Chapter Text
Elodie began her work at the opera with the seamstresses – a favor from her father’s friend who had assumed, wrongly, that Elodie would spend more time with his son who also worked at the Palais Garnier in return. She was aware that Roland was a good match and a perfectly fine gentleman but she had already decided to reject him anyway. He reminded her of her brother.
The seamstresses gave her small tasks fixing tiny rips in the tutus and bodices of the ballet girls. The repairs were easy enough but quickly had Elodie lamenting how clumsy the girls were. They were constantly catching their clothing on set pieces and corners backstage, but the girls denied any responsibility. They said it was the work of the opera ghost.
He had been quiet after the disappearance of Christine Daaé and Raoul de Chagny the previous year and the ballet girls insisted he was finally making a return. Elodie quickly put together the semblance of a story through opera gossip but much of the information was contradictory or confusing. One thing was certain: there was a love frowned upon by a brother rarely mentioned and he had been one of multiple unfortunate deaths.
Another death, the one of Joseph Buquet, was of particular interest to Elodie. He had either been found hanged backstage or he had been hanged on stage in the middle of a performance. She would have surely heard the second story before if it were true, and while she could be insensitive at times even she was self-aware enough to not pry about a dead man that seemed so beloved by those that spoke of him.
As for the ghost, there were hardly any definite facts about him. However, Elodie managed to determine several things that were undeniably true if he did exist. And Elodie often repeated to herself that he may not. Box 5 was his box. He was ugly. The extent to which ranged from a partially scarred face all the way to a living skull. And finally, he must be lonely.
This final point was her own contribution to the story she heard. The ghost lived in the opera house but never spoke to anybody. Elodie imagined him hearing the music and the gossip and the laughter of the crew and wondered if his silence was a choice or a burden. Could he even leave the opera or was he bound to the building? This question was the inspiration for her gifts to the ghost, a silly idea to keep herself amused.
The first week she sketched the tree in front of her family’s home. It was a hornbeam that she remembered being planted when she was young. On the back was written ‘Rue des Archives tree’ and ‘Elodie’ as well as the date she drew it. Box 5 was the obvious delivery point but she found the door was locked. After a moment of debating whether finding the box keeper was a good idea and the ethics of breaking into a door at her workplace, Elodie simply made sure there were no witnesses and knelt on the ground to slide the paper under the door.
The same time next week she did it again with a sketch of a blackbird that had been singing outside of her window. There were always birds outside but this one had made a nest on her windowsill. She had been tempted to label it ‘No more fresh air’ due to her fear of dislodging the nest if she attempted to open the window even a little but ended up labeling it the more thematically appropriate ‘My opera at home.”
The week after that she arrived with a sketch of the front of her favorite bakery, ‘Best source of tarts,’ and found the door to box 5 cracked open. Cautiously, she opened the door fully and peeked inside. Empty.
She was starting to believe in ghosts.
Walking the perimeter of the box revealed it to be perfectly ordinary. Elodie almost didn’t notice the envelope on one of the front seats. Her name was written on the front in sloppy red ink. She picked it up with shaking hands and left her sketch in its place. The thought that the ghost was real and she had invited his attention sent her heart beating wildly. Hopefully someone was just indulging a silly girl. She opened the letter.
Show M. Boffrand your work. O.G.
Elodie returned the letter to its envelope and considered returning it to the seat in front of her as well. She rushed out of the box and was halfway down the hall before realizing she hadn’t closed the door behind her. Making her way back she discovered it already shut. She didn’t check if it was locked.
While mending the day’s small rips Elodie asked the girls around her about M. Boffrand, claiming she had heard his name in passing and wanted to know its significance. It turned out that he was a set designer and Elodie became more anxious with each stitch while trying to figure out what the ghost had planned for her. Her anxiety must have been obvious and she was sent home early by the head seamstress after too many sighs and finger stabbings.
“Did you finally give up?” Julien asked as soon as Elodie closed the front door behind her. Just her luck to run into him as he was leaving himself.
“No,” Elodie said flatly, she would never give up before him, “there wasn’t enough work for me.”
“You could have found Roland. He would have enjoyed your company when he was waiting for a scene,” Julien said it casually but Elodie understood the accusation behind it. While their parents had given up forcing her into a marriage – two married daughters and a soon to be married son were enough to satisfy them – Elodie suspected that Julien resented the fact he would have to support her if she hadn’t married by the time father died. Not that he would die anytime soon barring an unfortunate accident, and Elodie certainly proved herself willing to provide for herself.
“I have no interest in the boy.”
“He’s hardly a boy just as you are hardly a girl,” his hands increased their movement as his exasperation rose, “It’s already hard enough to find a good match for you after you’ve rejected so many men, Elodie. Please give him a chance.”
“I’ll consider it,” Elodie lied. “I’ll be in my room embroidering.” They both knew the second part was also a lie, but Julien didn’t stop her from sheltering there. She spent the rest of the day gathering sketches and creating new ones. She was particularly proud of the larger work she did of the view from her window after dinner.
