I didn't want to start begging, but here I go… Please remember that I do cherish every single review I get! I would love to hear from all of you reading and enjoy, or disliking. And if you are disliking, tell me why and I will fix it! I am completely amenable to constructive criticism.

Thank you to all the reviewers thus far!

Note that there will be a Bal Masque in this story, like Mandy's, but it's just that time of the year in both our stories.

Read the last chapter if you missed it!

Anyway, on with the show, and as always… ENJOY!

Words to know:

Branleuse- insignificant or stupid person

Spanish man in here, speaking broken English. If the grammar is wrong, it is on purpose.

Señorita- Miss

La Fantasma- do I really need to translate?

España- Spain

Compadres- friends

Muy pocito- very little

Su primo- your cousin

Chapter 8- Why So Silent

Oh how he hated to be kept waiting. He hated people who made plans and promises, never to keep them. Like the woman manager not deigning to show up on Monday morning… or the entire day for that manner.

Did she not believe this Opera to be an important undertaking that her brother had laid in her hands? She should have been there to direct the contractors. After all, if he was her, he would have been there every single day, making sure everything possible was getting done to hasten the reopening of the Opera. But he knew he was not like anyone else in his pure love for and dependence on music, and this woman was probably out gallivanting at some country estate, taking tea with womenfolk, gossiping about the most inane things known to humankind. He loathed society women, the weak, dim-witted branleuse that they were. This Opera should have been her top priority, not working to keep her spot in society.

The all too familiar feelings of his hopes being dashed invaded his senses- the ones he had made upon first seeing her and hearing her views on how to make this Opera better. She did not show as much care in it right away as he thought she would, even if she was detained for other serious reasons. Really, he had been preparing for someone who could finally make this Opera all he had ever dreamed it could be… someplace that he could be proud of once again. But she, like everyone else he had ever known, had only cemented his belief that everyone took their good fortunes for granted, especially when they did not have to thrive off the happenings of the Opera and the music created in it. The was the only way he could communicate with people, and the only way he had ever been able to talk Christine down into his subterranean lair. It was his domain and he wanted everything to be as perfect as it could possibly be.

But it would never be so perfect because his dear Christine would not be there to sing for him. His soul… the one woman he had given his soul to through his music… would never return.

He often wondered how he even had hope for anything good and held any faith in his blackened heart anymore… there was no purpose to it… not for a man born of the Devil like himself.

Or had he scared her away with the letter? Had he scared her away like Christine?

He chuckled. Constance did not seem to be like the type, from her letter back to him, to run away from his nicely put demands, even if she believed in the horrible stories of the Opera Ghost.

Erik sighed heavily to himself for what seemed like the one millionth time, and shook his head, to try to stop his thoughts. Straightening body from his hunched position at the organ, the tiny pops from his vertebrae that followed found his ears as the bones aligned along his spinal column. He had meant to sit down to compose something when he woke that morning, to take his mind away from his anger of being stood up by the, as of yet, strange woman, and also from the deep-seeded anguish of losing Christine that had happened a considerable time ago, but still remained so fresh in his head. What he had ended up doing instead of composing anything (not even one note), however, was languishing in the thought of Christine until it slowly turned into drawing parallels between her and to the new thorn in his side… not that Christine was ever vexing to him. Well at least she was not until the Vicomte showed up. But his composing was hard to do now, and would always be hard to do as his Angel of Music was no more.

Glancing at his pocket watch, he decided that it was time to see if the manager had shown up or not for the week. It was early afternoon, so if she was going to make an appearance that day, she would have. He was not quite sure if he wanted to have this meeting with her right away, but he told himself he would be prepared if he found the perfect chance to interrupt her.

Standing from his seat, he adjusted the wig upon his head, and tied the cravat laying loose about his neck. Shortly after securing his mask to his face and wrapping his cloak about his body, he started off on the long journey up to the first true level of the Opera house. As he neared the surface of the theatre, he passed underneath the stage where he could hear the incessant banging of hammers and other crude machinery, the shouts of men's voices over all of the racket, yelling at each other for help or giving orders.

