Chapter 1: Is It the Ghost?
Chapter Text
Messieurs Balduran and Ansur were throwing a gala to celebrate their retirement. All were invited–from the stagehands, to the dancers, to the wealthy abonnés whose patronage kept the Palais Garnier alive.
Lae’zel, one of the few principal dancers, was in her dressing room, making final adjustments to the speech she was to give to the departing managers. She had just finished rehearsing her lines in the mirror when the door burst open and three of the lesser members of the corps de ballet rushed into the room.
“Lae! Lae!” gasped a taller tiefling woman with red skin, grabbing the smaller gith by the shoulders. “You’ll never guess who we just saw!”
“Contain yourself, Karlach,” Lae’zel spat, pushing her off easily.
“It was the ghost , Lae!” Karlach said, bouncing on her heels.
“Ghosts don’t exist, Karlach,” Shadowheart, a small, round half-elf added. Her arm was entwined with another tiefling with purple skin.
“Ghost or not, we definitely saw someone sneaking about,” Nocturne chimed in.
Lae’zel narrowed her eyes, lips curving into a disapproving scowl. “What exactly did you all see?”
“It was probably just a patron in a mask,” Shadowheart rolled her eyes.
“Stalking around the wings? I don’t think so,” Karlach shook her head. “It was either the ghost, or some fellow’s not where he’s supposed to be.”
“While I hate to say it, Karlach is probably right,” Lae’zel said. “We should report it to the managers in the least.” The gith crossed her arms. She had yet to don her gown for the gala, and her ballet uniform did nothing to conceal her musculature.
The four women had spent many years in training at the Palais Garnier, and the rumors of the Opera Ghost had always been few and far between until six months ago, when the managers announced their retirement. There was a sudden uptick in sightings. Some of le petit rats , the younger dancers-in-training, saw him everywhere. Once, little Arabella had run screaming from the wings during a rehearsal, claiming to have seen the phantom lurking in the shadows.
The ghost’s appearance seemed to change with every account. Some claimed to see him hovering in the air, while others said he walked without making a single noise, while others still said they had heard wails and screams whenever he approached.
Some said he was so wide he blocked doorways, or so thin he could fit between the floorboards (how else could he vanish so quickly?). His garb was always formal, with a long trailing cape. And his face –his face changed the most.
One stagehand believed his face was that of a corpse–hideous and decaying. Another spoke up and said his face was handsome, but that anyone who looked upon it would die, and that was why he always wore a mask. A few of the petit rats (little Mol, for example) tried to goad each other into swiping the mask off his face, but the phantom always vanished before any gained the willpower to do so.
Then, there was Enver Gortash. As the chief scene-shifter, he ran the stage like a tyrant, screaming obscenities at the stagehands if they failed to remove a prop on time. Most of the corps de ballet did their very best to avoid him, and thankfully Madame Baenre had her own personal vendetta against the man, warning him not to come within ten feet of her dancers.
So, when Monsieur Gortash appeared, shaken and pale, to rehearsals one day, everyone believed there was some fragment of truth to his story of the Opera Ghost.
He claimed the ghost was built like any ordinary human, but that when his mask slipped off it was a grisly sight to behold. He said that violet lines, like lightning, arced across the ghost’s face. His skin was red and raw, as if it had been burnt. Large chunks of his hair were missing, replaced by those purple, veiny threads. Hideous, indeed .
“I’ll inform them tonight at the gala,” Lae’zel continued. “Perhaps their replacements will be more competent in putting these ghost stories to rest.”
“What if he’s there, too?” Karlach tittered as they left the room. “After all, the managers did say everyone was invited!”
Lae’zel scoffed as the door closed. She’d never seen this supposed ghost herself, and it was truly starting to annoy her. If something was terrorizing the other dancers, that meant their performance would lack, and she in turn would have to make up for the rest of them. Madame Baenre was already becoming irritated with the little ones and their flights of fancy, so much so that she swung her cane about with less caution during rehearsals. Everyone had been on edge for weeks, and Lae’zel theorized that it was the managers’ retirement that had stirred up this mysterious instigator. It felt like a very large bubble had expanded over the Opera Garnier, and that this gala was the sharp point about to rupture it.
