I am
thrilled to be hosting a spot on the NOCTURNE by Cheryl Mahoney Blog Tour
hosted by Rockstar
Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!
About The Book:
Title: NOCTURNE (The Guardian of the Opera #1)
Author: Cheryl
Mahoney
Pub. Date: June 5, 2020
Publisher: Stonehenge
Circle Press
Pages: 300
Formats: Paperback,
eBook
Set against the backdrop of 1880s
Paris and the stunning Opera Garnier, The Guardian of the Opera: Nocturne
brings you the familiar tale from a different direction. Meg Giry met the
Phantom once when she was twelve years old, a new ballet dancer lost in the
Opera’s maze. Years later, when an Angel of Music offers singing lessons to her
best friend Christine Daaé, Meg is sure she knows what’s actually happening.
But as strange events unfold and the pieces stop adding up, Meg has to wonder
if she truly understands the Phantom—or Christine.
Erik is a man of many talents and
many masks, and the one covering his face may be the least concealing. The
opera house is his kingdom and his refuge, where he stalks through the shadows
as the Phantom of the Opera, watching over all that occurs. He never intended
to fall in love; when he does, it launches him into a new symphony he’s certain
can only end in heartbreak.
Excerpt:
Sometimes I believe the course of my life was set because I
got lost one day when I was twelve years old. I got lost often that year,
but only once that mattered.
I had first come to the Opera Garnier only three days
before, and I defy anyone to learn that labyrinth of rooms and passages so
quickly. It didn’t help being a girl from a small village, come to Paris
with my mother just a week earlier. The city was bewildering,
unimaginably bigger than my little village of Leclair. And the Opera was
the heart and center of Paris, stranger and wilder and even more confusing.
I was supposed to be on my way to ballet practice. I
was a petit rat, the lowest tier of society among the Opera’s
performers. Madame Thibault the ballet mistress presided over us, and she
did not tolerate tardiness. I didn’t want to be late. I
desperately wanted to be at ballet practice—but I was lost.
Some wrong turn mixed me up somewhere, and from there I
could only fly through the maze like a small ghost, unable to find the way back
to my intended path. The Opera held too many similar corridors, with
their polished marble floors, gilt paneled walls, and long arrays of
mirrors. No space in the Opera was plain or generic, until the dizzying
amount of detail, the carvings and the gold designs and the patterned grates
overwhelmed me, so that I couldn’t pick out one familiar note in the crashing,
thundering symphony of it all.
It felt equally impossible to ask for directions from anyone
I passed, the looming scenechangers with gap-toothed grins or the elegant
sopranos with their noses in the air. By the time I might have built up
enough reckless courage to speak to someone, no one was left. I had got
below ground level, probably not very far, but low enough for the halls to be
deserted, low enough for it to feel cool despite the summer warmth above.
I’d left behind the human smells of the upper corridors, the grease paint,
perfume and cigar smoke. Down here the air smelled damp, reminding me of
the fabled lake said to be even farther down. In stark and jarring
contrast, these walls were plain, white-washed stone, unevenly lit by
flickering gas lamps.
When I came to a bleak and empty dead-end, I gave up.
I slid down to sit against the cold stone wall, one arm around my ankles and
forehead against my knees. With my other hand I held tightly onto my
small gold necklace, the barest of comforts in the desolation. My hair
fell forward like a golden curtain around my face, blocking out the dismal,
silent, baffling corridor. I half-believed that I would never get out,
that I would die lost in the depths of the Opera.
Part of me found that the preferable option. To
stumble in late to ballet practice would mean facing the ballet mistress’
mocking disapproval. She would hate me, the other girls would laugh at
me, and my entire life, not to mention dancing career, would be over
forever. I’d never earn any money to help Mother afford to stay in Paris,
and we’d have to go back to Leclair where nothing would ever happen to me ever
again.
So I sat in that dead-end corridor and cried.
“It can’t be as bad as all that.”
The voice that broke the silence was the most beautiful I
had ever heard. Perhaps that was a strange adjective for a male voice,
but it was a true one. It was a melodic voice, every syllable flowing
smoothly into the next while the pronunciation stayed crisply clear. And
it was a kind voice as well, sympathetic with a bracing amount of levity.