At least someone was doing their job today. And they were doing a fine job of it as well. The work they had completed in such a short time was astounding for mere contract carpenters. When he went about looking over their handiwork on Sunday, their token day of rest, he found that the new supports were in place, and all they needed to do was build the shell around it. Perhaps the Opera Populaire would open much sooner than he had expected, and that thought soothed him a bit.

He came out of the hidden passage in Madame Giry's old room, straightening his vest one more time and breathing deeply. Really, he could care less for dealing with people in the outside world, especially those not of refined intelligence like he, but he needed to see that his demands were met, so he would venture out of the dark for only this one meeting with the manager. He did not foresee any chance for another meeting with her if he laid out his requests and made it imperative that she follow them, though he really did not wish to torment her as he did the others. There was no reason to do so anymore.

Jumping between the shadows of the backstage area, he made his way soundlessly to the manager's complex and to her office. Or at least where she was the week before. He stopped at the door, hearing two voices inside, one distinctly male with a heavy accent he could not quite place and the other a soft feminine one. The feminine one belonged to Constance, but he was not sure about the male.

"How did you find out about the Opera reopening?" Constance questioned the inside the room with her.

"I saw workers here on Friday when I arrive," said the man. Erik strained to decide just what nationality he was, but after a few moments he decided Spanish was probably the best bet. With all the different dialects he had heard coming through this Opera and with the little bit of traveling he was put through as a child with that excuse of a circus, he personally found Spanish and Italian were rather hard to pick apart. Others probably would not think so, but he did.

There was silence in the room and the shuffling of papers, "I spoke with Monsieur Reyer yesterday, at my brother's home, about the position of conductor. He has agreed to come back to the Opera, and we have decided that auditions will be held in a fortnight. What part will you be auditioning for? Baritone or tenor?"

"Baritone, Señorita," he said with a small laugh in his voice.

That confirmed his suspicions.

Then Constance chuckled, "Very good. We would very much like to have you audition. I fear it will be hard to fill our company with the past stories of this opera."

The man sighed, "I have hear these tales of la Fantasma, but I worry not. If you cannot find enough to fill cast, then I have mucho compadres in España who come if I ask for them."

"I shall keep that in mind, Señor de la Vega," she spoke. Erik could have sworn she spoke with an accent as well. She could have been mimicking the way the man had introduced himself, but it sounded authentic over her normal French-accented English, or pure French.

"Señorita, your voice…" de la Vega spoke. "You know my language?"

She laughed lightly, "Muy pocito, Señor."

It sounded odd to hear her now speak with French-accented Spanish, though she spoke it with a degree of pureness.

"My mother was a Spaniard. Her father was the Visconde Carlos Montenegro of Pamplona," she said.

Now that was an interesting fact. She was only part French.

"I know of su primo… Barón Montenegro," de la Vega said.

"Ah," Constance said, and let a long breath from her mouth. Getting the feeling that she was about to dismiss the baritone, Erik quickly moved away into the dark shadows. Soon the door opened and there appeared a tall man, the epitome of a Spanish Don Juan, thin dark mustache resting just above his upper lip, dark hair and eyes, and gold skin. Many of the Spanish nobles were more European looking, but there were many more Spaniards with such traits since the explorations of the New World. "It was a pleasure meeting you, good sir."

"The pleasure is mine, Señorita," he said, quickly seizing her hand and kissing the back of it. The man backed away smoothly, walking toward the exit. Constance stood and watched him leave, as Erik tried to decide what to do next. She let out a breath of exasperation and turned back for the door, and in that instant he knew what he was going to do.

Constance chuckled to herself, again recalling the order of the meeting she had just had with the Spanish baritone. She had traveled to Spain many times because of her mother, and met many men that were like Marco de la Vega, and found that it always made the country interesting, if not other social engagements. It would be nice to have some of the Latin fire in the cast, though she would have to wait for a few weeks to see if he could sing or not.

With a sigh, she pulled the door closed, but decided to leaveit open just a crack. Glancing about the large office, she let a long breath escape her lips. It had been a busy few days after returning from the weekend in the country. She had appointments all the previous day, with a supervising stagehand and the conductor, Reyer. The meeting with Reyer last most of the day, and since he was willing to be reinstated as the concert master, they had spent some time discussing how and when auditions would occur. They would have to audition an entire company of actors and singers, and Reyer would personally have to hold auditions for his orchestra. If Madame Giry accepted her invitation back to the Opera, then they would also need to get started on ballet auditions.

