The Phantom's Daughter

Chapter Fourteen

No wonder Rita pushed little Jammes off the stage. It seemed she was a magnet for people to abuse her; it was a very familiar sight from my own childhood at the carnival. Even with my face disfigured, I don’t know why adults saw it fitting to push around and hit a child mercilessly.

I had seen her getting shoved around and grabbed on stage by the cast. Though she kept her tongue about my wearabout more so out of spite towards them, than out of loyalty, it still felt nice to be protected. Of course they knew I was hidden in the basement, but the exact location wasn’t known—there were five huge cellars in this place. And I was a ghost after all, so I had been careful to make my presence known everywhere.

It didn’t bother me at all that Christine asked her to betray me….she was a timid creature, taught to obey her authorities and was ignorant of the ways of the world. Once I made myself known to her, she would come to understand, and devote her loyalty to me.

I had to admit, I was very surprised at the young girl’s horse. What on earth would make her go for the unruly five year old Friesian stallion? That horse was smart as a whip too; he knew that there was no way for her to overpower him and was only using her to get fed and brushed. That wild thing needed to be taught some manners….but he reminded me a lot of my Thoroughbred Reyer.

Reyer was actually of a very famous line of national and international racers, known for their spirit and high-temper too. But what a lot of people don’t know is, temperament can get bred into a horse just as well as color; it’s mostly taught from their mothers but can get passed from their sires as well. Reyer was a fine racer and easily could have been a top national winner, but he had too much fire in him, and racehorse owners don’t make it any better by keeping them stalled so much instead of out in pasture.

The day he became mine, I had fantasied myself enjoying the racetracks and I had the clothes and money to blend in except for my mask, but everyone was too excited on the gambling, alcohol, and social event to pay much notice. Reyer had somehow gotten away from his handlers (and who can blame him? The races can be a cruel life for a horse) and I had found him in the woods nearby, his owners and handlers looking elsewhere for him and harassing the audience, thinking he was stolen for his fine pedigree.

Reyer took an instant liking to me; it was as if we were destined to be friends. I had always been good with horses; they didn’t care how your face looked. They were more concerned with you having a light weight on their back and gentle hands on their mouths and whether they got their oats in the morning and night.

So I took him with me. What a powerful animal he was; truly he was bred to be a champion, he had the breeding, the pedigree, and the heart for racing. But I would not subject him to those handlers who saw him as a deposit to their bank account, he was a living, thinking, feeling animal and didn’t deserve the unhandled stress; had they been kinder to this horse, perhaps I would have returned him. With the utmost patience, and gentle care, I was able to calm his spirit. For a while I had painted a star on his face and two white legs and fattened him up so that no one would recognize him, and once that news died down, I was able to take him for rides, letting him gallop his heart out in the countryside and grazing. A man couldn’t ask for a better horse, and though he still had a lot of fire in him, I wouldn’t trade that in for the world.

So maybe then I couldn’t judge Rita too hard on wanting to tame that stallion of hers, but she was going the wrong way about it though I secretly wished her luck to figure out how to gentle him.

I saw how Lloyd treated her and that horse. Whipping and beating a horse like that will do nothing but ruin it, and while men think that their spirit is broken, given the chance, they’ll leave you for dead when you need them most. And a spirited horse like that Friesian stallion would sooner kill you than let you dim down his fire.

I sighed, feeling unsettled in my stomach, not understanding the unease and pushed towards whatever my inner conscience was trying to get me to do. Something was happening….something big and I couldn’t pinpoint what exactly. And I needed to focus on my protégé and getting her to me—especially with that stupid young man with the puppy eyes for her. I felt restless, something needed to happen and as much as it distaste me, I was only one person to keep track of everything that went into the Opera House….Madeleine and Meg kept me in the loop, and my notes fluttering about usually did the trick with keeping everyone on their toes and obedient on what I wanted to happen in my theatre, but it wasn’t easy.

*****

Nighttime was my favorite.

Everyone was either settled into their beds or gone home for the night.

I had the whole building to myself, and often I made nightly rounds, keeping on top of the structure, leaving notes for whatever needed to be taken care of in the morning and fixed to ensure the Opera Populare looked it’s best and was up to code on safety, and just enjoying being up and about outside.

Sometimes I’d sit in the front rows, mess around on stage, pretending to perform, checking Joseph Bouquett’s station to ensure that everything was secure and where it needed to be.

