A Phantom Enchantment (3 page)

Elise saw my confusion. “Paris has two opera houses. There's the Palais Garnier, the one you've seen in the movies. And there's this new one, Opéra Bastille. These days the old Opera House is mostly used for ballets, while the operas are usually performed here.”

I remembered a pact Owen and I had made last spring to go to our first opera together. Owen was one of my best friends. At least he had been until I'd screwed things up by kissing him. He and our friend Flynn were in Europe for the summer doing some kind of backpacking pilgrimage/rock tour. Since Owen's family had money, he wasn't in any hurry to rush back to the States for college or a job. In fact, he and Flynn were coming to visit us in Paris in late September. I wasn't sure how long they might stay, but with Owen and Elise dating now, I imagined it might be a while. Awkwardness would surely ensue.

Elise and I turned toward the river onto Boulevard Henri IV, a street lined with produce stands, bookstores, flower stalls, and more eateries. Vespas and bicycles filled the stands on each corner, and Parisians on their lunch breaks crowded the outdoor cafés. Elise recommended a brasserie just a block from the river with ample outdoor seating and chalkboards advertising their specials.

I got shivers as the host seated us at a table with a view of the small park across the street. The interior looked like something from the set of
Amélie
—all dark wood and brass rails with art nouveau lamps and golden décor. It was thrilling to read a menu entirely in French and order in French.

Mademoiselle Veilleux had been right about her reputation at the local dining establishments. In fact, the chef came out from the kitchen to chat with us, reminding us repeatedly to tell Claire (Mlle. Veilleux's first name, apparently) that he missed her and sent his regards. He took our orders personally: a
croque-madame
and a glass of Beaujolais for me, salmon tartare and a glass of chardonnay for Elise.

A few moments later, the waiter brought our wine. Combined with our excitement about being in Paris and our jet-lag, the wine made us both a little giddy. When the food finally came, I was faint with hunger. My sandwich was rich and savory with layers of ham and melted Gruyère (is there anything better in the world than melted cheese?) and a Dijon-béchamel sauce and—in case I hadn't gotten enough cholesterol—a fried egg on top. A few vague concerns about fat and calories wafted through my brain, but I remembered that the French, despite their rich diet, were far healthier than Americans because they ate sensibly and walked a lot.

We would soon discover the rigors of walking through Paris for ourselves. After a leisurely lunch, we crossed the river and checked out La Rive Gauche, the Left Bank. Pausing halfway across the Pont de Sully, I nearly yelped when I saw Notre Dame in the distance. Elise, jaded from years of traveling to Paris, just laughed at me, but it was surreal to see this magnificent place I'd only read about or seen in movies suddenly here in front of my eyes, like Dorothy must have felt when she first spied Oz.

“It's kind of a long walk,” Elise said, “but we can see it up close if you want. Actually, we should stop at Shakespeare and Company on the way. You are going to love this bookstore!”

We walked the Quai de la Tournelle and took a set of stairs down to the cobbled walkway that ran along the Seine. When I saw the ubiquitous riverboats, I had the cheesy tourist's desire to hop aboard, but I knew Elise wouldn't go for that. We continued walking on the shaded pedestrian path until we neared the bookshop. The neighborhood where we emerged was swimming with tourists, souvenir shops, and flashy restaurants. Shakespeare and Company was set back from the main street on a cobbled alley behind a median of trees.

Once inside we were joyfully bombarded by books of every color, genre, and size. I actually felt a little dizzy from the towering stacks and swirls of dust. A soot-speckled cat wandered by my ankles as we passed books piled shoulder-high, fine arts prints, ladders perched precariously against shelves, and quirky signs and postcards. This was clearly a place for people who loved the written word.

The smell of must and old books permeated the air, and I inhaled deeply, feeling a pang of disbelief and gratitude that I was here. I found a cozy nook off the main room and let my fingers graze along the spines of antique books. And then I spied a copy of
Le Fantôme de l'Opéra,
Gaston Leroux's Gothic masterpiece written in the original French.

Like almost every American, I had seen the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, but I'd never read the book that inspired it. This copy was from 1965 and had a red cloth binding with a black-and-white illustration on the cover of a skeletal Phantom in a top hat clutching the fainting body of Christine Daaé. It was over-the-top and absolutely irresistible. I snatched the book from the shelf and handed over my ten euros at the front counter. Elise came up a few minutes later to pay for her selections, then we left with our spoils to go see Notre Dame.