All of this planning and sorting out of things was much more tedious and tiresome than she had originally thought it would be, but she was quickly getting into the groove of things despite the utter madness of all that was going on around her. First she had the meetings and auditions, then she had to see to the advertisements to let people know they were reopening the Opera. And on top of all of that, she was talked into holding the yearly Bal Masque on New Year's Eve by Olivier on the way home from the Comte's country estate. Olivier tried to make it seem as though he was really keen on the idea because of a desire to have a lively party and to farewell the old managers as the Duchy de Louvois opened a new, short season of the Opera. But she knew the true reason… and that was so he could invite the Chagnys to the event, in hopes of quelling their fears over the Opera Ghost.

Constance, never the one to dislike planning soirees of any type, agreed to begin planning it, though she hoped all the renovations would be completed for the Bal Masque, to allow everyone an opportunity to see the beauty once again restored to the theatre.

For a short while, though, she could hold off on really planning the Masque, especially with the heap of letters sitting upon her desk with the daily paper. She had been looking through them for an indication of another queer letter with a red skull seal and black lining, but she was, in a way, relieved not to find anything of that sort, though also, in a way, she was disappointed that she had not received one, as she wished to meet this man she had only heard stories about.

Sitting behind her desk, she began to open the letters. That was until she heard the door creak. She looked up, expecting it to be Olivier stepping into the room, back again to make sure she could handle all of this. Something that Philippe and Raoul did must have frightened him dearly, because he was now very wary about leaving her alone in this Opera. She had shooed him away many times, but he kept coming back whenever he had a chance. She was completely convinced, though, she could handle it herself.

No one was there, and the door had only moved a hair more than before. Telling herself it was just a draft, she went back to reading. Not two seconds later, did the door creak again and instead of only moving an inch, it let out a long, excruciating wail as the hinges rotated to accommodate the heavy mahogany door. Constance set the letter in her hand down, and looked from side to side, and then at the door, feeling uneasy with the situation. Standing up slowly, she took the sharp letter opener with her. She stepped out of the door, looking down the passages, finding only empty space.

"Hello?" she called out, hearing her voice waver. No answer came.

With a nervous chuckle, she shook her head and pulled the door tightly closed this time, latching the lock into place. She glanced at the knife in her hand and laughed again, rolling her eyes. Perhaps just being in this Opera house was damaging to one's head. Things like that could seriously do harm to the reasonably gullible.

"Why do you laugh?" came a smooth, lyrical, voice from inside the room with her. A mysterious voice. An extremely delightful voice, even though in that simple sentence she could tell it was riddled with many dark secrets of his past.

She jumped high, her heart pounding in her chest as she whipped around, holding the knife out in front of her. There, sitting in the chair behind the desk, was the source of the voice. He smiled… no, sneered more like… though it could have been his smile as it appeared difficult for him to smile on one side of his face… the side of the face covered with a white mask. Realization dawned on her, and she pushed back against the door, her hand searching blindly for the doorknob. But she stopped herself. There was certainly no use in trying to get out, especially when she had been the one to propose a meeting.

How had he gotten into the room? How had he moved so quietly?

Instead of remaining in the seat, the man stood, his body straightening to reveal a man of lean, but muscled, stature. As he stalked toward her slowly, in a cat-like grace she had not expected, his size multiplied until he was standing over her. He was outfitted in fine wool garments, silk vest and a black cravat held tied to his white shirt with a single, white pearl tack. He was certainly well dressed for a man who supposedly spent his life down in the cellars of the Opera. As a matter of fact, he dressed much like the proper gentlemen out in the light of day.

She could not bring herself to look up into his eyes. Her heart beat against her breast wildly, her breathing shallow and labored. The lump in her throat grew bigger, not allowing her to speak. She felt warm leather upon her hand, and found his long fingers, covered in fine lamb-skin gloves, wrapping around her wrist. His other hand circled around the letter opener, and with a gentle tug, he freed it from her grasp. It took a few moments for the realization to creep through her head, as to what exactly he had done, and he only laughed lowly at her.

