Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The year was 1881, the Paris Opéra Populaire just been purchased by new owners in hopes of saving it from bankruptcy, and simply nothing was going to plan. She was only meant to be the ballet mistress, but in the recent tumultuous period Logan Giry had taken on all kinds of administrative duties, dealing with the accounts (she had no idea it was even possible to accumulate so much debt), tidying the store cupboards, liasing with the heads of publicity, the cleaning staff, other people she had previously not known were even employed by the theatre where she had worked for the past few decades. After weeks of working tirelessly since the previous owner retired with almost no warning, she didn’t feel like she had even scratched the surface of the opera house’s many problems, but whatever she had done would simply have to be enough, for the new owners were coming to inspect it that very day.

Having arrived to work very early, she prepared to enter via the foyer door. She smoothed her navy blue skirt and adjusted her glasses before taking a very deep breath, bracing herself for what she would encounter inside. She had found a blackboard backstage and used it to write out an elaborate plan with clear instructions for everyone to play their part in making the place look presentable. As she pushed open the great doors, it seemed like all her efforts had been to little avail.

The first thing she saw was the backstage team carrying far more props than they could reasonably hold, inevitably dropping them all over the place. She quickly moved to pick up some of the more breakable ones, before speaking to one of the young men.

“Monsieur, what is going on, I thought I said all the props were to be tidied away?”

“There’s no space for them, Madame, we tried and tried but they couldn’t all fit, so we’re just putting them outside round the back for now -“

“But these scarves are silk, and it looks like rain!” she protested.

“They must be put back in the cupboard at once!”

The lad shrugged, before nonchalantly turning around and shuffling towards backstage. Logan had not been in the building two minutes and she already wanted to tear out large strands of her hair.

She waded through the sea of props towards the stage, intending to briefly check on the singers rehearsing before going to do her actual job of teaching the dancers. When she opened the auditorium door, instead of gorgeous opera singing she instead heard the unmistakable sound of a woman crying, the loud, heaving sobs filling the entire room. It did not take her long to find the source, though she could have reliably guessed it.

Virgil Giudicelli, the infamous soprano who sang at the Opéra Populaire, their ticket sales having more than doubled from the moment she so courteously agreed to grace them with her flawless soprano voice, stood centre stage in an ornate purple dress, blowing her nose on a handkerchief someone had handed her as her dark eyeshadow ran all down her face. Some of the dancers were watching this display with expressions of curiosity, though not without a hint of mild terror.

Logan fought back from sighing the biggest sigh she had ever sighed, was itching to ask her what on earth the matter was this time and tell her to pull herself together, however instead she bit her tongue and forced a sympathetic smile.

“Signora, please tell me what ails you?”

“Thank goodness you are here, Giry, you will bring these utter idiots into line, I am sure!” she ranted as Logan ascended the last of the steps to the stage.

With great effort of will she kept her pleasant demeanour.

“I will do my best, however I cannot help you if I do not know what the matter is,” Logan said kindly.

“It is the nitwits in your costume department!”

“This is not actually my theatre,” fell out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

Virgil did not seem to have heard her anyway. “I asked for purple sapphires on the trim of my dress, and they have added amethysts. Everyone knows that is bad luck!”

Logan had never heard anyone say that in her entire life.

“Though I can hardly imagine how that must distress you, I am afraid it cannot be fixed before tonight. But who could care with a voice like yours? I am sure everyone will be far too mesmerised by your singing to look at the details of your dress! Only imagine how impressed our new owners will be when they walk through that door and the first thing they hear is you singing,” Logan drawled in a desperate attempt to get her to return to rehearsing with her fellow cast.

“You flatter me, Madame, and perhaps there is even an element of truth in what you have said. Alright, I shall -“

“Signora, look out!”

Logan noticed the great red stage curtain falling from above them and shoved Virgil to one side, her sharp reflexes the only thing saving the singer from a nasty injury or worse.  She screamed, once in terror and then again in outrage as she lifted the curtain up, ducking under to rejoin Logan on the audience side.

The ballet mistress heard a few whispers of “it’s the ghost,” or “the Phantom must have done it,” no doubt coming from the dancers who had witnessed the incident.

“This is completely unacceptable!” Virgil screeched. Logan wasn’t entirely sure who this was directed at.

“Giry, you need to fix this!”That answered her question.

“Signora, I’m just the ballet mistress, I’ve been helping run the theatre in the interim. I don’t see what I can do about this, I can tell them to be more careful -“

“It’s not the nitwits up there! You’ve worked here for years, Madame, you must have heard the legends -“

“That mere idea is preposterous,” Logan dared to interrupt her.

“I know you’re not a fool. You know just as well as I do something queer is happening in this theatre, something that isn’t natural. It needs to be dealt with,” she almost hissed, her hand shaking slightly as she jabbed a finger at Logan.

“Until that happens, this  does not happen!” she declared, before flouncing off the stage. Madame Giry had no doubts she would come back before the show later that night - this was not the first time, nor, regrettably, would it be the last. Logan could only hope she knew her lines, for she doubted they would see Virgil again in rehearsal today…

She was distracted from her thoughts by someone clearing his throat in the audience. She turned to see two men dressed like the height of fashion. The man on the left removed his tinted spectacles to address her.

