Author's Note: To Aislin of the Shadows, Alicia Corbinwood, Baffled Seraph, convoitez, ElfLover, enigmatic mystery, galabalesh, Han Futsu Anti Normal, Hikishianara, Jaina Kenobi, Lady Lorax, Lady Viridis, LejindaryBunny, lor, Masked Phantom. MindGame, Moon Avenger, Nade-Naberrie, Pickledishkiller, Ravensmyst, rio, sharaku, StitchGrl, and Vix17... your reviews make me go squee! Thank you!
How to Be an Opera Ghost
Part Ten: "Deduce"
By the time Isabelle left for rehearsal the next day, she had decided quite firmly that the author of the note had been Meg. She didn't know why Meg had done it, or moreover how she'd gotten the note into Isabelle's flat – in fact, there were quite a few things that she didn't know. But the one thing that was very clear indeed was that Meg must be proven guilty. And if Isabelle accomplished nothing else that day, she needed at very least to set her mind at ease where the note was concerned.
In her nervousness, Isabelle found herself walking to the Opéra faster than she normally would; consequently, she was one of the first to arrive. She took a few calming breaths as she reached the dressing-room, telling herself that she had absolutely no reason to be this nervous, and for the next few minutes she actually believed this to be true.
The dancers filtered in, for the most part looking content and well-rested. They exchanged the usual pleasantries as they changed into their rehearsal clothes, coupled with excited tales of the exploits they'd had on their unexpected day off. For Isabelle's part, she claimed to have gone home and read a book.
"I went to the café for a drink," said Anne St. Fort, to the surprise of absolutely no-one. Where Anne was concerned, wine flowed as easily as water, and everyone knew that she'd been a regular patron of the café in question (a little place about five minutes from the Opéra) for at least a year.
Isabelle was about to inquire after Jacques, a certain waiter to whom Anne had recently taken a fancy, when Cécile Jammes added cheerfully, "We had a ladies' night out, and spent the entire evening lamenting our horrible luck in love. Well" – and here she allowed herself a little smirk – "their horrible luck. I was just in it for the wine."
"Speaking of which," said Anne with a frown, "where's Meg? She's not usually late."
"Oh dear," said Elise Marchand. "Don't tell me she went with you? She becomes completely incoherent after one glass..."
"That explains a lot," said Cécile with a grimace. "She had three last night. And she took the bottle home with her."
"Wonder if we'll see her at all today?" said Isabelle, stifling a laugh. The girls shrugged as they filed out the door, their pointe shoes clicking against the floor of the corridor.
Because of the missed rehearsal on the previous day, Madame wasted no time in getting them to work. They spent three hours perfecting a five-minute segment of a routine, before they were allowed to break for lunch. And only then, as the exhausted troupe of girls collectively collapsed onto the floor and pulled out their sandwiches and salads, did Meg Giry arrive.
And Isabelle's nervousness returned full force.
The girls looked at her with hungry eyes, ready to bombard her with questions, but Meg brushed them off with a wan smile. "I was just a bit sick this morning," she explained wearily. "I have to go tell Madame I'm here."
Evidently Madame was in a very forgiving mood (very likely because of her own minor illness on the previous day), because she allowed Meg to sit and watch the rehearsal for the rest of the afternoon, so long as she paid close attention and memorized the movements. Meg was, after all, the leader of her row. It wouldn't do for her to look sloppy.
Only when the rehearsal finally drew to a close did Isabelle get the opportunity to speak with Meg. Meg hadn't changed into her dance clothes and was therefore heading out the door without stopping in the dressing-room first, but Isabelle cornered her before she could leave the building.
"Are you all right?" asked Isabelle, fighting hard both to sound genuinely concerned, and to suppress the fluttery feeling in her stomach.
"I'm fine," Meg replied in a tone far flatter than she'd used on the previous night. "I just need to sleep. I'm sure Anne and Cécile have told everyone just why I was sick?"
Isabelle grinned. "Of course. You know Cécile wouldn't have let such delicious gossip go to waste."
Meg laughed softly at that. Cécile Jammes was quite infamous among the corps de ballet for telling stories, both true and otherwise.
"So," Isabelle said, casting about for a plausible reason to continue the conversation, "is that all? Just a few glasses of wine?"
Meg shrugged – a bit uncomfortably, Isabelle noted with satisfaction. "That's all," Meg said. "I'm afraid I haven't much experience with wine."
And she frowned. Isabelle watched her face eagerly, willing her to speak, and after a moment Meg looked up with wary eyes. "There was something else," she said quietly.
Isabelle's heart leaped into her chest. "What else?" she said, trying not to sound too eager.
"Can you keep a secret?" whispered Meg.
"Of course," said Isabelle, and silently added, Even though you obviously can't.
Meg leaned closer, and for the first time that day Isabelle sensed some of the previous night's melodramatics seeping back into Meg's demeanor.
"I kissed someone," she said breathlessly.
"Ah!" said Isabelle. "Who? I didn't know you were seeing anyone."
"I'm not," said Meg quickly, then amended the statement. "I mean, I wasn't... and I suppose I'm still not, but..."
"This sounds a bit scandalous," Isabelle offered, affecting the attitude of the gossip-hungry chorus girl that she usually was. "Tell me who, and I promise I won't tell a soul."
"Really promise?" said Meg.
"Really," said Isabelle, crossing her heart to emphasize the point.
Meg lowered her voice as much as she possibly could while still remaining audible. "I kissed the opera ghost!" she said, grinning wildly.
Isabelle dropped her jaw as if in astonishment. "No!" she said.
"Yes!" squealed Meg, then promptly lowered her voice again. "He was tall and thin and he wore a mask so I couldn't see his face, but he kissed me so passionately, and he was so handsome."
I am not handsome, thought Isabelle indignantly. I am pretty, damn it.
But she hid her thoughts with expert grace, and outwardly she only sighed. "Masked and handsome, was he?" she said. "Lucky…."
"I know," said Meg with a sigh of her own. "Oh! Someone's coming. I should go. Don't tell anyone!"
With those final words, Meg turned and made an appropriately dramatic exit from the Opéra.
A crudely-dressed young man – probably a stagehand – passed Isabelle with a polite nod, and Isabelle waited until he was gone before she frowned to herself. Handsome? Hadn't Meg read any of Christine's letters? Erik's face was supposedly a sight that made men scream and women faint.
But even more important was the still-unresolved question of the note. It was obvious now that Meg hadn't sent it. So who had?
"Handsome indeed," Isabelle muttered to herself, hoping that the sound of her own voice would put her at ease a little.
It did, but only for a moment, for the words had barely left her mouth before an echo reached her ears. "Indeed," it said.
Isabelle felt herself pale. An echo that changed the inflection of that which it was echoing? An echo of a mere whisper, in a place where there oughtn't be an echo to begin with?
Her mind immediately recalled the mysterious note of the night before. "Do not dare to presume to know the same of me," it had said. Do not dare to presume to know who he was, it meant. Or what he was doing in the Opéra.
But while she didn't know what he was doing, either at present or in the more general, long-term sense of the phrase... she did know who he was. She no longer harbored any doubts whatsoever as to who had written the note.
Isabelle ran back to the dressing-room without a backward glance.
