Author's Note: Thank you to all of my lovely reviewers. The reviews mean the world to me.

This chapter is dedicated to Monj, for being generally cool and supportive.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Review Responses:

PhantomsHeart: Anne! My first reviewer! gives Anne a nifty hat I'm flattered by your kind words about my work. Thank you so much! hugs Anne

Mongie: Monj! I'm glad you like it! I hope you like this chapter as well and if not…shuffles toward tank

Dernhelm Wraithslayer: Hello Dern! Has anyone ever told you that your screen name is impossible to type? MC goodness shall be posted on Monday!

Tink20: Hello! I hope you continue to read my story. I love being reviewed by people whom I don't know. And you're the first for this story! gives Tink a nifty hat as well

Ahomelesspirate: I'm flattered by your kind words! Thank you so much!

Han Solo666: Thank you for reviewing! I hope you continue to like my story.

Harem98: Music In My Mind is currently on hold, but I am flattered that you would look at my other stories! Thanks for your kind reviews!

XXXXX

It was my intention to wipe the bar down until it shone. This would be no easy task, considering all of the alcohol that had gotten spilled the night before. There had been a brawl between several young men. It wasn't too serious, as they were so drunk they could barely stand let alone hurt one another, but a good bit of alcohol got sprayed over the bar. It had dried and left a gritty residue, making it hard to scrub off.

I was not alone in the bar. Our diva, Carlotta, and her accompanist were sitting at a booth, chatting.

Carlotta certainly looked the part of diva. Her hair was a shocking shade of pink, so people were sure to notice her. Her pink mini-skirt and tube top left little to the imagination, and managed to disgust every female in the area. She had an air about her that suggested that she was used to getting what she wanted, and that if you displeased her there would be disastrous consequences.

Rubauld Piangi, Carlotta's accompanist, was a mediocre piano player. In fact, the only reason he wasn't fired was because Carlotta insisted. It was generally bad form to go out with your accompanist, but that didn't stop Carlotta. If there was one good trait that Carlotta had it was relative indifference to people's opinions, except for their opinions on her voice.

Piangi was rather large. A good amount of his time was spent either drinking himself under the table, or eating. Other than that he was rather average looking. Brown hair, brown eyes, five foot ten, he was average in almost every imaginable way. He was a person who disappeared into a crowd.

I was finally getting the last of it off, when I heard the doors open. In walked the owner of the bar, accompanied by two men I had never seen before. Mr. Poligny cleared his throat loudly. Carlotta and I looked up. Mr. Poligny cut to the chase.

"For some weeks we have all been worrying about the Populaire's imminent bankruptcy. These men," he gestured toward the two men beside him, "Bought the establishment for a handsome price, and in doing so managed to pay all of our debt. They now own the Café Populaire."

He pointed to the man on the left of him. "Mr. Armand Mononcharmin."

Armand was a rather short man, with a ruddy complexion. He showed signs of balding, but what was left of his hair was dove gray and cut rather short. His eyes were almost the exact same shade as his hair, which gave him a rather drab appearance.

Mr. Poligny then pointed to the man to the right of him. "Mr. Richard Firmin."

Richard wasn't tall, or particularly pale, but standing near his small ruddy companion he looked it. At the most he was five eleven. But, at five foot four, I wasn't one to judge that as being short. He didn't seem to know what to do with himself; or he was just a naturally anxious man I couldn't quite tell. His hair was brown, with liberally spread graying patches. He had a hideous comb over, presumably to hid the beginning signs of balding.

From his pocket, Mr. Poligny slowly pulled out a small black book, and stretched his hand out towards the new managers, as if afraid of the object he offered.

At that precise moment, my friend and our regular bartender, Meg Giry walked through the doors. Meg had natural good looks. She had pale skin, dark blue eyes, and raven-black hair that I envied bitterly. At the sight of the book she paled even more than she normally was.

"What are you doing?" She hissed to Poligny. "That's the Ghost's book!"

Armand and Richard exchanged glances. "The…Ghost's book?" They asked, obviously puzzled. Though Poligny made several frantic gestures indicating that Meg should not carry on the strain of conversation, she launched into an explanation.

"Surely you know of the ghost! You see, we are on the end of a very prestigious line of houses, know throughout France as centers for the arts. But the string of houses and our restaurant are both haunted by an age old ghost. He has been here since about fifty years after the houses were built, in the early eighteen hundreds, just after the revolution. But only in the past decade or so has he shown much interest in our affairs. He has specific instructions that are to be followed, and if you dare disobey him, disastrous things happen!"

Armand looked like he had been drawn into the story, but Richard merely scoffed. "Disastrous things? Like what? Does he muddy the bar? Move the chairs around?"

Meg looked around, as if afraid of being overheard, and said, in an exited whisper that was obviously meant to be heard, "If the ghost is disobeyed, people tend to show up in the storage rooms, bruised, bloody, and unconscious. They always have a note on top of them that says, "Compliments of the Ghost."

Armand looked appalled, and Richard paled considerably more than he already was.

Meg smiled prettily, and then turned to me saying, "Did you manage to get all of that dry gritty stuff off of the bar? Because I can help to get the rest off if you haven't."

I gratefully accepted her help, and watched as Mr. Poligny have a few words with Richard and Armand, then turned and stalked out the door. Although Armand was a man of few words, the oppressive silence that reigned in the room was finally broken by Richard.

"As you know, lately the Café Populaire has had its run of financial trouble. As a result of this, there will be an unfortunate, but necessary pay cut."

I winced. I was barely able to pay rent as it was, and with a pay cut it would be necessary to become a street performer again. I could do it, but performing on the street was a tiring and unpredictable business.

Carlotta, who was by no means poor, stood up and let us know of her displeasure in an extremely irritating, shrill voice.

"What? A pay cut? That is an insult to my talents! I work myself to the bone for this dump," I had trouble keeping my face straight at this remark. All Carlotta did was sing, and hang about the bar drinking cheap beer. "And this is the thanks I get? That's it. I'm leaving. Even if we are having that big special for the returned navy men tonight. I cannot remain where I will not be appreciated as I deserve."

With that she turned, and stalked out the door. Piangi, after a moment of shocked sitting, followed suit. The door slammed shut with an ominous thud.

The managers looked at each other, shell shocked. I pitied them. It wasn't a good first day for them, finding out that their bar was haunted, and then their singer and pianist walking out on them.

Armand cried out, frustrated, "What are we going to do now? We don't have any entertainment, and we have a special night for our returned navy men tonight!"

Richard looked panicked as well. "We'll lose so much money! We can't afford that, especially if we are to pay some ghost a salary!"

The bar shone, with Meg's help. I was extremely pleased.

Meg suddenly spoke up. "Christi could sing! And I could get you a pianist."

For a moment I was too irritated by her calling me Christi to notice what she had said. If I've told her once I've told her a million times, my name is not Christi.

Then the words sunk in. I looked down, knowing what the managers saw when they looked at me. They didn't see who I was. They saw a grimy girl with waist long brown hair, in a red hoodie. I didn't look like someone who had been taught for five years by an Angel.

Armand raised an eyebrow. "Alright. Let's hear you sing then."

I started to sing the first song I could think of. It was one of my original works. One I had composed, with the help of my Angel of course.

Think of me

Think of me fondly

When we've said goodbye…