Ah, the plot thickens, Gentle Reader!

Keep those cards and letters coming! Okay, just the reviews, then, heh...

Chapter four: The Plan

"Adele's going to kill us for being in here without her permission, you know," mentioned Gerard helpfully as we wound our way through the costume racks.

"Then we had best be very quick and very quiet, wouldn't you say?" I was hard-pressed to hide my nervousness; he was quite correct. The costume mistress was an absolute dragon in defence of her charges. She brandished a huge wooden yardstick almost as a badge of office, and there were few of the petite rats of the ballet who had not felt its sting when they stole into her territory to play dress-up. They were all terrified of her, but the regalia of all the kings and queens of the ages proved an irresistible lure.

Realizing that my shoulders were hunched against an expected blow, I consciously tried to straighten them, and stand erect, but it was difficult. I walked a little faster instead.

"What is it that we're looking for in here?" asked Gerard.

"Well, an old gypsy woman told her that she'd fall in love with a masked man at the Opera, apparently."

"Ah! So I am to be that man, eh?" His teeth gleamed as he grinned.

"Yes, but you can't be just any man in a mask. Have you any ambitions to the stage?"

He laughed. "Not particularly, although I fancy I could give it a good go, so long as I didn't have to sing. I am playing a particular role, then?"

"Yes. Ah! Here we go…" We had reached the racks of masks that hung all along one long wall.

"I see! What kind of a mask are we looking for?" He held a mask like a frightful lion to his face. "Am I to be the enchanted prince in disguise?"

"Not quite. Actually… You're going to be the Ghost."

"What ghost—Wait, the Opera Ghost?" He scoffed loudly. "That's absurd!"

I frantically shushed him. "Not so loud! I know, I know; but, well, she has an idea that he's, well…"

"What? A man? Where'd she get an idiotic idea like that? That idiot from the university?"

"Indirectly, yes…"

Gerard made a rude noise. "Henri caught that idiot whistling backstage during a rehearsal, did you know? Luckily he clapped him in the back of the head and stopped him before anyone was hurt." His eyes flashed as he recalled. "Luckily there wasn't supposed to be anything happening at the moment; we were just arguing over what it meant when Henri caught him. We could have dropped a fly right onto someone, the idiot."

"Yes, he mentioned that to my husband and I," I said absently, remembering the start of that terrible night. "That it was a silly superstition, I mean."

"That's right," Gerard said slowly, looking at me a bit strangely, "You two were the last ones to see him, weren't you? Alive, I mean…"

"Yes, we were," I said, masking my sudden panic with a veil of irritation. "He dragged us down into the cellars, turned out the lantern, and told us to wait. He wandered off to prove some idiotic point or other, and left us there in the dark!" The lie that Erik had insisted I practice rose as easily to my lips now as any other script. "It took us ages to get back to the party. We were both quite fed up, I can tell you."

"I can imagine," said Gerard. "The idiot probably fell into the lake and broke his neck. It's happened before."

"Probably," I agreed, searching the masks. "Ah! Here we are. Try this on."

Gerard took the scrap of white leather but looked at it doubtfully. "It doesn't look anything like a skull," he said, "And there's hardly anything to it! What's the point?"

"Well, we don't want to frighten her off," I said sweetly, "And with only half your face covered, she'll still be able to see how handsome you are. Go on, try it on."

He slid it on; the leather moulded itself to his face. "How do I look?" he asked, his green eyes flashing with amusement. "Do I look like the Ghost's death's head, or his flaming one?"

I bit back a giggle. "It fits very well," I said.

"Yes, but how do I look?"

"You look very nice. I'm sure she'll love it."

He rolled his eyes as he doffed it. "You mean, You look like a complete git, Gerard," he said, stuffing it inside his shirt.

"Well, the clothes don't really go with it…"

"No, they don't." He looked down at his rough linen shirt and scruffy trousers appraisingly.

A clatter and cursing in the distance made us jump. "Oh, God! It's her!" I whispered, in genuine terror.

"Don't worry; you're with the Opera Ghost," said Gerard with a grin. "Plus, you're the prima donna. You're perfectly safe. Ask about your costumes or something."

"All right," I said, drew a steadying breath, squared my shoulders, and headed for the door.

"How many times have I told you little—Oh, beg pardon, Madame," said Adele, lowering her yardstick. Gerard was right; she wouldn't strike me, at least, although she did look disgruntled. "It's very early for any of the performers to be about; I wasn't expecting you. What do you need?"

"I was wondering about my costume," I said, trying to ignore her brusqueness. "Ariella wasn't able to collect it last night, and I wanted to make sure it got here all right."

"Haven't seen it. It's probably still in your dressing room. What's that big lout in here for?"

"Oh! Er…"

"Madame asked me to help her carry it."

