Friday: The Obligatory Nod to Phantom

"Holy guacamole." I repeated to the ceiling.

"What?" Alex asked blearily in my ear. There was a brief pause as the events of last night caught up with him as well. "Oh. Did we…"

"Kiss?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Um, don't take this the wrong way, but maybe we should…not. Right now," he said, trying to extract himself from the bed with dignity. There is no possible way to do this when you have two beds taking up the entire room.

"Yeah." I said, trying not to sound too relieved. I wasn't entirely sure what had just happened between us, but a romance was the last thing I needed at the moment. Maybe.

"Breakfast?" I asked.

"More like lunch."

"Brunch then."

"Brunch?" Alex asked. I remembered that they called it elevenses around here.

"It's not quite breakfast; it's not quite lunch, but it comes with a slice of cantaloupe at the end."

Over food the awkwardness disappeared. It wasn't even the first time Alex and I had woken up curled up together. Lorelei had arranged a bed-sharing rota for when the band was on tour, and there was that one time we had managed to fit eight people in two hotel beds.

It was, however, the first time that sort of frisson had passed between us. But between the familiar stress of preparing for a gig, and the unfamiliar stress of suddenly finding ourselves in another century, we were both becoming increasing dependent on each other. Not a happy situation for two ordinarily fiercely independent people, and not the best basis for a relationship. Maybe if we got back…

I pushed away the thought. Either we would get back, or we wouldn't. Right now, I had to focus on the job at hand.

There were no scheduled rehearsals today, partially because the usual rest days of Saturday and Sunday were given over to performances and partially in the hope that no more disasters would occur in the interval. This meant the canteen backstage was nearly empty, and the quality of the food had taken a serious upswing. In cafeteria kitchens, quality and quantity are always inversely related. It also meant that we could discuss our new-found case.

I was wearing the indigo sari today. Last night's adventures didn't seem to have caused the scarlet sari any harm, but I didn't want to take the risk of damaging it. I was going to have to contact Mrs. Jhavari again about getting a couple more saris in cotton or linen for everyday wear. I needed a night dress as well. Right now I was sleeping in the shirt and sarong I had arrived in, but that was not going to work for much longer. A laundry would be useful…

That thought stopped me cold. I didn't dare think about acquiring a real wardrobe, or making living arrangements. If I started thinking like that, we might actually be stuck here. I had to believe that we would find a way out, somehow.

"So," I said, trying to distract myself. "I suppose it could be Mr. Loman or Squires." I said. "Sabotaging their own Opera and blaming it on LaValle would probably be a boost for our ticket sales."

"I don't think so." Alex said, breaking a piece of toast into tiny crumbs. "Neither of them would want to admit that LaValle outmaneuvered him. It must be someone on the stage crew. They're the only ones who have unquestioned access to the entire Opera House."

"And they're they only ones who have been attacked." I said. "So maybe they would recognize their attacker." Alex shrugged.

"Billy got hit from behind, as did Barnes. The attacker was just trying to prevent them from raising the alarm."

"Why would they raise an alarm, if they had their backs to the attacker? He could just act innocent or even pretend that he had seen a mysterious figure just run off. What a dimwit."

I know it sounds strange, but there's nothing I hate more than a stupid criminal. The ones who just keep digging themselves in deeper because the only solution they can think of ends with a bullet. At least the smart criminals intend to kill you, neatly and efficiently. Somehow it feels more right.

"How is your boss anyway?"

"The doctor says it a severe concussion and he needs bed rest for several days." Alex grinned suddenly. "He also said that if people were going to keep getting bashed over the head, could we please do it in the morning when he isn't busy. What about what's-his-face? Anderson. Your understudy?" Alex asked.

"Mamma's boy." I said dismissively. "He's too spoiled to realize how bad he is. He wouldn't go in for sabotage; he'd send in momma with her checkbook."

"Ouch." Alex grinned.

"I calls it like I sees it. What about Virgil?" I asked. "He seems nice enough, but he's always sneaking around. What do you think he was really doing last night?"

"Nothing apparently. I went back downstairs for a look around after, uh, we woke up." Alex coughed and stared furiously at his plate. "There wasn't any damage I could see. He might have been telling the truth." Alex added doubtfully.

"Yeah, right."

"I also went exploring last night, while you were out with the band."

"Anything interesting?"

"I found another access hatch to the roof, but nothing else. Unless there are any secret passages I haven't found out about yet, the saboteur isn't hiding out in the Opera House."

