The Phantom's Apprentice

by Heather Webb

  “Mes amours,” I cooed. “Sing for me.”

  I popped the spring on the miniature door and reached inside. Bizet, the friendliest of the three, hopped onto my finger. I stroked his yellow breast and planted a kiss on the strip of black that wrapped his head like a bandit’s. He chirped his delight and I smiled. Mozart and Berlioz grew jealous, their songs changing from happy chirps to squawks.

  “Now, now. I love you all.” I caressed Berlioz’s gold-marbled breast, and then Mozart’s.

  “Mornin’ to you.” Claudette whisked into the room and drew open the last of the drapes, a sunny smile on her face. “I’m going to market today. Care to join?”

  I regarded the maid, so pretty even with her red curls smoothed under a cap. Her Irish family had moved to Paris a few years before to seek work after losing their farm. When they discovered few pronounced their daughter’s name correctly, Clodagh became Claudette. Both outsiders, and of similar age, we formed an attachment instantly.

  “Madame wouldn’t like it if I helped you.” Madame Valerius had taught me what people expected of a lady, since I had only the most rudimentary lessons. Even so, I didn’t see myself as a society woman, and doubted I ever could. I would be a poor musician always, a girl without parents or property; a girl with few options.

  “Oh, come, now. She’d rejoice to see you out and about.” Claudette gave me a pointed look. “Been weeks since your last outing. Besides, she gave me a little extra today. Told me you should buy yourself something.”

  The last outing had been a soirée with Madame. I had felt as stiff and wooden as a marionette, parroting the polite words I knew I should say. The entire evening, I wanted to be at home, tucked in bed in solitude. I didn’t know who I was, who I should be—not anymore. And parading around someone’s high society salon emphasized my awkwardness.

  I sighed. “I suppose a change of scenery might do me good.” I coaxed my pets from my shoulder and returned them to their cage.

  “Why don’t we try the market cross town instead of our local? See a bit of the city. You can choose the strawberries for the tarts.”

  I managed a wan smile. “My favorite.”

  We set out for a market in the Latin Quarter, an ancient neighborhood still thriving, and a favorite spot to purchase produce, spices, and dishes prepared by étrangères. When we arrived, I slung my basket onto my arm and joined the swarm of shoppers. My nose detected the fishmongers before we saw them, along with a cheese stand ripe with aromas of Roquefort, chèvres, and so many others. We skirted around a pair of elderly women in bonnets perched on an overturned crate, speaking in heated tones and waving their arms with such passion, they seemed to be arguing, until one began to cackle.

  Just beyond a table littered with leather handbags and journals, I stopped at the oddest stall I’d seen at a street market. The vendor was selling an array of square and rectangular boxes, even some cylindrical, and each contained a lock of some sort. The vendor cursed as he tried to open a peculiar metal box with a screwdriver.

  Curious, I picked up a metal sphere and rolled it between my hands.

  “You enjoy lock puzzles, Ma’moiselle?” His weathered skin sagged under the weight of his wrinkles.

  “These are puzzles?” My mood brightened a little.

  “Some have hidden compartments with little gifts. But really, the reward is to best the designer. Crack the lock.”

  I picked up another box and ran my fingers over the grooved panels and miniature levers. They were similar to the secret puzzle box Papa had given me for my sixteenth birthday, made of pine and containing a surprise inside. It had taken me three days to learn how to open it. Inside, I had found a sack of marbles and a rabbit made of glass. I drew my hand away from the table. We couldn’t afford such a frivolity. We’d already sold the carriage, let the cooks go, and shifted our meals from five courses to three.

  “Go on,” Claudette said. “Madame said you could pick something out for yourself.”

  “I shouldn’t,” I said, guilt creeping in. Madame must have forfeited one of her own small pleasures, just for me. I lifted an intimidating lock puzzle made of steel and shaped like a square with a loop handle.

  “Ah, yes. The German trick lock,” the old man said.

  “If you don’t choose, I will,” Claudette insisted with a wink. “I’m carrying the money, after all.”