“Bonjour, Madame, my greatest apologies if this is a bad time, but you must allow me to introduce myself.”

She simply dreaded to think how long they had been stood there watching. Logan was not prone to the vapours, but even she felt a little queasy knowing that, as well as the utter chaos happening in the foyer and the curtain nearly injuring a performer, the new owners had just witnessed the lead soprano storm out of the theatre in outrage.

“I am Monsieur Remy Firmin and this is Monsieur Dice André. We are the new owners of the Paris Opéra Populaire. And who might you be, Madame?”

“A thousand apologies for the state you find us in, Messieurs. My name is Logan Giry, I teach ballet here.”

As she spoke Logan had rushed to meet them in the auditorium. M. Firmin now bent down and kissed the back of her right hand, as was polite.

“A real pleasure to make your acquaintance, Madame.”

“Might I venture to ask what is happening here?” M. André put in. “It seems your lead soprano has done a runner on you!”

If Logan didn’t want to avoid tempting fate, she would ask how this could possibly get any worse. Maintaining her composure, though she knew not how, she responded, “Signora Giudicelli is a real talent to behold, but there is always a price to pay when working with such high-profile stars, they are anxious to have things done a certain way. We are not unused to this, I am sure she will return before the opening show tonight, have no fear Messieurs.”

But Logan was saved the humiliation of listening to M. André’s response by the arrival of two more men in the room. Both with the same piercing green eyes, they wore pristine tailcoats and matching cravats. The man who wore the red cravat had tied it a good deal neater and was clean shaven, while the one with the green cravat had a thick brown moustache and a shock of premature white in his hair. These were, respectively, the Vicompte and Duc de Chagny, Remus having been bestowed with the more distinguished title of Duke due to his being born seven minutes earlier. Messieurs Firmin and André beamed at them.

“Madame, it is an honour to present to you our donateurs, the Vicompte and Duc de Chagny.”

Logan dropped into a low curtsey as both men introduced themselves to her. As all the expected formalities were exchanged, Logan hoped that neither man remarked the perspiration on her hands.

The five stood staring at each other, not one of them having the faintest clue what to say until the Duc broke the silence.

“So, who’s the lady outside with all the luggage, looking like she’s moving out?”

The Vicompte shot him a sharp glare. Logan wanted to combust there on the spot. So Virgil really had been serious this time in her talk of leaving the opera house.

It was not often that Logan was wrong, though it was bound to happen once in a while. And this really was an unfortunate time for it to happen.

“Seriously, who is this diva, does no one know?” the Duc continued, completely oblivious to his brother’s checking of his manners. Logan tried to talk, but her words caught in her throat. M. André stepped in.

“I believe you must refer to Virgil Giudicelli, the lead soprano, who, it now seems, is certainly not coming back.”

The man’s harsh stare caused Logan to practically fold in on herself.

“What is to be done, Madame Giry? Should we cancel the show immediately? Refund all the tickets? If that is our course of action, we must make haste about it.”

Impossible. Logan knew for certain that the opera house could not afford that.

“Hold on just a moment, my good man, is there not an understudy who can fill the role?” Roman (the Vicompte) suggested.

M. Firmin laughed out loud. “An understudy? For Virgil Giudicelli? If you would like to try and find one, my dear fellow!”

It was true. There was no understudy. No one else could fill that role in time. Unless…

“Then what is to be done about this mess? I declare I feel a fit of the vapours coming on.” Remy Firmin began to hyperventilate, clutching one of the theatre seats for support.

“I have an idea.” Logan’s clear voice cut through the fast descent of the men into hysterics.

“If you will excuse me for a moment, s’il vous plait.”

—-

The twenty five ballet dancers who lived, practised and worked at the opera house had been listening to this entire exchange, lined up with their ears against the curtain. Most of their whispering consisted of exclamations of utter disbelief that Nobility was present, here in the Opéra Populaire! A Duc, and a Vicompte too!

One young woman was more shocked than all the rest of her peers. Twenty-one-year-old Patton Daaé wore a pale blue romantic tutu skirt, slightly nicer than most of the others’ costumes as she had been due to perform a solo. She had very dark hair in long, shiny ringlets, as well as very dark eyebrows and brown eyes that shone with the joy of, after all these years, hearing once again the voice of her childhood best friends, especially Roman was most dear to her heart. She turned to beam at her friend next to her.

“Emile, I know them both!”

“You do?” she said, a little too loud, causing Patton to press her finger to her friend’s lips.

“Yes, we played together as children.”

“Perhaps he shall spot you when we perform later!”

“ If we perform.”

“It doesn’t seem likely, does it…” Emile gave a disappointed sigh.

“No. And besides, it was all so long ago, I doubt they would recognise me…”

Logan tutted and shook her head when she saw what they were doing. As soon as they took notice of their Mistress, the entire troupe gathered around her, standing in fifth position, awaiting her instruction as though they were still performing later, giving no indication that they had heard the conversation which had just occurred. Logan did not find it difficult to join in on the act.

