To Outwit an Angel

20. Far Too Many Notes For My Taste

Loretta's POV:

The managers' office was chaos, as always. Sharlene, Piangi, Madame Giry, and I all huddled in the corner nearest the door. Papers were strewn about the place, on the floor, shelves, desks, tucked into corners. Still, in the mess, my eyes caught on a small bundle of letters tied with a piece of red twine.

 Once I finally broke eye contact with it, because one of the managers finally begun untying the twine, the next thing to grab my attention was Raoul. Why was he here? Opera business, probably. But a more important question soon clouded my thoughts. Did he know about the decrease in our team's numbers? Did he know what had happened to Meg?

 I sought his eyes, desperate to confer this information silently, but his gaze was trained on Madame Giry. Glancing at her, I realized they were in the middle of the wordless conversation, which I attempted to begin. Inquiry sparked in Raoul's eye, and Madame Giry returned the look with a scowl, a slight nod of assent, and the tiniest wave to the hall beyond the office. The wave was lost in her black skirt at most viewpoints, but Raoul seemed to decipher her meaning.

 Yes, somebody had died. It had been out there at rehearsals. Judging from her frown, he might have also already guessed Meg. His solemn look hinted at such.

 "Why does it look like a hurricane stormed through here?" Sharlene asked.

 That was quite the Kentucky-ism, far from Carlotta's expected vernacular, but in this stress, I almost forgot the role I was playing to the uninitiated as well.

 "We've been busy!" Andre snapped. "More important letters have been piling up since this morning, and we haven't had time to attend to his stack. But who knows why he keeps sending them! They're all the same, anyway, just being very particular about the progress of 'his' opera."

 "Lord knows how the creature has enough time to write this many letters," Firmin groused, discarding the note and envelope from the top of the bundle. "Useless complaints." He muttered, then slouched behind his desk, arms folded over his chest. "Does this ghost have anything except free time on his hands?"

 "Blood, apparently." Andre said under Madame Giry's hearing.

 Madame Giry picked up the next letter in the stack.

 "It seems these notes are pure nonsense. Threats, requests, just repetitive scribbling."

 "So we've realized..." Firmin trailed off, tapping his fingers together thoughtfully. "What are the chances he's having a mental break, do you think?"

 Sharlene huffed.

 "I think that was always evident, messieurs. He just killed a woman in cold blood, with seemingly no provocation! The letters should be the least concerning detail!" 

 "True," Andre rose from his chair, picking up a smaller stack of letters to the side of his desk, "but before this... unfortunate circumstance..." His glance at Madame Giry was sheepish; her returning expression was stern. "We had intentions to call all of you in here. It seems the Phantom's most popular subjects for letter writing is you all. I'll begin."

 Inhaling a heavy breath, he read the first note from the stack. Some nonsense about the Phantom's dissatisfaction with the orchestra and chorus alike. In any case, whoever was first bassoon, they were positively screwed.

 Once finished, Firmin plucked one from the stack and cautiously approached Sharlene.

 "For you, signora."

 Sharlene took the letter in shaking hands, and she and Piangi clustered together to read it. Had I been braver, I might have joined them. But fear held me in place. What if the Phantom had written me something? It seemed likely, but after our last encounter, any interaction with him made panic flood my muscles.