Chapter Twelve

Gypsies, gypsies, gypsies, Christine's mind hammered like the pulse that beat at her temple. She didn't like the gypsies, they were dirty creeps who had too much time on their hands. So what did Meg have to do with them?

Ahead of her, Christine's eyes locked on brightly colored banners and tents. The spicy aroma of foreign foods made her mouth water. Her ears picked up the sound of the fortune-telling women calling, “Palm reading, ten francs per palm! Look into the crystal ball, fifteen francs!” Ugh, beggars. Christine gulped and turned towards them.

“Um, excuse me... Mademoiselle?” she murmured to a young dark-haired gypsy woman before her. The woman turned, her expectant condition apparent to all through her bright green skirt and buttercup yellow top. Christine gasped, blushing. “Pardon moi, Madame,” she excused herself, turning to leave.

“Mademoiselle?” the gypsy called, stopping Christine in her tracks. Her voice was rough, but her manner was surprisingly gentle. Christine groaned to herself and spun around on her heel.

“Oui?”

“Merci, Mademoiselle.” Thank you. For what, though? “No one ever calls me Madame. Merci.”

She dropped an awkward curtsy, her stomach causing her to teeter off balance. She must be in the eighth month, at least. Christine reached out her hand. The gypsy grabbed it, and Christine's stomach rolled. “We do bathe, Mademoiselle,” the gypsy whispered.

“What are you?” Christine mumbled under her breath, looking away and clearing her throat. The gypsy tore her hand away, her face crumling like a handkercheif. She blinked swiftly, trying to cast away the dampness that was quickly building up. Her voice turned cold, her gaze like steel. Christine noticed the change with a little bit of fear, knowing the power that the gypsies held over common man to command and see into the spiritual realm.

“Do you want something, Mademoiselle? If not, then I'm going to have to ask you to leave.” Christine stepped back, stumbling over her words.

“I... I.... my friend needs help. She said to find the gypsies...”

“Who?”

“Meg... Meg Giry,” she stuttered in reply.

“Meg's in trouble? Why didn't you say so in the first place?” the gypsy woman cried, giving Christine a shove. Christine stumbled and started walking.

“Who are you, Madame? I've never met you! What is your name?”

“Marguerite. Meg is a good friend of mine and my husband's. In fact, Tom and Meg were betrothed once.”

“Betrothed?!” Christine sputtered. “Why, Meg's barely sixteen! She's younger than I am by at least nine months! Her mother would never allow it!”

“I know. Neither would mine. My parents and Tom's knew we would marry someday. The baby only hastened the procedure.” She chuckled. “I've only been married seven months.”

Christine gasped, and they fell silent. By now they had left the camp and were on their way to the other side of Paris. When they finally reached the hut where Meg lay, Marguerite reached into the small leather pouches tied to her belt and began to sprinkle strange-smelling herbs around the doorway. Christine pushed open the door, somewhat very nervous and very worried. What was the gypsy going to do to Meg?

Margrete reached into her pouches again and pulled out a bitter-smelling root. She broke it in two and laid one half on each side of Meg, chanting some sort of incantation... Elena elena akum ena elena chava ela ena elena. Elena elena akum ena elena chava ela ena elena. The stench tickled Christine's nose, and though she tried to hold it back, she could not resist the impulse to sneeze. “Aa-choo!” she sniffed. Meg stirred.

“What exactly happened, Mademoiselle?” Marguerite whispered, a little bit of fear in her voice.

“She was... attacked. Assaulted, if you prefer. I'm a single virgin, Madame. I don't know how to help her,” was Christine's quiet answer. Was it just her, or was there a tremor in the gypsy's tone?

“Christine?” Both women turned to watch Meg. The groggy voice mumbled again, “Christine?” She sat up, or tried to, but collapsed again, too weak from shock to support herself.

“Meg!” Christine cried. She fell to her knees before her friend, not minding that her once pristine green gown was permanantly soiled with blood and dirt. She grasped Meg's hand, pressing her hand to her cheek.

“Christine... where's Mother... Madame...?”

“Do you want her?” Meg nodded, licking her dry lips.

“First get her some water,” Margrete instructed, tearing cloths from a closet in the corner. She dragged them over to Meg, and began to cleanse her wounds. She squeezed a drop of clean water on her lips before dipping the sweaty, bloody rag into it. Christine grabbed a bucket and ran out the door.

“There now, Meg,” Marguerite murmured, attemping to soothe her. Meg smiled, but her cracked lips wouldn't allow it. Marguerite chuckled and picked up Meg's hand, laying it on her stomach. The baby kicked, and Meg jerked her hand back, but Marguerite kept hold of it and laid it there again.

Marguerite gasped, a different, pircing senstaion gripping her. It was like a cramp, but so much more painful. It squelched the words that were supposed to come out of her mouth, replacing them with a low, gutteral groan. Meg stared at her warily. “I'm fine,” Maruegrite forced the words like she forced the smile. Meg shook her head, and, with all the strength she could muster, raised herself up.

“Christine!” she called, trying to clear her throat. Christine came running, through the door, half-empty water bucket in hand. “Christine, we need Mother! Run for Mother!” Christine looked at Margrete's pinched face, lifted her skirts, and ran.

When she returned an hour later with Catherine, it was too late. “I tried to save her,” Meg wept. “She started bleeding, and I tried so hard, but I couldn't save her!” Both Marguerite and her baby boy were gone.

Chapter Eleven

“Catherine.” She stirred, the voice warm and familiar melting her insides. “Catherine Giry.” The man standing over her stroked her brow lightly. “Catherine, I love you, but I need to know the truth. Catherine.” Her eyelashes fluttered against her pale skin, and he pressed a kiss to her lips. She turned her head, then her eyes blinked open and she found herself staring into the face of Richard Firmin.

“Say it again, Monsieur.”

