A/N: Thank you reviewers! Did not mean to make my call reviews so demanding, just wanted to make sure everyone was still following it, or if they had stopped because of my bad writing. I smile humbly.

As with most Victorian etiquette, they often go over the top of what we would normally expect. The movements of fans and the arrangement of flowers, while the simplest things, could mean social life or death.

Chapter 9- The Language of Flowers

Days passed, and she heard nothing from the Phantom. There had been no strange incidences about the Opera to the workers, and she had received no other notes from him. For the first few days, after their initial meeting, she had been in a constant state of awareness that he could appear at any time and threaten her again if she did not do as he wished. Every corner she turned, she expected to see him metastasize out of thin air, or walk through a wall. But he had seemed so real… despite his cold, dead eyes, he was a living body. He was a man… with a real life… full of Lord knew what. There was no possible way he could be a Ghost, and she knew that for certain after speaking with Christine, but after that meeting and having him thoroughly scare her like he had, she toyed with the idea that perhaps he was not human, or could at least conjure up a bit of magic to make himself appear and disappear without having to use a door.

Of course, though, she being a practical thinker, despite her proclivities for strange happenings and what not, she could not accept that thought. She had to figure out how he had managed to get into her room. After those few days of waiting, almost dreading the moment he would come to her again, she began to search the room for hidden entrances. She ran her hands along the wood paneling, and over the books, searching for some mechanism that to reveal a trap door. Anyone who would have walked in on her might have considered her mad, talking to herself as she stared at the wooden panels, and fingered them. But she was on a mission and would not rest until she found a way to disprove his entire, ethereal being. To her dismay, now a week and a half later, she still had not found any doors. Many times she felt that he was somewhere in the room with her, watching her and laughing for the way he had confused her in his entrance.

He stayed a good distance away from her, and she wondered if it was to anger her, or to let her try to sort the information out herself, to see if he had any affect in making her think she was crazy. There were a few times she had, but she just had to remind herself that there was a man living below the opera, and had tormented Christine. And to an extent was tormenting Constance now, but almost in a jesting way.

Had he given up? No, she could already tell he was not that type.

Was he pushing her to see how far she would go? Would she cave in out of her sheer torment from not being able to figure out where he had come from, and give him what he hoped for?

But he did not know her, and did not know the tenacity she employed.

She had not told anyone of the occurrence, and intended not to. She was going to get to the bottom of this if it killed her…

Constance sat back in her seat, her neck and shoulders stiff from sitting over the paperwork in front of her. After her meeting with the ballet mistress, who surprisingly had nothing to say about the Opera Ghost, a list had been compiled of dancers names that Giry had already spoken to about joining the Opera Populaire. It was up to Constance, though, to see to it that papers were drawn up for their contracts. It was true that in the past week and a half she had fully staffed her office with a group of very capable workers (which was good for the mere fact she would not be alone if the Phantom were to come to the office again), but it was her job to look through the contracts before they were signed, despite the fact that they were for mere ballet rats, and not the main stars.

Auditions for acting and singing roles were to be held in two days' time, so she hoped to be finished with the other administrative duties before then and havingonly to worry about negotiating salaries with the larger stage entities in the cast.

She rested her head back against the chair, closing her eyes tightly and letting out a long yawn. It had been a very long day. And just as she was beginning to drift off into a peaceful, short nap, the sound of the creaking floorboards startled her. Her eyes snapped open, and she turned her head in the direction of the sound. No one there. Oh, this was no good at all. She waited for another sound, but none came. She heard footsteps on the wood floor, and then the door opened wide to reveal her secretary balancing a large lead glass vase in his hands, multitudes of flowers spilling out of it.

"Who sent these?" she questioned, standing up and directing her secretary to place them on an empty circular table in the rotunda of full bookshelves to the right of the office.

"I do not know, Madame," said the secretary, a young lad of only twenty and of a rather queer disposition.

