This is a very long one - I don't blame you if you wait a while to read the whole thing. I'm sorry! Once again, there was really no good place to end it... I guess you'll just have to suffer... :)

I left the garden around eight forty-five; I would go meet Luke in his office, but first I wanted to pick up a few things from my room.

I picked up my bag and dropped my notebook and pens into it, took the knife from my desk, and was about to leave my cloak on my bed when I thought better of it and stuffed it into my bag.

The corridor outside was bright with candles, empty, and very quiet. I took a cautious step out of my room and shut the door silently behind me, locking it quickly and slinging my bag onto my shoulder. The hilt of my knife pressed into my ribs, and its pressure made me feel a little braver.

I was not afraid of the Phantom; only of him surprising me by dropping out of the ceiling or something equally startling, and so it took some effort to walk down the corridor, and later, to descend the stairs.

The Opera House was built a little off-kilter – I had to cross another corridor to get to the staircase between the first and second floor, something I did with no little amount of stress, as there was suddenly a whole lot of people around.

The ballet girls were twirling and leaping up and down the corridor; the stagehands were flirting and drinking and smoking everywhere, and the entire Opera House population appeared to be on this one single floor. I hurried through the lot of them, watching my steps – nearly every breath I took was filled with smoke, and I doubted that I would make it through the crush of bodies without suffocating.

At last I made it to the staircase and dashed down the stairs. I only had a few minutes to spare, and I was beginning to worry that the Phantom would appear and make me late to my meeting with Luke.

But I could see the light from Luke's office at the end of the corridor. I went a few more yards, and still a few more, trying to breathe normally, and then I heard voices and I stopped.

They were coming from Luke's office.

"Do you ever do anything useful?" Luke was snarling at someone. "Anything at all? Come on, man, answer me and pull yourself together! Must I drag everything out of you?"

A low voice answered. It sounded like Cooper's, but I was not completely sure. I slipped into a nearby room and left the door ajar to listen. It would not do if I was caught eavesdropping on Luke's conversation.

Luke stopped shouting for a moment. Then he began again, but he was basically repeating himself, so I stopped listening as hard and focused on the hand that had suddenly gripped my shoulder.

I turned around, fumbling for my knife.

"What are you doing in here?" Cooper hissed.

I gasped and let my knife fall back into my bag. "Cooper!"

Then I put my hand over my mouth and listened. Yes, Luke was still shouting. He hadn't heard anything.

"I'm eavesdropping," I said, speaking this time in a whisper. "You?"

"Also eavesdropping," said Cooper, just as quietly, with a shrug of his shoulders. "I couldn't resist; Luke never leaves his door open like this."

"Who's he talking to?" I asked, hopefully.

"Who knows," said Cooper. "I'm simply glad it's not me."

We both turned our attention back to Luke's shouting. He was still repeating himself.

"How long has that been going on?"

Cooper shook his head. "I don't know; I only got here a few moments ago. I was supposed to drop some papers off at his office."

"I was supposed to go talk to him," I said. "What – eh – what sort of papers?"

"Confidential," said Cooper. "But if you really want to know, it's something to do with his estate. He seems to be…" he leaned in and spoke even more quietly "…losing money."

"How?" I said, taken aback. "He's the manager at the Palias Garnier, for heaven's sake!"

"True, true," Cooper agreed, "but he's losing it somehow. I'm betting on gambling or something like that."

"Hmm," I said. We listened for another moment to Luke's shouting.

After a minute or two, Cooper said, "It seems to be dying down. I'd better go deliver these." He held up the papers, and cautiously ventured into the corridor.

I followed him out. "I'll go with you."

"No, no, that might seem suspicious."

I scoffed at this completely ridiculous notion. "I doubt that, Cooper. We're just two friends walking down the corridor to the same office! Luke's too enraged to notice anything, I'd bet. He'll never find out that you told me about those papers; you know I don't gossip."

Cooper looked down at me, realized that I was entirely serious, and shrugged. "All right."

When we entered Luke's office, the atmosphere was noticeably sullen. The manager was standing in front of a massive portrait of some prima diva, smoking his cigar and glaring at the intricate beadwork on the painted lady's skirts.

"What do you want?" he said, without turning around.

Cooper and I exchanged meaningful glances; I bit my lip before I could laugh.

"I've brought the papers you wanted," Cooper said, dropping them onto the desk. Luke turned around, saw Cooper, then me, and frowned.

"Thank you, Cooper," he said curtly. "Good evening."

Cooper nodded, bowed to me, and went out. He had left the door open; Luke went past me and shut it. Then he turned the key in the lock.

I remained standing, thankful that I had brought my knife. I did not trust Luke any more nowadays than I did the Phantom, and the locking of the door aroused my suspicions.