“My students, there is much to do before the performance tonight. There has been a … change of plans regarding the singers’ rehearsal so we now have the stage to ourselves. Let us begin with the big number in Act Three. Take your places, please, make haste. Monsieur, raise the curtain, please!” she called to the workers in the rafters who operated the lights and such.

She knew her dancers would do her proud, hopefully in seeing the ballet the new owners and their sponsors would realise not every part of the show had been destined to be a complete disaster. She confessed to being a little disappointed when, as the curtain rose, she saw the Duc and Vicompte had left already. Still, she could show Firmin and André she wasn’t a total failure.

“From the top, everyone! Apart from you, Patton. I’d like to talk to you a moment.”

Patton looked shocked, but followed her nonetheless into one of the wings.

“Madame,” she began, “I really was shocked to hear you say to Signora Giudicelli that you’re “just” the ballet mistress. You really didn’t have to do all this, tidying the theatre, running the accounts - I’m not sure the theatre’s finances would still be afloat if it weren’t for you! Everyone should appreciate you more.”

“That is very kind of you, Patton, but there are more pressing matters at hand,” said Logan swiftly. “I understand from what you just said that you heard the conversation that just transpired between me and our… new owners?”

“Yes, I must admit we were listening… Madame Giry, what is your great idea?” Patton stared at her as though she held all the wisdom in the world.

“My child, pray do not be nervous when I say what I am about to say, but give it serious consideration. I have heard you time and time again singing around the theatre, and I know you possess a lovely voice.”

Patton’s face fell, quickly turning pale as she realised what she was about to be asked.

“I understand you have also been receiving singing tuition in your free time?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“From whom?”

For the first time in the conversation, Patton lost eye contact with her teacher.

“I do not know the name, Madame,” she mumbled, staring at the floor.

“Look, it does not matter. I know you are capable of this, Patton.”

She had never tried to sing any of Signora’s songs, that would be incredibly disrespectful to such a great star. But she had sung other songs that were in a similar sort of range, and she knew the opera they were rehearsing by heart from having heard it so much. She didn’t doubt that she could achieve the notes required for the role if she gave it a try. But she was no Prima Donna, she was merely a chorus girl! Lucky to even be that after having been orphaned at age seven.

“I’m not good enough, Madame, I’ll only disappoint you.”

“Now that is an utter falsehood. I’ve heard you.“

Logan realised she had been taking the wrong approach. But she wasn’t going to give in.

“Patton, if you cannot do this for yourself, could you please do it for me? If this show fails, it is highly likely that the new owners will dismiss me from my post, we’ll be forced to refund everyone, it may just bring the Opéra Populaire to ruin. Please come with me and sing for the owners. It would only be until we can find someone else, if you truly do not wish it.”

After hearing this, Patton did not hesitate. “Fine, Madame. For you. I don’t like the thought of all those people looking only at me.”

Logan could not help but sigh with relief. “You truly have a good heart, Patton. Now come with me.”

——

Both women took a deep breath before they stepped out into the auditorium, Patton clinging to Logan’s arm.

“Splendid ballet, Madame!” said M. Firmin, smiling at her across the room.

“Merci beaucoup, Monsieur,” Logan replied. “Allow me to present Mademoiselle Patton Daaé. She had singing lessons in her youth and I know she has competency enough to take on this role.”

M. André stared at Patton over the top of his half-moon spectacles. Logan felt her student’s grip on her arm tighten.

“No relation, I assume, to the late pianist?” André asked.

Patton smiled and let go of Logan’s arm. “He was my father. Did you know him?”

“I knew of him, though I’m sad to say we never met. Was it he who taught you to sing?”

“Yes,” was what Patton thought Madame Giry would want her to say.

“If you don’t mind, Mademoiselle, we would all like to hear you before we make our final decision.”

“What about the Aria from Act Two?” Logan suggested, both to Patton and to the orchestra seated below the stage.

“Yes, Madame.” Patton nodded and moved up the stairs, where her fellow dancers were just finishing their number. The two owners clapped enthusiastically.

“Well done, all of you, take a break for a few minutes!” said Logan, smiling genuinely for the first time all morning.

The dancers ran off in all directions and, for the first time ever, Patton was alone on the opera house stage. It had never seemed so big.

It was sort of true that Patton’s father had taught her to sing. Every evening in their terraced house on the other side of the Seine, M. Daaé would play songs on his piano and his young daughter, sometimes the Duc and the Vicompte as well, would sing along with him.

Not anymore though. Nowadays she only sang when she was alone, taking refuge in a small room deep in the lower levels of the theatre, doing her best to remember her father and the songs they used to sing together, though the memory of his soft baritone voice grew more distant with each year of Patton’s life that went by.

She had thought, at least, that she was alone in that room. Nonetheless an audience of three was the largest she had ever had before, and as she began the first note she hoped the owners did not notice her legs shaking underneath her tutu skirt.

