Hello, there! Though I'm writing at a pretty good clip at the moment, I ultimately intend to post updates twice weekly. We'll see how that goes, though.

Thanks again to my last set of reviewers—Eldunari Liduen, Broken-Vow, and belleange48. There was some very kind feedback on the last chapter. Thank you very much!

As Eldunari Liduen guessed, we're going into Box Five for this chapter. Enjoy!

"Shall I accompany the carriage, Miss Farley?" Mr. Carey was somewhere around sixty-five years of age and had served Nora's father before taking charge of her small household. In her younger years, Nora had treated Mr. Carey's word as law. These days, she found him hyper-competent but chose not to pay much heed to his near-constant disapproval. It was usually a silent disapproval, though he frequently offered to 'help' when he found Nora's activities dissatisfying.

"That will not be necessary," she replied. "Don't bother waiting up, either. I'll let myself in."

Mr. Carey merely blinked, though Nora knew he would have rather winced. She offered him a smile.

"Don't worry yourself, Mr. Carey," she said, "I'm rather too old to be causing mischief."

"I am sure you never caused mischief, Miss Farley."

A touching, if misinformed, sentiment. Nora stepped into the beaded evening cape Mr. Carey held open for her and allowed him to escort her to the waiting carriage. "Good evening, Mr. Carey."

He replied with a bland expression and shut the carriage door once Nora was settled in. "I do hope, Miss."

The hollowed wall and pillar of Box Five did not afford Erik the ability to see into the theater, but he could clearly hear all goings-on.

The orchestra was starting to tune.

There was something amazing about that sound. The concertmaster setting the pitch, a hundred-odd instruments falling in line. It could have been a cacophony; it was usually euphony.

How many years since Erik had listened, really listened to it? He had not availed himself of Box Five since Christine's ethereal triumph in Faust, and therefore the simple answer was two years. But perhaps the true answer was quite a bit longer. Ever since La Juive inaugurated the Garnier's stage, it had been Erik's habit to arrive in the middle of the first act. One could hope the orchestra was already in tune by then.

Erik had had every intention of arriving at his usual time. It was actually something of an annoyance when he found himself ready to depart much too early. He had tried to delay, but one could only stand to retie a bowtie so many times before absurdity started to set it.

So he found himself, hidden in the hollow pillar, listening to the orchestra ready itself. When the lights dimmed, he would settle in to one of the plush velvet chairs, and enjoy the performance…

The sound of the box door opening tore Erik's attention away from the orchestra. There was a swish of skirts, and the unmistakable, reedy voice of Jules Giry's widow.

"If I may ask, Madame, are you superstitious?"

"No," was the reply. A woman's voice, cold and rather clipped. It was impossible to say if she was answering in the negative or simply declining to answer at all.

"Ah," Madame Giry intoned, "and were you informed, Madame, that this box is haunted? "

There was a pause and Erik repressed a snicker. Good Madame Giry! The woman said again: "No."

"If you please, Madame, I could try to arrange for alternative seating for you…"

"That will not be necessary, I am sure," the woman said.

"But—"

"I simply wish to be left alone."

Madame Giry snorted in a manner most unbefitting to her station. It brought another smile to Erik. "Good luck, Madame."

"Good evening, Madame," the woman responded.

A rustle of taffeta and the close of the door announced Madame Giry's departure.

He mentally repeated the woman's send-off of the box keeper. Good evening, Madame. Such simple words, but they struck a chord with him. A slight foreign accent, a slight hurried quality… Good evening, Madame…

It came to him suddenly. If the frost in her voice was replaced with fire, and instead she said good morning, Monsieur…

Erik finally did chuckle, very quietly.

The woman with the rosary was going to have quite the story to tell her fellow faithful at Notre Dame tomorrow morning!

Erik remained hidden and silent throughout the first scene. He listened to the box as much as the opera, refamiliarizing himself with the quirks and nuances of the acoustics. The woman was eerily silent, though that was, perhaps, simply because she was alone. Odd, that. What woman came to the opera without an escort? Erik pictured her in her Sunday morning attire—complete with white scarf and abused rosary—sitting in the box, a strange picture of isolation and utter separateness from the rest of the theatergoers. He almost lamented that he was going to disrupt her evening.

Almost.

Rigoletto soon launched into Pari siamo, and Erik took that as his cue. It was not a song he was keen on, for various reasons, but would serve as a fitting background for his triumphant return to Box Five.
Erik threw his voice in the general vicinity of the woman's chair.

"Enjoying the opera?" he asked.

"Yes." She spoke sotto voce, but with the same clipped tone she had used with the box keeper and on Sunday mornings. He would have appreciated a note of surprise in her voice. A pox on Madame Giry's gleeful warning.