Nothing could have prepared me for the splendor of this building. Yes, it was made of stone and glass like any other church, and I'd seen its image enough times on postcards to feel like I knew it. But the real deal made me breathless with wonder at its artistry. The west end impressed with its Gothic stone towers and rose-colored window gleaming under the sun, but it was the east end that floored me with its gravity-defying buttresses and that delicate spire, like a Christmas ornament made of spun sugar. I couldn't wait to come back and see it all lit up at night. But for now, Elise and I were the walking dead, so we deferred the tour of the interior for another day and started back toward school.

Everything was quiet as we entered our dormitory and climbed the five stories, listening to the creaking of our feet on the wooden stairs. Even though it was only a little after six o'clock, I was bone weary and ready to fall into that lovely lavender bed. After a deliciously cool shower, I wrapped myself in my fluffy robe and called my dad for a brief rundown of the day's events. When I called Gray afterward, his phone rang four times before the inevitable voice mail recording. I left him a message saying I missed him and wished he were here, not in a trite postcard way, but deeply and truly.

I went to stand by the window and flung open the panes to the Paris sky. The sun hadn't set yet, but it had dipped below the buildings, casting my little view in glowing silhouette. Rooftops gleamed ochre and patina green. Not a soul ventured through the alleyway, and except for the low rumble of traffic, it seemed for a moment as if I was entirely alone in the city.

My freshman year of high school, I'd had virtually no friends, and I'd struggled mightily over the past two years to solidify the friendships I had now. I was no stranger to loneliness. But tonight felt different. Standing at an open window in a virtually empty dormitory in a foreign city, it felt like loneliness was a presence in the room, sucking up half the air, making my heart thud against my rib cage. I closed the window and tried to slow my breathing.

Why didn't Gray call me back? Where was he tonight?

And then I remembered. In California, it was eleven in the morning. He was in the middle of his EMT training.

To distract myself, I unpacked my suitcases, slowly filling the closet with my wardrobe and setting my toiletries and personal items on the vanity. And that's when I found the gift bag from Darlene.

I riffled through the tissue paper and found a bottle of dried rose petals, a length of red yarn, and a compass. A tiny note was tied to the neck of the bottle that read:
Here are the instructions for the spell to reunite lovers. But remember, love casts its own spell.

Darlene was a practitioner of voodoo and a believer in spells. I wasn't sure if I believed in them or not, but last year she'd given me one that seemed to have worked. I wasn't about to discount magic or superstition just yet.

I lay the bag on the table and looked at the mirror on the wall. I doubted this was one of Mr. Fairchild's purchases. It looked like a genuine antique, with scuffing along the frame and silver-black marbling along its surface. It not only looked old; it felt old, too, emanating some strange energy that only years of existence could yield. A shiver ran through me as I watched my reflection warp slightly in the aged glass.

For some reason, mirrors spooked me.

Last spring on Michelle's birthday, we had been playing a silly campfire game in which you spin around three times in a darkened room chanting “Bloody Mary” and then open your eyes in front of a mirror. Legend says you're supposed to see the face of your beloved in the mirror.

And I had. I'd opened my eyes to see Gray's ghostly image staring back at me. Of course, I had also screamed and we'd erupted into giggles and written it off as the power of suggestion. But there was something sinister about mirrors and their ability to reflect or distort reality.

Mirrors were also a powerful symbol of the self. Last year, I'd suffered from waking nightmares in which I'd occasionally wander away from campus, waking up hours later in the woods with no recollection of how I'd gotten there.

When these trips started getting dangerous, Darlene taught me a lucid dreaming technique that had ended my sleepwalking days forever. She told me, “When you get the sense that you're dreaming, create a mirror image of yourself and send the reflection into the dream so your real self stays put.”

The first time I'd tried the technique, it had worked, and I'd been using it ever since to keep myself grounded in reality. But right now, I didn't want to imagine my reflection walking into whatever darkness lay on the other side of that glass.

Feeling fatigue overwhelm me, I crawled into bed, luxuriating in the satiny sheets, the plush pillow, the dense comforter. Even though it wasn't cold in the room, I wanted the security of thick blankets pulled tight around me.

As tired as I was, I decided to read a little before falling asleep. I grabbed my copy of
Le Fantôme de l'Opéra
from the nightstand and opened to the prologue. Reading a book in French took a lot more effort than reading in English, so I struggled to get through the first five pages.

