A/N: For LeticiaMaree who has always loyally supported Coda. It's roughly been a year since I started work on it, I reckon it's time for the resolution. Let me know your thoughts!

Da Capo

Prologue:

The city of Paris loomed before her in the dark, illuminated, it seemed, by hundreds of warm-glowing lights. Each of them told a separate story, of peaceful home life, scandalous affairs or the struggle to stay afloat. Yet to Julianne Doucet they represented a welcome change.

Having spent the past six months in her native England, she was grateful to escape the fog and rain that had punctuated her every day. Though the deeper her carriage drew into the capital, the tenser she became. It was as if the dark veil had descended upon her, after all, casting everything in gloomy hues.

Six long months ago she had fled France in a hurry, too overwhelmed by grief and fear. She could never have imagined that she would find herself at the centre of so great a conflict. Granted, she had been viewed as unusual at times, but who could have known that she, a plain diplomat's widow, would be in charge of an opera house run in the shadows by a disfigured genius? Nervously, her fingers bunched together the black silk of her travel dress which served to deepen the pre-existing creases designed to give the skirt a more shapely appearance.

Those haunting amber eyes seemed to follow her everywhere.

Resting her head against the wall of the carriage, she closed her own and allowed a deep sigh to escape her parted lips. The carriage jostled faintly, lulling her into a false sense of security.

Regrets made up the heaviest part of the baggage she carried with her. Julianne knew that her decision to escape the country had been as desperate as it had been reckless. In one careless act she had broken the arrangement Erik had imposed upon her and undoubtedly not only condemned the Palais Garnier to a grim fate but also endangered its employees.

But she was only human, after all, and had sought refuge in the safe predictability of her childhood environment. Her father had been rather insistent that she ought to return, anyhow. Paris, he thought, was not an appropriate place for an unmarried woman.

For the first few months it had been surprisingly easy to forget about the Opera Ghost and his demands, to forget about Édouard even and to lose herself in the flurry of activity designed to amuse her. Gradually, however, hints of grey started to slip into those sombre hues of her mourning attire and her father began his talk of the future. She could not remain on her own, of course, and neither was it appropriate for someone of so mature an age to reside with her parents.

Rather conveniently, young, handsome men chose that exact period to pay visits to the family home and by some mysterious twist of fate, Julianne found herself in the role of hostess more often than not. Her indignation and anger had soon given way to shame when she discovered that her outrage could not simply be attributed to the memory of her late husband but was in part due to her recent experiences with Erik.

That was when her thoughts had inevitably toppled over one another, bringing her back to that hopeless shell of a house beneath the Palais Garnier, forcing her to recall the threats, the murder, the pain and anguish and…tentative blooming of something quite beyond words. That was when she realised she needed to return, not only out of guilt, but because she, herself, needed to know what had brought about that sudden rupture that had ended with Erik's spindly fingers wrapped around her neck and angry words of instruction hissed into her ear.

But how fragile determination could be!

In England with the (although oftentimes unwanted) support of her family she had been filled with a sense of purpose. But now that she had returned to Paris, she was becoming rapidly aware of the size of the task she had set herself. She was only a woman, after all, restrained by the customs of mourning for another six months at least. Whoever she would turn to for help would only suggest that she handed over the running of the opera to a man who would likely be more capable. And unless she wanted to endanger Erik, there really was no-one she could consult.

Except perhaps the Persian?

The mysterious stranger called Nadir who had fled her house in such panic the night she had decided to return to England. Perhaps he could become a friend.

The Parisian streetlamps were projecting an intriguing show of shadow and light onto her face now, while she slowly unfurled her fingers. Around her, on one of the larger boulevards of the city, the air was ripe with sound. Summer, it seemed, had swept the country and was tempting young and old to lounge in the many inviting Cafès.

Well-dressed gentlemen in tailored suits were walking arm in arm with elegantly clad women, all parties visibly relishing the warm breeze that also filtered into the carriage from time to time. Paris had a particular flair to it that was entirely lacking in the English cities, though Julianne was under no illusion that the debauchery was any different.