"Right." She eyed us suspiciously. "Hadn't you better go and see if it's still in your dressing room, before you come poking around back here? And never mind about him; I'll send one of my girls with you.Farina!" she called, moving away and muttering, "And her a married woman…"

Oh, dear. "She thinks… She thinks that we…" I was horrified. "I wouldnever..!" The gossip mill would have it all over the theatre by sundown!

"I know, I know." He said soothingly. "Come on, let's get out of here."

I was suddenly and simultaneously furious and deeply terrified. I was furious with Ariella, with her silly delusions and idiotic fantasies, and I was deeply, mortally terrified that Erik might not believe me when I told him that it was a misunderstanding. He was waiting for me to come to my senses and leave him, I was sure of it, no matter what I said or did. I would have to tell him about it myself, before he somehow found out about the costume mistress's error from someone else, but how could I ease his fears without raising his suspicions? Perhaps I shouldn't tell him anything at all—But even though he no longer dwelt in the cellars, he still somehow kept uncannily up-to-date on the opera's doings…

"Just win her and get her out of here," I muttered to his back.

Ariella returned in time to help me dress again for the evening's performance, but she said as little as possible and kept her eyes averted. I couldn't decide if she was feeling apologetic or put upon, and I was growing weary of trying to sort it out. Truth to tell, I was feeling a bit put out myself. She had not returned for my costume, and only extreme measures by Adele had made it both clean and dry. She had huffed, when she had returned it, that were it not white and showing every bit of grime, I would be wearing it as it was, smelly and dirty, and if I wanted my costumes cleaned in time in the future, I would have to make sure that they got to her right after each performance. It might be my dresser's job, but they weremy costumes.

She was still grumbling as I gently closed my door behind her. I suspected, rather wretchedly, that I had managed, in one fell stroke, to completely lose all her respect. I hoped I hadn't made an enemy.

In any case, after risking my marriage and my standing on her behalf, I was in no temper for her moodiness. We worked in silence.

To my faint surprise, however, as I entered my room again after the performance, having exchanged pleasantries with the well-wishers in the corridor, she was there waiting for me. I had half-expected that she would have handed in her resignation, or at least asked to be reassigned elsewhere, but she stood in the middle of my floor, smiling hugely, and with an air of barely-suppressed excitement. I wondered what had happened.

"Madame! Madame, you were right! I heard him!"

"What? Heard who?" I sat at my table and began to pull pins from my hair.

"I heard… him!" she almost whispered. "I was walking along past the wings, when I suddenly heard a voice, right next to me!"

"Really? Who was it?"

"It washim! I looked all around, but there wasn't anyone there!"

"Really." I wondered if Gerard had hid himself behind one of the curtains. In the shadows of those large black velvet swaths, someone standing quite still was all but invisible, especially when one's eyes were dazzled by the lights from the stage. And there was plenty of room to stand behind one of them, and still be invisible to the audience… "And what did the voice say?"

She clasped her hands to her breast. "He said… He said, 'You sing like an angel!' " She looked ready to swoon with delight. I once again found myself struggling to not roll my eyes.

"Well! That's a good thing, then. I'm very happy for you," I said, instead. "Do help me with these laces, would you please?"

"Oh! Yes, of course, Madame." She started to unlace the gown, but paused, her face dreamy. "He has such a wonderful, deep, gravely voice…"

"I have no doubt he will prove to be the very epitome of manliness," I said dryly.

"Well, of course he will be," she said, coming back down to earth and resuming her work. "I wonder what his name is…"

"I never thought of it," I confessed. "He's always just been 'the Ghost' to us."

"But he's real!"

"There are few here who don't believe in the Ghost." I wiggled free of the gown.

"Yes, I know; but I mean he's really real! Really, truly, touchably there…" She sighed happily. I rolled my eyes.

"You did only hear a voice, you know," I pointed out, unable to help myself. "How do you know it was from a living man and not a ghost after all?"

"Oh, I know…" and her eyes gleamed. "He's real. And I shall marry him!"

"Well, I wish the two of you all the best in the world," I said, and shooed her out the door, my costume bundled in her arms. I could only hope that it reached Adele before she melted into a little puddle in one of the corridors.

Feeling slightly better, I made haste to finish dressing and return to my own Opera Ghost. Helping Gerard might not be as difficult as I had feared, after all!

A/N: It's bad luck to whistle in a theatre, and has been for centuries. There is a perfectly rational reason for it, though: before radios were used to communicate, scene shifts were signalled with a bosun's whistle. So if someone was whistling, especially backstage, the running crew might mistake it for the signal to move the next piece of scenery onto the stage.

When the piece of scenery in question might weight upwards of several hundred pounds, you can see why having it suddenly appear, unscheduled, on the stage without warning might be very bad luck, indeed...