Beneath the Porcelain Mask

30. Why So Silent, Good Messieurs?

My first encounter with Erik in the following days came while I was scrubbing the floors of the grand foyer under the watchful eye of Giles André, who was pretending to read his newspaper. I wasn't fooled by the amateur disguise but scrubbed on, keeping my head down, only slowing for a split second when the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

I resumed in a heartbeat, pretending Erik could not have noticed my hesitation. André remained none the wiser and flipped the page.

It had been like this for two days. Once the managers found I'd returned, I'd been bustled into the office and given a stern reprimanding for my unauthorised absence. They showed me the threat the Ghost had sent them and had refused me permission to leave that office until I signed a new contract, one more like a prison sentence than a document of work, on pain of being reported to the gendarmes for being involved with a terrorist.

The presence lifted after a minute and I bit back a sigh of relief; no doubt I was in trouble with more management than Firmin and André. My little excursion would catch up with me sooner or later.

It turned out to be the former. The next day, as I cleaned the aisles of the auditorium in anticipation of the night's entertainment, Firmin, who had been glaring at me from the stage for twenty minutes, marched down the steps and over to me.

"Tell me, Mademoiselle," he sneered from the aisle at the end of the row I was cleaning, and I looked up in confusion. "This favour you once did the Ghost: what was it?"

Caught off guard, I studied his piercing blue eyes, my mind sprinting through the variety of stories Erik and I had created for this situation.

"I brought him food when I was a child," I replied, standing straight and bobbing a courtesy. "He needed it and repaid my kindness by giving me the privilege of Box Five. One good deed deserves another."

A frightening look of glee lit up his already narrow eyes.

"Aha!" He leaned forwards to my eye level and tapped the tip of my masked nose. "Ghosts are already dead, mademoiselle! They are disembodied spirits! They cannot eat and have no need for food."

I scanned the gathering crowd of ballerinas on the stage and other cleaners in the boxes or various rows of seating, all eyes and ears on me. I dared to swallow and kept my expression as neutral as possible.

"Maybe this one does, Monsieur. What do you know about ghosts anyhow, to be telling me what they do or don't need?"

"I think the question, Mademoiselle," he said, turning to glance sneakily at people in the crowd, who were edging their way towards us, "is: what do you know about the ghost?"

Murmurs arose, hushed whispers of interest and scandal. The mask grew hotter against my skin.

"What are you insinuating, Monsieur?" I said, reaching the steely edge of my patience.

"That you are affiliated with the Ghost of this Opera House!"

My entire body burnes. At first, I thought it was just the coarse anger rushing through my veins. It was only when the hairs on my arms stood up and a shiver ran down my spine that I glanced up. Nothing there by sight, but only a fool would imagine he would be seen.

"Affiliated?" I said, trying to block out the nervous wavers with determination. I moved from the row to the aisle, standing before him indignantly. "Monsieur, this is ridiculous! I have work to do! Are you trying to keep me from earning my honest wages in public?"

A mop of dark curls worming its way to the front of the crowd caught my eye. Jeremy pushed his way through, looking downright thundery. He reached my side in a few strides and caught me in his arm.