DISCLAIMER: the musical “Phantom of the Opera” is Andrew Lloyd Webber’s, and its story is essentially that of Gaston Leroux. I just wanted to add to it a tad.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: my first Phantomfic. (usually i stick to rent or the x-files.) be kind and review. flames will be cringingly accepted, but i warn you, i hold grudges for a long time. anyway, this starts at the end of the musical.

Mask
by kaydee falls
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Scrambling through the underground caverns, Meg Giry heard voices somewhere ahead of her. Flickers of torchlight danced across the glistening walls and glittered on the strange river. She couldn’t tell anymore whether the sounds and light were coming from Christine and the Phantom or from the chanting mob behind her. Echoes bounced and spun, confusing her. What was this place? Where was Christine?

There! That haunting sound -- what was it? Meg broke into a run, slipping as she tried not to fall into the river. Finally, the water ended, and she dashed to the pier. Empty. Eyes darting -- she had to get to her friend before this lynch mob! -- she caught the source of the torchlight. Was that Christine? No. A man. The Phantom?

Then a puff of white smoke, like a mist -- and he was gone. Slowly, she crept over behind the organ, glanced across empty space to an ornate chair. She could have sworn the man had gone to sit in it, but there was no one there. She thought she caught a glimpse of something white on the seat, not a cushion. Walking softly to the chair, she picked up a smooth, cool object, and held it aloft. The light hit it, and it shone in her hand like a lantern: a white mask.

She heard the others marching up behind her, still crying out for the murderer. Whirling, she thrust the Phantom’s mask before her, a shield. Their voices broke off, and the stopped in their tracks.

“He’s gone,” she cried. “So are Christine and the Vicomte. They’ve vanished. This is all that was left.”

Her arm trembled, and a man -- one of the stagehands, she realized distractedly -- stepped forward, moving as though to take the mask out of her hand. “No!” she cried, and clutched it close. Then, softly, almost soundlessly, she whispered, “She was my best friend.”

The crowd fanned out around her, continuing their search, if subdued. An arm snaked around her, tried to direct her, but she shook it off. Slowly, heavily, she began walking back to the river, to the opera house. No one tried to stop her again.

* * * * *

Three years passed before the opera house reopened for performance. No other trace of the Phantom had been found, nor of Raoul or Christine. It was as though the trio had vanished into thin air. Perhaps all together, perhaps each alone, who knew?

As André and Firmin prepared to put together a new production of a new opera, they called back much of the old staff and performers. Meg Giry and her mother were among the first to return. Carlotta never did. Instead, a new but equally insufferable prima donna had come over from Austria. Meg hated her, as did the other chorus girls. But none of them had the voice to take over, as Christine had once done. They all thought that Meg ought to take proper voice lessons, being the best dancer, but she laughed it off. She was no leading lady, she told them. No amount of lessons could make her a true soprano.

Secretly, she simply couldn’t allow herself to usurp Christine’s place. She was sure that her best friend would return one day, and wanted her to find Meg still just the simple chorus girl. Better to be the best chorus girl than the worst prima donna, anyway. And it was true that few leading roles were meant for altos. To be a lead, someone would have to write an opera around her particular voice -- and no one would ever do that.

Meg missed her friend terribly. She had always kept the mask, just as a reminder of the opera house of old. But now she felt that she should move on. Her mother told her that she couldn’t waste her life grieving over the three who had disappeared. Madame Giry feared the mask and hated the memory of the Phantom. She had wanted to throw the mask into the fire, when Meg had revealed that she had kept it.

But Meg couldn’t forget the last music she’d heard as she approached the underground lair. That sound of a man, wailing in utter grief and agony. The Phantom. He haunted her yet,

Maybe she should get rid of the mask. But burn it? Never. Equally repulsive was the thought of turning it over to the police, or to André or Firmin. Finally, she decided that she would just replace it, return underground through the mirror and toss it into the river. That’s where it belonged.

But the mirror was in Christine’s dressing room, and the dressing room had been locked up out of fear, when the opera house had been temporarily closed. And the fear of it remained.

Stealing away from the stage between acts, on the opening night of the new opera, Meg carefully removed a small piece of stiff wire from her deep pockets. Inserting it into the lock, she twisted it this way and that, praying that her skills weren’t rusty. After all, she hadn’t picked a lock since she was a young child, playing around with the street urchins at the market.

Finally, she heard the tumblers click into place, and the door creaked open. Hastily, she shut it behind her. The gas lamp in the dressing room still worked, fortunately, and she turned it on. Stepping across the room, she put a hand up to the mirror. It was solid. “Oh no,” she whispered. How could this be? Frustrated, she pounded on the mirror, to no avail, then gave up and slumped into a chair. Of course, this was impossible. No one ever really understood how they could pass through the mirror in the first place. And now that the Phantom was gone, so too was the passage to his underground lair.

The next best thing was, of course, to just leave the mask in here. With a sigh, Meg conceded that this would have to do. She really ought to be returning backstage, anyway. The chorus girls were to go on in a few minutes.

But as she set the white mask on the dressing room table, she noticed a letter lying there. Curious, she picked it up. It was addressed to her. Unfolding it, she immediately recognized Christine’s looping script, and she began to read it hungrily.

“My dearest Meg,

“I have no doubt that you will receive this, when the time is right. Do not ask me how I know this; I can just feel it. I always was the one for feeling, remember, while you were ever logical. Your finding this letter defies logic in itself, for I have no intention of sending it. I plan to set it down on my writing desk, and leave. We are moving tomorrow, you see, but I feel sure that the new occupants of our house will never set eyes on this letter. Don’t fret about the impossibilities involved; merely accept that you are reading it and I was right all along.

“I cannot tell you our current residence, or where we are moving. Be content to know that we are in America, and happy. I am expecting our second child in two months; I do hope it is a girl. Our first was a boy, Erik; he is quite a handful.

“I trust this note finds you in good health and a merry disposition, as always. Never worry for me; trust that I am, and always shall be, free and happy. This is all I can write, for now and ever; I do apologize. Perhaps we two shall cross paths one day. Stranger things have happened.

“Look after my Angel of Music for me. He is lonely. He always has been.

“I remain, as always, your very dear friend,

“Christine, la Vicomtesse de Chagny.”

It was dated four days earlier.

Wordlessly, Meg read the letter five times, then shredded it into tiny pieces. It was for her eyes alone.

Sitting in the chair, she hugged herself. She felt cold. Quietly, she began to sing to herself, remembering that first night in this room with Christine. Thoughtlessly, she transposed the melody into her own soft alto.

“Here in this room, he calls me softly / Somewhere inside, hiding / Somehow I know he’s always with me / He the unseen genius.... Angel of Music / Guide and Guardian / Grant to me your glory / Angel of Music / Hide no longer / Secret and strange Angel....”

A low whisper of song filled the room. “I am your Angel / Come to me: Angel of Music...”

A strange light filled Meg’s eyes, and she stood. “I’ve been waiting,” she said, in a voice hers and yet not her own.

The other voice chuckled softly. “As have I,” it whispered. “For three long years, my new Angel.”

Meg picked up his mask. “I saved this for you.”

“Good girl,” he said approvingly. “An obedient Angel. Now, Meg, we shall make you great. Such a beautiful voice...so different from the other....” He adopted the haunting melody once more. “I am your Angel / Come to me: Angel of Music...”

As though in a trance, she went over to the mirror and stepped through it, mask in hand. Behind her, the glass in the mirror showed only the reflection of an empty dressing room.
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