As the song went on, Patton’s nerves dissipated a little. She began to think less about singing the notes, and more about telling the story, even adding a little flourish on the last note that was not written in the score. When the music finished, she left the stage immediately, before the owners had even finished their applause, unused to that feeling of being watched. She could only hope she had done enough.

“Madame, she is simply marvellous!” Firmin exclaimed. “She must be cast! We will have our show after all!”

She must have done alright, then.

——

Later that night, Patton was surrounded by friends all whispering “bonne chance” to her as they added the final touches to her attire. A beautiful white dress which trailed behind her on the floor. Emile and Madame Giry had done her hair and makeup. She felt like royalty. She must be dreaming. She was on in two minutes.

——

Up in the heavens of the theatre, in the box closest to the stage, sat the Duc and the Vicompte. Roman gasped as Patton walked out onto the stage, recognising her instantly by her thick dark curls, the likes of which he had never seen since. He had often thought about his childhood friend, wished to find her again, though in his head she was still the little girl he used to play with. He hadn’t thought about the fact she’d be a woman now. An incredibly capable one, he thought as she started to sing. As soon as he heard her honey-like voice, Remus was shaking his brother’s shoulders.

“Ro, Ro! Do you recognise who that is?”

“Yes, Remus, calm down!” he shook his head, sighing fondly.

“Oh, I am so endlessly glad that diva decided to walk out! Go Patton!” he almost shouted. Luckily she did not hear, for it would have startled her to the point of putting her off singing.

“ Shush , Remus!” Roman hissed, aware of the stares they were receiving from the box next to them.

“You can tell her how proud you are after the show. We’ll go to meet her and formally re-introduce ourselves. For she may not remember us, but I remember her.”

Chapter Text

Patton could never have imagined her life would change so quickly. It was all far too much to take in. Luckily she did not have to, for her schedule hardly afforded her a moment alone with her thoughts.

The Vicompte and Duc de Chagny had introduced (or re-introduced) themselves to her immediately after her first performance. When she saw Roman’s face again, Patton was the happiest she had been in a very long time. Greeting him with a polite curtsey, when really she had wanted nothing more than to run up to him and hug him, but she had a feeling that would have led to some stern words from her ballet teacher. Neither he nor Remus had changed one bit. Both had seemed eager to become re-acquainted with her, however Roman said he had a great many engagements at present, but would visit again as soon as he was able, a day she eagerly awaited.

In the meantime she had not much mental energy to dedicate to awaiting the promised return of her friend, for she was constantly needed around the theatre. No wonder Virgil Giudicelli had been so on edge all the time, the role of lead soprano was more difficult than Patton could ever have imagined.

She returned to her dorm every night exhausted, before she used to stay up and sew (usually dolls’ dresses for the younger girls) or read books she borrowed from the ballet mistress by candlelight, now she found herself passing out almost as soon as she lay down. Or sometimes even on the sofa in her dressing room, still in full costume after the show, her teacher having to carry her to bed. The first time this happened she woke up in Logan’s arms, apologising profusely for having fallen asleep.

“It does not make sense, Madame, singing rather than dancing is so much less strenuous on me physically, yet I have never been so tired in my entire life.”

“Child, surely you must have considered that the exhaustion is not of your body, but of your mind?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“There is a lot of pressure on you, Patton. You have been flung headlong into a situation hardly familiar to you. You are coping very well.”

“It doesn’t feel that way…”

“Rest is very important. I will see that you are given more breaks.”

“Thank you, Madame.”

“Goodnight, Patton. You know you can call me Logan? Perhaps not in front of the other dancers, but when it is just us, I certainly do not mind.”

“If you wish it, Madame… I mean Logan. Good night.”

Logan sighed fondly, shaking her head as Patton disappeared into the dormitory.

Her friends were full of praise for her, complete strangers were even leaving flowers in the foyer after seeing the show. She never spoke to them, the owners or Logan usually thanked them on her behalf, but still it was difficult not to be overwhelmed.

A few days after she was cast, Patton and her closest friend Emile had taken advantage of a short rehearsal break to sit together in the dormitory. She regretted that they had hardly had the chance to speak since Patton took on her singing role, and the contentedness of her heart was not untainted by sadness as she looked over at her friend, especially her attire. A long pink lyrical skirt and ballet tights, her light brown hair in a perfectly neat bun embellished with a pale pink ribbon.

Since they were seven, they had always worn matching costumes. Now Patton was asked to wear things far too grand for her liking. She told Emile she had been debating asking the seamstresses to tone it down slightly, earning a laugh from her friend. And so they talked of everything that had happened, knowing they did not have long before they would be needed again. The anxiety Patton had been feeling slowly dissipated as she realised with relief that nothing had changed between them. She hoped most earnestly that nothing would ever have to.

This was part of the reason why every day, Patton asked Logan if there were any news on a new soprano. No one had heard any sign of Virgil, and it had proved difficult to find a singer on such short notice. It seemed Patton was stuck doing this indefinitely, though Emile seemed to doubt that they were searching as hard as they possibly could for someone to replace her.