Luke sat down behind his desk, smashed his cigar into the ashtray, pulled Cooper's papers towards him, quickly leafed through them, and locked them away in his desk. He looked up at me, his eyes coolly examining my face.

"Take a seat, won't you," he said. It was not a question.

I sat down across from him and arranged my bag on my lap. "Why did you wish to see me, Luke?"

"You said you did not want to be the new opera writer," Luke said, taking a piece of parchment from his top desk drawer and writing something on it. When I did not answer (did his statement really need one?) he glanced up from his paper.

"Well?"

"I thought I made myself quite clear, Luke," I said, "unless you were so addled by drink that your recollection of my answer was muddled."

"I remember it, all right," said Luke, and went back to his scribbling. "I'd like to offer you a different post."

I frowned and shook my head although he wasn't looking at me. "No, I'd rather just remain as writer. I have no interest in another job."

"This one is good," Luke said, and continued to scribble. "Here."

He reached into his desk, took out a sort of letter, and pushed it across the desk to me; I picked it up and turned it around.

It was a message, written thus:

Garmin:

You've neglected to deliver my payment for the last month. I will not remind you again.

Beware,

O.G.

"Charming, isn't it?" said Luke, who was still scribbling.

I turned the note around, saw the telltale red skull, and hastily dropped it on the desk, as if it had bitten me.

"No," I said, slowly. I didn't know what Luke was getting at.

"It strikes me as odd, that note," Luke said. "You know, ever since you've gotten here, I've begun receiving these notes. I never had before. You wouldn't know why, would you?"

"Um, no," I said, still confused. Did he actually believe the Phantom was real? I had thought he was a firm unbeliever.

"Really," said Luke. He wrote more on his paper. "I happen to believe that you, Katelienne, may have something to do with this. Is it a practical joke?"

"What?" I said. "What on earth are you talking about?"

Luke looked up then, stared fixedly at me as though I was a strange new phenomenon. His blue eyes were bloodshot, I noticed, with some trepidation.

"Sometimes," he said, slowly, "some people think it is funny to leave these notes lying about. Anyone can find a seal like this one. If I wasn't so sure, I would suspect you."

"You think I wrote that note and put it in your office?" I said, my voice rising shrilly in indignation. "You think I would stoop to something like that to bother you? You actually think this, Luke? You are – you are completely mistaken."

I had risen to my feet, unconsciously clutching my bag to my chest.

Luke got up. I took a step back. I had forgotten how tall he was.

He leaned towards me, planting his hands on the desk, and spoke very, very softly.

"Think, Katelienne. Think hard. You arrived, asked stupid questions about the Phantom. Then, suddenly, these notes started showing up on my desk. What am I supposed to think?"

"You're supposed to think something logical!" I said. "Clearly, you are out of your mind! I would never do anything like that! Never! You must think I am an idiot!"

I had chosen the wrong words: Luke took a deep breath and let it out between his teeth. "I would not use such a tone with me, Katelienne."

"I don't care what you want," I said. "I don't care at all. I'm leaving," and I made for the door.

Luke came around the side of the desk, lithely, terrifyingly, like an enraged lion, and I staggered backwards, startled, as he snatched for my shoulders and missed.

He caught hold of my injured wrist instead: I drew my breath in with a gasp of pain and kicked his ankle hard.

This did not seem to faze him; he only took a breath and let it out and did not let go of my wrist. I could feel the bones grinding together. I pulled my knife; Luke swore and raised a hand, and just as quickly, he lowered it.

He seemed to be trying to regain his lost temper. He let go of my wrist and backed off to the opposite side of the room, now blocking the door and my escape.

I stayed where I was, alternating between glaring at him and figuring out what to say next.

There were really no words. "Whatever friendship we may have had, Luke," I said, my voice shaking, "you have just lost it. I will not make any more trips to your office; I will not stay in the Opera House. You are nothing but a -"

But whatever I had planned to say was lost in a monstrous rush of sound: someone was speaking very loudly, and everything in the room began to tremble with the force of the sound waves. The scotch glasses on the desk were in danger of dropping to the floor and shattering.

I dropped my knife and put my hands over my ears, but I could still hear every word as clearly as if I had not. Luke was cowering against the door, his arms over his head.

"I told you, Garmin, if you lose the writer, you lose your position. Cross me again and you will regret it most dearly."

The last reverberations died away slowly; dearly, dearly, dearly was all I could hear for a moment.

Luke straightened up, shaking all over, and twisted the key in the lock. It clicked open.

"Get out," he whispered, hoarsely. "Get out."

I stooped to pick up my knife, swept past him and into the corridor, and hurried back towards my room. My ears were ringing, and I had a feeling that they would do so all night.

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