I glanced around the Managers office early the next day, having just been around the stage and around the offstage. It had been interesting, seeing all of those strange workers walking around, not realizing who I was, or the information I knjew. I looked at the books on the table over my glasses, and grinned as I heard Monsieur Lefevre and Madam Giry enter the room from behind me. I turned my head around, smiling wickedly as I pursed my lips. I wanted to see Madam Giry's reaction to me knowing the drunkard who spoke of musical ghosts.

"Ah, Monsieur Lefevre, I didn't realise it was you who owned this interesting Opera House." I said, cocking my head gently, my innocent tone bewildering them both.

"Mademoiselle McKenna, how... delightful to see you!" He paused as he chose his words carefully. So he did remember me. I wondered how much he remembered. "How are you enjoying your trip from Iceland?" Evidently not much. "What may I do for you?"

"Nadir has decided I need a job. You know Nadir, don't you?" I asked cheekily. His face twisted into a confused and frustrated expression, as though he was trying to properly place me, wondering in context I was speaking of. He sneaked a glance at Madam Giry. She swung her long hair over her shoulder, avoiding his eyes, and had a contempt look on her face.

"Has he now? Hmm, well, when Madam Giry suggested someone work as a maid here, she didn't tell me it was you." He said, adding the last comment with what I believed to be a sense of regret.

"That would do fine." I said, nodding.

"I'll do up the paperwork for you, I'm sure Madam Giry will help you to fit in just fine. I'm sorry I cannot introduce you into the job fully, but I'm afraid there's been some accidents that I must attend you."

"The Ghost?" I asked, my ears perking up like a cat's.

He blinked. "You know about it? And you still want the job?"

"Yes. But I don't have any references, except from Nadir and Madam Giry. You'd mentioned something about a ghost the last time we met, and Madam Giry informed me about this Ghost of yours over dinner. It doesn't bother me, if you're curious."

He nodded slowly, debating between whether I must somewhat trustworthy if he had told me about the ghost, or whether he had been drunk and decided to tell everyone. He sighed, and decided to go with the first option. "I see. So you understand that anyone who speaks ill of the ghost will find themselves in a situation of which the Opera Populaire cannot be hold responsible-"

I began to almost feel sorry for the man, sitting behind his large desk, looking so sad. This Ghost must have been quite a handful. "Don't worry. I never speak ill of ghosts. I understand."

"You will once you encounter him, that I can promise you." He muttered icily.

"What, may I ask, has he done?"

"Oh, the occasional missing items, moving objects, threats, attempt at murder, that sort of thing..."

"Does he do this of his own accord, or is he aggrivated? Do people do things that upset him?"

"Mademoiselle McKenna, it would advisable if you did not seek out our trapdoor lover."

"I'm just asking, because it might be that he's trapped here. What is the history of this ghost, how did he die? Was he a worker here? Does he have sentimental value to this place? There might be something holding him to this plane of existance..."

"Mademoiselle! It would not do at all for others to hear you speaking so freely of the Phantom. You would do well to keep such thoughts and ideas to yourself. Our Ghost will never leave, and we have tried everything. No more talk, Mademoiselle. Do I make myself understood?"

I paused, nodding sadly. Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I added, "Some Ghosts just need help."

He frowned weakly, resting his head on his palm, his arm propped up on the desk. " Some ghosts just can't be disposed of. But never mind. Cut down on the chit-chat about our ghost, and you'll do fine here. Just keep a low profile, do as you're told and never disrespect our Phantom, and we'll get along just fine. Madam Giry... Will you show her where she may find the equipment she will need. Set her up with Maria. Maria cleans the foyer, the stage and box six and four. Box five is looked after by another cleaner, so you needn't worry about that. You get paid at the end of the day; you just need to follow Maria to the paying dock. You'll get into the swing of things in time."

He turned away from us, facing his bookshelves, his back to us, and zoned out, staring at his ceiling. I gave Madam Giry one brief look, before following her out into the foyer. She kept a fast beat as she strided through the corridors, her cane tapping against the marble floor. She quickly showed me where I would find the cleaning equipment and showed me where Maria was. Maria was just cleaning Box four when we found her, and as Madam Giry entered the box, and I stayed outside, I could see Maria's hair bob up quickly when she saw Madam Giry enter.