It was a voice I would have had the courage to ask directions from, just a little
earlier.
By now, the situation felt too far gone to be
salvaged. Ballet practice would start within minutes; I couldn’t imagine
getting there in time now even if I knew the way. So I just sobbed out,
“I can’t find my way to practice and the ballet mistress is going to kill me.”
Only then did I lift my head to push my hair back, wipe my
eyes and look at the man who had spoken. And then—sob catching in my
suddenly tightening throat—then I got scared.
The other ballet girls had already taken great delight in
telling me about Le Fantôme, the Phantom of the Opera, the specter
who stalked the corridors, harbinger of death and disaster. I froze,
staring at this strange figure so tall above me.
He was wearing the formal, all-black evening clothes the
stories had promised. The legend also mentioned hands covered in blood,
which his weren’t. His eyes weren’t the glowing yellow of the tales, but
he did wear a molded white mask over the right side of his face in a more
mysterious touch, while a broad-brimmed hat cast another layer of shadow.
A mask and evening clothes in the morning were unusual, but
we were in an opera house. My instinct that he was the Phantom came from
clues harder to define than a mask: a shroud of mystery surrounded him, from
the swirling black cloak to the inexplicable way he seemed as much shadow as
man, indistinct in the dim light, as though he was so used to blending in that
he forgot to stop.
Somehow I thought of the Phantom at once, before he even had
time to say, “In that case, I understand why you’re upset. There are many
people I would rather cross than the ballet mistress.”
It was a sympathetic remark, made in that perfect voice,
with a faint smile as well. However, my mother had warned me often enough
not to trust strange men just because they smiled, and this one was stranger
than most. “Who are you?” I gasped out, though I felt horribly sure that
I already knew.
He fingered the brim of his hat, and I read thoughtfulness
in his stance. “I am a sort of…guardian of the Opera,” he said at last,
which only confirmed my worst fears. “You seem unfamiliar. Are you
new?”
I could think of no answer that felt safe, so I chose the
truth and said, “Yes.” In a way, everyone was new. The Opera
Garnier had opened in January, and this was only June; I couldn’t imagine
learning every face in six years, let alone a mere six months.
“I see. Old hands have no business getting lost, but
when new it is difficult to avoid. I will help you.” And he
extended one black-gloved hand.
My heart pounded in my chest so loudly he must have heard
it, and my fingers tightened, wrapped around my legs. I stared at his
hand, unmoving, for so long that he took it back again and said, “Not too new,
I see, to have heard of the Phantom.”
So it was true, and only more terrifying that he admitted
it. I looked up at his green eyes, at that mask, and squeaked, “Are you
going to kill me?”
He crouched down, bringing his face nearly to my level,
black cloak pooling around him. Closer now, I could see his eyes through
the shadows, greener than anyone’s I had ever seen. “I will tell you a
secret, but you mustn’t tell anyone else because it would ruin my
reputation. I do not eat girls’ hearts. I have never drenched any
walls in blood, at least not in this country. I cannot read minds or send
nightmares, and—brace yourself, this one will be shocking—I am not actually a
skeleton with glowing yellow eyes.”
He said it with such perfect solemnity that a giggle escaped
me in spite of myself. It may have been slightly hysterical.
He nodded once. “I swear on Mozart, Beethoven, and
Stradivari that if you come with me, you will reach ballet practice unharmed.”
When he extended his hand again, I took it. Even
though I knew it was probably just a trick of voice, I was obscurely reassured
by the vow—and I was also acutely conscious that he could kill me whether I
went voluntarily or not.
His fingers closed around mine and he rose to his feet,
drawing me up. For a supposed ghost, he had a warm and solid hand.
“One story that is true—I walk through walls.” He
reached out to the wall behind me, and I turned my head in time to see a panel
pivot out, revealing a dark space behind it. How many doors like that
existed in the Opera, if one had happened to be right next to me all along?
He waved his hand through the air, a candle appearing
between his thumb and forefinger. He lifted the candle and blew lightly
over it. I was still noticing that he was a ghost who could breathe when
the candle crackled to life with flame.