Rumors about a phantom are flying through the dressing rooms of the Opera House. An unseen tyrant has been threatening the opera's managers into reserving a private box for him. And a scene changer has been found dead in a cellar, hanging from a beam. The police suspect suicide. But when they go to cut his body down, the rope has disappeared.

I shivered under the covers, imagining a body swinging from the rafters of a darkened theater. And then I heard a voice, faint and murmuring. It was so quiet I couldn't tell where it had come from or if the person was speaking French or English. Ordinarily, I would have assumed it was from a TV show, but our rooms didn't have television sets and no one else was in the building.

I held my breath and listened for a few seconds, hearing nothing but the distant sounds of traffic. I exhaled, but over my own breath I heard the whispering again, faint but haunting. It seemed to be coming from the hallway.

Maybe some students had arrived back at school a few days early. As jittery as I felt, I crept out of bed and padded to the door and stood there, heart racing, trying to drum up the courage to open it.

I sprang the latch and whisked open the door, looking left and right before going out to stand in the middle of the hallway, where I felt a current of cold air waft past.

No one was there.

Laughing at my superstitious nature, I went back inside. But the moment I'd shut the door, the voice resumed, still whispering but more loudly this time, like the person was in the room with me. It sounded as if it was coming from the mirror.

I'd gotten myself so worked up that I was afraid to look into the glass. But sometimes the only way to conquer a fear is to meet it head-on. I sat down at the vanity, my eyes glued to the cosmetics and toiletries there, feeling terror creep over my shoulders. Before I lost my nerve, I glanced briefly into the mirror. Some cold, menacing force made me recoil in fright, knocking over the settee as I did. The crash sent me dashing back to the bed, where I plunged myself under the covers, cowering with my head in my pillow, trying to erase what I'd just seen.

Because the reflection in the mirror had not been my own.

C
HAPTER
3

T
he next morning, I took the purple organza panel from the closet and draped it over the mirror, trying to dispel the image I'd seen from my mind.

This was easy enough to do at first, because the next few days were more chaotic and busy than I'd imagined. The dorm quickly filled with the sounds of students returning for fall term. Unfamiliar French pop music echoed through the halls, and groups of stylish students congregated in little pods, chattering in incomprehensibly fast French. Elise had already made the rounds and introduced herself to the “cool kids,” the ones who smoked fancy French cigarettes and dressed in effortlessly chic prep school garb. I found myself shy, feeling like an impostor among their tight-knit community. Perhaps when classes began I would make some friends and feel more at home.

The first week was brutal. When I woke each morning, I used the mirror in the bathroom to put on my makeup and check my outfit. This led to some tedious jockeying for time with Elise; however, we both managed to get out the door in time for a quick croissant and coffee at the cafeteria, followed by nearly ten hours of running ourselves ragged through a punishing schedule of coursework and homework.

By Friday, all I wanted was sleep. And Gray. Between his EMT training, my rigorous schedule, and the six-hour time difference, we'd had a difficult time scheduling phone calls. But that evening I wanted so badly to hear his voice that I took a chance and called him, saying a silent prayer that he would answer.

Miraculously, he did.

“Gray! I can't believe you're actually on the line.”

“I know,” he said. “I just stepped out for lunch. You got lucky.”

“I did, didn't I?” I said, smiling to myself. “How are you?”

Gray told me all about his training, which was grueling because they were basically fitting in a semester's worth of content into seven weeks. I told him about my courses and how I was adapting slowly to the crazy French schedule.

“Two days a week, Elise and I have to sit through these three-hour marathon AP classes at the international school. The professors are no joke, much more demanding than the teachers at home. But the city is beautiful, and I'm sort of excited all the time, wondering what I'm going to learn next. I really miss you. You would love it here!”

“I wish I could be there, walking by the Seine with you, holding you in my arms,” he said. “I keep thinking back to your birthday last summer, that night we spent on the beach just before I left for Coast Guard training.”

“You mean the night when we almost had sex?”

He laughed. “If you want to remember it like that,” he said. “I like to think of it as the night I gave you my Scorpio dog tag.”

“Aw.” My heart swelled at the memory.

For my birthday, Gray had given me a dog tag with his horoscope sign on one side and a message etched into the other:
To Emma, the only antidote for my sting.
He wore an almost identical one with my Virgo angel, which he'd told me was his lucky charm. He wore it every time he had to travel somewhere, then took it off once he'd arrived safely.

“I also remember we were lying on our backs looking up at the sky,” he said, “and I saw that shooting star and told you to make a wish. You never told me what you wished for.”

