A/N: This is for Wheel of Fish for encouraging me to post this already ;) Can't promise quick updates this time but trust me they'll come. In the meantime, hearing your thoughts would be great!

Part One: Coda

Prologue:

The kerosene lamps burned brightly despite the earliness of the hour on the topmost floor of a grey sandstone building in the Rue de Vaugirard. Heavy, black curtains hung from the windows, prohibiting even the smallest ray of sunshine to permeate the room.

With a surprising disregard to the full length mirror that was covered in a similarly dark fabric, a young woman was busy dressing herself. She had successfully assembled her undergarments and petticoat but struggled impatiently with the rest of the dress which, too, consisted of simple, black bombazine. At last, a knock on the door stilled her fingers and caused her to turn around.

"Who is it?" she called with a tired voice.

"It's me, Madame."

A sigh of resignation passed over her lips as she glanced around the room one last time before striding to the door to open it. A greying woman curtsied and welcomed her with a warm smile.

"The carriage is waiting for you in the courtyard."

"Thank you, Babette. I will just be a moment."

Habit caused her to walk back into the room and towards the mirror in front of which she realised her mistake. Huffing impatiently, she tried smoothing her dress down over her hips but the stiff material of her petticoat refused to comply.

"Permit me to help you, Madame?" Babette's voice came from the doorway and reluctantly she nodded her approval.

There were several things Julianne Doucet had needed to get used to over the course of the past year. Continuing to be addressed as "Madame" when the man who had elevated her from girl to woman had passed away suddenly, and tolerating the urge to scream whenever this occasion arose, was one. Requiring more help than usual when it came to dressing herself was another. Some days she wondered if the mirrors had been covered out of respect for the deceased or to spare her the confrontation with her helpless reflection.

"Would you like your cloak, Madame?" Babette inquired, once her tireless hands had stopped adjusting her dress.

"Yes, thank you." Julianne replied, retrieving her purse from a nearby table. "I will fasten it myself."

"As you wish," Babette curtsied a second time and passed her the cloak with a soft, understanding look that caused Julianne to hurriedly avert her eyes.

If only grief could be a private matter, not one that constantly begged to be doted on or wished to be carried by unknowing third parties.

Fastening the cloak around her neck, she straightened her spine and determinedly walked out of the room and down the stairs into the courtyard. The domestic staff in her employ bowed as she passed and Alexandre, her late husband's trusted driver, helped her into the carriage. He took great care ensuring she was comfortable before closing the door and climbing to his seat at the front.

As the vehicle slowly pulled out of the courtyard, Julianne realised just how gloomy the house had been in contrast to the bright but cool sunlight that felt almost penetrating on this autumn day. With another heavy sigh, she loosened the veil that was attached to her bonnet and lowered it over her eyes to shield herself. No matter how many months she'd had the time to prepare herself for the occasion, it just did not seem to get any easier. The carefree smiles of strangers in the streets were still as offensive to her as they had been a year ago, as were their voices penetrating.

Unfortunately, it was the grand premiere of the new season at the Palais Garnier and she felt a strict obligation to attend. The part of her which yearned to burrow away from the pitying eyes of the masses, she tried to soothe by reminding herself that Édouard would have wanted her to leave the house.

Always the more outgoing of the two, he had loved to entertain and frequently coaxed her out of her shell and introduced her to the various social circles she now belonged to. His loss was felt by many, she knew, and his gregarious nature was, no doubt, the reason behind the flood of condolence letters that washed up daily at the house.

The memories, no matter how fond, created a fresh surge of emotion that seemed potent enough to drown her, and gasping for air, she redirected her gaze to the outside world which, until that moment, had been completely passing her by. Now, as her eyes clung on to buildings and people, she realised that they had made steady progress, leaving the 6th arrondissement behind and exchanging the Jardin du Luxembourg for the Jardin des Tuileries. Only a little bit further and they would join the trickle of carriages and omnibuses on the Avenue de l'Opéra. A few more minutes then to gather her composure before she would be exposed to the scrutiny of the masses for the first time since her late husband's funeral.

Not ever had the sight of Apollo's looming statue filled her with such dread.

With a growing lump in her throat, she waited until the final distance was bridged. When the carriage at last came to a halt, Alexandre opened the door for her and offered his gloved hand in assistance. Accepting it, she tilted her chin up proudly and joined the throng of people already streaming towards the entrance.

She was desperate to make her way to her box as quickly as possible, but it wasn't long before recognition struck and the murmur of voices around her began to swell. Undoubtedly, she wasn't the only widow present but perhaps no-one else quite matched her standing or prominence. When her late husband's name filled the air around her, she picked up her skirts and started striding up the grand staircase, a rather undignified manner of conducting oneself, of course, but the urge to flee was overwhelming. Behind every corner, another memory seemed to be lurking, following her trace like a ghost.

"Ah Madame Doucet!"

Somewhat breathless, she stopped in front of the small man who had greeted her so fondly.

"Monsieur Moreau," she replied dutifully and accepted his outstretched hand. A smile, she failed to muster.

