A Phantom Enchantment (8 page)

Mom and Dad are so sad. They think he's dead even though they won't say. But I know he's alive. I just know it.
I wanted to have Anna's faith. I'd gone through the same

false belief at her age when I'd lost my mom. Because when someone goes missing like that, there's no body. No closure. You think to yourself,
She can't really be gone.
Or
He's only presumed dead; where's the proof? There's got to be some other explanation. People don't just disappear.

Only sometimes, they did.

Darlene's spell bag sat on the vanity. I knew with sudden clarity what I needed to do. I took my favorite photo of Gray out of its picture frame and dropped it in my knapsack along with the ingredients for the spell, then ran all the way to the bridge where I'd locked the padlock. I rolled up the photo of Gray, placed it inside the bottle of rose petals, and sealed it with a cork, tying the length of red yarn to its neck.

I pulled out the compass and stood so I was facing north, repeating the words Darlene had written: “Fate links you to me.” I turned east and repeated the incantation, then south, then west, finally returning north. Holding the bottle in my hand, I said the final prayer of reunion: “Like the tides that recede and come back to shore, we belong to each other forevermore.”

The river had turned ochre from the lowering sun, and the wind off the water had the chill of winter in it. I kissed the bottle once and tossed it in, feeling a tiny stab of hope strike somewhere deep inside me.

C
HAPTER
8

N
ow there were two relics of our undying love in the River Seine—the message in a bottle and the key to the padlock. It wasn't until I got back to the dorm that I considered the unforeseen consequences of the spell. Because if Gray was really dead, then the spell meant I would need to die in order for us to be reunited.

Could I give up my life, like Orpheus had done, to be with the one I loved?

At the opera, that notion had seemed romantic. But now it made my stomach churn. I ran up the five flights of stairs and unlocked the door to my room, feeling a sick chill run through me. I didn't know why at first, but then I saw that the purple drape had been returned to its rightful place in front of the closet, leaving the mirror exposed on the wall. It seemed to stare accusingly at me.

My first instinct was to back away and leave. But as I glanced around, I noticed that the rug was freshly vacuumed and all of my belongings had been tidied up. It was probably only Monsieur Crespeau, come to do his weekly cleaning. There was no way he could have known about my dread of the mirror.

Then again, what difference did the mirror make now that Gray was gone? I had confronted my deepest fear already. Nothing could scare me now.

Night fell quickly, and tiny squalls whistled along the rooftops. Later that evening, I sat down at the vanity and lit a candle. If something truly resided in that mirror, I wanted to meet it face-to-face right now while I felt fearless.

I stared into the mirror without blinking, watching my reflection flicker in the candlelight. The wind outside seemed to knock against the windowpanes. I imagined tendrils of air creeping through the seams, finding passage into my room.

As I gazed at the mirror, my face began to soften and blur, and after a few minutes, it was as if I was no longer looking at myself but at some other girl. The reflected candlelight began to flicker erratically before it blew out entirely, plunging me into complete darkness.

“Emma?” a voice whispered. Only this time, the voice didn't frighten me. Because I knew whose it was. I had almost expected it.

Just as it had the other night, a small flame appeared in the mirror and began receding into the darkness as if someone was carrying it away. My eyes followed it, mesmerized, until I felt myself falling into that trancelike state I'd experienced last year. This was a critical time for me—that moment between wakefulness and sleep when I could get lost in my dream world and stray into danger.

I wanted to follow the light, but in order to do so safely, I'd have to split myself into two like Darlene had taught me. Here in my room was a little girl, terrified of the wind and mourning the loss of her beloved, but there on the other side was the reflection of a girl who looked like me but was wise and fearless, as if she knew something I didn't.

I felt a psychic tug pulling me forward, so I narrowed my eyes and imagined sending my reflection down that long dark corridor. And suddenly I was that bold girl standing on the other side of the mirror, ready to follow the light wherever it led.

As soon as I passed through, a strange sense of peace overcame me, as if I'd stepped into a warm bath. Suddenly, I didn't care whether I was dreaming or not. I only wanted to cling to that drowsy feeling of well-being. I followed the dot of light until I saw a shadow stretch around a corner and disappear. I kept moving even as the floor seemed to slope downward and the hallways zigged and zagged until I had no idea where I was. Only my feet seemed to know where we were going.