“That's because it wouldn't come true,” I said. But it already had come true. I had wished for Gray to come back to me, and he had. Eventually. “Of course you do remember that shortly after that romantic night, you callously decided to break up with me.”

“Callously?” he said. “Don't say that. I thought it was what was best for you at the time. I didn't want to drag you into my drama.”

“Oh, Gray, at this point, we're pretty much swimming in each other's drama,” I said. “We're in so deep, there's no escaping each other now.”

“I wouldn't want to escape,” he said.

“Neither would I,” I said. “I'm yours forever.”

He made an adorable groaning sound. “I'm so glad you called,” he said. “I feel so much better when I hear from you and don't have to worry whether you're okay. I know we can't talk as much as you'd like, but I think about you all the time. When I can't be with you, I daydream about our best moments together. It feels like I'm remembering a dream.”

I laughed, thinking about how I had done the very same thing on the plane last week. “Well, it wasn't a dream,” I said. “It was all real. And we're going to be together again very soon.”

“Not soon enough,” he said.

“Hey, maybe you'll get stationed in Cape Cod,” I said. “Wouldn't that be amazing?”

He sighed a yes.

There was nothing I wanted more at that moment than to be reunited with Gray in Massachusetts at the end of this year, to be back in the comfort of my home with the man I would spend the rest of my life with.

Gray had to get off the phone—we'd talked through his entire lunch break—so we reluctantly said good-bye. But the high from our conversation kept me buoyant for days.

It even helped me endure another arduous week of classes. Elise and I had opted to take a Gothic Architecture elective, which had us traipsing across bridges and through arrondissements to see countless cathedrals, cataloging every arch, buttress, vault, and spire. A tall student who looked like he'd forgotten to take the hanger out of his jacket often fell into step beside me on these jaunts, happy to have an “ignorant American” to impress. At first, I
was
impressed, and it was nice to have someone translating the professor's lecture for me. But after a while, his boasting began to grate.

One afternoon, we were crossing the bridge to Île de la Cité, one of the two remaining natural islands along the Seine and pretty much the heart of Paris. Coat Hanger Guy proceeded to tell me that all road distances in France were calculated from the 0 km point located in front of Notre Dame's towers.

“Really,” I said, sighing, as this was about the hundredth gem of trivia he'd decided to impart to me today. “It's a wonder they don't have you teaching the class.”

He didn't seem to pick up on my sarcasm. “True,” he said. “Perhaps once I get my degree I will replace this
bouffon
.”

I had to admit, Monsieur Laroche was a bit of a pompous windbag, and the young guy might have made a more entertaining teacher. At least he was easier to look at. He had longish sandy-blond hair, a rather prominent straight nose, intense blue eyes, and a crooked smile. He wasn't handsome in the conventional sense, but there was something about the way his features fit together that made him sort of fascinating to watch.

“I'm Jean-Claude,” he said rather formally, as if he hadn't been talking my ear off for the last half hour.

“Emma,” I said, involuntarily extending my hand.

He regarded my hand like an unappetizing hors d'oeuvre and shook it reluctantly. I suddenly remembered my grandma's words. Was I meant to kiss him on the cheek?

Jean-Claude looked amused. “You are American,” he said.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Well, yes, but Saint-Antoine is a small school. Anyone new stands out. Especially two beauties like you and . . . your friend.”

I looked over at Elise, who was brownnosing the professor, no doubt asking him astute questions about apses and naves.

“So what do you think of our little school?” he said.

“I love it! Everything is so old and beautiful here. I couldn't believe it when we walked into our dorm room. Did the building used to be a hotel or something?”

“Actually, it used to be a prison,” he said. “Well, not exactly. The building is nineteenth century, but the school was built on the grounds of the Bastille.”

“No way.”

“Oui. The neighborhood of Saint-Antoine was the center of the French Revolution. Legend has it that the ghosts of the Bastille still haunt the grounds.”

I rolled my eyes, skeptical. But after my experience with the mirror, I wasn't so sure. Jean-Claude's eyes wandered back to Elise. “She has a boyfriend,” I told him, cringing a little as I thought of Owen and Elise together as a couple. Some pairings just seemed unnatural.

Jean-Claude shrugged. “In Paris, we are not easily frightened by the existence of a . . .
boy
friend. He is not here now, eh?”

I had to give him props for his optimism. “No, but he's coming later this month.”

“Quelle domage,” he said. “Then we shall have to be . . . what do you Americans say? Friends with benefits.” I burst out laughing. “You will introduce me?”

