Author's Note: Still do not own Phantom of the Opera; that right belongs to Leroux, Webber, and other such parties.

26

"Kayla! Kayla! Kayla!"

Kayla had been alone in the costuming and makeup room for only about five minutes, and was in the middle of setting up a spectrum of makeup brushes and cosmetics when she heard the door creak open. Without any prior warning besides the high-pitched shrieks, Kayla found herself completely surrounded and clung to by fifteen preteen ballets rats. "Bonjour," she greeted, her voice muffled – the side effects of becoming the centre of an impromptu group hug.

"Do you think it's going to happen again? Do you think something bad is going to happen?" a dancer Kayla could not see squeaked.

There was immediate flurry of agreements and panic before Kayla intervened. "Ladies, calm yourselves," she ordered gently. The grips of the small arms loosened slightly, and Kayla was able to raise her head and look around at the frightened adolescents. "Everything is going to be just fine," she assured them calmly. "I am going to be frank with you girls because you are all mature young ladies and you will be able to calmly handle what I am going to say. Agreed?" There was a mumbled chorus of assent. "Yes, the Opera Ghost was angry yesterday. Ms. Daäe is playing the Countess tonight, which will probably appease him somewhat. Accidents happen when people pry into affairs that are not their own, which Monsieur Buquet learned last night. Don't go looking for ghosts, avoid wandering off alone, and focus on your work. Keep dancing as well as I know you all shall and you will all be perfectly fine."

"How do you know?" Lena stammered. Her fourteen fellows stared at Kayla expectantly.

Kayla took a deep breath. "Because I am going to do everything in my power to make sure nothing happens to you girls." It was odd, Kayla reflected, to act like such a responsible adult in a fandom where a majority of the characters were anything but. Her resolve was strengthened by the chilling thought that most of these girls were the same age or younger than her sister Samantha, and though she was sure the Phantom was not cruel enough to kill a child, Kayla did not want there to be any risk of harm to these little ballerinas.

There was a moment of contemplative silence. "Can you tell us the rest of the story now?" a small voice requested.

There was a collective glare sent to the little redhead who had made the appeal. "Sacre bleu, Amelia!" Lena groaned.

"As if you have a leg to stand on, Lena," Clare, a tall, lanky brunette, admonished sternly.

"Okay, ladies, calm yourselves," Kayla laughed before the bickering could escalate further. "I'm assuming you all need help with your makeup?" The young dancers shuffled, then all nodded abashedly. "Okay, one of you sit," Kayla ordered, patting the stool in front of her. "Let's see how well I can multi-task. As for the rest of you, gather round, because I fear we have left our heroine in a rather precarious situation…"

"…And so the teapot, the candelabra, and the clock sat on the window sill, staring out at the snowball fight and wondering whether there was something that wasn't there before," Kayla concluded, dusting light rose blush over the bridge of Gwen's nose. "There you go, Gwen, you're done," she addressed the short, black haired dancer, who squeaked a thank you and hopped off the stool.

"Don't you dare stop," Amelia threatened, clambering up to perch in front of Kayla.

"I agree with Amy, keep going," called one of the senior cavaliers from across the room, a tall, rail thin but muscular twenty three year old with emerald eyes and messy bronze hair named Neil.

"I'm still confused as to how a pretty girl and a… wolf-bear-thing… can have a functional romantic relationship, but by all means proceed," Avère approved with a wave of his hand, not taking his grey eyes off the mirror as he expertly applied the deep blue eye shadow his costume required.

"You do realize I'm telling this story primarily for the benefit of fifteen little girls, right?" Kayla snapped teasingly, dipping her fingers into a pot of foundation and smearing it over Amelia's freckled cheeks.

"So if Lumiere – the candlestick," Phillipe, a preppy, hazel haired senior, pondered, "has the hots for the maid – who's technically a feather duster – how does that…"

"There are parts of children's stories that are never and should never be discussed, and that is one of them," Kayla interrupted hastily. She turned her attention back to Amelia's face, smoothing out any clumps of foundation that remained before picking up a brush and starting in on the teal eye shadow. "The bloody seniors distracted me, where was I?"

"There may be something there that wasn't there before!" the ballet rats cheered.

