The flashlight beam reflected from the dark water, and she stirred the water with her toe just to break the unnatural stillness. Even her footsteps barely whispered in the cavern. Quite a contrast from the busy, vibrant stage far overhead.
She continued skirting the lake, passing her light over damp columns. The years had left their mark underground in far different ways than they had above. Few knew or cared about the foundations of the Opera Garnier anymore, the stories that had surrounded its debut period reduced to little more than ghost stories for children.
Even Elodie herself wondered how much, if any, of the legend was true. So many generations had passed; memory changed in the telling, giving ordinary events mythological proportion. Still, she had promised her great-grandmother, the last Chagny to inherit that famed soprano voice, that she would visit the lake once in her lifetime, and the tour she had slipped away from had seemed the perfect opportunity.
Her flashlight beam caught a moldering wooden box perched on a pile of rubble left from some forgotten repair. Curious, she fingered the rusty lock, then winced as the board behind it peeled away like paper. She gingerly lifted what remained of the lid and gasped.
In a threadbare nest of velvet lay a pristine mask, black and gold accents glittering new in a seeming halo of light. Unable to resist, she lifted it to her face, daydreams of masked dancers and soaring music filling her vision. A silken whisper touched her mind as her hand fell in shock. “Christine, my love, I have waited so long for your return. Sing for me once more.”
The Word Worker 