Raoul steps closer. “Christine, if he’s stalking you, we need to do something. Should I call off the performance?”
“No!” My voice shrills with panic. “You’ve got this all wrong, okay? We don’t have time to sort it out now. There’s plenty of security in the theater, so everything will be fine. We’ll talk after the play and decide what to do.”
“We’ll talk,” he agrees. “But either way, I’ll be calling the cops. It was stupid of me to let this go on when I knew he was obsessed withyou. I let him get in my head.”
His cheeks are scarlet, and he won’t look me in the eyes. That scares me almost as much as the idea that my Angel and the masked stranger are the same person…and that the Angel has a physical body that is very much male—a body I already fucked, god help me.
Petra pokes her head in at that moment. “Christine, we’re ready for you. And Mr. de Chagny, shouldn’t you be in your box?”
“I should.” Raoul clears his throat and pushes the bridge of his glasses, even though they’re already sitting perfectly in place astride his nose.
From the glance Petra gives both of us, I’m sure she’s going to tell everyone she saw me and Raoul together in the dressing room, all flushed and agitated. Maybe she even overheard something about a stalker. Just my luck.
But I can’t worry about any of that now. Somehow, I have to scrape together my shredded composure, and I have to go out onstage and sing. I have to star in Raoul’s musical without letting any of the stress seep through into my performance.
As I walk past Raoul, he says in an undertone, “You’re safe, Christine. I swear I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
I don’t answer. When we leave the dressing room, he heads one way toward the stairs and his box, while Petra and I head in the opposite direction.
I follow Petra along the hallway, past stacked chairs, racks of costumes, and pieces of scenery. We pass several empty, darkened rooms, and as I walk, I swear I hear a whisper from the shadows. “Sing for me.”
What if the being who worships my talent, gave me guidance, sang duets with me, and bolstered my confidence truly does have physical form? Isn’t that what I’ve been secretly wishing for—that the sexy male voice I love so much could be housed in an equally sexybody? Or even a regular body…just something I couldtouch. Didn’t I run away from the Angel that one night because I felt myself falling for a disembodied voice? And wouldn’t it change things if the voice belonged to someone corporeal?
And yet…why would he hide? Why lurk in shadows and spy on me? Why let me believe he was a spirit sent from my father? Why did he pull me into the alley that night? He’s a creep, a stalker…a terrible, terrible person.
But the things he said to me were beyond beautiful. As if he could see me more clearly than anyone else ever has.
You amaze me…you inspire me. This gift you possess—it cries out to be shared with the world. The only thing that matters is the power you possess to stir a soul, to move emotions, to alter the course of a heart. Music can do that. You can do that. I know you can, because you’ve done it for me. I am resurrected every time I hear you sing.
Clearly, he worships my voice. And what right do I have to judge him for a little light stalking when I regularly flirt with men, drug them, and drink their blood while they’re unconscious?
Mechanically, I take a bottle of water from one of the crew and drink a few swallows. With each gulp, I pretend I’m washing all those worries away, drowning them inside myself. I count the beats of the music, mark the rise of the curtain, watch the chorus begin their number. And then, on my cue, I walk onstage.
At first, the stage lights are so bright and the theater is so dark that it’s easy to pretend the audience isn’t there. It feels like another rehearsal, one without Marj telling us to stop and correct something every few minutes. In fact, I’m so immersed in my role that I startle the first time the audience laughs. I doubt anyone noticed my reaction, and I move smoothly to my next mark. When I complete my first solo, the applause is enthusiastic, and I sense the tide of energy flowing fromthat dark sea of people onto the stage. It fuels me through act two.
I make a couple tiny flubs, but otherwise the scenes go smoothly. Rune plays opposite me, and though he’s a bit of an airhead, he’s an easy partner to work with. Luckily, he seems to like me better than Carlotta—there’s an alertness to his performance that hasn’t been there during rehearsals.
I’ve done well, yes, but I haven’t excelled. I haven’t triumphed. I haven’t reached the heights the Angel spoke of. I’m holding back.
During intermission, I change costumes and submit to being powdered and fluffed. Then, with a muttered excuse, I hurry to a little-used bathroom at the end of a backstage passage, behind several large pieces of scenery that Mr. Richards scored at a discount from some local playhouse that went out of business.
The bathroom I’m hiding in hasn’t been remodeled yet. It has a 1950s look to it—a glossy mint-green sink and mustard-yellow tiles. There’s a single bulb glowing half-heartedly overhead, flickering occasionally as if it’s trying to make up its mind whether to go out. Some of the bathroom stalls have been dismantled along with part of one wall, and there’s a random stall door and several large boards propped against the framing at strange angles. The way they’re leaning, with the dark gaps between them, it’s hard to tell where the back wall of the bathroom actually is.
The place is creepy and probably unsafe. No one comes in here, which is why I chose this spot. Intermission isn’t over yet, and I don’t appear in the first scene of the third act, so I have a whole fifteen minutes before anyone needs me.
I stare into the spotty mirror over the sink, and I speak the Angel’s words aloud. “You amaze me…you inspire me. I am resurrected every time I hear you sing.”
Halfway through, he starts speaking the words with me. Aloud.
His lovely voice mingles with mine, and a golden thrill passes over my entire body at the sound. I close my eyes, letting him take over, the words fading on my tongue.
“Tonight, you must give me your soul, Christine.”
I still can’t pinpoint his voice, can’t decide if it’s coming from the mirror, the ceiling, or one of the bathroom stalls. It sounds as if he’s standing right next to me. I could swear I feel a stirring in the air, like a physical presence, but I see nothing.
“Where are you?” I say desperately. “I know you aren’t a ghost or an angel. You’ve been tricking me. Telling me to trust you while you kept secrets from me and treated me like a delusional fool.”
“You are neither delusional nor a fool,” he replies. “I never claimed the identity you gave me. I simply allowed you to continue believing what you needed to believe so we could work together. And I’m not the only one who has been keeping secrets, Christine.”
