Mrs. Plinge reached the bottom of the grand staircase and hung on to the banister, panting.

The opera had started. There was no one around. And no sounds of pursuit, either.

She straightened up, and tried to get her breath back.

"Coo-ee, Mrs. Plinge!"

Nanny Ogg, waving the champagne bottle like a club, was already traveling at speed when she hit the first turn in the banister, but she leaned like a professional and kept her balance as she went into the straight, and then tilted again for the next curve...

...which left only the big gilt statue at the bottom. It is the fate of all banisters worth sliding down that there is something nasty waiting at the far end. But Nanny Ogg's response was superb. She swung a leg over as she hurtled downward and pushed herself off, her nailed boots leaving grooves in the marble as she spun to a halt in front of the old woman.

Mrs. Plinge was lifted off her feet and carried into the shadows behind another statue.

"You don't want to try and outrun me, Mrs. Plinge," Nanny whispered, as she clamped a hand firmly over Mrs. Plinge's mouth. "You just want to wait here quietly quietly with me. And don't go thinking I'm nice. I'm only nice compared to Esme, but so is practic'ly everyone..." with me. And don't go thinking I'm nice. I'm only nice compared to Esme, but so is practic'ly everyone..."

"Mmf!"

With one hand tightly around Mrs. Plinge's arm and another over her mouth, Nanny peered round the statue. She could hear the singing, far off.

Nothing else happened. After a while, she started to fret. Perhaps he'd taken fright. Perhaps Mrs. Plinge had left him some sort of signal. Perhaps he'd decided that the world was currently too dangerous for Ghosts, although Nanny doubted he could ever decide that...

At this rate the first act would be over before- A door opened somewhere. A lanky figure in a black suit and a ridiculous beret crossed the foyer and went up the stairs. At the top, they saw it turn in the direction of the Boxes and disappear.

"Y'see," said Nanny, trying to get the stiffness out of her limbs, "the thing about Esme is, she's stupid..."

"Mmf?"

"...so she thinks that the most obvious way, d'y'see, for the Ghost to get in and out of the Box is through the door. If you can't find a secret panel, she reckons, it's because it ain't there. A secret panel that ain't there is the best kind there is, the reason bein', no b.u.g.g.e.r can find it. That's where you people all think too operatic, see? You're all cooped up in this place, listening to daft plots what don't make sense, and I reckon it does something to your minds. People can't find a trapdoor so they say, oh, deary me, what a hidden trapdoor it must be. Whereas a normal person, e.g., me and Esme, we'd say: Maybe there ain't one, then. And the best way for the Ghost to get around the place without being seen is for him to be seen and not noticed. Especially if he's got keys. People don't notice Walter. They looks the other way."

She gently released her grip. "Now, I don't blame you, Mrs. Plinge, 'cos I'd do the same for one of mine, but you'd have done better to trust Esme right at the start. She'll help you if she can."

Nanny let Mrs. Plinge go, but kept a grip on the champagne bottle, just in case.

"What if she can't?" said Mrs. Plinge bitterly.

"You think Walter did those murders?"

"He's a good boy!"

"I'm sure that's the same as a 'no,' isn't it?"

"They'll put him in prison!"

"If he done them murders, Esme won't let that happen," said Nanny.

Something sank into Mrs. Plinge's not very alert mind. "What do you mean, she won't let that happen?" she said.

"I mean," said Nanny, "that if you throw yourself on Esme's mercy, you better be d.a.m.n sure you deserve to bounce."

"Oh, Mrs. Ogg!"

"Now, don't you worry about anything," said Nanny, perhaps a little late under the circ.u.mstances. It occurred to her that the immediate future might be a little bit easier on everyone if Mrs. Plinge got some well-earned rest. She fumbled in her clothing and produced a bottle, half-full of some cloudy orange liquid. "I'll just give you a sip of a little something to calm your nerves..."

"What is it?"

"It's a sort of tonic," said Nanny. She flicked the cork out with her thumb; on the ceiling above her, the paint crinkled. "It's made from apples. Well...mainly apples..."

Walter Plinge stopped outside Box Eight and looked around.

Then he removed his beret and pulled out the mask. The beret went into his pocket.

He straightened up, and it looked very much as though Walter Plinge with the mask on was several inches taller.

He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door, and the figure that stepped into the Box did not move like Walter Plinge. It moved as though every nerve and muscle were under full and athletic control.

The sounds of the opera filled the Box. The walls had been lined with red velvet and were hung with curtains. The chairs were high and well padded.

The Ghost slipped into one of them and settled down.

A figure leaned forward out of the other chair and said, "You carrn't havve my fisssh eggs!"

The Ghost leapt up. The door clicked behind him.

Granny stepped out from the curtains.

"Well, well, we meet again," she said.

He backed away to the edge of the Box.

"I shouldn't think you could jump," said Granny. "It's a long way down." She focused her best stare on the white mask. "And now, Mister Ghost-"

He sprang back onto the edge of the Box, saluted Granny flamboyantly, and leapt upward.

