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“Sold!”
The auctioneer rapped his gavel on the podium.
Scattered applause echoed across the warped and dusty stage. Those attending sat in assorted chairs. They had gathered here to take home their piece of history. Or myth—as some would prefer to say.
The auctioneer thanked the buyer as one assistant quickly carted away a sold antique. Another assistant sat a small, covered item before the auctioneer with tired automation.
“Lot 665, ladies and gentlemen.” The assistant removed the dust cloth with gloved hands. “A black lacquer music box, gold painted with pearl inlay. It is a collector’s piece, to be sure. The lacquer has preserved the unique artwork. On its lid: the image of an antlered deer charging a wild boar.” Even in this dim room, the gold detail shined against the slick black finish. “This item—discovered in the vaults of the theatre—is still in working order. Showing here.”
The assistant delicately opened the lid. Silence lingered for a moment before an eerie chime burst from the music box. A melancholy tune chilled its audience. It echoed strangely in the gaping auditorium and spread its melody like a fog.
The theatre’s velvet cushioned chairs were rotted and gray with dust and ash. The once beautifully painted ceiling peeled in ragged strips, exposing broken boards and chipping plaster. The box seats lining the walls had begun to collapse, bowing low with the weight of years neglected.
Still, this song belonged to this place and nowhere else.
“May I start at twenty francs?” After a hesitant silence, “Fifteen then?” The first hand went up, and the auctioneer’s chant began in earnest. “Twenty, monsieur? Thank you. I see twenty five. Twenty five? Thirty! Thirty francs? Selling at thirty then? Thirty going once, twice—Sold! For thirty franks to the Vicomtesse de Verger. Thank you, madame.”
The music box’s sharp sound lingered even after the lid was shut.
White gloved hands brought the Viscountess’s prize to her. The young man attending her accepted it, lowering it to where she sat in an ornate wooden wheelchair.
“What is it, mother?”
Her dry voice snapped, “A collector’s piece indeed.” She brushed the lid with the black lace of her gloves. Her touch stilled on the stag. “It’s just as he said it was. I didn’t believe him.”
Stepping from behind the chair, a gentle hand covered hers. “It’s in the past, Alana.”
Vicomtesse Alana de Verger stared into her lover’s eyes. Margo had aged with grace. In her stoic face, only her wrinkled eyes revealed the years that had passed. Alana was her sister in name and widowed mother to the Verger heir—the child they had raised together. With that cursed name, they would be tied together forever. Her beloved family.
“In the past,” Alana repeated. “Burned and buried for good measure.” She returned to the music box, speaking to it with venom, “Yet here you are. Will you still play when all the rest of us are dead?”
“Lot 666 then! A chandelier in pieces!” The auctioneer began again, and the room buzzed with excitement.
Alana whispered sharply to her son, “I’ve seen enough.” Without delay her son wheeled her away from the crowd. Margo stayed close at her side. The men had been using a large flat ramp to move items onto the stage. It was steep, and her son was careful with her wheelchair, moving Alana at an agonizing pace.
The auctioneer announced without pause, “As you may have read in his Memoirs of a Manager, Monsieur Frederick Chilton described the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera at length. We are told—ladies and gentlemen—that this is the very chandelier which figures in the famous tragedy.”
On the audience floor, Alana could see the door to their exit. She willed her son to go faster, realizing too late what sat in the center of the first-floor seats. A great skeletal shape loomed under the cover of a large white sheet.
“Our workshops have resorted it,” the auctioneer proudly said, “and fitted parts of it with wiring for the new electric light. Though still incomplete, perhaps we can bring this magnificent piece to its former glory and frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination! Gentlemen!”
Alana’s eyes widened as the assistants tore the sheet away and whipped dust into the air that rose in a smoke like plume.
The lights in the auditorium dimmed as a heavy switch was flipped. The buzzing mouths of onlookers was overtaken by the snapping and crackling of electricity.
Lights on the multiple rings of the chandelier flickered to life. They were housed in glass shapes meant to replicate the candles they had replaced. Crystal and gold and bone were hauled into the air by grunting men on the balcony.
Alana’s breath stopped in her throat.