And then I heard the sound of water—not just a lake like the one in the Phantom's lair—but the churning, resonant whoosh of the ocean.

When I turned a final corner, a black door stood at the end of the hallway, emblazoned with carvings of flames. And just on the other side, the sound of waves. The intersection of fire and water.

Feeling like Alice gone down the rabbit hole, I opened the door and stood paralyzed as I took in the sight before me. It was a beach at nighttime with rose-colored dunes and sea grass that smelled of spices and wild roses. Beyond the dunes was an expanse of metallic sand, flickering in some unearthly light, while a stormy sea tossed its waves upon a silver shoreline. It looked like the beach at the corner of my street at home, only enchanted by some mystical force.

I caught a glimpse of something black being jostled out on the waves. A boat? Just as I was about to investigate, something lifted me off my feet and carried me toward the water at frightening speed, like the night itself had abducted me. Moments later, I was lying on the bottom of a skiff, being buffeted by sea spray and the ocean's rough chop. Someone was on the boat with me, and he was rowing us through the maelstrom.

I must have lost consciousness because when I woke, the sea had calmed, and the night sky had changed from a soft pinkish-gray to a deep midnight blue. A pair of arms lifted me out of the boat and carried me to shore, depositing me onto a beach of black sand. There was no light here, no dynamic sound of the sea, just a flat landscape of darkness broken only by a formation of black rocks, slick and shiny as onyx and somber as tombstones. This beach smelled not of brine and sea spice but of volcanic ash and death.

The man stood camouflaged by one of the large stones.

“Where am I?” I asked, my voice sounding strange to my ears.

“You're safe,” the man said, and my eyes welled with tears because it was Gray's voice.

“Gray! But how—” I began to say, standing up and advancing toward him.

He retreated behind the rock so I couldn't see him. “Don't come near me,” he said.

“Why?”

“I don't want you to see what I've become.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm different,” he said. “I can't explain it, but I'm . . . not real anymore. Like a ghost.”

I tried to look at him again, but he shied away. “It's okay,” I said. “It's just like before, how we met in our dreams. But just because they're dreams doesn't mean they're not real on some deeper level.”

“You've always believed in us, haven't you?” he said. “Even when things have been difficult.”

“Of course,” I said. “Haven't you?”

“I don't know anymore.” My face must have fallen because he finally stepped forward, moving out of the shadow of the rocks to approach me.

His hair was long and blonder, grizzled at the ends, and his face was gaunt and scarred, the skin brown and puckered from too much wind and sun. And he was thin, painfully thin. I tried to hug him, but he was all angles and bones. His ribs poked through the material of his shirt, and his arms had no strength to embrace me.

He rested his head on my shoulder, and I could feel his hot breath on my neck. My limbs fell slack, as if I were suddenly under the influence of some narcotic drug.

“It's like I'm wasting away,” he said. “Disappearing.”

I grabbed his hand and pulled his knuckles to my lips. “Can you feel this?” I said. “You're not disappearing.”

As soon as I kissed his hand, he drew away, like he was ashamed he'd let me touch him. “It's not good for you to be here,” he said. “You shouldn't waste your time with me.”

“I'd give up much more for you,” I said. “Gray, I love you.”

“I know,” he whispered, and I laughed. He managed a sad smile. I knew then that there was hope. “The light is changing,” he said, turning to face the sky, which was beginning to lighten. “You have to go or you'll be stuck here like me.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are rules here,” he said. “Don't ask me how I know, but I don't want this fate for you. You have so much life ahead of you.”

“Gray, I don't want a life that doesn't include you,” I said, reaching out to grab on to him. He pulled away again.

“You must leave. Or I won't have the strength to let you go. Please don't make this any harder than it is.”

“But how will I find you again?”

“The same way you did this time. Listen for my voice, and come to me.”