“What?”

“My name, Monsiuer.” She smiled slightly, biting her lip.

“Catherine. I love you, Catherine.” The look she gave him was inviting, and he kissed her again. “I love you.”

“Oh!” she cried, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling his lips to hers. He pulled her to him, his hands supporting her head and back like she was a small child. She laid her head on his shoulder, a small sob choking out of her. “Monsieur, I don't know what happened in there! I don't even know this ghost. I swear my late husband is Meg's father. Please, Monsieur, say you believe me!”

“I do, Catherine,” he whispered into her hair. “I do now and I always will. Don't you hear? I love you!” She backed out of his arms, and he knelt, running a hand through his thick salt-and-pepper hair, his nerves raw as steel. “Catherine, I want you to marry me. Say you will.”

“I don't know how I could refuse you, Monsieur. I will.” She smiled, and he picked her up by the waist, and twirled her round and round, her giddy peals of sudden laughter (the first he'd ever heard from her) soaring like music throughout her bedchamber. He finally put her down to kiss her again, and she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him back, the girl in her revived by his touch and his words.

Meanwhile, Meg wandered the streets of Paris, searching for an escape and finding none. She was so tired, her skirt was so heavy, and her stomach growled with hunger. She sat on a curb, holding her aching head in her hands, trying to sniff back her tears. She was so tired that she didn't hear the footsteps thudding heavily on the ground beside her.

“Mademoiselle?” She looked up in surprise at Andre.

“What?”

“You're upset over something, Mademoiselle,” he said, charm oozing from every pore on his body. He laid a hand on her back, and he was furiously trying to get it off when he commented, “You are a feisty little brat,” and dragged her into a nearby hut by her arms.

“Let go of me, you son of a...”

“Now, now, don't go bringing those masculine phrases down on me. I want feminine charm, not a hellcat!” He reached up to touch her face, then quickly drew his hand back, shaking it to get rid of the sting from Meg's slap.

“Don't touch me!” she cried. “I am not your whore to do with as you please! Get away from me!”

“Hold your tongue!” he whispered, fondling her hair. Outside the little place, a girl listened silently for the sound of his voice again, but it did not come. Instead, she heard an unmistakable cry for help before a loud slap and the bone-chilling sound of a corset tearing. She turned and ran for the nearest police station. One look at her flushed face and heaving sides told the officers all they needed to know. They each grabbed a gun and followed her back to the dwelling, where Andre was just coming out.

“Halt, you're under arrest!” one armed guard cried, aiming his gun at the man's stomach.

“For what?” he growled. “That girl is my property. I pay twenty-thousand francs a month to keep her nearby.”

“That's a lie!” the girl cried from inside. She emerged, wiping her bloody hands on her green gown. “I live at the Opera Populaire, and this man pays a salary of twenty-thousand francs to the Opera Ghost. It has nothing to do with Meg.”

“Come on,” the policeman snarled. Another slapped thick handcuffs on his still-twitching arms.
“Just you wait!” Andre cried to the girls furiously, “I'll get you for this!”

“Shut up!!” the officer roared. Andre ducked his head, and they led him away on the charges of accosting women.

In the hut Meg lay on the floor unconscious. Her dress lay torn and tattered on the floor. The ripped corset lay on top of it, and blood pooled on the floor from the place where her delicate virgin flesh had been torn to shreds. She had a hand-shaped slap mark across her face from where Andre had chastised her, and her breast and stomach were badly bruised. Her breathing seemed labored. The girl who had come to her aid knelt beside her, salty tears mixing with the freshwater that she was bathing Meg in.

Meg groaned and her eyes fluttered open. “Christine,” she moaned. “Where's Raoul?”

“Good god, Meg!” Christine cried, dropping the wet sponge. She bent over her friend, hugging her gently. “Meg, I was so scared!”

“You were scared, Christine? You didn't have that brute all over you!” Her voice was faint, and it frightened Christine.

“Oh, Meg, I'm so sorry! I wanted to try to help you!”

“You tried.” She took a deep, agonizing breath, wincing. “But who will help me now? I must get home – my mother will be terrified!” She grabbed Christine's hand and pulled herself up shakily, looking down at herself. “Oh, look at me!” she sobbed, running a hand over her bruised body. The strips of fabric that Christine had tried to cover her with were encrusted with blood. She swayed, moaning.

“No, Meg, you must stay awake!” Christine cried , catching her friend before she slipped to the cold wooden floor.

“The gypsies,” Meg whispered. “Find Tom.” Her eyes closed and Christine struggled under her weight. If the gypsies could help, then to the gypsies it would be. She laid Meg gently on the floor, covered her with the remains of her clothes, and ran out the door, just barely remembering to lock it behind her.

Chapter Ten

A bit later, in Catherine's room, Madame Giry held Carlotta close to her breast, stroking the brightly-dyed curls soothingly as Carlotta poured out her story. “My poor child,” Catherine whispered. “It's not been easy, has it? Loving someone never is.” She kissed Carlotta's forehead, remembering the pain of her own unwanted pregnancy. It was awful, knowing that someone would always be watching and hating the baby that had been a part of you for so long. To have to pray that your child would never be in the same situation before he or she is ever born.
Carlotta stood, drying her tears. “I'ma sorry I tooka so much time. I leave now.”

Catherine nodded, smiling at her. “Come talk to me any time. I'll answer all the questions you may have that I can. And my shoulder has never been damaged by tears.” Carlotta grinned and left the room, her mauve silk swishing behind her. Catherine was left alone, but not for long.

“Madame Giry!” Catherine recognized the as Christine's, and rushed to meet her.

“Christine, Christine, oh, where have you been?”

