A/N: OK, this took a while, but it's longer than usual. Happy spring!

In Which Mistakes are Made

I barely paid attention to the opera. I would have left, but Adele would have been very angry and taken no excuses. And she did perform well for all of the three minutes she had her own part. I applauded absentmindedly and regretted it later. Adele came up to box five when she thought nobody could see her.

"You were excellent, Adele," I said, trying to sound cheerful and failing dismally.

"Well, I went flat on one bit, but I suppose I was all right." She tilted her head to one side and looked at me. "Is everything all right? You look sick."

"No, it isn't." I sat back down. "Christine—the Comtesse de Chagny—she came today."

"The one you…fell in love with?" I nodded. "I'm sorry, Papa." I nodded again. "Papa, go for a walk, go swimming in the lake, something. Just don't drown yourself in ink and bury yourself in paper."

I smiled a little in spite of myself. "Not sixteen yet, and already telling me what to do. I'll go for a walk. Happy?"

She kissed my cheek. "Yes. I'll see you later." She flitted out of the box and down to the changing rooms, presumably. Below in section ten I could see Meg and Christine talking. I closed my eyes and turned around. A walk. No more opera for an hour or so. I followed the crowd out of the doors, since they were all wrapped up in coats and their own affairs, and it was rather dark anyway. It was a drizzly night with a sullen east wind, perfectly matching my mood. Somehow I ended up skipping stones on the spot on the Seine where I had found Adelita eleven years ago. Eleven years—by the opera, I must be old. How old? I had been eighteen when I left the Sultana, yes, so I was twenty and some when I met Christine. She left when I was twenty-one, so I was thirty-three. I was old. Old enough to have decided to do something moral for the first time in my life, no matter how much I hated myself for it after, and during.

"Christine," I said to the river, "Third time pays for all. If there is one."

I went back around eleven at night and "drowned myself in ink and buried myself in paper." I knew I was hiding from my problems, but it was all I knew to do.

"Father," said a reproachful voice, making me jump and ruin eight measures. "Did you even go for a walk like you said you would?"

"Yes, Adele. It didn't do much good, but I know how old I am."

She laughed. "Really? How old are you?"

"Thirty-three."

"A worthy age. And how old am I?"

"About sixteen. I don't know, though." I pulled her onto the arm of my chair. "But you're just right. How are you and Giuseppi getting along?"

"Oh…well enough, I suppose."

"Meaning you won't tell me. I understand."

"Of course, Father. Girls must have their secrets. Good night, and don't forget to go to sleep." She went back, and I set about fixing the measures I had blotched.

I woke up later with my pen still in my hand and leaking all over the page. Christine was singing in my head.

Think of me, think of me fondly when we've said goodbye;

I stuck my head in the lake and held it under for as long as I could.

Don't think about the things which might have been.

I sat at my desk with a hunk of bread from the pantry.

There will never be a day when I won't think of you!

I hummed another tune to try to make her stop.

Or as unchanging as the sea…

"Be quiet," I said aloud. "I think of you. I think of you all the time."

…me, of me!

And then a new song. All right. That was it. I sat at my organ and pounded all the notes that came into my head—it still didn't drown out Christine. I needed a break, I decided. I picked up Much Ado about Nothing, a suitably airheaded play, I thought, and began to read.

Past the point of no return…

And that didn't work either. I crossed the lake and ascended to the Heavens, there to eavesdrop on the operatic world. It appeared I had come at an opportune moment, because as I passed over the office the Brothers shared I heard a heated argument between the managers and Marinette. This was an unusual occurrence, since Marinette was a generally sensible girl, and knew that it was not in her best interest to argue with the Brothers regularly.

"Messieurs," she said, with a loud note of anger in her voice, "I want a life. I've lived here—well, here and the school—since I was five, and I want a family that isn't all tittering, gossiping girls and old men who don't see straight! If you don't let me go, then I'll just leave now, and you'll have to find me an understudy for Faust."

There was a silence. I wondered how long Marinette had wanted to say that. So she was leaving. I, for one, would miss her; she was quite possibly the best actor, male or female, that the Opera Populaire had come across. But a replacement…I ran off to find Adele. I found her backstage.

"Adele," I whispered through the wall separating us, "How would you like to replace Marinette? She has decided to retire."

"She was going to do that, yes, but me?"

"Why not?"

She sighed. "All right. But don't make the Brothers pick me. Just point it out. I don't want it that badly."

Oh, Adele, you are something I have seen before. "All right. In an hour, you'll be prima donna."

By the time I got back to the darkness above the office, Marinette had gone and the Brothers were going down the list of actresses.

Michel: "Jeanette Macelle?" (C is supposed to have the 5 thing—couldn't find it)

Jacques: "Absolutely not."

Michel: "Rose Manette?"

Jacques: "I don't think so."

And on it went. Finally they were down to five, then three, then two. Jacques, the only assertive one, took to sulking in the corner when they eliminated Carmine Chouinard, since he had a pronounced crush on the girl. So, Michel and Charles argued inconclusively for several minutes. I allowed them to carry on until they bored me, then intervened since Adele was still in the running.

"Gentlemen," I said coolly from over their heads, "must we argue over this?"

I had interrupted, and Charles stopped abruptly. "W-we would be happy to hear your opinion, Monsieur."

"I am so glad. No matter how well Maria hides it, she's well past her prime. She would lose her charm in less than a year, and we'd be right back here again." In all honesty, Maria was quite good and only twenty-one, but if les Messieurs pushed Adele off, I would have to be vindictive.

"So you think we should use Adelita, Monsieur?" Michel said. Charles was audibly shivering, and Jacques talked very little, so Michel was spokesman by default.

"Obviously."

"Well, then. Thank you for your input, Monsieur. Charles, if you could go fetch Adele, I'll draw up the contract," Jacques said, taking control of the situation as he often did. Charles apparently didn't get it straight, so: "Charles?"

"Y-yes, Jacques." Charles left quickly. I heard the unmistakable sound (for me, if for nobody else) of writing.

"Where are you?" Michel half-shouted. I was disturbing him, it seemed.

"Near enough, M. Varens."

"Why can't I see you?"

I paused dramatically. "Would you like to?"

"Not particularly, but it would be considerably less unsettling."

I dropped through the ceiling with a great swirl of my cloak, landing like a thundercloud, but with much more stealth. Michel backed into the wall. Jacques glanced up, and sighed before returning to his contract. "That tongue of yours has gotten you in trouble like I always said it would, little brother."

Michel had begun swearing the moment the trapdoor opened, and now his oaths increased in volume and flamboyance.

"Mind your manners, Michel," I scolded, smiling my most unsettling smile. His mouth shut like a trap as the door opened. Charles entered, Adele in his wake. He looked around, white in the face, and diplomatically decided to act like nothing had happened. Jacques pushed the contract across his desk, and Adele read it. I read it over her shoulder.

"Twelve a month!" I exclaimed. "You misers, she deserves at least twenty."

"Fifteen," Jacques said.

"Eighteen."

"Sixteen."

"Not a centime less than seventeen!" I put my hand to the hilt of my sword.

"No, Papa!" Adele shrieked, grabbing the offending hand. My hand fell, and hers flew to her mouth. "Oh…"

"'Papa'?" Michel asked. "Anyone care to explain?"

A/N: Mistakes were made. Next chapter includes an explanation, and, if the explanationisn't too long, some insanity.