At last, the dark, glistening body of the Seine came into view and with it the familiar outlines of her arrondissement. Her stomach constricted nervously as she hoped, prayed to find her staff alive and well. Erik's latest threat had been directed at her maid and housekeeper, after all, and it was impossible to predict whether he had been incensed enough by her departure to realise it. Not even the sight of the Jardin du Luxembourg – the park that lay on the doorstep of her house, and through which she had taken imaginary strolls on those gloomy days in England - could do anything to lift her spirits.

But then Alexandre's tall figure appeared, pushing open the gates that led into the courtyard and his relieved face prompted a smile to spring to her own. There was a sense of familiarity in this Parisian life after all, and it warmed her heart.

With expert movements of his strong, muscular arms he guided the carriage inside and then opened the door to help her alight.

"Madame Doucet!" He was positively beaming now.

"Alexandre," she bowed her head in return, "what a pleasure it is to see you again. How well you look!"

She placed one hand upon his cheek in a motherly fashion and felt him glow beneath her touch.

"We have all been anticipating your return, Madame. It has been very quiet."Then, as if noticing how bluntly he'd spoken, he cast his eyes downwards and straightened his posture. "But now you are back and there's work to be done. I shall tend to your luggage first, Madame, then give the driver his pay and put him up for the night."

She nodded in agreement and released him, proceeding into the house on her own. The black, heavy curtains had been taken down, the gas light turned brighter and the mirror in the hallway was free, once more, to show her her own reflection. The face she found there was round but fuller than it might have been a year ago, the deep blue eyes no longer hidden behind a veil were sharp and focused and the dark hair once long enough to be pinned up into a bun was cut fashionably short.

"Madame Doucet, what a pleasure it is to have you home!"

Julianne turned to face the portly figure of her housekeeper and maid Babette and once more breathed a sigh of relief. She, too, looked as ordinary as she had done upon her departure.

"And how nice it is to see you again," Julianne answered genuinely, taking Babette by the hand. "You must tell me everything that I have missed, but now I'm dreadfully tired from the journey and cannot wait to rest."

"Of course, Madame, of course," acquiesced the maid and proceeded to usher her to the topmost floor where the bedroom was located.

Here, too, the heavy curtains had been removed, and the steadily glowing lights in the distance made the space feel less suffocating. Finally, there was more to life than mourning alone. There was an entire city on her doorstep, not just the seclusion of her chamber.

Dutifully, Babette moved to the bed and laid out the nightgown that would have been laundered and aired out on that very day.

"Your family must have been pleased to have you with them, Madame," she remarked conversationally, while Julianne crossed the room to explore what else had been altered in her absence.

"Quite pleased, I would think."

She came to a halt in front of her writing desk on whose surface a small stack of letters had been accumulating. Instantly nervous, she longed to ask questions but held her tongue for the sake of her maid and instead pushed her fingers into the cool fabric of her dress once more.

At length, Babette finished what she had set out to do and after inquiring if there was anything more to be taken care of, she vacated the room and left Julianne to her own devices.

Breathing steadily through her mouth to calm herself, she lifted up the first letter and examined it. Bearing the city's seal it was unlikely to contain any nasty surprises. Three more of its kind followed. Then there were those black envelopes that held kind condolence wishes which seemingly refused to cease even till this day.

But it was between postcards and formal invitations that a simple little envelope lay nestled. Devoid of the spidery handwriting she'd come to associate with the Opera Ghost, an inexplicable sense of foreboding befell her nonetheless.

It was a small note, really, containing little more than a few lines and yet…and yet those lines hinted at so much more.

Madame Doucet,

It is with deepest regret that I must inform you that the Palais Garnier has been closed in your absence. I trust that you will share our disappointment, but without a steady hand to steer the business, it has been impossible to uphold the necessary funding. I hope you will come to understand that this decision has been made with great regard for your reputation.

With warm wishes,
Roger Moreau