Opening night was unusually cool for July; the ladies of the audience donned either cardigans or their dates' jackets while the gentlemen wore their collared shirts and ties more comfortably than was usual for the season. Backstage, however, the cast still suffered the stifling heat that tended to come with heavy costumes, intense stage lights, and the general flurry of pre-show preparations. Some suffered more than others.

"Vanilla, we need more of the guys' lipstick."

"Back cabinet, second shelf."

"Has anyone seen my shoes?"

"In the costume shop, and the loose heel is fixed."

"Mina's curls aren't holding!"

"Use the super-strength spray on her and Fiona, they've got thick hair."

"Miz Rabbit, have you seen the knives for Scene 9? They aren't on the props shelf."

"You know Lumina is props manager, talk to her – what is it, Cream?"

"Momma, can I have some of the cookies in the kitchen?"

"No, dear, that's for after the show."

"Vanilla - "

"What? Oh. Hello, Rouge."

The winged director raised an eyebrow at the sharp response from the normally serene mother. "I was going to ask how the actors are doing, but I suppose I ought to ask how you're doing instead."

"I'll be fine once everyone's ready." Vanilla took a quick look around the room, looking a touch less frazzled than she had. "Which they are, actually. Blaze here is the last one."

It wasn't hard to tell that the young lady sitting in front of them was the aforementioned cat – but it wasn't easy, either. For one, Blaze never wore dresses. Yet the figure in the chair sported a delicately feminine, knee-length number. For another, Blaze didn't have curly headfur. Vanilla was still in the process of changing that.

Rouge smoothed her own dress – a slinky yet tasteful black cocktail complemented by smoky eyes and simple jewelry – and announced, "Five minute to circle!" to the room at large ("Thank you, five!") before placing a hand on her lead actress's should. "Are you ready for this, Maria?"

She expected the young feline to be nervous. She didn't expect her to start violently at the contact and accidently knock the curling iron out of Vanilla's hand.

"Sorry!" Blaze exclaimed, adding "I'm fine" when the rabbit fussed over a burn mark Blaze knew she wouldn't find.

Rouge observed her quickened breathing and the fidgeting and thought she'd best ward off the stage fright while it was still in its early stages. "Vanilla, you go on ahead for make-up checks. I can finish up here."

The two women exchanged meaningful looks and Vanilla nodded once before turning and exiting, shooing various cast members before her. "Alright everyone, to the stage for circle. Come on, out out out!"

Within moments, Rouge and Blaze were the only ones left in the makeup room. Rouge picked up the curling iron from where it had fallen on the floor and took up where Vanilla had left off. Blaze sat silently, gaze averted from the mirror as her reflection became less hers and more Maria's.

"You're awfully quiet tonight." Rouge tugged an uncooperative curl into place, trapping it with a bobby pin. "Nervous?"

As if she had to ask. "Yes."

"That's to be expected on your first lead. Did I ever tell you about my first starring role? Roxie in Chicago. So excited, practiced my lines every waking moment, but come opening night I was so jittery that during the trial scene, I plead guilty. Now that took some creative ad-libbing to get out of."

Rouge watched Blaze's lips twitch upward and smiled herself as she finished off her work with a cream-colored ribbon that matched Blaze's costume. "In the end," she added, "I found it helped to think of one specific person who'd be in the audience that night - whether it was a cousin, an old roommate, or even my favorite bartender – and pretend I was only performing for them. I know you don't have very many people like that left, but if for no one else, just sing for him."

All the tension that had slowly been disappearing returned as Blaze stiffened. "But he's the problem."

So much for Rouge thinking she understood the situation. "How so?"

Blaze's amber eyes finally lifted from her lap to meet Rouge's turquoise in the mirror. "I couldn't care less about everyone else in that room, but if I disappoint him, after all his teaching - if that were to go to waste…"

Rouge considered her words carefully before she spoke. "Honey, I've been working at this theatre for ten years, and I've known of him that whole time. And in all that time, he never spoke to a single other employee, much less tutored one – until you. You've spoken with him - do you think he would have chosen to break his silence for just anyone?"