She dressed, satisfied that she would deliver a sufficient speech, and left the room, walking down the halls to the grand foyer where the gala was to be held.
She was jolted from her reverie by a child’s scream. Hiking up her skirt, Lae’zel sprinted with agile grace to the source, coming from what she realized was the stage itself. Of course, only a few hours ago they had finished a performance, and the stage should have been empty. Instead, there was a flock of little dancers, scurrying from the wings and flooding around Lae’zel as she arrived. Arabella was tugging on her skirt, speaking in a frantic voice.
“It was the ghost! It had to be! Oh, gods!”
At first, Lae’zel sighed. Another proposed sighting, and the children had been worked into a frenzy.
“What is going on?” The telltale thud of a cane on the stage floor informed Lae’zel that Madame Baenre had arrived.
“Monsieur Gortash!” Mol shouted over the wails.
Minthara clenched her jaw. “What about him?”
“He’s dead! ”
A wave of horror washed over them as Lae’zel looked up at where the children pointed. A body, suspended by rope, swung gently, to and fro, just on the other end of the stage. A noose was drawn tight around Enver Gortash’s neck, and his eyes were forever locked into a blank, glassy stare.
Chapter 2: The Discovery of a Tenor
Summary:
Questions abound at the managers’ farewell gala.
Notes:
FRENCH TERMS USED:
seigneur: lord
comte: count
vicomte: viscount
Chapter Text
On her way to the foyer, Karlach passed a winged tortoiseshell cat peeking out from an open door. She was a typical sight—the tressym had taken up residence in the Garnier years ago, and she was almost seen as a good-luck charm now. She would prowl the theatre boxes before a performance, catching any unwelcome mice or, gods forbid, rats.
Everyone knew tressyms could speak, but this lady seemed to be rather tight-lipped, only communicating in meows and hisses. When she had first appeared, the managers tried to have her removed from the premises, but she would always return—and, besides being an unconventional mouser, she didn’t cause any disturbances. Well, aside from Box Five, that is.
The managers were hard-pressed to book anyone for Box Five, as shortly after being seated, the tressym would begin to wail most unceremoniously, and then cough up a massive hairball in the guests’ presence. However, she didn’t seem to protest when the box was cleaned. Perhaps she liked to watch the performances herself. Whatever the reason, it was a fair trade to keep Box Five empty in exchange for her services.
“Hello, sweetie,” Karlach paused by the tressym, kneeling down to pet her head. The tortie purred, giving the ballerina a parting lick before padding off to the next box in search of more pests.
Rising again, Karlach straightened her dress and continued on her way. The dark halls soon changed into brightly lit corridors, leading into the grand foyer of the Palais Garnier.
It was crowded already, a melting pot of different members of the Parisian public. Before she could step out and mingle, however, a hand grasped her shoulder and pulled her to the side. Karlach spun, only to see Lae’zel, looking gravely serious.
“Lae? What’s the matter?” Karlach frowned.
“Enver Gortash is dead,” she said.
“What?” Karlach’s voice fell to a whisper. Part of her was overjoyed—Gortash had been a thorn in her side since he started work there. But the other half was stunned—she would have been content if he had been sacked.
“The children found him hanging from the fly system,” Lae’zel continued. “He was killed, murdered.”
Well, good riddance, Karlach thought.
One of the chief stagehands, Monsieur Zevlor, came passing by as they spoke. He stopped, eyes wide as he turned to them in a hushed whisper. “The managers are not to find out!” he said. “We’ve moved the body out of sight, and Rolan’s gone to the gendarmes.”
“But—how?” Karlach asked. “Who could have done this?”
“You said you saw the ghost lurking around in the wings,” Lae’zel said. “Perhaps he has a bloodlust.”
“You think so?”
“There are no ghosts,” Zevlor cut in, though his voice wavered. He’d been with the Garnier for decades—weathered the bad and good. But he’d never seen a death like this. “Go, enjoy the gala. Mademoiselle K’liir, I understand you have a speech to give?”