Kayla's lips twitched. "Right."

"And pure magic swept over the palace walls, turning the slate stone to creamy white. Blossoms bloomed where there had once been nothing but dying vines, colours taking over the gloomy shades. The cracked stones repaired themselves, gargoyles turned to angels, and sunlight burst through the clouds, illuminating everything that had once been purely shadowed. One by one, feather dusters, candelabras, clocks, and china all turned back into people, men and women all gazing with delighted faces at their long-missed human forms. And in the ballroom, surrounded by their newly transformed friends and courtiers, the Beast and Belle shared their first dance as a human couple. As her dress flowed around her like yellow rose petals, Belle reached up and kissed her prince. With her new family watching proudly, Belle was deliriously happy; she had found the adventure that she had been searching for all along."

Kayla tapped the tip of Joelle's pointed nose with the last bit of required blush. Joelle, the last ballet rat who had required makeup, got off the chair in a daze. The young corps stared at Kayla expectantly. "The end," she concluded awkwardly. The ballet rats all sighed dreamily.

"So, moral of the story, ladies; it doesn't matter what he looks like, as long as he's filthy rich with an enormous castle," Avère called cheerfully from where he was stretching his legs in the splits on the floor by the cavaliers' makeup tables.

The dreamy looks instantly faded, and the ballet rats whipped around, wistfulness in their eyes overpowered by pure, unadulterated rage. "SHUT UP AVERE!" all fifteen shrieked as one.

"YEAH, SHUT UP AVERE!" shouted Neil jokingly, glaring at Avère as he helped Nikolais, who at sixteen was one of the youngest senior cavaliers, pin a wreath of leaves to the younger man's blonde locks.

"We dance for a living, I don't think we really have a leg to stand on as far as dream lives go," Leonardo commented, smacking Avère on the back of his golden head as the dark haired soloist walked by.

"GACK! We're not in a fairytale, idiot!" Avère protested as he glared at his abusive co-leader.

"We're a bunch of young Frenchmen dancing ballet for a fairly significant amount of money and the adoration of rich women, I think we are in a fairytale," Alexandre – the youngest of the junior cavaliers– sniffed haughtily, mockingly sticking his pointy nose into the air. The ballet rats – among whom Alexandre, and, more importantly, his older brother Neil, were much in favour – giggled. Alexandre blessed the fifteen little girls with a surprisingly roguish wink, vaguely disturbing in its effectiveness since he was only fourteen.

"Hey, hey, watch it!" Kayla snapped teasingly. "None of that flirting with my girls!"

"You sound exactly like Madame Giry. Our dear ballet mistress would be proud," Avère joked.

"Well someone has to be a positive influence around here!" Kayla retaliated.

"What about Mademoiselle Giry?" Lena interjected quietly.

"Exactly. Her and me, that's all there is between you little rats and those cretins over there," Kayla laughed, waving her hand in the direction of the older cavaliers as she straightened Amelia's sleeve with the other hand.

Avère rose majestically out of the splits, keeping his hands on his hips the whole time, and shouted over at the section of dressing tables where the ballerinas were doing their makeup. "Hear that Meg? You're an excellent role model!"

The door swung open and Madame Giry stepped imposingly into the room. "If you would cease in yelling at the ballerinas, Avère?" she suggested coldly.

"If I must," the blonde man sighed, flashing a conspiring wink at the ballet rats. Three of them began to sway unsteadily, seemingly lightheaded with the thrill of a cavalier's attention. Their compatriots began to poke them teasingly.

"I need the junior ballerinas warming up now, and whichever seniors are ready should join them!" Madame Giry barked. "Gaelle, Meg, go lead the stretches please!"

The black haired, pale Gaelle and rosy cherubic Meg shot out of their chairs, already in full costume and makeup, and swept gracefully out of the room. The ballet rats all swarmed Kayla and hugged her, shrieking thank yous before scurrying in a clumsy swarm after the two prima ballerinas. "They've never been that enthusiastic about anything or anyone," Leonardo stared blankly. "They're hysterical little blighters, but I have never seen them show that much affection to someone out of their ranks before. Are you a witch, Abbots?"

