The Phantom's Apprentice

by Heather Webb

  I swung open the church door and stepped inside. It looked as I remembered it, though I hadn’t visited since Papa’s death. Its arched windows were fortified by iron ribs, and the granite flooring was the same pink as the stones from the bay. My steps echoed over the stone as I walked down the aisle in filtered candlelight. Visions of Papa’s funeral flooded back: the mass drowned out by torrential rains that beat at the roof, and my exquisite pain. I sat in a pew near the front and stared at the crucifix behind the altar. The wood looked new and out-of-place amidst the ancient ambiance of the building. I bowed my head and said a prayer. Perhaps no one would hear me, but I had to try.

  After several minutes of quiet reflection, I walked through the transept at the rear of the church. As I walked through a door into the churchyard, I clutched my hands to my chest. A sudden sensation of being watched settled over me. It was perfectly rational to feel unease in a graveyard, I assured myself, but no one was here—no one living anyway. I shivered, but continued on, following a series of stones to an outbuilding. Beyond the building, the cemetery sprawled across a patchwork of overgrown grass.

  I frowned. Had the outbuilding been there before? I didn’t remember it, but I had been so mired in grief my last time here, I must have missed it. Curiosity got the better of me and I headed to the building. It was small, a mere few meters wide with a roof and two large holes cut out of the stone to serve as windows, though no glass covered them.

  I tried the latched handle. It wouldn’t compress. I tried again with more force, and jiggled the latch. With a click, it popped open. Moonlight spilled through the windows, illuminating what appeared to be an altar. A set of shelves spanned the back wall, crowded with boxes the size and shape of small birdhouses. Each had a miniature roof and a cutout door in the front. I frowned. Why were there so many birdhouses in here? Perhaps the priests made them.

  I looked over my shoulder to make certain no one was watching. No one stirred inside the church, or walked by on the street. The night was still as death. I grimaced at my thoughts. Pushing on, I ducked inside to take a quick look.

  Each birdhouse was painted with a unique design of vines, crosses, or crests, even the occasional heart. On the front of each house, below the peephole, someone had written a name. I touched a painted heart and peered inside the dark hole.

  The fleshless smile and hollow sockets of a skeleton stared back at me.

  “Skull boxes!” I cried out, stumbling backward. It was a charnel house! A drawing from one of Madame’s books resurfaced in my mind, and the information flooded back. Because of limited space, bones of the deceased were dug up after five years to make room for the more recent dead. Families honored their beloved by placing their skulls in a box. The tradition had died out in the last decade or two, but a few of the charnel houses remained.

  I dashed to the graveyard, rubbing the goose bumps from my arms. What had I been thinking, to come here at night amid the cemetery’s stillness, the shadowy church, the bones. Foolish woman. I would pay my respects to Papa and return at once to the warm safety of my room. As I weaved around the headstones, I noted with relief no fresh coffins had been interred recently.

  Papa’s headstone lay nestled beneath the bowed branches of a pine. Just as I reached the back row, it began to snow; a dry snow that gave the air a metallic tang and glittered as it fell, coating the markers of the dead in dazzling white. A breeze swept up from the sea, stirring the flakes into sparkling whorls. I reached out to touch them, but they melted instantly on my glove.

  I kneeled at Papa’s grave. For several minutes, my thoughts swirled like the snowflakes.

  “I miss you so much,” I whispered as I pulled off the weeds and grass that had crept over the stone. “I love to sing, Papa. To perform is all we ever wanted, but . . .” I stopped, searching for not only the words, but also for my true feelings. “I don’t know how much longer I can remain at the opera. It doesn’t feel right, somehow.”

  The breeze kicked up and the snow fell faster, turning the flakes from glitter to icy pellets. The moon ducked behind a fat cloud and all fell into shadow. I pulled my hood tighter to shield my exposed skin.