The next day Elodie went directly to M. Boffrand’s office in the hopes of finding him before he left to oversee any work on the set for the upcoming production of Mireille. Elodie knew the set was just beginning to be worked on and she worried he would be quite busy all day if she missed him. To her surprise, he was waiting for her in his office.
“Mademoiselle Elodie, I hope,” the man said when he opened the door moments after she knocked. He was short, Elodie noticed, almost her own height, and he looked old enough to be her father.
“You were expecting me, Monsieur?” Elodie almost crushed her sketches in her hands as he guided her to a chair and took his seat behind his desk.
“Yes,” he picked up a letter in front of him and waved it about, looking at her accusingly, “I was informed you would be seeking me shortly by someone claiming to be the beast that should be gone.”
“I apologize, Monsieur, I was as shocked at this meeting as you.”
Boffrand looked unimpressed and Elodie did her best to look apologetic though she didn’t know what for. It wasn’t her fault the ghost story had maybe been true. She placed her sketches on his desk, “I don’t know why these were asked for,” the truth, at least, “but I brought my best work.”
Boffrand began leafing through her papers and his eyebrows slowly rose with each new page.
“It’s fine work,” he murmured, “these are all large subjects, how are you with details? Painting?”
“I don’t have much experience with painting, Monsieur, but I’m good with details,” Elodie leaned forward, “would you like me to demonstrate?”
“No, no, that won’t be necessary,” he held his hand up and she sat back in her chair, “I already have designers, myself included, and I have no interest in replacing good workers on the whims of someone claiming to be the ghost. I think your friend should be more straightforward next time they want something done.”
“I don’t know who they are, I swear.”
“For your sake I hope you’re lying,” Boffrand replied and stood up, “now follow me. I’ll have you paint under Jonathan’s supervision for today and if you do well I’ll let the managers know of your new position. The letter suggested you wouldn’t be missed in the costume department.”
Elodie blushed, suddenly desperate to know what the letter said. How much did whoever was playing this game with her know? She didn’t want to pry too soon. Perhaps when she had firmly gotten into his good graces she could get a peek at the letter.
Boffrand handed her off to Monsieur Parmentier with the promise to return in two hours. Elodie didn’t get a chance to speak to him much that day beyond him insisting she call him Jonathan, claiming that nobody in the department would remember who Monsier Parmentier was. He seemed nice, but was perfectly happy to give her mulberry trees to paint on the backdrop and leave her alone while he worked on a less complete section.
True to his word, Boffrand returned hours later while Elodie was still struggling through her first mulberry tree. She feared her blending of colors was lacking and she couldn’t get the shine on the berries just right. Boffrand, however, seemed extremely pleased with her work.
“I expect you back the same time tomorrow,” he said with a smile.
Jonathan, now aware she wasn’t a temporary part of his job, made more frequent stops to check on her. He offered different techniques to blend the colors together and suggested using different colors to really make the berries pop. Elodie, now slightly more confident, experimented with the colors and ended her work for the day with high spirits for once.
Two days later Elodie returned home after another day of painting and found her father waiting for her, scowling. The entryway was in danger of becoming her least favorite part of the apartment.
“Roland informed me you weren’t with the seamstresses yesterday,” he said.
“I wasn’t with them today, either,” Elodie replied. She busied herself with removing her coat.
“Elodie. I know I’ve been lenient with you perhaps too much to change things now, but please tell me you haven’t quit your work and have been God knows where these past days.”
Elodie laughed full and, Julien would warn, unladylike, “Have some faith in me. The set designers saw me sketching when I was bored and I was invited to work with them.”
“Truly?”
“Truly! I shall have to paint you a mulberry tree. It’s all I’ve done for the past three days and I think I will soon be the greatest painter of mulberries in the world,” she laughed again.
Her father finally smiled back at her relieved. “I would like to see that. I regret that I’ll have to tell Mathis where Roland can find you.”
She glared at him.
“I’ll never hear the end of it otherwise,” and then he was laughing at her.
The next week’s offering was a sketch of a park fountain. ‘A tempting swim.’ As a child she had splashed about in her fair share of fountains. She wished she could have given into the temptation again but it was only March, almost April, and she didn’t think the thrill was worth catching a chill over.
Elodie placed the paper on the front seat. This time there was no letter for her and she was glad and disturbed. She needed to know who she was playing with. If she hadn’t been moved to the art department the past week she would have thought it all a dream.
“Ghost? May I speak with you?”
She stood still and listened for anything. Silence was her reply. Elodie reached for the door and paused, lowering her hands to clutch her skirts.
“I’ll simply say thank you, then. I hope the mulberries are satisfactory.”
She closed the door behind her and held her breath, listening. The lock on the door clicked. It was so quiet she could have imagined it, but a jiggle of the handle confirmed the box was once more unavailable to all but the quite possibly real ghost. Dizzy with anxiety, Elodie turned unsteadily to make her way through the Palais Garnier and found someone blocking her way. With dark skin and green eyes, she could only assume she had come face to face with the man called the Persian.