On Tuesday, Madame Bouchard gave us a project in our historical musicology class. Since some operas are considered “lyric fairy tales,” she assigned each of us a performance to research that encapsulates the construct of that narrative. By mid-November, we’re to have journal articles, a biography of our composer, a list of the roles, and photocopies of a traditional fairy tale similar to our production. After Thanksgiving break, we’re to turn in an essay focusing on how the words and music contribute to the fantasy atmosphere.
I was assigned a Czech opera called Rusalka, by Antonín Dvo?ák. As I was researching in the academy’s library with Audrey and Sunny, I found the plot similar to The Little Mermaid by Hans Christian Andersen. A Water-Goblin’s daughter falls in love with a mortal man, and even though her father and water-nymph friends tell her it’s a mistake, Rusalka takes a potion so she can be human, at the expense of losing her beautiful voice forever. She sings one final song to the moon, begging its silvery light to carry her message of love to the human prince. They meet, he falls for her, but then betrays her. By the opera’s end, the prince is dead, and Rusalka is imprisoned in the river as a demon of death. The moral “it’s safer to stay with your own kind” rings in my ears as if meant for me alone.
Was Christina my kind—whatever I am? Was she like the Phantom?
I drop the vest back into the tub and glance over my shoulder. Diable stretches out on the chaise lounge as if he owns it, having finished his milk. He mewls at me, his big eyes blinking contentedly. White droplets coat his whiskers, and I can’t help but smile as he licks his paws and cleans his face. I’m hoping he might stay until morning. I had a hard time sleeping last night without Mom, and I expect tonight to be even worse, considering all that’s happened.
Spreading an empty garbage bag over my bed to protect the covers, I lay the damp pieces of my uniforms atop the plastic. The skirts’ front panels gape, ripped open to the thigh. My fingers trace the frayed fabric. Madame Fabre has a box of scrap fabric from old costumes. All I need are lace ruffles and netting to mend the skirts and shirts. Zigzag stitches, along with trims—like lacy strings of butterflies or satiny roses sewn onto strands of ribbon—can patch the stockings’ side seams.
The only piece I can’t save is the shirt that covered the bleeding roses. I doubt even bleach can take out those stains. I wander to the corner of my room where I earlier piled my wet dress, leggings, and tank top, stuffing the soiled shirt beneath them.
I’m not sure how I’m going to explain the state of my uniforms to Madame Fabre. Since everyone already thinks I misplaced them on purpose, what’s to keep them from thinking I ruined them, too?
That would be the last straw. They’ll send me back home for sure. Now that I’m so close to understanding things that have haunted me for years, I can’t leave.
I don’t understand why the Phantom took such measures. If he was trying to lead me to him so he could train my voice, why do something so destructive as part of the plan? I would’ve followed the trail of clothes, even if they’d been whole. And what purpose did the dead bird on my chair serve?
A shiver shuttles through my bones without warning. I debate going to the theater and taking back the note and my fairy tale book before he finds them. There’s a dangerous side to my maestro. The Phantom in the original novel occupied the shadows, and had little respect for human laws and morals. This one seems to share those characteristics. So is it really safe for me to be alone with him?
Memories of Ben resurface, reminding me it’s not safe for anyone to be alone with me.
Nibbling on the ends of my hair, I kneel once more on the floor next to the steel tub and turn my attention to the two-toned roses. I pull one out. Taking the knife I’ve been using to slice off wedges of cheese, I sever the stem, careful to avoid the thorns. Even before it snaps in half—releasing the grassy scent of chlorophyll—I already know the truth. These flowers are real. There’s no trick valve to pump out blood, and the stems are too narrow to be hollowed out to make room for one. These roses literally bled, just like the ones in the garden died at his touch.
What kind of creature has the power to manipulate nature like this? The stories claimed he was an accomplished magician. That explains how he vanished into the floor in the chapel behind the puff of smoke. Most likely he has trapdoors there, just like here in the opera house. But there’s still something preternatural at play. Something that keeps him from aging and gives him the power to step into my mind not only in dreams, but in a reality that straddles the physical and the spiritual.
Desperate to find a loophole, I tear apart each rosebud until my floor is a pile of fragrant, red-edged white petals and broken, thorny stems. The cloying scent seeps into my head, making me dizzy. I jump along with Diable when someone knocks at my door.
I glance at the digital clock: 5:40.
Still fuzzy, I stumble to the threshold and pull it open.
The Phantom faces me from the other side: Red Death costume, skull mask, dark hair, red suit, and cape. “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”