  “I have been practicing my illusions. It’s all I think of.” Once I admitted my true desire, the words flooded my tongue. “I know it isn’t what you wanted for me, nor is it likely I will ever be able to perform, but . . . Oh, Papa, give me a sign. Please, I need to feel your presence. I need to know that all will be well.”

  The beautiful whine of a Strainer violin broke the silence.

  I stood abruptly, heart pounding in my ears. Could it be? But it was! I recognized the quality instrument Papa had played my entire youth at once—and his favorite piece, “Lazarus”, a tale of death and rebirth. The melody, and the accompaniment of waves sweeping the shore, mesmerized me. I stood as frozen as the gargoyles perched on the gateposts.

  Spirits were real. They must be. Papa was with me, still. Perhaps he always had been. Tears sprang to my eyes as the melody played. Was this his blessing?

  The song ended and silence enveloped the cemetery once more.

  A crash came from the charnel house.

  “Who’s there?”

  My voice frightened a flock of crows nesting in the pine overhead. They cawed as they flew away, their black wings disappearing against the night sky.

  Startled, I screeched and raced to the gate.

  “There’s nothing to fear. It is I.” A familiar tenor floated through the churchyard.

  It wasn’t Papa, but him. Terror prickled up my neck. Would I ever be free of the Angel?

  “You wouldn’t throw away your talent. Waste it on magic tricks, would you? Illusions are dangerous. Take my word for it.”

  “You heard me?” I said, my voice hoarse. Despite the cold, the heat of embarrassment spread up my neck. Perhaps this was the sign Papa had sent—the Angel, the violin, the firm answer I sought—follow my path back to the opera where I belonged. Only I didn’t feel as if I should.

  “You spoke aloud, dear one. Of course I heard you, but I need not hear your words. I know your heart. And I’m here to reassure you, you are a singer. It’s what your mother would have wanted as well. She would want to keep you safe, and to encourage your talents.”

  My mother? How could he know what Mother wanted? The cold of the gatepost seeped into my hand and into my blood. “Have you— Have you spoken to my mother?”

  The Angel’s tone grew sharp. “For now, we need to discuss the problem at hand.”

  “Which is?” I shivered as snow covered the tips of my boots, and the last of my body’s warmth bled away.

  “The Vicomte de Chagny, of course. He followed you here, professed his love, no doubt.”

  My patience wore thin and suddenly I felt very tired. “What does it matter? I am forbidden to see him.”

  “He’s a sailor. One woman will not sate his appetite.”

  My hands curled at my sides. “I’m following your request. What more do you wish from me?” I grew tired of his demands, of this game. I grew tired of giving up everything and everyone for which I cared.

  “I want you as far from that wretched man as possible.” His voice echoed against the outside of the church buildings. “Return to Paris. The opera awaits, as do your lessons. If you don’t, those fools at my theater will be extremely sorry. And so will you.”

  “As you command, oh great master.”

  Fuming, I slammed the gate to the churchyard behind me, and barreled across the town square to the inn.

  The following morning I sat before the fire, coffee in hand. Madame Valerius was amenable to my returning to Paris, though I felt awful for asking her so soon after our arrival. I had been forced to lie, explaining the directors had sent me a telegram demanding my return. Madame and I decided she would stay on at the inn for the next two weeks while I returned to Paris with Claudette. Alfred would be sent there immediately to aid her.

  The front door to the inn burst open.

  A gendarme h
alf carried a shivering Raoul with blue lips and disheveled hair. Monsieur Delacroix accompanied him.

  “Raoul!” I cried, racing across the room.

  “Put him in front of the fire,” the gendarme said.

  The innkeeper wrapped Raoul in a blanket while his wife handed Raoul a steaming cup of tea laced with brandy. “Drink this, Monsieur,” she said. “It’ll get the blood flowing.”

  I sat across from him, fear roaring in my ears. “Are you all right?” My voice cracked with emotion. This was my fault.

  “What were you doing at the church last night?” the gendarme asked.

