Madame Giry

Undoubtedly, it had to do with Carlotta.

I had heard the shrill soprano from an entirely different wing of the opera, and my students had not been able to concentrate due to their curiosity. And if I, with my average human ears, had heard her, there was no question that the Phantom with his extraordinary senses had heard her as well.

I opened the door to the manager's office, entered, and closed it silently behind me. "You wanted to see me, Monsieur?" My eyes fell to the crumpled envelope and shattered fragments of wax from the blood red seal about his desk. I levelled myself to meet Lefevre's eyes—he appeared annoyed, and drawn, and entirely exhausted of the Opera Ghost's incessant demands.

"Lately," he said, his hands shaking, "he's been rhyming them." And he handed the note to me. I took it wordlessly, and my eyes scanned the familiar red etchings.

"Lefevre, I'm highly disappointed

"You couldn't make a fouler choice

"Revenue, I'm aware

"Is a must, but there

"Has not been

"A worse insult to culture

"Than this vulture with a foghorn as a voice!"

I folded the letter and passed it back to him. I had been through far too many managers to laugh now.

"There's more!" He threw the letter to his desk. "The first note of his that arrived in such a manner even came with a scrap of music…as if he actually expects me to plunk out the notes and hear his demands as a song!"

"And did you?" I asked.

The manager's face reddened underneath his brown-grey moustache. He nodded sullenly. "And now I can't get the infuriating tune out of my head." And with that, he proceeded to sing the most recent note aloud to me.

I stopped myself before I could smile, but my pursed lips only held me in reservation for so long. Instead of exposing my humour, I spoke. "What are you going to do, then?"

"I was hoping you could help me," he said, sitting, and motioning for me to do so as well. I obliged. "I don't know what the Ghost finds so trustworthy in you, and I don't care to know either. But surely there is a way—any way—that you can explain to him," and his beady eyes widened, "that while he still demands his twenty thousand francs," his voice grew with every word, "he cannot be picky, about who we employ, to bring in his blasted money!"

I remained stiff. The tune replayed in my mind, and it was beginning to annoy. "The Opera Ghost does not listen to me any more than he listens to you."

"That's not true!" he accused. "You've always kept a secret, and he frequently consults me about you!"

My jaw ached with an unwanted grin, and I held up a hand. "Monsieur Lefevre, you are beginning to rhyme yourself—however unwell."

The manager obtained an expression of disgust as he recalled his sudden melodious rant. "I don't believe I just did that!" He sank into his chair, eyeing warily the tuneful note. "I don't believe I'll ever get that little song out of my head."

"Which," I added, "was very likely his intention."

He nodded, irritated. His head rolled on his shoulders, and he looked me squarely in the eye. "He will then have to live with La Carlotta, because for once in my life, I refuse to just give in. I'll write him a little note myself…yes, that's what I'll do." With new energy and a hint of insanity, he rummaged around his desk. "I'll write him back, and I'll tell him just why I can't fire her."

I sighed, letting my eyes roll in exasperation. "You are treading on dangerous ground, Monsieur."

"I don't care!" he fumed, clenching his teeth, and he produced a single sheet of paper and a quill. "He's made all tread-able ground dangerous as far as the Opera is concerned. You watch, Madame Giry, and I will show you just how meagerly I fear him!" He slammed the tip of the quill to the paper, and it snapped in half. We both watched his quaking hand for a moment before he spoke, his voice a pathetic tremble. "What…what do you think I should write?"

I gathered my skirts about me and stood. "You'd do best to flatter him," I advised. "Play his own game. Who knows? Perhaps he will respect you for it."

Beneath carefully-combed brows, Lefevre's eyes implored me. "Do you think?"

I shook my head as I exited. "Not at all, Monsieur."

…

The Phantom

My box waits, and my salary.

The golden lobby of the Populaire is deserted. On most occasions I make my way to my box through hidden corridors and darkness, but often it is refreshing to stroll through the décor of my foyer and take in its magnificence.

With no reservation, I step out into the open, in perfect sight of anyone who might unexpectedly entre. This doesn't stop me; in fact, it is a rather encouraging thought. It has been far too long since I have revealed a glimpse of myself to anyone, and it may be entertaining to make another brief appearance to fuel the residents' gossip.

