Clockwork Song Excerpt (The Phantom of the Opera)

Hi, below is an excerpt from my current The Phantom of the Opera work in progress: Clockwork Song. It will be a steampunk reimagining of the original Gaston Leroux story. This scene introduces one of the original characters a little differently. The Persian is a character I feel is utilised so little in Phantom adaptations. I find he’s perfect to warn about what may soon come to pass. I always enjoy seeing him make an appearance in other Phantom works. Please enjoy!



Amongst stalls selling popcorn and coconut shies is the fortune teller automaton. He is inside a glass cabinet with irises and zinnia carved into the frame. A monkey rattles a small cup for coins, foot scraping over the weakly glistening word Daroga.

Over the years, the colour has faded to reveal metal. Some accident while moving him has caused cogs and springs to poke out from the side of his head. Poor old forgotten thing.

The fortune teller emerges from a pile of tasselled pillows and hanging silks. He has been dressed finely in a costume that could have come from a British novel of intrigue. A green jewel rests in the centre of his turban. His black beard and moustache have been styled into sharp points. From out of his red robes his hands emerge, each finger bedecked in a cracked ring, and they waver over the tarot cards spread before him.

“Christine...?” Meg appears at my side, holding a glass spilling with something faintly red and frothing. “You promised!”

“I was only looking.”

“Come away now. I… I do not like him.”

“What’s this, then?” Raoul has arrived, sipping at a cream brandy. He kneels to read the rest of the plaque: “This was once a present for the now dead child empress of Raspina. The Persian will offer wisdom to those willing to listen.”

“Who designed him?” I ask.

“It does not say.” Raoul puts three coins in. “Let’s hope for luck!”

The monkey stills. We wait. Another bird swoops past, clutching in its beak a popped, torn balloon. The Persian does not move.

“Must be broken,” Meg sighs in relief. We make to leave.

“Please, do not go,” the Persian says in a soft voice, ruined by the grinding of gears at the end of each word.

Meg clutches my arm, eyes wide, probably expecting the automaton to clamber out of his box, though I doubt he has legs under there.

“Shall I know what you desire?” he continues. “Or will I warn you to be careful? Tell me your names.”

I open my mouth.

“No, don’t,” Meg hisses in my ear. “He’ll put a spell on us.”

“I am Lisbeth and this is Madeline.”

Raoul joins in, grinning, thinking we are playing a game, “James de Lace. Lion tamer.”

“And what do you two do?”

“Well…” Meg looks sharply at me again. “I sing, and my friend dances.”

“And a fine pair you are! A nightingale’s voice and a lamb’s legs.” His smile falters. “But a knee can bend and never lift again—”

“Christine, I want to go! He speaks like the masked man at the Opera did.”

“They are only borrowed words, child,” he tells her, head bowing slightly. “Every automaton must use what their creators give them to make sense of your world. Never can something new be born. We might as well be ghosts.”

“Christine—”

“Do not be frightened. You must listen. You have a lovely voice, dear child, but it can also be a deadly thing. Especially when others crave it for the wrong reasons.”

A shiver goes down my back as well. Raoul does not notice. He laughs and thinks it an interesting mechanical device. Meg pulls us away before we can hear the rest of the Persian’s prediction.

“Spiteful thing,” I hear her hiss. “How could it know? That thing was cursed. It spoke too… It was too human.” She purses her lips and throws herself into a game of ring toss, nearly decapitating a doll.

I glance back at the fortune box. The Persian smiles sadly, then lifts his hand and pulls across the silk curtain. It had only been a game, yet there are times I wonder just how human an automaton can pretend to be.

Phantom of the Opera Illustration and News

A beautiful watercolour, coloured pencil, acrylic ink and airbrushed piece of Christine Daaé by Marcia Dye. It is based upon one of my Phantom of the Opera short stories - A Christmas Carriage Ride.

'There is a sudden groan and the matches tumble from my fingers. It comes again and I realise it is the low song of an organ. I glance all around, as if expecting the giant instrument to rise up in the cramped room.

The booming sound seems to surround me. My heart thrums in anticipation. I can barely hear it is so loud, and the vibration of it is like fingers on my flesh.

“Angel?” I believe I mutter, or do I only think it?

There is no answer. Is he angry with me? Or have I gone mad?

The music, the moment it feels it will close its hand and crush my heart, shifts, a creature sloping away. It goes outside and I follow. It is his footsteps I am stepping in. The sound is almost a shape, an embodiment, of my Angel.