  “I was following Christine,” he said, his voice hoarse. He slurped a hearty dose of tea. “She left the inn so late, I feared for her safety.” His face softened as he looked at me.

  The gendarme rested his right hand on the pistol holstered at his hip. “So the better question is: What were you doing out, Mademoiselle? This man could have died. We found him nearly unconscious in the graveyard, covered in skulls from the charnel house.”

  My stomach folded in on itself as I imagined the skulls littered over Raoul’s body.

  The innkeeper’s wife shot me a pleading look. If I mentioned she had given me a key, her husband would give her hell, and the police might as well.

  “I couldn’t sleep so I visited Papa’s grave. The church was lit and unlocked, so I assumed it would be fine. It’s so close—just across the square. Oh, Raoul.” I kneeled beside him, tears threatening to spill down my cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”

  The innkeeper refilled Raoul’s tea. “You’re lucky you didn’t get frostbite. I’ll heat a bowl of beef stew. You need your strength.”

  “I was worried about you,” Raoul said, his face still pale with cold. “And I wanted to talk to you. To apologize.” His eyes moistened as he looked at me.

  I felt my insides melt, my defenses vanish. How would I ever stay away from him?

  “You haven’t told us what happened yet,” Monsieur Delacroix said, his tone curt.

  I was startled at the professor’s voice. I had forgotten he was there—and hadn’t begun to process why he would be in Bretagne. Had he followed me out of concern, or did he plan to confront me about the ghost? I felt my face go as white as Raoul’s. The Angel was here, too, and I had to keep Delacroix away from him. It seemed too coincidental, though perhaps my overactive imagination created links that weren’t there. Suddenly I was glad I was leaving for Paris in a couple of hours. This little inn was too small for the lot of us.

  “Monsieur Delacroix”—I stood to greet him properly—“what a surprise to see you here.”

  He kissed my cheek. “Yes, I am only stopping for a day on my way to Le Havre for business. I knew you and Jeanne would be here. She sent me a letter letting me know, so I thought I would look in on you. I do feel responsible for you both, after all.”

  Though relieved he had a legitimate reason for being there, his manner made me uneasy. He seemed . . . unsettled.

  Raoul’s lips regained their color, though his eyes still had the glazed-over look of fever. I wanted to smooth the lock of hair from his eyes, rub his hands between my own, and comfort him.

  “We still haven’t heard the story,” the gendarme said, giving Delacroix a cold eye. The professor had overstepped. “How did you come to be surrounded by skulls?”

  “I watched Christine walk through the church to get to the cemetery. Rather than risk her seeing me, I scaled the fence and hid in the pines surrounding the churchyard. There was a violin.” He frowned. “And I heard voices. Christine sounded angry and fled through the church. I wanted to race after her, but”—he clenched his jaw—“I had to see who she was talking to first.”

  “And who was it?” Delacroix’s eyebrow arched.

  “I will ask the questions here, Professor,” the gendarme said, pushing out his chest in an act of superiority. “Mademoiselle Daaé, if the person in question had something to do with Raoul’s assault, we need to find him and make sure he doesn’t attempt anything like this again. Then there’s the matter of defiling the charnel house.”

  My lungs constricted. The Angel had intended for Raoul to die, or perhaps it was only a warning. But what could I tell them? To say it was a random thief wouldn’t explain the violin. No thief would play the violin in the middle of the night near a graveyard. I hung my head, defeated. I had to tell them the truth. There was nothing else to say.

  “At first I spoke to my father. When I asked him for a sign, a violin began to play. A Strainer violin, just like the one he owned while alive. Then I heard a voice. It was the Angel of Music,” I added in a barely audible whisper.

  The innkeeper and his wife stared at me in disbelief. The gendarme rolled his eyes.

  Raoul groaned and leaned his head back onto his chair. “The Angel of Music again?” He’s followed you here?”

  A smile spread across Delacroix’s face and his eyes shined with triumph, as if he’d finally won a game he had been playing unsuccessfully for some time.

