Maskerade

because they wanted to.
    She had seen the dancers’ dressing room, where thirty girls washed and changed in a space rather smaller than Bucket’s office. It bore the same relationship to ballet as compost did to roses.
    She looked around again. Still no one had paid any attention to her.
    She headed for the school. It was up a few steps, along a fetid corridor lined with notice boards and smelling of ancient grease. A couple of girls fluttered past. You never saw just one: they went around in groups, like mayflies. She pushed open the door and stepped into the school.
    Reflections of reflections of reflections…
    There were mirrors on every wall.
    A few girls, practicing on the bars that lined the room, looked up as she entered.
    Mirrors…
    Out in the passage she leaned against the wall and got her breath back. She’d never liked mirrors. They always seemed to be laughing at her. But didn’t they say it was the mark of a witch, not liking to get between two mirrors? It sucked out your soul, or something. A witch would never get between two mirrors if she could help it…
    But, of course, she very definitely wasn’t a witch. So she took a deep breath, and went back into the room.
    Images of herself stretched away in every direction.
    She managed a few steps, then wheeled around and groped for the doorway again, watched by the surprised dancers.
    Lack of sleep, she told herself. And general over-excitement. Anyway, she didn’t need to go right into the room, now that she knew who the Ghost was.
    It was so obvious . The Ghost didn’t require any mysterious nonexistent caves when all he needed to do was hide where everyone could see him.

    Mr. Bucket knocked at the door of Salzella’s office. A muffled voice said, “Come in.”
    There was no one in the office, but there was another closed door in the far wall. Bucket knocked again, and then rattled the door handle.
    “I’m in the bath,” said Salzella.
    “Are you decent?”
    “I’m fully clothed, if that’s what you mean. Is there a pail of ice out there?”
    “Was it you who ordered it?” said Bucket guiltily.
    “Yes!”
    “Only I, er, I had it taken to my office so I could stick my feet in it…”
    “Your feet ?”
    “Yes. Er…I went for a brisk run around the city, don’t know why, just felt like it…”
    “Well?”
    “My boots caught fire on the second lap.”
    There was a sloshing noise and some sotto voce grumbling and then the door swung open, revealing Salzella in a purple dressing gown.
    “Has Señor Basilica been safely tethered?” he said, dripping on the floor.
    “He’s going through the music with Herr Trubelmacher.”
    “And he’s…all right?”
    “He sent along to the kitchen for a snack.”
    Salzella shook his head. “Astonishing.”
    “And they’ve put the interpreter in a cupboard. They don’t seem to be able to get him unfolded.”
    Bucket sat down carefully. He was wearing carpet slippers.
    “And—” Salzella prompted.
    “And what?”
    “Where did that dreadful woman go?”
    “Mrs. Ogg is showing her around. Well, what else could I do? Two thousand dollars, remember!”
    “I am endeavoring to forget,” said Salzella. “I promise never to talk about that lunch ever again, if you don’t either.”
    “What lunch?” said Bucket innocently.
    “Well done.”
    “She does seem to have an amazing effect though, doesn’t she…”
    “I don’t know who you are talking about.”
    “I mean, it’s not hard to see how she made her money…”
    “Good heavens, man, she’s got a face like a hatchet!”
    “They say that Queen Ezeriel of Klatch had a squint, but that didn’t stop her having fourteen husbands, and that was only the official score. Besides, she’s knocking on a bit…”
    “I thought she’d been dead for two hundred years!”
    “I’m talking about Lady Esmerelda.”
    “So am I.”
    “At least try to be civil to her at the soirée before the performance tonight.”
    “I’ll try.”
    “The two thousand might be only the start, I hope. Every time I open a drawer there are more bills! We seem to owe money to everyone!”
    “Opera is expensive.”
    “You’re telling me. Whenever I try to make a start on the books, something dreadful happens. Do you think I might just have a few hours without something awful happening?”
    “In an opera house?”

    The voice was muffled by the half-dismantled mechanism of the organ.
    “All right—give me middle C.”
    A hairy finger pressed a key.