Out of the chapel we go, down the foyer steps and to the entrance. Nobody else appears. Why is it only I can hear the organ? Surely, everyone has been awoken and will come running?

I dither at the doors leading outside. It will be far colder than the chapel. He has never taken me out of the opera house.

The notes crash together in warning, threatening. I put my hands to the doors and they effortlessly open, aided by a stronger, unseen force.

My slippers crunch over snow and icy water seeps in, making me yelp as my trembling worsens. I slide slightly, struggling to keep my balance.

Then the music stops. The presence is gone. He’s left me out here in the cold! I try the doors, but they are locked. I bang my fist against them, crying out for someone to help me.

“Angel,” I call, “let me back inside!”

No one comes. I am like a ghost, unseen and unheard. I will become one if I remain out here.

I have no coat, only wearing the thin, white dress I had chosen for this morning’s recital. Meg’s scarf can do little for my goose prickled arms and legs. I hug myself and wander around the building, hunting for an open window I can climb through.

The lamps have been lit, yet they seem unable to chase off the darkness. They are only bright pinpricks. The streets are empty. My footprints are alone in the snow.

For once, of all nights, the opera house is locked tight. They shall discover me in the morning, hunched up and frozen stiff in the doorway. My earlier jokes now frighten me. Meg! Won’t she wonder where I am and search for me?

My soul near leaps from my body at the clatter of hooves. A horse whinnies and mist flares as it snorts.

A pair of horses draw up, pulling with them a carriage that must have leapt out from the night sky. Their coats are as dark as the chestnuts I and the other chorus girls have cracked and eaten by the fire – oh, how I yearn to be by the fireside! – and thorn-less roses have been woven around their reins. Snowflakes shimmer in their manes.

The driver’s cloak sweeps up in the air as he dismounts. His top hat has been pushed down low and the collar turned up, so that I cannot see his face. I only catch his eye as he looks at me. The colour is piercing, as if he has shattered the chapel’s stained glass and plucked a green shard for his eye.

I take a step away, but before I can do anything the stranger bundles me into another cloak and lifts me into his arms. He carries me and thrusts open the carriage door. Yet, when I expect him to throw me in, he is gentle. Softly, he sets me upon the seat.

“Who are you?” I whisper.'

Not exactly the right season, it's actually quite nice here in Norfolk at the moment. However, this will be the first of many illustrations that will feature in an artbook collection. Most will be based upon stories in The Wedding Mask collection. Brand new Phantom of the Opera stories will also be included, from both Christine's and Erik's perspectives, with titles such as: What the Mirror Promises and The Stone Angel's Heart etc.

I also hope to have a video of Marcia Dye working on one of her Phantom of the Opera illustrations while I read my Pygmalion inspired Phantom/Christine story Clay, which was a favourite amongst readers.

Please subscribe, as this is where extracts, pencil drafts and works in progress will be posted first ;)

Welcome to my blog

Hi! I'm Kitty-Lydia Dye. I have been living in a Norfolk coastal village since last year, when originally I was born and raised in the city of Norwich. Naturally, expect a lot of pictures of my new surroundings :) The breath taking waves, the rare glimpse of a seal in the distance and seagulls emerging from the mists have given me lots of inspiration, although there is someone else who is enjoying this more than me.

This is my Chestug (Chihuahua, Westie, Pug mix) Bramble. He often pops up in my writing as a small 'extra' character, and even had his own starring part in my People's Friend serial The Wherryman's Daughter.

I have been writing since I was a girl, with my first published work in Source Point Press's Alter Egos collection. Since then, my stories have appeared in blÆkk, Thema, If This Goes On anthology and The People's Friend.
I have also released on kindle a supernatural mystery sequel to Washington Irving's Sleepy Hollow, where Ichabod Crane and the Headless Horseman must deal with paranormal threats, as well as a few romance collections inspired by Gaston Leroux's The Phantom of the Opera.

I love merging different genres together: fairy tales and science fiction, fantasy and history. The Norfolk coast and marshlands roam with ghosts and curiosities. Often my historical fiction has been inspired by legends such as the demon dog of the Norfolk beaches, Black Shuck.

During this time, I hope to share more pictures of the village for people to enjoy as well as story readings of previous releases, such as The People's Friend short stories and my Phantom of the Opera collection. Please subscribe to this blog for updates, with works in progress and previews.