Despite Patton’s wishing the conversation not to linger on that topic, Emile insisted upon showering her friend with a little praise.

“Honestly divine, Patton, I had no idea you had that voice! Where on earth did you learn to sing like that?”

Feeling the heat rise to her face, Patton smiled. “Emile, it is really not important. As long as I do an acceptable job until Signora returns, which I know she will.”

“But Patton, you are better  than Virgil! You must have heard everyone saying so. Her voice is powerful, but there is a certain… shrillness to it, that makes one’s ears ring! You saw how Madame Giry would cover her ears whenever she sung a high note!”

Patton put a hand over her mouth, aware she really should not be laughing at that.

“But there is none of that with you, Patton! Your voice is like the most golden liquid honey, naturally sweet, such a soft quality on the high notes - you sound as though expertly trained!”

“It is true, I was taught by someone,” Patton said quickly.

“You must tell me!” she shuffled closer to her friend, blue eyes full of curiosity. “Unless it is some great secret, which I can’t see why it would be. It is only natural that the daughter of such a great musician as Thomas Daaé should have some musical instruction.”

Patton sighed at the mention of her father, her mind a swirling mess of longing and grief and distant, happy memories.

“Though I did sing with my father as a very young child, it is not due to him that I was taught to sing opera…”

“If you do not wish to discuss it, I understand,” Emile said quietly, drawing back from her friend, worried she’d upset her.

Before responding, Patton stared off into space for a good while, her expression illegible.

“Emile, it is quite all right. I don’t want you to think I do not trust you, for that is not the reason at all. I will explain to you who taught me to sing, but I must warn you, it is dreadfully strange and I’m not sure even you will believe me!”

Emile took her arm, resting her head on her friend’s shoulder.

“Patton, of course I will. The mere question astounds me. You with the sweetest disposition of us all, who comforts all the rest of us when we are sad, Madame Giry’s favourite pupil - she makes no secret of it. I am not sure someone with a heart as good as yours could ever lie!”

“Alright.” Emile tilted her head in confusion as Patton stood up with an air of determination and held out her hand.

“Come with me.”

The dancer-turned-singer led her friend through a maze of corridors which grew gradually more dusty, Emile quickly realising that she had no idea where in the theatre she was. Eventually they came upon an unlit spiral staircase, descending into darkness such that Emile could not see beyond the first few steps, never mind where the bottom was.

“Take my hand, these stairs are very uneven,” was Patton’s whispered instruction as she led the way.

“Patton, where are we going?” The sound echoed and bounced off the stone walls.

“Hush, Emile!” Patton hissed, the harshness of her voice shocking them both. “Forgive me. I don’t want us to be discovered,” she added as a gentler afterthought.

Emile felt a chill as they journeyed deeper below the theatre. Wearing only ballet slippers, her feet were going numb against the cold stone.

To break the silence, Patton began the explanation Emile had asked for. “It must be years ago now that I stumbled upon this place. I come down here every once in a while to be quiet and alone and say a prayer for my father. One day I was thinking about him, trying to remember a song we used to sing together, humming it under my breath…”

She stopped suddenly. With her hand that wasn’t still gripping Emile’s, she felt in front of her for the handle of an old wooden door, pushing it open with an almighty creak.

Behind this door was a small room. With stone walls and floor, lacking a single piece of furniture, there was nothing inviting about where Patton had brought them. The only solace to be found in this bleak room was a tiny window on the wall furthest from them, which let in a small amount of light, though it was far too dirty to see out or in. Emile squeezed Patton’s hand a little tighter as she was led through the doorway.

“And that is the first time I heard her.”

“Her?” Emile whispered, spinning around quickly as her eyes scanned the room.

“I was sure I was completely alone down here, though initially I had the idea she might be using secret passages that no one knew about. Thinking she was in the walls somehow, I left the room in alarm and climbed back up to where everyone else was, but wherever in the opera house I  went the voice followed me. When it slowly dawned on me that it could be coming from nowhere but inside my own head, I grew quite afraid, until she reassured me. She knew my name, though she has never told me hers. I tried to ask her about herself, but she responded only with a laugh and a song. Since then I have heard her every day. Singing songs in my head.”

Emile shifted uncomfortably where she was stood, hugging herself for warmth. Though Patton’s costume was not much warmer, the temperature seemed to bother her far less.

“I don’t understand. How on earth did this… presence teach you to sing?”

“She told me I had great potential, encouraged me to sing with her. I was shy at first, I hadn’t sung properly since my father died, but she made me feel at ease. She corrected my technique, though never in a harsh way. She gives me many compliments too. She flatters me in that kind voice, really the loveliest voice I have ever heard, though it is not at all conventional - I regret she could never be cast in an opera for her voice almost does not sound like a lady’s voice, though it is not low enough to belong to a man. I really wish I could introduce her, you would like her a lot, though she can be a little sharp of tongue at times she really does mean well! I call her my Angel, for she is so gracious towards me, and I have always thought she has a voice like one.”

Emile blinked repeatedly while attempting to process Patton’s words. She laughed nervously, the sound echoing as her gaze shifted around the room.