Lae’zel scowled. “Very well then. Come, Karlach.”
“But—“
“There is nothing we can do until the gendarmes arrive. Let us go and socialize.”
Karlach sighed, following Lae’zel out into the crowded foyer.
The Grand Foyer was fitted with several tables, as the gala was concluding with a fine dinner the likes of which many of the dancers hadn’t partaken in. Several chandeliers were suspended from the ceiling, and the walls were decorated with lovingly painted murals. The columns were lined with gold, creating a truly breathtaking sight.
Karlach and Lae’zel made their way to the dancer’s table, where they met up with Shadowheart and Nocturne, who seemingly had also heard the news.
“It’s a bad omen,” Nocturne said gravely. “Especially on a night like this.”
“Who says?” Shadowheart frowned. “Nobody liked Monsieur Gortash.”
“I certainly didn’t, but a death is still a death,” Nocturne said. “Monsieur Withers says it’s a bad omen.”
“Withers is on death’s door himself,” Lae’zel scoffed.
Monsieur Jergal Withers was the chief footman of the Garnier. No one was certain just how old he was, but it seemed he had been employed at the theatre for decades. He kept mostly to himself, taking directions from the managers and dispersing them among the maids, clerks, and other servants. Withers was an odd man. At times, he would not carry out the managers’ orders, but it did not seem to come from a place of pride. No, Withers seemed to know exactly what was required at any given time.
Just as Karlach was about to speak, the retiring managers arrived to thunderous applause. Monsieur Balduran was an older human, with a stern face but a jovial manner. His partner, Monsieur Ansur, was a golden dragonborn. When they had first arrived at the Palais Garnier, it had been struggling to bring in the adoring crowds of the past. The managers worked hard to return it to its former glory, and took pride in their accomplishments.
Beside them were the new managers–the Messieurs Volothamp Geddarm and Elminster Aumar. Geddarm was known for his outlandish business ideas, relying more on the story and spectacle than if there was actual profit to be had. He’d had a fair deal of incidents with investors of former businesses he ran–always managing to escape unscathed and pop up under a new venture. Aumar was solemn, but not without his cheery moments. Why he’d become Geddarm’s business partner was anybody’s guess, but he did reign in the chaos most of the time.
“I have my speech to give,” Lae’zel said in a low hiss. “Do not embarrass me.”
The gith moved away from the small group, greeting the managers.
“She’s worried,” Shadowheart noted.
“I just hope…” Karlach paused. “No one’s ever been killed here. I don’t think so, at least.”
“There’s Rolan,” Nocturne pointed across the hall.
The principal tenor was moving through the crowd, eyes distant. No gendarmes followed him–Karlach recalled Zevlor’s insistence that the managers should not learn such a dreadful thing at their farewell party.
Nocturne caught his attention after a bit of waving. The tiefling made his way over.
“Well?” Shadowheart asked.
“Well, what?” Rolan frowned.
“The gendarmes. Are they here?”
Rolan groaned. “So you know as well.”
“Of course we do! I think everyone knows except the managers at this point!” Karlach said.
“They’ve brought a doctor and they’re taking the body away. They’ve informed Monsieur Withers, and he’ll bring the information to the new managers when the time is right.”
“What a way to start,” Nocturne sighed.
“I just hope they actually do something about that menace,” Rolan crossed his arms.
“Oh, Rolan…”
“I mean it! At least adding watchmen to the dressing rooms, something!“
Rolan had been subjected to a few pranks in the recent months, including but not limited to a nest of rats buried in his wardrobe, itching powder in his wigs, and rude letters sent with wilted roses. It was clear someone—whether it be singular or many—did not like his work as the principal tenor.
“Did you know I still get nightmares about rats in my clothes?” Rolan shuddered. “And now a death! It looks an awful lot like a threat to me.”
“I’m sure you’re not in any real danger,” Shadowheart said.
Rolan was about to retort when one of the little dancers at the end of the table leapt up, pointing and shouting.
“The ghost! He’s there, I see him!”
The entire table spun to see an ordinary human, clad in a fine coat and cape. He turned, eyes wide, understandably confused.
