"Of course, when I use these words, I do not mean to apply them to La Carlotta, who sings like a cockroach and who ought never to have been allowed to leave the Ambassadeurs and the Cafe Jacquin..."
~Erik, regarding Carlotta's talent in a note to the managers.

Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera.


"This is yours, Mam'zelle," the chief stagehand said, passing me a bucket, mopping cloth and wire scrub for the harder to clean places. He stank of alcohol, one of the worst cases I'd come across. And I'd come across plenty.

"Thank you, monsieur," I nodded, starting to turn away from both him and the equally disgusting cleaning closet. He grabbed my arm and I could have sworn I'd be ill there and then.

"For you," he whispered in my ear, setting alarm bells off in my mind, "it's Joseph."

I pulled a face and wriggled from his grip. He smirked at my disgust and picked his bottle of rum from the nearby self, where he'd put it in favour of picking out my equipment for the day.

"I know a very nice place in the attics of this opera-"

"Thank you but no thank you, monsieur," I snapped, recoiling and heading straight for the door. I knew those attics better than he anyhow. There would be no evening meal lit with candles and adorned with sweet flowers, that was for sure. "Now leave me alone."

Before he could breath a word of a reply, I scurried away to the stage, not stopping until I found the wings. A glance over my shoulder proved that the Joseph man was either lagging behind or still in the cupboard. I breathed a small sigh of relief; even the smell of alcohol made me feel like vomiting. He was a disaster waiting to happen.

I'd speak to Erik about him, for sure.

I dunked the mopping cloth in the warm water and kneeled. This floor was indeed filthy. I sighed and set to work, scrubbing hard.

Ten minutes in and the wings weren't packed with people per say, but I had made sure to stay out of the way of the extras that were there. That being said:

"Mademoiselle de La Chance?"

I looked up, blowing hair out of my mask as it escaped the bun I'd practically failed to tie it in. "Yes?"

"You're late, Mademoiselle."

The owner of the voice was standing a few feet away, fiddling with a length of rope between his hands.

"Monsieur Desrosiers." I smiled, brushing a lock of untameable chestnut hair from the eyehole of my mask.

He tensed and ran a hand down his brace, glancing at the stage and then back at me. My smile wavered and I set myself back to scrubbing.

"Nice weather we're having," he blurted out at last. I frowned slightly at the floor. He slapped a hand over his mouth.

"Yes, it is," I said, scrubbing less harshly now and sneaking a look at him from the shadows of my mask. "A very nice, crisp, autumn morn."

Jeremy zipped his lips and looked back at the stage, biting his inner cheek desperately. I hid my growing grin and stared down at the floor I was scrubbing. He turned awkwardly on his hips, glancing at the few performing actors, then at me, then back to the stage again and hopped a little nervous jig for a moment.

It seemed the dance gave him back some of his courage because he went on to ask: "I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle, but is it my hearing or do you have a slightly Eastern accent, Mademoiselle?"

I stopped scrubbing.

"Why do you ask?" I muttered, keeping my eyes trained on the ground. Jeremy swallowed and stepped back, wringing out his hands around the rope.

"You pronounce your s's and vowels like an Eastern lady, Mademoiselle." He buried his chin in the shirt beneath his waistcoat, peering out at me from beneath his workman's cap. "I'm sorry, Mademoiselle. I didn't mean to cause you offence. Knew a maid from Bulgaria when I was young, Mademoiselle."

Normally, I'd snap at the person who dared comment on my accent. But as I stood, with Jeremy rubbed his chin, still watching me like a submissive puppy, I could only smile at him.

"None taken," I said, and I really meant it. I patted his hand and stooped to pick up the bucket and cloth. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Monsieur Des-"

"Jeremy, Mademoiselle," he corrected gently, tipping his cap and bowing a little way.

