Chapter Text
“Inej!" Inej turned to find Jesper frantically waving her over to where he stood in the wings with Nina who was shaking her head at him. “Nina and I are having a debate,” he explained when she reached them. “What are your opinions on my fashion sense?”
“Um,” Inej surveyed his attire for the day. It was awfully bright, gaudy, and just like every other god-awful outfit the stagehand owned. “It’s certainly…bold?”
“Ha!” Nina exclaimed as Jesper let out a dramatic gasp and stumbled backwards, wounded, and right into an unsuspecting mop of ruddy gold curls. The unfortunate soul Jesper crashed into let out a yelp as he fell flat on his bottom. Nina tutted as the boy stared up at them with wide blue eyes. “Now look at what you’ve done, Jesper. Frightened poor Wylan half to death.”
“Saints,” Jesper gushed as he reached out a hand to help the boy - Wylan - Inej noted. So this was Wylan Hendricks–Van Eck. She silently observed him as he took Jespers extended hand. His pale cheeks were stained scarlet already, but reddened even further as he lost his balance again and fell right into Jesper’s chest. He was engulfed by the large Congolese boy’s frame but he was young - sixteen, likely - and still had some growing to do. “I am so sorry,” Jes apologized as he helped the boy right himself once again.
“It’s fine,” Wylan muttered, staring at his feet. Jesper seemed as though he was going to return to the conversation and ignore Wylan, before the flutist stole a quick look at Jesper and added, “And, um, for the record, I think you look nice.”
“Aha!” Jesper declared, his face lighting up with a sh*t-eating grin. He slung his arm around Wylan’s shoulders and turned to stick his tongue out at Nina and Inej. “At least someone around here appreciates true fashion! Thank you for having exquisite taste, Wylan.”
Wylan just nodded, seemingly rendered speechless by Jesper’s hand resting on his shoulder. Jesper continued on obliviously, crowing about the woes of being a genius, and Inej had to bite back a grin. It was obvious the poor boy had a crush on Jesper. Perhaps a reason as to why no one had heard of Van Eck’s son before?
Though Jesper’s lamentations were cut off when Matthias’s heavily accented voice called out, “Jesper! I need your help with the backdrops!” Both Nina and Jesper perked up at the request. Jesper sighed and reluctantly went to do his job - much to the relief (or disappointment?) of Wylan - while Nina made up a crappy excuse about “checking on her costume.” Inej knew fully well that she was going to flirt with the Swedish stagehand, but she wasn’t going to call her out when it gave Inej the perfect opportunity to speak with Wylan alone.
Inej waited until Nina was out of earshot before turning to Wylan and laughing, “She does realize that she isn’t fooling anyone, right?” The boy startled, as if he had forgotten he wasn’t alone. “It’s obvious she’s going to flirt with Matthias.”
“Matthias?” Wylan asked, clearly not acquainted with him. Inej pointed to the tall, burly blond working the fly system, who was unsurprisingly staring at Nina as she sauntered by with a sultry smile. “Oh.”
“Watch, as soon as he’s done, Matthias will be following her to ‘secretly’ snog in one of the storage closets.” Inej and Wylan watched, and sure enough, Matthias was quick to follow after Nina like a lovesick puppy. Out of the corner of her eye Inej spotted another opportunity. “Oh, and look! There’s Rotty - the stage manager—” she gestured to a stout man with a bulbous nose cradling a nondescript mug “—he tells everyone he’s got a caffeine addiction, hence why he always has coffee, but after lunch break the coffee starts to turn Irish.”
“Huh,” Wylan remarked, eyes following Rotty’s swaying stance before turning back to Inej, slightly weary. “How do you know all of this?”
Inej shrugged innocently. “I am a bit of a people watcher. A habit I've never been quite able to shake.”
Wylan nodded slowly, fidgeting with a loose thread of his shirt. “So…so you know a lot about this place then, right?”
“You could say that. Why? Do you have a question about something,” she glanced towards Jesper who was still securing the flies. “Or someone?”
Wylan followed her eyes and blushed. “Um…well, actually, I’ve been hearing rumors about something called the Bastard of the Opera?”
Inej was careful not to show her surprise. She was certain Wylan was going to ask about Jesper. But then again, he’d been raised as the son of a Comte and thespians were more…understanding of different lifestyles than others. Especially more so than nobility. “What would you like to know about Opera Garnier’s infamous ghost?”
“Well, I haven’t heard much,” he admitted with a sheepish smile. “So I was thinking, everything?”