Constance walked to the flowers, looking over them carefully and breathing in the delightful scent they produced. Trying to recall her memory of the meanings of flowers, from when she was in finishing school, she noted the different types of buds. The main flower of the arrangement was a bluebell- the symbol of constancy. Accented about the display of bluebells rested white clover and four-leaf clover. She could not recall exactly what those meant, but she knew that the purple lilac was a mention of the first emotions of love, and the white rose a message of worth.

"The courier did give me this letter," her secretary said. "I do not know the seal."

She reached for the folded paper and turned it over to look at the seal, finding the family crest of the County de Chagny. Her face grew warm and she shook her head… now she knew the meaning behind the flowers, even without having to look into the envelope for the accompanying letter. He really did not waste any time, did he? Glancing up at her secretary, "Thank you, Gustave, that'll be all. Please close the door on the way out."

He nodded and left the room, leaving her to the pleasantness of silence. She slipped her fingers beneath the flap of the envelope, breaking the blue seal easily. Pulling the letter out, she held it up to read from his terribly scrawling handwriting.

Dearest Constance,

I had to take a moment out of my busy schedule to send you a well thought-out bouquet, not only for luck in running the Opera, but also for the lovely weekend in the country. I am sure that you know the language of flowers well, and by now have connected my wax seal with the meaning of the bouquet. I realized over the weekend we shared that there were still things left between us quite unsaid when our families ended talks of marriage. I have thought about you often in the ten years you have been away, and I remember your beauty of form and mind, but I had not imagined that with the passage of time people could become more attractive and interesting. I suppose I can only hope you think the same about me, though at times I do not feel like I could be worthy of any woman's love.

It weighs heavily in my mind that you may not feel keen to accept this courtship (as you nearly stated at the country estate), having lost someone you love so dearly. In fact, you may never love another again as you loved William, but I ask that you give me a chance to prove myself to you once again. I will not disappoint you, and I only ask for your open mindedness at this time before completely closing me off from your heart.

I remain, Constance, your eternal follower if it is in this life or the next.

Philippe, Comte de Chagny.

She smiled softly to herself, rereading the letter twice more, her heart swelling with admiration gradually each time she read the words. For an instant she thought it disrespectful to the memory of her husband to be thinking such things, but how could she not feel somewhat amorous over such a letter and declaration of deep, abiding friendship, if not love? He was one of the most honorable men in the world, and she should have felt just as honored to be receiving such a letter from a man who had supposedly confirmed his bachelorhood. He was right, however, that she was not at all prepared to love someone else, except she already knew she would allow a courtship to progress to see where it would go. After all, if anything, they would always be friends.

"Someone cares deeply for you." The voice was so close, yet so far away, but it was certainly evident who had said it.

She jumped high with a loud scream coming from her mouth. Placing her hand to her chest trying to calm her wildly beating heart, she turned quickly to see the dark-cloaked figure within the room and admiring the flowers. How had she not heard him enter then? Had she really been that into thinking about the letter and Philippe that she had not even noticed him entering? Oh this was going to vex her even more than before.

The door to the office flew open, revealing both Gustave and Olivier. Olivier questioned worriedly, "What's wrong, Connie? What happened?"

"What are you doing here, Olivier?" she questioned, breathing deeply to calm herself a bit more.

"What happened? Answer me that first," Olivier demanded.

Constance glanced about the room nervously, hoping Olivier did not see her eyes moving as secretively as she tried to move them. Glancing quickly toward the rotunda of books, as though she were shifting her skirts and looking down at them to straighten herself, she could not see the Phantom there. Where in God's good name had he disappeared to now?

"Constance!" her brother exclaimed, walking around to her and placing his hands on her shoulders to turn her to him. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Then there was silence, as Olivier realized what he had said.

"Is it the Opera Ghost?" Olivier questioned.