“How did you do that?” I asked, eyes widening.
His half-smile broadened. “Magic.” He stepped
through the opening, candle illuminating a narrow tunnel of bare stones and
wooden cross beams, more a space between walls than a proper passage.
Following him was either the bravest or most foolish thing I
had ever done.
The Phantom guided me through endless turns and up a
multitude of tight curved steps, the candle seeming to cast as much shadow as
light. At first I walked stiffly, spine tingling with terrors, but slowly
my breathing began to steady and my heartbeat to settle down, as we kept
walking and he kept up a pleasant, if mostly one-sided, conversation.
He told me that the ballet mistress, though fearsome, had
never actually murdered anyone. He advised me to stay away from the
cellars, and if I got lost in the future I should keep going upstairs, never
down. Some time when I wasn’t lost, I should go up to the roof to see the
excellent view. He also told me I was not to worry if the ballet girls
weren’t friendly at first, and I was never to feel that their opinion defined
who I was, a statement that at the time seemed absurd and yet became remarkably
comforting in later days.
I peeked at him when I dared, though with the shadows around
us, the shadows cast by his hat, it was hard to see even his unmasked
features. I thought he maintained a friendly expression throughout,
rarely looking at me, focusing instead on the path ahead. I couldn’t
hazard much of a guess at his age. No gray hair or stooped shoulders,
definitely not an old man—but also definitely belonging to the foreign realm of
mature adults that any people at least ten years older than me seemed to
inhabit.
I had little time to contemplate. That dark walk
didn’t last more than five minutes, though I would spend far more time
remembering it. That day, he was soon reaching out to another wall.
A movement of his fingers and a panel slid to the left. Beyond it,
I could see a brightly-lit hallway, empty of people, full of the Opera’s characteristic
decorations.
“Turn left, go right at the first intersection, and you
should be just in time for ballet practice,” he said, handing me over the
threshold.
I stepped out into the light, flexing my newly-released
fingers. For feeling so reluctant to follow, I now felt strangely adrift
to be sent back on my own. I hesitated, looked back at him in the
shadows. “Thank you.” It felt inadequate.
He touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgement, stepped
back a pace and vanished into the darkness. The wall slid shut, looking
no different from every other panel in the corridor, as if it had never
existed. As if he had never existed.
I tentatively reached out and touched the wall, patterned in
pale blue with generous gold molding. Nothing moved, and I couldn’t even
see a seam amidst the intricate design. I drew my hand back and shook my
head, fuzzy, as though I’d just woken out of a remarkably vivid and
extraordinary dream.
Here in the waking world, I still had to get to ballet
practice, with no minutes to spare. At that thought I dashed off down the
hall, spun right at the intersection, and arrived breathless at the mirrored
practice room just ahead of my time.
The ballet mistress looked down her narrow nose at me as I
came in the door. “Do save some breath for dancing, Mademoiselle Giry.”
But that was nothing; that was harmless. I was on time
to take my position at the barre and she wasn’t angry with me, and besides—I
had met the Phantom of the Opera and lived to tell the tale. In the
afterglow of that, even Madame Thibault didn’t seem so terrifying.
He waited until the rapid beat of her footsteps faded around
the corner, then turned to make his way through the narrow passage towards the
nearest descending staircase.
He didn’t often intervene so directly. It wasn’t
safe. But he found it hard to consider a crying little girl
dangerous. She was small and alone. Before she lifted her head, he
had thought she was even younger than she was. Helping her had seemed
harmless enough—even amusing, to show off that candle trick. Mere sleight-of-hand,
but enough to impress a Persian Sultana, and certainly good enough for a little
ballet girl.
Nothing was ever unmixed though, and for all he had found
the encounter pleasant, it hadn’t been without a pang. He hadn’t liked
hearing the fear in her voice. Surprising, when it was exactly what he
wanted, what he had spent these past months carefully composing.
He needed the fear. He needed the Opera Company to
think that he was the dangerous one, so it wouldn’t occur to
them that they, with their numbers and their confidence and their ability to
cooperate, were the true dangers, the ones capable of hounding and harrying and
hunting down the outcast in their midst.
