AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm working at the second from last chapter of Book Three at the moment, which will contain quite a few surprises. g Thanks for all your congrats for my good marks, they were appreciated. ;) New author policy: Reviewers may pat my Erik. ;-) (Gosh, I'm such a sucker for reviews…)

Pertie: He's up to no good, of course, but you'll find out soon enough… It's very useful I'm taking Forensic Medicine this year, that's all I'm saying… twisted leer Thanks for congratulating me, I still feel rather smug. ;-)

Polly: See who's stopped lurking. g The history geek inside you is wriggling? More than that is wriggling inside your head, if you ask me… lol But right, you're a saint, you're allowed to have wriggly bits about your personality. :-) About Mme Giry and Reyer… I'm hinting at lots and lots of possible "ships", but those two… I don't think so. Reyer is an asexual being to me somehow. :) And yes, Erik's going to be a wicked, wicked boy now… ;)

Ashley: About the crane: It was at the zoo, and I was very small and was holding onto the wire fence, and this large crane came and curiously pecked at my hand. Luckily I was wearing gloves. lol In this chapter, you'll find someone more to hate. Does that comfort you? g Yes, ickle Ghostie is growing his hair in the Holiday Special, so you could say it's long already. No, you can't cut it, sorry, he needs it for this story here. ;-) But I think a snuggle will be possible, I just don't know yet when exactly. ;)

The Musician of the Night: Thanks. Everything will sort itself out? Nah, Erik is going to sort it out. ;-)

TheQueenSarah: Wow, some more lovely reviews. No need to feel guilty about not reviewing everything and immediately. :) You write music? Wow. I couldn't do that, I'm utterly unoriginal as far as music is concerned. I can play practically anything on my violin, but composing? No talent at all. Yes, I won't have Erik sneering at everybody. In theory he hates the whole world, but practically he does admit there are others (or certain talents in them) he appreciates. About "Raoul-keeping", you summed it up nicely, he considers Raoul a bothersome little boy who has to be kept under close surveillance. And Raoul can behave a little childishly at times. As for the animals, I just gave it some thoughts and then came up with this as the most plausible way, since it corresponds with their senses. Well, Raoul is not stupid, and neither is he blind, and he has a good heart, so he was bound to eventually understand. About his Church opinion, I'm glad to get a positive remark about it, since I don't consider myself a Christian and so wasn't sure whether his point of view was believable. The toughest scene for me is where Christine gives him back the ring, so we almost agree. ;) And it reminds me of something in my past just as well, so I understand what you mean. As for your other review, the fire imagery is even more important in this story than in KotC; it begins with fire, so to say, and fire carries a significance throughout the story. Just keep an eye open for it. ;-)

Bea: Don't you like the concept of Raoul in tights? lol You never know about the managers, wouldn't trust them either. They don't like your favourite Ghostie, remember? And about the question what I was waiting for: Some more reviews, in fact. g

Alisendre: About the titles… well, I just pick one and hope it fits. ;)

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II. I bid you welcome

Michel Delannay scanned his surroundings suspiciously. This was going to be his office? Well, it was not bad, but it looked a bit too expensive, for his taste. A little tasteless, even. Maybe. He would have to consider this later on, when there was more time. Maybe he and LaCroix would change it a bit.

That was, if he really let LaCroix use that second desk. He had not quite decided on that matter.

Making sure that it did not seem too hurried, he let his gaze return to those before him. He sitting, them standing… excellent. Just as he wanted it. And he was not going to offer them seats. After all, they should see who was in charge here from now on. "So," he began slowly. LaCroix would steeple his fingers now, he was sure, but Delannay was not the man to steeple his fingers. Delannay was a very practical man. "Messieurs André and Firmin, the managers, Monsieur Reyer, the conductor, Madame Giry, the ballet instructor, and Monsieur Gabriel, the chorus master. Am I correct?"

There were several affirmative nods, and the shorter of the managers – André, if he remembered it correctly – replied, "Yes, that's right."

But they had not given all their names, apparently. "So who are those other chaps?"

"Our tenors," answered the woman, smiling slightly. "Faithful as dogs."

Two of the men in question grinned at that. Both were young men, in their late twenties perhaps, one maybe a little older.

"Do you have names?"

"Pierre Leblanc, monsieur," the older of the two introduced himself. He had a handsome, but altogether not noteworthy face and brown hair parted more or less precisely in the middle.

"Patrice Roux." The other's hair was sandy-coloured and a little two long for Delannay's taste; it hung over his ears in untidy curls.

The third did not reply. He merely answered Delannay's look by a sharp stare of his own, out of cold blue eyes. He was tall, taller than most others, and his chestnut-coloured hair was bound back in a short ponytail, which in itself made Delannay frown. There was something utterly impertinent about him, not only about his hairstyle and his unblinking stare, but also about the way he leaned against the doorframe with one shoulder lazily, both hands in his trouser pockets. While his two colleagues wore what passed for suits, he was dressed in what could best be described as leisure clothes, rather loose-fitting and even a little crumpled. He had combined a pair of khaki trousers with a velvet jacket in a darker brown, and it was not even a jacket one might wear with a suit. At least his shirt was white, yet the topmost three buttons were left open, and he wore no cravat of any kind. Not that Delannay cared much about a person's clothing, but those snobbish opera people might at least show some respect by putting on their best. Yet this one… this one was bold, it seemed. And strangely, he had something about his bearing that suggested it was not him who was being impertinent, but everybody else. Moreover, he carried a definite air of elegance, even if his shirt was not tucked into his trousers properly at one side.

