Phantom: A Dark Retelling (Tattered Curtain Series)
Phantom: Act 1 – Scene 2

Scarlett

Anticipation bubbles up as I see the envelope, cream and pristine. My fingers carefully brush over the white rose lying beside it, a bloodred ribbon delicately tied around the thornless stem. Lifting the flower to my nose, I soak in the scent, loving the subtle earthy smell, like it’d been freshly picked from the sender’s garden.

Letters just like this one have appeared in my room sporadically for months, always right here on the corner of my makeup desk. I have no idea who they’re from, or how they get here. That’s obviously a red flag, and the first time I received a random mysterious envelope, I should’ve reported it. But they’d started showing up when I was at my lowest, and I didn’t want to question one of the few things that got me out of bed at the time. Now, I hate it when days go by without one. I wasn’t sure if a letter would arrive tonight, but with this being my first performance as a leading role, I’d hoped. Thank god that hope wasn’t in vain.

I lay the flower gently back down beside the envelope before picking it up next. Like always, written in near-perfect cursive on the front is “Ma belle muse.” The first time I received a letter almost a year ago, I did a quick internet search to verify the translation.

My beautiful muse.

A staccato beat pulses in my chest as I open the envelope, careful not to destroy the bloodred wax skull sealing it shut. Once it’s opened, I reach inside for the first of two letters I know are there.

Ma muse,

You were magnificent tonight. Congratulations on your debut. The spotlight is dim compared to your radiance. I envy the light that touches you. It makes me question remaining in the dark.

Tu me verras bientôt,

Ton démon de la musique

“My muse… Your demon of music.”

I whisper it aloud, wondering if my demon is somewhere listening as I say the parts I know in English and butcher the French sign-off. My French diction and language courses taught me enough to read, speak conversationally, and sing, but I have no confidence in my knowledge. I always double-check myself when I read something new.

I hold the letter to my chest and my demon’s leather and whiskey scent drifts up to my nostrils, settling me. Even though I know no one is here, I swear I can feel the heated gaze I imagine he possesses. Or that he would possess… if he were real. Looking around, there’s nothing to convince me I’m not going crazy, only my cluttered and slightly messy dressing room.

I sigh and reverently store the letter with all the others in the bottom drawer of my musical jewelry box before extracting the second letter from the envelope. Sheet music.

The pretty words of the first letters are lovely, but his music is divine. Every envelope contains thick cream paper with handwritten songs that I rarely hear, or I’ve never heard before. The ones I’m unfamiliar with are always in the perfect pitch for me to sing, almost like my demon of music wrote them specifically for me. Sometimes, I even hear piano music and his deep bass drifting into my room. Or… at least I think I do.

This music is all I have of him. If it weren’t for the letters, I’d worry I was making the whole thing up.

The fact that he calls himself a demon in his notes should obviously scare me. But it’s what I called him out loud when I read the first letter that had no signature. All I could think of then was the angels and demons my dad sang about. My demon must have heard me because the next letter that came had the name he uses now. It should freak me out, and it’s crazy—maybe literally—but my brain can’t shake the idea that whoever my mystery pen pal is, he’s good. Or at least he’s good for me. Sometimes that’s all that matters.

I begin to hum the notes to myself before retrieving my journal from my bedside table. My nose scrunches as I concentrate to remember what lyrics I’ve scribbled down that will fit the beat. As soon as I get to the page I’m thinking of, I see the corner has already been folded.

“That’s weird,” I murmur. Bending pages is a no-no for me—bookmarks all the way, even in my music books. But sometimes I write in a sleepy daze in the middle of the night so maybe I did it then?

That feeling of being not quite alone has only heightened, and I scan the room. It’s not an uncomfortable feeling, necessarily. If anything, I’d say it’s almost like a guardian angel is watching over me. There’s just my nightstand, the bathroom’s open door, and my full-length mirror beside the foot of my bed. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Maybe my demon of music is watching over me.

Shaking my head with a chuckle, I do another once-over of my lyrics and mentally combine them with the musical notes from the letter. A rush, unique and different from anything I experience when I’m acting, courses through me. I’ve always wanted to sing my own songs like my dad used to. But I’ve never had the courage.

Going solo means the entire show is based on me. No understudy, no one to rely on if I mess up. What if I have a manic or depressive episode and can’t perform? Fear, doubt, and uncertainty have held me back, but writing my lyrics brings me joy like no other.

I sing the words while sight-reading the sheet music. Before long, I’m swept along with the gentle swells and descents of the melody, until a buzzing noise sparks me from my focus.

Whipping my head around, it takes me a second to realize it’s my phone buzzing on my makeup counter in the other room. As soon as I answer, Jaime yells into my ear over the background music.

“Scarlett! What the hell? Where are you, babe?”

My eyes dart to the clock on the wall. I’ve been lost in the music for over an hour.

“Shit. I’m sorry Jaims, I’ll be there in a few.”

“Good. This puppy dog of yours is getting on my last nerve. If he makes one more rude comment to a waitress, I will kick him.”

I snort. “You can’t kick puppies, Jaims. Everyone knows that.”

“I think the world would make an exception for this one,” Jaime grumbles.

I toss my journal back on my bed. “Don’t worry. I’ll be down in a sec.”

“Good.” Jaime hangs up without another word. The man never says “bye” like a normal person.

I tuck my phone in the pocket the goddess of a seamstress sewed into the white Juliet dress. After touching up my makeup, I’m ready to go, but something in my full-length mirror catches my eye. The frame looks as if it’s been broken apart at the seam, so I pop it back in.

“Gonna need to get that replaced,” I mutter to tell myself as I grab my white lace masquerade mask.

My eyes catch the white rose on my makeup counter and before I can stop myself, I take some scissors from one of my drawers and cut the long stem. As I work one of my sewing pins through the thick fabric of my dress, I poke my finger.

“Shit.” Blood wells up and I pop my finger into my mouth to soak it up before it gets on my dress. Thankfully, I’d already gotten it mostly attached before I pricked myself, and I’m able to get the rose the rest of the way on one-handed. I check the mirror one more time before I leave and curse.

The rose has a barely noticeable smear of blood from when I pricked myself. The garnet speckles are the only color I’m wearing and totally stand out, but it still looks pretty so I keep the flower on. Other than the blood, the white petals nearly blend in with my white dress, but I don’t care. If I can’t work on the lyrics to my demon’s music like I want to, at least I can wear the rose he gave me.

Stopping by the doorway, I gaze wistfully through my bedroom door at the sheet music tucked into my journal lying on my bed. I’d love to stay in and just work on the new piece my phantom pen pal sent me, but I promised Jaime I’d go to the after-party this time.

My pocket buzzes and I know he’s calling me again. He’s practically the only one who ever does. So with one last peek at my journal, I resolve to work on it later and close the door, not bothering to lock it. Bordeaux Conservatory of Music is one of the safest places in the French Quarter, if not the safest.

As I walk the dim halls to Masque, I use an internet search to translate the sign-off of the letter, “tu me verras bientôt.” It’s a new one he’s never signed off with before and it has me curious.

But when the words appear, I stop in my tracks. Staring at the bright screen, my heart rises to my throat as alarm bells desperately try—and fail—to override the hope and thrill flooding through my veins.

“You’ll see me soon.”

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