I was torn between ignoring his advice and trying to find a way to get back home. If I had somehow sent my spirit out to Gray as I'd done in the past, it meant my body was still in my room in Paris. All I had to do was send my mirror image back through that black sea and through the doorway, but that meant leaving Gray here on this beach, perhaps never to see him again. It nearly killed me to say good-bye.

“Close your eyes,” I said.

“Why?”

“Just close them. I want to try something.”

He closed his eyes, and I moved slowly toward him, reaching up on tiptoe to kiss him gently on the lips. He didn't pull away. In fact, his lips grew warmer as we kissed and my touch seemed to breathe some life into him. When I pulled away, there was color in his cheeks.

“Keep that memory until I see you again,” I said.

A tiny smile formed on his lips, and before I could change my mind, I turned away from him and ran into the ocean. The water was frigid and made me numb with cold. Trudging out waist-deep felt like wading through molasses. But eventually the water grew deeper and warmer, more buoyant. I had the sensation of waves swelling beneath me, carrying me for miles until they delivered me onto that more familiar shore.

I ran up the beach and toward the black door that hovered like a mirage beyond the dunes and opened it, feeling a rush of hot air, like the backdraft of some immense fire. My body was swept up in the whirl, rushing madly forward until it collided with something both hard and soft. The impact felt precise and right, like a lock clicking into place.

When I opened my eyes, I was sitting in front of the mirror, my reflection staring back at me in wide-eyed surprise as if she, too, had just witnessed a miracle.

C
HAPTER
9

M
y reunion with Gray made me feel alive again, full of adrenaline and excitement and the pleasure of a delicious secret I couldn't share with anyone. But when I sat down at the mirror in the cold light of day, it looked so ordinary. I began wondering if the visions had just been my mind's desperate attempt to deny the obvious. That Gray was dead.

Even Gray's parents had come to this conclusion, but Anna had convinced them to delay the memorial service. Her faith that he was still alive, or perhaps their own desire to avoid such finality, led them to postpone the service until after the holidays.

But I believed he would be found by then. I knew I sounded as naïve as Anna, but I didn't care.

In the days that followed, I was flooded with creative energy. I suddenly had the urge to write songs for Gray, and my hand couldn't move quickly enough to capture all the ideas flowing through my brain. Before I knew it, I had half the pages of my notebook filled. One of the songs captured how I felt sitting at the mirror, longing for a man who might never return.

I put the pen down, tears streaming down my face. The emotions that had poured from my heart scared me because they were full of such surrender and passion.

Each night I stared into the mirror, waiting for that voice to echo through the room or for that pinpoint of light to appear, but each night, nothing happened. I began missing classes as the lure of the mirror took hold and I found myself unable to leave its side.

The following Friday, I had cut a morning class and was sitting at the mirror when I heard a knock at the door. At first, I pretended I wasn't in, but then I heard the latch unlocking. I almost screamed when a hulking body appeared in the doorway until I saw it was only Monsieur Crespeau come to do his weekly cleaning.

“God, you scared me!” I said.

“Je suis désolé,” he said. “I thought everyone was in class.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “I'm not feeling well.”

“Pardon,” he said, turning to leave.

“No, wait. It's okay,” I said. “You won't bother me.”

He eyed me suspiciously, then took his bucket into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. I sighed and stood up from the vanity, wandering over to my bed. I could hear Crespeau moving efficiently through the bathroom, moving all of Elise's toiletries and then placing them back just so. It felt a little strange sitting and eavesdropping while some old guy cleaned, so I grabbed my copy of
Phantom
and began reading.

Eventually, Crespeau came out of the bathroom. “Would you like me to clean your room now?” he asked.

“No, that's okay,” I said. “I'll do it later.”

On his way out, he bent down to pick up my red scarf that was on the floor. He wrapped it over a doorknob and said, “This is a good scarf. Cashmere. You keep dropping it on the ground.”

The truth dawned on me. “That was you,” I said, recalling the man who had followed me down the alley and tied my scarf to the gate.

“Oui,” he said.

I sighed in relief. “I'm Emma.”

“Monsieur Crespeau,” he said.

“I know who you are. Can I ask you something?” I said. “A few weeks ago when you cleaned my room, you took the drape off the mirror and put it back on my closet.”