"If you were a saboteur trying to prevent the premiere, what would you do?" Alex asked.

I stared into my coffee as I thought. It wasn't too bad, but I have never yet gotten a really good cup of coffee in England. I think it was a sort of cultural revenge for that whole Tea Party business.

"I'd wait until the night of the performance, and then lace lunch with a tranquillizer." Alex whistled softly.

"That's devious." He said, and meant as a compliment.

"What would you do?"

"I'd wait until the night before, when everyone was gone and the house was empty, then I'd drop the chandelier on the floor."

"Very Phantom of the Opera." I said.

"Very effective. You couldn't clear a mess like that away in one day. But we're not thinking about this the right way. Up until now, the saboteur has stuck to petty theft and minor damage. Besides the attacks, the worst thing he's done is attempting to bring down the curtain."

"Okay." I said, thinking out loud. "Assuming my goal is to stop the performance, I'm running out of time. I need to do something big this time. I'm probably on stage crew, so I'll do something involving the technical aspects of opera. Destroy the backdrops? I found the stage manager back where the backdrops are stored. He may have walked in on the attacker."

"No. I spent all day moving those damn things around. The canvas is too heavy to cut apart, and it wouldn't burn easily. Besides, backdrops are interchangeable. He'd have to destroy them all."

"Cut the lights? No lights, no opera."

"He might be able to cut the electricity, but they still have the old gas lamps."

"He could set the place on fire."

"He could try. There are sand and water buckets everywhere, left over from the days when the place was lit with open flame. Besides, he seems to have stayed away from sabotage that could kill people."

"Except for hitting everyone over the head," I muttered. That was one of the many things that annoyed me about Hollywood movies. A concussion isn't an on-off switch. Humans can take a lot of damage, but the brain is kind of sensitive. Even a minor blow can kill, if it lands in the right (or wrong) spot.

"What about destroying instruments or costumes?" Alex asked.

"Pretty much everyone takes their instrument home with them, and there are a few spares in the practice room. And you'd be amazed how quick Mrs. Jhavari is with a needle. What about sending threats to the actors?"

"They'd probably dismiss it as professional jealousy. And there's always an understudy."

"Well, I'm out of ideas." I shrugged. "It would take an awful lot to derail the Opera, especially after all this."

"Solei!" Brook cried, her voice shattering the quiet of the empty canteen. "There you are. I was wondering where you disappeared to last night." She sat down next to me, with a curious glance at Alex the stagehand.

"I went out to the pub with some of the guys in the orchestra." I said.

"Oh." She said, a bit shocked that I would do anything so unladylike as pub crawling. Though it probably didn't count as pub crawling when you stayed in the same pub all night. "Well, I've been looking all over for you. What are you doing today?"

Trying to track down a saboteur, I thought.

"Nothing I suppose." I said.

"Wonderful! You must play accompanist with us." She took my by the hand and stood up.

"Who's us?" I asked, standing reluctantly.

"Mr. Jerome and I. He's the understudy for Manjun." Brook explained, dragging me towards the stage.

"Have fun." Alex called after us. I would have dearly liked to respond, but Brook's presence prevented me, so I had to content myself with cursing in my head.

Brook set me to playing the love duet in the second act. It was one of the longest in all opera and we had to stop several times so either Brook or Jerome could make minor adjustments. For every minute of stage time, there is at least an hour of pedantic rehearsals and mind-numbing repetition. The best musicians can perform in their sleep, and after a while, the music starts to invade your dreams. Both Brook and Jerome were excellent singers, but hearing the same three lines over and over again was starting to get on my nerves.

"Damn and blast!" Brook cried and I crashed to a halt. "It just doesn't sound right, no matter what I do!"

"Practice, practice, practice." Jerome admonished.

"Let's skip it and move on." I suggested, and was ignored by both singers.

"Having fun?" Alex asked. I turned around to see him leaning on the edge of the orchestra pit. The sound of our practice carried through the Opera House and several members of the stage crew had gathered in the stalls, listening with critical appreciation. Virgil was in the second row, passing the inevitable flask between his neighbors.

"You have no idea. Thank God I don't understand a word they're saying; it'd be even more annoying. Where have you been?"

"I took a walk." Alex pulled a folded paper from his back pocket. "Check this out."

He jumped over the ledge separating the house from the orchestra pit and sat next to me on the piano bench. It looked like one of those artsy periodicals that most people subscribe to so they can leave it casually on a table and impress their guests.

"'Spain's La Belleza Gives Tepid Performance at the Garden'?" I read aloud.

