A.N.: Yes, the names are in Russian. 'Cause Russian rocks. I'm not going to tell you who represents who, because I want the characters themselves to tell you that. I hope y'all enjoy. Reviews equal love. And possibly king cake.

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"I cannot believe you won't rip up the contract of that Spanish twit!" groaned Fedósiv, his wild greying brow wrinkled in frustration.

"Are you blind?" Mihailov chided his friend and new co-manager. "Besides, the public adores Carlotta! We couldn't risk that loss. And you cannot actually deny her talent."

"The public would love her more if she was Russian," came his partner's muttered response. Fedósiv was a proud man in every way: proud of everything from his nation to his wardrobe. Having such an acclaimed prima donna from Spain hardly rested well with him. "The first thing I shall do," he added to his young friend, "as new manager of the Mariinsky Opera is to convince you of a little patriotism!"

"Isn't that what the Chastolov brothers are for?" questioned Mihailov, running a hand through his chaotic dark hair. Were it not for his serious face, Fedósiv would have thought him joking. The question paused both men, on their way to the grand farewell banquet for their predecessors. Fedósiv sighed, wiping moisture from his brow. It's too blasted hot for an evening in September, he thought, then answered Mihailov. "What do the Chastolov brothers have to do with patriotism?"

"Why, isn't it obvious, Fedósiv? Filipp Chastolov is one of those senators, and close to the tsar. And his brother, of course, just 'voted' in. How do you like that?"

Fedósiv waved off his comrade's comment. "Yes, yes, it's all about money, still, isn't it? Perhaps his brother's financial advantage was simply that: an advantage. Rodion Chastolov, though, seems like a good man to me."

Mihailov's face broke into a sharp grin. "Well, we shall see tonight at the gala!"

The pair continued on with excited small talk as they made their way up the grand steps in th foyer, nearing the ballet girls' floor (which must be passed to reach the floor of the great banquet). Mihailov was elated; to be head of such a magnificent establishment at his age was simply phenomenal in his mind. He'd established his name in the music and entertainment industries early on as an able musician, but this! This would surely give his name credit! He might even be able to expose a little of the score he'd composed...

Fedósiv, himself nearing uncomfortably close to the retirement age, met Mihailov through a series of fortunate events and was entirely reliant upon his musical knowledge now, as Fedósiv had none. He would have to be sure to stay in Mihailov's good graces, lest Mihailov show him as the fool.

Several shrill shrieks stabbed the men's eardrums, killing their bliss. Presently, the pair saw dozens of frantic young women-- the dancers-- run sporadically across and down the hall, into the famed ballerina Sidorova's room, shutting the door solidly behind them. The men looked at each other, shrugged, and continued on.

Inside the dancer's room, chaos ensued. Multiple high-pitched voices fought against each other to tell their tales:

"And I saw it reach out for me!"

"--had on that hat--"

"only in the shadows, when--"

And "...Angry for the managers--"

"hates when anyone--"

Then, "blood on the floor!" and "crawling up the wall! Did you see?"

The volume threatened to dismantle the place, increasing in fervor until at last the esteemed ballerina shouted above the rest, "Oh, do be quiet!" The girls presently silenced, stunned momentarily by the unusual loudness of the lady Sidorova, who stood before them ans demanded an explanation from them. "I do hope you haven't been telling each other ghost stories again," she chided knowingly.

The girls immediately answered in the negative, assuring her of nothing of the sort.

One little girl however, no more than fifteen, shook terribly, her dark face drained of all color, and Sidorova noticed this. She parted through the sea of girls, and walking up to the young lady, brushed the girl's blonde locks out of her wet face. "What is the matter, little Sonya?"

Sonya shook even more, swayed, as if fighting a fainting spell. Sidorova led her to a chair and repeated the question, her back to the others. Sonya's eyes wide and white, she stumbled for a moment over her words and then blurted, "It's the phantom!"

