence stopped his footsteps and retorted with his clever, mocking tone. “You, at least, should know the structure of the Opera Populaire, though you have no idea how different a violin and a harp are.”
“Terry, man, I don’t even know where the east and the west belong to.”
“I forgot something,” Florence interrupted the twins’ conversation. “Go, go, your father is waiting. I’ll be there in minutes.”
Clarence and Terrence glanced at each other. Although the twins were defiant and, sometimes, foolish, they always obeyed and respected their sister; because they knew that they could grow up happily, but for their sister, it was the reversal of fortune… So, at the moment, they understood that she needed some time alone.
Two boys nodded and replied in French: “Entendu.”
After the Shirling twins entered their loge, Florence still stood on the same place. She glanced at the hallway, noticing that the other audience already entered their opera boxes, and this area was quiet enough for her thoughts to be heard.
Leave Box Five empty.
She was curious about that box now.
𝒪.
Behind the wall of the Opera Populaire, there were only the shadows and the light from this lantern, while the sound of footsteps resonated through the cold, obscure corridor. The tall man strode forward, his dark cape flowing after him; he was heading to the hallway that led him to his favorite box.
As the Opera Ghost stood in front of the threshold, he placed a lantern on the ground; his gloved fingers touched a corner of his half-faced mask, rechecking that it covered the right side of his face as it should do, before opening the secret door.
But she was there.
That new opera manager.
He frowned at Mademoiselle Shirling, seeing her step out of Box Five and shut the door. As she turned her back toward him, she didn’t notice his presence…
The performance was starting — he could know that from the subtle music from the wall — but why did she still wander around the corridor? And, without her, was anyone in Box Five?!
While the turmoil hung over his mind, he kept staring at the opera manager and saw that she walked away from his loge, still having no idea that he was standing behind her. But, only few steps, she stopped her feet and turned her entire body to the wide mirror with the graceful carved frame… From his viewpoint, she was checking her appearance through the reflection.
‘Why wouldn’t she just go—?!’
Suddenly, the subtle music from the wall seemed to fade away, and all the lights — like the first day he saw her — glared at Florence Shirling. She was smiling at the mirror, bewitching him with her delicate profile…
Delicate.
And exquisite, obviously.
As if she was the masterpiece of some famous artists.
Although her smile had a hint of misery, she was stunning enough to catch his heart and steal his breath. Her brown curly hair was bunched and embellished by pins, pearl earrings and necklace matched with her beauteous facade, while the crimson gown made her look elegant and confident, but he could perceive that she wasn’t a kind of confident gentlewoman from her expression at the moment.
Her smile faded… and she tried to smile again… It was too bitter this time, so her smile faded… again.
Because she saw someone, not herself.
No one knew that Florence’s heart hurt every moment she tried to smile at herself, because she saw the other lady in her own reflection… and she wasn’t fond of it.
‘We look very alike when we smile!’
When her innocent words found the way to appear in her mind, she couldn’t breathe. The gleam of loathing happened in her eyes, and that made her charming face twisted.
‘I shouldn’t smile.’
She thought…
She shouldn’t smile anymore.
The opera manager began to walk away from the mirror, but only few steps she took, someone’s voice interrupted her.
“Mademoiselle Shirling.”
Florence abruptly turned around and encountered the man; he stood at the dead end of this corridor, but she believed that there was no one around here except her…
From Monsieur Lefevre’s explanation, the Opera Ghost could appear or disappear whenever he wanted, wherever he preferred, with his notable cape and unforgettable white half-faced mask.
She expected to meet him tonight — and it was the reason why she was here, in this wing — but she didn’t expect to meet him while she thought about her own struggle and felt vulnerable.
The opera manager cleared her throat before straightening her posture, holding her own gloved hands to keep her composure.
“The Opera Ghost,” said she.
“And where is Onion Gravy?”
Florence raised her brows. “You like it?”
“Absolutely not,” the mysterious man said sharply, walking toward her and gesturing to Box Five. “I noticed that you just closed that door.”
A lady’s gaze followed his gloved hand, then she replied: “I did.”
“Why,” he stood before Florence, towering over her. Though he had a mask concealing a half of his face, his eyes were piercing enough to make her feel uneasy. “I thought I already told you that you should leave Box Five empty.”