“Arabella!” Madame Baenre scolded the girl.
“But…”
“Sit down at once,” Minthara commanded her. “Our apologies, Monsieur. The children are in…an excitable mood.”
The man nodded and turned away, silently walking back down the tables, clearly disturbed by such a display.
Karlach frowned. “Did you see that?”
“See what?” Shadowheart asked.
“His face. It didn’t change,” Karlach stood up.
“What are you doing?” Rolan asked.
“You had to see that. He didn’t make a face or anything. Just stared at us and walked away.”
“Parisian wealth is just like that,” Shadowheart rolled her eyes. “I’m fairly certain they’re trained since birth not to express any emotion.”
“And they certainly don’t want to be seen amongst the likes of us,” Rolan sighed.
There hadn’t been an ounce of emotion on the man’s face, true, but certainly his nose might have crinkled or his mouth might have tensed.
“I’ll be right back,” Karlach said.
“Don’t embarrass us!” Rolan said, grabbing her arm.
“Everyone was invited, right?” Karlach turned, yanking her arm away with astonishing strength. “That means we’re all allowed to socialize. Not just the elites.”
She marched off into the swarming crowd. Rolan groaned, putting a hand to his face. “I’d better find Alfira. Can’t have the press catch sight of the Primo Tenore gossiping with the ballerinas. I’m sure you understand.”
“Too good for us?” Nocturne scoffed, though there wasn’t any malice behind it.
Rolan smirked. “I’ll see you ladies at rehearsals tomorrow.”
As he left, Karlach wove her way through the crowd, eyes locked on the stranger’s embroidered cape and his placid, average-looking face.
He seemed to slip through the guests like water through a sieve, intent on a singular direction. He only paused once to get his bearings, head turning drastically right, then left, until he seemed to find what he was looking for and veered off to one of the tables.
Karlach, for what it was worth, tried to follow as quickly as she could, but found herself crashing into one or two guests.
A haughty woman caught eye of her, stepping in her way. “I say, my dear, aren’t you rather tall for a dancer?”
Karlach beat down the irritation clawing its way out of her gut. “Well, I still have my job, Madame,” she said, looking for the odd man in the crowd.
“I thought ballerinas were supposed to be dainty,” the woman continued. “I fear if they all looked like you, they’d take up the whole stage!”
Karlach clenched her jaw. “Thanks for that. Have a nice night, then.”
She pushed past the woman, trying to locate her mark, but he’d completely vanished.
“Mademoiselle Cliffgate? Is that you?”
Karlach turned towards the timid voice, eyes widening. “Wyll!” she gasped. “I didn’t know you’d be here!”
The young man smiled. He had dark skin and locs that were styled into a short plait. He wore a very fine suit coat, dressed for a night at the opera.
“I just got back last week,” he said. “My father wanted me to take more time to recover, but…I had to be here. I wanted to be—it’s my first time in polite society in a whole year.”
Karlach frowned. “What happened to your eye?”
Wyll chuckled. “An accident on the ship—had to be removed, I’m afraid. But I’m getting used to life without it.”
One of his brown eyes had been replaced with solid white—clearly given in an emergency, rather than one custom-made to appear more natural.
“I greatly enjoyed the gala performance tonight,” Wyll continued, ducking his head to hide a blush. “Your form is…it’s improved greatly since I last saw you dance.”
Karlach snorted. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
Wyll smirked. “It was, as a matter of fact.”
“Well, it’s nice to see the navy toughened you up a bit,” she teased.
“Not enough to keep the Prison Scene from moving me to tears. Alfira’s rendition of Marguerite was amazing!”
Karlach smiled. Despite being gone for a solid year, Wyll was the same boy she knew when they were kids. Noble and kind.
“I noticed a new face, as well,” Wyll said. “An elf, thin, white hair?”
“Oh! Astarion,” Karlach nodded. “I think he joined just after you left for the navy. He should be here…” she looked around, searching for the familiar white coif. “At the table, maybe. Come on! Everyone will be happy to see you!”
She grasped Wyll’s hand, guiding him through the crowd to the dancers’ table.
