His managers? It sounded so strange when put that way. As if the Ghost owned the opera house. Jacqueline had never been called a lady before, a lady was someone like the leading singers. Fine of dress and speech, feathers in their hats and the like.

Her eyes still avoid his, hesitantly letting him lift her chin to the light. Too frightened to look right at the mask, only a glance now and again is all she dares. She did indeed look abused, the bruises a startling sight and not one she wanted to be seen. Who knew how her employers would react to such a face on one of their cleaning girls? Perhaps she could hide it in a scarf till it healed.

"Th-thank you, monsieur," she manages to say in return.