And in that moment Kayla Abbots was crowned honorary Queen of the Ballet Rats.

Much to the dismay of the Populaire's entire staff, the second performance of Il Muto went off without a hitch. Carlotta, her ample chest bound flat and her face cleared of her traditional stage makeup, played a strangely alluring interpretation of Serafimo, while Christine's Countess was the perfect portrayal of the naïve, love-struck, and foolish noblewoman Daäe's fans had expected. Kayla was privately of the opinion that the superficial, over-the-top, and surprisingly sinister predator Carlotta performed to be better suited to the character, but judging by the thunderous applause bestowed upon the cast as they took their bows, the audience had no complaints.

The older dancers were passing around their green flasks again, but Kayla was too exhausted to attempt to halt the behaviour. Upon climbing down from the catwalk, she gathered up the crew and informed them that they were to meet backstage by the office before breakfast at nine, after which the day's plan would be decided. If there did happen to be a rehearsal – slim chances of that, according to the senior stagehands, as it was a performance week – there would be no one practicing harder than them.

As the crimson curtains swooped down to hide the stage from view, Christine swept in through the wings, her wide rose skirts clipping people's knees as she swanned by. Her head was shaking, quick little vibrations that no one but Kayla seemed to notice. "How's your neck holding up, Daäe?" Kayla hollered over the ruckus.

The young soprano turned and walked over to join her, smiling bashfully. "The wig is quite heavy," Christine admitted, her voice paradoxically shy but loud as she tried to communicate over the din. "I can't believe I was able to hold it up for all that time."

"It takes a strong neck to be able to balance it properly," Carlotta interjected loftily, sashaying past them as she exited the stage, triumphant in the fact that she had received a standing ovation for a silent role. "I'm surprised you didn't snap that pretty French neck of yours," the diva added venomously, her eyes narrowing at the white-haired girl.

"Watch it, Giudicelli," Kayla warned dangerously.

Carlotta threw a disdainful glance in Kayla's direction before she smiled and shrugged at her young blonde ally. "Not bad, Ms. Daäe," commented the diva offhandedly, not looking at Christine. With that, she flounced away as majestically as if she were the one in full-fledged French court finery, rather than the simple garb of a page boy.

"You're Countess tomorrow, so don't go picking fights with the Vicomte!" Kayla howled at Carlotta's back. A manicured hand waved dismissively in agreement before the diva disappeared into the crowd.

Kayla swiveled back to see Christine blinking curiously at her. "How are you controlling her?" the singer inquired incredulously.

"Witchcraft." Kayla deadpanned promptly. "Kidding," she added as Christine's doe eyes grew round as saucers. "I don't take any of her nonsense, that's all. She apparently respects that I have a spine."

"I stood up to her today and she doesn't respect me," Christine replied doubtfully.

Kayla sucked in air through her teeth. "Hate to break it to you sweetie, but Raoul kind of fought your battle today," she retaliated bluntly. "Plus you're her competition. I think occasional, grudging civility is all you can possibly hope for in this scenario." Christine sighed and shrugged. Patting the shorter sixteen year old on the shoulder, Kayla grinned and said, "Congrats, Daäe. I'll see you in the morning, but if I keep my eyes open any longer they're going to jump out of my skull in protest."

"You have such a funny way of talking," Christine smiled fondly.

"Who else is going to amuse you?" Kayla teased, giving an exaggerated bow as she turned to leave. She had seen the managers making a beeline for Christine, alerted to the soprano's location by the pillar of ivory locks, and Kayla was in no mood to deal with them tonight. Kayla dove through the crowd, pushing her way towards the dormitory stairs like a trout swimming up a stream.

Before she reached her escape route, a hand caught her arm. She jumped about a foot in the air and swore silently. She whipped her head towards her trapped elbow and was greeted with steely, worried face of Madame Giry. "I've been instructed to inform you," she began grimly, "that your presence in requested in Box Five."

"What, by the Vicomte?" Kayla scoffed. "There is no way, he can jump off a bridge. Not after the way he yelled at me today."

"The audience is leaving, and the Vicomte is probably searching out Christine as we speak," the ballet mistress hissed quietly.

Kayla's morbid section of brain began to laugh frighteningly, mocking her with modified dialogue from Stuart Maclean.