Inej couldn’t help but laugh. He might’ve only been a year younger than her, but his soft disposition stirred a familial fondness in her heart for him. “Well I am afraid that would take a rather long time, Wylan. So how about the basics for now?” Wylan nodded eagerly. Was he that desperate for information? Or simply a friend to talk to? Either way, Inej tugged at his hand and led him over to an empty bench. One far away enough from the others to avoid being overheard, but still had a good view of the stage before them. “There are several rumors about the truth behind the Bastard of the Opera. Some think he is simply a fictional character, made up to blame mistakes on. Others think it’s really some miscreants playing a prank. But the most widely accepted theory is that he is a phantom, haunting the opera house.
“The story goes like this: Some years ago, there was a dancer here at the opera who had to work in the foyer de la danse because of her contract,” Inej explained, trying not to think of how similar this was to her story. Could have been her story, if not for Kaz. Wylan asked no questions about the foyer, so she assumed he knew of it. It was hard not to if you were employed at the opera. “One of the wealthier patrons was infatuated with her beauty, and wanted her desperately. He went so far as to pay so no one else could spend a night with her. The dancer was content with this arrangement, for he was a kind man and didn’t abuse her as others had. So, when she found out she was with child, the woman was elated, thinking surely now he would have to marry her. She would be taken away from the opera and debts she could never pay to live a life of luxury with her child and a kind husband. But when she told the patron, instead of receiving a proposal, she received a broken heart.
“The man denied the child being his, even though he’d made certain she wasn’t bedded by any other man than him. He refused to marry her, and he refused to have anything to do with the baby. The woman was distraught, for now she had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. The opera would no longer employ her since it was unseemly to have a pregnant woman onstage and they had taken every last franc she had. The woman became a destitute, starving on the streets of Paris. Miraculously though, the church took pity on her soul and gave her a place to stay until her child was born.
“When she did give birth, it was to a baby boy with a mangled leg and she did not survive long after labor. The church took in the child and raised him, even though the boy would never be able to walk without a cane. Eventually telling him his mother’s story once he was of age. When he learned about what his mother had gone through because of the management at the opera and because of the man who was supposed to be his father, he was furious. His caretakers warned him to not act on this anger and let God be the judge, but he would not listen. Instead he came here, to the opera house with the intent to confront, then kill his father and then burn down the building along with everyone inside. He cornered the patron and told him of how he made an innocent woman suffer. Of how he had doomed him to be a cripple and an orphan. Yet before he could pull out his gun to deliver his final blow, the patron beat him to it, and shot him right between the eyes. The boy died instantly, and the patron carried on as usual. But still even to this day, the boy’s spirit haunts the opera house seeking revenge for his mother and his own damned soul. It’s said that if you listen close enough, sometimes you can hear the bastard’s cane, pounding through the theatre, deciding who to punish next.”
As if on cue, Inej heard the faint thunking of a familiar gait overhead, though it went unnoticed by Wylan who appeared deep in thought. She had to resist the urge to roll her eyes. Kaz was also so dramatic.
“And what of the Wraith?” Wylan asked, regaining Inej’s attention. “I haven’t heard much, but a lot of the time people will mention some ‘Wraith’ as if it is working with the Bastard of the Opera.”
The irony was not lost on Inej that Wylan was asking the being who’d inspired tales of the Wraith herself about the entity, but she didn’t let it show. “There is no grand tale about the Wraith, I am afraid. She is more recent. Rumors of a second spirit’s presence here started a few years back, when there were strange occurrences without the sound of the Bastard’s cane. They only grew when Monsieur Rollins’ letters from the Bastard of the Opera contained information no one else should have known. Unless a silent wraith had been listening, watching, and reporting to her fellow spector. Some speculate that the Wraith may be the spirit of the Bastard’s mother, but,” she shrugged. “No one really knows.”
Wylan’s brow furrowed and he opened his mouth to presumably ask another question, but before he got the chance to the sound of snapping ropes, a loud crash, and screams interrupted him. Everyone rushed to the source of the noise to find one of the backdrops fallen to the ground, having nearly crushed several of the petit rats.
There was a moment of stunned silence before Rotty stumbled over pointing and shouting, “Who is responsible for this? Helvar! Fahey! Get your asses out here!”
Jesper ran forward, cheeks flushed and stumbling over his words. “Sorry, sir. I don't know what happened. Matthias and I had just finished securing that and after he went on break. But I was standing over by the flies, and no one was there. From the looks of it, the rope was cut.”
“What in the bloody blazes do you mean cut? Who would've cut it?”
As if in answer, stilted pounding echoed from the rafters. Every head turned up, looking for the source of the noise, and every pair of eyes followed the sudden appearance and slow descent of a piece of paper as it landed right at Wylan’s feet. Pale-faced, Wylan retrieved the letter, the pounding faded away, and then all hell broke loose.