Sidorova's knees nearly buckled, but she reminded herself to be strong for the girls, who were letting out all sorts of vulgar phrases and variants of, "Sofia Yoselfna will doom us all!", and a few shrieked, "Don't speak of it! You'll call it!"

Sidorova turned to them, eyes narrowed in irritation. "Sonya has nothing to do with your wild imaginations and there is no phantom in this opera house! Now silence!"

The girls became silent once more, yes, but clearly not because of anything Sidorova said. They were listening for something. Sidorova topped to listen, too. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, Sidorova heard a strange sound, like that of something silk or satin billowing against a strong wind. It neared the door; nearer, nearer, and nearer it came, and then... nothing.

"He's there!" blurted the alabaster-skinned Marya Isidornva. Another girl jerked her black hair hard to silence her, and Marya whimpered. The sound did not resume, and Sidorova, to comfort the girls, reached for the doorknob.

"No! shrieked Marya Isidornva again, only to receive another frightened tug on her hair.

Sidorova swallowed hard and thrust her head out the door. She swept her eyes up and down the hall, and perhaps if she'd not been in such haste, she would have seen the two pinpricks of yellow staring at her from the far end of the corridor. But she soon slammed the door shut, leaning against it (for now it was she who felt faint). "Nothing," she muttered. "I see nothing out there, girls."

"He was there!" shouted Marya, smashing the foot of the girl who held her hair. "We saw him, didn't we?" Marya's eyes searched for Sofia Yosefna's.

The blonde nodded violently in affirmation. "It-it had th-the s-s-skull a-and every--thing!"

Sidorova heard the echoes of confirmation, and recalled the rumors of the phantom and its skull. She thought of the friendly stagehand, Yosef Bogolubov, and his lively tales of the Mariinsky Opera's local legend.

"He is no human, nor was he ever," Bogolubov would narrate. "He has no name, no face, no soul. When he wishes to make himself visible, his ghost possesses a skeleton he stole from its grave and parades around, showing off his terrible yellow skull. He hides the rest of the bones under the very suit the man was buried in!"

Another tale, Sidorova knew was contradictory, was that the phantom was the spirit of a man who died in a fire of the house that used to exist on the property of the Opera. The contractors gave him large sums of money to leave, but he continually refused. They resorted to burning down his home, and he was alive still inside of it! Since then, his flaming head can sometimes be seen in the cellars, seeking revenge. Ironically, Sidorova could not remember hearing of the fire head until a fireman had a bad experience in the cellar...

Sidorova let out a long sigh. "The skull of Yosef Bogolubov's tale?"

The girls all confirmed her question. Marya blurted, "Yes, and he would do well to hold his tongue!"

"Marsha!" the girls responded, shocked at her sharp words.

Marya's black eyes turned to eggs when she realized she'd spoken too much. "I- I shouldn't- my- my ma- Well-- It's what Mama says!"

"And what does Mama Gina say about the phantom?" begged the girls.

Marya looked proud to be the star of the hour, though she did well to hide this behind her genuine fear of the phantom. "Mama says the phantom doesn't like to be talked about. And he's a he, not an it. He hates to be called an it!"

All the talk of ghosts was overwhelming Sidorova, who feared forgetting her farewell speech for the now-former managers more than anything else. She quickly began to usher the frightened girls out her room, telling them, "Enough of these spirits; tonight we shall put on bright faces for our managers, both old and new. Understand?"

Just as the last ballet girl fluttered into the hall, a stocky, blustery woman trampled frantically into the corridor. It was Anna Ivanova, the mother of little Sofia Ivanova. "He's dead!" she cried, her face red from the running.

The girls all screamed again, breaking into chaos once more. Sidorova was forced to repeat her question to Ivanova several times, until she heard and answered, "The stagehand! Yosef Bogolubov!"

The girls held each other, screaming louder through their tears. Marya Ivanovna Gina looked very ill. "It's the phantom," she murmured, before falling to the ground.