Rose34

Three days after the masquerade, Firmin and Andre finally had the Phantom's opera sorted. It was already implied in a rather demanding fashion that Christine was to play the lead.

Together they browsed through the manuscript, collective brows raising at the suggestive nature of the opera.

"This will be a hit!" said Firmin.

"This will ruin us!" Andre howled.

They stared at each other a moment.

"A duel?" Firmin questioned.

"I prefer Roman-style wrestling."

"Well, I much prefer Turkish-style. Especially with olive oil."

"Delicious."

"Wrestling," Firmin mused. "Nude?"

Andre had a twinkle in his eye. "Naturally."

Before they could undress one another and partake in the game of their lives, there was a knock on the door.

"Oh, poppycock," Firmin sighed.

"Indeed." Andre opened the door to find a rather red-faced Bouquet. He waved a note into the opera mangers' faces.

"Not five minutes ago I found this laying on the catwalk." His voice lowered, eyes narrowed. "It's from…the Phantom."

Andre visibly gulped as he snatched the note from the stagehand's grasp. He and Firmin exchanged glances before Andre opened the envelope.

He furrowed his brow and looked at Bouquet. "Are you certain it's from the Phantom?"

"Of course."

"But…there's no seal."

"Excuse me?"

Andre showed Firmin the envelope. "The death's head, you see. It's missing."

"Oh, poppycock!"

"Indeed." Ignoring the lack of death's head, Andre opened the note and read. "Dear…sirs." He stared at the letter a moment. "For one, 'sirs' is misspelled. For two, I don't understand why he didn't refer to us as messieurs."

Firmin shrugged. "He's a strange fellow, but normally he's such a good speller."

"A marvelous speller," Andre agreed. "With a vast and impressive vocabulary unlike any I have seen before—and believe you me, I have seen quite a few in my day."

Firmin held out his hands about twelve inches apart. "Vast."

Andre crossed his arms and nodded. "'Tis the things dreams are made of…poppy—"

"Precisely."

Bouquet appeared confused and shrugged. "Perhaps he rushed and had no time to cross his T's and dot his I's."

"It appears he didn't," Andre replied. "Such a shame to see his grammar lacking all of a sudden. It's the only part of his usually demanding, often threatening, and completely snide notes I ever enjoyed."

"Indeed," Firmin replied. He pursed his lips and quietly added, "Poppycock."

Andre continued reading the note. "It appears the Phantom wants to hold either auditions for the part of Don Juan or he wants ammunition. I have no idea what this word is, and therefore I must guess." He paused. "I believe he wants ammunition."

Firmin went white. "Now it shall be war upon us both! Oh, Andre, we simply cannot allow The Phantom of the Opera to have ammunition. He's dangerous enough with his bare hands, his stark white mask…and…"

"Charm." Andre's eyes glazed over. "Hideous, yet appealing."

Firmin did a double-take. "No! His cape! Why, it could kill with a simple flip."

Bouquet spread his hands. "Well, gentleman, what do you want to do about this grave matter?"

-o-

Christine started to itch for sunlight and blue skies. She lay in bed and stared at the ceiling until Erik woke and wrapped his arm around her.

"How long have you lived here?" she questioned, her voice still sleep-filled.

He thought a moment. "Several years."

"How many years?"

He pursed his lips. "Twenty-three."

Her eyes went wide. "You've lived down here for twenty-three years."

A smile crept onto his lips. "Why, yes. Twenty-three years."

"Without windows? Plants? A flowerbed?"

Trepidation flashed through his eyes. "If I wanted windows, plants, and a flowerbed, I would have them. But, as you can see, I find such frivolous eccentricities to be unnecessary."

Christine looked at him hard. "Why, Monsieur, you cannot trick me with your very large…" She paused, gaze sweeping down his body. "Words."

He tilted his head to the side. "You will love it here as I have loved it here. These walls enrich sound, and when you hear me play my organ for you, I promise there will be tears in your eyes and song forever in your heart."

She nodded. "Yes, I suppose it will."

She glanced around and wondered if she should leave the discussion for later, but she couldn't bear the thought of constant darkness. The candlelight, romantic for now, would surely lose its special ambiance. Perhaps she would never tire of Erik's organ, but he could play it anywhere.

She clasped her hands. "I need my cape for tonight," she said brightly.

He sat up and reached for his shirt, which was on the floor by the bed. "It's warmer than you think down here. I will see to it, just for you."

Her nose scrunched. "You treat me like a princess, but I will still need my cape for the winter chill."

"The winter's chill?"

She nodded. "For our walk."

"Our walk?"

"Yes, through the streets at dusk."

He swiftly pulled on his trousers and stood. "I was not informed of this…activity."

"Of course not. I hadn't thought of it until this very moment. Doesn't it sound delightful?"

"I had planned an evening of seclusion and privacy, uninterrupted."

Christine's toes curled beneath the blanket. "Seclusion and privacy. Yes, well, perhaps later in the evening after we have seen the river and enjoyed a cup of coffee."

He didn't reply. As Christine finished speaking, he disappeared into the other room without a word of protest or acceptance.

-o-

"Something must be done at once!"

"At once!" Andre agreed.

"Immediately!"

"Indeed!" Andre said quite amiably.

"Such as?" Bouquet questioned.

Both men paused and exchanged glances. "Such as…" Firmin prompted his business partner and Turkish wrestling friend.

"A confrontation," Andre said with a snap of his fingers.

"Face-to-face—with no wrestling of any sort."

Bouquet nodded. "When and where, gentleman?"

They furrowed their collective brows.

Firmin hesitated. "In…here."

Bouquet swiftly shook his head. "He won't come."

"That is a problem," Andre said. He rubbed his chin with his hand. "One I have thankfully not experienced."

Both Bouquet and Firmin looked at him quizzically until the stagehand sighed. "We should confront him soon."

"Soon," the two managers agreed. "And as a representative of the opera house and someone who knows its every nook and cranny, you, good sir, are the perfect candidate for this mission."

Bouquet flexed his hands. "It would be an honor."

Andre stepped forward and cocked his head to the side. "You're not frightened?"

"Of what?" Bouquet questioned.

"Of what? Poppycock!" Firmin said for good measure.

Andre elbowed him in the ribs, then glanced back and winked in apology. He turned toward Bouquet. "But surely you must be aware of the dangers, Monsieur. We are dealing with the opera ghost."

With a hearty laugh, Bouquet grinned. "Me? Afraid of a ghost? Well, that's nonsense."