“Oh, Madame! I've seen him! I've seen the Angel! My Angel! He's a man, not a spirit! At first, as we entered his home and my voice caused lit candles to rise spontaneously, I wasn't so sure. But then, oh, Madame, as he sang, and he took my hand, he was so warm, so... on fire, Madame! Only a man could have such fire about him, as though he had settled here after a trip to the depths of hell.” She paused, and Catherine took a quick breath before speaking.

“You must be exhausted. Rest now, and tell me more later.”

“I can't. I have to take this note to Monsieurs Firmin and Andre.”

“I'll take it. Sleep now.” Catherine reached out to brush Christine's unruly curls out of her face. She studied the girl, her fingers gently stroking the girl's sunken cheeks. “Are you alright, Christine? He didn't try to...”

“Oh, no, Madame!” Christine cried, jumping back from Catherine's touch. “Although, my pantyhose were gone this morning... You don't suppose...?” She gasped at the wild look in Catherine's eyes. “No,” she whispered, “I would've noticed!”

Catherine's heart beat quickly as she watched Christine. Erik very well might've done something while she was asleep. He knew how to take advantage of a girl's trust. “I don't know, my dear,” she murmured regretfully. “You need your rest, though, that I do know. Go, I'll take care of Firmin and Andre.”

Christine nodded and they parted ways. Christine turned down a dimly lit hallway to her room, where she fell on the bed, not even bothering to get out of her clothes – oh, god, her clothes! She leaped back up again, looking down at herself in horror. How could she have gone in her dressing gown to see the ballet mistress? She couldn't do anything until she put on something decent to apologize in. She opened the chest of drawers in the corner, flinging open a door of her wardrobe at the same time. It would have to be the sage green velveteen, it was the only one she could wear without a corset.

She reached into her drawer for a pair of pantyhose, and her hand landed on a crisp, flat envelope. What the...? She turned it over and gasped, the scarlet skull seal staring up at her. The Opera Ghost. Her heart pounded as she tore into it, taking care not to destroy the envelope's contents. Her fingers trembled as she reached in and withdrew two sheets of cream-colored paper. The precise penmanship was easy to read, and the message of the first note put a smile on her face.

Here are your pantyhose. You kicked them off in your sleep last night, and I only found them this morning. Take this second note to your managers. Do not let them have it at first, but read it to them. Make them listen. I remain, your angel of music, Erik le Fantome.

Erik. That was his name. Christine whispered the name over and over again, “Erik, Erik.” It danced on her lips for awhile, then she remembered the second letter. She read it, and all of the color fell from her face. The room started to sway before her, and she put a hand to the wardrobe to steady herself. Her stomach churned violently, and she fought to keep the bile in her throat down.

Meanwhile, Catherine had stumbled upon an assembly of people in the lobby. Monsieurs Firmin and Andre looked frustrated, Raoul confused, and Carlotta looked positively hateful. Catherine swallowed a sigh before approaching them, the hand that clasped the note growing clammy. “Miss Daae has returned.” They all turned at the sound of her voice, a different look in each one's eyes.

“I hope no worse for wear as far as we're concerned,” Firmin stated, the end sounding more like a question.

“Where precisely is she now?” Andre asked, a little too concerned for Catherine's liking.
“I thought it best she was alone.”

“She needed rest,” Meg's girlish voice piped up beside her, making her jump slightly.

“May I see her?” Catherine felt Meg stiffen at Raoul's question.

“No, Monsieur, she will see no one.”

“Will she sing?” Carlotta shreiked.

“Here, I have a note.”

“Let me see it!”

“Please.” Catherine handed it to the speaker, and Firmin tore the seal open to draw out the crisp paper. He held it before him, studying the signature. He sighed, “Gentlemen, I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature detailing how my theatre is to be run.” Christine slipped in behind Catherine, and she closed her eyes, imagining Erik's voice instead of Firmin's. She could see him sitting before his tiny stage, staring at the three-inch-high replicas of the actors and actresses that performed in the Opera Populaire's productions.

“You have not followed my instructions. I shall give you one last chance. Christine Daae has returned to you and I am anxious; her career should progress. In the new production of Il Muto, you will therefore cast Carlotta as the pageboy and put Miss Daae in the role of Countess.” Carlotta's look was priceless. Her eyes popped out, and her jaw dropped nearly to her ample bosom.

“But...”

“The role which Miss Daae plays calls for charm and appeal. The role of the pageboy is silent, which makes my casting in a word – ideal! I will watch from my normal seat in Box Five, which will be kept empty for me. Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur. I remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant, O.G.”

“Christine!” Carlotta screamed, turning to nearly run up the marble stairs. “Whatever next? It's all a ploy to help...”

“Wait!! I have a note, too.” All heads turned to the voice. Christine walked towards them slowly, singing the words of the Phantom. “About your prima ballerina,” she glanced at Meg and Madame Giry, who looked at each other wide-eyed, “Margeret Catherine Giry.” Meg's eyes were questioning, and a little afraid. Christine continued, her voice trembling a little. “The girl has grace and ease. She could go far. But my daughter must learn to soar with the wind. She can leap and she can twirl, but can she fly?”

“What?” Meg whispered. “You lied to me! You said Monsieur Giry was my father!” she screamed at her mother.

Catherine's stomach churned, her worst fears coming true. “It's false, by god, I swear it's false! He's a lunatic!”

“I'm sorry,” Christine mumbled, backing away. Meg looked from her to Catherine and back again, shaking her head.

“I trusted you!” Tears filled her eyes as she ran from the room.

“I'll get her,” Raoul said, adjusting his jacket before leaving the lobby. Firmin, Andre and Carlotta stared at Madame Giry.

“Madame, explain yourself!” were the last words that Catherine heard before she felt herself slipping to the cold floor, reality melting into oblivion.