Her brown eyes told him she was nervous, and that made the Opera Ghost satisfied… yet her determination to stand still, not quickly running away, made him doubt his own ability.
“Pardon me, monsieur, why do I need to obey you?”
Although Mademoiselle Shirling’s tone was gentle as if she was soothing a child, the Opera Ghost knew that she wasn’t scared of him… Only curiosity mixed with caution occurred through her demeanor.
“Why do you need to obey—?”
“Tell me a reason.”
‘She interrupted me— how dare she—’
But that was right, he should tell her a reason.
Shouldn’t he?
“This box gives me the best view of the stage which I, as a remarkable musician and playwright of this opera house, am supposed to obtain,” and it was the first time that he explained something to someone rationally… Conversations with Madame Giry weren’t involved with, because he was usually irrational toward her, and she was the one who brought him back to rational points. “Moreover, the best view will lead me to be capable to inspect any kinds of mistakes the leading sopranos, or choruses, or ballerinas, or even violinists do; then I will report you through letters and expect you to criticize them wisely.”
Florence listened to the Opera Ghost without expressing any kind of dissent… and acceptance; she was still nervous, yet she was quiet and calm enough while she focused on his words.
Somehow, she made the man uneasy; he was supposed to make her uneasy, yet her composure was more brutal than the commands he had just declared.
‘Would she say something—?’
“Even some masterpiece may have a blemish itself.”
She was right, and that made his mind messed with her words.
But he was supposed to fight back…
“Art could be perfect or imperfect, believe me I know that, mademoiselle, yet those kinds of blemishes shall not happen to my opera, because imperfection is out of control and unacceptable.”
He knew he wasn’t a rational person in this wing, in the Opera Populaire, but people had different views — whatever — he was supposed to clarify his dominance, and she must accept that.
“Now, do you understand the importance of leaving Box Five for me? You should leave it, because I’m not impressed by your—”
“What is your name?”
‘How dare she interrupt me once again!’
The Opera Ghost was stunned by her question which could be the condition in the future… If he told her his name, would he get Box Five for himself only?! No one — most of them — in this grand place dared to identify him or ask his real name, but some of the old opera managers obeyed enough to let Box Five empty!
“Mademoiselle, do I look like a man who prefers unveiling myself in public?” he implied to his mask and mysterious appearance.
“Yes, but reserving Box Five for you only must have an exchange,” Florence’s tone was sweet like a lullaby, but her words and her enchantingly beautiful brown eyes were poisonous — for the Opera Ghost, at least. “Tell me your real name, and you’ll get what you prefer.”
Why on earth did she want to know his name? Her intention made her look like those previous opera managers who wanted to ruin his life for declaring their dominance instead of listening to the man who lived beneath the opera house.
He was just a maestro who made this place magical, and he bathed in the darkness for reasons.
The Phantom of the Opera was his name only.
Only…
Only if he could get Box Five for himself.
And Florence Shirling had never shouted at him like other opera managers…
Maybe…
“Erik.”
Florence didn’t say anything but tilted her head when she heard his name for the first time. Her eyes gleamed with skepticism as if she didn’t believe what he just said.
“It’s my real name,” he was the one who broke the silence, though the music in the theater was doing that. “Satisfied, mademoiselle?”
“Yes,” she finally replied. “Erik.”
Good lord…
Erik liked how soft her voice was — it was contrasting with her awkward facade.
“But,” and his voice was also softer, nearly becoming normal… and unguarded, “I— I won’t allow you to say my name in public or to others, and I expect you to respect my condition.”
“As if I’m such a talkative person,” she glanced away, lightly pouting.
“I can see that.”
Erik didn’t expect himself to be in this situation — having some respect for this new opera manager wasn’t in his plan — but there he was, standing and clearing his throat in front of her nervously, as if he forgot to be the real ruler of the Opera Populaire.
“Um, anyway… I noticed that you were somehow struggling with some problems,” he implied to her previous awkward smile, “so I won’t blame you for not leaving Box Five empty—”
Oh, my goodness, what was Faustina Giudicelli singing?! That soprano’s voice was unpleasantly jarring, almost toad-like, and it easily gave Erik a headache.
“Ugh! That’s awful!” the maestro rushed to the door of Box Five and opened it, stepping into the empty…
The empty box.
Erik turned his face back and looked at the woman in front of his favorite space, having eye contact with her.