He knitted his brow, trying to remember. “Was that wrong?”

“No, no. I was just . . . well, I was a little scared of the mirror.”

“And yet I found you sitting at it this morning.”

I laughed. “Well, I'm not scared anymore.”

“I've always loved that mirror,” he said with a sigh. “I used to imagine it was an antique from the time of the Revolution. Perhaps it was a witness to magnificent and terrible things.” His English was excellent, and once he got talking, he was not nearly as creepy as everyone thought.

“Is the mirror really an antique?” I said. “Do you know where it came from?”

“No. I only know it's been here as long as I have.”

“And how long is that?” I asked.

“Oh, I guess since I was about your age,” he said. “Twenty years or so.” I quickly calculated in my head. Crespeau was a lot younger than he looked. “That mirror even survived . . .” he began to say. “Well, it has endured much.”

“Was this your room?” I asked, wondering how he knew about the mirror's history.

“No.” He paused, like he was considering whether to tell me something or not. “This was Mademoiselle Veilleux's room.”

“Oh,” I said. So Louis had been telling the truth, at least about Mademoiselle Veilleux attending Saint-Antoine. And if Crespeau knew about the mirror, he must have had reason to enter her room. Very intriguing.

“So what got you over your fear of the mirror?” he asked.

“It's silly, really,” I said. “I lost someone important to me. And . . . sometimes I think I can see him in the mirror.”

He looked down at the copy of
Phantom
lying on the bed beside me.

“So now you wait for him like Christine waits for the Phantom?” he said. “Or maybe like the Lady of Shalott, observing life through the mirror instead of participating. You know what happens to her, don't you?”

“I know,” I said. “As soon as she turns around and looks at the real world, a curse befalls her and she dies.”

He considered that, then unveiled a wise and cynical smile. “I do not think it is the curse that kills her,” he said. “I think it is all the years spent staring into that mirror and not living. Think how willingly she gets onto the boat that takes her to Camelot and how she sings during its journey. I believe she turns around because she is ready to die.”

“That's an interesting way to look at it,” I said.

“I understand this woman,” he said. “I have known loss, and in my grief I have hidden from the world, too.”

“Can I ask what happened?”

He hardened his jaw. “My parents were killed many years ago.”

“I'm so sorry,” I said. “How did they die?”

“A car crash,” he said. “I was in the backseat and survived.”

So that explained the hunched back. And the pervasive shroud of melancholy that surrounded him always. Then he blurted out, “It was my fault.”

“Oh, no, I'm sure it was—”

“My parents were driving me to the train station because I wanted to make a grand romantic gesture to the girl I loved. I was rushing my father, telling him to drive faster.”

“You can't blame yourself,” I said. “It was an accident.”

“Nevertheless, they are gone and they will never come back.” He shook his head like he was dispelling demons from it. “I'll return tomorrow to vacuum,” he said suddenly, as if he'd shared too much, then gave me a formal nod.

“Wait,” I said, not wanting him to leave. But I didn't know what to say. I decided on the truth. “The person I lost?” I said. “It was my boyfriend. He's dead.”

It was the first time I'd uttered those words out loud.

Monsieur Crespeau came over to me and put a large hand on my shoulder. “I am very sorry, Emma.” And then he quietly let himself out of the room.

 

Writing was the only thing that kept me sane over the next few days. Owen and I worked on revising the poems I'd written, and we polished the outline so I could turn it in to Lucas on Monday. We tentatively titled our opera
Voice of an Angel
.

Even though it was a little premature, Owen was excited to begin scoring my poems just in case we advanced to round two. So he, Flynn, and I decided to take a working lunch in Chinatown in Belleville, the once sordid neighborhood where members of the Paris Commune had bathed the streets in their own blood, and much later, a destitute Edith Piaf had sung her ballads to drunken soldiers at the cabarets. In recent years, the area had transformed into a multicultural mecca with ethnic restaurants, shops, and a lively music scene. The atmosphere was busy and colorful and, most important, distracting. The streets overflowed with outdoor market stands, colorful paper lanterns, neon signs, and graffitied walls.

