Page 119 of Our Strange Duet

My eyebrows rose, inordinately touched. “Onstage?”

She nodded.

Before every performance, the company dancers took class onstage, hidden behind the grand curtain—running through pliés and dégagés on makeshift barres the stagehands assembled—as the orchestra filtered into the pit to warm up.

It was a wonderfully peaceful time of bonding and camaraderie. Every dancer, whether featured or corps, took class. It was something I hadn’t even known to miss tonight until Madame Giry invited me.

“I would be honored,” I said, rising. “Are you about to start?”

I expected her to snap that we were already late and that I was holding up the entire company, but she only gestured for me to follow.

That half hour onstage with the dancers was a balm to my soul. My mind stopped racing and turned inward, focusing upon every stretch and flex of muscle, from the points of my toes to the curve of my fingers. I closed my eyes and listened to the deep breaths and sighs of my fellow company members. No matter how my position at the opera had altered, changing from dancer to supernumerary, or from featured soloist to prima donna, the barre had remained the same. The barre was like an old friend. The barre was home.

I stretched my spine, letting my lungs fill and deflate. I breathed out worries. I breathed in strength and silence.

Until…

“Are the doors secure?” shouted a loud male voice. He sounded close enough to be onstage, on the other side of the curtain.

Every dancer’s head snapped toward it, though we kept on stretching.

Then, across the front of house, came a series of loud slamming doors. After each one, someone called out, “Secure!” and another would shut.

“Focus,” Madame Giry admonished, stalking through the rows of segmented barres. “If you are truly in tune with your body, there’s not a thing on earth which should distract you from class. Not one thing,” she added sternly, and I felt her eyes land on me.

“I’m here,” came another voice, seemingly from the fly loft. “The Phantom of the Opera.”

Erik.

“Hold your fire, hold your fire, men!”

I froze, recognizing Raoul’s voice now. What did he mean about holding fire?

“Do they really have guns?” I whispered fearfully.

“Focus,” Madame Giry scolded, tapping the back of my ankles with her walking stick.

“I’m here: the Phantom of the Opera,” Erik announced, this time sounding farther away, somewhere in front of house.

Even the most dedicated of dancers stopped their stretching and looked toward the curtain.

“I’m here…”

From the stalls.

“I’m here…”

From the pit.

“How is he doing that?” Meg squeaked, looking as if she were about to run to her mother.

“I’m here…I’m here…I’m here…I’m here…I’m here!”

The last cry came from house right, up in the mezzanine, where Box Five was.

Without warning, there was an explosion of gunfire.

Several ballerinas shrieked and ran offstage. I covered my ears, waiting for the next burst, but it seemed as if the marksman was going to fire only once.