To Love an Outcast
By Tiffany Sparrow

Prologue–

Paris, 1919

Masquerade
Paper faces on parade
Masquerade
Hide your face so the world will never find you…

The old tune played fresh like new as if she were hearing it for the first time. The words jumbled together in a cluttered, festive heap, somehow managing to blend with the music from the imaginary orchestra in her mind, and slowly falling into place like pieces to a puzzle in almost perfect rhythm. Images of masked people dancing, singing, and laughing swirled around her, all dressed to the nines in elegant costumes in an array of all sorts, proudly strutting their glitz and glamour on the dance floor. The brass section of the orchestra above them belted out the chorus line of the song as her partner twirled her around him, catching her and then falling into step again with the beat of the tympani in one graceful and fluid movement. She turned to face him, locking onto a pair of piercing and hypnotic turquoise eyes that shone through the thick black makeup blended into his mask around them. Her small, delicate fingers entwined with his as they continued their dance, ignoring the other couples cavorting around them gaily as they glided across the smooth, marble floor.

As the music crept to a slow, steady halt, he stopped, holding her body close to his own as their eyes met. They were full of passion, burning intensely with his unconditional love, love that she knew was only meant for her. His face drew close to her own as he lifted his hands to caress her cheeks gently, his lips hovering over hers seductively as her hands gently clenched his arms. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she savored their moment of intimacy, silence replacing the joyous revelry as the world seemed to fade away until nothing but the two of them remained. She felt his warm breath on her skin as his strong, protective arms wrapped around her waist, comforting her against the cold air that had suddenly fallen around them. A smile spread across her face as her eyes fluttered open…

…and everything melted away, fading into the desolate, dreary scene of reality.

Her wheelchair rolled over a broken chunk of marble flooring, startling her from her sweet, blissful reminisce, her mind going blank as she gazed at the devastation around her. Her heart began to race in apprehension, unable to believe that this run-down, dilapidated old building had once been one of the grandest places in all of Paris, and almost desperately, her eyes searched the lifelessness for even the tiniest indication of what it used to be. The sudden noise from her chair slamming down on the floor sent several pigeons flying from their nests, secreted away somewhere in the remains of the balcony surrounding what used to be the Grand Hall, the fluttering of their wings adding to the eeriness of the silence, like death settling in. Kate glanced up at them as they flew over, squinting her brown eyes from the sunlight that leaked through the large, gaping holes in what remained of the sunroof, feeling her soul fill with despair. The young woman pushing her wheelchair stopped abruptly, watching the birds desperately flapping their wings to avoid whatever danger they felt they were in. Dust and cobwebs swirled behind them as they dove into hiding, leaving behind large clouds that seemed to hover in the air as if suspended by invisible lines. Fighting the urge to sneeze, she pinched her nostrils closed and glanced down at the elderly woman in front of her, studying her with curious green eyes that peered out from beneath the black mesh veil covering her face. Massive brown curls secured neatly behind her head into a tight bun hid the delicate curves of her otherwise pretty face, only succeeding in accentuating her small shoulders that were covered by her black dress.

“What is it, Grandmother?” she asked, placing a gloved hand on the elderly woman’s frail shoulder.

The woman continued to gaze around her, her granddaughter’s voice seeming to reverberate off the empty walls of the opera house and sending chills down her spine as if the presence of a ghost was felt. The vibrations sent her back in time once more, hearing the orchestra in her head start up again. The brass, woodwinds, and strings blended together in one perfect melody, creating music that seemed to bring the desolate opera house back to life again. The buzz of quiet laughter and people talking amongst themselves created the scene of an opera preparing to start, seeing herself years younger as she hid behind the elegant red and gold curtains, looking up to search for that familiar face in the darkness that always seemed to be watching her. Through the darkness, she saw him again, his face half–covered by an ivory white mask, and those same blue eyes gazing back at her in adoration. A smile spread across her face as she looked up at him, feeling her heart flutter excitedly beneath her chest when he returned her look…

“…Grandmother?” the woman’s voice shattered her thoughts, pulling her out of her trance–like state again.

“Sorry, darling,” she said in a feeble voice. “Carry on.”

Her granddaughter stared at her nervously, wondering where her mind kept wandering off to. She was beginning to think that coming here wasn’t such a good idea after all. The only thing this place seemed to do was upset her, and even though she’d tried many times to take her back home, the old woman was set in her ways and couldn’t be convinced to leave. They were here for a reason: to find a piece of treasure linked to her past, and they weren’t leaving until they found it. Since there was an auction being held, the old woman had hoped to find what she was looking for.