Erik's upstairs.

Erik wants you to… go upstairs.

He wants to talk to you.

"What the f – "Kayla yelped angrily, the expletive halted by Madame Giry's hurried request.

"Keep your voice down, please, Kayla," Madame Giry ordered sternly.

"Sorry, but no; I'd like a decent night's sleep before I'm executed, thanks," Kayla whined. She sounded five years old, and she knew it, but Kayla couldn't muster up the energy for maturity at the moment, especially when it came to cryptic messages from overly dramatic resident phantoms.

"I would not recommend trying his patience, especially in his current mood," Madame Giry advised in a whisper.

"For hell's sakes," Kayla snapped, turning on her heel and practically stomping toward the passage that led to the opera boxes. This particular development was bloody annoying, to say the least. Would it kill the Opera Ghost to just lay low for a couple days? Or, at any rate, to not involve Kayla in whatever nefarious plot he was hatching? The movieverse had kept these three months totally open, anything could happen. And at least could he just tell her the exact reason for cryptic summons to an empty opera box at eleven 'o' clock at night? Honestly, did he have no respect for regular sleep patterns? As she jogged up the stairs, she mentally cursed herself for ever getting involved in the first place. She'd caught Erik's attention by fighting Buquet, Raoul's notice for being friendly, and both men's ire for trying to be diplomatic. It had been a mistake. Maybe she should be attempting escape theories from the Inception school of leaving dreamscapes.

And as if the past five minutes had not thrown enough curveballs, on her way down the hall to the boxes, she smacked right into a broad chest. The smell of cologne alerted her – too late – that the chest belonged to Raoul. Taking a step back and rubbing her forehead, where she could feel a bruise forming thanks to the engraved metal buttons of his jacket, she squinted up at the Vicomte. "Sorry," she apologized sullenly, not meaning it at all. I hope my head broke your ribs, you bastard, she supplemented silently, attempting to maneuver herself around the nobleman.

"Mademoiselle Abbots!" Raoul exclaimed, promptly grabbing her wrist and kissing her hand with a stately bow. "I wanted to apologize for my behaviour earlier; you were only trying to help, I'm sure." He smiled brightly at her. "At any case, agreements can be modified, so you did no harm," he tacked on condescendingly, annoyance flickering in his blue eyes. So it was an act, but for whose benefit the performance was for was beyond Kayla's late night mental capacity. And also, 'agreements can be modified'?

"So it is to be war between us," she muttered defiantly under her breath.

Raoul ignored her, if he had even been paying any attention to her in the first place. "Allow me to introduce my brother the Comte, Phillipe de Chagny," Raoul presented, flourishing a white gloved hand at the man to his left. The specimen in question was only slightly taller than Kayla but shorter than Raoul, with ash blonde hair tied back at the nape of his neck and eyes a bluish shade greener than Raoul's. His skin was paler, probably less active and outdoorsy than his brother – hadn't Raoul been in the navy? Or was Samantha's shrieks of informative glee during fanfiction readings messing with her memory? Philipe's face was narrower, and his gaze colder and more serious.

"A pleasure, mademoiselle," Phillipe stated formally, bending forward to kiss her hand as well. "My brother speaks highly of your work."

"Sure he does, thanks," Kayla replied awkwardly, realizing as the words passed her lips that perhaps her tone was too snarky to be in any was respectful. "Nice to meet you, but I'm late for a thing, gotta go, bye," she rushed. Hurriedly extracting her hand from the Comte's grip, she ducked around the Chagny boys and scurried down the hall, imagining in her frenzy that their gazes followed her all the way to the corner where she mercifully disappeared from view.

All in a day's work, Kayla thought sourly. Sassing noblemen, meeting with Opera Ghosts. The Populaire business.

Calves burning, she ran up another flight of stairs and followed the narrowing passage to the opera boxes. She paused outside the shiny door labelled '5' and glared at it accusingly. The Phantom had no right to whistle for her like a puppy and expecting her to just heed his command without protest. She was a girl, not a dog. So she passive-aggressively turned her back on the door and walked nonchalantly a couple metres down the hall and into the next box over. This one was practically identical to Box Five, except that this one was slightly higher and had a differently angled view of the stage. , In fact, Kayla realized she tiptoed to the edge and peered out, she could see into Box Five. Resting her legs and hips against the ledge, she leaned out of the box and stuck her head around the velvet curtain. Box Five was empty and dark. Kayla frowned.

