Page 6 of Our Strange Duet

“I believe it’s being used for storage. For the ghost nuns.”

“Ah, of course. Robert le Diable,” Monsieur Lefèvre mused. “But there are other places we could move them to, don’t you think?”

“Move them,” the ballet mistress repeated. “Now? For what reason, sir? The stagehands are quite busy with the final builds on Faust.”

“The walls in these dressing rooms are too thin,” Monsieur Lefèvre began, granting Carlotta a small triumph. “If Miss…” Here, suddenly aware he had no idea who I was, he trailed off.

“Daaé,” I supplied, feeling as though a brick were lodged in my throat.

“Of course. Yes. If Miss Daaé cannot hold her tongue, we ought to put her someplace where no one will hear her.”

Lisette let out an involuntary gasp. “Christine gets her own dressing room?”

Madame Giry studied the envelope in Monsieur Lefèvre’s hand with a thoughtful expression. “We certainly can’t move the whole corps into it. It’s far too small. I think it a perfect solution…That is, unless Signora Giudicelli would prefer to switch herself?”

It was common knowledge that Carlotta had the best of all dressing rooms—a vast suite boasting a walk-in closet, an iron-clawed bathtub, and a marble-inlaid fireplace. The furniture, in both it and the adjoining parlor, had been decorated in her favorite shade of rose-petal pink, and the wallpaper was hand-flocked with shimmering velvet.

Carlotta quickly pushed herself to standing, apparently recovered from her shock. “I would not!”

Monsieur Lefèvre nodded. “Excellent. Then the matter is settled.”

Carlotta smiled, glowing as if she’d won a hard-fought race. “I would start packing up your things, then, little dancer.”

Monsieur Lefèvre turned to go, the matter, in his mind, settled. But before he could leave, Meg exploded into action, protests bursting from her like water from a failed dam.

“But you can’t send Christine away!” she exclaimed. “Not there!”

I wanted to stop her. Didn’t she understand that however inconvenient moving rooms might seem, it was a gift? I should have been fired, but I’d been granted unexpected mercy.

“Meg, stop!” I hissed, worried she’d change his mind with her antics.

“But that room is haunted!” she all but shouted.

The theatre manager froze, his entire frame tensing. “Nothing but a story,” he said, his voice clipped and his muscles rigid.

I noticed how his hands had balled, crumpling the mysterious envelope and whatever message it had contained into nothing but a wad of trash.

“Mother, tell him,” Meg insisted, turning to plead with the older woman. “Tell him that’s where the Opera Ghost lives!”

Monsieur Lefèvre looked as if he might be sick. Even Carlotta was watching the exchange play out, fearful curiosity flickering through her dark eyes.

Madame Giry looked from her daughter to me, and her usually hard face softened by degrees. “Meg, there’s nothing special about that room.”

Monsieur Lefèvre let out a soft laugh, set at ease, his shoulders visibly relaxing, until she smiled, her lips thin and humorless. “The Opera Ghost cannot be contained. The whole of the theatre is his.”

Chapter 2

Everyone had a story about him.

Some called him the Phantom of the Opera. Others claimed he preferred the title of Opera Ghost.

Though no one could agree on what to call him, everyone was certain he existed.

Theatre folk were, as a rule, a superstitious lot.

It was considered verboten to decorate a costume with peacock feathers. A terrible final dress ensured a successful opening night. Whistling backstage jinxed not only the offender but anyone else who might have heard the cursed notes. Good luck should never be offered, and God help anyone foolish enough to utter the name of Shakespeare’s most infamous tragedy.

These superstitions were fairly universal, observed in equal measure from one theatre to the next, regardless of geography or the art form exercised within. But whispers of the Opera Ghost belonged solely to the Opéra Populaire.