With great reluctance, she began to push her wheelchair again, watching the aged woman closely. She was so old; there was no telling what kind of damage this dusty environment was doing to her health, much less the memoirs of her past that she seemed to keep fading in and out of. Logically, she felt it was part of her duty to remind the woman of her fragile condition once more, despite knowing that it would probably do nothing but upset her even more. As expected, her grandmother tensed, and ordered her to stop in firm, irritated voice.

“Céline, look around you,” she said, sitting quietly as she motioned with her frail, withered hand at the ruins around them, stubbornly ignoring her trembling fingers.

Céline flinched, embarrassed. “I…I’m sorry. Forgive me, Grandmother. It was not my place.”

Slowly, she lifted her head and gazed at the emptiness around her, wondering if the old woman had spotted something special. Maybe she’d already seen her prized item and was trying to point it out to her! However, as she looked around, she saw nothing but broken glass, cobwebs, rusty frames of various objects, and crumbling statues, not exactly what she thought to be treasured items, even if they were antique. Furrowing her brow, Céline bent forward to look at her.

“I see nothing but destruction.”

Kate’s hazel eyes shone proudly. “Céline, you are standing in the presence of greatness, my child.”

Céline shook her head slowly in disbelief, straightening to take a better look around her. She searched for something in particular to justify her grandmother’s statement, but nothing caught her attention. What was it that the old woman saw that she did not? Was she just now beginning to lose her mind after all these years of holding onto her sanity through trials that would’ve sent any other person into madness? There was nothing great at all about the scenery around them. Everything was so bleak and dismal, so…gloomy. Remains of gilded mirrors were off to her left, but they were shattered beyond repair and lay in pieces on the debris-covered ground, the heavy brass frames around them tarnished green from years of lacking proper care. The pillars that supported the balconies surrounding the Grand Hall were cracked and appeared as if they might collapse at any moment, what remained of their bleached, red curtains hanging down like pieces of old, ragged clothing.

What could possibly be so great about this place? Céline thought. “I’m—I’m sorry, but…”

“Do you know what this place is?” Kate interrupted, adding a dramatic pause to build up the moment. “This is the Opera Populaire: where your grandfather and I were married, where your mother was born, and also my home for nine wonderful years.”

“Until the fire?” Céline added questioningly.

Kate’s mouth twitched nervously. The fire…

It was the very reason this place looked as it did now. All of the fear, panic, and mayhem came flooding back to her like the rushing waters of a river. She heard the screams of all those people all over again as they rushed blindly out of the theater, running for their lives, pushing past one another senselessly in an attempt to save their own skins. The flames had spread so quickly, and it had only been a matter of time before the entire opera house was consumed and destroyed. Several people had been killed by the cause of the fire alone: the giant chandelier that had once hung above them in the auditorium. The death toll had been estimated to be at least twenty, with several others still missing to this day. Even though she tried to push the thought aside, she knew that beneath them were ashes of what possibly remained of human flesh, and it sickened her beyond her worst nightmare. Slowly, her eyes glanced to her right at the remains of the magnificent, grand marble staircase that would take them up to the balconies. A pile of rubble lay in the middle, covering the spot on the floor where the Opera Populaire’s insignia would’ve been. Even through the broken, crumbled banisters, she could see the dozens of wilted roses that lay at the bottom of the debris, hot tears that soon turned cold rolling down her withered cheek as she remembered that fateful night her husband had returned to her, bleeding, broken, and empty handed, having been unable to save the most precious gift they had ever been blessed with.

Céline watched her grandmother straighten, becoming as stiff as the statue that lay a few feet away from them on its side. Mentally, she slapped herself for bringing up the painful subject, knowing that her grandmother didn’t like to talk about it. Without another word, she wheeled the old woman out of the dull, gloom-filled hall and into the auditorium, not knowing where she was going but trusting her instincts to lead her in the right direction. The slam of a gavel told her that her instincts had been right, wheeling the old woman through a wide door frame and into their destination.

Kate’s breath caught in her throat, surveying the scene around her slowly. Rows of empty, rusty metal frames of what used to be chairs lay in straight, even lines in front of the stage, like headstones marking the resting places of the dead. It was ironically appropriate, considering what had happened, and once again the screams of all those innocent people that perished came flooding back to her, haunting her mind and making her want to scream herself. Another slam of the gavel shook her from her nightmarish flashback, bringing her back to the bleakness of reality, prompting a relieved sigh as she thanked the auctioneer silently for keeping her from reliving the night her life fell apart.

