Readers,

Something actually happens in this chapter. Okay, so it's not as big as a five ton chandelier falling into an orchestra pit, but it is a bit more than the reflective chapters that I have been posting of late. It isn't particularly long, but it will have to serve for now. I will be out of town for the week, in Appalachia. No electronics for me, so no internet, no posting. Don't despair! There is a storyline just begging to be written when I get back.

Sorry, I had to elbow Erik right there. He has developed the habit of chaperoning my writing sessions to make sure that I get chapters done. He was wiggling his eyebrows mysteriously and laughing, and it was just really bugging me. Darn Opera Ghost. He seems so dang elusive and enigmatic and all that, but he's really just a normal guy. Okay, a normal guy who's a genius. And an assassin. And a musician. And really manly. Did I just write that? Whoops. Take it easy Erik. Put the Punjab down! Erik!

Your author will write more when, no, if she returns. Damn! Why do all you phans seem to know to keep your hands at the level of your eyes!

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Cecily sat nervously in M. Lefevre's office, waiting for him to return. Her knee was fitted with an awkward sort of brace, and she was trying valiantly to hide it beneath her skirts. She had planning this for more than a week, but now that she was here, it seemed like a bad idea. She fidgeted anxiously, forcing herself to remain seated. M. Lefevre had been out when she arrived, and, having nothing to do because of her knee, she had decided to wait.

She was now reconsidering that idea. The minutes had ticked loudly by on the grandfather clock in the corner, and still she sat alone in that office. She cast her eyes around looking for something to do. There was nothing in this small, cluttered room except ledgers. Ledgers and letters to and from potential patrons. She browsed one of these and rolled her eyes. It was filled with empty words and clever turns of phrase that would release the writer from any true responsibility. She laid it back down and turned to the ledgers. Rows upon rows of numbers filled the books, and Cecily found herself engrossed in the figures. She had never before seen so intimately how the opera was run, and this glimpse was titillating. "Thirty-five thousand francs a month to Seniora Carlotta Giudocilli! I was only earning twenty-five hundred! And for her entourage! Another twenty-thousand! Good lord! She's worth that much! That's six-hundred sixty thousand a year! That's as much as the entire ballet corps makes!"

"That's good math in your head girl, but why are you poking your nose in my books?"

Cecily spun around, her knee shifting excruciatingly in the effort. "Monsieur, Monsieur Lefevre!" she exclaimed, the pain and surprise making her voice strained. "I was, I was…"

M. Lefevre brushed past her disapprovingly. "It doesn't matter. What are you doing in my office?"

"Waiting for you."

He sat down, his long coat draped out behind him like split tail. He began to scribble on another sheet of paper. "Imagine that. Waiting for me in my office. Why were you waiting, girl? Come now, I haven't got all day!"

"I wished to ask for employment."

"Oh? And who told you to come here? The departments each handle their own hiring, according the numbers I give them. You'll have to talk to the head of the department. The only hiring I do is for the stage." He looked up from his work and scrutinized her. "You already work here, don't you? Yes, you're the girl that was the prima mezzo for Il Trovatore, but hurt her arm."

"Leg. Yes, monsieur, it is so, but I can no longer dance. I came to ask if there was perchance an opening in any of the support departments. I would work hard!" She bit her tongue lightly, stopping herself from rambling. "I am sorry. You already said that you are not in charge of that hiring. I will ask the proper people for the opportunity. Thank you for your time; I see that you are busy."

"Too busy," he muttered, making her pause at the door. "There is always something that seems to be left undone. It's absolutely endless."

Cecily realized that he was talking to himself and slipped out quietly. It hadn't worked as she had hoped, but there was still a chance. Mme. Rivardi was the head of the cleaning department. She would apply to her at the first opportunity.

She sighed, fighting back her worry. She had to stay in the Opera!

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Inside his office, M. Benoit Lefevre stared dispassionately at the papers in front of him. He was always doing some piece of busy work or another. He never had time to enjoy the operas that were put on just outside his door. He had made his money to enjoy it, and now he was constantly trapped beyond a pile of paperwork, able to see what he should be doing, but never quite able to reach it.

What he needed was an assistant. Someone who would wade through the endless stream of documents that crossed his desk, leaving him to enjoy the good life. He shook his head. The requirements for such a position would be stiff. The man would have to be good in math, no difficulty with numbers. Being literate in French was an absolute must, but other languages, spoken or written, would be an added bonus. The perfect man for the job would be willing to live and work in the opera, doing all the little things that Lefevre never wanted to attend to. The perfect man for the job…

Lefevre stood up so quickly he knocked he chair over. He paused a moment to right it, then hurried to find Mme. Giry. The ballet instructor had always been helpful when it came to dealing with the staff, and he needed to find out something. He had, in that moment of fantastical wishing, realized that the perfect man for the job was a woman. A woman who had just came to ask him for a job.