Don't Fear The Reaper

{iv. hide your face so the world will never find you}

Then again, it really has nothing to do with him. It's then that the big picture of what's happening really sets in: I'm on the roof of the Paris opera house on New Year's Eve, in the midst of Victorian times, reliving my favorite musical from 6th grade with my longest friend and the Grim Reaper.

Kat needs to take a chance, I think. Water erodes rock.

And just like in the car, I act on impulse. I take my sister's satin-gloved hand and tug her away from the ledge, down the stairwell and after Mor. The skyline of Paris vanishes and soon, we're in a narrow hallway, and then another stairwell, and then another hall and so on until I'm so disoriented I feel like Theseus trapped in the labyrinth with no Ariadne or magical string to guide my way.

Mor is somewhere up ahead. I can hear him humming (Don't Fear) The Reaper, and I wonder if that's the only song he knows. Meanwhile, a different song, one from Phantom, of course, twists through my mind like a snake.

"Lila," Kat pants from behind me, "This cannot be happening. This cannot be happening!"

"I'm pretty sure it's happening, chica!"

I catch sight of Mor. He's waiting at the bottom of the final staircase, one hand behind his back in proper etiquette, the other reached out in our direction.

Nearly leaping down the stairs, my sister and I land precariously on marble flooring, our skirts floating around us.

Any other time, if I'd spent that much time running, I'd go straight to catching my breath. But I get distracted by the view of where I am.

We're on a mezzanine overlooking a grand atrium; above us is a towering, cathedral style ceiling, complete with a fresco of angels and gods and pegasi. Gilded marble arches and candelabras giving off warm, fuzzy light lead my eyes down to what lays below: a grand ivory staircase lined with wrought, lacquered railings and filled with the thrum of a dancing crowd.

All around me are unfamiliar faces disguised by familiar masks. Women dripping with gold leaf and pearls and diamonds, their skirts sweeping against each other like gears in a clock. Men in fine suits of ebony and gold filigree, clinking flutes of champagne and speaking sweetly in French. Somewhere below, the aristocrats are waltzing in three-fourths time to a soaring classical tune I can't quite name.

The scents of chocolate and cream and floral perfume run through my sinuses like devilish children playing tag. The candles flicker, making my vision become spotty. Drawn by some unknowable source, I drift away from my sister and the reaper towards a small balcony, where I can truly see the revel in full swing.

It's perfect, like something out of a dream. I don't feel an ounce of otherness, like I feel at school. Here, surrounded by total strangers speaking a foreign language and spinning to a dance I don't know, I feel at home.

I feel like I'm on stage, about to give the performance of my life. But am I Christine Daaé, a young and beautiful soprano with a seraphic voice and phantom stalker, or am I simply Lila Cabrera, a young and average contralto with a dead boyfriend and an undead grim reaper at my side?

Mor comes to my side right at this moment, Kat on his left. She walks like she's on eggshells, and when she glances at me, her expression is unreadable.

"Shall we dance?" I ask her, trying to get her as enchanted as I am.

"I don't know how to waltz."

Her tone is flat, but her voice itself is wobbly, as if she's trying to keep herself together.

Mor senses this, and he starts to back away, his coldness following him. But first, he looks at me, his black eyes sparkling in the vanilla candlelight. There's just the smallest ghost of an amused smile on his face. "I will let you two decide how you'd like to interact with this situation."