At first, the workers had shaken their heads and cast searching, sidelong glances at the young woman who moved confidently among the foremen, the laborers and the various purveyors of gas lighting and upholstery.

But the truth of the matter was that Mireille Dubienne was as demanding as any foreman, as hard-working as any laborer, and as wily as any agent de commerce. In fact, her small pocket of an office was one of the first areas to be completed and ready for habitation. It only made sense, she pointed out, as she would be spending a large amount of time managing the reconstruction process and needed a central base for her operations.

In a manner that Napoleon would have approved of - if not found a little aggressive and high-handed, Mireille proceeded to set the opera house to rightsin a near-record amount of time. Within three months of the purchase by her father and M. Carcasonne, they had hired managing artistic director and were holding auditions on the refurbished main stage.

For the most part, Mireille let her father and M. Carcassonne wax poetic or critical about the performers, and then would quietly have a word with Raymond Le Fevre, the handsome young artistic director, about which performers truly deserved a call back or even a contract.

Four months after the purchase of the Opera Populaire, every staff member, every performer, every musician was ready to be marshaled by Raymond and Mireille into a militaristic schedule of rehearsals for the grand re-opening performance.

"Really, my dear, it is Sunday, after all," old Dubienne had said anxiously when he had come across his daughter already hard at work one morning. "At least in the name of the Lord, take a bit of time off."

"Would you say that to a man, father?"

"No. No, I suppose I wouldn't."

"Well then-"

"But you are still my daughter, and it doesn't change the fact that I love you and worry about you. The circles under your eyes are dreadful!"

Mireille gave him a ghost of a grim smile.

"I will rest after the opening night," she said.

"At least take a bit of time off tomorrow and go order a new dress for opening night."

Mireille gave him a deeply searching look that made the old man feel uncomfortable, as if his words had tickled the ugly underbelly of an emotion she had wished to keep hidden.

"Perhaps," she said evenly. "I will try to do it this week," she added more gently. "But my first concern is making sure that we have all the materials in for the set designer. The barges have been dreadfully slow coming into Paris due to the spring storms in the north."

Dubienne smile wanly and shook his head, his arthritic hands folded elegantly over the head of his cane.

"By the by, Mireille," he remarked, turning to leave. "Seen any sign of our ghost fellow yet?"

She let out a light, cynical laugh. "No, indeed! But I plan to hold auditions for him starting the week after next."

Dubienne chuckled. "You are so...deliriously..."

"Devious?"

"Imaginative."

Mireille's lips twitched in a half-smile that was all genuine as her father left her small office.

***

Erik had a few other choice words to describe the indomitable Mademoiselle Dubienne: interfering, insensitive, and most of all, inconvenient.

He sat behind the false panel at the back of the large armoire, breathing in the dank air of the small passageway and fuming. Audition for a ghost? Hire a ghost? Oh God, he was no longer even a figment of fear. He was a joke.

Every single day, he had watched the progress of the rebuilding of his opera house and his opera company. He found himself agreeing with Le Fevre, though thinking that the young man did not push the creative limits as much as he would have liked. He even grudgingly found himself accepting the fact that Mireille was a highly competent manager - far more intelligent and shrewd than any of the others who had preceded her in the position...though he had to remind himself that officially, M. Dubienne and M. Carcasonne were the owners and managers. But he, like everyone else at the Opera Populaire, knew who really pulled the strings. And it wasn't him.

Yet.

Day after day, he had observed Mireille, studying her like an animal in a cage. She puzzled him, and not in a good way. Her mind and demeanor were as cold and precise as...his. She had no troubles with the harsher sides of the business, firing people, dealing with construction workers, bankers and divas. She didn't show any of the feminine softness, sweetness or gullibility that had marked almost all the other women he had ever known - Christine included, but Madame Giry excluded. She was tough, fair and intelligent.

However was he going to manage to get her under his thumb?

Erik had decided early on in the process that if his opera house was going to reopen, he would simply have no choice but to take over once again. He knew he wouldn't be able to help himself. Despite bouts of despair and self-loathing, Erik had been busy 'helping' the construction along with his own modifications. He spied on the chorus, on the dancers, on the plasterers and stagehands. He memorized their names, the way they moved, the sounds of their voices. He learned their dirty little secrets.

