Vivian stood atop the pile of rubble, still frozen in that “panic-stricken” pose.
“That was an accident!”
Cicero lowered his head, picking up the camera from the ground—now transformed into a piece of abstract art.
The lens was shattered, the bellows caved in, several springs had mischievously popped out, trembling in the air.
“This Daguerreotype camera was a prototype personally calibrated by Mr. Carl Zeiss. It had the world’s first achromatic lens.”
“Now, it looks more like a soda can trampled by a bad-tempered African rhino.”
Cicero looked up, wearing a smile that begged for a punch.
“Fifty francs. Including damages for mental anguish, sixty.”
“How much?!” Vivian nearly jumped off the ruins. “Why don’t you just rob me?!”
“Isn’t that exactly what I’m doing?” Cicero pulled out that damned little notebook from his pocket.
“Adding your previous debts—congratulations, Miss Vivian, you are now officially a member of the negative-asset class.”
Just as Vivian was about to risk her life over those sixty francs, a commotion of footsteps and shouts echoed from down the corridor.
“Over there!”
“The sound came from the dressing room!”
“Call the gendarmes, quick!”
Cicero closed his notebook, listening to the noise.
“Looks like we need to find a new place to discuss your debts.”
He took a step forward, naturally grasping Vivian’s wrist.
“Come with me.”
“Where to? If the supervisor finds out I left my post, my daily wage is toast!” Vivian struggled a bit.
“Your supervisor is currently busy pinching Célestine’s philtrum.”
Five minutes later.
Second floor of the opera house, a certain luxurious box.
Heavy velvet curtains blocked the view from outside, leaving only a slim gap through which the pitch-black stage and empty auditorium could be seen below.
Vivian collapsed on the leather armchair like a deflated balloon, legs sprawled carelessly over the footstool.
“I’m exhausted…”
She let out a long sigh.
“Eat.”
A delicate paper box was tossed into her lap.
Vivian fumbled to catch it. The box was pale green, embossed with the gold insignia of the famed patisserie “Ladurée.”
“What is this?” Vivian opened the box suspiciously.
A sweet almond fragrance rushed out to greet her.
Inside lay two immaculate, tempting macarons—one raspberry red, the other pistachio green.
“The sacrament,” Cicero said calmly. “Though feeding something that can’t tell Beethoven from Mozart is a bit of a waste, but before you starve to death, we need to talk business.”
Vivian’s eyes instantly lit up. She shamelessly grabbed the pistachio one and stuffed it in her mouth.
“Mmph!” Vivian took a big bite.
The creamy filling melted on her tongue, an intense nutty aroma exploding in her mind.
“Delicious.”
Vivian squinted in bliss, cheeks bulging like a satisfied hamster.
Cicero watched her in silence.
In the dim light, the girl’s dirty little face was smudged with dust; her way of eating had not a trace of ladylike grace, yet it was not at all unpleasant.
“If your table manners were half as precise as your aim when throwing things, food wouldn’t be flying everywhere.” Cicero handed over a handkerchief.
“Mind your own business.” Vivian took the handkerchief, wiped her mouth haphazardly.
“Let’s get to the point.”
She pulled a napkin from her inner pocket.
“What’s this?” Cicero took the crumpled sheet.
Drawn on it in vivid red were a staff and notes, exuding a whiff of Guerlain lipstick.
“That ghost shattered the mirror, and the cracks formed these notes. I risked my life to copy them down. Can I get medical expenses in cash?” Vivian mumbled, mouth still stuffed with half a raspberry macaron.
Cicero ignored her banter.
He took out his monocle, polished it lightly, and put it on.
Through that lens, the red notes on the napkin seemed to come alive, faintly trembling in the air.
“Interesting…”
Cicero’s voice suddenly grew low. His fingers tapped lightly on the railing, as if playing out the melody in his mind.
“Here.” He pointed to a cluster of notes on the second-to-last line.
“This is the second variation of the Queen of the Night’s aria from ‘The Magic Flute.’ Originally, there should be a grace note in E-flat here, but Célestine always habitually sings it as F-sharp.”
Vivian craned her neck for a look. “So what? The ghost has perfect pitch or something?”
“No, look here.” Cicero indicated the notes heavily smeared in lipstick.
“As I said before, the cracks on the mirror weren’t a prank, but a correction.”
Cicero set down the napkin, removed his monocle, his eyes taking on a hint of amusement.
“The ghost is giving her a lesson. He’s telling that arrogant prima donna: ‘Your high notes are trash—this is how it should be sung.'”
Vivian was stunned. “Huh? Dead and still working as a free vocal coach?”
“That’s exactly the problem.”
Cicero turned, gazing down at the empty stage below. It was intermission now; the massive red curtain was drawn tight, and the orchestra pit was deserted.
“For an entity formed from an ‘artistic obsession,’ perfection is its very life. It cannot tolerate a single flawed note.”
“If Célestine sang flawlessly, that ghost might be just a quiet listener.”
“But if she keeps making mistakes…” Cicero sneered.
“Then it won’t stop at shattering a mirror.”
“You mean…” Vivian felt a chill crawl up her back, “it’ll kill someone? But didn’t you say…”
“That was a preliminary assessment. For some extreme artists, wiping out the mediocrities who defile art is practically doing God’s work.”
Cicero’s fingers stroked the icy brass trim of the rail, his gaze seeming to pierce through the floor, into deeper darkness.
“Vivian, do you know what’s beneath this opera house?” he suddenly asked.
“Water?” Vivian thought of that brick-sized book. “You said before, an underground river.”
“That’s just on the surface.”
Cicero’s voice echoed in the empty box.
“In 1861, when Garnier designed this building, he did build a huge artificial lake beneath the foundation to drain away groundwater. But behind the published blueprints, there was another sketch.”
He turned to Vivian, eyes deep and unfathomable.
“Long before the Revolution of 1789, this was the site of a monastery. Even earlier… the underground structures were designed to ‘imprison something.'”
“Imprison what?” Vivian unconsciously hugged the empty pastry box tighter.
“Things that couldn’t bear the light of day. Things the old regime called forbidden, but couldn’t bear to destroy… ‘concepts,'” Cicero said quietly.
“The underground lake isn’t just a reservoir—it’s a barrier, a moat for a prison.”
Vivian swallowed hard. “Boss, you’re scaring me.”
“It might be worse than that—he may have made the entire opera house his cell, and we…”
At that moment—
“WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO—”
A thunderous, dull roar erupted out of nowhere.
It was the organ.
All the lowest stops were pulled open, the sound waves shaking the air, even the chairs in the box trembling.
Vivian covered her ears. “Who’s playing? The orchestra pit’s empty!”
Cicero leaned out sharply.
No one.
The pit was deserted, but at the enormous pipe organ, the keys were hammering down by themselves, as if invisible hands were dancing wildly.
It was Bach’s “Toccata and Fugue in D minor.”
Grand, urgent, filled with a crushing sense of oppression, the music instantly flooded the entire space.
“Looks like our friend couldn’t wait any longer.” Cicero narrowed his eyes, a thrill curling at his lips.
“The prelude has begun, Vivian.”
He seized Vivian’s wrist, dragging her out.
“It’s time for the performers to take the stage.”
Behind them, the heavy curtain billowed violently, as if swept by a gust of wind.
The show was only just beginning.