"Madam Giry? What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be?-"

"Monsiour Lefevre's secratary is ill today, I am helping him with one or two things. I want to introduce you to someone. She's new here, so you'll be joining up with her from now on, just until she getts a hang of things. Make sure you show her where everything is, when you get the chance, okay?"

Maria nodded, pushing back her thick brown curls. I entered the box, and as Madam Giry walked off, I smiled warmly.

"Hello. I'm Jennifer, pleased to meet you." I said, shaking hands with her.

She smiled back at me. "Hi, It's nice to meet you too. I'm sure we'll get along fine. Is this your first time here in the Opera Populaire?"

I nodded. "Yes, it is. It's alot different than I thought it would be."

"Where are you from? Your accent is anything unlike I ever heard. Your French is excellent, but I can hear all sorts of European accents."

I hesitated, the lie sticking to the back of my throat before I managed to say, "I come from Iceland."

Maria appeared interested as she bent down on her hands and knees and started to sweep up dust from the floor with a brush and pan. She signalled for me to air the red velvet curtains. I watched her for a moment, her thin wiry body moving oddly, her thick curls brushed back and held with bobby pins. Her crystal blue eyes watched the brush nervously, her lips trembling. I smiled at her, once her eyes carefully met mine, and I could tell she wanted to hear more. She probably had not had a partner in a while, and was eaaer to talk. began to tell her the story Nadir and I had cooked up early that morning. My father was supposedly a seal fur trader in Iceland, who wanted me to become more aware of the world, and decided to send me to France to stay with an old friend. I arrived at France with another of my father's friends, who owned the boat and happily took me to France.

I began airing out the curtains, describing to her what Iceland what like. I told her I lived at a farming area in a small little turf-roofed house which held my father, myself and my little brothers and sisters. Words started spinning from my lips, stories etched together from my experiences travelling. I had spent two weeks in Iceland, back in my own time, so I knew enough of the customs there to convince Maria that I was raised there. I told her about how my mother had died giving birth to Amelia, my baby sister, but I had brought all of my brothers and sisters up while my father was busy trading furs and equipment with the scientists and the travellers who came through our little village.

It was becoming easier and easier to tell this story. Memories of my travels through there were aiding me with it. Thankfully, during those two weeks that I had stayed in Iceland (a mere holiday to 'get away from it all'), I had started on to do some artwork for a customer of mine. Iceland was partly ice, but most of it was earth and grass and mountains. Maybe living this lie would work. I smiled to myself, wonderinf if I could actually make a life for myself here. There was nothing here for me, but the prospect of living in the past, knowing the future, beginning new and clean, it was too hard to give up. If there was a way that I could bring items back with here here, I daresay I would have bought a house, maybea servant or two, and who knows, maybea season ticket to the Opera. I would be rich.

I shook my head. It wasn't good to think like this. It was the type of thinking that Aleksander would employ. I brushed off these thoughts, and we soon moved out of Box four, Maria giggling at me as she told some joke that Ii hadn't paid attention to, and we passed by Box five. I stopped, my curiosity aroused. The brush and pan held firmly in my hand as I stared at the red curtains which hid the inside of Box five from sight. I gently brushed aside the curtains, opening the door, and looked inside, smiling. It looked perfectly normal to me. I didn't see why we weren't allowed to clean it. There was a footstool, a large red plush chair, and what looked like a lady's gloves lying on the footstool. I crept in, and knelt beside the footstool, picking up the gloves and stoking them. They were skin tight white gloves, with a soft fur lining the inside.

I turned around when I heard Maria gasped. "Don't go in there, that's the Opera Ghost's Box."

I grinned at her as I put the gloves down. I had read stories in old French newspapers about a supposed ghost living in the Opera house and a recent prank he pulled or something, but I never believed it. I hadn't paid much attention to it before, but now, I was interested. When something catches my curiousity, I usually grab it and don't let go until I've had my fill of it. When I was younger, Aleksander had given me a pocket watch. I was entralled with it, and carried it with me everywhere. But once again, I'm leading you away from the matter at hand.