  I played with the German lock a few moments, and at last capitulated. “I like this one.”

  The vendor watched me, curiosity dancing in his eyes. “Are you sure about this one? It will keep you busy for a while. Maybe forever.”

  “That’s precisely what I need.”

  He chuckled. “All right. Remember you brought this on yourself.”

  Claudette gave me the change purse, and I paid him the correct number of francs. I slipped two extra coins in my handbag. I wasn’t the only one receiving a gift today.

  The vendor wrapped the lock in paper. A grin split his face as he gave it to me. “Good luck, Ma’moiselle. Those Germans are never easy.”

  I placed the heavy item in my shopping basket, and followed Claudette to another stall. When she turned her back, I snagged a measure of green and pink silk ribbons, paid the vendor quickly, and slipped them into my handbag. My friend deserved something pretty, and I knew Madame would agree. I glanced over my shoulder at Claudette and smiled. She held my hand when loneliness got the better of me, and soothed me with stories about her siblings or the latest gossip. I consoled her as well when she longed for the green pastures of Ireland, or her family who had recently moved away again.

  Claudette sorted through cartons of onions, baskets of lettuce and endives, and a dozen other vegetables lining the table in a cheerful array of summer reds, yellows, and greens. I joined her, squeezing a plump tomato for good measure.

  “You try?” the vendor behind the table asked, with a thick accent I couldn’t place. He produced a knife from his apron pocket and sliced a wedge of tomato. Its juice ran over his thumb as he held it out to me.

  I popped the morsel in my mouth. I had to admit, I was happy Claudette had insisted I join her.

  “A kilo, please,” Claudette said.

  I moved to the next cluster of merchants selling flowers.

  Claudette dipped her face into a bouquet of pink roses and inhaled. When she looked up, her eyes grew round. “Did you see that man?”

  I glanced over my shoulder. “Which? I didn’t see anyone.”

  “He’s disappeared now. Wears a mask o’er half his face. Eerie fellow. I wonder what happened to him.”

  “It must be uncomfortable to be stared at all the time,” I said absently, cradling a bouquet of lilies in my arms. Madame’s favorite. I placed them in the basket. “You’ve seen the beggars who hang around the markets. Many are disfigured. He’s probably one of them.”

  Claudette continued to stare in the same direction. “I suppose, but it was eerie the way he looked at you.”

  Unease turned my stomach as we rounded the corner to the next set of stalls. Perhaps the man recognized me from one of my performances years ago, I reasoned. Nothing to worry about.

  “He’s there!” Claudette said. I glanced up as a frown marred her face. “He’s disappeared again.”

  I laughed. “Stop pointing, Claudette.” We ambled to a row of booths packed with a display of soaps. “Can we buy our fruit now? I haven’t forgotten the tart.” A genuine smile touched my lips for the first time in weeks.

  “I think he’s following us,” she hissed.

  “He has no reason to follow of us,” I said, yet a shiver traveled over my skin.

  Claudette slipped her arm through mine. “Well then, let’s buy some berries and leave right away, just to be certain.”

  We wound through the crowd until we reached a fruit stand featuring all sorts of berries and golden Mirabelle plums. As I reached toward one, I stopped.

  Goose bumps rose on my skin.

  From the corner of my eye, I felt a figure star
ing at me. Had Claudette’s masked man really followed us?

  I spun around.

  No one was there. Instead, I faced a posting board papered with advertisements. Dozens of eyes stared back at me from the papers. Among them, Mephistopheles—the devil in Faust—beckoned with his dark gaze.

  I laughed softly at my vivid imagination and took a strawberry from the sample tray.

  As I tasted the fruit, I thought of the Opéra de Paris. The fall performance season would begin soon. I could audition for a role in Faust, if I truly wanted to pursue a career on the stage. But the directors wouldn’t open their doors to just anyone, and certainly not to a woman without connections and lacking experience. I needed a word from a friend or a well-connected figure. I stared blankly at the strawberries in my basket. In all honesty, I lacked the talent required for the grand opera anyway. I would only make a fool of myself on such an illustrious stage.