She had taken long enough to get upstairs that the hall was empty, and the lights illuminating the stage had been extinguished. The gas lights of the chandelier were dim, casting only a faint glow onto the dusky velvet chairs below. She debated attempting to climb into Box Five from the outside, using the golden statues and carvings on the walls as footholds, and therefore lowering the change of being ambushed by a lasso. After some consideration she found that she feared painfully dying far more that she feared not-Gerard-Butler, even though death and the Opera Ghost were probably synonyms.

Nevertheless, with her heart pounding out a staccato beat in her chest, she left the box and returned to the assigned meeting place. Unfortunately, upon testing the doorknob – hoping against hope that it would be locked – the polished door swung inward on silent hinges. Kayla gulped. She stood frozen in the doorway for a few minutes before steeling her courage and stepping inside. And took another step. And another, her minimal courage only sustained by the fact that if the peace talks went south, she could probably dive out of the box and possibly pull off a successful, adrenaline fuelled climb into the box next door. She eyed the column in the corner suspiciously. I've got my eye on you, she thought at it peevishly.

Based on appearances, she was the only living thing in Box Five, but there was – in her mind at least – at least a two-thousand percent chance Erik was lurking somewhere. "Okay, dude, you wanna talk? Let's talk," she challenged into the darkness. "But if you jumpscare me I swear I will injure you… probably." She lifted her chin and stuck her hands on her hips.

There was no response. "What the hell do you want me to do, sit down?" Kayla snarled. "I'm here at your request, the least you could do was acknowledge I'm not being screwed with." She scowled at the silence. "Eff this, I'm out," she snapped after no other noise was forthcoming, heading for the door.

"You seem to think that you have the authority to make the decisions, here, in my domain."

The smooth, silky, sensual voice came from right behind her.

"FRICKLESFRACKLESJENSENACKLESWHATTHEHELL!" Kayla shrieked, practically levitating off the floor as she turned one hundred and eighty degrees to face the origin of the voice. There was nothing behind her but the dusk of the opera box and the gloom of the theatre. "Ah, but of course, ventriloquism, ha, ha, ha, you got me," she exclaimed sarcastically, her voice shaking despite all attempts to control it. "I guess I don't remember everything, do I?" A rabbit's heart pattered in her throat. Dropping into one of the cushioned chairs, her hand drifted unconsciously to her heart, which felt like it was going into cardiac arrest. "Well, would ya look at that?" she stuttered, raising a hand to her face and examining her quivering fingers. "I'm actually scared right now!" Faced with the subject of at least fifty percent of her artwork and her sister's adoration, she felt completely paralyzed.

"Now," the voice began slowly. "Shall we begin?"

Ah, yes, as if locked in a box with a probable sociopath was not intense enough, he had to start inadvertently quoting psychopaths. Excellent. "But we haven't been properly introduced," Kayla protested lightly, trying to put some strength back into her voice. "I'm Kayla. Kayla Abbots. I'd offer to shake your hand, but if I recall correctly you're not really one for physical contact."

"Make no mistake, I know exactly who you are, mademoiselle," the spectre hissed, the voice drifting from behind the curtain on her right.

"Incorrect," Kayla shot back, her blue eyes darting about wildly in search of a white mask in the shadows. "You couldn't possibly know exactly who I am, and if you did you wouldn't be attempting interrogation tactics."

"I know everything and everyone that exists within this opera house, mademoiselle," the voice rebuked from the left-hand drapes. "I am not to be trifled with."

"Yeah, I kind of got that, thanks," Kayla snarled, her heart still racing like a runaway train. "Now, am I to be hung, drawn, and quartered or can I go to bed now? I've been up since seven and I'm kind of done with this whole business of being awake."

"Do not mock me," the Opera Ghost snarled right next to her ear.

