2

The manager gazed at the letter on his desk, 'requesting' a payment for protection. It seemed to Jacques that he had inherited the ghost. For a time there had been peace, and then a year ago, the letters had begun. The multifaceted tragedy of several years before had become gossip or talk for thrill seekers, and was lost to memory by the rest. Patrons of the opera might not have forgotten, but they did not speak of it. To his mind, it showed sense.

His letters were different from those of his predecessors. They helped him carry out his vision, and stabilize the shaken company, at a cost of course. It made no difference, as he had written in one of his replies; as long as I remain manager, a privilege I paid dearly for already, and no one is physically injured, I can accept your terms, sir.If you leave me in relative peace, I will return the favor and pay for your cooperation.

Jacques sighed and slid the paper into his desk. He would see to it in the morning, after his duties of this evening were complete and he'd had some sleep. He glanced up as a woman entered the office. "Ah, Marie, I was beginning to think you'd run off with the tenor."

"I'd rather kiss a dancing monkey." She replied, her green eyes glimmering under the lamp. Her green silk dress was trimmed in black, and her red-blonde hair arranged in a neat roll. Her features were rather too sharp to be called pretty, but she carried herself well, and behaved as one who knew that she belonged precisely where she was. Handsome was what most would have called her. "What was that you were reading so attentively?"

"Nothing, just a bill. I wanted to be sure the amount was correct. Have you decided to come and sing for us, Mademoiselle? I would pay you well, and you should be treated in all ways like a goddess."

She smiled tightly, the wide, straight mouth moving in a practiced way. "Maybe. I will not refuse, but I will not accept. Not until after tonight's performance."

Jacques sighed knowingly as they moved from the office into the lobby. "You wish to see what you would be forced to work alongside every day." People had long since taken their seats, only a few remained and were hurrying to make their seats on time. Marie nodded, and her face softened a little. He knew that she would not like much of what she saw; her eyes were too practiced from years of performance to miss a single clue as to the people behind the production. He might as well bid farewell to the idea of a decent coloratura soprano.

A little girl skipped happily by, pausing to let them pass her. Jacques greeted her, remembering that she was one of the children employed in odd jobs around the building. She looked less rumpled than usual, in a pressed blue dress and lace collar. Her hair had been forced into a braid. "Good evening, monsieur, madame," She said politely, and curtsied.

Marie instantly liked the child, and bobbed her head in reply. "Good evening, dear. Are you alone?"

The child seemed surprised at the response, but shook her head. "No, my uncle is with me. I only forgot a program." She held the folded paper out to prove it. The earnest look in her eyes brought a real smiled to Marie's lips. She had never seen a more natural girl, unafraid and polite. It quite refreshed her.

"Do your parents not come to the opera?" Marie ignored Jacques' impatience, as she bent towards the girl.

A look of solemn confusion crossed the little girl's face, but she said evenly, "No, they can't. Even if they could, Mama never cared for opera."

"Ah, well," Jacques said, worrying over being late in front of his patrons, "I wish a good evening, child."

With that, she took off, up the stairs towards to boxes.

The performance was not spellbinding to anyone but Katrina. She sat in box five, on her uncle's bony knees, thoroughly enjoying herself. She could see the nice woman in green watching the event, her face like stone. Katrina wondered what had made her angry. Had she not had a good dinner? Had Monsieur Jacques quarreled with her? Courting couples fought sometimes, even in her village. Was this mystery woman courting Monsieur Jacques? Katrina didn't like that thought. Instead, she watched the daemons dance around the stage, wondering if Carl had complained about his hosiery before the program had begun.

As they people filed out of the theater, Katrina glanced up at her uncle. Sometimes, he would hide his face, and walk out with her, pretending they were leaving. Then, they would enter again through the secret grate. At other times, Katrina would walk out alone, finding her way through the cellars to the lake. Tonight, however, they went through the hidden passage in the pillar, and walked together by the light of a lantern.

"Did you see the woman with Monsieur Jacques?" She asked, after they had passed the point anyone could hear them.

"There were many women in his box, child."

"Not one of the stuffed geese, the woman in green."

"Yes, I saw her."

"She and Monsieur Jacques were going in together. She spoke to me, and was very nice. Do you know who she is?"

"No." He replied, and there was a moment of silence. Erick realized then that she had not been going to tell him, but was hoping for information. "I've never seen her before, Katrina. Perhaps she is a relative visiting."

She thought about that. "No, he wouldn't have any relatives that nice." Suddenly brightening, she asked, "Are you going to work on the organ part again tonight?"

"The violin part. The organ is finished."

She clapped her hands, "I can't wait to hear them. What are you going to do after that?"

He sighed. "Continue to work with you on your lessons. Which, I must say, have failed as of late."

"Oh, please don't send me to school! It's so much nicer working with you, Uncle Erick."

A smile touched his face, and he smoothed her wild hair. "No, child, I would not send you away as long as I can help you. But, the time will come when Uncle Erick will not be your only teacher."

"But he will be my favorite!" She cried, and latched onto his leg with all her might.

Stopping, he waited for her to release the grip that prevented him from walking. Even after a year, he was unused to open affections, and less so to the simple acceptance of his sister's child.

After leaving home, he had wandered for years before discovering he had a younger sister. Life had done its damage, and he decided not to care. Many years after that, Sarah had found him in Paris. She was engaged, and wanted to at least write from time to time. She may not have been overwhelmingly loving towards him, but she would do what a sister should. He had reluctantly agreed, and a handful of letters were exchanged, ended by Katrina's plea for comfort.

The loss of his own misguided love made him yearn for a real usefulness. He had slipped back to the opera, rearranged the labyrinth below, and rebuilt a haven. None were looking for him now, and he reasoned from Sarah's letters that the aunt was not kind. Perhaps he could help an orphaned, unwanted child, and better, the child of his own sister.

True, much he was not ready for. An enthusiastic, emotional girl child was often as much of a puzzle as an answer in his life. Yet, the child herself was ready for him, willing to love and learn. His stories were readily accepted, his lessons unquestioned. When spoken firmly, Erick's word was law. When kindly, or with humor, it was taken as she would have a brother's. He had yet to regret his choices.

Picking her up, he carried her the rest of the way to the house on the lake. She was asleep before they reached it.

Placing her gently in the bed they had moved in from her cottage, he walked back to the fireplace, and picked up his violin. Tuning it, he thought for a moment, then placed bow to string and worked on a counter melody to the organ part he'd just finished.

The organ played forceful and heavy notes, mournful, full of rage. It raced up and down so that whoever attempted the piece would be exhausted in hand and foot by the end. He wanted something just as mournful, but more at rest. He thought of the day Katrina had looked up at him from the foot of her parents bed, her sorrow evident, but her trust intact. Yes, that was what the violin would play, what the listeners would feel. Trust intact, hope for peace in the end.