Angel Hands (2 page)

The one called Carcasonne threw a shocked glance at the young woman, who seemed utterly unmoved by masculine language that was more suited to the smoking room than mixed company.

"Even so, I would be much happier if we sent some stout men down to the cellars to make sure that ghost is gone," he said with a frown.

"You'll do no such thing."

He started, almost having forgotten the presence of the young woman in the midst of his red rage at fate's cruel, cruel sense of humor. She spoke quietly and forcefully, but without ever lifting her voice.

"In fact, if there isn't an opera ghost still in residence," she continued matter-of-factly, "I have a good mind to hire one."

"Hire one?" Carcasonne looked bewildered.

"Indeed." A faint twitch at the corner of her mouth suggested she was pleased with her own cleverness. "After all, there are other venues for opera now, especially with Charles Garnier’s monstrous confectionary of a building. But, there is only one place where patrons can come to experience a haunted opera house."

"I don't understand, Mademoiselle Dubienne."

"We promote the re-opening of the Opéra de Paris as free of ghosts and tragedies," she said simply. "Then, we have an opening night where one or two little things are odd. People will talk. Not wanting to receive second-hand news, their friends will come to experience the delicious little thrill of a little bit of danger when something quite simple, but quite significant, goes wrong."

"My dear, what if the ghost fellow is still here?" Dubienne said.

"Then I'll pay him 5 francs for every 50 franc seat he fills."

Carcasonne let out a great guffawing laugh, then stopped abruptly, seeing that the young woman wasn't laughing and instead, looked deadly serious.

"Look here, Mademoiselle Dubienne. You are quite well-meaning, but perhaps you had better leave these business affairs to your father and myself. Your ideas are quite charming, but I am afraid they are taxing your composure too much."

"Nonsense, Monsieur Carcasonne," the young woman replied crisply, a delicate crust of ice forming on her voice. "Don't be ridiculous. If we re-open as just another opera house, we shall be bankrupt by the end of the season. Our advantage is our ghost, at least until we have our feet underneath us financially, and can move on to the next scandal and sensation by stealing away the best and most renowned performers."

Carcasonne looked at Dubienne, appealing to him silently for support. But Dubienne looked lost in admiration of his daughter.

"Well, I suppose I can live with a ghost for one season," Carcasonne sighed.

"Excellent," she said in an even voice that implied she never expected it would turn out any differently.

He decided that when he did get a chance to kill that twit, he would do it slowly. Most likely painfully, as well. Never mind being reformed, never mind promises. Never mind love. All of that was lost to him anyway. He was shunned by the world, sent back to his tomb by a daylight that had made him reveal his hideousness then reviled him for it. They wanted a ghost? They would have a ghost. A murderous ghost that would make that Dubienne chit his first victim.

He nearly cracked the wooden railing of the catwalk with his grip. Memories and rage stole the last vestiges of hope from his heart. He looked into a future that was blacker than his past.

A ghost he was born. A man he could have become. A demon he would die.

Oh, Kristin...

2. Of Ghosts and Gowns

At first, the workers shook their heads and cast amused sidelong glances at the young woman who moved confidently among carpenters, painters, and various purveyors of gas lighting, glassworks, and upholstery.

Soon enough, the glances turned to wide-eyed stares of disbelief and dismay.

It was unnerving, to say the least, to discover that Mademoiselle Dubienne was as demanding as any foreman, as hard-working as any laborer, and as wily as any
agent de commerce
.

Though officially, she had no role in management, it was understood that it was she who occupied the manager’s office, even though her father’s name was on the door. Monsieur Dubienne and Monsieur Carcasonne were more often found across the street at the brasserie frequented by members of the ballet, the chorus, and their well-heeled patrons.

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 rights in a near-record amount of time.

Within a month of the purchase, the auditorium had been refurbished. Two weeks after that, she had hired an artistic director. By the end of the second month, they 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 Lefebre, the handsome young artistic director, about which performers truly deserved a call back or even a contract.

By the middle of November, every staff member, every performer, every musician had been marshaled into a militaristic schedule of rehearsals for the grand re-opening performance.

"Really, my dear, it is Sunday, after all," Jean-Paul 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, papa?"

"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 smile. “I will rest after the opening night.”

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

Mireille looked back down at the account ledger before her, her shoulders tense in a way that made the old man uncomfortable, as if his words had tickled the ugly underbelly of an emotion she wished to keep hidden.

“Perhaps," she said finally. "I will try to do it this week. But my first concern is making sure that the costumes are done. I estimate we need to hire two more seamstresses in the next day or so.”

Jean-Paul smiled wanly and shook his head, folding his arthritic hands over the head of his cane.

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

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

Jean-Paul chuckled. "You are so...deliriously..."

"Devious?"

"Imaginative."

Mireille's lips twitched in a half-smile, and Jean-Paul shook his head as he left the office.

***

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

He sat behind the office wall’s false panel, 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 Lefebre, 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 Mademoiselle Dubienne 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, Monsieur Dubienne and Monsieur Carcasonne were the owners and managers. But he, like everyone else at the Opéra de Paris, knew who really pulled the strings. And it wasn't him.

Yet.

Day after day, he had observed Mademoiselle Dubienne, 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—Kristin included, but Madame Giry excluded. She was tough, fair and intelligent.

How ever was he going to manage to get her under his thumb?

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

Thinking about Kristin 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 objectively, 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. "The new gas lines must be inspected by Wednesday in order for us to receive permission to open. Next week is simply not an option."

"But-"

"I expect to hear by noon 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. Outside, storm clouds thickened the early dusk of autumn. 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 shadows that suddenly seemed to swallow all the light in her office.

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

The voice seemed to come from everywhere at once, and the rumbling, purring quality had Mireille struggling to get back in control of her wits. But once she was thinking clearly again, she was ready for battle. There was only one 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 Fantôme?"

"I was bored."

Mireille narrowed 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. 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 to the stagehands, 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. It was all happening too quickly. 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 Fantôme. You will lose."

"Perhaps."

A throaty chuckle seemed to shiver in the air around her. "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."

She couldn’t trust herself to make an adequate reply. She was angered at hearing her father’s words echoed back at her. It was even more unnerving to think that this man could have been eavesdropping on her from the very beginning. Forcing herself to act calm and nonchalant, she stood up and put on her spectacles again.

With a sneer, she turned out the oil lamp in a gesture of defiance that showed she was not afraid of either the dark or the man that lurked in it.

She picked up her folio of paperwork and was about to leave when the voice stopped her.

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