Christine

"Shhh," I whispered, fumbling with the narrow silver key as Meg struggled not to giggle. "We can laugh all we want when we're inside."

She obediently clamped a hand over her pursed lips, but to no avail, as she snorted silently into her palms. I grinned widely as the door swung open, and we crept into the darkness of the dressing room like two spies. The door closed behind us. I could hardly see a thing, and for a second I felt myself subconsciously reaching out for the Angel's presence…but he was not with me this evening.

A match struck with a hiss, and a candle was lit. My heart leapt within my chest and I spun toward the light. "Meg! You frightened me!"

She gave me a quizzical look between her giggles and said, "Christine, really! It's only a candle—would you prefer the dark?" The question made me pause, but before I could return with a comical answer to cover my unease, she set her lips and blew it out.

The both of us shrieked and grabbed at each other's hands, caught in the intrigue of the moment. Meg relit the candle and placed it in the centre of the dresser, and its flame and the reflection of it illuminated the room quite nicely. I turned to her and clasped my hands together. "Lock the door…quickly."

She skipped back, listening at it for a second's time, and locked it. I watched the flickering of the candle in the mirror. When I turned back to my best friend, she was already at the closet, running her hands over the plentiful dresses.

I joined her. "This would be a fantastic colour on you," I said, pulling a great pink and gold number into my arms, giddy that I had such access to La Carlotta's finery! "It matches the dressing room, in fact."

Meg gathered the dress into her arms, burying her face in its length. "What shall you try first?" she asked. For a moment I surveyed the contents of the closet with my eyes, until my eyes were caught, and I took for myself a darker magenta and crimson dress and smiled into its lacy neckline. Meg crinkled her nose. "But Christine, surely the light blue one is far more your style."

I pondered it for a moment. The light blue was the feeling of a sky sprinkled with tiny clouds—a happy feel, but perhaps a bit dull. "Don't you like the dark colours?"

"Well," she replied, "yes, for Carlotta, maybe…but I think you are far more sunshine than she is, at any rate."

Sunshine. Sunshine in a blue sky, sprinkled with clouds. Sunshine wasn't dull, not at all…but the deep red of the one that caught my eye seemed to laugh with secrets. Laugh with secrets. It rang poetic. After a moment I lifted my shoulders in a shrug, returned the dress, and opted for the light blue Meg had suggested. "I suppose the other just reminded me of…well…roses."

Slipping out of our dressing gowns, we were both in merely our undergarments. "You remind me much more of lavender…or lilies. I wouldn't say roses." Meg stepped into a portion of the extravagant dress, her face visibly cringing at the itchy feel of the wiry lace. "What flower would you liken me to?"

Helping myself into the pale blue gown, I studied her. "A daffodil, of course."

"Because of my hair," she added. "That's what I would have thought, too."

I thrust my arm through a frilly pastel sleeve. "But wouldn't it be far more beautiful to be thought of as a rose?" A memory of the rose-petal scent of my Angel drifted past my nose—he was not here with me, but thoughts of him always were.

Meg shrugged, but I could see in her eyes that she had something to say. It did not take her long—it never did. How I loved my spirited friend! "Roses distress me, you know, Christine. Don't you know who roses represent?"

For a moment I paused; roses represented my Angel, of course, but I could not tell her that. "Who?"

"Why, the Phantom of the Opera, of course," she stated through clenched teeth as she bit her sleeve to force her hand through.

A chill scurried down my spine. "Oh, yes," I agreed, a bit puzzled that such a thought could escape me. And then, a bit puzzled that both Angel and O.G. were represented in our minds by roses. I supposed it was natural that Meg would first associate a rose with the Ghost and I my Angel, for we both had our fascinations. Ghosts were of far less interest to me than Angels, and Meg did not believe in the Angel of Music. Therefore it was expected that our different minds should come to different conclusions.

Meg smiled a bit nervously. "Secretly, roses do frighten me," she confided. "Or perhaps, excite me. Whenever I see one, I always think of the Opera Ghost, and think that perhaps he had been there…and then I never know if I should run, or if I should linger, and see if I can catch a glimpse of him."

I forced a smile. "Meg, you forget just how terrified of him you always become. What would you do if you were to come face-to-face with him?"

"Help me with my laces?" I glanced down at my own half-way donned dress and smiled, moving to fumble with her ties. "I'm not sure, really," she continued. "I would want to scold him for scaring us so often, of course! But I think if my nerves failed me, I could only stare—stare, and say nothing."

I pulled the laces tight. "What do you suppose he looks like?"

"I've told you before, Christine—he's all bones, and he wears evening dress!"

"What do you suppose he looked like before he became a ghost?"