"No, the other side."

" 'Listen to the Transcendent Melodies of the White Princess of Calcutta, Recently Arrived on England's Fair Shores from the Wilds of India'" All words failed me and I fell back upon an ancient phrase learned from my British grandma.

"I'll be mogadored."

An artist's rendition of a white Indian princess graced a full-page advert full of calligraphy. She was standing in front of a jungle background, with a tiger curled up at her feet like an overgrown housecat. Tiny lettering at the bottom of the page indicated that the Princess would be playing piano in the grand new opera Bharata, exclusively at the London Opera House.

"I'll be mogadored," I repeated.

"I particularly like the tiger," Alex said. "Nice touch."

"Oh shut up," I snapped automatically. I heard muffled sniggers from the seats.

"Who have you shown this to?" I demanded. Alex just grinned, knowing I knew the answer.

"Oh you'll pay for this one," I promised. "I don't know how, but you'll pay."

"It's a very nice picture of you, Miss," One of the stagehands called with a snigger. It could only be called a picture of me in the loosest sense of the word. She had white skin and blond hair, but that was the only resemblance.

"Oh, thank you very much. I think he particularly captured my eyes."

"Are you ready Solei?" Brook called down. The argument over pitch onstage had resolved itself and the duet was ready to resume.

"Yeah, let me find my place again," I called back. "Budge up; I can't reach the higher octaves." I added to Alex, with a nudge. He moved over to the violin chairs and began leafing through the magazine.

I got precisely seventeen measures into the duet before being interrupted by Marguerite in full fury.

"What is this racket?" She cried, storming onstage. Her tone and her expression were sweet, but it was the sweetness of strychnine dipped in honey.

"Just practicing, Marguerite," Brook replied with forced cheerfulness. "No one else was using the stage."

"Oh, but you've got it all wrong dear. You're completely out of key," I knew Marguerite was just talking trash, as did Brook and everyone else in the vicinity, but Brook flushed a deep red.

"Oh, and it's Miss Solly," Marguerite cried. "How delightful. I can see you're both getting some much needed practice today."

It appeared that Marguerite had added me to her enemies list as well.

"It's Miss Solei," I said icily. My accent, which usually vacillated between East and West End, anchored itself firmly in the aristocratic zone. "By the way Marguerite, have you seen the papers recently?"

"What papers?" Marguerite demanded, taken aback. Alex caught on to what I was doing and whispered, just loud enough for me to hear.

"The Art and Culture of London."

"It's just that I'm a great reader of 'The Art and Culture of London', but I haven't had the chance to see the most recent edition. I wondered if you might have seen anything of interest in its pages?"

The arrow hit its mark. Marguerite turned white, then red. Her breathing became rapid, and I wondered with mild interest if she was going to explode. Marguerite had seen the advert featuring the Indian Princess, and was not happy to have her thunder stolen by a lowly pianist.

"I. have. not." She said, so sharply that each word sounded like its own sentence. She seemed to consider a further reply, but either couldn't think of one scathing enough or she saw that in a battle of wits, I would most likely win. I like to think the latter.

She took a deep breath and turned her attention firmly on Brook, who was fighting back laughter.

"In any case, I was just dropping by to see what that awful noise was," Marguerite said, with a bit more acid in her tone. Brook's smile disappeared.

"Perhaps you'd like to show me how to sing it?" She said through gritted teeth.

"Oh, I'd love to, I'm sure," Marguerite sighed. "But I've got so much to do. You know the life of a great singer take quite a lot of work."

"Nice one," Alex said softly. I turned and saw him stretched on his back across five violin chairs, "The Art and Culture of London" draped like a tent over his chest.

"Thanks for the assist," I replied, turning back to the drama unfolding onstage. I heard a creaking sound, as if a stressed out piece of metal was about to give way. Before I could process this thought though, several things happened very fast.

"Solei!" Alex shouted, jumping to his feet, scattering the chairs. He launched himself at me in a flying rugby tackle as I began to turn. The impact sent us both sprawling in the opposite direction.

The piano exploded in a major chord of broken strings and splintering wood. One ivory key hung forlornly from the keyboard and dropped to the ground with a sad tink that echoed throughout the house.

Author's note

Regarding Jerome: So it turns out, I originally gave Jerome the same name as the main villain. I didn't notice, and apparently no one else noticed either. I really recommend a website called . it's one of those websites that really sucks you in for hours, at a time, but it's also really valuable for making you think about how you have constructed your story and why. This was initially a violation of the "One Steve Limit"

Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.