It was with this electric cue that Christine's head lifted towards the door, away from her otherwise attentive task of soothing the ache from her tiny feet. Another great sigh was heaved, one of exhaustion that proved itself most evident when she stood to exit the tiny cubicle. Peeking out into the abandoned corridor, the little chorus girl idly wished for Joseph. Shadows deceived the senses and as she stepped into the quieted hall, she quickened her pace until she was all but running towards the main stage.

This too was abandoned. The foot lights and those of the auditorium had been cut off, and even the grand chandelier that loomed and was often lit as if shining a light into Heaven itself, was dark. All was in shadow except for the scattered gas lamps in the wings, and in this thick artificial night, Christine found herself longing for her father.

She had never been a child of fantastic imagination – her soul lacked the depth of her father's art, the passion of the performance. And so it was natural that at her first thought of a phantom who dwelled beneath the Opera House, Christine was determined to shackle all fears by occupying herself with Giry's suggested rehearsal.

Approaching the piano that Monsiuer Reyer had but an hour before abandoned, she turned on the wooden metronome. The device quickly ticked out the nimble time of the routine, and stepping onto the stage Christine drifted, without any specific concentration, into the steps. Each position was fixed with the grace and tutelage of her years of instructions. Indeed, great potential lay nestled in the willowy figure, but it was without true meaning that the steps were executed. She hummed aloud the airy composition that accompanied the routine, rising and falling as if upon the crest of a wave.

The young woman might have thought she was alone, though there was, in fact, another. His presence was silent for the time being. Watching, admiring. Limber and deft steps took him across the higher grates of the stage, then along the lower grottoes near the back once a roped ladder was descended upon. Lanterns offered flickers of light, as if disturbed by an unseen and unfelt breeze, casting licks of shadows along the stage and heavy, blood red velvet curtains. Between the tick-tick-tick of the metronome there was sharper, heavier click. From left to right, footlights flickered on, flaring to life, then dropping to a steady burn within the concave holders, casting the light that she needed upon the stage.

"Well, well now. What we gots 'ere, eh? A lit'le bird that got left ...behind." The final word paused upon as a hand raked across an ill mustached mouth. The Chief gave a wide, toothy grin once he was illuminated by the final footlight off to the right of the stage.

Peace was something that was expected at this time of night. The solitude and silence of the auditorium was now being broken by the steady ticking and talking. And somewhere on high, another curtain subtly shifted.

As each limb rounded into delicate and more carefully executed lifts, the sudden flare of the footlights drew her twirling form to a quick halt, in time to find Joseph leering from the corner of the stage. Familiar, though hardly acquainted, with the ways of the dominant sex, Christine stood silent for a moment, drawing in deep breaths as the foot lights continued to pop into life. The lumbering stage hand eyed her up and down with the ferocity of a predator upon the threshold of its prey.

"Madame Giry requested I remain behind to rehearse, Monsieur, but only for a little while. I am sorry if I've disturbed you." With the sincere apology came not the usual curtsy but a turn on her dusted heels to venture towards the ticking device. However, something further troubled the child and though still standing with her back to the man, she glanced warily towards the gleaming foot lights.

Taking another deep pull from the dinged up flask he held loosely in his hand, Joseph emptied it, greedily tipping the last few droplets from it, then peering down the neck with a decidedly disgruntled expression. Returning the cap to the tin, he tucked it into his belt and pressed away from the pillar to make his way up on the stage quietly. But as all drunkards tend to forget, their version of quiet is normal -- or louder -- to a person practicing sobriety and his steps rapped with a pronounced thump.

Booted footsteps drew him along the expanse of the wooden stage as he thrust his thumbs into the line of his belt, tucking beneath the worn leather. "Disturbed? Oh no, not a'tall missy. It's good to have some comp'ny doncha think? There bein' bloody ghosts and all." There he went, with the stories. He grinned broadly, leaning close from behind, close enough that she could smell not only the liquor on his breath but the three days – or more – without a bath. He wasn't called Chief of Flies for more than the way he maneuvered about the cat walks. "Ain'tcha afraid, bird? 'E could be in here right now, just watchin'. Ready to gobble up a lit'le thing like you."

Indeed? High above muted gold flickered with amusement. Curtain fell to its former spot, quivering briefly with the faintest dusting of movement's breeze.

The girl flinched from the stench of his hygiene, or lack thereof. She squirmed under the weight of his gaze and inched past him to retreat further along the stage, turning in a swift rustle of her taffeta fabric to observe him.

