Author: Jen D.

The next day, Edmée arrived at the opera house early, anxious to read more of the Phantom’s musings. Once she arrived she looked for Meg Giry but was unable to find the dancing instructor. So, letting one of the stagehands know where she was going, she began the trip back down to the Phantom’s lair.

        The lair was dark, as the usual guide had not been down yet to light the candles. Edmée went around lighting them one by one with loving care. After the candles were lit, she settled into a chair near the lone table and opened the journal, picking up where she left off.

        Ma Chère Confidente,

        Christine has progressed nicely in her lessons. We have expanded her vocal range nearly a whole octave. We have been practicing whenever she goes to the chapel to pray for her father.

        I’ve learned he himself was very talented musically, usually playing the violin for Christine to sing along. I have done some research in the newspapers that Madame Giry brings me and found that he was rather famous, both here in Paris and his home country of Sweden.

        Her mother had died in childbirth. At first I thought it was during her pregnancy with Christine, but apparently she had died giving birth to Christine’s little sister, who died shortly after birth herself. Her mother was also a singer, though I have been unable to find anything else about her. Christine remembers her only vaguely.

        Christine’s unwavering love for her father reminds me of my own, though I don’t remember him much. I do remember that he was a cruel man, having sold me to the circus when I was very young. Apparently, my face frightened him, though he had claimed his reason was that I reminded him of my dear deceased mother, Marie. I’ve a picture of her, and while there is only a slight resemblance, my horrendous face is no match to her lovely one. We do share an eye shape, and my lips have a vague likeness to her own, but beyond that I cannot see. Perhaps my outward hideousness stems from my father’s inward ugliness. He is still alive, as far as I know. When Christine tells me the lovely stories of her father, I find I am envious of her pleasant memories. Perhaps I’ve become the green-eyed monster inside that I am outside.

        Edmée wiped away a tear that streamed down her cheek. This poor child had been through so much that it broke Edmée’s heart. As she flipped the page, a piece of paper fell out of the journal. Edmée picked it up and eyed it. It was a rough draft of a lullaby, full of scratched out words and notes. Edmée set the music aside and continued to read the journal.

        Ma Chère Confidente,

        Today was Christine’s birthday. She said that she was turning sixteen, meaning we are the same age now! As a gift, I composed a song for her. I had intended for it to be a ballad, but it somehow turned into a lullaby.

        Edmée paused and picked up the music again. It was clearly a song meant for a soprano, as it had sweet and sweeping high notes. She hummed it to herself with her usual perfect pitch. It was so beautiful.

        Christine loved the song when I sang it for her. She said it reminded her of a childhood friend. When I pressed her for more details, she told me of a young man who had been a dear friend. The boy had run into the sea to rescue the scarf she was wearing the first night I sang to her.

        Oddly, I felt my jealousy rearing its ugly head again. Something about this boy I instinctively didn’t like. Maybe it was because I wished Christine would speak of me with as much fondness as she spoke of this Raoul de Chagny.

        This sentence made Edmée pause. Of course, she knew Christine and Raoul had loved each other. After all, they had been married for almost twenty years. Still, it was different seeing it in this child’s writing.

        “Edmée!”

        Edmée jumped and shut the journal, using the lullaby to mark her place. She turned and saw little Meg Giry. “Miss Giry! You frightened me.”

        Meg giggled. “Forgive me. I was waiting for you in the lobby when one of the stagehands said you told him you were coming down here. How did you find your way back down?”

        “I have a good memory,” Edmée said quietly.

        “Oh, okay,” Meg said, a little too cheerfully for Edmée’s liking. “Anyway, would you like to go watch the rehearsal? They’re starting soon.”

        Edmée nodded. When Meg turned away, Edmée slipped the small journal into the pocket of her cloak. She had to read more about this “Phantom” girl.