He would have learned Mireille's dirty little secrets, except the blasted woman didn't seem to have any. Erik pondered for days, pacing back and forth in his lair, spying on Mireille in her office, and searching his memories of Christine for any hints about women that might help him in his quest to conquer the hard-headed manager.

Thinking about Christine was the hardest part, but he found he could stem the bile of self-loathing for short periods of time if he forced himself to look at the situation clinically, like a scientist.

It was only at night, when the opera house was empty, that his howls and sobs would echo off the frescoed walls and wrap around the gilt statues. It was only at night that he abandoned himself to the true irony and despair at this turn in his life. It was only at night that he wished and prayed for death.

Then morning would come, and there would be things to do.

***

"I'm afraid that is not good enough, Labouche," Mireille said calmly, despite the fact that her head was aching and her eyes were tired from wearing her glasses all day. "The new gas lines must be inspected by Wednesday in order for us to receive permission to turn on the gas lighting. Next week is simply not an option."

"But-"

"I expect to hear by lunchtime tomorrow that you have made the necessary arrangements for a Wednesday inspection."

"But-"

"Bribe them if you have to, Labouche."

"What!"

"Come now, monsieur, I expect you to do whatever it takes to get the job done. That will show me that you still want a job."

"Oh."

"Good evening, Labouche."

"Evenin' Mademoiselle Dubienne."

Mireille watched as Labouche left her rapidly darkening office. The one oil lamp on her desk was running low, but the dimness was easier on her eyes, so she didn't turn it up. In fact, she carefully removed her glasses and rubbed her tired eyes.

The smallest sound of a deliberate breath jerked her from her unguarded moment of fatigue.

"Mon Dieu!" she exclaimed, searching the lengthening shadows that swallowed her office in darkness.

"No, not God, mademoiselle. Simply a ghost."

The voice seemed to come from everywhere at once, and the rumbling, purring quality struck Mireille forcibly, making her struggle to get back in control of her wits. But once she was thinking clearly again, she was ready for battle. There was only possible source for such a voice.

"So, you are real after all," she drawled sarcastically.

"Hmmm. Quite," the voice replied, matching her tone precisely.

"And why reveal yourself to me tonight, Monsieur le Fantome?"

"I was bored."

Mireille chuckled, narrowing her eyes. 

"I am sorry," she said innocently. "But you must come back. Auditions for the opera ghost are not until next week."

"Why hire one when you already have one?"

"Why not? I would have to pay the ghost one way or another - for I am sure it won't be long until you're making monetary demands of me. But at least with an outside ghost, I can fire him if he pisses me off."

"Your candor is remarkable."

"A nice way to say fuc-"

"Tut, tut. Such language from a young lady"
  "You've heard me say worse, no doubt."

The silence acceded her point.

Mireille prayed that her wildly beating heart would slow and steady. It was taking every ounce of bravado and wit to keep her cool during this exchange. He had taken her by surprise...well, shocked her to her core to be perfectly accurate. But it was all happening too quickly for her to think much. She just had to brazen this through then think over the consequences later...consequences and opportunities...

"What is it that you want, monsieur?"

"Hmmm. An excellent question, mademoiselle. And not one that I have an exact answer for at the moment."

"I didn't think you the type to pay social calls."

"I'm not."

"Then what is this truly? A warning shot across the bow? An opening salvo?"

"Perhaps."

"Don't fight me, Monsieur le Fantome. You will lose."

"Perhaps."

There was a throaty chuckle that seemed to shiver in the air around her. "And then again, perhaps not."

Mireille's head was throbbing, and she fought to maintain her composure. "Well, as pleasant as this little chat has been, I am afraid that I must go now. It has been a long day, and I am tired."

"Yes, you must be. The circles under your eyes are terrible."

Mireille didn't bother replying, suppressing a quick, strange flash of anger as the familiar words rang with echoes of eavesdropping. She stood up and put on her spectacles again, turning out the oil lamp in a gesture of defiance that showed she wasn't afraid of the dark or the men that lurked in it.

She picked up her folio of paperwork and leather satchel and crossed the office to the door.

"When you go for your dress-making appointment, I would like for you to select something in midnight blue. I think it would suit you quite well."

Mireille opened her mouth in protest, then closed it without making a sound. As much as she wanted to yank the door open and slam it closed, she forced herself to open and close it softly and normally.

In the dark, silent office, a shadow moved and smiled to itself.

"So you are a woman, after all, my dear. Excellent."