Author's Note: To Aislin of the Shadows, Alicia Corbinwood, Baffled Seraph, convoitez, ElfLover, galabalesh, Han Futso, Hikishianara, Jaina Kenobi, Lady Lorax, Lady Viridis, lor, Masked Phantom. MindGame, Moon Avenger, Nade-Naberrie, Pickledishkiller, Ravensmyst, rio, sharaku, and Vix17... thank you all so much for your support! Your reviews make me grin like an idiot and, more than that, make me want to keep writing. So, thanks for your inspiration.


How to Be an Opera Ghost

Part Eight: "Kiss"


Isabelle's heart raced. This was the first time in her short career as a ghost that she'd found herself this close to anyone – and it was someone that she knew. She searched Meg's eyes for a hint of recognition, but saw none. Not yet, anyway. She had the mask to disguise nearly her entire face, save her lips and a portion of her jaw... but what would happen if she spoke? Certainly, she'd practiced the ghost voice until she thought it perfect – but she'd always done it when she was calm and focused. She didn't know how her current frayed nerves would affect her performance.

So she didn't speak. She would refrain from speaking for as long as she could, which would give her enough time to compose herself – and which would also give Meg an impression of mysteriousness. Hopefully.

Instead of replying to Meg's question with words, she gave a simple inclination of her head. Yes, damn it, she was Erik.

"Ohh," breathed Meg, reaching for the doorframe in order to support herself.

Isabelle stood aside in what she hoped was a gentlemanly fashion, indicating with a gesture of her hand that it was safe for Meg to enter the room. This way, Meg could get on with whatever business she had, and Isabelle could safely disappear until the dressing-room was clear again.

Meg blinked nervously a few times, and then slowly began to inch past Isabelle and into the room, all the while making a visible effort to keep as much distance as possible between herself and the ghost. Slinking over to her corner of the room, Meg seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Isabelle did too, although she hoped it wasn't as obvious. She gave Meg a departing bow and headed for the door. Only a few more steps, and she was home free.

But...

"Got to hide this from Maman," Meg mumbled.

Isabelle stopped dead in her tracks, despite her every instinct telling her to run like hell. Not only had Meg clearly been drinking, but she was worried about her mother finding out? This was interesting – even more interesting than usual since, as the ghost, Isabelle might very well come across an opportunity to use such information to her advantage….

She turned back and looked at Meg, who was now carefully hiding the bottle of wine beneath one of her costumes, which lay rumpled on the dressing-table.

It may have been that Meg sensed someone watching her, or it may have just been coincidental timing (Isabelle preferred to think it was the former), but she turned around, looking sheepishly at Isabelle. "You won't... er, won't tell her... will you?" said Meg, her normally quiet voice made uneven and awkward by the alcohol.

Isabelle cocked her head to one side, smiling faintly behind the mask, and Meg continued: "I know you, er, speak to her. Sometimes. In your box. And I only... oh dear." Meg blinked, as if trying to get her mind on track again. "It was just this once and…"

Meg trailed off, looking utterly lost.

And without even meaning to, Isabelle presented her with a Sinister Chuckle, at which Meg flinched. And then Meg frowned. And then Meg looked intently at Isabelle, as if studying her...

Inwardly cursing herself for opening her mouth, Isabelle remained as still as a statue, waiting for the inevitable moment of recognition.

It only took a moment.

"I know you're not really a ghost," said Meg.

Isabelle's shoulders drooped. She had been found out. And the only thing that had put it off this long was the wine. Surely, had Meg been in her right mind, she would have spotted the imposter as soon as she opened the door. Isabelle opened her mouth to speak – to apologize, perhaps? To beg for secrecy? But—

"Christine told me," Meg said slyly.

Isabelle blinked. Ah. This was different.

Leaning forward with a rather stupid grin, Meg continued in halting tones, "Christine said you loved – loved her. And you're just a man. And not a ghost. So you – do not – frighten me."

Isabelle did not have any idea what to say to this, and so she said nothing. Instead she opted for another nod of her head, hoping to convey to Meg that she didn't care. But would Erik care? she wondered frantically. Would he be angry at Meg's bold statement? Would he punish her somehow? Would he have left already...?

And for Meg's part, would she have ever dared, had she been sober, to say such things to a man she knew to be dangerous?

Unfortunately, Isabelle had answers to none of these questions.

"Although," said Meg, her voice growing somewhat steadier, "she did say so. That you were frightening, I mean. And also mysterious. And alluring. And..."

Whatever Meg said next was lost beneath the sound of every nerve in Isabelle's body screaming at her to bolt for the door. But she couldn't move. She could barely breath. This was much more trouble than she'd been expecting.

And Meg, unsteady on her alcohol-heavy feet, was moving closer to her.

A hand reached for Isabelle's masked face, but she managed to block it, grabbing Meg's thin wrist in her own gloved hand. Mustering up all the courage she possibly could, she finally spoke:

"Don't. You. Dare."

Her voice came out in a hissed whisper, just low enough to be mistaken for masculine and just quiet enough to be mistaken for ghostly. Meg, clearly taken aback by the sudden words, pulled her hand sharply out of Isabelle's grasp and stared.

But after a moment, a grin began to spread across Meg's face. "Christine told me about that too," she said. "The mask."

Isabelle was on the verge of panicking. Surely Erik would never tolerate this! He was dangerous! He had killed! He could kill again! Do something! Isabelle silently screamed at herself. Do anything!

But do what? It wasn't as thought she could simply kill Meg Giry for her impudence. She didn't even want to kill her. So she stood there, frozen stiff and rooted to the spot, as Meg spoke again in a voice that was almost a whisper: "But you don't have to worry. I won't tell anyone."

Meg leaned forward, closer and closer – and only when it was too late did Isabelle realize the other girl's intent.

Meg's lips pressed against hers with a force that nearly knocked her over backwards.

Oh, thought Isabelle. Oh, shit.