And there was something else, too: This one was dangerous. Delannay instinctively felt it, a strange predatory quality about the man, as if he were about to pounce any moment. To pounce, and to kill.

And his eyes sent a chill down Delannay's back.

Yet something about him was… wrong. Delannay could not put a finger on it, but he was certain there was. He tried to concentrate, but it felt like he was enshrouded in a wisp of fog that would not leave his eyes, and he was attempting to part that veil vainly…

But he would not allow himself to be intimidated by some arrogant rogue, odd feeling or not! "And you?" he demanded sharply. "Haven't you heard the question?"

The reaction of the assembled was most unsettling. They looked at the man, or at least at the place where he stood, then at each other, and all their features clearly showed irritation. "I beg your pardon," André said at last, "but who were you just talking to?"

The man in the brown velvet jacket smiled.

"That one," Delannay answered impatiently, pointing his chin. "Speak up, man."

Again everybody looked at the doorframe. "Who?" the woman said.

The conductor, a thin man with a little greyish-white moustache, shook his head. "There is nobody there."

"Don't play with me," Delannay snapped. "The man in brown. Right at your shoulder, madame." Did they not realize he could have them all executed?

And then something most peculiar happened: The ballet instructor held out her hand in the indicated direction – and reached right through the man! "There's nobody there," she repeated Reyer's words.

Delannay swallowed. Nobody there. Was he going mad? Or was this some trickery of theirs?

Perhaps, a bodiless voice in his head whispered, you should ask them about the Opera Ghost…

Nonsense! The Opera Ghost was a fable, nothing more, a story to draw more people into the Opéra Populaire!

Haven't you read the papers lately, then?

That rubbish about that so-called Phantom being real? As if he were that gullible!

Gullible? Only a fool denies what he sees before him with his own eyes.

Trickery! All trickery!

And who is that voice in your head, then?

Who… Indeed, yes! What was he hearing there? Was he really going mad? Well, he had had a busy day, but all the same, never before had he hallucinated!

Again he had the feeling of vainly trying to wave away a foggy cloud from before his eyes.

Seeing is believing, Monsieur Delannay. Or should I rather say, hearing is believing?

The man in the velvet jacket was still smiling, but his lips had not moved one single time.

Should he have a word with LaCroix about this? No, better not. What was LaCroix to think? So what else was he to do about it? See a physician? No. He could not afford to show weakness, not in his position.

Well, there was one thing he could try… "Aren't you going to tell me a few stories about that Opera Ghost of yours?" he asked gruffly, avoiding to look at the apparently invisible man.

He watched their faces closely, but in none of them a muscle moved. "Maybe he will see you," the ballet instructor said lightly. "If you ask politely enough, that is."

How dare she? "Watch your tongue, woman!" he snapped.

Watch yours, filth.

The ballet instructor threw him what he would consider a dirty look, her chin held high. Very well, someone he would keep an eye on. Someone he might have to get rid of.

"So you insist he exists?" He should not seem too curious, but still… he needed to find out about this. Maybe there were ghosts, who knew?

They all nodded in unison. "We've seen him often enough," Firmin said. "He's easy to recognize."

"He wears a mask," André added. "Always. Usually a white one, and only over the right side of his face. And a sweeping black cloak."

"And an evening dress," Leblanc spoke up. "Even in the afternoon."

"All in black," supplied Madame Giry, who was wearing black herself.

"But I've seen him in a bronze-coloured waistcoat," Roux interjected.

"No, it's green," Leblanc protested immediately.

"Bronze-coloured!" Roux insisted.

"Green. Dark green. Do you think I'm blind?"

"D'you think I am?"

Delannay wanted to tell them to be quiet, but Madame Giry was faster, making them fall silent with just a wave of her hand. It seemed that she carried some authority among the singers, too; definitely something Delannay would have to remember.

"He is everywhere," the woman said quietly. "And nowhere."

"And you think I should believe that?" He always wore a mask… That invisible man wore none, but Delannay was not too sure whether that was calming.

Oh, that irritating, irritating fog!

Maybe he should mention something to LaCroix after all?

No, enough of that! The ballet instructor's reaching through that man might just have been a trick. A trick, yes. They were trying to fool them. And they would not succeed! He would never allow it!

You know, said the bodiless voice in his head, I harbour a specific dislike for ridiculous little men who think they understand everything.

Delannay refused to listen.

Right opposite him, the mysterious man still smiled, wearing a smug look that was most annoying.

"Fine," Delannay said decidedly. "Here's what you're going to do. Your performances will continue as usual, and so will the rehearsals, but the managers find themselves a new office. Apart from that, do things as you always do them. Just keep going. And leave the cellars to me. One man sets foot below the first level and he's a dead man. Is that understood?"

They all nodded, and Delannay thought he saw a hint of tension in both the conductor's and the ballet instructor's face. He decided to keep an eye on both.

Were they hiding something in the cellars, perhaps? Just as Delannay was intending to hide something? Well, he would find out soon enough, wouldn't he?

Your grasp of rhetoric about equals that of a monkey screeching in a tree.

Delannay shot the man in brown a look of pure loathing, no matter whether he was there or not. If he was just trying to fool him –

And then it happened. As the others had filed out of the room, the man gave him a brief, mocking nod, then dissolved into nothingness.