Granny blinked.

Up until now the Stare had always worked...

"Too d.a.m.n dark dark," she muttered. "Greebo!"

The bowl of caviar flew out of his nervous fingers and caused a Fortean experience somewhere in the Stalls.

"Yess, Gran-ny!"

"Catch him! And there could be a kipper in it for you!"

Greebo snarled happily. This was more like it. Opera had begun to pall for him the moment he realized that no one was going to pour a bucket of cold water over the singers. He understood chasing things.

Besides, he liked to play with his friends.

Agnes saw the movement out of the corner of her eye. A figure had jumped out of one of the Boxes and was climbing up to the balcony. Then another figure clambered after it, scrambling over the gilt cherubs.

Singers faltered in mid-note. There was no mistaking the leading figure. It was the Ghost.

The Librarian was aware that the orchestra had stopped playing. Somewhere on the other side of the backcloth the singers had stopped, too. There was a buzz of excited conversation and one or two cries.

The hairs all over his body began to p.r.i.c.kle. Senses designed to protect his species in the depths of the rain forest had adjusted nicely to the conditions of a big city, which was merely drier and had more carnivores.

He picked up the discarded bow tie and, with great deliberation, tied it around his forehead so that he looked like a really formal Kamikaze warrior. Then he threw away the opera score and stared blankly into s.p.a.ce for a moment. He knew instinctively that some situations required musical accompaniment.

This organ lacked what he considered the most basic of facilities, such as the Thunder pedal, a 128-foot Earthquake pipe and a complete keyboard of animal noises, but he was certain there was something exciting that could be done in the ba.s.s register.

He stretched out his arms and cracked his knuckles. This took some time.

And then he began to play.

The Ghost danced along the edge of the balcony, scattering hats and opera gla.s.ses. The audience watched in astonishment, and then began to clap. They couldn't quite see how it fitted into the plot of the opera-but this was was an opera, after all. an opera, after all.

He reached the center of the balcony, trotted a little way up the aisle, and then turned and ran down again at speed. He reached the edge, jumped, jumped again, soared out into the auditorium...

...and landed on the chandelier, which jingled and began to sway gently.

The audience stood up and applauded as he climbed through the jangling tiers toward the central cable.

Then another shape clambered over the edge of the balcony and loped along in pursuit. This was a stockier figure than the first man, one-eyed, broad in the shoulders and tapering at the waist; he looked evil in an interesting kind of way, like a pirate who really understood the words "Jolly Roger." He didn't even take a run but, when he reached the closest part to the chandelier, simply launched himself into s.p.a.ce.

It was clear that he wasn't going to make it.

And then it wasn't clear how he did.

Those watching through opera gla.s.ses swore later that the man thrust out an arm which merely seemed to graze the chandelier and yet was then somehow able to swivel his entire body in mid-air.

A couple of people swore even harder that, just as the man reached out, his fingernails appeared to grow by several inches.

The huge gla.s.s mountain swung ponderously on its rope and, as it reached the end of the swing, Greebo swung out farther, like a trapeze artist. There was an appreciative "oo" from the audience.

He twisted again. The chandelier hesitated for a moment at the extremity of its arc, and then swept back again.

As it jangled and creaked over the Stalls the hanging figure swung upward, let go and did a backward somersault that dropped him in the middle of the crystals. Candles and prisms were scattered over the seats below.

And then, with the audience clapping and cheering, he scrambled up the rope after the fleeing Ghost.

Henry Lawsy tried to move his arm, but a fallen crystal had stapled the sleeve of his coat to his arm rest.

It was a quandary. He was pretty sure this wasn't supposed to happen, but he wasn't certain certain.

Around him he could hear people hissing questions.

"Was that part of the plot?"

"I'm sure it must have been."

"Oh, yes. Yes. It certainly was," said someone farther down the row, authoritatively. "Yes. Yes. The famous chase scene. Indeed. Oh, yes. They did it in Quirm, you know."

"Oh...yes. Yes, of course. I'm sure I heard about it..."

"I thought it was b.l.o.o.d.y good," said Mrs. Lawsy.

"Mother!"

"About time something interesting happened. You should've told me. I'd've put my gla.s.ses on."

Nanny Ogg pounded up the back stairs toward the fly loft.

"Something's gone wrong!" she muttered under her breath as she took the stairs two at a time. "She reckons she's only got to stare at 'em and they're toffee in her hands, and then who has to sort it out afterward, eh? Go on, guess..."

The ancient wooden door at the top of the stairs gave way to Nanny Ogg's boot with Nanny Ogg's momentum behind it, and cracked open onto a big, shadowy s.p.a.ce. It was full of running figures. Legs flickered in the light of lanterns. People were shouting.

A figure ran straight toward her.

Nanny sprang into a crouch, both thumbs on the cork of the badly shaken champagne bottle she held cradled under one arm.

"This is a magnum," she said, "and I'm not afraid to drink it!"

The figure stopped. "Oh, it's you, Mrs. Ogg..."