Chapter Nine

Where am I? What happened last night? Christine sat up and looked around. No, it was real. She smiled, running a finger through her thick, curly hair. She reached for the cord by her side, bringing the black canopy up when she pulled it. The music from the night before had haunted her dreams, and now some of it came back to her, compelling her to sing out her curiosity. Floating, falling, sweet intoxication. Touch me, trust me, savor each sensation. “I remember there was mist; swirling mist upon a vast, glassy lake. There were candles all around and on the lake there was a boat – and in the boat there was a man.” She turned to the organ, where Erik sat listening. “Who was that shape in the shadows? Whose is the face in the mask?” She reached to touch his face, fingering the mask, then pulling on it gently.

“Damn you!” he cried slamming her to the ground. She gasped in pain, as she banged her shoulder on the ground. “Damn you, no,” he repeated, whispering this time.

“I'm sorry,” Christine whispered, her tone matching his own. She stood, still holding her aching shoulder.

“Come, we must return. Those two fools who run my theatre will be missing you.” Wait, angel, no! I want to stay with you!

Above them, another young woman was weeping. Carlotta Guidichelli laid in the lobby where she had spent the night. Her usually bright, angry eyes were dark with sorrow and anxiety. Dark, puffy bags framed them, and her cheeks were stained with tears. Her nose was completely healed, thanks to the powder that Meg had slipped into her drink, but it was red from wiping it all night long. Her lovely satin gown was crumpled and soggy, the mauve color perhaps ruined forever.

It was upon the weeping woman that Meg stumbled in her search for Christine. “Oh, god, Carlotta, don't scare me like that!” she shrieked. She put a hand to her heaving breast, her breath coming fast.

“I'ma sorry,” Carlotta mumbled, lifting her head to gaze at Meg through blood-shot eyes.

“Carlotta, what happened to you?”

“You don'ta care, so why should I tella you?”

Meg took a deep breath. “I do care, I just don't like how you always boss me around. I want you to be alright.” She paused, chuckling, “That's why I put gypsy powder in your wine the...”

“You dida what?!”

“I put a special medicine in your drink that would make your nose heal. I've been going crazy these past few days without you! Please, tell me what's wrong!” She laid her hand on Carlotta's shoulder, preparing to jerk it back at any moment.

“Piangi 'as fadered a child... my child. Anda 'e does nota wanta me or it!” she buried her face in her hands, and her next words came out muffled. “I always want a baby, but Ubaldo, 'e always saya no. After losing my first, I never dought I'd 'ave children. It's been ten years, and dis is da first I 'ava conceived. But a child will ruin our careers, so Piangi kicka me out! 'E say, 'Bye-bye, now you really leaving!'” Meg gasped, then wrapped her arms around the prima donna.

“It'll be okay, Carlotta. Come, let's go find my mother. She can help.” Carlotta nodded, and rose stiffly. Meg held her hand out to help her, and Carlotta looked at her strangely before she took it.

“You were alwaysa meana to me. Why 'ava you changed?”

Meg chuckled. “Why did you always kick me around like a dog? As long as I can remember, you did every hateful thing you could to Christine and me. Why have you changed?”

Carlotta blushed. “Who says I've changed. I always 'ated you because of your mother. She was always better dan me. So now I hate you too.”

Meg stopped walking to look at her new friend. “Do you want to talk to her about... well, you know. If you dislike her so much!”

“Dere's no one else to 'elp me?”

“No, not unless you want to talk to Monsieur Reyer. His wife had a baby not long ago.”

“I sticka wit Madame Giry,” Carlotta giggled. Meg smiled in return. It was the first time she'd ever heard Carlotta come close to laughing, and it was music to her ears.

Chapter Eight
“No!” Catherine shoved through the crowd outside Christine's dressing room. “No!”

Christine smiled at Catherine's annoyance. She loved it when Catherine was annoyed with someone other than her. The ballet mistress's face grew stone-cold, and her French accent grew thicker than ever. Now was one of those times, and Christine could see the frustration in her mentor's eyes.

Catherine turned around, locking the door and slipping the key into the bosom of her black and gold gown. “He is very pleased with you, my dear,” she murmured, handing Christine the rose that had been left on her vanity. A red rose, tied with a single black silk ribbon.

“Madame Giry, do you know the angel?”

“I haven't heard from him lately, dear. I used to every night, but no more. I don't perform anymore,” she shrugged. “I must go now,” she said, as Christine sank to her knees before the mirrored vanity. “Rest tonight.”

“Yes, Madame.”

Catherine took the key out of her breast and unlocked the door, leaving it slightly open for the vicomte to enter. She chuckled at the whispered words that began to pour from him as he entered. “Little Lottie let her mind wander. Little Lottie thought, 'Am I fonder of dolls or of goblins or of shoes?'”

“Raoul!” Christine cried. She stood excitedly, and began to rush over to him, then suddenly stopped herself. “I'm sorry,” she murmured. “I have to be civilized now.” She smoothed her pure white skirt, looking modestly at the floor. Raoul laughed, sweeping her into his arms and kissing her soundly.

“It's been forever, Christine,” he mumbled into her hair as he set her down. She giggled.
“You're not making this easy, Monsieur le Vicomte.” Oh, God, this is hard. My heart is pounding like a thousand drums and I must feign friendship only.

“That was the point, dear Lottie.” He smiled, and kissed her hand. “Come, we go to dinner.”

“No, Raoul, I mustn't. The Angel of Music is very strict.”

“Oh, no doubt of it!” What angel? She's not still raving about her father's dying words, is she? “Ten minutes, Little Lottie.” He blew her a kiss, then turned on his heel and left.
Christine sank to her knees, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Now what was she to do?
“I am your angel of music. Come to me, angel of music,” came a sudden whispered voice. Christine looked around the room, unable to find the source of the voice.

“Angel of Music, hide no longer!” she begged.

“Look at your face in the mirror.” This time the words were sung, “I am there inside!”