"Jeremy. I have been given orders to clean the boxes, Jeremy." Lie. I walked away towards the exit of the wings, heading for the stairs to the box entrances. He masked his frown and stared at the rope instead, a deflated emotion descending on his shoulders and weighing them down.

"Of course, Mademoiselle. Will I see you later? Say, lunchtime? Two o'clock?"

"That would be nice! And for the record, Jeremy, my mother was is Russian, and my father French. I suppose I have the best of both worlds."

Jeremy grinned: off-white teeth between chapped, pink lips that added so much sparkle to his green eyes. He tipped his cap again and walked backwards as not to turn his back in me. What was I? The Tsar's wife or something?

"Be careful in Box Five," he warned, not looking where he was going in the slightest. "Madame Giry usually-"

I was already gone before he crashed into the huge elephant that was being used for the production of Hannibal. Was this what Erik did with his free time? Commissioning gigantic props that people like Jeremy couldn't see if he propped his eyes open with cocktail sticks? Honestly. Sometimes I doubted that boy's sanity.


Carlotta was butchering her role as Marguerite.

I cringed as she hit the highs and slaughtered the words, not that I could do much better.

I clenched my teeth and cleaned Box Five to my heart's content, making sure my velvet red seats were perfectly rid of the dust and the armrests gleamed in the light of the auditorium. The footstool beneath one chair was beaten to an inch of its velvety life, sending plooms of dust out every time I hit it.

A box of chocolates was left on the sideboard. It was as I popped a seventh – or was it an eighth? – one in my mouth and continued to dust down the panels that Carlotta's caterwauling... stopped.

I peered over the ledge.

Two gentlemen strode through the auditorium, pointing out various parts of interest with their canes and doffing their top hats to the occasional cleaner. Behind them, another two gentlemen, muttering quietly amongst themselves.

"Good, ah, good afternoon!" one of the foremost gentlemen called, his voice wavering as he took in the hundreds of eyes fixed upon him and his company. A podgy little thing, he barely came up to the other gentleman's shoulder, and his thining grey moustache resembled more of a hairy caterpillar than a distinguished gent. I squinted, not recognising him, or the rest of his party for that matter; had Poligny gained weight in the past five years? Carlotta pushed a costumier away with a scowl.

His company nudged him drew himself up to full height. "Take no heed of us, my friends; I'm sure you've heard by now of the newest patrons of the Paris Opera. If I might introduce Monsieur le Comte de Chagny, and... and, er..."

"Raoul," said the shorter of the remaining gentleman, and he took his hat off to reveal shimmering blond hair.

"The Vicomte de Changy," the Count interjected. He cast Raoul a long look.

By now, the entire auditorium had fallen silent, and everyone who may not have been watching the band of gents was by now fixated upon them.

"My brother and I are honoured to support this Opera House in all its financial needs," Raoul said, breaking the silence with a silky voice and shining smile. I rubbed some more polish onto the golden casts until they squeaked. "The arts always held a special place in my late father's heart; I do not doubt Count Philippe and I will be making some sizable donations in the coming months."

The magic words. I rolled my eyes as ballet rats and sopranos alike burst into a chorus of welcomes and appraisals. Money; it was all they wanted. Money was the ticket out of the Opera House, out of poverty, out of the city whose poorer inhabitants were still recovering from the war over a decade ago. For the Opera was where such people found themselves at work.

How was I any better than a street rat, or a prostitute? Even I admitted my pride was long gone.

With the commotion now gathering on the stage, I packed up my bucket and cloths and headed for the door, just as Carlotta so graciously sang for her new audience, a preview of her performance later.

"She's butchering the Jewel Song."

I paused on the threshold, a hand poised to close the dark, wooden door behind me. My eyes flitted to a nearby pillar.

Carlotta hit a high note and I winced.

"And spreading its entrails all over my stage," the voice continued, rough as though spoken through gritted teeth.

"Don't tempt me, you know I'd just complain all day if I start." I set the bucket down and knocked upon the pillar. "Space for two?"

