21

The Daroga was dissatisfied with the last year's search for the imitator of the opera ghost. He had found nothing, save more evidence that someone else was after the Phantom. After all this time, he had come to consider Erik his personal area to an extent. A usurper was not welcome on so delicate a subject.

He had just given Darius a two week vacation, as the faithful fellow would not have taken any more. It was both liberating and annoying to be deprived of the servant's presence.

Wandering the opera's halls aimlessly for lack of anything better to do, he saw the young maid of Mademoiselle D'Arcy pop out of a room, a bag of trimmings for a costume in her little hand. He remembered her from the last performance of the Spring, leaning eagerly over a railing in the 'cloud' to watch the corps de ballet in the final number. She had been eager, almost breathless in her absorption and attention.

The girl had changed very little, though perhaps taller and somewhat darker skinned that he recalled. Her hair still behaved as if defiance was its goal in life, and the huge brown eyes took in the details surrounding her cheerfully. Then he remembered her as the girl who had staved off the drunken hand only a few weeks before. Seeing him, she slowed and grew a little more serious, but greeting him courteously. He returned the good day, and glanced at the bag.

"That cannot be for one dress, surely?" He inquired, hoping to strike up a conversation.

Shaking her head, she peered down at the odds and ends. "No, Monsieur, for two. We are trying out things before we finish them today." Her eyes returned to his face. "Are you unhappy about something, sir?"

"You speak of what you see and say, don't you?" She gazed at him, not replying, as though weighing her choices. He smiled, trying to ease her discomfiture. "Well, this once you are right. I am brooding."

"Is it something bad?"

"Perhaps. Remind me of your name again, child."

"Katrina, Monsieur Daroga."

The name that few called him by these days surprised him. But all he said was, Katrina what?"

She shrugged. "I don't remember." Since she had come to Paris over two years prior, she had not used her surname once.

"Surly they make you write it in school."

"I don't go to school. I study lessons with my uncle, and work."

"Does your uncle not make you write your name?"

"No, just lots of words and numbers."

As with the D'Arcy family, so the Daroga found the child both puzzling and fascinating. Her mix of simplify and insight was refreshing and abnormal.

"But that cannot be all you do?" He pressed.

Katrina gave him a frown, as if he should know what else she did. "This is an opera, Monsieur, and people sing in an opera."

With an almost involuntary sigh, he replied; "They can cause trouble too, in an opera."

She paused and fixed him with an inquisitive look that made him realize what a slip he had made, and silently curse himself for it.

"Do you mean that you are here to find a problem in the troupe?" She asked after a moment. He shook his head.

"No, no, to find someone who wishes to make a name for themselves by causing misery, or by discovering the misery-monger. You have heard of the Phantom, of course?" She nodded. "There is an imposter pretending to be this ghost, and someone is trying to chase that imposter. It is quite a mess."

Katrina couldn't have agreed more, since she knew that there was no pretender, and that the Daroga and this third party were chasing the same goal: Uncle Erik.

Or his shadow, at any rate.

"Who is hunting this Phantom?" She asked, deeply interested, but not for the reason the Daroga thought.

"His name is Martine, a private investigator. His services come at a high price, too high, though no doubt his clients are satisfied." The Persian seemed to be sorry to admit any quality to the man. "Martine prides himself on being thorough and relentless, as well as discreet. I am afraid that it doesn't help any wrongdoers he finds, though. He is just as eager to turn them into the police as to those who pay his expenses."

The girl had grown more and more serious during this speech, and found worry replacing her good humor. "Is he here now?"

The Daroga shook his head. "He will return with the opening of the season, there is no point until then."

"Why not?"

"Because the Phantom rarely makes private displays."

Katrina could have listed a dozen times Erik had, beginning with the sandbags on the arrogant tenor, but held her tongue. She had learnt a great deal and dared not risk to many words from her own lips to betray her intent. The man looked down at her, and realized that he might have frightened her, so solemn was her face.

"The Phantom is dead, child. Martine is a fool, and a fool can be handled."

"That depends," Katrina said, looking up. "The stage hand was a fool, but he caused a lot of trouble. Jacques arm is still not what it was."

"That is true." The Persian admitted, falling into thoughtfulness. It occurred to him that Darius' praise of the visits with 'the little maid' had been true, and looked at the girl in a new light.

The Daroga met Katrina often in the halls during the week before the opening. Marie was often gone to put together the final arrangements for her wedding, and much of the preparations for the opera fell to the girl. She knew her work by now, and had many willing to help should she need it, so the burden was not as dreadful as it sounded.

She would often return to the house on the lake with news about the now dreaded Martine. Erik would listen, and say nothing in reply.

The day of Marie's marriage dawned overcast. Katrina was to carry the rings up the aisle of the little chapel, and was too terrified of losing them to notice. Erik had promised to attend, though he refused to stay for the light lunch that would follow. He handed the jittery child over to Helen on arrival with the comment, "May you have better luck than I."

"What, nerves?" Helen asked, tilting Katrina's face back to look at her.

"Nerves have nothing to do with this," The exhausted guardian muttered, "It is called irrationality. She is not even dressed yet, and already is sure that she has destroyed the rings and Marie's future along with them."

"You are a bully." Helen snorted, and turned her back on him. "Come along, dear. I promise that nothing beside your own hair can go awry today." Without a pause, she shut the door on Erik, leaving him to wait until the start of the ceremony.

As predicted, nothing went wrong. The couple was married both legally and in the sight of God. Pictures were taken, and an eager representative of the press recorded every detail to relay in the next edition. Marie and Jacques put off too many questions, Katrina ate too many cucumber sandwiches, and Helen laughed too much. Madame D'Arcy sat in the corner and sniffled, until Katrina came over and offered a truffle.

Bursting into tears, Madame grabbed the child into a stifling hug. After she composed herself, Madame dried her face, and straightened an extremely puzzled Katrina, saying "You must call me Grandmamma, you know. It's not right, your not having a Grandmamma."

When the couple had vanished, and Helen had returned Katrina home, she told Erik about it.

"Do you think it's respectful that I call her that? She seems so cool, not like a Grandmother."

Erik was looking into the fire with a strange look on his face, as though something were eluding him while quite near.

"I think… that I have something to talk over with you, Katrina. The trouble is, I'm not sure how you'll like it."