He knew . . . he knew I was different and he cultivated it.
In a daze, I gather my gardening tools and head for the footbridge, drawn by an irresistible compulsion to search for my maestro in the chapel, to get the answers he has—no more waiting. Each time I’ve attempted to find him there over the past few weeks, Mister Jippetto has been in the cemetery, repairing tombstones that were damaged during the storms, raking leaves, and pulling up weeds. A few times I heard him trilling that bird whistle, and down came several wrens. It seems to work like a dog whistle, because every time I see him outside, he has flocks of his feathered friends following him.
Even when I couldn’t see or hear him, a couple of his mannequins were always propped against the side of the chapel with his wheelbarrow, as if standing guard. Their presence prevented me from venturing past the footbridge and kept me on the garden side, on the chance he’d return.
But today, I’m more determined than ever. And since he’s nowhere in sight, and neither are his mannequins, I slip into the chapel unnoticed. Sunlight slants through the jagged stained glass, painting the walls. I shut the door behind me. There’s enough of a dim haze to see I’m alone. A niggle of disappointment winds through me, but I continue toward the baptismal, led by Jax’s claim that it’s always been bone dry.
When I lean over the edge to study the basin, it’s exactly as he said. Even more confusing, the bottom stops at around four feet. Not consistent with my experience in the endless depths of water.
As uneasy as that makes me, it could be chalked up to one of the Phantom’s architectural illusions. He’s famous in the stories for crafting escape hatches and hideaway places. If he could construct an entire palace in Persia with sophisticated traps and torture devices, he could make a false bottom in a well that would open, and once triggered, fill with water.
Still rocking on the restless waves of my discovery about Dad and myself, I’m about to turn and leave when I see something on the floor where shadows drape the other side of the baptismal. It’s cardboard, the size of a shirt box, and wrapped with violin string. Using my gardening sheers to pry free the strands, I pop off the lid.
Phosphorescent blue light greets my eyes and brightens the chapel, pulsating. It’s fabric. Lifting out and opening the silky folds reveals a sleeveless, knee-length fitted dress made of shear stretchy mesh—the color of my skin. On the bodice, fiber-optic panels—like galaxies of tiny blinking blue stars—crisscross in the shape of a corset, then plunge down to the hem in the front and lower back, covering all of the appropriate places and leaving the sides and upper back see-through.
The flashing panels remind me of Professor Diamond Tomlin’s room . . . on those nights when an eerie orange glimmer throbs beneath his door, when he’s doing his science experiments.
Confused about the gift, I search inside the box. A Fire and Ice rose waits within, and an envelope secured with a red wax skull resembling its metal counterpart on our dorm keys. Snapping off the seal, I pull out a note, written in the same tiny, neat script as the address on the wristband invitation:
Dearest Rune,
Thank you for the fairy tale. You brought my maman back to me when I needed her most. I want to do the same for you, with the father who taught you to sing and garden when you were a child. Follow the invitation’s instructions and meet me at the club tomorrow night. Wear this dress, and I will find you.
O.G. (Opera Ghost)
A thrilling rush of butterflies fills my stomach as I imagine my maestro’s raspy, deep voice speaking those words in his French accent . . . his calloused fingertips and strong hands folding the dress and wrapping the package for me.
He called himself O.G.
Opera Ghost.
Maybe he no longer uses his given name, Etalon, because it stirs up too many painful childhood experiences. Recently, in one of his memories, I learned that his vocal cords were cruelly damaged when he was young, and that’s why his voice is broken.
Somewhere, another epiphany wants to struggle loose about the initials “O.G.” and what they stand for—but I’m too preoccupied with his words about my father to give anything else my attention. I return the glowing fabric to its box and walk back to the academy, my mind spinning at the depth of our connection, now confirmed. Just as my maestro’s memories are on a frequency I can now somehow reach, the same is true of mine for him. He knows that I lost my dad at a young age, and that I’ve always wished we’d had more time together. But even as powerful as the Phantom seems, how can he ever give Dad back to me?