"Only if you intend on putting me out of my misery."

I stood straight and glared at the pillar. "Erik, no! Look past it for once, it can't be that–"

Another high note.

Erik gagged. A muffled thump came from the pillar, where he must have fallen against it. I rolled my eyes. "There's a safe in the kitchen," he said. "Eighty thousand francs. It's yours if you put a stop to this."

I sighed and tried to pry the catch open. "Erik, let me in."

A pause. The lock turned.

I slipped inside the pillar and pulled the door closed behind me. Pressed up against Erik's slender frame, I pulled my mask off and peered through the peepholes at the stage.

"Who are they?"

"Hm?" He looked through a higher set of peepholes and grunted. "Oh, those two. The new managers, I'm afraid to say."

I frowned. "What happened to Debienne and Poligny?"

"They left last night."

What? Why?

He shrugged. "I grew up and they didn't like my living in their basement, but I kicked them out before they could get the first word in." He caught sight of my frown and chuckled. "Good God, you're a sight worse than death!"

I slapped his arm. He clutched it, but only huffed a short laugh. "Besides, I've grown rather comfortable here, you know, after Persia. And the Opera House was getting much too small for all three of us."

"Erik-!"

"Ah, there it is! Your classic scorn. Once got, never lost."

"Do not twist this conversation! Just who are those two gentlemen?"

We shifted about trying to find a comfortable way to fit together in the tiny space. But with Erik's sharp angles and corners sticking out in all the wrong places, and my bustle taking up most of the room, it was easier said than done.

"Messieurs André and Firmin," he said at last. "Two utterly stubborn pigs; it appears I've just hired a younger version of the other two codgers. I must admit, my sense of reasonable choices seems to be faltering. Their only redeeming qualities lie in their previous business management positions, because Lord knows this theatre is in terrible financial grounds. You know, Nikki, I think it should be rather amusing to see Firmin go through his calculations; he is so easily ruffled at the collar!"

I didn't point out that I'd been staying up to date with the Parisian newspapers for the past five years, and the mysterious disappearances of a monthly twenty-thousand francs had not gone unnoticed. "And just how do you know so much about them? A nice candlelit dinner, perhaps? 'Hello, gentlemen, I am Erik, your resident ghost, and before we begin you must pay me no less than five thousand francs to inform you of my little fancies around this House.' Amusing indeed."

He waved an absentminded hand through the air. "Something along those lines."

"Erik–"

"Do calm down! It's true, I was at the farewell dinner last night."

"Erik!"

"Once again, you assume the worst! Not a very good habit of yours, you must admit! Come now, don't look at me like that, I was as quiet as a lamb at that table. They barely knew I was there!"

"That isn't the point!" I protested. "You cannot simply sit in on a party you were not invited to!"

But he waved that off too and reached for the door working his skeleton key into the lock. "Nikita, my dear friend, every party in this House is mine to throw. I have no need of an invitation! Now, if you please, I have work to do and thirty years of life to contemplate. You'll join me for lunch at one."

And with that, I was shooed back into the corridor, just about managing to put my mask back on before the candlelight found me. The hall was exactly as I'd left it, as though nothing had even happened.


The Opera Ghost was huddled up with his back against the organ when I let myself into my bedroom from the passageway at lunchtime, reading the copy of Edgar Allan Poe's The Mask of Red Death I'd bought him from a newly opened bookstore years ago.

"You look engrossed," I smiled, dancing down the steps to the instrument and flopping down on the stool. He only grunted, refusing to be drawn from the story. I noticed one of my blankets draped over his knees, Monkey Nadir curled up asleep beside Erik's hip.

Monkey hair. I lifted the corner of my mouth as I set my hands upon the ivory keys of the organ, playing softly. How nice. I'd have to sleep in that blanket one night, perhaps sooner rather than later.