Meg paused, and turned to face me. "You know, I've never really given that one much thought." A brief grin brightened her golden features—like sunlight spilling on a daffodil. "In fact, I never really guessed that he was perhaps a man before he was the Ghost! But all ghosts were alive once, so it only makes sense!"

"Perhaps he was handsome, and Joseph Buquet is jealous," I teased.

Meg giggled happily. "Perhaps Buquet killed him, and that is why Maman says the Ghost is going to get him some day."

At once I felt alarmed. "I do not wish to speak so lightly of the Phantom." I shuddered. "He scares me more than he scares you."

"But you always are so brave when we're around the other girls."

I smiled. "I only pretend." And it was true. I was full of pretenses. As much fun as stealing into Signora Giudicelli's dressing room had turned out to be, it took a great deal for me to ever have the gut to do it—and I only ever did such a thing to spare myself from something even worse. In this case, the Gypsy carnival.

When I was a small child, I was only ever "brave" for the same reason—it was always the easiest of two paths to take. I remembered the fancy days with Raoul's family and his little social circle of elite heirs and heiresses. Father had brought me up with so many stories, it was always easy to create such plans of havoc and fun! But because I was the impoverished violinist's daughter, the one without money or prestige, I was the one they thought had nothing to lose, and therefore the ideas I gave them, the ones they loved so much, became also my quandary to carry them out.

Raoul always cherished our friendship, but I was forever so intent on being accepted by his wealthy friends, I would step headfirst into these situations that were the fault of my own imagination. I could secretly, lightly, blame Raoul for getting us into those messes, but it was always Raoul who would get us out of trouble.

"Let me help you, Christine." Meg turned, her bodice securely tightened, and began to string mine up as well. The overwhelming pungency of wine and Carlotta's Italian perfumes mushroomed into my nostrils, and I closed my eyes, feeling as each lace was pulled taught across my back. It was now naught but a fantasy…but one day, this would be real. I would have two maidservants fluffing my sleeves and tying my bows, and a third tousling my hair into stage-worthy perfection, and I would be closing my eyes like this, anticipating the performance that blossomed only moments away. My head would be taller and my shape more curvaceous, but above all, I would have the voice of an Angel to level the audience in their seats, and the songs of another Angel to softly congratulate me, in a tone only I could hear; and I would smile, then, and think of Father, and he would smile back.

"There." I spun delicately toward Meg, and curtsied. We both turned at once toward the grand mirror.

I supposed Meg's dress fit her better than mine did, but it was clear just how ridiculous we looked. Neither of us had even given thought to the wire-rimmed petticoats and whale-bone corsets that were necessary for such extravagance. The finely tapered waists hung loose about our bodies, and the trains of each dress pooled in ruffles at our feet. The sleeves bunched at our elbows in their length, and the great necklines of each bodice lay awkward against our chests.

We met each other's gazes in the tall mirror and doubled over in laughter.

"The gloves," I cried through a mirthful heave. "Where are the gloves?"

We wrenched open the drawers of the dresser, rummaging through folds of stockings and scarves, until two pairs of gloves that matched each dress were found. Still giggling, we drew them over our arms.

"Buona notte, il tesoro...li ringrazia, grazie..."

I slammed the dresser drawer shut and twirled. Meg was staring with horror at the grand doors. The candlelight flickered ominous.

Without another word, we bolted in opposite directions. "Here!" I hissed at Meg, and I threw myself into Carlotta's hamper amidst worn costumes and nightwear. Meg flung herself on top of me, pressing my face into yards of unwashed fabric. I caught a strange whiff of sweat and perfume.

We lay still.

The door opened, and the diva's voice continued to coo. Ubaldo Piangi was with her. Two kisses were made, and with my flawed knowledge of Italian I understood that he was merely waiting for her to discard her costume.

The door closed, leaving Piangi out and locking La Carlotta and her maidservants in with us.

After a passing of twenty minutes of broken French, pompous demands, tears, and spontaneous bursts of exaggerated song, Meg and I were inconspicuously blanketed by numerous undergarments and Pamina's elaborate gown.

And then more…and more…and more….

Perhaps she had raked through her entire closet to find something to wear for the evening's gala. But at the end of twenty minutes, the room was a great deal quieter, and the hamper, with us still in it, was rolling toward the door.

Meg found my hand and squeezed it.

We rolled through chilly halls as the two maidservants chatted amongst themselves. I wasn't sure whether to be nervous or giddy at our circumstance, or where we'd end up, but I knew such an ordeal would satisfy Meg enough that we could avoid the carnival.

My Angel would be quite cross with me if I should ever choose to go.