“Lot 664, a wooden pistol and three human skulls, from the 1831 production of Robert le Diable by Meyerbeer,” the auctioneer called, his nasally voice shattering the silence.

“Oh, good. It looks like we're just in time,” Céline said quietly, leaning over briefly to look her grandmother in the eye.

Kate was silent.

Céline wheeled her towards the stage, where a group of people had gathered around to observe the items being auctioned off. Kate glanced past the auctioneer at a large poster of a woman dressed in Roman clothing holding up the head of her victim and displaying it proudly. Underneath read ‘La Carlotta,’ with the Opera Populaire’s name boldly written above her, along with the production’s name, Hannibal, and its composer. Kate smirked, knowing very well the woman’s identity, unable to resist recalling the numerous pranks her husband had played on her in their younger days before their marriage. Suddenly, an elderly woman dressed in black with a matching sunhat and mesh veil looked over at her, her blue eyes gazing at her intently, as if she knew who she was. As Kate gazed back, a small, fond smile crept onto her withered face, only having to sift through her memory briefly for the woman’s name: Madame Antoinette Giry. Respectfully, Kate nodded a greeting to her, watching her friend’s slightly wrinkled mouth turn up into a small grin of her own in return. It had been years since she’d last seen that woman, and it did her heart good to know that she was still alive and well.

The gavel slammed against its target again, pulling Kate out of her trance and directing her attention back to the stage. A younger man in his thirties with a mustache and dressed in a top hat walked in front of the chubby auctioneer, carrying something rather large in size between his palms. As Kate gazed closer, her brown eyes widened in shock. There it was.

“Lot 665, ladies and gentlemen, a papier–mâché musical box in the shape of a barrel organ. Attached, the figure of a monkey, in Persian robes, playing the cymbals,” the auctioneer called. “This item discovered in the vaults of the theater. Still in working order, ladies and gentlemen.”

“Showing here,” the assistant called, displaying the item.

Kate’s heart skipped a beat as he pressed the small, barely visible button on the side of the box. The song, “Masquerade,” began its haunting tune again, the little monkey figurine coming to life as he clang his worn, golden cymbals in rhythm to the music while her mind attempted to travel back to the past. Narrowing her eyes firmly, she pulled herself from her trance and looked up at her granddaughter, nodding her head slightly to signal that she wanted it. This was her treasure, the only thing she had left of her past, and she was going to get it back, no matter what it took.

“May I commence at 15 francs?” the auctioneer offered.

Madame Giry raised her hand, unaware of Kate’s intentions.

“15, thank you.”

Céline lifted hers, raising it quickly to get the auctioneer's attention.

“Yes, 20, from you, Madame. Thank you very much.”

An elderly man in a wheelchair raised his hand, his nurse aiding him by raising hers as well.

Kate did a double take. Raoul?

“Monsieur le Vicomte, 25. Thank you, sir. 25 I'm bid. Do I hear 30?”

I thought so, Kate narrowed her eyes and quickly raised her hand again, Céline raising hers, also.

“I can handle it, Grandmother,” she said in exasperation.

Kate just nodded impatiently, irritated. Don’t let them take it from me. I will do whatever it takes to have my music box again.

“30,” the auctioneer confirmed their bid, looking around at the others hopefully as he added, “and 35?”

Kate looked at Madame Giry, wondering what the old woman wanted with that old music box, holding her breath and begging with her eyes to give up. As if she were reading her mind, the woman looked at the auctioneer and shook her head, signaling that she was out. However, the Vicomte stubbornly raised his hand, upping the bid once more.

“35. Do I hear 40?” the auctioneer continued quickly, barely catching the old man’s hand.

Céline set her jaw, raising her hand once more; she had to do this for her grandmother.

“40. And 45?”

A hush fell over the crowd as Kate watched the Vicomte, waiting for him to make another bid. Their eyes met, staring each other down challengingly, but also searching one another. That music box was hers by right, but she couldn’t speak up and claim it after all these years, so she was going to have to get it back the old fashioned way through this auction…but why did he want it so bad? Surely it did nothing but bring back painful memories, memories that were probably best left unvisited. After all, the very person who made that little music box had been his enemy for many years, so what use could he possibly have for it?

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the Vicomte shook his head. He’d given up.

“Selling at 40 francs, then. 40 once, 40 twice…” the auctioneer called, raising his gavel and looking around. When he saw that no one else was going to bid, he slammed it down on its mark, finalizing the sale. “Sold for 40 francs to Madame Destler. Thank you, Madame.”