We ate at a tiny hole-in-the-wall that boasted excellent dim sum. Even though the outside of the restaurant was nondescript, once inside, we sat on red silk chairs and ate off white tablecloths, enjoying delicate ginger dumplings, pork-stuffed bao, prawn raviolis—all served with tangy dipping sauces and very hot, strong black tea. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until the waitress came around with a trolley of desserts. We sampled the egg tarts, mango pudding, and an almond sponge cake served with jasmine tea.

After lunch, Owen and I strolled through the shops while Flynn went to the nearby North African neighborhood, where he'd been told he could score some hashish.

“You seem a little better today,” Owen said as we navigated the Saturday afternoon crowds.

“I feel a little better,” I said. “But maybe that's the dim sum talking. How are
you
doing?”

“You know me, Emma. Another girl breaks my heart. I'm used to it.”

“Oh, Owen, I'm sorry,” I said.

He exhaled deeply and put on a brave face. “She told me straight up that she wanted to see other people. She said she didn't want to be in the world's most romantic city and be tied down.”

“Geez, that's cold,” I said.

“Depends how you look at it. At least she didn't string me along.” An unwelcome dose of guilt jolted through me. “But I can't imagine what you're going through,” he said.

“It's like my mother all over again,” I said. “Except this time I'm not eight. I understand that gone means gone.”

He put an arm around me, and I nestled into his embrace. “Wanna go into this gift shop for some retail therapy?” he said. “I'll buy you something. Big spender, here.”

“Sure,” I said, smiling.

The shop was long and narrow with four aisles stocked with all manner of food, trinkets, and kitsch. There were herbal teas and elegantly wrapped candies, exotic incense and rare oils, colorful dragon kites and big-eyed kewpie dolls, silk flowers and lush brocade slippers—a world of visual and olfactory stimulation.

After we'd found our way around the entire store, we were still empty-handed.

“I have to get you something,” Owen said. “A souvenir.”

I spied a little box of green-and-gold grasshopper charms, studded with fake diamonds. The sign on the box was covered with Chinese symbols.

Owen asked the clerk what the sign said. She translated: “May your good fortune be as plentiful as grasshoppers.”

“I like that,” Owen said. “A good-luck grasshopper. I'm buying you one. You need some good luck.”

“Aw, thanks, Owen,” I said. “What should I get you?”

“I don't know,” he said, grinning boyishly.

“Wait here. I saw something you might like.”

I jogged back to one of the aisles and found what I was looking for, a steel harmonica with some Chinese characters etched onto the surface. I had no idea what they said, and it cost a little more than I'd wanted to spend, but Owen was worth it.

When I got outside, Owen was beaming, dimples and everything.

“Here, let me pin on your charm,” he said. “Maybe some of its luck will rub off on me.” He fastened the pin to my coat lapel, and I stared down at the smiling green face.

“My own Jiminy Cricket,” I said.

“It's a grasshopper, not a cricket,” he said, laughing.

“What's the difference?”

“Crickets are brown and ugly; grasshoppers are bright green and cute. Like you.”

“I'm bright green?”

“Shut up, smartass,” he said. “Now where's mine?” He held out his hands and wriggled his fingers.

“Okay, okay, Mr. Impatience.” I pulled the harmonica from the bag and placed it solemnly in his hands, like I was presenting a gift to royalty.

“A harmonica!” he said, taking the instrument and holding it up to his mouth. “I've always wanted one of these.”

“Do you know how to play it?”

“A little,” he said. He blew into it while swiping from side to side, creating a joyful glissando of sound. “Thanks, Emma. It's perfect.”

And then we heard a snide voice from behind. “How come every time I come upon you two, I feel like I've interrupted a scene from a romantic comedy?” It was Flynn, looking very pleased with himself, holding a suspiciously unmarked brown paper bag.

“We were just exchanging souvenirs,” I said.

“And you didn't get one for me? I'm hurt. Truly. But I'll forgive everything if you help make one of my dreams come true,” he said. “One of my life goals is to smoke pot in front of Jim Morrison's grave at Père Lachaise.”