*
At the managers’ table, Balduran, Ansur, Geddarm and Aumar were having a jovial time. Monsieur Geddarm was considered enjoyable company for a reason, as he cracked sly jokes and commended the retiring managers for their accomplishments.
“It truly is an honor. I’ve been coming to this opera house since I was a young boy, and it’s always been a dream of mine to take part in the magic, as it were,” Volo said.
Elminster rolled his eyes, taking a sip of wine.
The table was populated with the wealthiest patrons—the Comte de Ravengarde was one, a great supporter of the arts. His son was also in attendance, however he had seemingly vanished. The boy had just recently returned from a year on the sea, as his father had signed him up for the French Navy. The impetuous Vicomte Wyll de Ravengarde was more than eager to attend the gala after spending the last year in the cramped crew’s quarters of the Blade of the Sea.
Another seated at the table was the wealthy Seigneur Cazador Szarr, a raven-haired elf dressed all in finery. He took great interest in supporting the dancers of the Palais Garnier, and had kindly taken seven of them under his wing, providing them with food and housing. His eyes darted around the room, watching the other guests, drinking very little.
At the end of the table, another man seated himself. His clothing was fine, and he wore an embroidered cape that flowed down his back and pooled on the floor. Aside from the cape, nothing about the man was odd. His face, his clothes, his mannerisms were completely ordinary.
“May I offer you any refreshment, Monsieur?”
The unremarkable man looked up, brown eyes locking onto the elderly footman that was Monsieur Withers.
The man said nothing, only shook his head. Withers nodded, taking his meaning. “As it shall be, Monsieur.”
He continued onward to the next occupant, and the next. The plain man turned his head towards the opposite end of the table, where the managers sat and continued to talk.
“The dancers are right,” said the man, clearly enough to be heard above the crowded hall. “Perhaps Enver Gortash’s death was not natural.”
The retiring managers stiffened, turning towards the source of the voice.
“Enver Gortash is dead?” Ansur asked.
“Quite dead,” the man nodded. The managers stared. They were certain he was the one who had spoken, but the man’s mouth had not moved. “He was discovered hanging from the fly-system earlier this evening.”
The table was silent.
Now, to an outsider, it was assumed the next step to take would be to approach the odd man and demand to know his identity. Not so for Messieurs Balduran and Ansur.
“Messieurs,” Balduran said, turning to their replacements. “Can we speak to you about a private matter, in our office?”
“Why of course!” Volo smiled. “How about it, Aumar?”
Elminster nodded, eyes drifting back to the man—but he had already stood up and melted into the crowd, nowhere to be seen. What a curious little party trick.
Monsieur Geddarm was highly amused, and filled with a great excitement as they entered the office that would soon belong to him and Monsieur Aumar.
“That man…he isn’t an acquaintance of yours, is he?” asked M. Balduran as he locked the doors.
Monsieur Geddarm and Monsieur Aumar exchanged a glance.
“No, I’m afraid not, Messieurs!” Volo chuckled. “Rather interesting fellow, though—morbid sense of humor.”
Balduran and Ansur seemed to grow nervous at this.
“Before we depart, there is more you must know,” said Monsieur Ansur. “Perhaps you have heard whisperings of a ghost.”
“Can’t say we have!” Volo chuckled. “A ghost, you say?”
Balduran crossed to the shelf behind the desk, unlocking a glass door. Inside was a memorandum-book, a set of instructions for the managers to follow in accordance with Paris law.
“This theatre is haunted, gentlemen,” Balduran said in a solemn voice. “We are unsure how—we thought it a prank when we first took on the mantle, but…”
He flipped through the pages of the large book. It was written in black ink, in official script for a job many recognized as a service to the city of Paris itself. Balduran stopped, and turned the book, pointing at a passage written in red ink, rather than black, concerning what conditions would result in loss of employment. It was also a different script entirely—this passage was full of flourishes and great loops and hooks.
5. Or if the manager, in any month, delays for more than a fortnight the payment of the allowance which he shall make to the Opera ghost, an allowance of twenty-thousand francs a month, say two-hundred and forty-thousand francs a year.