Blaze's gaze dropped in contemplation. "He said he remembered my father," she said, more to herself than the director. "My father performed here many years ago. He said that Father's playing is the best he's heard here. And there was another time, when it was both Father and me performing – I was so young, I'd forgotten this was where we were – he heard and he knew I was capable of singing so much better. He – "

The actress stopped suddenly mid-monologue and turned in her chair, amber eyes narrowing as she looked intently at the older woman. "How do you know him?"

Rouge instantly became guarded, face wiped of any revealing expressions. "I'm a bat – I make it my business to know about things that hide in the dark."

Blaze would not be so easily deterred. "Have you ever seen him?" No answer. "Do you know his name?"

Rouge didn't even acknowledge the questions. "You're done. It's time for circle."

Blaze stared at her director in a manner that would have done her huntress ancestors proud. The bat stared right back. With a slight huff and twitch of her tail Blaze acknowledged her defeat and stood up to leave, the clack of her heels punctuating each step to the door.

"Shadow."

The feline froze in the doorway and spun on a dime. "What?"

"It's not his name, but I call him Shadow." Rouge said it as disinterestedly as if she were ordering supplies. "Any other nosy questions?"

"Just one - who else knows about him?"

"Hohoho! Do you mean to tell me that no one has told you of the Ghost of Broadway?"

The youngest of the actresses looked at each other nervously and shook their heads. Some sat on the edge of the worn couch, leaning forward, while others sat cross-legged on the floor and clung to throw pillows in anticipation of the chilling tale that was sure to follow. The old janitor that had spoken grinned like a Cheshire cat – he never could resist a captive audience. "Well then, let me be the first!"

"Maybe you've noticed that whenever a prop has gone missing or the wrong sound cue plays during a rehearsal, the older employees will blame it on 'the Ghost.'" A few of the girls nodded. "The Ghost has been a legend here for nearly fifty years, a mysterious, mischievous individual that will take any opportunity to cause problems with productions – completely fictional, of course." The rotund custodian suddenly stuck out a skinny arm, finger wagging. "Or so the grown-ups will tell you. The truth is the Ghost is real, and while it is true that he is usually only a prankster, his past is much darker.

"The Ghost first appeared after a horrible incident during a performance. The final scene called for the main character and his rival to have a duel with pistols. The props were real pistols - but loaded with blanks, of course. The actors performed the scene, and the main character died as the script dictated. But then it was time for curtain call, and still the lead actor lay on the floor." Light gleamed off the speaker's spectacles, highlighting his expression of what could only be called morbid delight. "The rest of the cast approached and realized that the pool of blood he lay in was not stage blood, but the real thing. Someone had loaded that gun with real bullets. The actor had actually been shot, and he died later that night." A couple of girls gasped in horror.

"It was a scandal, of course. The investigation went on for months, and the theatre nearly went out of business." He stroked his bushy mustache idly. "In the end, the official report was that it was an accident, and the props master was fired, though not charged. The theatre re-opened, and everyone put the tragedy behind them. But then more accidents happened, and the employees began to talk…"

The narrator's soft chortle suddenly seemed ominous. "Some wondered if it was the spirit of the victim, still upset over the mix-up. Others said that it was clear the death was no accident, and that the Ghost was trying to take revenge on his murder. But the most popular opinion – the one that everyone secretly believes today – is that the Ghost was the murderer, and that he is still hiding from justice, searching for his next victim."

"You may not see him, but this is a very large building, with so many dark, empty rooms. How many times have you heard a tapping or creaking you couldn't explain?" A distant thump had the youngest clinging to each other and the oldest glancing about nervously. "He wanders the theatre, always seeing, but never seen. But every once in a while, he is careless and spotted, and that is when he is at his most dangerous." The janitor's gloved hands spread and hovered above his audience, as if they were ravens waiting to swoop. "So ladies, if you ever find yourself in the dark with a pair of eyes – blood-red eyes that are icy cold yet can burn like fire! – run as if your life depends on it… because it does."

An uneasily hush fell over his audience, until – "Mr. Ivo!" – the wound-up girls shrieked at an octave Amy herself would envy - "I do 'ope you ain't gabbin' about t'Ghost again. Y' know Rouge don't loike it."