"We were all delighted to hear you'd be in attendance today."

"I wouldn't miss the season premiere." She told him.

Around them, groups of people formed and then disbanded again, after having spent a socially acceptable amount of time observing her and trying to snap up snippets of information.

"I trust everything is well taken care of?"

"Of course!" Monsieur Moreau hurried to re-assure her, puffing out his rather generous chest. "We have found a reliable cast that have the skills of covering most roles in the upcoming operas. It saves costs, naturally, and could lead to higher audience numbers if they take a shine to a particular singer who they know will re-appear in a different piece."

"Very business-minded," Julianne praised him dutifully, "it is a relief to know the Opera is in such capable hands."

"You flatter me. Permit me to walk you to your box?"

Her features smooth and neutral, Julianne nodded her agreement. It would have been rude to deny him, after everything he had done for her.

Originally Édouard's bookkeeper, he had stepped in to secure financial matters at the Palais Garnier when Julianne had found herself alone with a business she didn't know how to run. It had been him who had reassured her that he would handle all creative decisions also, since he was well enough connected to draw in favours and receive support. The fact that the Opera was still afloat after a whole year was a testament to his abilities, Julianne thought, and yet she couldn't deny that there was something unsettling about the confident manner with which he appeared to carry himself. But she simply didn't possess the energy to voice her reservations.

When she finally reached her box and Monsieur Moreau took his leave, she heaved a deep sigh of relief. Soon, the lights would dim and she could let down her guard, safe in the knowledge that no-one would be able to watch her.

She busied herself, thumbing through the program Moreau had pressed into her hand, if only to remind herself that the opera she'd be seeing tonight was Robert le Diable. If sat beside her, Édouard would have wrinkled his nose, no doubt. This realisation threatened to bring laughter as well as tears, and so she hurriedly set the program aside and fixed her eyes on the curtain until the thrum of voices in the auditorium grew, the lights flickered and the performance began.

Her head was too full to allow her to pay much attention to the happenings on the stage but the music was pleasant enough to pacify some of the pain in her chest. One act slipped fluently into the next until close to the intermission strange sounds began to arise.

At first, Julianne had attributed them to the performance where the set had shifted to a cave and a ritualistic scene. Some fresh, albeit bold creative choice, Julianne had thought. But then the sounds had welled up all around her. Quiet and threatening at first, as if whispered directly into her ear, then loud and booming, echoing, bouncing off the walls around her. The sounds were deafening, inhuman; a screeching and clawing she would not have believed possible.

Panic rose in her throat and made her palms slick with sweat. But she was not losing her mind for all around her people had begun to whisper, craning their necks for the source of all the racket.

When the sounds at last became so loud that the orchestra hesitantly stopped playing, everything died down. And then triumphant laughter took its place; giddy, ecstatic but undoubtedly mad.

The heat left her body as quickly as it had come and instead cold shivers took hold of her.

Beneath her, the audience had started to scatter. Some of them looking just as frightened as she, herself, felt, others walking at a leisurely pace, disgruntled, punishing words on their tongue.

"Ladies and gentlemen!"

Moreau had bravely taken to the stage.

"We beg your forgiveness. Unfortunately, tonight's performance cannot go ahead but we invite you to attend an additional performance this Sunday afternoon. Please consult the ushers for a more thorough explanation. Thank you."

In the box, Julianne narrowed her eyes, displeased with the way the matter had been handled.

Clutching her purse under her arm, she lifted her dress and hurriedly strode towards the manager's office in which Monsieur Moreau had no doubt holed himself up. A knock on the door, coupled with a curt reply from inside confirmed her suspicions and she swiftly entered the room.

"Madame Doucet!" he exclaimed, possessing the good grace to look shocked at least. "I do apologise."

"And so you should," she told him squarely, "what a ridiculous display. Surely we must be able to handle ourselves better in the face of such mishaps."

It didn't escape her that her statement made him look even more uneasy.

"Has the Sûreté been informed? We must apprehend whoever it was that caused the disruption."

"I whole-heartedly agree." Monsieur Moreau replied firmly, yet he was unable to meet her eyes.

"Well then?" she demanded, taking another step closer to the oak desk that separated them.

"It's just…I daresay that would be quite impossible."

"Impossible how?"

In response, he rose from his chair and stiffly began pacing up and down.

"It is nothing, Madame, truly. Everything will be taken care of."

"You are wasting my time, Moreau. What aren't you telling me?"

Weariness and impatience hardened her voice.

"I had thought nothing of it…You see, everything had been quiet for more than a year. Perhaps a hoax I had thought but then tonight…" He swallowed and turned to face her, his arms crossed in front of his chest as if bracing himself for whatever he needed to say next. "It was the Opera Ghost, Madame Doucet. Perhaps you understand now why I didn't inform the Sûreté."

Julianne lowered both her palms on the desk between them and pensively studied the man she had always known to be calm and rational. Had she not witnessed the events herself, however, she would have begun to question his sanity.

"I see," she eventually remarked coolly, "perhaps you ought to tell me more."

One ghost in her life was more than enough.