Little Vipers

I flopped down onto my usual chair, dry and much happier to be in clean clothes. I had grabbed most of my wardrobe from my old room in the basement of the ballerina dormitories. I really only had my stagehand gear, which I didn't really need now, but it was all I had. The Phantom may still tease me about dressing like a boy, but I wasn't about to live the rest of eternity in a ball gown. I did rather shamefully take my one single dress with me when I thought the Phantom wasn't watching. I had seen the posters for the imminent Masquerade Ball and I admit I was intrigued. Maybe he would let me attend. After all, the Phantom was treating me more and more like a guest as opposed to a prisoner as the days went by. He had even given me my own room and generously let me furnish it however I chose. He really wasn't that bad when you got used to him.

In fact, if it weren't for my murdered Poppa I might even admit to being fond of the Phantom of the Opera.

It had been about a month and a half since the death of my Poppa, and I still felt the sting of grief. It was like a cattle prod on my heart; it was painful to think of him, so I stubbornly tried to extricate him from my mind anyway I could. This was hard, because anything could set off a memory of him. I had taken to torching whatever it might be at the time.

I had smashed the glass in all the photographs of him, to forget his face.

I had burned the cap he had given to me, to forget out life at the Opera Populaire together.

I had left behind the charm bracelet he gave me for my sixteenth birthday, to forget I was his daughter.

It seemed the only thing I couldn't destroy and rid myself of were my very own feelings, and my deep need to see my Father one last time.

The Phantom would have let me go to his funeral if I'd wanted. There really wasn't anything he didn't let me do, aside from bothering him. But I didn't want to go. I knew I wouldn't be able to handle it. As it turns out, the Phantom had heard news of my Father on one of his many trips to scare the populace of the opera house. Apparently a rich great-uncle of mine had taken pity and gave my Poppa a very lavish funeral service. I knew he wouldn't have liked it being so fancy, and I just couldn't be there to see it.

It was times like these that I missed Mother the most. Ironically, the only picture I chose to take with me into my new underground life was one of my Mother and I; really it was just a picture of her being pregnant with me. But she hadn't lived long enough to take a portrait with me after my birth.

"Are you feeling well, my dear?" I heard above me. I looked up from the worn photograph in my hands to the Phantom; I didn't even remember pulling it out from my pocket.

"My Mother died in childbirth." I said out of nowhere, without even thinking, "With me." I just needed to tell someone. How long had it been since I'd thought about it? Or said it?

I was actually glad for the silence that followed. There aren't any comforting words in the world for the death of another person, and the Phantom understood that. Instead he just put a hand on my shoulder while I blinked away unexpected tears. He left a few moments later to move to his organ.

I stayed perfectly still, bent with my elbows on my knees, just staring down at the image of my young pregnant Mother. She had one hand on top of her stomach and the other on her hip. Photography was a budding industry back when it had been taken and was only offered by professionals; it was probably very expensive to get this taken, so she was in a very nice dress. Her clothes may not have been the most expensive in all of France, and she didn't have a regal hat or hairstyle; but she was my Mother, so she was beautiful to me no matter what.

Her smile was wide, which made her face glow. She may even have been laughing. I closed my eyes and straightened, delicately placing the photo back into my pocket.

"You look much like her, my dear." The Phantom said softly; he hadn't looked up from his feverish writing, but still somehow knew I was done with my moment of remembrance.

"Charlotte." I whispered, "My name is Charlotte." I met the Phantom with my large, lonely eyes as he turned to face me.

"Charlotte." He repeated, smiling that charming little half-smile of his, "Are you feeling well?" He asked again.

"I am well." I said with finality, standing up and smoothing down my clean overalls. I lifted my chin just a little higher and put on a brave face. Back to business.

"Would you like to help me with my opera?" The Phantom surprised me by asking.

"Of what service could I be?" I asked, moving to sit beside him on the organ bench.

"Can you read music, Charlotte?" He asked me, pulling a sheet of music off the stand on his organ and handing it to me. I tried to hide the smile that sprang up inside me at the sound of my real name.

"I live in an opera house, don't I?" I scoffed, trying to cover up, "But you wouldn't like my voice, Monsieur Phantom." I replied as I surveyed the staff lines.

"How can you be certain, if I have not heard you sing, Mademoiselle?" He replied, looking at me with that unreadable face.

"I know ho you composers are." I said perhaps a little harshly, "Only writing for your precious sopranos." I tapped the first lone of the song, which soared with notes I could never even dream of reaching, for emphasis.

"And what vocal range do you believe you sing?" The Phantom continued, maybe a little curious but not without his usual teasing tone. I turned away from his admittedly handsome eyes and stood.

"Alto." I muttered. I turned my face and cut him off again before he could correct me, "Contralto if I were to sing a solo part in an opera. Not that I could ever sing in an opera." I said the last part to the wall again, my arms crossing over my chest. The Phantom came to stand beside me, handing my a sheet of music not from his Don Juan Triumphant but rather from an opera I'd never heard of called Un ballo in maschera. The part was for a character named Ulrica.

"Sing." The Phantom simply commanded. I glanced at the notes before I protested, but was startled; I knew I could reach those pitches.

"This is-" I started to say, not hiding my surprise very well.

"Sing, Charlotte." He cooed softly to me, walking away to sit at his organ. I sighed as I turned back to the page; it was probably best I do what he asked of me, not that I could deny him anything when he used that voice on me.

"King of the abyss come to me..." I began well enough, reveling in just how easily I could bring the notes to my lips. The song was dark and a little scary, which should make it a small wonder why the Phantom likes it.

The devilish but captivating song ended on a massive, glorious low note; I was grinning as the sound boomed in the cavern. This place is surely much more inclined to the dark and low; both the acoustics and the very nature of the place made me think so, believe so, with every fiber of my being. I spun on the sport, a smile covering my face. The Phantom was staring at me, apparently in deep thought.

"Was that acceptable?" I implored rather childishly, my silly grin faltering. Instead of replying, he turned rather quickly back to his organ and hunted for a clean sheet of staff paper, clearly seized by another of his many boughts of inspiration. Meanwhile, I rolled up the music sheet for "Re dell'abisso, affrettati" and slid it into my overall's pocket, beside the photo of my Mother.

"What are you doing?" I asked quietly.

"Writing you a part in my opera." The Phantom muttered distractedly. I left him in peace, trying to hide my joy. I did an excellent job of masking it, except for the sparkle that lit up in my eyes.