"You should know," Erik continued, "that you have commandeered a reserved box…"

"Oh, come back later," she muttered.

That he was not prepared for. "Come back, Madame?"

"I like this song," she said by way of explanation, "you can come back when Gilda has her aria—ah, I forget what it is—"

"Caro nome?" Erik offered, amused in spite of himself.

"Yes, exactly! You can come back then."

"I shall oblige, Madame."

He stayed true to his word, waiting through Rigoletto's duet with his daughter and the declaration of love between Gilda and the Duke. As soon as Gilda first sang the name of Gualtier Maldè, Erik returned his attention to the woman in his box.

"As I said, Madame. This box has been reserved."

"Indeed?" She sounded bored and distracted, obviously paying more attention to the stage than her conversation with a phantom voice. It was almost a shame—she did not seem the type to spread the word of ghostly harassments. If she did, Erik expected them to be offered with an arched brow and possibly mimicry. He pitched his voice lower.

"Indeed."

"And who are you?"

Erik considered this briefly. Ah, if only she knew what she was asking! For the sake of simplicity, he said: "The ghost!"

"The ghost?" She sounded less than credulous.

"The ghost."

"And to what do I owe the honor of chatting with an opera ghost?"

"I would very much appreciate it if you left." He allowed just enough venom to slide into his voice, the smallest warning that there might be consequences.

This was met with silence.

"Why? Would it kill you to share your box?" She made a sound somewhere between and cough and laugh. "Oh dear, that is the most foolish thing I've said this week…"

Erik did not reply for a moment. The 'special guest' soprano, a young Portuguese girl, was actually quite good. Her voice was wonderfully agile, if a bit small for so grand a stage. He dropped his voice to a low whisper and situated it very near to the woman's ear.

"Please leave, Madame. "

"In my very thoughts now, are you?" she asked, equally softly. Her voice would have been lost against the music, had Erik not been listening for it so intently.

"I will not ask again. "

She said nothing. Erik leaned his masked forehead against the inner wall as the aria finished. Yes, the soprano was quite good, hitting all of the right notes at the right moments. Would that her voice carried a bit better…

Nora was not so foolish as to believe she was going to be left alone for the remainder of Rigoletto. The voice was silent for what little was left of Act One. It did not speak to her through the intermission, though she remained seated and alone.

Whatever form she had expected the voice's return to come in, it was not the chatter that started up in her box the moment the curtain rose on the second act.

It was the sound of a dozen— no, a hundred— low voices, whispering behind her chair. It was a terrible noise, one that she could not pinpoint the origin of, and it was growing.

Until that moment, the idea that the voice was truly supernatural had not occurred to her. But what single, mortal man could create such a riot of noise? It gained in volume, until the patrons in neighboring boxes started to make shushing sounds.

A voice, higher and crueler than the voice, spoke in her ear, "shan't you leave now? It is about to become so frightfully loud!"

She remained in her chair, as if frozen. As the din continued to grow, theatergoers from all sections started murmuring and glancing in the direction of Box Five. Nora kept her own gaze fixed on the stage, which was more than she could say for the tenor playing the Duke. His eyes traveled upwards more than once.

So much for Nora's solitary evening out.

There was a firm knock on the door, and the voices ceased. The odd old box keeper came to stand directly behind Nora. "Won't you allow us to move you to a more suitable seat, Madame?" There was a note of smugness in the old woman's voice that nearly drove Nora to violence.

"Shall I be alone?" Nora growled.

"The party in Box Two was called away during the intermission," the box keeper said. "It is entirely at your disposal."

Stand your ground, the stubborn part of Nora protested. They shan't scare you away like a superstitious school girl!

You said you wanted to be alone, another voice countered, And you are hardly alone here in Box Five!

"Very well." Nora stood and allowed herself to be directed—herded—out. The moment before she crossed into the hallway, the voice came to speak on her shoulder again.

"It was simply most unfortunate timing, Madame. "

"Most," Nora agreed, earning a strange look from the box keeper and the suggestion of laughter in her ear.

My Dear Uncle,

It appears that M. Richard's prediction was accurate. After sending you my last letter concerning 'O.G.,' the shade has reappeared in the Opera house. He disrupted the second act of Rigoletto, though he was appeased when Box Five was vacated.

Equally disconcerting, a letter was on my desk this morning, written in the same red ink and awkward penmanship as the fifth clause. It demanded the full salary of 20,000 francs be paid in two weeks' time!

Per your instructions, I intend on giving the fiend his requested sum. But is this really necessary? Is there no way to fight it? I cannot imagine a resident ghost will be good for business!

Your Nephew,
Didier Moncharmin