The Shadow's Melody || The Phantom of the Opera || Book One

2. "Erik is dead."

Chapter Two || "Erik is dead."

"Mélodie! Mélodie get back to work!"

"Oui, madame! So sorry, madame!"

"If you want to spend your time listening to opera then buy a ticket!"

"Apologies, madame."

Sure. Like a maid can afford such things like a ticket to the opera. Can I help it if I get lost in the beautiful music?

"Mélodie!"

"Yes, yes!"

The Opéra Populaire. What was once so grand is grand yet again. It took them years to reconstruct it and start anew. But, like a phoenix, it spread its wings and rose from the ashes.
Even now as I'm polishing one of the golden statues I cannot believe they were able to recreate such a beautiful, magical place.

The only thing different is the absence of his presence. The Ghost's presence. The Phantom.

After that infamous night, the night of Don Juan Triumphant, he disappeared. Lost in the shadows forever. According to many articles, including one Ms. Daaé (who is now Countess Christine de Changy) wrote after much persuasion, it was his love for Ms. Daaé herself that drove him to do what he did. His love drove him mad. His love drove him to his death. Or, what would be more accurate, his unrequited love.

I read Christine Daaé's interview like a wife reads the casualty list during the war. I wanted - no - I needed to know if he had lived. You can imagine my disappointment when I finished her article and found my question unanswered.

You can also imagine my heartbreak when the papers said they had found this so- called Phantom's corpse floating in the lake beneath the opera house so many years later.

And what that one paper said.

"Erik is dead."

I kept it. I cut it out of the newspaper and kept it. I knew it was him, the Opera Ghost. Erik. I just knew. So I kept it, my pitiful way of holding onto him. My way of holding onto his voice. His beautiful voice.

The image of his face is still there inside my mind. Oh how the people screamed.

"Mélodie! Salut! Hello! Come back to Earth, alien!"

I jumped at a hand waving in front of my face, "Sorry, Vi. I was lost in thought."

"You are always lost in thought. It's a good thing someone eventually finds you or else you'd be lost in thought forever!"

I giggled along with her. Not that I really found it amusing, but when Violette laughs you would have to put all your will power into not laughing with her. When I started working as a maid here at the Opéra Populaire, Violette and I became close friends right away. We shared a love for music, for dance, and for art.

"You hear her again today? She is worse than Carlotta was," she wound her arm around mine as we walked backstage to begin sorting costumes again, "Two of her dresses are too tight now."

"Another two?! She just got new dresses fitted!" if I had a penny for each chocolate that woman ate - or should I say "inhaled" - I would be rich as royalty. "Pretty soon she'll be so fat there won't be anymore suitors to bring her candy."

Violette's red curls bounced as she laughed, "Here, these dresses go to the Prima Donna's dressing room. Said 'balloon' wanted them washed."

She piled them into my awaiting arms, nearly knocking me over, "If my diva commands."