Kate breathed a sigh of relief, looking back over at the Vicomte as she gave him a grateful smile. The elderly man returned her grin, bowing his head respectfully and removing his black top hat with a quivering, withered hand. His old blue eyes were bright with compassion for her, full of understanding and sympathy, as if he knew how much this meant to her; and truly, he must have.

The assistant placed the valuable item in her lap, distracting her from her silent whispers of appreciation. Trembling, she reached up and began caressing the monkey’s smooth, plastic face, tears coming to her eyes as memories from long ago flooded her mind. It was just as she remembered it, if not a little dusty and worn down from the lack of proper care and use. The feather at the front of its turban was ruffled a bit, and the robes were faded from being exposed to the elements, but aside from its minor flaws, it was in otherwise perfection condition. The moment was bittersweet, but after all these years, the music box was finally hers…again.

Céline knelt down to look at her grandmother’s item, noting the gleam of tears building up in the corner of her eyes. “It’s beautiful, Grandmother.”

“It’s mine,” Kate grinned sadly, allowing her tears to trickle down her cheek slowly.

“Lot 666, then. A chandelier in pieces,” the auctioneer said casually, catching their attention. “Some of you may recall the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera, a mystery never fully explained. We’re told, ladies and gentlemen, that this is the very chandelier which figures in the famous disaster.”

Kate looked over her shoulder hesitantly at the large item in the middle of the room, covered by a widespread white tarp. Her granddaughter turned her wheelchair around so she could face it, her breath catching in her throat as she fought to ignore the temptation to leave the room. Her heart began to race as she prepared herself for what she was about to see, dreading each and every second the seemed to tick by slowly, as if time had began to wind down. She couldn’t stop herself from recalling the image of the chandelier as it plummeted towards her and the performers on stage, once again hearing the audience members’ screams and seeing them scramble out of their seats in a vain attempt to move out of its path…

“GET DOWN!” he shouted, his deep, booming voice barely audible over the chaos.

Her attention was diverted from the falling chandelier to her husband, watching his tall, dark form charging towards her as he leapt to his feet. Before she had time to brace herself, he lunged at her and wrapped his arms tightly around her waist as he tackled her, the force of their bodies colliding knocking the wind out of her lungs. She flew backwards from the momentum, feeling them somersault across the stage as there was a loud crash shook the floor beneath them. She jerked her head to the side and squinted her eyes shut, gripping his jacket as shards of glass and crystal flew towards them in a showering heap. His body shielded their faces from the debris, pulling her in close against him for extra protection as screams from the audience pierced their ears, panic and mayhem breaking loose. Suddenly, the smell of smoke reached her nostrils, choking her as she tried to fill her lungs with air. She glanced over her husband’s shoulder at the deadly flames slowly crawling towards them, and her heart began to pound…

She closed her eyes as more tears threatened to fall, trying to force herself to forget her painful memory, but it was almost too difficult. Stubbornly, she swallowed the lump in her throat as she listened to the auctioneer carry on, her body becoming rigid once more. She forced her eyes open and gazed at the strange, unusual object, glancing back at Madame Giry and the Vicomte to fight back the painful memories that continuously threatened to enclose upon her mind once more.

“Our workshops have repaired it, and wired parts of it for the new electric light. Perhaps we can ‘frighten away’ the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination,” the auctioneer mused foolishly.

You may try, monsieur, but you will never frighten him away, Kate thought sourly, frowning. My poor husband, my poor Erik…so many people blamed him for all of this, even to this day. But…he was only trying to protect me…

The men surrounding the chandelier stood poised, waiting for the auctioneer to give the signal. The air was thick with tension surrounding them, giving one the feeling of being locked in a closet with silence that was deafening. If it weren’t for the pigeons cooing beside them that had been brave enough to venture close enough to investigate, it would’ve seemed like time itself had suddenly come to a screeching halt.

“Gentlemen?” the auctioneer cued, looking towards the workers.

The tarp was thrown back, the pigeons frantically flapping away to avoid the heavy cloth as it fell to the ground. Kate’s breath caught in her throat again as the assistants began to raise the chandelier from the ground, squinting her eyes from the sudden brightness of light from the glass bulbs welded onto what remained of the metal frames, hearing what sounded like a power surge as they flickered on simultaneously. Instantly, she felt her heart grow sick. The chandelier had been so beautiful at one time, but now all that remained was an outline with nothing but a few links of crystals dangling from the bottom half, serving as a reminder of what it used to be…like her life before the all of this had happened. Up and up it continued to rise, climbing slowly towards its former position by the ceiling. Suddenly, a beam of sunlight leaking through a hole in the roof reflected off one of the crystals and blinded her, sending her back in time once again…