Constance, realizing she had gotten sidetracked in her thinking, blinked her eyes a few times and shook her head as if to clear it. She chuckled lowly and turned back toward her desk, setting the letter she still held down on top of it. "No, it was a mouse… a very fat mouse… skittered across the floor just as I was about to take a step."

He looked at her suspiciously, and turned to Gustave, "Call for some traps to be set in here."

The secretary left obediently. Olivier turned back to her, looking her over again. "Are you sure it was only a mouse?"

"I've seen plenty of mice before, Olivier. I should think I know what one looks like," she replied wryly.

He rolled his eyes in a sarcastic manner, "That is true."

"Why are you here? I thought you had finally realized that I can run this Opera myself," she said, brushing a loose curl from her hair, glancing back toward the rotunda for any sign of the Phantom. Wherever he was, he was probably listening into the conversation.

"I came by with some news for you," Olivier moved his eyes in the direction as well, catching her slight fixation on looking that direction. He was always too astute. But instead of a worried look spreading on his features, he only smiled devilishly and walked into the rotunda to gaze at the flowers. "Flowers, Constance? From whom?"

"I would tell you, but I believe you already know the answer to that question," she remarked, sitting at her desk.

He smiled again, walking back to her, "He has always spoken of you as the one who got away."

"I find that funny considering our marriage talks were pretty much all based on money and land," she said.

"He realized afterward just how good he had it with you. No, that was his horrible mistake," Olivier nodded. "But he is making amends for it now."

"If I do not wish this attention?" she questioned.

He sighed and stopped to look down at her, "If it makes you feel uncomfortable, then tell him that. If he does not listen, I will flex my brotherly muscles around him. Does it make you feel uncomfortable?"

Constance shrugged and leaned her head upon her hand, "It is odd to think that I will have to live through the courting process again. And it is not so much that it feels odd, I just remember the love I shared with William, and I think it impossible to love another man like that."

"It would be foolish of anyone to think it possible," Olivier said. "But give the man a chance."

"I had intended to… but isn't that saying little of Philippe's feelings? I could never give him the complete surrender he wants and needs," she said.

He chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully, and sighed, "Once again, you make a very good point. But you will be able to discuss it with him this week."

"Why?"

"That is my news," Olivier said. "Apparently Raoul and Christine are moving back to the Chagny estate in Paris, so that Christine may once again take up her calling as a singer."

Constance felt the lump grow in her throat. If the Opera Ghost was listening, what could he be thinking now hearing about all of this? She wondered for a moment if she should stop them while she still had the chance to, warning them that the Phantom was still in residence here at the Opera. But that would also mean she would not be allowed to stay and cultivate the Opera. To hide her wariness, though, she smiled slightly, "Really? I had not thought Christine would talk Raoul into that so quickly."

"Neither did I," said Olivier.

"She still must audition," she warned. "If she is not the best Monsieur Reyer sees, she should not expect to be placed in the cast just because of familial connections."

"I believe she understands that," Olivier said. "You will have enough to worry about with others thinking she is now a bad omen."

Constance nodded and sighed, "True."

Olivier flattened his rumpled vest and buttoned his frock coat, looking down at her, "Are you ready to leave?"

"No, I still have much to do," she said.

"It will still be here in the morning, Connie," he said softly.

"I know it will be, that is why I wish to get it done now so I do not have to dread it later," Constance countered.

Olivier through his hands up in mock surrender, and backing away toward the door, "Fine, fine, I shall see you for dinner."

"Good bye," she said, following him to the door and waving, closing it after him. Sliding the lock into place, she went to the rotunda and glanced around for any sign of the Phantom. She took a breath and said, "I know you were listening… show yourself and where you hide."

There was silence in the room for a long while, and she thought for a moment that he was truly not there. That was until she felt a gust of cold air on the side of her face. She turned to the side, seeing a thin panel of bookshelves open. Out stepped the dark-cloaked, mask-clad man in a confidently arrogant air. "I looked there many times… I could not find a latch or fake book…"

He chuckled, almost manically, and looked at her, "Madame, do you think I would reveal to you my secrets?"