“Angel?” she murmured, moving towards the mirror. She gasped. There stood behind the mirror a tall man in a black tuxedo, white mask, and... a red rose boutonnière. A red rose tied with the same black ribbon was being held out to her, taunting her. She reached for it, and he clasped her hand in his, drawing her through the mirror.

He led her down many steps, through many candle-lit halls of dark stone. They reached a gondola at the beginning of a vast lake that seemed to be the whole world wide. Their journey was punctuated only with commands to sing, which Christine did willingly.

Her voice seemed to work magic, as first one candelabra then another rose from the depths of the greenish-blue lake. She rose higher and higher and they plunged deeper and deeper into the bowels of the Opera Populaire, until, on a high E, they reached their destination: the Phantom's lair.

Christine looked about her in amazement. Everything glittered like a million diamonds in the candle-light. Everything was gilded ~ the many candelabras, the mirrors. Even the organ was covered in gold. Only one thing was not covered in the metal that seemed to flow from every flame. This was Erik. His clothes seemed of a deeper hue than before, and the pearlesque of his mask was a brighter light than all of the candles put together.

His voice overcame them all, though. His perfect, pure voice that Christine in mind of satin sheets. It was so smooth, so rich, and it was something Christine knew she might never hear again. Though her father had promised to send the angel, he never promised that he would stay for long.

Erik lifted her from the boat, and she felt herself relax in his arms. He was so warm, he felt so good! If Raoul made her heart beat more quickly than a ballerina's feet, the angel made it fall to the floor, and she had no interest in picking it up again. How could she feel this way about an angel? A being that would leave her the moment he was called away by someone else. Yet here she was, clinging tightly to a dream that might fade at any moment. And she knew she would never forget this night, and that she would always remember the feeling of his arms holding her tightly to his chest, as one might hold a baby close, for fear of breaking them.

Chapter Seven

“Think of me. Think of me fondly when we've said good-bye!” Catherine's heart pounded against her ribs as her young charge sang, the notes floating from her throat across to the audience, where the wealthy sat entranced by the girl's beauty. It was true – the crowd was more content than they'd been since Carlotta took Madame Piangi's place years ago.

Catherine looked at her daughter, who stood before her, smiling. It had been so long since Meg had smiled in her presence! Maybe, just maybe... Madame Giry reached a shaking hand out to fondle her daughter's long, blonde hair. Her vision clouded as Meg stood still. There was hope yet!

She looked up to Box Five where the Vicomte de Chagney stood, enchanted by Christine's voice. She watched him leave, then sneaked out herself in time to hear his voice cry, “Can it be? Can it be Christine? Long ago, it seems so long ago! She may not remember me but I remember her.” Catherine grinned. There was also hope for her girls' love lives. At least, for Christine's. Meg had never shown but interest in Raoul. Thank goodness. She had tried very hard to keep her little girl from people like Erik.

Catherine sighed. Erik couldn't keep his hands off the young girl he played angel to. At least, he couldn't keep his eyes from her. Catherine had overheard Christine describing to Meg the watched-over feeling that followed her constantly.

She closed her eyes, remembering how she'd felt when she'd first returned to the Opera Populaire. She'd known she was being followed. She knew Erik was watching Meg, too. Maternal fear led her to keep Meg away from all things reflective, and everything dark. She tried so hard to keep Erik from her, but when that didn't work, she set about making sure that Meg “knew” her father, Monsieur Giry.

“Boo!” a male voice startled her. She turned her now wide-open gray eyes on Monsieur Firmin, who caught her by the waist.

“Monsieur!” she gasped. He took advantage of her open mouth by pressing a fervent kiss to her lips. “Don't do this to me,” she moaned.

“Where can we go, Madame Giry?” he whispered into her neck. She shivered, closing her eyes and leaning against him.

“We can... nowhere, Monsieur!” she cried, pushing away from him. “You do not sneak up on and try to woo married women!”

“But, I thought, that is... Meg told me you were widowed!”

“I am, Monsieur, but that doesn't mean I'm free to the public!”

“I'm sorry,” he stuttered, backing away. She nodded, and swept the other direction, back towards the stage. She arrived just as Christine came flying backstage after her final curtain call. She ran into the older woman's arms and wept tears of joy.

“It's just as I always imagined!” she wept, “The lights, the crowd, the cheers. Just one thing is missing.”

“Hmmm?”

“Raoul. He's not here!”

“He was, dear. Come now, let's get you out of this costume.”

“No, wait! There's something I must do first.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Madame Giry nodded sympathetically. “Go. I'll be waiting.”

Christine smiled, gathered her skirts, and rushed off towards the basement. There she knelt, a whispered prayer lighting on the slight breeze wafting through the room. Oh, Father, you sent an angel for me. Now, Father, send your spirit to hear me sing, if you yourself are not the ethereal being that watches over me. She bowed her head, clasping her hands before reaching for a candle and a match.

“Christine, Christine...?” Meg. Father, forgive me.

“Christine.” She looked around. Father?

“Where in the world have you been hiding? Really, you were perfect!” Meg cried as she descended into the room and sat on the cold cement floor. “I only wish I knew your secret. Who is your great tutor?”

“Meg, when Father died, he promised to send me an angel of music. Ever since, I've been watched. Even in my dreams, he's always with me.”

“Christine, do you believe your father's spirit is coaching you?”

“Who else, Meg? Who?” She crinkled her brow, confused. “Here in this room he calls me softly, somewhere inside, hiding. Somehow I know he's always with me; he, the unseen genius.”
“Christine, you must have been dreaming. Stories like can't come true. Christine, you're talking in riddles, and it's not like you!”

“Oh, Meg, I'm frightened. I think I'm falling in love with an angel!”

Meg stepped back, shocked. “What about Raoul?”

“I don't know. I love him, too!”

“Come, Christine. Surely Mother's waiting for you,” Meg changed the subject. Christine chuckled, and they left.

