Once she began working, she started to think about her talk with Marc less and less. It was still lurking there, however, and while she did managed to look past it and see that Marc was still a very caring person, it made her nervous.

She had to overlook it, though, in order to play her part both on stage and off. The opera was performing La Boehme, and the dancers, for some reason, were dancing around the singers. Marc had to dance around Charlotte, and she sang her little chorus part to him like he was her lover. Whenever someone is so intimate like that, even if it is only on stage, you have to be comfortable around them. Besides, Marc was very likable, and it was how he was raised. He doesn't know any better. Does he?"

"Alright." Marc was coming up behind her. "Now, let's see, I know you're not a dancer, but if you just lean to the–yes, like that, then I go–yes, like this, how does this look?"

"It looks lovely, M Laurent. You and Mlle DuBois have lovely chemistry." Madame Bouville was sitting in the audience, supervising. "Mlle DuBois, move slightly more to the left." Charlotte did so. "Perfect. You all should look lovely at the opening next week."

Meanwhile, in the main office, Firmin Richard was pacing nervously, waiting for his partner to arrive. He had terrible news, and he hadn't even opened the envelope yet.

Armand Moncharmin rushed in. "So sorry I'm late, Firmin. You know how it is, in the morning, after a long night of trying to win over the patrons. You do not know how much alcohol our patrons can consume in a night." He leaned over his desk and massaged his head. Then he looked up at Firmin as if he had just seen him. "What's wrong Firmin? You look as though you have just seen a ghost!"

"Perhaps I have." He dropped the envelope onto Armand's desk.

"No! But he was dead!"

"Apparently not. But he had us fooled, my dear friend, for ten years."

"Let's just see what he wants this time." Armand reached for the letter, covered with unmistakable handwriting in blood red ink. The handwriting resembled "match heads dipped in ink" and was the unmistakable trademark of the-

"Opera ghost, opera ghost, opera ghost," Firmin sighed as if the Phantom of the Opera were a small child who had been naughty. "Read it, Armand."

Armand cleared his throat and began.

"My dear Sirs,

I write to you after a long absence of ten years. Contrary to popular belief, I am not, and never have been, dead. Dead to the compassion of the world, perhaps, but living on this earth, though at many times I wish I weren't. However, during these ten years when I did not demand my salary, and let your foolish workings go about in peace, I was writing an opera. That opera is now completed. I want one female from your chorus whom I can tutor to play the main role in this complex and difficult piece, Don Juan Triumphant. I do not care how you choose her, random selection, the one you like least, most, however, I can promise you that I can make her her a star. Choose wisely, good monsieurs, and send me a note telling me whom you have selected, and I will send you more information.

Until We Meet Again,

O.G."

"Oh no! No!" Firmin nearly shouted.

"Hush!" Armand hissed. "Do you want them to hear you talking about him? You'll scare all the chorus girls and the dancers."

"So what will we do?"

"Well, we can't send him the best, we need our main soprano. If she gets kidnaped then what will become of us and our opera?!"

"True. True. The worst?"

"No, we can't send him the worst soprano. If she suddenly rises to stardom, then it will seem unbelievable, and make us look like bad teachers."

"Then what do you propose we do?"

"May I have a hat?" The costume designer had been in with the newest bunch of hats. She must have left one by accident. Armand reached over and picked it up. "Go on, write the names of all our women singers."

"I'm one step ahead of you." Firmin Richard was scribbling the names of all the female singers onto small scraps of paper and folding them. He dropped them into the hat, which Moncharmin in turn, folded up, shook, and opened up.

"Close your eyes and reach in your hand, Firmin, it all rests on you know."

"Why must it rest on me?" Richard moaned, but it was more of thinking out loud than complaining.

"Hush Firmin! Just pick already!"

"Fine! Fine!" He finally pulled one out and opened up the small sheet of paper. "Now, let's see whose life will be changed forever..."

"Enough with the drama Firmin! You are taking years off my life with this suspense!"

"A-ha!"

"A-ha?! We have a soprano named A-ha?!"

"No. It's not even a soprano at all."

"It isn't? Oh, forget who it isn't. Just tell me who it is!"

"A Mlle Charlotte DuBois."

"A-ha!"

"So you see?"

"I see exactly. He won't have an soprano this time. He'll have an alto. Which means,"

"If she is kidnaped, it won't be as important!"

"Exactly!"

"Well, we best go send for her." Armand stood up. "We'll let them break for an hour and then we'll call her down. Might as well write a note to the Opera Ghost, Firmin, while I'm gone."

"Great. Just lovely. What am I supposed to say? 'Ha! We're sending you the alto instead!'?"

"No, just fill in her name, age, and let him find the alto part out for himself."

"Is that wise?"

"I don't know. Just please do it, Firmin. My head aches terribly." And Moncharmin walked out before another word could be spoken.

"Who is this Opera Ghost?" Charlotte stood out in the hall with Armand Moncharmin. "And what does he want with me?" Suddenly realizing she was talking one of the managers, she hastily added, "Monsieur Moncharmin."

"The Opera Ghost, Mlle," Armand said, feeling lucky to find someone who didn't know about the secrets of the Opera Ghost, "is quite the musical genius. You are quite lucky to have him tutor you. He wanted someone to help become a star, and we chose you." Ok, so he WAS a serial murderer, and Charlotte wasn't chosen SPECIALLY, but he didn't want to scare the girl. "Now, Firmin has sent out a letter to him, and we will tell you when he replies. Have a nice rest of the day!" And Moncharmin went away, crisis avoided.

"We have another letter." Richard tapped the envelope sitting in front of him.