  The uneasy sensation came again, this time from the other direction. I looked up quickly. Again, no one was there.

  Later that night, I sat at the table in my bedroom poring over the trick lock. It would open with a key eventually, if the person used the correct series of left and right turns to release the inner latches. On a sheet of paper, I recorded each combination of turns, including my twists of the handle on the bottom of the box. After each attempt, the contraption clicked but didn’t yield. After an hour I paused for a break, touching the four screws on the lock’s front panel. Once I deciphered the system, I would open the cover with a screwdriver, assuming it wasn’t soldered on, and niggle with the levers, perhaps draw a map of its innards. Learn from my new toy.

  I sat in silence, staring at my tools. The thrill of puzzling through a challenge dissipated, and the weight of melancholy tugged at my temporary contentment. I couldn’t go on this way, grief-stricken, filled with longing and remorse. I floated through the days without direction or purpose, without hope. But I didn’t know yet what I should change. Sighing, I reapplied myself to my task, focusing on something that could be solved.

  “Christine?” Claudette knocked at the door and poked her head inside. The aroma of sugared strawberries and butter wafted in behind her.

  “Come in.” I tossed the key on the desk. I’d tried more than twenty combinations on the lock already, without luck.

  On the desk she set a tray laden with coffee and a slice of fresh-from-the-oven tart. “Hope they’re as good as the last batch.”

  Noticing the silk ribbons threaded through a long plait in her hair, I grinned. My gift accented her beauty, as I knew it would. “I’ll take this in the salon with Madame.” I rose from my chair and stretched my hands overhead.

  “She can’t make it to the salon. Not unless we carry her.”

  “What?” My arms fell to my sides. “Why not?”

  “Her wheelchair is broken,” Claudette whispered, afraid Madame would overhear. “We can’t afford a new one.”

  I glanced at the lock, guilt swishing in my stomach. Supporting me cost Madame too much of her already-limited stipend. I had to do something before Claudette and Albert found themselves without employment, and I was on the street again.

  For now, I would start by repairing her chair myself.

  The tinkle of Madame’s silver bell rang through the house.

  “I’d best see what she needs,” Claudette turned to go.

  “I’ll go with you, and take a look at her chair.”

  We joined Madame in the study, where she sat on a chaise longue positioned beneath the only portraits on the wall in the whole room: one of Papa, one of Monsieur Valerius, and another of a handsome but intense-looking gentleman I’d never met.

  Forcing an upbeat tone, I said, “I’ll work on your chair tonight and have you up and about by morning.”

  “Thank you, child, but please sit down.” She touched her hair. “I have something to discuss with you.”

  I paused at her tone. “What is it?”

  “Well, dear, you’ve grown into a young woman,” she began. “Beautiful and kind.”

  “Thank you,” I said calmly, though my pulse thudded an erratic beat. She wanted to marry me off and rid herself of my expenses. Though a reasonable suggestion, the thought made my stomach twist into knots. I didn’t know any gentlemen, certainly none willing to take on a woman of my limited circumstances.

  Madame nodded at the tray Claudette placed on a side table, and said, “You would make a lovely bride for the right gentleman, Christine. Someone with a steady income and comfortable home.”

  I sucked in a deep breath. “I fear my lowly station will be off-putting.”

  “With your voice and beauty, you will enchant a hundred men. You’ll have your choice, child. They won’t care a whit about where you come from, I assure you.”

  I sat in silence, mulling over her words. If I met someone I could love, it would be a fine solution, though the notion stirred panic inside me. The vibrant memory of Raoul de Chagny sprang to mind—the only man for whom I had ever had feelings. I wondered where he was now. I looked down at my hands, once again without gloves. Too busy with trifles, as usual, and lacking in gentillesse. What man would embrace my eccentricities? More unattractive still, I longed to perform on stage. I couldn’t imagine a husband who would condone such a life.

  “As you know,” Madame continued, “we’re struggling to keep up with our expenses.”