He ran his fingertips along the rough wall of the passage,
mere inches from the busy life on the other side.
Any attack would be more complicated than a raging mob with
pikes; France was a civilized country, outside of her sporadic
revolutions. But the result would be the same. The guillotine, or
even worse—a cage. He was guilty of the crime of being different, the
world had convicted him at birth, and he had ample precedent to suggest how
they would sentence him.
But not while he possessed the Opera Garnier. Not
while he was the Phantom of the Opera, stalking as ruler through its hidden
passages, shadowed vaults and lofty catwalks. They would never catch
him. They would never cage him.
Not again.
He would do whatever was necessary to ensure that. For
all their melodramatic complaints, the Opera Company was happy enough to be
occupying a haunted theatre—a high-quality ghost lent a certain prestige—and if
Monsieur Poligny the manager was not so happy about paying a salary to a ghost,
well…the man should have chosen more wisely than to marry a woman with his
wife’s background. The Opera Ghost had recently obtained some very
interesting information, and a little judicious blackmail should resolve any
further issues with the management.
As for the little blonde girl, likely it would turn out for
the best with her in the end. The ballet dancers and chorus girls loved
telling tales about the Ghost, and they much preferred blood-curdling horror
stories to ones about a helpful specter. She would be absorbed back into
the anonymous crowd of little dancers, all much alike. It had been merely
an educated guess that she was new—he didn’t really know every face, at least
not yet. By the time she was telling the adventure to a dozen giggling
friends, it would be about how the terrifying Phantom had nearly abducted her
and she’d barely escaped with her life. He wouldn’t waste his time
watching that conversation. He knew that was how it would go.
And it was better that way.
About Cheryl:
Cheryl Mahoney lives in California
and dreams of other worlds. She is the author of the Beyond the Tales quartet,
retelling familiar fairy tales, but subverting expectations with different
points of view and new twists to the tales. She is also a co-author of The
Servants and the Beast, and its companion piece, After the Sparkles Settled.
Cheryl loves exploring new worlds in the past, the future or fairyland, and
builds her stories around characters finding their way through those
worlds–especially characters overlooked or underestimated by the people around
them.
She has been blogging since 2010 at
Tales of the Marvelous (http://marveloustales.com). Her weekly Writing
Wednesday posts provide updates about her current writing, including excerpts.
She also posts regularly with book and movie reviews, and reflections on
reading. She has been a member of Stonehenge Writers since 2012, and has
completed NaNoWriMo seven times.
Cheryl has looked for faeries in
Kensington Gardens in London and for the Phantom at the Opera Garnier in Paris.
She considers Tamora Pierce’s Song of the Lioness Quartet to be life-changing and
Terry Pratchett books to be the best cure for gloomy days.
Website | Twitter | Goodreads
Website | Twitter | Goodreads
Giveaway Details:
3 winners
will win a finished copy of NOCTURNE, US Only.
Tour
Schedule:
Week
One:
6/1/2020
|
Guest Post
|
|
6/1/2020
|
Guest Post
|
|
6/2/2020
|
Guest Post
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6/2/2020
|
Guest Post
|
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6/3/2020
|
Interview
|
|
6/3/2020
|
Review
|
|
6/4/2020
|
Excerpt
|
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6/4/2020
|
Excerpt
|
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6/5/2020
|
Excerpt
|
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6/5/2020
|
Instagram Post
|
Week
Two:
6/8/2020
|
History
from a Woman’s Perspective
|
Review
|
6/8/2020
|
Lifestyle
of Me
|
Review
|
6/9/2020
|
Locks,
Hooks and Books
|
Review
|
6/9/2020
|
She
Just Loves Books
|
Review
|
6/10/2020
|
Jaime's
World
|
Excerpt
|
6/10/2020
|
Reese's
Reviews
|
Review
|
6/11/2020
|
The
Phantom Paragrapher
|
Review
|
6/11/2020
|
A Dream
Within A Dream
|
Guest
Post
|
6/12/2020
|
Popthebutterfly
Reads
|
Review
|
6/12/2020
|
A
Gingerly Review
|
Review
|
Thanks for featuring my book on your blog - much appreciated!
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