Maskerade

interrupt the opera Mr. Salzella!”
    Salzella shook his head. “People will understand, I’m sure—”
    “Show must go on Mr. Salzella!”
    “Walter, you will do what you’re told!”
    Someone raised a hand. “He’s got a point, though, Mr. Salzella…”
    Salzella rolled his eyes. “Just catch the Ghost,” he said. “If we can do it without a lot of shouting, that’s good. Of course I don’t want to stop the show.” He saw them relax.
    A deep chord rolled out over the stage.
    “What the hell was that?”
    Salzella strode behind the stage and was met by André, looking excited.
    “What’s going on?”
    “We repaired it, Mr. Salzella! Only…well, he doesn’t want to give up the seat…”
    The Librarian nodded at the director of music. Salzella knew the orangutan, and among the things he knew was that, if the Librarian wanted to sit somewhere, then that was where he sat. But he was a first-class organist, Salzella had to admit. His lunch-time recitals in the Great Hall of Unseen University were extremely popular, especially since the University’s organ had every single sound-effect that Bloody Stupid Johnson’s inverted genius had been able to contrive. No one would have believed, before a pair of simian hands had worked on the project, that something like Doinov’s romantic Prelude in G could be rescored for Whoopee Cushion and Squashed Rabbits.
    “There’s the overtures,” said André, “and the ballroom scene…”
    “At least get him a bow-tie,” said Salzella.
    “No one can see him, Mr. Salzella, and he hasn’t really got much of a neck…”
    “We do have standards, André.”
    “Yes, Mr. Salzella.”
    “Since you seem to have been relieved of employment this evening, then perhaps you could help us apprehend the Ghost.”
    “Certainly, Mr. Salzella.”
    “Fetch him a tie, then, and come with me.”
    A little later, left to himself, the Librarian opened his copy of the score and placed it carefully on the stand.
    He reached down under the seat and pulled out a large brown paper bag of peanuts. He wasn’t entirely sure why André, having talked him into playing the organ this evening, had told the other man that it was because he, the Librarian, wouldn’t budge. In fact, he’d got some interesting cataloguing to do and had been looking forward to it. Instead, he seemed to be here for the night, although a pound of shelled peanuts was handsome pay by any ape’s standards. The human mind was a deep and abiding mystery and the Librarian was glad he didn’t have one anymore.
    He inspected the bow tie. As André had foreseen, it presented certain problems to someone who’d been behind the door when the necks were handed out.

    Granny Weatherwax stopped in front of Box Eight and looked around. Mrs. Plinge wasn’t visible. She unlocked the door with what was probably the most expensive key in the world.
    “And you behave yourself,” she said.
    “Ye-ess, Gran-ny,” moaned Greebo.
    “No going to the lavatory in the corners.”
    “No, Gran-ny.”
    Granny glared at her escort. Even in a bow tie, even with his fine mustaches waxed, he was still a cat. You just couldn’t trust them to do anything except turn up for meals.
    The inside of the Box was rich red plush, picked out with gilt decoration. It was like a soft little private room.
    There were a couple of fat pillars on either side, supporting part of the weight of the balcony above. She looked over the edge and noted the drop to the Stalls below. Of course, someone could probably climb in from one of the adjacent Boxes, but that’d be in full view of the audience and would be bound to cause some comment. She peeked under the seats. She stood on a chair and felt around the ceiling, which had gilt stars on it. She inspected the carpet minutely.
    She smiled at what she saw. She’d been prepared to bet that she knew how the Ghost got in, and now she was certain.
    Greebo spat on his hand and tried ineffectually to groom his hair.
    “You sit quiet and eat your fish eggs,” said Granny.
    “Ye-ess, Gran-ny.”
    “And watch the opera, it’s good for you.”
    “Ye-ess, Gran-ny.”

    “Evenin’, Mrs. Plinge!” said Nanny cheerfully. “Ain’t this excitin’? The buzz of the audience, the air of expectation, the blokes in the orchestra findin’ somewhere to hide the bottles and tryin’ to remember how to play…all the exhilaration an’ drama of the operatic experience waitin’ to unfold…”
    “Oh, hello, Mrs.