Author's Note: To Aislin of the Shadows, Alicia Corbinwood, Baffled Seraph, convoitez, ElfLover, enigmatic mystery, galabalesh, Han Futsu, Hikishianara, Jaina Kenobi, Lady Lorax, Lady Viridis, lor, Masked Phantom. MindGame, Moon Avenger, Nade-Naberrie, Pickledishkiller, Ravensmyst, rio, sharaku, and Vix17... your reviews never cease to make my day! Thank you so much.


How to Be an Opera Ghost

Part Nine: "Read"


Isabelle didn't know which worried her more: the fact that she was being kissed, and rather passionately at that, by one Meg Giry – or the fact that she was quite enjoying it. She found herself closing her eyes and leaning into the contact, marveling at the way Meg's lips were so much softer than those of all the young men she'd kissed, and how they were now parted ever so slightly, and...

Her eyes flew open, and she shoved Meg away with a force that would have made the real opera ghost proud. Meg stared. Isabelle stared back.

And then Meg giggled – the high-pitched, obnoxious giggle of a young woman who'd had far too much wine but firmly believed herself to be completely sober.

"What?" said Isabelle, trying her utmost not to let her sudden irritation color her ghost voice.

Meg started slightly at the word, but then burst into a fresh peal of giggles. When she finally spoke, the words all came out in a rush: "I kissed the opera ghost!" And after that, not even the hand that Meg clasped over her mouth could stifle the laughter that shook her body.

Ignoring a sudden inexplicable impulse to bang her head against a very hard surface, Isabelle managed to control herself enough to say in tones of complete indifference, "So you did."

"I kissed the opera ghost!" repeated Meg gleefully, as if saying it more than once might possibly make it even more true. But then she forced herself to calm down a little – at least, enough to speak in somewhat coherent sentences. "I mean, I oughtn't – heehee! – I oughtn't laugh," she said, leaning over the table in order to rummage through her bag for something. "I mean, you're quite good. A good kisser. Oh yes. Christine never mentioned that in her letters. She only said she was the first – oh my! Was she really the first one you ever, ever kissed?" Meg's eyes widened, but she didn't wait for a reply. "That's amazing. Does that make me the second? Hee! That must mean you've a natural – er, a natural talent for it. For kissing. Ohh, kissing. Oh! I kissed the opera ghost! – Oh, here it is!" With this, she withdrew her hand from the bag, holding something between her thumb and forefinger.

Isabelle, whose head was already spinning, felt a pang of dread tighten her shoulders as Meg moved toward her again. This time, she told herself firmly, if Meg tried to kiss her again, she would run for her life.

But instead, Meg offered her something. A piece of paper, folded so many times that it looked like a tiny box in her hand. Isabelle took it fearfully, and Meg darted away. "I wrote that some time ago," she said, the hysteria finally beginning to recede from her voice. "Right after Christine left. I hope you... that is... I hope... just read it, will you?"

And with that, Meg turned and fled the room.

Isabelle blinked. She blinked again. Slowly, making sure that she didn't fall down in the process, she moved toward the door, shut it firmly, and locked it. And then she sat down, taking very deep breaths and letting them slowly out again.

Her heart was beating at an insane pace within her chest, and she shut her eyes and waited for it to slow down a little. When, after a long moment, her breathing finally felt somewhat normal again, she tried to wrap her mind around everything that had just happened.

Meg had found her. Meg had been drunk. Meg had believed her to be Erik. Meg had apparently developed a romantic interest in Erik. Meg had kissed her, thinking she was kissing Erik. Meg had told her she was a good kisser. Meg had been a reasonably good kisser herself.

Isabelle mentally slapped herself for that last thought, but nevertheless she grinned as she turned her attention upon the piece of paper in her hand. What more, she wondered, could Meg possibly have to say than everything she'd already implied with that kiss? Unfolding the paper, Isabelle began to read Meg's remarkably steady handwriting:

Erik,

You and I only know each other from a distance. You know me as the daughter of your concierge, Madame Giry, and as a member of the corps de ballet. I know you as the opera ghost, and as the man who loved Christine Daaé. Christine is a dear friend of mine, and she told me everything that transpired between you. But you needn't worry. I shan't tell a soul.

I don't know how to say this next part properly, for I have no experience in such matters… so I shall just come right out and say it.

I am in love with you.

I know it sounds mad, especially since I've never even met you, but Christine described you in such detail in her letters that I feel as though I do know you. Your dark, tortured beauty. Your musical genius. Your powerful presence. Your fiery passion. She also told me why you insist upon wearing a mask, but I believe that appearances are of no consequence. You have a beautiful soul, Erik, of this I am sure. And no outward imperfection could mar that.

I know that you must be grieving your loss of Christine, and I know it must be difficult to accept that she's gone. But should you ever find in yourself the ability to love again, please know that I await you.

With undying affection,

Meg Giry

At first Isabelle didn't have any idea what her response to such a letter should be.

So she read it again. And by the time she finished, she had developed a very clear idea. A giggle, obnoxious enough to rival even Meg's, escaped Isabelle's lips – followed by another – followed by a full-fledged Maniacal Laugh that she didn't even have to rehearse.

And here she'd been thinking that Christine was the only one of them who was overly melodramatic! But no; in just the past few minutes, phrases like "undying affection" and "beautiful soul" had proven her utterly wrong. Not to mention the bit about "tortured beauty." Isabelle felt that she ought to give Meg some sort of prize for that one.

As Isabelle walked home from the Opéra that night, she grinned happily at her strange predicament, despite being quite aware that by rights she should feel overwhelmed. She hummed to herself as she removed her shawl and set her satchel down on a chair, not even caring that she was probably painfully off-key. She dressed for bed eagerly, already anticipating the next day's rehearsal, when she would get to see how Meg had survived the night.

And as she reached down to fluff her pillow, she saw the note.

Not the note that Meg had given her. No; this was a small card, which lay upon her coverlet near her pillow, and which bore two sentences scrawled in red ink.

I know who you are and what you are doing.

But do not dare to presume to know the same of me.

Isabelle frowned at this. Red ink. Perhaps a poor attempt at making the note look as though it had been written in blood? Unbelievably messy handwriting. An overly enthusiastic attempt to disguise someone's real handwriting? Two simple sentences that bore an uncomfortably menacing undertone. A threat?

Her first guess was Meg Giry, and something within her gave a jolt at the idea. Meg could have known all along that she was not really Erik; she could be attempting blackmail!

But to what end? It made no sense. And besides, how would Meg have gotten the note into her flat?

Her second guess was the real opera ghost. Erik. This possibility made far more sense… but on the other hand, though the words fit, the writing did not. Isabelle felt sure that Erik would have used real blood, not just red ink. And shouldn't his handwriting be elegant and spidery, as befitted a man of such good taste in clothing? The whole thing simply wasn't ghostly enough.

No, she decided. It had to be Meg, playing a silly prank on her. It couldn't possibly be the real ghost.

Could it?