"You are not so tough now that you cannot hide behind a pen and paper," he spoke, low and slightly lilting, tossing the letter opener across the room. It landed with a loud, heavy thud on the desk, sliding to a stop against a stack of papers.

"I-I…" she said, stopping herself as she tried desperately to search for air somewhere in her lungs. Finally finding it, she let it out, and sucked in a large amount, gaining enough courage to look up at him. He was a very tall man, compared to her stature. His eyes were a clear blue-green, the one on the side of his face the mask hid drooped slightly. But it was not that bad… she had seen many with a droopy eye here and there. What could possibly be beneath the mask that was so horrible to cause Christine such a deal of fright? Surely, with half a face as handsome, and eyes like that, it could not have been that bad.

Could it?

She felt a sudden urge to reach up and rip off the mask to see what lay beneath, but she balled her hands into fists, pulling them harshly away from his strong grasp. Where had that urge come from? Was it her curiosity? Or was something tempting her to do that? Was he willing her to do it? To pull it off? So that he would be justified in hurting her?

"Why so silent?" he questioned, something in his eyes changing from the sinister, dark cloud to a lighter, happier expression.

Constance looked away from him, and pushed past him quickly, walking into the center of the room. She did not bother to turn around to face him until she had her heart, breathing and thoughts under control, but she knew he was watching her closely. She could feel his eyes on her, weighing and measuring her. Christine was right. Anywhere she moved, she could feel his eyes on her, and that was not a pleasant feeling.

"How did you get in?" she questioned finally, turning to look at him.

He remained by the door, and glanced about the room with a smirk on his face, "That is for me to know, and you not to."

Constance scoffed and shook her head, "Fine."

"Good Madame, I did not come to discuss how I move about my Opera," he said. "As per your request, through your letter, I have granted you a meeting where we shall discuss my demands."

"Let us get one thing straight, Monsieur Opera Ghost," she retorted, feeling her strength once again flow through her, giving her the courage she needed to stand up to him. He had caused that door to swing open as it had, and he only did it so he could frighten her badly enough to gain an upper hand in this meeting. Too bad for him, she was intelligent enough to figure that out. She stood tall, and raised her chin, "It is my brother's Opera, not yours."

The white-masked man snorted, "You could severely hurt your neck holding it like that."

Constance raised a challenging brow, and placed her hands on her hips, "It is not your Opera."

"I think we have that straightened out, Madame," he said. "As it seems you will not be changing your mind soon…"

"Monsieur, why did you ever think it was yours to begin with?" she questioned condescendingly.

He smirked, "It has always been mine. It is where my genius lives and thrives. But I did not come here to discuss that. About my salary…"

"You are not working for me, why do you deserve a salary?" she questioned, now moving her arms to cross them over her chest.

"It is a small stipend to keep me out of your hair, and for my offering of small advice here and there," he said.

"Twenty thousand francs is small!" Constance found herself nearly screeching.

He gave her a challenging glare, "You brother is a Duc. You are a Marquess… or Marchioness. Were you in England? Is that where your husband is from?"

She tuned away from him and walked behind the desk, sitting down in the chair. She did not care to reply to that obvious question meant to dig into her private life. "I will give you twenty thousand a month if you can prove to me you are doing something worthwhile for this Opera."

"You will make me work for my money?" he questioned. "That is rather duplicitous coming from a woman who has made her entire fortune off birth and marriage."

"Do you really wish to make me angry?" she look at him.

That was when he walked toward the desk and placed his palms flat on the wood, leaning over his arms to look down at her. He said lowly, "Do you really wish to make me angry, Madame?"

She was silent, feeling a cold shiver run down her spine. His eyes were so cold… so lifeless now. He was not acting as though he would harm her. Actually it seemed he was just throwing his weight around to see how far he could get her to concede to his wishes. It was not that uncommon for the men out in the world to do this as well. He stepped back with a flourish of black cloak she had not originally noticed he was wearing.

"I shall return tomorrow after you have had time to think," he said. "I need that money to survive."

With that, he left the room, and she was left in complete silence. He did not seem like he was that close to a homicidal rage, but he was certainly trying to use mind games on her to get her to concede to his demands. And so she was left to debate her thoughts, and what she was going to do, now that the first meeting, that would end up a long string of meetings, with the Phantom was finished.