Page 89 of Our Strange Duet

“Surely,” I echoed, and my mind drifted, wondering just who would be cast as Elisabeth. The opera called for two sopranos. Had I not resigned, I would have been certain to take one of the roles.

I felt a pinch of unhappiness under my sternum and tossed back the remainder of my champagne. The bubbles went straight to my head, pushing aside my sadness and making me feel a bit dizzy.

“Masquerade!” sang the opera chorus, now joining the corps on the split levels of the stairs. They were a veritable menagerie. I spotted a firebird and a giraffe, a rooster and a minotaur. A young woman dressed as a monkey, complete with velvet vest and brass cymbals, gave me pause, looking uncomfortably similar to Erik’s automaton.

“Grinning yellows, spinning reds…Masquerade!” they continued, coming down the stairs to filter through the crowd, their voices booming throughout the space. “Take your fill—let the spectacle astound you!”

The performers took a jubilant bow, indicating that their piece was done, but before any of us could begin to applaud, someone else began to clap, impossibly loud and sardonically slow.

As if we were marionettes pulled together on the same string by a cruel puppeteer, everyone in the hall turned, and we let out a shared gasp of surprise and horror.

There, in the middle of the grand staircase, was a towering figure, nearly eight feet tall and dressed in a voluminous cape of blood-red crushed velvet. He wore a great plumed hat and black court heels bedecked in enormous crimson-colored bows.

But his face…

His mask…

It was a skull, grotesquely exaggerated in both size and shape. It looked nearly human, but not quite. There was an uncanny oddness to it. The jaw unhinged too far. The wide eye sockets were too big, too spread apart. And though I knew someone was inside the suit, hiding behind that mask, the holes appeared empty, as if the figure truly was the very thing the costume represented…

Death.

Chapter 30

I knew it was Erik, even before he began his slow and dreadful gait down the stairs. He walked stiffly, like a skeleton without tendons or sinews to make fluid the movement.

My breath seemed to have left me, and I found that my lungs would no longer work. They sat stupid in my chest, neither filling nor deflating, just burning, burning as black stars began to dance over my oxygen-starved eyes.

When he stopped in front of the managers, I drew in a loud, shuddering gasp, then covered my mouth, terrified to draw his attention. I took a step back, then another, moving so slowly and with such tiny movements I hoped I might go entirely unnoticed.

I tried to catch Raoul’s attention, but he was too transfixed by the strange and ghastly spectacle before us. He swayed back and forth, and I desperately wished he’d not drunk so much champagne. His reflexes seemed slow, coming seconds too late, a disadvantage Erik would no doubt capitalize on.

“Why so silent, good messieurs?” asked the skeleton, instantly confirming it was Erik behind the mask. No one else in the world was capable of producing such a voice, so sleek and seductive, so filled with seething. He turned, scanning the crowds with all the leisurely imperiousness of a king.

The skull’s jawbone shifted. He was smiling!

“Did you think that I had left you for good?” The bony visage snapped back to the managers in a playful tilt as empty eye sockets bore down on them. “Have you missed me? Like you, messieurs, I’ve been hard at work these last six months. Very hard at work indeed.”

With a theatrical flourish, Erik brought out a bound manuscript, from beneath his cavernous robes. It was enormous—double, even triple the size of Wagner’s longest work. “I have written you an opera: Don Juan Triumphant!” he continued, pleasure and pride coloring his hypnotic voice.

He pitched the manuscript to Monsieur André, who only barely managed to catch it. “Rehearsals shall begin immediately in the new year.”

For the first time since he’d appeared, the managers stirred to action.

Monsieur Firmin let out an unconscious snort, readying to protest. If Tannhäuser had been cast, then rehearsals would soon be under way. It was unthinkable to swap out productions now, especially for a premiere.

It was worse than unthinkable.

It was impossible.

A new opera would take time. The score would have to be read, and notes made. Maestro Messenger would have to think through the needed orchestra numbers. Auditions would have to be held, cast lists created. Scenic designs would have to be dreamed up, costumes sewn.

This was no small task Erik was ordering.

It would ruin the company.

“I advise you to comply,” he went on, cutting off the protest before Monsieur Firmin could begin.

“But—”