“Did not you say you only come down here late at night?” she began tentatively. “You must have dreamt it. Patton, your merit is all your own, if you taught yourself you must say so! I won’t think you vain.”

With great resolve, Patton shook her head.

“It is true that she sings to me when I sleep. But also when I am awake. It is nearly all the time I am alone. She does not sing when other people are around. I think she must be shy.”

Even with only the low light of the winter sun coming through the window, Patton could see the wide-eyed look on Emile’s face as she slowly backed away, and immediately regretted telling her anything at all. Despite how out-of-the-ordinary this was, the Opéra Populaire seemed to be a magnet for such queer occurrences. Everyone seemed to readily believe the legend of the Phantom which haunted the theatre, so why was the idea of her Angel considered so preposterous? Emile was looking at her as though she were insane. She felt the colour rise to her cheeks, turning away from the light so her friend could not see.

“Patton, we should go back.” Emile tugged at her hand and the two left the room without exchanging another word, this time Emile leading them back up the stairs. Oh, how Patton wished she had had the sense to not say anything at all…

——

That evening, in the brief pause between the end of rehearsal and the beginning of the show, Patton went to find Logan, keen to be kept up to date in the search for a soprano. Though she would never dare tell a soul, she was beginning to find happiness in this role she had been flung headlong into. She had always preferred singing to dancing, had always been keen to improve her voice, and every time she stepped out on stage, the crowd, hundreds of eyes on her, bothered her slightly less.

She hated herself for enjoying it. This opportunity had been a fleeting gift that she would soon have to forfeit to someone more deserving of it. So why did she feel as though, when it was all over, she would never feel whole again? Then there was the tiny, even more selfish part of her which thought of Roman, wondering if he would still want to be her friend if she no longer gave grand performances like this. After all, if she hadn’t been cast it was likely they would never have been reunited.

Just as she was beginning to stew in thoughts of how self-centred she was being, the butter-like voice she was so used to spoke again in her head, faint yet always perfectly enunciated.  Lately she had been even more lovely to her than usual in the comparatively little time they had together.

“Tu vas bien, Patton, mon trésor …”

Chapter Text

Bouquet of yellow roses in hand and and wearing his best red waistcoat, Vicompte Roman de Chagny practically skipped towards his childhood friend’s dressing room. Having watched the show again, he found his friend’s performance just as enchanting as the first time.

“Patton, once again you were excellent!” he called after knocking on her door. “I swear you have improved since I saw you last week, you seemed so much more sure of yourself, you are really growing suited to this role! Get your coat and let’s go to dinner to celebrate, wherever you want to go!” he said, with all the warmth, the boisterousness but unmistakable kindness, she remembered from when they were young.

“Forgive me for not having had the chance to congratulate you sooner, and I’m sorry that Remus couldn’t be here. Patton, are you in there?”

Her breath hitched as she hesitated to reply. There was no one she loved more in this world than Roman, but the last thing she wanted to do at the present was go out to dinner. In fact, she thought she wanted to sleep for a thousand years. Perhaps she could ask him to return the next time she had a day off… whenever that may be, then immediately shut down the idea, chastising herself for even thinking it. If Roman had come to hear her sing again, and was offering to take her to dinner while he was so busy, then she should be grateful.

She supposed if she was going to leave she should probably find her spectacles. Which, paradoxically, would prove difficult without her spectacles…

Though she put on a brave face for work, having familiarised herself with every inch of the theatre and the stage where she performed each night, Patton’s eyesight really was incredibly poor. Her father had ensured she has a good pair of spectacles, she had enough inheritance money to replace them when it was necessary, but even as a dancer she had never been allowed to wear them to perform. In the pre-stage rush that evening she’d misplaced them. As she flitted about her dressing room in panic,  walking into furniture, clumsily running her hands over the surfaces, hoping to feel the familiar cold metal frames, her Angel spoke again.

“Patton, mon ange , I think you’ll find what you’re looking for is to your left …”

She briefly cast her head in that direction, catching sight of the blurred outline of a figure, a reflection in dark clothing that was distinctly not her own.

She did a double take, her head snapping back to the mirror to confirm what she thought she’d just seen. A soft laugh, not unkind. She knew her Angel well enough to understand that she was not laughing out of amusement at Patton’s shock. The gentle tone reassured her that she was safe.

“ Ma chérie, don’t be afraid. But come closer and look at me in your mirror.”

Frozen in place, unable to tear her eyes from the mirror. Could her Angel now control her movements as well as speaking in her head? Patton inched closer, unsure whether it was of her own free will or some supernatural force guiding her towards the spectre, the draw of the unknown, the temptation of the almost-familiar.

She could nearly reach out and touch the glass, having completely given in to the pull, now close enough to discern that the figure was much taller than she, dressed in a long dark cloak. Patton noticed the pallor of the face, an almost unnatural shade of white, and was drawn to the gloved hand because it was… pointing somewhere?

“ What? ” she asked, whispered so Roman would not hear. But her Angel, if that was really who was in the mirror, gave no reply.