Elminster lifted the monocle from his vest pocket, taking a closer look. “Curious. Is that all he wants?”
“No, in fact,” Ansur said, turning the pages to the section that discussed reserving seating or boxes in the case of important political figures or members of the Parisian government. He pointed to another line of red text, the same swirls and loops of a distinguished hand.
Box Five on the grand tier shall be placed at the disposal of the Opera ghost for every performance.
“How intriguing,” Volo half-chuckled, stopping when he saw the exhausted look on the predecessors’ faces. “And arrest has not worked on the fellow?”
Balduran scoffed. “The ghost has yet to make himself known to us in the flesh.”
“What about when he visits his box?”
“We’ve never seen him inside.”
“A haunted opera-box! Imagine that!” Volo said. “Perhaps we ought to sell it, Aumar—an enhanced experience. Imagine watching Aida with a ghostly companion!”
Balduran and Ansur exchanged a weary look.
“Whatever you choose, gentlemen, the opera house is in your hands now,” Ansur said.
“Yes. We’ll be leaving for Frankfurt in the morning,” Balduran said.
“Then we wish you happy travels!” Volo exclaimed. “I, er…assume you can be reached via post in case of some administrative emergency?”
Ansur chuckled at that. “Once we depart these walls, Monsieur Geddarm, we do not intend to return.”
*
“Guess who I bumped into!” Karlach announced to the table.
“Wyll!” Shadowheart gasped. “It’s been ages!”
Wyll smiled. “Shadowheart, Nocturne! Where’s Lae keeping herself?”
“She went off to give a farewell speech to the managers,” Nocturne said. “She’s a principal dancer, now.”
“I’d expect nothing less,” Wyll said.
“Come on, sit down,” Karlach said, pulling him into the chair next to her. “Or will your dad be cross?”
Wyll cleared his throat, adjusting his cravat. “My affairs are none of his concern. I’m my own man, after all.”
“What’s the story behind the missing eye?” Shadowheart smiled, leaning across the table.
“Ah, well—“
“Lost it during a battle with pirates, maybe?” Karlach asked.
“Nothing so dramatic, I’m afraid. But I’d be glad to—“
“Tskva!”
The four turned to see Lae’zel, storming towards the table.
“If I see that kainyank again, I’ll strangle him!”
“Lae? What’s wrong?” asked Shadowheart.
Lae’zel grumbled, snatching a few cloth napkins from the table. “You’d think the Parisian elite would act with some decorum!” She held the napkins to her bodice, patting it down to absorb a huge splotch of red across her fine gown. “I was holding a glass of wine, approaching the managers to offer my speech when one of them crashed into me!”
“The managers?”
“No! A patron!” she hissed. “Or some other wealthy parasite. He was dressed fine enough to fit amongst them. Didn’t even apologize or offer assistance. And the managers have left!” Her eyes fell upon Wyll. “Monsieur le Vicomte. You’ve returned.”
“I missed you too, Lae’zel,” Wyll smiled. “I missed all of you. And if I’d seen this mysterious, rude Parisian elite, I would have gladly given him a lesson in manners!” He lifted a glass.
“Cheers to that,” Shadowheart chuckled.
“Flogging in the city center would be far more appropriate,” Lae’zel said, a faint smile peeking at her lips as she sat down beside him. “But the gesture is appreciated.”
“Well, now that the gang’s back together,” Karlach said. “Where’s Astarion? Wyll wanted to meet him.”
A hush fell over the table.
Wyll chuckled nervously. “He’s not injured, is he?”
“No,” Nocturne said. “He came by to say hello, but…” she looked at Shadowheart.
“Where else would he be?” the half-elf sighed. “Hiding from that vile man.”
“Vile man? Who?” Wyll frowned.
Astarion Ancunin was one of the few danseurs at the opera house. He was a thin, pale elf with white hair and hazel eyes. He’d always gotten along with the other dancers, but shrank away when invited out to parties or other get-togethers. At first it was chalked up to shyness, until Shadowheart had spotted Astarion alone with his abonné, Monsieur Cazador Szarr.