"Opera ghost?" I asked innocently.

"Yes, the Opera ghost who haunts this place. He uses that box for each premiere. Meg says that he comes during the middle of the first act." Maria said, her hands trembling as they played with the hem of her skirt.

"Oh stop it. That can't be true. How could a Ghost watch an Opera? Has anyone ever seen him?"

"Joseph Buquet has. I'll show you to him later, he'll tell you all about the Opera ghost. He's the head stagehand you know." She fidgeted. "Now come out of there."

"The ghost must be a man, at least." I pointed at the gloves. "Look, there are gloves there. And you say that no-one uses this box? He must bring a woman along with him. And a footstool, the other box didn't have one. Why would a ghost need a footstool, hmm?"

At that moment in time, I couldn't have realised what I was getting myself into. My damned eagerness for adventures and mysteries was getting me into trouble before trouble even realised I was around.

Maria ignored me, and told me again to get out of there. I sighed, rolling my eyes as I smiled and walked out, smoothing out the creases in my dress, my mind buzzing with activity. We finished cleaning Box six, and went for lunch down in the kitchens. We both stood in line for soup, our bowls and bellies empty. I picked up two rolls of crusty bread, a knife and cut myself some butter onto a plate. I got my soup, and waited for Maria as she got hers, then we both went and sat near the window, smiling. It was chicken soup today. We watched as some of the dancers had come in. Maria grinned, and waved over two girls. One of them I knew to be Meg Giry, but the other was introduced as Christine Daae. I smirked as I saw their costumes.

They looked like slaves, dressed in Roman era clothing. If I had a dirty mind, I would have joked that they looked like they walked off the set of a Roman Porno, but they probably wouldn't have gotten it anyway. Lots of flesh was shown, my my eyes were kept being drawn to their toned stomaches and legs. I did not pity the life of a ballet dancer, they worked hard for their skills. Meg told us eagerly that they were starting a new Opera, Hannibal. I smiled at them, and let Maria do all the talking for me as I ate my bread and my soup. Christine smiled at me, and I smiled back. We both sat there, drinking our coffee that they had brought over for us, silent as the grave, letting Meg and Maria blabber on. Their speech was getting faster and faster, and I grinned.

"Can you actually understand what they're saying?" I joked, whispering to Christine.

She smiled. "Not really. They speak to fast for me to understand. It's best to just leave them to it. They understand each other."

"Oh, Maman is too hard on us." Meg sighed as she tried to catch her breath, stirring her soup.

"She's not that hard on us." Christine said, breaking the bread after praying.

"Well," I joked. "She certainly looks the part. She could lead an army into battle with just one glare!"

Meg and Christine giggled and I smiled . They couldn't have been more than 17 years of age. I listened to them talk of boys, of their costumes and eventually I just tuned out. I began thinking about the Opera, 'Hannibal', trying to remember if I had ever seen it before. It sounded familair. Where had I heard it?

It suddenly struck me. It had been mentioned in those newspapers that mentioned the Opera Ghost. Christine Daae. I couldn't remember how they mentioned her.

I glanced up at Christine. She was staring into her soup, staring at it absentmindedly. What did she have to with with the Opera Ghost? Something must have happened during Hannibal.

I stopped thinking as I heard something above me. It sounded like the soft footsteps of a person. My skin tingled, but it was not with fear, but excitement. Who would be sneaking around, in the rafters of the kitchen? The Opera Ghost? I was getting excited. The mere thought of a chance meeting with such a person, dead or alive, was thrilling me. If the ghost existed, and was really a ghost, then that itself would be enough for me to get excited, but if he was something else, a man, perhaps, then to meet him would be even more thrilling. This man had dominated himself over the managers, established himself as a ghost, earned himself a comfortable salary of 20,000 francs a month.

I suddenly wanted to see him. But I knew better than to just look up. Experience (and Aleksander's lessons) had told me that. It would be better to wait it out. Let me surprize him. I kept my ears open after that, listening for muffled sounds in the walls. And believe me, after that lunch, I became more aware of the Opera ghost than even Joseph Buquet.