  Another pang of guilt hit, and I dropped my eyes to the worn carpet covering the floor. “Yes.”

  “Very well, then, we agree.” Her lips relaxed into a smile. “I’ve decided to throw a salon next week, and invite everyone I know. Though you’re a bit on the older side to be debuting in society, I’m calling it a debut so the guests will bring their sons and nephews or cousins.”

  “But the expense,” I protested.

  She held up her hand. “I have been saving for this since you moved in with me three years ago. We’ll make it a fine show with lovely food and champagne, and divertissements.”

  My mouth opened, but no sound escaped. I glanced at Claudette, who shot me a rueful look. She didn’t want me married off any more than I did, but I couldn’t argue with Madame. I must do what was expected and, in fact, should be utterly grateful for the opportunity.

  I forced a smile. “We will make a fete of it.”

  Claudette threaded the last of the faux pearls into my hair. Their iridescence complimented my porcelain skin, flaxen curls, and the delicate shimmer of my pink satin gown. I couldn’t help but admire the way my cheeks bloomed, despite the somberness lurking in my eyes. I didn’t look forward to the evening ahead.

  “You’re beautiful tonight,” Claudette said.

  “Thanks to you.” I squeezed her hand. I had contrived every possible excuse to take to my bed, but couldn’t insult dear Madame.

  My reticence deepened as a gloomy fog rolled in, uncharacteristic for August.

  “Should we close the windows?” I asked, rubbing my arms. “It’s damp.”

  “You’ll be needing the air soon enough, with all of those bodies cramping the apartment.” Claudette slid the vanity drawers closed.

  “Maybe we can sneak away, play cards tonight,” I said.

  “I doubt you’ll be left alone in that dress.” She winked. “And I’m sure to be kept running.”

  Madame had filled me in on each of the gentlemen attending, including their backgrounds, properties, and professions. I groaned and rested my head on my arm. At least I didn’t have to sing. It was the one thing I had refused to do. I hadn’t performed in public yet without Papa and tonight, with so much at stake, I didn’t want to make a spectacle of myself. Performing was bound to make me emotional. Fortunately, Madame agreed, if reluctantly.

  “Up with you.” Claudette pulled my chair out. “They’ll be here in minutes.”

  I grimaced and stood. “What happens if I don’t like anyone?”

  “You’ll think of something.” She squeezed my shoulder and swept from the room.

&n
bsp; I looked over the list of attendees and the notes I’d written about each one. Monsieur Delacroix, a particularly important guest and a dear friend of Madame’s, was a famed professor at the Académie des sciences in Paris. As part of the entertainment he would bring in a medium to lead a séance with une table tournante—a special table used to contact spirits. Butterfly wings beat inside my stomach. If we reached out to Papa, would it be his true, benevolent spirit that answered, or some other incarnation?

  I reminded myself that none of it was real.

  Since Papa’s death, I had envisioned his soul hovering around me but had yet to feel it—just as it had been with Mother’s passing. In truth, I hoped I was simply blind to their presence. If nothing waited for us beyond the grave, and all we had was the here and now . . . I stared at the worn rug covering the floor, the mostly blank walls, and the old lace curtains. Meager things filling our meager lives. It was too depressing to consider.

  I slipped the list into the desk drawer and headed to the salon.

  As the guests arrived I did my duty, playing the grateful ward. I pasted a smile on my face, laughing when appropriate and smiling to encourage conversation. After a glass of champagne, my shoulders relaxed and the roomful of guests seemed less intimidating.

  When Claudette circulated with another tray, I snatched a second glass.

  “Go easy,” Claudette said, leaning toward my ear. “You aren’t much of a drinker. You don’t want to give the wrong impression.” She winked. “Or perhaps you do.”

  “Don’t worry. I still have my wits about me.” I leaned in closer. “Unfortunately, there’s a strange man who keeps following me around the room.” I nodded at the petite man with carefully styled blond hair and a suit in the latest fashion. Of all the men here, he appeared the wealthiest, or at the least the one who cared the most about appearances.

  He caught my gaze and winked.