This new motorcar they were in may be faster but it did not lessen any of the bumps and sharp turns on the way to the opera house. Charles made no attempt to disguise his discomfort. By the third time the car jumped his eyes were rolling out of his head.

Raoul let out a soft chuckle, "I'm sorry to take you away from your composing."

"It's fine." Charles kept his eyes locked out the window as he cracked his knuckles.

"This won't take all day, just felt like it was time for a trip."

"I'm in the city all the time, we could have gone then."

"I wanted to find a time where I wouldn't be called away on business. This is important."

"We could have gone exploring when I play there, it's only a matter of time." Charles showed off a cheeky grin.

"Now don't get too confident." Raoul smiled, "But yes, you will someday. The best of the best performed there."

"Mother."

Raoul silently nodded in response. Charles' mother's death had been hard on both of them. Charles would not play a single note of music for months. He was very close with his mother. She was so patient with him, and only she could calm him down when his temper got the best of him. When he finished his first composition she was the first to hear it. It was terrible when she got sick. It broke her heart when she no longer had the voice to sing with her boy. Until her last day Charles would play for her every night. The only time he ever collaborated on a piece it was with her. They would sit together working until the morning. When it was all finished he rushed to her room to show her. But by then, she was gone.

The car pulled up to the front of the Palais Garnier, "Monsieur." They stepped out of the car.

Raoul inhaled a deep breath at the site of the opera house. It had been so long, and he had not step foot near the place since Don Juan. He wondered if any of the old staff was here. It was not likely, most people involved that night got as far away as they could. Even the Girys left for London.

Charles took a step back as he took in the enormity of the place.

"I had the same look on my face when I first saw it."

"I need to play here." Before Raoul could say anything in response Charles was already rushing up the steps exploring the place. "It's so amazing. Look at the designs! I've read about it but this is…"

"Nothing like seeing it in person."

They must have gone through every nook and cranny. Raoul even felt a little winded by the end. "Come on let's take a seat."

Even as they sat down in box five Charles was bouncing, "Mother would perform here, right? Is this where you sat?"

"Yes… and usually."

Charles was beaming ear to ear. Raoul had to work up his courage. The day had been so perfect this far, it would be so easy to go home and forget the whole thing. What if he lost his son in the process?

"Charles… there is something I need to tell you." He wasn't listening, too busy bending over the railing studying the ceiling.

"Boy, get away from there!" The guards were already frustrated some Vicomte made them bend the rules. Raoul and Charles were on a tight leash.

"So stuffy." Charles muttered. "Did you know this chandelier is an exact replica of the one that was shattered only seventeen years ago."

"You don't say." Raoul replied, "Charles… there is something I need to tell you."

"Hm?"

"There are some things you do not know about your mother and me. She wanted to tell you herself but neither of us planned on her getting sick." Raoul was rubbing his eyes.

Understanding the gravity of the new situation, Charles comforted his father, "It would make her happy we were here."

"Yes it would." As if some inspiration came over him Raoul stood up, "Perhaps it is best if I show you first."

Charles had never seen his father this nervous, not even when his grandparents would come to visit. He knew his family had secrets but he taught he would find them out in a more cliché way like some pictures in a locked drawer. Even for a family of artists, this seemed dramatic.

His father led him down some corridors backstage until they got to a dressing room. His father's hand went around the frame of the door, "If the new company has the same poor habits of the old there should be… ah here it is." He pulled out a key from the top of the door. "Come on."

The dressing room was huge. Flowers hung from the walls, it was definitely for the prima donna.

"This was your mother's old dressing room." What could be inside here that is so important? His father had a nostalgic look on his face as he looked around the room, but the nerves were getting to him. Charles thought he could see him shaking. "This way."

After messing around with the body mirror the glass pulled back.

Charles' jaw dropped, "What is this?"

"It'll be easier to explain once we get to the house. Don't worry I spent some time running around these passageways, we will be perfectly safe." His father was very good at feigning confidence but this had clearly shaken him.

They walked around the dark corridors in silence. Charles watched as his father navigated through the complicated passageway. Sometimes they would come to an unexpected stop as Raoul just stared forward into the dark underground. Eventually they reached a lake.

"What I've been trying to show you is at the other side of that lake."

"I don't understand." He wanted to go home.

