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How to Be an Opera Ghost
Part Thirteen: "Deceive"
He did not answer her, and his statuelike stillness made Isabelle feel distinctly uncomfortable in his presence. Willing herself to stand her ground, she fished for more words: "At least… I don't think you were. Er. Were you?"
At this, he laughed: a light, lilting sound that nevertheless caused a shiver to tickle Isabelle's shoulders. That laugh! It was so very like her own Sinister Chuckle, but at the same time so far beyond anything she could ever hope to produce with her own vocal cords. She felt herself redden at the thought, and for a fleeting moment she was very glad that she was wearing a mask.
"I find it tiresome to have to repeat myself," he said. "Have I not made it clear that the ghost will not haunt this theatre anymore?"
"No!" replied Isabelle hotly. "You said the ghost will not haunt tonight. Last night, I mean. You didn't say anything about tonight, or tomorrow, or anything except last night."
But even as the words came out of her mouth, Isabelle knew that her answer was the wrong one. She'd taken the phrase as literally as possible, out of stubbornness or foolishness – but she'd known what he meant. And judging from the feral smile that now curved his lips beneath the mask, he knew it too.
"You will not haunt tonight, mademoiselle. Or tomorrow night. Or any other night hereafter."
The words were spoken in a tone that allowed for and expected no argument, but such was Isabelle's nature that she couldn't help it. "Or else?" she challenged.
"Or else."
The simplistic finality of that echoed phrase would have sounded laughably melodramatic had it been uttered in any other voice but his; but there was nothing laughable about those two words. He didn't even need to say anything more. She knew how that "or else" ended. She frowned.
"But why?" she asked, and was horrified when the words sounded like the whine of a small child.
The ghost, however, chose neither to acknowledge her tone nor to answer her question. Instead he said, "I advise you to heed my warning. I rarely give them." An ironic smile twisted his lips, and he added, "In that respect, you may consider yourself fortunate."
"I understand," said Isabelle darkly. "It's because I'm a girl, right? I can't haunt properly because I'm a girl. I get a warning when other people don't, because I'm a girl. Is that it, Erik?"
The sound of his name had its desired effect on him; he flinched almost imperceptibly, as though her knowledge of his identity had somehow wounded him – but he recovered within a split second, all traces of humor now entirely gone from his austere figure. "Would you rather I didn't give you a warning?" he asked silkily.
"Well, no, but why can't I—?"
"My reasons," he said abruptly, "are my own."
He turned on his heel and stalked silently away.
The next time Isabelle blinked, he had disappeared.
She gaped into the empty air, and it was only when she heard faint footsteps moving slowly in her direction, that she recovered her senses enough to retreat back to her closet.
o o o
When the dancers' rehearsal began the next day, Isabelle was in a foul mood. She had returned the night before to her flat, thoroughly shaken by her face-to-face (or mask-to-mask, rather) encounter with the opera ghost, but in her stubbornness she still refused to admit to herself that it was fear she felt. Certainly, she felt something in response to Erik's tacit threat, but she made herself believe that it was only indignation and anger.
Indignation, of course, at being threatened in the first place.
And anger at the fact that he'd refused to tell her why he didn't want her to haunt the Opéra.
As she moved mechanically through rehearsal, still dwelling on the events of the night before, it occurred to her that he might not have a reason at all. Perhaps he simply wished to thwart her adventures for his own amusement; perhaps it gave him some strange satisfaction to see her bored to death within a company that was slowly losing interest in his existence.
Or perhaps she simply wasn't a good enough ghost. This thought, which occurred to her as the dancers dispersed for lunch, worsened her already black mood; and instead of joining her fellow dancers as she normally did, Isabelle took her lunch to a far corner of the theatre. Slumping sullenly into her seat as she ate, she immersed herself in thoughts of her own failure and frowned at nobody in particular.
"Can I sit here?"
The voice, light and timid, made Isabelle jump as it cut into her thoughts. She was about to tell the owner of the voice to leave her alone, damn it – but before she could, she looked up and saw that the owner was none other than Meg Giry, whom she'd haunted the night before.
"Oh," said Isabelle awkwardly. "Yes, of course."
Meg plopped unceremoniously into the seat beside Isabelle's. She unwrapped a small sandwich, took a small bite, and swallowed, not noticing that Isabelle had stopped eating in order to watch her.
"So," said Meg after a moment, "what's the matter with you? You've been acting oddly all morning."
Isabelle shrugged, suddenly embarrassed by her unfriendly attitude. "It's nothing. I just had a bad night. Nothing."
Meg patted Isabelle's knee in a friendly manner, which inexplicably caused Isabelle's shoulders to tighten. "Come now, you can tell me. I told you my secret about the ghost, didn't I?"
Meeting Meg's devilish smile with one of her own, Isabelle laughed a little. "Indeed you did," she conceded, and shrugged again. "It was… well, it was a man, if you must know. I was trying to visit a friend at her flat, but before I got there a man approached me. He told me to stay away from the place, or else."
"Or else?" repeated Meg, furrowing her brow. "Or else what?"
"Just 'or else,'" said Isabelle. "You can guess what he meant."
"Oh," said Meg. "That must have been horrible! What did you do?"
"Nothing!" said Isabelle. "Before I could do anything, he disappeared. Right into thin air. And I went home. I never did get to see y— my friend."
"How strange," murmured Meg. Isabelle nodded, but kept silent when she saw a strange look come over Meg's face. "The opera ghost does that too, you know," said Meg dreamily. "Disappears into thin air. That's what he did after we kissed."
"Did he?" said Isabelle, who knew very well that she'd done no such thing.
"Yes," said Meg, and took another bite of her sandwich.
Suddenly, a wonderful idea popped into Isabelle's mind; and Meg, so wrapped up in her private thoughts of the ghost, didn't notice her eyes widen at the thought. Isabelle's goal had been to revive the ghost within the company, had it not? And although becoming the ghost herself had clearly been the best way to do this, it was not the only way.
After all, only one mouth and one ear are needed to call a rumor into being.
"I've seen the ghost too, you know," said Isabelle casually. "I saw him last night."
Meg's sandwich fell to the floor, but she didn't appear to notice. "You did?" she whispered fervently, leaning closer to Isabelle.
Isabelle nodded, resisting the urge to dance for joy. "I did – but look, Madame wants us back on stage. Meet me after we're finished tonight, and I'll tell you all about it."
Meg nodded fervently, grinning like a madwoman. Isabelle grinned too, but for entirely different reasons.