Erik sighed and closed the book. He shut his eyes and leaned his head against the panels of the organ, stroking Monkey Nadir carefully. He hummed along to the melody, and after a few bars, I joined in with the words.

He cut himself off and frowned at me. "You know you can't sing."

I shook my head. "I don't need my voice to live off my music."

He closed his eyes again. "Violin?"

"Mhm..." I kept playing.

"Street performances?"

"My speciality."

"You wouldn't know art if it smacked you around the head with a trombone."

I stopped playing as he set the book aside and checked his pocket watch. "You, Monsieur Erik, are beyond insolent. Don't you remember that it was I who first set you at the piano. You've me to thank for the most part!"

And I put my fingers back to the keys, choosing an entirely different melody, Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, as if its soft melody and gentle progression could diffuse any argument that might be brewing.

It worked. Erik shut up for a few minutes.

"Erik?" I said thoughtfully, as the piece went on and allowed some time for conversation.

"Mm?"

"Are you aware that you've employed some... shall we say, unsavoury characters to work here?"

"What are you talking about? And where did that damned monkey run off to? If he's eating my pomegranates again, there will be a mass war like no other in this Opera House!"

Monkey Nadir poked his head around the corner of the passageway that led out to the hallway, chattering like a cheeky toddler and holding a pomegranate.

Erik swore like a sailor.

I stopped the piece again to glare at him.

He seethed but buttoned his lips.

Oh, who was that man again?

"Er... Jules? Wait, no, that's Antoinette's late husband. Erm... Jacob? No, that's not right either..."

Erik raised his eyebrows, which had only half the effect it should have because I could see only one. "Jeremy?"

"No!" I cried. "Jeremy's a good lad! I'm talking about that awful man, the drunkard one. Bucket someone."

"Joseph Buquet?"

I snapped my fingers. "That's the one! I'll have you know he tried to tempt me off this morning!"

"Then you're lucky," Erik said with a shrug, sitting at the organ on the edge of the seat so I could join him by his side. "He's done much worse to other women here."

I shuddered at the thought. "You never had him sacked?"

"Like it or lump it, he's good at his job," Erik said, drawing a few minor chords from the keys, one at a time. "When he's sober, that is."

"You don't seem to like Jeremy much."

"Desrosiers? No. Blithering idiot. Mumbles too much. I can think of better ways to spend a morning and lunch break than watching the corps de ballet humiliate themselves in rehearsals like a star-crossed dreamer." He pushed himself up and had me move up on the seat for him. The silky white gloves came off, revealing long, skeletal fingers, yellowed and scarred. They set upon the keys and coaxed a quiet melody from them. I breathed an involuntary sigh and he chuckled beneath his breath.

I swallowed and sat straight. "What does he do?"

"He's a useless stagehand. Completely besotted with that horse of his. Called it something ridiculous. Navel or some misfortunate name."

I smirked and played the simplest melody I could remember to the bass notes Erik was playing: Mozart's Piano Concerto number Twenty-Three, the second movement

"I'm sure he wouldn't do that," I said halfway through. Erik scoffed.

"He's hardly got the brain to do anything different. Didn't you see him crash into the elephant earlier?"

"Just forget about Jeremy for a moment. What about Buquet? I can't stand the idea of him hanging around up there, watching people... Erik?"

He'd stopped playing the bass notes and was checking his pocket watch again. "There's somewhere I need to be," he said in a gruff voice, standing up and picking the blanket from the floor. He shook the monkey hair from it into the lake and left it there on the damp stone.

"But there are eight whole bars left!" I cried, jumping up from the seat. He was already striding towards the kitchen, where I knew a secret passage led up to the stage. "Erik!"

"Have fun with the imbecile!" he called over his shoulder, and then he was gone, like a shadow at dawn. Even the ghostiness in the air faded and the door to the passage closed with a soft thud in the kitchen.

"Erik...?"

Lunchtime was nearly over anyhow.