Some shouted, some whispered prayers, and one person even fainted. “It was the spöke!” Matthias cried out, having emerged with a rather disheveled-looking Nina (he was in no perfect state either with his messed hair and swollen lips).
But Inej ignored them, instead peeking over Wylan’s shoulder to see the envelope now grasped in his hands. She almost laughed at the messy handwriting, scrawled in red ink. While Inej could not read French, she could read Pekka Rollings’ name. Wylan flipped the letter, carefully breaking the wax seal (in the shape of a crow, of course) and revealing the contents. Wylan’s fear seemed to melt away into something else entirely as he looked over the letter. “What does it say?” Inej whispered, only able to recognize a few words.
Wylan shoved the paper at her. “Can’t you read it?” He was frustrated, yes, anyone would've picked up on that, but Inej also noticed the way he avoided her gaze and he blushed all the way to the tips of his ears. Signs he was once again embarrassed. But by what? She glanced at the parchment in her hands and suddenly, all the pieces clicked together.
“No,” Inej said softly, shaking her head. “I can’t read.” Either, she added in her head. Wylan looked at her as if she had just uttered some unholy secret. Her heart ached for the boy at that moment. Growing up as a Comte’s son, unable to read…it must've been hell for him if the haunted look in his eyes was anything to go off of. “I’ll ask Jesper to read it for us.”
A flash of panic shone bright in his eyes for a moment before it dulled to resignation. Wylan dipped his head, and Inej took it as his consent. “Hey, Jes!” Inej called, beckoning him over. She handed him the letter. “Could you read this for me?”
“Sure thing, ‘Nej,” Jesper flashed a co*cky smile before holding out the scroll as he would a king’s proclamation. He cleared his throat loudly, and everyone around quieted to listen. “My dear manager, Monsieur Rollins - oh this should be good - I am pleased to see that rehearsals for Il Muto are going well. For the most part.”
People exchanged nervous glances at this. But no one dared say a word as Jesper read on: “The vocals are entrancing, as would be the dancing if Madame Van Houden spent her time teaching her students how to dance as opposed to bedding rich patrons. I expect to see vast improvement before opening night, on which I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in box five. Which will be kept empty for me - aside from my overdue salary of twenty thousand francs. Do not think I have forgotten your debts, monsieur. Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur. I remain, Your Obedient Servant, The Bastard of the Opera.”
Then, for the first time in months, everyone in the auditorium was silent. It was not the first time that the mysterious opera ghost had sent a letter to the manager and it happened to fall into the hands of the cast before the man himself, but it was the first time a threat loomed over their heads so ominously. Made all the more real by the nearly devastating accident that occurred moments before. If the large wooden beams supporting the backdrop had fallen on any one of the dancers it surely would have ruined their career. After all, an injured dancer is no longer a dancer.
Rotty was first to break the silence. “Well, what are you all standing around waiting for? We still have a rehearsal to finish and notes to go over - though I suppose the Bastard beat me to it,” he added quietly, his eyes flicking over to Madame Van Houden who was red in the face and looked ready to strangle someone. Everyone immediately sprung into action, the stage buzzing with a sense of dread. Jesper mindlessly handed the letter back to Inej, who carried it over to where Rotty stood, taking a long sip of his “coffee.”
“Monsieur, should I…?” She held up the letter as a way of finishing her question.
The stage manager waved her off dismissively. “Yes, yes,” he grumbled. “Go ahead and take it to Rollins. Let’s just hope he doesn’t shoot you.”
Inej smiled at the little joke. All the times she had brought Kaz’s letters to Pekka, he had never once shot her, but he certainly would not be pleased with today’s. What was Kaz thinking?
After Inej had given the letter to the Opera’s manager, who’d practically ripped the letter from her hands with a scowl, she silently pressed a small panel, one nearly invisible unless you knew where to look, folding back a piece of the wall the size of a small doorway. She made sure she was alone before she stepped through the opening and sealed the passage shut. Inej pressed her ear to a thin wall to her right, allowing her to perfectly hear everything in the office.
“That bastard!” Pekka raged from the other side of the wall. There was a loud crash, presumably something he had to decided to break in his fit. It wouldn’t have been the first time. “Who would have the gall to send this? Who is he to think he can demand anything from me? Who is he to criticize my employees? To threaten me!”
There was another loud crash, followed by a period of silence. Inej was about to leave when she heard Rollins scoff. “Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur. Well, I’d like to see him try. This ghost will not be getting paid this month, and I would very much like to see his response.”