"Ghost, Monsieur?" Surely the rambling of a drunkard. A simple tale to entice the pretty young things of the troupe, perhaps even Christine, if such a romantic notion appealed. Perhaps it did beneath the layers of her sensible nature, though often a dreamer's demeanor captivated her tender, maiden's heart.

Who was she to dream, really? An orphan under the care of a benevolent old woman, a simple chorus girl that could not afford to aspire to prima position – one could see her rare and troublesome predicament. The corner of her soft lips lifted as if to share the amusement of that unknown presence. There was, however, also a nervousness in the wide eyes that glanced about excitedly.

"Do you really think he exists, this ghost? Have you really seen him, as you've told the girls? Oh, you must tell me of it."

Predator to prey, Joseph gave a serpent's grin when the girl skidded away from him. It made the chase all the more fun. Though he liked to leer and ogle the young women, there hadn't been a case of them coming up accosted. Perhaps it was because he never dared to touch them, or maybe they knew better than to speak ill of him after witnessing the looming strength in those broad shoulders and wide hands. He rolled his shoulders in a shrug, the gap toothed grin never leaving his lips. He even hissed in a bit of air through that empty hole. "Oh aye, aye. I've seen 'im. Hideous thing, 'e is. Haunts these halls, 'e does. Takes quite a fancy to the young ones I've heard."

Or would that be you, Monsieur Buquet? Another shift of weight and the faintest creaks came from above. The house settling, no doubt, as it tended to do when winter came. Wood swelling as the nights grew colder.

Lifting a hand, Buquet scratched his fingers through his ill kempt hair, as if he was trying to remember exactly what he had told the others. "No worries though, bird. I'm here to prot–..." Before the word could even leave his lips, another voice was suddenly heard.

"Monsieur Buquet! I trust your duties are finished, no?" Dabbing at a pale brow, mottled with stress and worry, the manager had paused in his trip to the door upon noticing that the stage lights were on. Joseph grimaced, glancing over his shoulder.

She'd found herself so engrossed with his story that the arrival of Monsiuer Lefevre had startled from her a small shriek of fear. Her tiny form sprang a good inch from the stage, heart fluttering within her breast as she turned to grant a dubious curtsy to her superior. Oh, the horror of being seen conversing with the grimy and disreputable stage hand. Still, a faint figurative aroma of thrilling curiosity came with this ghost Joseph had spoken of.

She began to shift uncomfortably, determined after this encounter, to never give a second thought to the mysterious that lay buried within the Opera House again. How she hoped Joseph would leave where she wished him to be around moments before. She found the deep silence of her rehearsal did her some good after all.

Smacking his lips faintly, Joseph smiled amiably enough to the portly man. "Aye, gov'na. 'Bout to be on me way out, actually." Such terrible French, and he didn't bother learning it well enough to sound like a proper gentleman. Joseph...just wasn't gentlemanly material. Tucking his kerchief back into his breast pocket, Lefevre nodded gently, then gave a warm smile to Christine. "See to it that you get home, child. This is no place for you to be lingering." Joseph side glanced toward Christine, as if to say 'see? Ghost.'

Very glad to be going home, the old man traveled to the door with a briskness that belied his obese stature. Untucking his hat from his back pocket, Joseph placed it back upon his head, tugging the front down slightly before turning his attention back toward Christine with a gaze that lingered from head to heel then back again. Another smack of his lips and the corner of his mouth lifted. "Mm.. I'll be seein' ya around, bird. Maybe getcha to sing for me." More meaning lay behind the statement that Christine, with her innocent ways, didn't catch. He winked at her, then made his way down the short flight of stairs, whistling some old ditty.

Christine nodded to the manager, noting his obvious distress. Joseph's remark, however bemused her. She found it quite strange that he had asked her to sing. She made no response but watched him leave, a soft sigh of relief accompanying his exit. Alone again at last and left to the thoughts that had earlier consumed her: her father, her dancing, the upcoming production, and somewhere, towards the darker recesses of her mind, the tale of a ghost that stalked the lonely halls of the Opera House by night.

She returned to the piano after a moment of certain stillness, bringing to life again the metronome that kept steady time with her dance. She envisioned a crowd before her, wearing elegant gowns and evening wear, pressed into the plush velvet chairs and looming overhead in the private boxes. She could almost hear all the shouting, the clink of wine glasses, the laughter from the lounge where patrons all clamored to meet this bright new star. She was a star, in her imagination. She stumbled halfway into the first turn but quickly recovered, brow knit in feverish concentration as she moved with a new grace, divine limbs lifting carefully, daintily as a night blooming flower lifts its wilted petals to the rays of the moon.