Unfortunately, the foyer remains empty as I ascend my golden stairway. Lingering here are ghostly echoes of galas and festivities seasonally celebrated within the select members of Parisian society, whom I avoid with great potency but for those occasions when I am possessed with the intention of terrorising them. I have had great fun in this hall, and I frown as I realise that I have caused less and less havoc since Christine became my student.

This will, of course, have to change, as soon as my imagination provokes me to do something drastic.

For now, though, I have only one purpose: to collect my salary. In his first year of management, Lefevre exercised several different attempts to catch me in the act of retrieving my money from my box—as have each of the managers before him. Each has failed, by some manner of my trickery, and grown tired of such a mission, resigning finally to paying me without complaint (except, of course, in verbal nature). I am now free to collect the envelope without making great preparations for unwanted traps, though indeed I have prepared my box to prevent a disaster involving my own exposing, in the event that the manager has taken it upon himself to entrap me again.

Madame Giry, for example, is one of my preparations, and has been since she agreed to become my accomplice four years ago.

At the end of each month, after the manager deposits my money into Box Five, she waits for me in the shadows of the curtain, ready to alert me if I need to make myself disappear. Faithfully, there she is. Her hair is pulled back tightly behind her head, and her steely expression remains as she watches me.

I train my eyes on her as I approach, trusting that she senses my gratitude. With a quick, cautionary glance over her shoulder, she steps even further into the shadows. I draw back the curtains, subconsciously readying myself for anything, though I made certain my manager's whereabouts before coming. The white envelope protrudes slightly from between the seats.

Smiling, I pull at the edge. Another smaller envelope drops to the floor, and after a glance that ensures all of what I am due is present, I kneel to grasp it. The familiar grey seal belongs to Lefevre. There are three things that come to mind when I think of Lefevre: a grey seal, a lasso, and a moustache.

I move around the seats and settle myself into one, sliding my finger into the envelope and breaking the seal. He's left me a note? I shake my head, my mouth forming something of a smirk at his audacity, and slip the note from the envelope. "To whom it may concern," I whisper aloud, "I have once again dutifully left you your salary, without objection. However, I fear this may be the last time I can afford such a sum, if you insist on firing—excellent deduction, Monsieur—Signora Giudicelli. I realise that your tastes in music are impeccable and you want only the best for this Opera, but surely you have noticed that we are not pulling in money the way we did when we still had Willem di Renaldi. If we don't find a star of his calibre soon, I will have to close the theatre. La Carlotta's vocal style may not be to your taste, but if you know the theatre-going society as well as you claim to, you'll agree that she could be a smashing hit. To put it plainly, I want to spare this wreck—wreck!—as much as you do, and I fear the only way to do so is to give Giudicelli a nice trial run, and see what the public thinks. Oh yes…and though I am loathe to bring it up…the violinist's daughter is currently occupying the dressing room that must be given Carlotta, in all due cordiality. My sincerest apologies, M Gregory Lefevre."

My laugh disturbs the still, quiet atmosphere of the empty theatre.

Pocketing my money, I seize the note between my fingers and make my way out of Box Five, shaking my head to rid myself of the unnaturally ludicrous grin. I pass Madame without even a word, still restraining myself from tittering, and I can feel her questioning gaze on my back. Lefevre's office is not far from the lobby. Happily I stride toward it.

His bureau is empty, and his desk is cluttered with unpaid bills and masses of needless paperwork. I slam my gloved hands in the centre of the mess and sweep them aside in opposite directions, clearing a space on the surface. The wide smile does not leave my face. Carefully I situate his note in the middle of the mahogany wood, and reach beneath my cloak for the small, sharp, gleaming object I desire.

The dagger is attractive, and though I am reluctant to let it go, I am content that I can possibly retrieve it later. I raise my arm, taking amused notice of the ominous shadow my murderous stance casts upon the wall. With a laugh that is quite childish in nature I plunge the dagger into the desk, through the centre of my manager's note, and I clasp my hands in satisfaction.

Surely he will receive the message well.

Hands still clasped in front of me, I joyfully turn and leave his office. My pupil is waiting for me.

A/N…So we lost internet access for awhile. Now we have it back. And guess what? We're getting rid of it all for good. Like, as in, by next week. So I'm going to upload chapters at a very rapid rate; I still have several written, and several more to write. I don't know how I'm going to continue to upload once we get rid of the net, but I'll see if I can find a way…somehow.