VI. Leading Ladies are a Trial

Her chin thrust forward, her fists at her hips, Carlotta Giudicelli glared at the room in general. Once again, she was furious.

Before her, the managers were practically cringing, and Monsieur Reyer was once again wiping his forehead with his handkerchief, as always in such situations. However, the man Delannay had sent was not impressed at all.

"Zis is a disgrrace!" Carlotta tried again. "I object to being trreated like some chorrus girrl!" But she had the nasty suspicion that it showed no effect at all.

"Signora –" André began, raising his hands assuagingly, but the pale, dark-haired man cut him off with a lazy wave. "I gather that it never was you who chose the program," he said. He did not speak loudly, he had never raised his voice until now. But there was something captivating in it, a strange fascination, as if under its gentle velvet a blade lay hidden. "As far as you are concerned, Madame, nothing changes. Nothing at all. Or does it?"

Carlotta considered this. Of course things had changed since the year before! For example, she had noted how respect was decreasing rapidly, and even more so ever since this so-called Phantom had started to appear on stage himself. The man possessed some talent, she had to admit to herself grudgingly, but that was no justification at all for his outrageous audacity of attempting to dethrone her! And now this Michel Delannay had arrived with his horrible mob, and Carlotta felt she was not being respected at all, let alone properly appreciated.

"In fact, Monsieur LaCroix," Firmin dared to interject, "it does. Because, you see –"

"I was talking to Madame Giudicelli, man." Another would have said this in a cross way, yet still the man spoke very gently. He had a deep and oddly warm voice, and yet his eyes were cold, cold and black.

Firmin bit his lower lip visibly and fell silent at once. From the corner of her eye, Carlotta could see how he began to tug at the lapels of his maroon-coloured jacket nervously.

"Madame," LaCroix continued in the same tone of cool politeness, "I take it you performed alongside a certain man a couple of times, a man best known as Phantom."

Carlotta felt inclined to sharply voice her opinion of this man he was referring to – arrogant, rude, brutal, shameless and downright evil summed him up quite well – but then, on second thought, did her best to swallow down her anger. LaCroix was up to something, and she was not stupid enough to walk into a trap open-eyed. "I had ze doubtful pleasurre, yes," she conceded. True, the man could sing, but he was no way as good as the late Ubaldo Piangi had been.

Her partner. The one the Phantom had murdered. Under the control of another, as it was said – and the memory of the one occasion where she had met Créon still was enough to make her shudder – but all the same, it had been him who had killed Piangi.

"Would you rather work with this man, I wonder, or do as Councillor Delannay wishes?" Again LaCroix spoke very gently, but the underlying message was obvious: You had better be grateful Delannay is here. Are you grateful, or are you not? Because if you should decide you are not…

Carlotta swallowed. Oh, the humiliation of this! But there was no way out of this city, not anymore. She should have thought of leaving long ago. But then again, where should she have gone in wild times like these? News from her native Italy were far from good as well, unrest had taken the states; the Vatican was under siege and a movement to unite its countries had gripped the nation, from the Lombard realm in the north to the Kingdom of Sicily in the south.

If there was any way to make it to Spain…

Too late. She was trapped within a besieged city now, and what was worse, a city currently controlled by some who probably could not even spell the word culture.

"You see," LaCroix continued, "what I'm offering you is, in fact, a deal. You do as the Council asks you to, and in return you may soon be rid of this Phantom forever."

Carlotta met his gaze, those glittering eyes that seemed dark as obsidian, and instinctively felt that if he said forever, then he meant it. She swallowed again. What choice did she have?

At last she nodded, but at the same time the nagging feeling was stealing into the back of her head that she would rather put up with this Phantom.

Nonsense, of course, she told herself. It was only because currently she had to face this eerie LaCroix, who seemed more ghostly than the infamous Opera Ghost.

A thought came unbidden, suddenly filled her mind: When nobody was on her own side, would she have to choose sides herself?