Monsieur Szarr collected dancers like trinkets. He frequented the rehearsals, eyes like a hawk. Whenever some poor soul joined the corps de ballet with no support and no family to call their own, Szarr swooped in, offering a bed and food. Karlach’s aunt Jaheira housed her and Lae’zel. Shadowheart had her parents, and they had given a room to Nocturne as well. They’d offered Astarion a place to stay many times, which he always rejected.
Including Astarion, there were seven unfortunate souls trapped under his thumb. Once, Lae’zel had pressed Astarion to tell them the truth of how Szarr treated him, but he remained silent, eyes betraying the fear he felt.
“I wish he was here,” Karlach sighed. “I’d beat that Szarr into the ground.”
“Szarr?” Wyll blinked.
*
In the third cellar below the opera, among retired and new set pieces, a figure crept, careful not to make a sound. They stopped at a large wood-and-plaster elephant made for the production of Hannibal coming up in the next few months. They walked around to the other side, hollowed out with only a few wood beams to support it. Crawling inside, the thin figure groaned, leaning against the plaster wall. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes—if Monsieur Szarr caught him resting, it would mean another caning.
So, the managers were leaving. Good riddance. He’d never said a word to them, and they hadn’t to him—why would they? He was just a ballet rat, after all, and a miserable one at that.
He hugged himself tight, preparing for the night ahead.
It was silly to sing at a time like this. But he couldn’t deny the comfort it brought him, if only for a moment. There had been a folk song he learned, when he used to travel with his parents. They were the ones who encouraged him to come to this place. And then they died.
Lace your heart with mine
Let your sleeping soul take flight
Take me through the night
Down, down, down by the river
Down, down, down by the—
Astarion’s voice faltered at the sound of the floorboards creaking. Panic swarmed his chest and he covered his mouth, trying to blend into the shadows.
It was Cazador, it had to be. He hadn’t saved himself a caning after all—only guaranteed it.
He closed his eyes, focusing on keeping his breathing quiet.
Nothing. No footsteps, no more creaks. Perhaps the old opera house was still settling.
Astarion slipped out of the prop elephant, moving with the agile grace taught to him after years of private lessons. He’d fallen out of practice when his parents died, leaving him with little inheritance. Most of their wealth, saved up from traveling from town to town, earning from performances here and there, they had spent on his lessons. They had known he had musical talent, but at the time, Astarion had hated his voice—despite their assurances he sounded like an angel.
It had just been too feminine. Too…girlish. He wrapped himself in heavy clothes and cut his hair short and rubbed mud on his face to appear more like a boy. His parents didn’t understand, but they never punished him. They were free spirits, and their greatest desire was to see their child happy.
After they died, he used what money he had left to buy some men’s clothing and a train ticket to Paris. He threw himself at the feet of the ballet corps, introducing himself as Astarion Ancunin, long lost son of the famous Ancunin musical duo. Madame Baenre found he was just adequate enough to be offered a part.
The grand lobby of the Palais Garnier took the breath out of even the most discerning Parisian. A grand marble staircase rose from the center of the room, then parted in two, leading to the balconies of the second level (which, in turn, would lead to the boxes and the gallery). The tiled floor had been waxed to perfection, and the columns, archways and walls were intricately carved in an eclectic style.
The gala had long ended, and so Astarion was alone, creeping down the steps of the grand staircase. He was still shaken from the encounter in the third cellar, the mysterious individual that heard him sing. Perhaps it had been nothing at all–a mouse or other vermin scuttling across the floorboards. But the danseur could not shake the feeling that someone had heard him.
“Ah, there you are.”
A dark pit formed in Astarion’s stomach as he twisted to face the shorter elf.
Monsieur Szarr’s cane tapped pointedly against the smooth floor, indicating his irritation.
“I—I was just looking for you, Monsieur,” Astarion stuttered.
Cazador scoffed. “Don’t insult me, boy. You have work to do.”
“Of course,” Astarion’s voice was soft. He pulled his thin coat closer around his clothes—the only fine clothes he had left—and followed Szarr out into the cold Parisian air.