She supposed the only thing to do was to go where she was being ushered, the sparsely-populated bookshelf in the corner. Evidently Signora Virgil Giudicelli hadn’t been a big reader, and given that Patton’s residence here was only temporary she had been reluctant to fill it with her own books. She wondered why the figure had led her over here when in the corner of her eye she caught a glint that was unmistakably metal. And she suddenly remembered leaving her spectacles here, hours before, putting them out of the way after she kept accidentally knocking them on the floor.

Almost exclaiming her thanks before she stopped herself with a hand to her mouth, remembering Roman, she darted back to the mirror to show her gratitude with a relieved smile. And at that moment Patton finally clearly saw the visage of her Angel.

Or… half of it, for she wore a white theatrical mask covering almost the entire left side of her face. Her left eye still clearly visible though, a pale green to contrast the hazelnut brown of the eye on her unmasked side. Unfrightened, more curious than anything about why her Angel felt the need to hide her face when she was so little seen by people, Patton’s dark eyes held the mismatched gaze of her mentor. Still smiling, wanting to return the favour of reassuring her, silently coaxing her to speak again.

But she merely raised the hand that had been pointing at the bookshelf, as she reached towards Patton it passed through the glass, crossing from whatever realm her Angel was in, for Patton had considered this a lot and had often thought that she must be otherworldly, hence why she could never be seen, but now she was in Patton’s world. Or her right hand was.

Would Patton be able to touch it? Or would her hand pass straight through her Angel’s ghostly form, like she had so often read in stories. Perhaps a more sensible person would have thought of the thousands of reasons not to take this mysterious figure’s hand. Not Patton, though, and she couldn’t quite bring herself to deplore it, for other thoughts came into her head faster. She was dying to test if she actually could. Determine if her Angel was really real, if Emile had been wrong to talk to her so.

And, if she did exist, this was the chance to finally know her tutor better. Or even at all. An opportunity to properly thank her could not be wasted, after everything Patton’s Angel had done for her, every kind word, every gentle critique, every hour spent in the secret room under the theatre, singing back and forth to one another.

Having moved tentatively at first, Patton closed the last of the distance between her hand and her Angel’s with determination. The shock of how cold she was sent a shiver through Patton, thought it was incredibly warm in the theatre. Though unnaturally cold, there was unmistakable solidity in her grip. She was real.

Her hold was firm, but not so firm that Patton could not easily let go, though that was the last thing she wanted to do. She took a slight step backwards, coaxing her Angel out of the mirror. An arm surfaced, then another as Patton reached out to hold her other hand, willing her to overcome her fear and take the final step that would bring them together at last, a sort of leap of faith. Her head was the last thing to cross over, as soon as she was tête à tête with Patton she smiled down at her, soft and subtle. The curly head of her protégée did not even reach her shoulder level. Patton’s smile almost reached her eyes as she finally looked upon the person who had taught her to sing, who had given her everything.

Her hair was a glossy, chestnut brown, pulled back in a very unfeminine style. Patton concluded that she must be wearing a gentleman’s attire as it was all incredibly loose-fitting on her, especially the long, black cloak which almost reached the ground. Her shirt billowed around her and she wore a waistcoat but no tie, or perhaps a small cravat was hidden under her capelet, which completely drowned her shoulders. Patton suddenly became aware of how she had been staring, taking in every aspect of the person she had spent so long with, but never actually set eyes on.

After a few seconds she stopped herself, realising how rude she must seem, how uncomfortable she must be making her mentor, she settled her darting gaze back to meet her eyes, still smiling, signifying that her staring had not caused offence. For the past week she had forced herself to become accustomed to expressions of adoration from people barely known to her, but no one had ever, ever looked at Patton like that before. The unbearable warmth of the theatre always reached its peak right after the show as the audience filed out - that must be why her face suddenly flushed.

Patton finally broke their eye contact, struggling to think of something to say, wondering why her Angel hadn’t spoken yet - she always knew just the right words. And there was no need for her to be reduced to a voice in her head anymore, they could finally talk as Patton always dreamed.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Patton managed to whisper, slowly swinging both their arms to fill the silence that followed. But in the way of response, her mentor simply let go of one of her hands, keeping that just-firm-enough grip on the other to lead her towards an old rug in the corner of the room that Patton didn’t dare touch.

Her Angel carelessly cast aside this antique, disturbing a very large quantity of dust, and though the rug had been flung away from them, some still settled on the pristine white costume Patton was wearing. She accidentally inhaled some and fought the urge to cough. Because that would be rude. And would ruin her singing voice for the two shows she had to perform tomorrow.

She’d been so distracted by this that it took her several seconds to notice what was hidden under the rug - a wooden trapdoor that had been there goodness knows how long. Although Patton imagined the long line of lead sopranos who had used this dressing room before her, and could hardly blame them for wanting to escape this place. Her companion edged the door open slowly, but not slow enough to prevent the old wood from creaking.

“Patton, are you alright in there?”

