Beneath the Porcelain Mask

8. Those Two Fools Who Run My Theatre.

"Come, we must return:
Those two fools who
Run my theatre
Will be missing you!"

~ The Phantom.

Andrew Lloyd Webber, The Phantom of the Opera.

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"And that isn't the last of it! He sent one just now, left it on the desk while I was out! Listen to this one," Firmin snapped, flicking a small piece of paper open. He pushed his reading spectacles up his nose and cleared his throat.

"'I expect Box Five to be reserved for my personal use at every performance, with special permission of use to Mlle d.L. Chance. It is my command that she be given the place of a box-attendant at every performance and be allowed to sit in Box Five to spectate on her evenings off.'" He set the paper down on the table with a flick of his wrist. "Explain yourself!"

I bit back my smiles and adjusted my mask. I'd been sitting in the managers' office for a number of minutes now, listening to each and every note Erik had sent over the past week as Firmin snarled insults at every demand and their writer.

"I believe he wants me to take a new role as a box-attendant, Monsieur," I said, putting forward my daintiest voice and smile. "I am very honoured!"

"Box-attendant," he growled, slumping back in his seat and chewing the end of his pipe. His eyes narrowed at me and I snapped an innocent smile into place. "Whoever heard of a maid becoming a box-attendant?"

"I'm sure I can manage," I said, putting most of my energy into that sweet little smile.

"I've worked as one before." Firmin shot me a suspicious look. "In Russia. And Germany. I'm not sure how O.G. knows that. But I've done it before." It wasn't a total lie.

Firmin sat straight, his eyes never losing their calculating glare. "And why should I listen to the 'Opera Ghost' when I am the manager?"

Oh for—

I lowered my voice to a murmur. "Well, I know O.G won't hurt me. I was good to him once. He likes kindness, Monsieur. But you haven't done anything for him like that, have you? So, I think it's best if we just do as he—"

The door behind me flew open, hitting the wall with a slam. I jolted in my seat, staring at the flushed and wheezing Monsieur André as he doubled over in an attempt to catch his ragged breath.

"Commands...."

"Gilles!" Firmin cried, jumping from his seat and abandoning his pipe to the table. I glanced at it and pulled my seat away by a few inches. "What the devil were you running for at your age?"

André gasped again and tried to stand upright, leaning against the beam. He pulled a handkerchief from one pocket and a letter from the other, waving it about in Firmin's general direction. I stood and took it from him, offering him my chair.

"It's for you, I believe," I said, passing the note to Firmin. He snatched it from me and muttered something to André, ripping it open and pulling out its contents like a cat slicing open a helpless bird.

I lay a hand on André's shoulder and bent down to his level. "Monsieur? Are you alright?"

He stared up at me, mouth agape and eyes wide, and squeaked, pointing at me in horror.

"Monsieur?" I glanced back at Firmin. He'd set the note down next to his own, as white as a sheet. He handed it to me, collapsing into his seat with a thud.