This was not the chandelier she had seen as a girl the first time she set foot in the Opera House. This was not the great glistening light that oversaw her career, from lowly corps de ballet to soloist to sudden soprano. This was not the chandelier that oversaw her promise, her pride and glory, but the malformed reminder of that shining life’s violent end.
This was the heart of the Opera House transformed. Great antlers were wreathed in the inner rings of the instillation, creating thorny hands that stretched beyond the cascading crystal. As the chandelier ascended, Alana had the abrupt thought that the hands seemed lonely. Empty and longing to embrace.
Rage followed the realization at what was missing from the spectacle, and Alana struck her cane against the wheelchair.
Her son had stopped to stare in awe at the blinding, swaying work of art. He jolted to life at the crack of his mother’s cane. Margo took Alana’s hand and held it tight against the armrest.
Alana bowed her head to hide from the light, but could not escape the tinkling of crystal and rattling of chains.
Behind it, the chorus of dissonate screams.
Will bore down against the rain. He kept his hat firmly on his head even as the wind tried to steal it away. His shoes clapped on the wet cobblestone while horse drawn carriages barreled down the street. He passed others that shielded themselves with umbrellas and held them against the battering wind.
It was a rare storm, or so the officers had told him before he left the commissariat. None of them deigned to tell him the guard had already taken their carriages to the Opera House and left him behind.
The commissary had requested his presence at the Opéra Garnier, and Will could hardly refuse. As they continued to remind him, his involvement in their last case had proved pivotal in the life of at least one young woman.
Those scurrying for cover darted across Will’s vision like black smudges. The reflections in the cobblestone brightened impossibly, and Will lifted his head against the rain. The Opera House loomed there. Illuminated stone glowed warmly in the grey storm. The façade of the theatre was something to behold. Will absorbed the marble faces and bronze statues. He was dwarfed by the high reaching columns and sprawling reliefs that told carved stories he did not recognize but felt their gravity. One could stare at this marvel and find new revelations with each visit.
Marring the scene was a collection of empty carriages and restless horses stopped at the Opera House steps. Will approached as the horses shook off water. He pitied the poor beasts. The leather of Will’s gloves creaked as he clenched his hand.
Up the steps, angelic figures observed his approach. High above them, rows of masked faces gaped. Their eyes and mouths were ominous black shapes in the distance. Will could not linger on them, already their eyes followed as he walked into the protection of the opera house’s colonnade—the covered exterior to the proper pavilion entrance. Will ruffled the coat on his shoulders and shook out his hat as he went. The doors opened on his approach. He tipped his head to the attendants.
A familiar voice greeted him. “Good evening, Inspector. It seems you’ve been caught in the storm.”
Waiting for him was the house manager looking as pristine as ever. His rich navy suit and patterned burgundy tie was more color than Will had seen all day, setting the Opera House’s grandiose interior aside. The manager rose out of the gold and red backdrop like a living painting.
Abruptly aware of himself, Will hesitated to take another step inside. He was already forming a puddle where he stood.
“Allow me.” The concierge held out a hand.
Will hesitated only a moment before shuffling off his coat for the concierge to take. Despite only sharing a few moments with Hannibal Lecter, Will understood the man had a hidden stubbornness and did not dare refuse him.
Will asked gruffly, “Is it customary for the house manager to take every guest’s coat?”
Hannibal smiled. “Hardly. Only those few he considers friends.” He beckoned Will to follow. The coat still dripped. Water plopped on polished stone. Will watched it, lightly ashamed. The small plops suddenly turned a darker shade, and Will snapped his eyes back to his escort. Hannibal spoke as they walked. “The municipal guard are already here.”
“So I noticed.” After a thought Will added, “Can the horses be pulled into the stables, Doctor? The officers bypassed the pavilion entirely.”
Hannibal glanced over his shoulder to take Will in. “Of course.” He waved for a boy and gave his orders. “I’ve not practiced medicine in many years, Inspector. There’s no need for formalities.”
“You could have fooled me.” Will cast a knowing look Hannibal’s way. Then he said, “If we’re splitting hairs, I’m not officially an inspector of the commissariat.”
Hannibal offered, “Then perhaps we should forgo titles and simply address each other as peers.”
“No no. We can’t have that.” Will chuckled darkly to himself. “We all have our roles to play.”
Hannibal eyes creased with amusement. “As you wish.”