"No," she said. She watched him slink about the room, past the flowers and to her desk again.

With a gloved hand, he reached out for the letter laying open. "You keep company with the Comte de Chagny?"

"I do," she nodded.

"And yet you are still here," he said quietly, glancing up at her. "Surely they have told you the horrors they encountered under my doing."

Constance nodded, "Yes they have, and yes I am still here. You do not frighten me, Opera Ghost…"

She realized that it really was ridiculous to keep calling Opera Ghost. Surely he had another name.

"What is your name, so that I may address you appropriately?" she questioned.

"What does another name matter? Opera Ghost is as good as any other name I take, and perhaps more meaningful to me," he said, not the least bit politely.

"Surely you must have a proper first name," she prodded, seeing that this line of questioning was annoying him.

He glared at her, "Titles and surnames are not privileges of the underworld, Madame."

Constance set her jaw, and crossed her arms over her chest defiantly, "And I did not ask for a surname or title, Monsieur. I asked for a first name only, so that I may address you politely. I find the name of Opera Ghost to be highly pretentious, offering you a false sense of security around your anonymity when it comes to trying to torment people."

The man looked at her in an equally defiant stance, an entire gamut of emotions going through his eyes, from the most obvious of surprise, to utter rage that he was treating her so. His eyes burned into hers as she stared him down, though the fury, power and utter grief supplying all his other emotions were almost too sad and frightening all at the same time to really keep eye contact with.

"Erik," he spit out.

"With a C? K?" she questioned.

He gave her a heated glare, "Why does it matter, Madame?"

"Tell me," she said, knowing that if she continued to do this, she would eventually know enough to hold over his head if he threatened her again.

But he seemed to know that as well, "Tis a K, and I shall say no more until you agree to my salary."

"So it is Swedish?" she questioned. "You speak with a good French tongue for being Swedish."

"I am not Swedish," he remarked. "I am nothing."

Constance nodded and walked around him to sit in her desk. He watched her closely for a few moments, waiting for her to speak, but when he saw her go to looking through her paperwork again, he let loose his displeasure. "Madame, I shall make this simple. Are you to give me a salary, or am I to waste into nothingness in my home beneath the Opera? I have no money to survive."

She had not imagined him trying the pity card, but she met his eyes. "I will give you your first months salary if you can promise me you will not harm or bother the Vicomte and Vicomtess de Chagny."

His face paled at that, even more so than it was, if that was at all possible. He backed away from her, "I cannot promise that."

"You can, or you will not eat," she said.

His lips set into a hard line, the look of pain in his eyes returning and really setting the feeling of her heart wrenching in her chest. He must have been supremely hurt by these people. By Christine. He sighed and looked away from her, "Out of necessity, I will commit to this promise. But if at any time you do not hold to your bargain and not pay me, all deals are off."

"I had imagined that," she said with a triumphant smile crossing her lips.

"And of my other demand for Box Five?" he questioned.

"When the Opera opens it's doors again, I shall leave the box open to you," Constance said. "Only on opening nights of performances. And this is only because you seem to have such a profound love for music to take residence in an Opera house."

Erik looked at her oddly, as though she were speaking in a different language and had fully expected to fight for that as well. He was speechless for a long while, as he stared at her in complete confusion. Had he never had someone make that connection before? Or was it just that he was surprised she had not put up a fight over it? He sighed and walked toward the open entrance again, turning to her quickly before closing it off, "Thank you."

Constance watched the door shut, hearing no sound of any mechanism. At least she knew how he got in now, and also that he was not as horrible as everyone made him out to be. Of course, she had seen every emotion in the book displayed prominently in his eyes, and still did not know him, but she was a good judge of character (she hoped anyway). He may have committed many sins in the past, but that did not mean that he could not change.

After all, she had committed her fair share over her life.