Lurking behind a closed door, Erik watched them go. It wasn't right! He started helping her, and she fell in love. And then there was the matter of Catherine and Firmin. Something was going to have to change, and soon!

Chapter Five

Knock, knock, Meg rapped on the door to Carlotta's room. There was no response, so she quietly opened up the door. The old wood scraped over the floorboards, and the hinges creaked loudly. Carlotta stirred on the bed that she slept on. Meg glances at her face, her tear-stained, olive skin, then at her bandaged nose. She smiled, spying a golden goblet near the bed nearly filled with liquid. She reached into her pocket, a curl of pleasure rippling through her as she pulled out a small vial filled with a pink powder. Fairy dust, she thought. Oh god, what can't th e gypsies do? She emptied the vial into Carlotta's ale, being careful not to spill any of the precious powder. Carlotta stirred in her sleep, and Meg's hand shook, causing some of the mixture to fall on Carlotta.

“No!” she cried, the goblet clattering back into its place. She jumped back as Carlotta sat up straight amongst the satin sheets.

“What 'ava you done, you little brat!” she shrieked.

“I was getting you more ale!” Carlotta glared at her, then flopped on her side. Meg groaned inwardly. “Actually, I came here to apologize.” There was no response. “Look, I shouldn't have hit you, and I'm sorry. We need you!” Carlotta rolled over to stare at her, an eyebrow quirked in amused curiosity. Meg watched her, then with a sigh said, “You're going to make me beg, aren't you?” Carlotta grinned slyly, still not saying a word.

Meg closed her eyes for a moment, clenching her fists, then got down on her knees, spreading her skirt on the ground. “I should not've hit you. We need you on the stage! Without La Carlotta, the Opera Populaire is nothing! Please, as soon as your nose heals?”

“No.”

“Carlotta! I'm begging you!” she cried, an idea bursting into her mind. Christine, forgive me. “Carlotta, my mother cannot direct a ballet. Christine cannot sing like you! There is no romance between Christine and Piangi, either! Please, on behalf of the Opera Populaire, I ask you to return, to show up for your public tonight!” This got Carlotta's attention.

“Fine. I be dere!” Meg held out her hand.

“Shake on it?” she asked, loathing the idea of shaking Carlotta's hand as much as Carlotta dreaded shaking hers. The diva shrank back, a disgusted look on her face.

“No! I will not shaka da hand of a lowly ballet girl!”

“Please?” I can't believe I'm doing this, Meg thought as she rose. I'm going to get back at Mother for this.

Carlotta swallowed, feeling ill. She reached out and pinched Meg's right forefinger between her thumb and pointer, shaking it slightly. “Thank you,” Meg whispered, backing out of the room. Carlotta laid back down, tears filling her eyes. No one ever thanked her!

As Meg entered the hallway, she closed her eyes and clenched her fists several times. Oh, god, how had she gotten into this? No one wanted Carlotta back on the stage, except the managers, and that was only because this was their first time in an opera house position! And now, here she made Carlotta swear to return, just to please her mother!

She groaned, and leaned back against the marble column, glad for the cool stone against her back . She tugged at the tight fabric pressing on her stomach. She hated dresses, and what did her mother make her wear? Maybe I can get away with a leotard and tutu. She pushed away from the column eager to get out of the blue velvet. It was just then that Firmin came around the corner. The two collided, and Firmin caught the girl in his arms as she began to topple.
“Monsieur Firmin! Get your hands off me!” Meg cried, pushing him away. He stared her, at the blue velvet trimming her delicate body perfectly.

“My apologies, Mademoiselle. I was looking for Madame Giry. Have you seen her?”

Meg rolled her eyes. “Yes, but not lately.” She watched the disappointment cloud his eyes. “She may be in her room.”

His face lit up again. “Thank you!” he cried, rushing off in that direction.

Meg's prediction was correct. Catherine sat at her vanity, taking down her hair to brush it before the next rehearsal. She jumped at the knock at the door, and went to open it, thinking it was her daughter. “Yes...” she started to say, halting abruptly when Firmin's face greeted her instead of Meg's. She gasped, clutching desperately at the doorknob. “Monsieur!” she cried, looking down at her dressing gown of green satin. Embarrassment made her pale cheeks flush red, and she ran her delicate hands through her loose blonde hair. Her breathing quickened as Firmin ran his eyes over her scantily-clad body. He grinned, her ruby lips taunting him. The perfect legs revealed by her skirt caused his heart to beat quickly, and the perfect, white breasts that peaked from the bodice caused heat to curl throughout him.

He couldn't resist; he reached over and wrapped his arms around her, their lips meeting in a kiss more powerful than a tornado. Catherine caught her breath, resisting him at first. But then, as he held her tight, her lips began to soften and she kissed him back.

Behind them, a voice rang out in the semi-darkness. “Insolent boy, this slave of fashion, basking in your glory!” Firmin jerked back, his eyes darting around the room. Catherine looked at him pleadingly, but as the voice continued, he frowned and turned away, closing the door behind him.

“Erik!” Madame Giry cried. Her voice was filled with emotion as she sprang to the mirror, throwing back the curtain . She yanked open the secret door, and a gloved hand reached out to her. She glared at it, then slapped it hard.

“Dammit!” Erik cried.

“You ruin everything for me!” Catherine wept angrily. “I hate you! Stay away from me!” She turned and threw on her robe, sending a final glance towards the closing wall. She grabbed her corset and her dress, then hurried to the dorms to dress.


Chapter Six
The Opera Populaire was filled the night of Christine's debut as Elissa in Hannibal. It helped that everyone knew that the Vicomte de Chagney was going to be there, but Catherine knew something else was going on. One of her ballerinas probably let it slip that Carlotta was not singing. She cringed as she glanced across the front row of people. Ugh, tomato throwers in fancy clothing! Heaven forbid, she'd had enough of them when she was the prima ballerina, and she knew that Christine didn't need them. The poor girl was nervous enough as it was! She would have to warn her.