They fell into amiable silence on their walk to the auditorium. The golden light that seemed to come from all around was painfully bright. The marbled columns and sweeping staircases did not enchant Will. Not when he still felt like a smear on Opéra Garnier’s fine floor.
“How is Miss Hobbs?” Will asked.
“Very well, thank you.” Fondness rang in Hannibal’s voice, “She will be pleased to see you.”
Will shook his head. “She’s too busy to bother with anything but her recovery.”
“It’s been some time since then, Inspector.”
Hannibal slowed his step, and Will at last matched pace with the man. They stopped at the entrance to the theatre side by side. Will met the doctor’s eye, and the memory of their meeting swallowed him.
Revolver cast aside, Will’s slick hands encircled young Abigail Hobbs’s throat. Blood pumped against his palm. Its vibrant red was everywhere. Spilling ribbons and velvet, smooth and warm. Will heard scuttling and locked eyes with Abigail's wounded father as he dragged himself backward. He was still alive.
Will had come to the theatre alone. None had believed Will’s suspicions of Garret Jacob Hobbs. And the commissary held those reservations until they later discovered Hobbs’s wife dead in their home and human hair stuffed into their pillows.
As Hobbs staggered to his feet, the fear in his eyes was not for himself but for his child. His daughter’s world was growing too wide. She was flying out of his reach. His clawing, suffocating fear drove this man to abduct and murder eight young women just like Abigail, but no amount of fantasy and substitution could stop the inevitable.
Abigail was singing in the chorus when Will arrived at the Opera House. Seeing her standing on the stage, her wide eyes reminded Will of a songbird. The lark could not comprehend her cage, yet in her heart she sensed the walls closing in.
One of the staff escorted Will to the backstage area. They left him to speak to the conductor and stop the rehearsal, but they didn’t get the chance. In a burst of unrest, Garret Jacob Hobbs darted onstage. Will wondered still how Hobbs had known judgement had come for him.
He dove for his daughter and put a knife to her throat. In Will’s memory, her song would forever be entwined with her scream.
Will had his gun trained on them before he could think. Will watched the glinting knife dig into Abigail’s skin. The jerk of Will’s shot flung the weapon out of Hobbs’s hand. A spurt of blood glistened in the stage lights.
Will caught the girl in his arms, and his revolver dropped onto a large coil of rope.
“No—No.” Will helped Abigail to the ground and fumbled to stop the blood. Her panicked eyes were on her father. Betrayal and fear took the place of love.
The despair on Hobbs’s face said it all. I’ve lost her.
Hobbs dove for Will’s gun. Only later would Will recall the rapid slide of rope on wood.
The tangled mess of rope caught Hobbs in a web, and unseen weights hauled him off the ground. He slammed hard on the stage before being lifted upside down and vanishing into the rafters. The gun dropped once more at Will’s side.
A calm voice told Will, “I’ve got her. It’s alright,” and his trembling hands were pushed aside.
Will’s bloody hands scrambled for the gun.
Hobbs, lassoed and flying, stared death in the face as Will leveled his gun and fired until the barrel was empty. Blood spewed as it poured from the man’s chest and over Will like rain.
The revolver hit the stage with a final thud. Will returned to Abigail, locking eyes with who had come to his aid.
“Her wound is not deep,” Hannibal had said with a tight smile. “She will sing again.”
Will scoured the wings for whoever loosed the rope. Stagehands and young dancers observed in horror. Their voices rose from a murmur.
“It was the ghost.”
“The Phantom!”
“Did you see him?”
“I saw a figure on the catwalk!”
They searched above. Will lifted his gaze to do the same but was captured by the sight of Garret Jacob Hobbs. He was held aloft by one leg, the other sagged at an odd angle. The man’s arms hung limply over his head. Blood had made a dark trail down his chest and dripped from his fingertips. Plop. Plop. The stage lights hit Hobbs from below, casting strange shadows on his face. His lifeless eyes slowly moved out of view as he spun on the rope.
Will thought of The Hanged Man.
As if born from his own mind, he heard, “Death hangs overhead while still we live. Thanks to you.”
Will turned to the reverent voice.
With a blink, the blood was gone and the memory with it.
Hannibal stood at Will’s side. He opened his hand, entreating Will to enter the theatre.
“After you, Inspector.”