"Well, let's see it then." Moncharmin picked it up and ripped it open.

"Dear Firmin and Armand,

How lovely that you chose to follow my orders. I await the alto, 21 year old, Mlle Charlotte DuBois. In order to send her to me, to- morrow, I would like her to be taken by Meg Giry to my old box, box five, if you are forgetful, and leave her there. I will take care of things from there. And, messieurs, if, for any chance, she resists or is nervous, give her half the contents of this bottle. They should relax her enough so that there will be no problems. I eagerly await to-morrow and the arrival of my new pupil.

Fondest regards,

O.G.

P.S. As clever as your plan to foil me was, good monsieurs, an alto is perfectly all right. I have not had good experiences with sopranos, and perhaps an alto is exactly what I need."

"How did he know?" Armand was puzzling over it.

"What bottle?" Firmin reached for the envelope, and a small, curiously flat glass bottle fell out. "Oh." He unscrewed the cap and smelt it. "How odd, odorless, colorless, it looks just like water."

"Do you think maybe it is?"

"I doubt it. Why would our dear friend send us just water?"

"It's probably some sort of poison. I wouldn't touch it if I were you."

"But should we give it to her?"

"I suppose. It's what he wants, isn't it? We'll see tomorrow."

The managers didn't get much sleep that night, understandably. However, they did manage to make it to the opera house early, giving them extra time to sort out their troubles.

"Do we give it to her, or do we not give it to her?" Moncharmin swirled the liquid around in the bottle. "I mean, what if it is poison?"

"I really doubt he would send us poison." Richard took a long look at the contents of the bottle. "He said he would make her a star. How could she be a star if she's dead?"

"I guess that's true." At that moment, there was a knock on the door. "Oh! She's here! What do we do? How do we give it to her?"

"Well, it says that if she's nervous to give her half a bottle."

"I would be more that nervous." Moncharmin poured a glass of water half full. "Might as well give her all of it." And he poured the entire bottle into the glass. "Send her in."

Firmin Richard opened the door. "Mlle DuBois?"

Charlotte looked hopeful. "So, am I meeting him here?"

"Well no, we're just going to explain how this is all going to work. A glass of water, Mlle?"

"That would be lovely." Charlotte took the glass and took a big sip. It was very good water. "So, how IS it all going to work?"

"Well, basically, we're going to take you to box five and he will pick you up there."

"Really? How peculiar."

"Well, most geniuses are a little eccentric, Mlle."

Charlotte smiled. "I suppose that's true." She took another swallow. The glass was about half empty by now. "What should I call him? Monsieur Opera Ghost sounds a little, erm, odd."

"I'm sure he'll tell you what to call him when you get there."

"When do I leave?"

"Oh, as soon as Mlle Giry arrives. Please, though, relax, and finish your water."

Charlotte did as she was told. In fact, she wondered if she was a little too relaxed. Her head felt light and the room seemed to be spinning slightly. Perhaps she was just nervous, she told herself, it would pass. There was another knock on the door, but it seemed muffled, somehow.

"That must be Mlle Giry." Moncharmin stood up to get the door.

"Mlle DuBois, are you alright? You look pale." Richard looked into her face.

"No, no, I'm fine. Fine." But her voice was weak.

"Charlotte?" Meg Giry was a dancer. She had been working at the Opera for a long time, and she was quite good. "Charlotte, are you ready to go?" She seemed concerned.

"Oh, yes." Charlotte tried to stand up, but found she couldn't. Armand Moncharmin walked over and helped her up. The moment she stood, she felt as though the room had been turned upside down and almost fell.

"Easy there."

"Is she alright?" Meg Giry looked terribly nervous, was she nervous? Her face was now too blurry for Charlotte to see correctly.

"She's fine, aren't you Charlotte."

"Oh, I'm just a little nervous. It will pass."

"Of course it will. Mlle Giry, if you could just take Mlle DuBois' arm, like so, yes, lovely. Now, can you take her to box five?"

Meg jumped. "Is that wise, Monsieur?" She knew she had to take the girl somewhere, but box five? The private box of the Opera Ghost? She wasn't sure if she wanted to go there.

"It is what he wished, Mlle. And he specially requested you to take her there. I suppose he wants you to follow in the footsteps of your mother." Meg's face fell, but Charlotte was too busy concentrating on making the room stay still to notice. "Anyway, I'm sure he is anxious to meet Charlotte. Hurry along, you two."

Meg nodded and helped Charlotte out the door. "Are you sure you are alright, Charlotte?"

"Honestly, I r-r-really don't knoooow." Charlotte was slurring words and her speech was slowing.

"Mon Dieu! What did they do to you?"

"They o-o-nly gaaave me w-w-wa–."

"Water? I don't think that was water, Charlotte, frankly." Charlotte had nearly collapsed into Meg's arms, and Meg was glad there weren't many stairs left.

"P-p-prob– no–" Charlotte was trying to support herself, really she was, but she was so tired, and the room was past spinning. It was now just a moving blur.

"We're almost there. Just hang on." Charlotte couldn't even see Meg anymore. She just felt something warm holding her up. Charlotte tried to speak.

"I don– mean t-t-t be a bu-bu-burd–"

"You aren't a burden. You were tricked, Charlotte. Fooled. Alright now, we're here. I'll just put you on this chair here."

"Su-u-r–" Charlotte felt herself being laid down across something.

"I'm leaving now, but someone will be back to collect you."

"G-b-y–" And with those words, Charlotte blacked out.

A/N: Ooh, la cliffe! La cliffe! Anyway, read and review, por favor.