Blissful silence again reigned, but it was swiftly destroyed when that damnable machine started to tick again. While Joseph's presence was gone, the reminder of it lingered in the form of brandy and old musk, over powering the dust that settled here and there upon the large backstage area. How was one to concentrate when there was a problem lurking within the wideness of the auditorium in the form of a willowy young woman, dancing her cares away upon the stage. Or... trying to dance. Her rhythm was just the slightest bit off.

To keen eyes, her steps faltered, and it seemed that her mind was elsewhere, beyond focusing on what she was supposed to be doing. Distaste and disinterest came swiftly, and attention was turned to something of more importance. Set between the loose clasp of fingers, shod in soft hide, were parchments filled with notes upon notes; an unfinished score – one that had been uncompleted for years now – twenty or more to be precise. Perfection must be met, and thus far, twelve copies had met their fate within the flames of a hearth. It was soon to be thirteen copies.

The further she pressed on, the more swooping attempts she made at majesty, the more her failure became evident. At last she stopped, shutting off the ticking device to once again indulge in the silence. Tutu'd backside was planted to the piano bench slowly, eyes cast to her lap where folded hands melded as if in prayer, thoughts jumbled with desire for release but finding none. Father, you promised me an Angel and still my soul yearns, for what, I know not. My voice, my dancing…. I find it hard to concentrate when all around me there is a consuming loneliness. I miss you, my precious father. Please, don't leave me here.

Tears brimmed in her eyes, darkened by the shadows that splayed upon the stage. She sniffled a bit quite childishly, rising in her resolve to return to her caretaker's estate. Quiet footsteps led her off stage and again towards the emptied corridor near the cubicle were her coat and scarf awaited her. She had not the mind to cast wary glances behind her, too enveloped in her melancholy to have concern for a ghost.

When the ticking ceased, cat-like gaze lifted, resting upon the figure below and lingering there with an idle regard. The same regard one might give to a guppy within a fish bowl, doing its careless laps, unaware of the feline that lurked just above. Good, she was leaving. Maybe some peace would finally settle over the auditorium, one of only two places where concentration and inspiration could be found.

Soundlessly papers shifted, a weight lowered onto heavy beams, and a shrouded form moved toward the lower floor. With the need to gain true privacy, the footlights were cut out a moment too early, while she lingered still within their glow near the entrance. Snuffed out sharply, the flames gave a protesting hiss, then there was silence again.

That, Christine noticed. The light with which she had sought guidance towards the back corridors was partially drawn from the footlights of the stage, and their sudden extinguishing left her in a partial darkness that took her several moments to grow accustomed to. Pressing herself against the far wall, she turned to eye the darkened stage in fear, each hair standing on fragile end as she dared not creep an inch in either direction.

If a ghost this trickster be, fine, but if it was the likes of Joseph or some other stage hand of his kind, Christine feared the worst. And perhaps it was a foolish thing of her to do, to call out pensively, "Who's there?" when of course any sensible young woman would've by now been at home, tucked safely away in her bed behind locks and layers of protective love. Foolish thing to linger in the threshold of that hallway, but curiosity caught her.

It didn't take long for the series of ropes to be scaled with that deft, preternatural ease, and a beam to be used as a seat again. Parchments were scooped up and his swathed form rested back, settling into the silence that surrounded him like a second cloak. The first cloak dangled harmlessly along the side of the beam. With one idle hand it was drawn up, laid in a wrap around the slender, yet strong form like a set of coiling wings. Her voice was heard, and his gaze again shifted, but this time upward to the heavens.

Damn you, he thought blasphemously. Damn you straight to hell. Such a foul thing, to curse God as he so often did. Eyes then dropped, resting almost contemptuously upon the shadow draped figure of the young ingénue. The dreamer, her name lagged. Her dancing was recalled, but not her singing. She had a pleasant enough speaking voice, and by that shriek that she gave earlier, he could tell she could probably reach the higher scales. But truly, what interest would he have in a ballet rat?

For a moment he considered frightening her off, to see how much it would take before left him to his peace. The parchments were placed aside again, and about three minutes after her question, came the steady tick-tick-ticking of the metronome.