  “Yes,” I said, shifting from one foot to the other.

  “So you talk to ghosts?” the gendarme asked. “Are you one of those bizarre spiritualists then?”

  I didn’t answer, but looked down to study my hands.

  Delacroix tipped my chin so he could see my eyes. “He followed you from the opera house?”

  I didn’t respond. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the professor had known the Angel would be here, though the idea seemed absurd.

  “What happened after you heard the voices?” The gendarme sighed, his impatience was growing thin. He didn’t believe any of this, it was clear.

  “Christine left while I waited in the shadows. After several minutes passed, this voice said, ‘I know you are there, and if you know what’s best for you, you’ll keep your distance. From me, and especially from Christine. She belongs to me.’ ” He looked to me for verification.

  I couldn’t bear the sadness in his eyes and looked away.

  Raoul grimaced. “Infuriated, I demanded the man show himself, told him to stop being a coward by hiding all the time. His laugh sliced right through me. I knew then this man had seen and done horrible things. I truly fear for you, Christine.”

  Monsieur Delacroix latched on to each word greedily. His overeager manner set me on edge; I found myself all but glaring at him.

  “A cloaked figure stepped out from the far end of the tree line. I chased him and managed to grab hold of his cloak’s edges. The man whipped around and—”

  “Go on,” Delacroix said, breathless.

  My mouth gaped open. Raoul had seen him! Had had his hands on him! He was no ghost, no angel, just as I had suspected, but a man!

  “He wore a mask covering half of his face. The other half . . .” He shuddered. “It was obvious he was badly scarred.”

  I froze. The dream I’d had rushed to my mind’s eye. Somehow, deep in the recesses of my brain, I had known all along there was something to that dream, that mask. I grimaced at the thought of what lie beneath it. What had happened to the poor man to make him hate everyone—and himself—so much? I didn’t understand why he thought I could make it better for him.

  “After that, he hissed a warning and cracked me over the head,” Raoul said. “I must have gone unconscious because I woke to the sound of the gendarme’s voice.” He glanced at the policeman with a grateful look.

  “And we found you covered in skulls, half frozen to death.” The gendarme rubbed his bearded chin. “Clearly this angel-man wanted you out of the picture.”

  I knew he did, but I couldn’t tell them the truth. Raoul would be silenced indefinitely should I breathe a word. Tears of frustration stung my eyes. I felt like one of my precious canaries being batted by the tomcat; a songbird in a cage, beating my wings to escape a predator.

  “He wants Christine for himself.” Raoul glared at me as though I were the perpetrator. “And we don’t know how she feels about him.”

  “Well, Mademoiselle Daaé, ho
w do you feel about the Angel?” Delacroix sounded amused. “Please, enlighten us so we may know how to proceed.”

  “He’s my teacher, nothing more.”

  “And a heckler, a liar, and likely a murderer,” the professor said, his mouth twisted into a snarl.

  I cringed at his vehemence. I’d never seen the professor so angry.

  “Now, Professor, we don’t know that he wanted to kill Monsieur le Vicomte.” The gendarme folded his hands over his protruding belly. It was obvious he hadn’t seen much in the way of criminal activity in the little town. “All we know is he assaulted him. We blindly assume Raoul is the innocent, but perhaps the Angel was provoked.”

  “That’s preposterous!” Raoul jumped to his feet, knocking the empty glass to the floor. It shattered on impact. “I wouldn’t threaten a man except in battle, or if he hurt someone I love. I can call upon twenty men to testify on behalf of my character.”

  The gendarme raised his hands and said, “Calm yourself. We need to examine all of the facts. No one is accusing you of a crime.”

  The innkeeper’s wife scuttled between Raoul and the professor, sweeping up broken glass with a hand broom and pan.

  I glanced at the wall clock. It was already ten o’clock and my train left at eleven thirty. I still needed to gather my things and fetch Claudette.

  “Forgive me, gentlemen, but I must prepare my valise. My train departs soon.”