Ivo Kintobor leaned on the handle of his mop and gave the intruder his most disarming smile. "Now Marine, what's the harm of telling a story to the children?"

The raccoon frowned from where she rested against the doorway of the green room, "Th' 'arm? When th' nippers start screamin' an' runnin' about loike 'eadless chooks, Rouge'll chuck a spaz, that's th' 'arm."

The janitor scowled, enormous mustache bristling. "Director's pet," he muttered. "Mind your own business."

"Well, show's startin', lamb-brain, so 'ush."

The bereaved Maria lay sprawled over what was once her beloved Tony. Members of both gangs came forward, moved by her devotion and her refusal to kill even after she had lost the one closest to her. She sat up and allowed them to lift his body, and they carried him, friends and enemies alike, with the honor of a fallen comrade. And as Maria followed them out, her scarf draped over her head in the manner of a widow, the street lights faded to black, and the silence was suddenly filled with the applause of hundreds, which turned to a standing ovation when Blaze reemerged for curtain call.

Afterward, the lobby buzzed with approval of the new lead actress. Amy's singing, although impressive in its range, often felt artificial and one-dimensional. Blaze's may have not been as perfect in its mechanics, but it was beautifully emotive. Even the oldest, most pernickety patrons had to admit that the feline showed promise (before they returned to complaining about poor lighting choices and sub-par set design). When the actors filed out into the lobby, Blaze was quickly engulfed by a crowd of well-wishers.

"I've never heard Maria portrayed so well!"

"Magnificent, dear."

"Bwaah! I – hiccup – still can't – sob – stop cryiiiing…"

"I wanna be a singer just like you when I grow up!"

Blaze smiled weakly at the praise, gamely posing with patrons for photos, even signing the little one's program, but it was clear to Marine that her friend's mind was elsewhere. After half an hour, when the throng of Mobians showed no sign of letting up, she finally moved from her spot in the arrangement of actors and intervened.

"Oi'm sorry, shelias 'n blokes, but th' 'igher-ups need 'er backstage." The raccoon snagged Blaze by the arm and guided her out of the mob to a chorus of disappointed groans.

"Thanks, Marine."

"Aw, don't. Oi couldn't leave y'out there when y're so obviously bushed. But strewth, Blaze, y'oughta be tuckered - y'were ripper tonoight!"

Blaze allowed herself a wry smile. "So I've been told."

"Alroight, I'll 'ush up so y'can make tracks. But would y'like t'grab a cuppa t'morrow mornin'?"

"I suppose. I'll call you when I wake up."

Backstage wasn't quite the reprieve Marine hoped it would be, as most of the actors (save Scourge and the absent Amy) voiced their praise in between hanging up costumes and wiping off makeup. Even Sonic and Knuckles dropped by for the sole purpose of congratulating Blaze.

"You may have single-handedly saved this establishment, Blaze," Knuckles admitted as he shook her hand.

"Which means it's time for an epic cast party, right?" Sonic threw his arms around the two of them. "C'mon, best part of being in theatre!"

Blaze gently shook herself free. "Thanks, but I'll pass."

Knuckles nodded. "I guess that performance must've taken a lot out of you. We'll see you tomorrow night, then."

"But you're coming next time, right?" Sonic yelled as Knuckles dragged him away. Too exhausted to argue, Blaze just nodded. As soon as her dress was hung up and her make-up washed off, she bid a good night to the rest of the cast and disappeared into the stairwell that led to her apartment.

The rest of the theatre employees were not nearly as exhausted as Blaze. They lingered in the quadrant, waiting for someone to decide where they'd go for their customary post-opening-night celebration.

"So there's this great nightclub that's just down the road – "

Rouge glared at him. "No, Sonic, there are children in this cast. We're going to Chuck's."

"Aw, just have Vanilla take them."

"No, Sonic. Do we have enough drivers?"

"I can take four."

"I've got room for six – seven if we count the trunk." ("No, Mina.")

"Mama brought the minivan so she can drive too."

"I wanna ride with Miss Vanilla!"

