A/N: The story is co-authored by me and my friend Jessica you might have read parts on her account (crazed-ink-slinger)this is the updated and edited version.
Plot device. Plot device. Plot device. Plot device. The story stinks of it, I know. It's very unlikely for Paris to get two inches of snow, let alone a blizzard. But I don't care! Just go with it ok, I promise it will be good for lots of laughs. Hey, at least it breaks out of the mold right?
This has been to do hard because I like to write serious stories and this obviously isn't. We all have to do things we don't usually do at one point or another. This story is musical based but with a lot of influence from the book on characters. Jess wants to have her way again.
Many, many, thanks to Tytania Strange for all her kindness and support, she inspired our start, and we want to give her and her wonderful story a shout out, so read her story it's called "The Conjuror's Masque"
Disclaimer: Nothing here is made for profit and no matter how much we dream it will never belong to us.
Sorry for the long A/N.
The silence that filled the evening where there should have been last minute questions, nervous shouts, pointless bickering, and one or two mishaps, all brought to me to sort out, betrayed the fact that I had been quietly denying ever since it had been settled. Tonight was my last night in the opera house. And not even a note from the opera ghost oddly enough. But I had done my job; the opera house might run almost without my assistance.
"It's not pink! It's salmon!" A too loud voice came from the next room. Too loud for this time of morning anyway. Or not, upon checking the pocket watch on the stand by my bed, I realized it was about ten o'clock. Well, it's no longer my job to be awake and readily available. I tried to convince myself that this was a good thing while I found my robe and pulling it on as I investigated what the argument I had heard.
"Look Jacque I don't care what the woman at M. Andre's office said, or how convincingly our secretary vouched for her, I'm not doing it. There's no way that we will possibly get paid for painting a man's office pink." I opened the door before the first man, or Jacque, could reply. It was clear just by looking at them what they were here to do: renovate. I was being pushed out of my office, and my position, and they were painting it pink, before it was even cold.
"Salmon, what a charming color." it was horrid. "Wonderful choice." Who in their right state of mind would choose such a color? My voice made the men start. It took them a moment to realize who I was. Jacque looked triumphantly at the second man.
"Thank you M. LeFevre." Jacque replied. It seemed that my approval was enough to convince them to start. As I turned to leave I caught a glance between the men that said something along the lines of "must be an opera thing," as the second shrugged and went for a brush.
By the looks of it Firmin had found the men for a 'deal' and honestly I hoped that they weren't very good at redecorating. I wasn't sure if the color was right either, but I wanted them to hate as much as I did. In any case, I didn't have time to waste babysitting third-rate painters. Even if I did I wouldn't spend my time watching these two destroy my office, as polite society would demand, as a favor for those who are kicking me out of it. Proper manners be damned.
It wasn't necessary, but out of habit I was ready in a few short minutes. Before I left I took one last look at my room, checking nooks to make sure they were emptied. There it was, 30 years of my life, packed away in a set of luggage. The ticket, one way to Australia on the Queen something or other, the name escapes me, was on the nightstand with my watch. I tucked both into my jacket slowly, and when I was done I was bowed my head, turned my back, and left the room.
Walking out it struck me as odd, once again that any man would want to spend his days in a room that resembled the inside of a fish. The complete picture was not what I wanted to carry with me as the last thing I remembered of the place, I hurried out before the painters could finish the walls.
The sight that met me directly outside the office door was not much better. I had to stop short of my first step or run directly into M. Andre and M. Firmin. Speaking of fish...
"Andre! Firmin! You're looking wet- er well." They were damp to say the least.
"It's snowing," said Andre brightly.
"Snowing?"
"Snowing," Firmin was a bit less chipper.
"This early in the year? In November?" It was more than a little unusual, something I wanted to enquire after, but at the look on Firmin's face I thought it best to move on quickly. I suppose there really was no question to be had, with the soggy evidence all too close and too clear, there must be some kind of freak weather at hand. Still, the first chance I had to slip away, I wanted to see it for myself, "I apologize gentlemen for not having met you out side. I hope you can forgive me for keeping you waiting," I slipped into a false, friendly, and proper manner (as any Parisian must be able to do), which was easier than I had expected. Well, I was ready to be done, and quietly was the quickest way out, "Now, if you'll follow me I can show you exactly what it is you've gotten yourself into."
Somewhere in the back of my mind I think I registered that this new turn of events might interfere with my travel plans. I had no idea. Until we reached the chaos that was the backstage, that is.
Apparently I had underestimated the ability of my workers to be so completely unproductive to the point of actually undoing their work, because they had. Somehow, I could have sworn that yesterday everything was ready for the performance. Usually, yes, usually there are last minute jobs to complete, causing some amount of panic. But nothing such as this. How could so much be done- well, undone in one dead-silent night?
I couldn't help but be amused by the disarray that everyone had caused as we weaved through it. Though any half-sane manger in charge of this mess would be at breaking point at having to sort this out by this evening, Andre and Firmin simply looked awestruck and amused. I felt sorry for the poor fools because there is no way that a stage and its crew should be in this condition even two weeks before the performance. But then again, I had an odd feeling that every direction that I had given them and every department I had explained to them had bounced off Firmin's head and gotten stuck in Andre's bushy wet hair.
"Isaak Aluin LeFerve!" Here comes a devil. Normally Juliette is a collected and tactful woman, but apparently today is a bad day. I can't say I blame her, as she has to see this mess play out. "Carlotta is angry, and has been yelling for the manager for the better part of an hour. Am I supposed to thank you for finally showing up?" She flipped her braided hair, and if you've known her for as long as I, you would know that it meant that she was very annoyed.
I turned, and replied "You mean managers." One of whom, Firmin, was too busy ogling the ballet rats to be paying attention to what was happening around them. As a result he almost got run over by the elephant...unfortunately, it missed.