Oh, dear, all was going wrong in the overture even! Instead of beginning to play Hannibal, those fools in the orchestra had begun to play music for Il Muto, the opera they had begun to rehearse that day. Monsieur Reyer was not happy, for he could not stop them. Instead, they had to keep playing the wrong selection.

“Ha ha ha,” Madame Giry sighed under her breath. The lyrics to the song haunted her as she swished offstage. Poor fool, he makes me laugh, ha ha. Time I tried to get a better half. That was what she needed: a better half. Firmin seemed a likely candidate, after that kiss. She pressed her lips together, remembering his tight hold on her. Until Erik came.

Erik. The very name made her angry. How dare he take any love she might get away from her?
Catherine paused to catch her breath before entering Christine's dressing room. What she saw shocked her. Christine was nowhere to be seen! The only sign of her was the single red rose on her dressing table, tied with a black satin ribbon. Catherine groaned inwardly as she picked it up. Erik, again! Only he would steal a girl away before her performance! She took a deep breath, knowing that she was going to have to hunt them down. It was as she stepped towards the mirror that she heard Christine's soft steps behind her.

“Damn,” a soft male voice whispered from behind the panel. Catherine grimaced.

“Erik, you need to leave.”

“Why?”

“Because you have no business in Christine's life. You ruined me as a sixteen-year-old, and I'll not let you ruin her, too.”

The latch clicked in the door. “Go!” she hissed. She turned just as Christine entered.
“Madame Giry?”

“I need to help you get into Carlotta's costume. You are going to have to be corseted more tightly than either of us has ever been before. Come.” She motioned the young woman to her, and began to unlace her stays.

“I'm so scared, Madame Giry. Is Raoul out there?”

“Raoul de Chagney? You are still sweet on him, aren't you?”

Christine smiled. “Every time I see him, my heart nearly fails me, and everything about me seems different. I hear his voice and the whole world stops moving.” Madame Giry nodded. The de Chagneys all seemed to have that power...

“But there's something else that confuses me, Madame Giry. My angel of music – he can't be my father like I always thought.”

Catherine caught her breath. “Who then, Christine?”

“I don't know. Meg say it's the opera ghost,” she laughed, “But Meg also thinks he's her father, so I don't think I should believe her.”

“What!?” Christine turned to look at Catherine, who had stopped unlacing to stare at her. “Meg knows that Monsieur Giry, my late husband, is her father.”

“Meg says she was born four months into your marriage.”

“The doctor wrote the wrong month on the birth certificate.”

“Oh.” Catherine grabbed a brush and started to stroke Christine's thick chestnut hair. “But Madame, it doesn't make any sense!”

Catherine put down the brush. “What doesn't, Christine?”

“Meg heard you talking about him one day. You said he wore a mask, and you only saw his face once!”

“Where's your dress?”

“On the bed. But really, Madame, I don't understand!”

“I must've been dreaming, that's all! Now, are you ready?”

She nodded. Catherine reached into her gown, and pulled out a delicate silver chain. Clasping it around Christine's wrist, she explained, “I wore this when I performed. Now it is your turn. Go sing, my dear.”

Christine smiled as she wrapped her arms around Catherine. “Thank you,” she whispered. Then she swept out of the room, leaving a stunned Madame Giry with a tear in her eye and a prayer in her heart.

Chapter Four

Rehearsal let out early that day for everyone except Christine. Monsieur Reyer kept her late, that she might rehearse the many solos that she had taken over for Carlotta.
Poor Carlotta! The young diva had been cast from her position after stomping off in a feigned rage, meant to make the new managers grovel before her. Instead, she earned a broken nose from Meg's fist after she cursed the girl out for stepping on her dress. Catherine truly felt bad for her, and tried to comfort her, but nothing could move her. She would leave the Opera Populaire as soon as her nose healed.

When La Carlotta refused her care, Catherine turned to her daughter's punishment. That is, she tried to, but Meg had disappeared again. This time, she wasn't in the basement.

In fact, she wasn't anywhere in the opera house! Catherine couldn't turn to Christine this time, for she was rehearsing with Reyer and the new managers.

Catherine snorted, recalling the up-and-down motion of Firmin's eyes over her body. It had given her chills for the first time in sixteen years, since Meg. It was wrong (she was thirty-two!), but she couldn't help it. In a way, she wanted the attention, the warmth, the love. She wanted to be held close in someone's arms again, to be caressed, to have sweet nothings whispered in her ear, to have her neck kissed. But, not Firmin! Not Monsieur Andre either! Truly, no one could ever be as passionate as Erik was on that day so long ago.

She sighed, closing her eyes. For a moment, she could feel his arms around her stomach, she could see his haunting eyes from behind the mask he always wore. Catherine could hear his heavy breathing, feel his heart pounding in time with hers.

But then, reality came crashing back in on her. She opened her eyes as a petite blonde in tight, black pants slammed into her. Catherine grabbed her daughter by her biceps and shook her hard. “Margaret Catherine Giry, where have you been? I've been looking all over the house for you! And what in God's name are you wearing?”

“Pants,” Meg responded dully. She rolled her eyes at her mother, tired of being bossed around by such an old grouch.

“I can see that, Meg. Why are you wearing men's pants?”

“They're comfortable.”

“They are inappropriate for a young lady. Do none of your gowns fit you anymore?” Meg glared at her. “I see. I want you to change immediately, then go apologize to Madame Piangi.”

“Carlotta?” Meg scoffed, eyes wide with anger and detestation. “She started it!”

“What? You punched her!”

“She flicked me off!”

“Margaret, obey me now! Change and apologize. Get her to come back.”