“I did,” and she implied that she actually left this place empty.
‘Florence Shirling… You accept my condition without saying anything, and that makes me look like a witless autarch!’
And the sound of the audience woke this maestro up to face the current situation; some of them retorted Faustina’s horrible performance, and the diva seemed to know that she just ruined the whole opera. Her thin hands covered her mouth, her face reddening…
Then she ran away from the stage.
Erik’s gloved hands grabbed the backrest and squeezed them hard, because he was really mad at Faustina Giudicelli. This soprano who related to Carlotta — that disgusting woman — completely made his clever play become a cheap practical joke; some of the audience showed him a mixture of disgust and amusement, and it was absolutely out of his control.
He just needed to be a part — the important part — of perfection! And this opera house clearly couldn’t provide him what he deserved to have!!
Then Erik heard that the woman after him was running through the corridor, and he quickly stepped out of Box Five, shouting at her.
“Where are you going?!”
Florence stopped her footsteps, turning around, and replied: “I need to check on Faustina… I heard that she was unwell, but she didn’t want to make her admirers disappointed, so she forced herself to sing tonight.”
The lady with her — still charming — pale face made her way to the stairs.
Was that ridiculous woman was unwell today?
It wasn’t a reason why Faustina could ruin his play!
𝒪.
“Mademoiselle Shirling, someone poisoned me!!”
“Really?”
Faustina’s voice was cacophonous and shrill, and Florence could hear it personally in the prima donna’s dressing room.
The opera manager stood after the crying lady who sat in front of the wide mirror that was surrounded by roses; Faustina liked roses, but it was too much for Florence. Faustina looked at herself when she was crying, and she sometimes looked at Florence’s eyes through Florence’s reflection.
“I know I’m unwell, but my voice has never been horrible like this! I’ve never done something horrible like Carlotta — I’m the proud one of the Giudicelli family!!” Faustina threw her handkerchief on the floor, grabbing the younger woman’s hand which was already on Faustina’s shoulder. “The Opera Ghost may be the one who poisoned me!!”
“The Opera Ghost?”
Erik?
“Yes!” Faustina kept blubbering, squeezing Florence’s hand harder. “He had never liked my relative’s voice, and he had poisoned her, ruining her voice, from operatic to toad-like — like I’m suffering now!”
“But you sang his opera for a year, and Monsieur Lefevre still let you sing… The Opera Ghost might enjoy your performance somehow.”
“I might ruin his opera some time that I didn’t even know.”
Florence quietly sighed.
She couldn’t blame the Opera Ghost for his previous trouble, because she wasn’t here when Carlotta was poisoned, and she couldn’t blame the Opera Ghost for Faustina’s grating voice, because there was no evidence… In the same time, Faustina had many opponents, because she wasn’t kind to stagehands and other singers; even Florence felt annoyed when she was around Faustina.
But who would benefit from this kind of situation?
“Mademoiselle, believe me, it must be him!” Faustina still childishly cried. “He hated my relative, so he must hate me. And I’m so scared— you shall do something!!”
Then Faustina shifted herself to be convenient for pulling Florence close and embracing the opera manager’s waist, crying in the crimson gown.
Florence was caught off guard, but she knew she shouldn’t push this soprano away, so… she just patted Faustina’s back lightly, her weary eyes looking at her own reflection in the mirror.
“I’ll find the one who poisoned you, I promise.”
And he was there, behind the mirror.
I promise…
As the woman was seeing her own reflection, the Opera Ghost was looking into her eyes; it was the wide mirror from the side of the dressing room, but it was just a mere window from the side of his secret corridor. It was good for his eyes that there was a room divider for changing clothes, but it wasn’t good enough when he saw… and heard…
Her eyes and her voice.
Her promise.
She said: I promise.
Erik loved that word, promise, and it was the only word he had never heard of said to anyone before. He didn’t know what Florence was thinking, but the word, promise, wasn’t suitable for her stern presence.
But she said that.
Promise.
Florence glanced down at Faustina’s head, while the man behind the mirror touched the glass between them. His gloved fingers touched Florence’s cheek through the glass… only the glass.
She left Box Five empty, she had compassion for Faustina’s failure — which he couldn’t agree with — and she said… Promise.
He whispered to himself.
“Erik shouldn’t fight with Florence…”
Because when she said ‘I promise’, she seemed like a nice person.