Raoul took his hands in his, "I'm sorry to put you through this. It will only be a little longer."

As they crossed the lake the mossy underground transformed with ornate designs. Charles started to make out a glowing in the distance. It couldn't be. There was a house at the end. It had the kind of architecture Charles had only seen in his dreams.

"What is this place?"

Raoul's voice was shaking, "This was your father's home."

"…Your home?" Charles was breathing heavy, Raoul just wanted to hold him and tell him that it was all going to be okay, that this was not meant to change them.

"We both know that is not what I am talking about."

Charles had his head turned down running his hands through his hair, "But, I don't understand. How? Who?"

Raoul sat down next to him, "You are a smart boy Charles." Charles still could not look up, "Your father, biological father, was a very troubled man. He was a genius, but had a hard life. He was born with a deformity on his face and was not treated well. Eventually he shunned all people, hiding here. He was a musician, architect, magician. He taught your mother how to sing. He loved her. But… things grew more complicated and she had to stop her lessons. That was when your mother and I got engaged."

"But if you were engaged, was she still seeing him?"

"No. But he grew angry that she stopped coming to him. He blamed me. In the end though, he understood that he had to let her go. I did not know this until later, but before the wedding she went to say a final goodbye."

"Why didn't she just stay with him. Did she love him?"

"To be honest I'm not sure… but yes, I think she did. I think some part of her always did. But he was dying. He's been dead for seventeen years."

Charles started to grow angry, "Why tell me then? If he is dead why did I need to know? So my father is some crazy beast and mother betrayed you. How could you all do this to me?"

Raoul grabbed Charles, "Listen to me. I was hurt when I found out, but don't you dare disrespect Christine. She loved you and gave you a life she never had. Your biological father and I had our own problems but in the end he was... he was a good man and Christine would not want you to think of him any other way. He would have loved you, but I am your father and this isn't going to change that. You're my boy, no one is going to take you away from me. If you need a moment that is fine, but I will be here waiting for you. I always will."

For the first time in his life Charles felt like a little boy. A helpless little boy. Yes, Raoul would always be his father. But Charles could not deny that he always felt like something was off. This explained everything. The off comments, the whispered conversations between the maids, he was the sun of a madman.

Charles found himself wandering around the strange house in search of something tangible of his biological father. He found some old unfinished pieces of music scattered along the furniture but not much else other than shattered mirrors. He came across some drawings of his mother. She was much younger, around his age. Some of them were of her sitting in the very room he was standing in. Charles had never seen such skill in simple drawings.

Then he came across a very different portrait with considerably less skill but still quite beautiful. The man in the portrait was wearing a striking white mask contrasting against his black hair. So this was the man in question. Quickly, Charles folded up all the pictures into his inner coat pocket. There were some more stylized paintings around the room. Some were scenery, some were designs. Charles found himself in awe. How could a madman create so many beautiful things?

"Charles? Are you all right?"

He took one final look at the music and portraits he collected and walked out, "I'm alright papa."

His father let out a sigh of relief, "Oh, good. Do you want to talk about anything else?"

"Maybe in time, but I think I understand." Charles put his arm around his father, he was already a little taller than him, "Let's go home."

Raoul was concerned how oddly at peace his son seemed. It was a complete turn. He hoped he hadn't done anything too catastrophic to him. Throughout the return home he would probe Charles to make sure nothing was wrong but was repeatedly reassured of Charles wellbeing.

Charles spoke of how it would take time to let it all in, that it was a lot, but that he was going to be okay. They were going to be okay.

As Raoul got ready for bed he looked at his picture of his late wife, "I hope I did the right thing. Please watch over him carefully Christine. He needs you now more than ever."

The music was unlike anything Charles had ever played before. There was no complete song, but he was sure he could put together something out of this. The technique went against all of the standard forms of the greats, and Charles loved it. He pulled out the portrait of this strange man. There was still much he did not know, but already Charles felt connected. He would always love this father, but this filled a part of him he did not know was empty.

By now his father would be asleep. Regardless, Charles quietly unlocked the compartment he built under his desk. It was still there with all the little notes and stains still there, but still unused.

He placed them on his piano side by side, the music his mother and he wrote and the unfinished pieces from the opera house, and for the first time, the song was heard.