“You've got to be kidding me!” Meg shrieked, stomping her bare feet. Catherine set her mouth in a straight line, and pointed towards the lobby stairs. Meg whirled and stamped away, arms crossed.

Catherine sighed and sank to the marble floor, a pale hand on her aching head. Her daughter was starting to be as bratty as Carlotta, and too rebellious for her own good.

Chapter Three

It was a busy day at the Opera Populaire. The costumes for the night's performance were not finished, Carlotta was putting her brattiness to its full capabilities, Monsieur Lefevre was missing, and Catherine's daughter had disappeared. Catherine sighed.

"Christine!" she called, summoning the sixteen year old to her.
"Yes, Madame?"

"Find my daughter, will you? She's gone again, and we must rehearse!" Christine nodded and rushed off to find Meg. The girl was obviously not in the dormitories or on stage,and Buquet would have sent her down if her curious nature took her to the rafters. Christine groaned. She knew where Meg would be - and where she shouldn't be, not today, not now.

Christine slipped through one high arch after the next, going down, down, into the basement of the opera house. Here, her prediction proved true. "Meg, what are you doing?"

Meg jumped up from where she had knelt before Christine's shrine to her father. "Christine!"
Christine looked at her friend, a mixture of anger and pity rising in her bosom towards the tiny blonde.

"Forgive me, Christine. I never knew my father... I... I'm sorry."

Christine smiled and put arms around her friend. "I understand. Come, your mother wants you." Meg wiped the tears from her eyes, and they returned to the stage.

"What's going on?" Christine asked Madame Giry, glancing around the stage at the silent people, at the two strangers who stood with Monsieur Lefevre.

"Monsieur is retiring," Madame Giry whispered in reply, "Messieurs Firmin and Andre are going to manage the Opera Populaire." Christine nodded and returned her attention to the men, who were now speaking.

"And we are deeply honored to introduce our new patron, the Vicomte de Chagney!" the tall one was saying. He gestured to the man in the shadows, and he approached. Christine gasped.
"It's Raoul!” she whispered excitedly. Meg nodded, remembering those times by the sea with the young vicomte and Christine.

The gentlemen continued to speak, but Christine heard and saw only the Vicomte. Saw him kiss Carlotta's hand, saw him bow to Piangi. He was even more debonaire than she had remembered... and she felt more for him than she remembered ever feeling before.

Christine was startled out of her reverie by a scream from Meg. "Oh, my god!" she cried, pointing to the rafters. Christine's eyes grew wide, then her hand flew to cover her mouth, as from the ceiling came the giant rolling and rumbling of a huge piece of scenery falling from its place – right on top of Carlotta.

She giggled, "They talk about singing breaking glass! Her singing brings down the scenery all of its own accord." A worried look stained her face, though, as she watched the unfolding events.
"Oh my god, signora, are you all right?" Monsieur Reyer cried.

"Aaa aa aaaaahhhh!" Carlotta sobbed pathetically. "I 'ate you! Lift it up!" Piangi rushed over to help her.

"He's here - the Phantom of the Opera!" Meg whispered excitedly. Her face was lit up with the lively curiosity that seemed to follow her everywhere.

"Signora, are you alright?" Monsieur Leferve asked monotonously, glad he was finally retiring and leaving all of the. "Buquet, for god's sakes man, what is going on up there?"

"Please, don't look at me, monsieur. As God's my judge, I wasn't at my post." came a voice from above, a harsh taunting voice. "Please, monsieur, there's no one there! Or if there is, well then, it must be a ghost!"

"Signora, these things do happen!" short, plump Andre said. Christine shook her head. He was obviously inexperienced when it came to dealing with prima donnas like Carlotta.

"For da past three years dese tings do 'appen, and did you stopa them from 'appening? No! And you two!" She smirked, turning to Firmin and Andre, "You are as bad as 'e is! 'Dese tings do 'appen.' Mmmm, no! Until you stoppa dese tings from 'appening, dis ting does not 'appen! Ubaldo, Andiamo, bring my doggy and my boxy!"

"Amateurs!" Piangi scoffed.

"Now you see, bye-bye, I'm really leaving!" Carlotta cried as she waltzed off of the stage. Christine and Meg chuckled.

"Meg!" Another ballerina whispered, "Come here!" Christine threw a glance over her shoulder before going following her friend. They giggled over Carlotta's exit, their skirts floating as they imitated her dramatic exit. "Now you see!" Betsy cried, flouncing away like she owned the place. The other ballerinas giggled their amusement, and Christine laughed along, feeling eyes on her the entire time. She shivered under the gaze, and immeresed herself even more in the conversation. But the bone-chilling feeling didn't go away, and it was not until she heard her name that she was able to shake it.

"Christine Daae could sing it, sir." Catherine said offhandedly, casually moving towards Christine.

"What, a chorus girl? Don't be silly!" Andre remarked, sending a condescending look her way. Christine lowered her eyes, rejection imminent.

"She's been taking lessons from a great teacher."
"Who?"

"I don't know his name, monsieur," Christine put in quietly, sending a warning look to Madame Giry.

"She has been well-taught."

"Alright then, just... just..."

"From the beginning of the aria please, mademoiselle," Reyer sighed. She gulped, but Madame Giry pushed her to the front of the stage and began to sing.

"Think of me, think of me fondly..." she sang, lightly, her voice floating to the very ceiling of the Opera Populaire, where Erik sat, entranced by the voice of his young charge. Too bad she was so young, and his heart belonged to Madame Giry. She would be a perfect bride - but, no, she must never marry and throw away her chances. He knew the talent she had in her, the talent passed from father to daughter. She had her father's music, and her mother's beauty. She had the passion of her benefactress, the curiosity of her best friend, and a temper all her own. Yes, she was perfect. Now as long as that brat Carlotta would stay out of her way.