“Do you really think that’s wise, monsieur?” A new, yet familiar, voice interjected. “After all he does know of the circus—”
“Of which there is no longer a paper trail, Haskell.” Ah. So the other man in the room was Per Haskell - Pekka’s silent partner. Inej had never met the man personally, but she'd seen him whispering about something to Rollins several times. Perhaps about this mysterious circus? She filed that information away for later and continued listening. “So, should this Bastard - or his Wraith for that matter - report us nothing will happen. You know how the police are. Lazy buffoons who will turn a blind eye with a single flash of gold. The only way we would be arrested is if there was proof they couldn’t deny. Proof that no longer exists.”
“Yes, but there are other things he can do,” Haskell argued, the more superstitious of the two. “Just today he cut down a backdrop. If it had injured anyone we would have been held responsible. We would have had to pay.”
Pekka chuckled, the sound vile and unsettling. “This isn’t about money anymore, monsieur. This is about stopping the bastard. I have catered to his demands for far too long. I will find out who this ‘Bastard of the Opera’ and his little Wraith are. And when I do, I will ruin them.”
***
Kaz’s knee had been killing him for days, and the trip through the rafters did not help. So, instead of hunching over his desk like usual, he allowed himself a few minutes of rest in the sitting room adjacent the training room - a room in which he may or may not have added an extra chair to once he’d begun teaching Inej how to defend herself. He was lounging in a plush velvet armchair, just about to doze off, when he felt more so than heard Inej’s arrival.
It took Inej a few extra moments to track him down due to his unusual location, giving Kaz enough time to silently reprimand himself for such foolishness. Napping in the middle of the afternoon? He shouldn’t even be taking a break right now. Not when there was still so much to do.
Inej interrupted his self-scolding when she appeared in the doorway, appraising his bloodshot and shadowed eyes before asking, “When was the last time you slept?”
Whether Kaz ignored the question because he did not want to answer it or because he couldn’t answer it was only for him to know. “What business, Wraith?” Inej sighed and plopped down in her chair - not her chair, Kaz reminded himself. Just the chair she sits in.
“Rollins isn’t going to pay you,” she said as she kicked off her flats and extended her stockinged feet to the hearth in front of them, seeking out the flame’s warmth. The fire bathed Inej’s skin in a heavenly glow as she carefully unwound her hair from the tight coil she had to keep it in during rehearsal. Kaz watched, mesmerized, as she carded her fingers through the inky tresses. A quill dipping into the inkwell. When she finally turned her gaze back to him it took Kaz longer than he wanted to admit to realize that she was expecting a response to her previous statement.
He shrugged and turned his gaze back to the hearth. “I suspected as much. Men like Pekka Rollins don’t like being told what to do. They especially don’t like feeling powerless, with no choices to make. Threats do just that.”
“So you don’t want him to pay you? Why?”
“I want him to know who he’s dealing with,” Kaz answered plainly. “Pekka has become too lax lately. He has forgotten that even though the deed may be in his name, this is my opera house. I’ve merely given him a warning.” He risked a glance back at Inej who was…smiling. At him. Normally he drank in her smiles. Smiles that were too pure and good for a wretched creature like himself to deserve. But when he smiled at him like this - when she looked at him like this - as though he wasn’t some demon who’d crawled his way out of hell and instead, maybe, just maybe there was a good person hidden beneath the mask and gloves, his stomach soured and he had to look away. “I didn’t do it out of kindness, Wraith,” he rasped, reaching for his cane, “so stop gawking at me like that.”
He stood to leave, probably on his way to hit something or someone, but Inej stopped his retreat by saying, “Rollins and Haskell were talking about a circus.” He froze in the doorway, every part of him going rigid. “Said they’d destroyed all evidence of their connection to it. That way you couldn’t use it as blackmail anymore. Care to explain?”
For one terrifying moment Kaz felt as though he couldn’t move, as if he was no longer in his sitting room with Inej, but instead chained in a cage, face bare, on display for the hundreds of faces gawking at him. Reaching for him through the bars–
But no. He wasn’t that frightened boy anymore. He was the Bastard of the Opera, free from any mortal chains. Your wrists may not be clasped in iron anymore, Jordie’s voice mocked in his head. But you are still as trapped as I am dead. Kaz ignored the voice, focusing instead on the cool porcelain on his ruined face, the worn leather coating his hands, the cotton hugging his arms. Your armor will not protect you from me, brother.
Kaz glanced back at Inej, still curled up in the armchair, eyes watching him expectantly. And she’ll see though it soon enough, too. Kaz pulled a scowl and left with a response that was everything he was: Brief, cold, and final.
“No.”
