Disclaimer: Once again, I don't own anything. Except Meg's diary. By the way, an apology for that bit of shameless self-promotion, but it was just too good an opportunity to pass up . . .
Another hour passed, and Philippe found himself wandering around the back rooms of the Opera House, looking in vain for the managers. This was a problem, as he had no idea what the new managers looked like.
"Excuse me?" He tapped the nearest person on the shoulder, a harmless-looking middle-aged woman dressed in black. "Would you mind telling me -"
The harmless-looking woman whirled around, her eyes flashing. Suddenly, she didn't look so harmless anymore. "Beware, monsieur!" she cried. "The Angel sees; the Angel knows!"
Philippe blinked. "Excuse me, Madame?"
"The Angel!" repeated the woman, sounding slightly vexed. "As in, the Angel of Music – the Opera Ghost – the Phantom of the Opera -"
Philippe suppressed a sigh. The Opera had to employ hundreds of people, and he just had to pick the crazy one. "Sorry," he said, as politely as he could, "never heard of him."
"Oh," said the woman, looking rather disappointed. "My apologies, then. Carry on." Gathering the shreds of her dignity, she marched off down another hallway.
"Wait!" Philippe shouted after her. "Do you know where -" But she was gone.
Philippe walked on, until he saw a pair of doors that seemed vaguely familiar. Taking his chances, he knocked on one, trusting on the de Chagny charm to get him out of trouble should it not turn out to be the correct place.
The door was opened by a rather pretty young girl in a ballet uniform, with bouncy curls, an aggravated expression, and a book tucked under her arm. "Who," she demanded, "are you?"
"I'm sorry," said Philippe apologetically. "I'm the Comte de Chagny, and I seem to have found the wrong -"
He didn't get to finish, though, as the pretty young girl threw the book at his head.
"Ow," said Philippe, picking up the book from the floor.
"Give back my diary," said the girl snappishly. "And if anyone else comes in here thinking that my dressing room is Christine's, they're going to get a lot worse than a book thrown at them. A certain foppish Vicomte, for a start. Oh – and, as I'm presuming you're related to the Vicomte, if you see him, would you tell him to give me back my hairbrush?" She grabbed the book, gave him a venomous glare, and whirled around, slamming the door behind her.
"But I wasn't looking for Chris -" began Philippe, then, seeing it was a hopeless cause, turned around again, rubbing the large bruise on his forehead. So much for the de Chagny charm.
He contemplated the other door for a minute, wondering if it was worth knocking on it. The encounters he had had so far with Opera staff didn't exactly encourage further conversation; still, he did need to find the managers before they committed twenty thousand to buy a new chandelier. Crossing his fingers, he knocked – then, seeing who emerged, cursed himself roundly.
"Oh," said Christine glumly, "it's you." Since it was Christine, the 'oh' went through a two-octave scale. This was a habit that generally made Philippe want to gag her, but this time, he was desperate.
"Look," he said wearily, "I don't like you, and you don't like me. We've established that. I'd like nothing better than that you go off with whatever mysterious fellow Raoul keeps babbling about and leave my brother alone for good – but, right now, if you could direct me to where the managers are, it would be much appreciated."
"Go through the second door on the left, pass through Carlotta's dressing room, make two rights, go up the back staircase, take another right, pass the six dressing rooms on the left, go through the music room, go down the marble staircase and it's the thirteenth door on your right," Christine said promptly. "And never show up at my dressing room again, please. I get into enough trouble with one de Chagny popping by at random intervals, let alone two." The 'two' became a minor fifth, threatening to resolve into an achingly beautiful major sixth.
"So I gathered from your violent friend next door," said Philippe hurriedly, before he really did gag her, and headed off.
Another ten minutes found Philippe entering Carlotta's dressing room. Philippe did know Carlotta, from the days when he was carrying on a brief affair with one of the prima ballerinas; Carlotta had always wanted to accompany them on double-dates with the tenor, Piangi, and the prima ballerina was generally too terrified of her to refuse. It was one of the reasons the relationship had not been a success. Philippe hoped desperately that Carlotta would not be in, but, judging by his luck so far today, did not expect much.
He was not disappointed.
"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!" shrieked Carlotta. Nearby, a crystal glass exploded. "A STRANGE MAN – oh, Comte de Chag-nee, eet ees oo."
"Yes," said Philippe acerbically, rubbing his head with his hand. "Eet ees – I mean, it's me. I'm just cutting through your dressing room on my way to the manager's office, so if you'll excuse me -"
"Ah, but Monsieur le Comte! Oo must remain and 'ave a chat vith me!" cried Carlotta, unconsciously brandishing the shrunken head she held in her hand. Philippe stared at it dubiously, wondering whether that was what had become of Piangi. Carlotta saw the direction of his gaze, and tittered. "Oh, Monsieur le Comte, do not be alarmed – I vas merely re'earsing for my role in ze revival of 'Annibal, after zis farce of a Phantom's opera 'as been played."
"Jolly good," said Philippe drily, without the faintest idea what she was talking about. "Look, I'd love to stay and chat with you, Carlotta, really I would, but I've got pressing business with the managers, so if you'd excuse me -" He tried in vain to slip around her, but Carlotta planted an arm around his shoulders and gave him what was probably meant to be a charming smile. It worked rather less well than the de Chagny charm had on the mad ballet girl earlier.
"Oo cannot mean to go so soon," she said, fluttering her eyelashes, and Philippe knew he was trapped.
It was turning out to be a terrible day.