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lamaseries of Tibet and collected strange orchids from the mangrove swamps of the Andaman Islands. She read the Scroll of Thoth in the secret vaults beneath the great pyramid and tracked the
wendigo
through the forested territories of the Canadian North-West. An adept of the art of mesmerism, she commanded the attention of Erik – whose mastery of the field was formerly unrivalled – by outstaring him. She offered her services to the O.G.A. in exchange for tutelage in certain practices of Australian aborigines. The Phantom, she believed, had mastered the disciplines known as the Voice, the power to persuade, and the Shout, the power to destroy.
    It is often said that men like Erik never change, never learn – for, as geniuses and prodigies, why should they? But Irene Adler’s declaration of independence, Trilby O’Ferrall’s fading talents and Christine Daaé’s ultimate defection persuaded him to moderate his puppet-mastering. Wind-up dolls had their uses, but clockwork women could only achieve so much. Olympia was not one of his favourite agents, though she was effective in some cases. Impossible to seduce or strangle, the dancing mannequin was fetched out of her cabinet on occasion to tempt and trap gentlemen who were inclined to emulate Bluebeard and stock their cellars with murdered wives. For all that, she was pretty but dull. Erik understood what Trilby’s previous tutor meant when – with her declarations of devotion hollow in his ears – he declared, ‘Ah, but it is only Svengali talking to himself again.’
    With the Witch of Prague, our Phantom could not work his spell… so, with La Marmoset and Sophy, he would not. Opera itself was changing. Traditionally, producers conducted themselves like the late Emperor, peering down at an army from a hilltop, imposing their iron will upon underlings who would pay the butcher’s bill on the battlefield. Many an impresario kept a portrait or a bust of Napoléon in his study, and would in private moments turn his hat sideways and put his hand inside his buttoned jacket to see how it felt. Now, a new breed of director whispered suggestions rather than barked orders, coaxed with sugar lumps rather than broke with the whip. Work was done in collaboration rather than by decree. Erik’s first Angels of Music were biddable chorus girls; now, he dealt with potential or actual prima donnas.
    The Persian, perhaps, was subtly influential in this change. With the Phantom behind the mirror, he was charged with day-to-day business, issuing emoluments and expenses, meeting with clients, even approving or vetoing cases taken on by the Opera Ghost Agency. He had Erik’s trust.
    Most mornings, the Persian would be in the Café de la Paix from eleven o’clock till noon, drinking bitter coffee, eating almond biscuits, and reading the papers. Those who wished to engage the Agency were invited to approach him.
    On a day in late September, the Persian sat at his usual table, sipped his usual coffee, nibbled his usual biscuit and unfolded his usual
Figaro
to find an unusual envelope slipped into the newspaper. Impressed in the black wax seal was the outline of a bat.
    The mark of
Les Vampires
.
    Inside was a card which bluntly stated:
    ‘The Grand Vampire wishes to meet with the Director of the Opera Ghost Agency, on a confidential matter.’
    The Persian tapped the stiff card against his teeth.
    A rare occasion, he concluded.
    For this, Erik must come up from his cellar.

II
    D ISGUISED AS A provincial schoolmistress on her first trip to Paris, La Marmoset strolled through the
Quartier Latin
. In character, she tutted at the prices displayed in shop windows and steered well away from the idlers, loungers and probable footpads loitering on every corner. She envisioned the scrubbed, attentive faces of her class back in Tôtes and thought of the lessons she would give upon her return. She was determined to see the worst Paris had to offer, so she could caution her charges against moral