“Sure,” I said.

Part of me was feeling generous of heart, and the other part of me didn't mind the idea of seeing Elise cut this haughty Frenchman down to fry size.

We were approaching the Conciergerie, the medieval prison where Marie Antoinette had lost her head. I grabbed Jean-Claude's arm and led him to where Elise stood inspecting the tower.

“Elise,” I said, “there's someone I'd like you to meet. This is Jean-Claude.”

To my surprise, her perma-sneer turned into a winning smile. Jean-Claude smiled back, and in some sort of etiquette ballet, Elise edged her way toward him, and then they were air-kissing perfectly—once on the right cheek, once on the left.

Jean-Claude said, “Chez nous, c'est quatre” (“
Where I'm from, it's four kisses.
”) and then he kissed her again. I tried to muffle a gagging noise.

Elise laughed charmingly and launched into her most lyrical and fluent French, and before I could say, “You're welcome,” the two of them were flirting expertly while I stood beside them feeling like a total . . .
bouffon
.

After the prison, Monsieur Laroche led us to Sainte-Chapelle, our final destination for the day. Built in the thirteenth century to house the relics of King Louis IX, the chapel wasn't all that impressive from the outside—just a slender stone structure with a slate roof and wooden spires covered in delicate tracery. But the interior felt like something out of an illustrated fairy tale. The narrow chapel was surrounded by tall banks of stained-glass windows framed in gold, all of them capped by a vaulted ceiling painted to look like a night sky studded with stars. Standing in the middle and looking upward gave me the feeling of being a very tiny bird in an enormous gilded birdcage.

When our tour concluded, Laroche announced a quiz on architectural terms on Monday, and we headed back to campus. One of the most frustrating parts of the school schedule was the two-hour break for lunch. As much as I needed a rest, I would have rather grabbed a quick bite and finished my school day earlier, but a leisurely lunch was practically law in France.

Elise, Jean-Claude, and I headed to the cafeteria, which put Lockwood's dining hall to shame. Among the choices for lunch were green salad with duck paté, braised artichokes, Brie and apple slices, smoked salmon with asparagus and crème fraîche, roasted chicken with rosemary potatoes, Provençal vegetables, all served with sparkling water, and of course, the unparalleled baguettes that accompanied every meal. I could have happily survived on bread and Brie alone.

At the table, Jean-Claude introduced us to some of his friends. Since we were sitting, I didn't have to worry about the air-kissing quagmire, but I wondered what the protocol would be the next time I met them. His friends were nothing like the teens depicted on the front of our cheesy French textbooks. They seemed far older than American teens, more world-wise and sure of themselves.

They spoke French very quickly, interrupting one another and sometimes breaking into English for a few moments, then reverting back to French. For me, those moments of English were like air pockets, giving me split seconds to breathe before being thrust back into a tempest of French slang.

Eventually, I decided to sit back and take it all in, following their gestures and facial expressions since I couldn't follow their dialogue. There was Sylvie, who had the biggest brown eyes I'd ever seen, framed by dyed black hair with thick bangs. Yseult (pronounced Ee-sol) had exotic features and exuded sexual energy, especially when she was anywhere near Jean-Claude. Next to her was Louis with the spiky blond hair, suspenders, and high-water pants. And finally, there was adorable Georges with the crinkly eyes and honey-colored skin. His T-shirt immediately endeared me to him, as it reminded me of Owen. It featured a plate of sushi and the caption:
This is how I roll.

After lunch, we went outside to sit in the courtyard. Immediately, they all lit up cigarettes. Jean-Claude offered me one, but I shook my head.

Yseult took a puff of hers and exhaled in a sultry way, like a movie star in a noir film. “So, which of the Americans has room five?” she asked, deigning to speak in English.

Since she hadn't directed the question to me, I didn't respond, even though room five was mine.

“That's Emma's room,” Elise volunteered.

“Oh, so you're the lucky one,” Yseult said.

“Lucky?”

She laughed. “That room hasn't been assigned to a student in years. But this class's enrollment was so high they had no other choice.”

Louis narrowed his eyes and grinned a little deviously. “Rumor has it, room five was Mademoiselle Veilleux's when she was a student here almost twenty years ago. But some spirit in the room wanted her dead and set the room on fire. The school painted over everything, but it's still haunted.”

“I don't think it was a ghost,” Yseult said. “I think it was Monsieur Crespeau.”

“More like Monsieur Creepo,” Louis said.