And that’s where I found her, sleeping in one of the threatre chairs towards the back, to make a quick getaway for when woken up. Madeleine had finally told me about her; she was an orphan girl, (nine years old too! She must have been severely neglected and malnourished to be the size of a seven or eight year old I thought her to be) and an angry one at that. Horrible dancer and seemed to have no talent about her except to stand her own in a fight. Because she had no place in the Opera House, she wasn’t even supposed to be here. Perhaps she’d been sleeping in the stables in the loft, but for whatever reason, tonight she was in here—probably because it was getting cold outside and the stables wasn’t the warmest place to be.

I don’t know why, but I picked the small child up, and took her down in the basement, where she would have a warm bed and some breakfast for when she woke up. I told myself that I was simply collecting from her what she was paid to do.

*****

She looked at me like I was a predator when she woke up and wandered into the kitchen area of my little house/fort. I sat at the table with my morning tea, and some breakfast laid out for us and gave her a nod, not giving it a second thought that she had a very clear mental battle going on in her. One to fight, and one to take flight. What did this child go through to make her become like this? If this continued, she’d grown up to be like me and desolate for solitude. No wonder she wanted to make her home down here.

“Good morning.” I said.

“What did you bring me down here?”

“You brought yourself down here.”

“Oh I’m pretty sure I didn’t. You see, I’m not even supposed to be in the Opera House….I pushed a girl off stage you know. I’m a known criminal.”

“My dear, when I was your age, I had stabbed a man in his stomach. I hardly think pushing someone off the stage is deemed to be a criminal act.”

“You stabbed someone at nine years old? That’s amazing.”

I set down my tea and regarded her for a moment. Though impressed and amused by her unconcern for such violence, it was all the same uneasy to hear from one so young. “I was once a freak at a carnival. But even freaks have autonomy.” Damnit! Why did I tell that to her? For clarity, I told myself. I told her to set her straight…not to inspire her to stab people. “And also, I believe you have some information for me, for being my little bird.”

“Oh of course!” Now she looked worried, as she sat down to tell me everything she’d learned. “Raoul and his family—the one who had been sweet on Christine…well, they’re patrons of the Opera House now, that’s why they’ve came. That’s why the managers Monsieur Firmin and Andres act like such idiots. They don’t know much about the business of running a theatre; they worked with scrap metal before. But Christine has been reluctant, because she’s afraid that her angel of music—I’m assuming that’s you—will stop visiting her. So she’s been holding off his visits and pursuits. Except Meg has been telling her to allow him to pursue her.”

“Meg told her???” I’d have to get on Meg’s case about this. We grew up almost like siblings and Madeleine half-raised me, so I didn’t worry about revealing my intentions to her. The silly thing probably didn’t even know because I kept myself so well closed off.

“Yes. And that’s all I have for you. My apologies, Monsieur.” she looked solemnly at her bare plate before her, like she was expecting to get yelled at or hit. It was unnervingly similar to my early upbringing.

“No, no, you did well. Eat. And call me Erik.” I pushed the plate of bread and cheese over to her. She reached for it and I noticed a horrid barding scar on her left wrist. Who the hell brands a child?

She ate timidly, watching my every move, though my every move consisted of sitting there with my feet up, reading the paper and drinking my morning tea. “Where did you get that scar on your wrist? Who branded you?”

Immediately she stopped eating, yanking her arm off the table and onto her lap and sat there quietly, glaring at me with darkened eyes. “I could ask the same for your face, but I don’t.” she retorted. I raised my eyebrows and lifted up a hand, as if to say fair enough and that was the end of that.

“So what’s your role here at the Opera Populare?” she asked, leaning forward as if trying to figure me out.

“Well, though some may not want to admit it, I help run the business here and am also invested in that young diva’s career.”

“Christine Daae’s.”

“Yes, she’s the one. I’d like for her to replace Carlotta Dudechelle, the primadona.”

“But why do you stay down here then if you run the place? Is it your mark of Cain?” I stared at her, daring her to remark on my face. Didn’t she just call me out on inquiring about her branding scar on her wrist? She stared at me back, and added, “You looked positively disturbed when I shared with you my orphan story the other day.”

I took a long pause and looked down at my paper. “The only two things my mother gave me was my first mask and my name. And she didn’t even really give me my name, when the priest baptized me and asked what I should be called, she told him to name me after him.” Father Erik was one of the rare people like Madeleine who had shown any kindness and mercy in my life, and was probably the only reason why I didn’t outright curse God and worship Satan. Too many times in my life I’d be tempted to, but the kind words of that priest and his wisdom always kept me accountable.

That shut the child up, except for a quiet apology. This was getting uncomfortable so I slammed my paper down and stood up. “I’m paying you to exchange other people’s stories to me, not to share my own. Finish your meal and let’s go.”