Kayla shrieked and leapt back. Dark laughter echoed through the box. "If you are attempting to kill me through insanity and fright, trust me, it'll take a lot to freak me out that badly," Kayla squeaked. "My cousin's a Supernatural fan."

"I am not even going to pretend to understand your foolishness," the voice smirked darkly.

"I've seen a lot of horrific stuff, let's leave it at that," Kayla explained grimly.

"Like my face?" the ghost growled from behind her right shoulder, making it feel like the phantom was stalking in a predatory circle around her. Chills ran over Kayla's skin, the sensation crawling

"What? No, you moron, I like your face," Kayla exclaimed incredulously. "Why the hell would I draw something that freaked the hell out of me? It's actually a fact of human nature that we draw and create beautiful things and if makes us actually feel happy, and that we resist making art we hate because it lowers our own self-esteem."

Dead silence.

"Okay, I sounded like a psychologist there, I'm sorry; I'm a visual arts major I swear," Kayla apologized nervously.

The voice replied from in front of her this time. "You speak so eloquently at times, and then follow it up with nonsense," it mused.

"Well, you like music and making operas and composing, right?" Kayla explained. "It probably raises your dopamine levels – happy brain chemicals, to you – and that's why you have so many drawings of Chri…"

"DO NOT SPEAK OF HER!" he yelled angrily, the shout coming directly out of the column. "YOU DO NOT DESERVE THE PRIVILEGE OF SAYING HER NAME!"

I knew it! I knew he was in there! Didn't I tell you he was in there? The gleeful section of her brain yelped triumphantly. Yah, yah, I know, I know; shut up, the annoyed sector replied.

"Woah there bro, calm down," Kayla retorted. Her pulse was still thundering in her neck, but she was more furious than scared now. The Phantom was nothing but a hurt little kid looking for some kind of companionship. He had not killed her yet, and as long as she was careful he probably would not Punjab her. "The entirety of Paris is raving about her performances, thanks to you, and plus I talk to her on a daily basis, which is more than you can claim." That last bit popped out before her brain was able to suitably filter the statement. Her eyes widened involuntarily. "Okay I didn't mean that last bit," she amended, horrified at herself.

"I have been her teacher for years, I understand her far more than you ever will. If you hold her in such high esteem," he taunted scornfully, "why did you help those fools of managers bring back the Italian toad? Don't deny it, I saw her playing the page boy."

"Hey, Carlotta has redeeming qualities, much like yourself," Kayla snarked defiantly. "It's a matter of experience; Carlotta has more performances and a broader collection of solos than Christine does. If they alternate, they both have adequate rest for their voices, opportunities to expand their role repertoire, and both women will keep their fairly extensive fanbases. The Populaire's going to bring in more income if you keep both, and maybe to the point that you could raise your payment requirements. And your one true desire did seem to be that Carlotta play some silent roles… what was it you said? 'The role of the pageboy is silent, which makes my casting at a word ideal'?"

"I would far rather her be expelled from her position and cast out of the Populaire," the Opera Ghost stated, almost dreamily.

Kayla snorted. "And I'd like to find some way to get back to my own universe. Unfortunately, we can't always get what we want."

There was a long, contemplative pause. "I will allow the contract to stand… for now," he declared begrudgingly.

"Good for you. Did you need me for anything else or can I go now?" Kayla sarcastically commented.

"No Mademoiselle Abbots, I've only just begun," the Phantom's voice acknowledged sinisterly. "I have proposition for you, if you will deign to listen."

Author's Note: And there we are! The fastest chapter of this story that I have ever written, and possibly the longest! The Stuart Maclean dialogue was adapted from the CBC's Vinyl Café broadcasts, and Erik's inadvertent psychopath quote was taken from Star Trek Into Darkness, the credit to which goes to J.J. Abrams and the writers.

Some of the cavaliers and ballet rats, Raoul interaction, and Erik action! Let me know in a PM or a review how you think this chapter turned out. And never fear, I won't be leaving you all on a cliff hanger. I'm planning to post another chapter later today, but I have class right now so I'll finish up writing it and post it probably tonight. It won't be as long as this one though. ;)

Thank you to all those who favourited, followed, or reviewed, as well as to Samantha, Guest, and E-man-dy-S. I love you all!

Thanks!

Tierney