"Anyone who doesn't like techno better not be riding with me!"

In short, it was a chaos of camaraderie – laughter, inside jokes, banter, the stress and tension of preparation and performance turned to relief and celebration. Sonic was right – it was one of the best parts of being in theatre.

That festive banter was silenced a moment later when it was cut by a shrill scream.

"Mama!" Cream shrieked, but by that point Rouge and her managers had already run off to investigate.

They found the mother rabbit at the entrance to the maintenance area in the basement, pressed against the doorframe, hand clutching at her heart, eyes wide with terror and shock. For right in front of her, at the foot of the steps, lay Ivo Kintobor, his egg-shaped body devoid of life.

A clamor of footsteps arose as many of the other cast members caught up. They reacted with various gasps and cries, and Lily, one of the very girls who had been enthralled by the janitor's tales that very evening, shrieked, "The Ghost! It was the Ghost of Broadway!"

Rouge whirled about, her own shock broken by the young voice. "Why did you let the children come?" she yelled at no one in particular. "Get them out of here! Go!"

Nothing less than Rouge's tone of absolute authority could have overruled the actors' sense of morbid curiosity. The older staff members grabbed the younger ones and scurried off without so much as a glance over the shoulder - Knuckles took care of supporting and gently leading the traumatized Vanilla.

"So, no cast party?"

Rouge glared at Sonic, who made his hasty retreat. The moment everyone was out of sight, Rouge exhaled and fell against the wall, her eyes closing in a pained expression. Reluctantly, she pulled out her phone and dialed.

"Police? I'd like to report a death…"

And now it's time for Author's Notes with petite-dreamer, the part of the chapter where petite-dreamer comes out and apologizes profusely for taking a full year (again) to update. I'd blame student teaching, but I had the entire summer to write and... well, that didn't happen, obviously. I think I owe A Reserved Deduction an apology fic now.

Also, more theatre terms/concepts:

- How long it takes to get ready for a performance is directly proportional to the complexity of make-up and hair styling required. Sometimes actors will have to come in a full hour earlier than the rest of the cast, especially those playing elderly characters. Yaaay, latex wrinkles.

- Circle is maybe just us? I don't know? Before the audience is allowed into the house (seating area), cast, stage hands, ushers, and production people alike gather on the stage. We sometimes mention if we know specific people seeing the performance, what people have told us about the previous night's performance, and the director prays for us (Christian college and all). And then the director does a quick makeup check on the actors.

- If someone from production comes to tell people in the makeup room or green room that something is happening in a certain number of minutes (i.e. "ten to circle"), the appropriate response to indicate that you have heard is to say thank you followed by whatever number of minutes you were told (i.e. "thank you ten!").

- I'm pretty sure cast parties are a universal thing in theatre. I mean, you've sold your soul to get the production done, you're going to want to celebrate not completely botching it. Ours are usually at the director's house, we all bring a snack, there is sometimes karaoke, and there is always Prince of Paris. Look it up.

- At my uni, we also have a post-opening-night outing, usually to Steak and Shake, which is separate from the cast party. Then we all get back really late and crash and sleep until an hour before we have to get reading for that night's performance.

Also, also [rant alert - feel free to leave now], some of you may be aware of the existence of Love Never Dies. Those of you who aren't are the fortunate ones.

Why Andrew Lloyd Webber thought it was a good idea to write a sequel for Phantom, despite the fact that there is no source material to base it on (as opposed to the original that was a French novel) is beyond me. As such, it is nothing more than glorified fanfiction, and his Phantom/Christine OTP is showing. Basically, Christine changed her mind and shacked up with the Phantom the night before her wedding to Raoul (and got preggers), Raoul turns into a definitely gambling possibly alcoholic jerk, Meg wants the Phantom to be obsessed with her instead of Christine, and everyone decided to move to Coney Island so the ladies could be Vaudeville singers. Yeahhh. The music doesn't even have that dark, seductive tone that was the entire reason the Phantom was appealing in the first place (with the barest exception of "Devil Take the Hindmost"). And then Christine dies in America, completely contradicting the end of the original. Gah. [end rant]