Her mentor jumped, turning to Patton with panicked eyes. She’d completely forgotten about Roman. Suffice to say she felt completely silly for wondering why her Angel was not speaking. A question in her mismatched eyes - how to proceed, was it too dangerous? Patton responded with a finger to her lips and a determined nod down at the trapdoor. Past the point of no return now, she simply had to see where it led.

The other woman continued opening the door, impossibly slower than before. Patton was greeted with complete darkness, unable to see what lay below. Once this was accomplished, with complete confidence her mentor jumped down, and landed so her head and shoulders were just poking out, and she was an unusually tall lady. At the slightest showing of hesitation from Patton, her Angel opened her arms, an invitation.

“Ma chérie, don’t be afraid.”

The exact same tone as earlier, when she had appeared in the mirror. But her lips didn’t move. Had she spoken again in Patton’s head? Or had she imagined it? Whatever was true, she was already lifting Patton down the trapdoor, not letting go of her left hand once she was on solid ground. She continued leading her through the darkened corridor, quickly evolving into a maze of passages dimly lit by the lantern she was holding in the other hand, which Patton swore she did not have when they were in the dressing room.

Patton often grew restless and wandered the theatre, but not even she had seen any of this before. She knew she should’ve realised a lot sooner that they were not in the Opéra Populaire anymore, though she could not pinpoint the exact moment when they left. For years she had worked, practised, eaten, slept, lived here and hardly ever got the opportunity to leave, a fact her Angel knew well. Perhaps she was leading them to some place where the air was cool, far from the stifling pressures of the theatre, where they’d be able to see the sky. She cursed herself for revelling in the liberation.

Their pace quickened, moving so fast her Angel’s cape billowed out behind her. At some point the ground beneath had changed from soft, rotting wood to squelching mud.

Her almost-too-white costume was getting ruined, no matter how carefully she tried to tread. When questioned about how it would happened she would inevitably have to fabricate some sort of story, maybe now the seamstress would make her something to wear which made her look a little less like a wedding cake, she thought before she could stop herself.

’ Who are you?’ she questioned, her heart rate quickening.

’ Finally myself ,’ some deep part of her retorted.

Even though she was sure they were now far from anywhere anyone could hear them, all the time her Angel did not speak a word. Not even when they came to a vast lake which seemed to completely block their path, but apparently she had a solution for that too. A little way along the edge of the water she had a small rowing boat, inviting Patton on board.

The lake was unbelievably clear. Though the sewage-filled river Seine, the only other body of water she had ever really seen, truly set a poor standard. Leaning over the edge of the boat, as far as she dared, she could see her reflection perfectly. And she truly saw herself for the first time in several days. She had glanced in the dressing room mirror before every show to check her makeup and hair were perfect, though it was incredibly windswept now, but that was hardly shocking. But the extent of the run-down, tired, hollow look in her eyes was not something she had expected, though she perhaps should have. In growing used to seeing herself in grand costumes, she had slowly stopped recognising herself.

She tore her eyes from her own reflection, not liking the thoughts it stirred up, and gazed up at her Angel instead. The boat afforded a different view of her, Patton sat behind her while she stood, strong arms rowing them to goodness knows where. Perhaps when they finally arrived they would sing together and talk all night and, if she asked nicely, once they had become properly acquainted, maybe she would let Patton remove her mask, finally see her Angel’s face. Patton was determined that there was nothing that could be hidden under there that could make her dislike someone who had been so kind to her. Though there was something she had remembered while on this long journey. Something she had tried to put off thinking about for as long as possible, but it kept clawing its way back into her mind.

She recalled being told of such a mask before, knew exactly where she’d heard it - the girls’ dormitory, late one night after rehearsal. All the young dancers awake past their bedtime, gathered around Signora Virgil Giudicelli, who was telling scary stories. One in particular made them squeal and hide behind their bedsheets - the legend of the Phantom of the Opera. And she could not deny that her Angel matched the exact description of those who claimed to have seen him.

Lost in the memory of being the only one of her cohort not frightened by Virgil’s tale, determined like her teacher Logan that there must be some sensible explanation for all these seemingly supernatural occurrences, even now she couldn’t bring herself to fear someone she had grown to trust so much…  besides, if she were to cry out for help, she was sure that no one would hear her. 

When the voice first spoke in her head, all those years ago, she had briefly thought it could be the Phantom who it belonged to - she hadn’t heard it until she came here after all. But she had quickly discounted it. Virgil, and the owners (who had been here far longer than her) referred to a man. But the voice Patton had been hearing all these years was distinctly that of a lady. Inside her mind, Patton could not reconcile the Phantom and her Angel as one and the same. Nothing made sense, and just as she was giving up hope of making it make sense, she felt a sudden jolt as the boat hit land. They’d arrived.

It was not exactly the destination Patton had hoped for.

———

“Pat? Patton ?” He was about to pound his fist against the door before he held himself back.

“That scary ballet lady did say she might have fallen asleep in there,” he muttered to himself. “Suppose I’ll come back tomorrow.”

Roman’s footsteps faded away, the candle in the empty dressing room having been extinguished by a sudden, supernatural rush of cold air.

Chapter Text