Author's Note: Here it is at last! The epilogue!

Thank you so much to everyone who has read and reviewed this story over the many years I've been working on it. Your support means a great deal to me. I love this story, and it has been such a pleasure to write it.

I hope to start posting a new Phantom story fairly soon, but until then, thanks again and I hope you enjoy!

A Venetian Epilogue

This was harder than he had expected.

Although Professor Guizot had every confidence in Erik's ability, it soon became clear that the intimidating Artistic Director of La Fenice did not quite share his deputy's faith.

Erik had barely set foot inside the Opera House before being assigned a singing tutor. Full company rehearsals started at nine and ran for three hours, followed by another two hours after lunch. On days when there wasn't an evening performance, there were individual vocal sessions in the late afternoon.

Christine was not often summoned for these, but Erik usually was.

After a month in Italy, Erik had learned two things: that Italian pastries were even more delicious than French croissants, and singing teachers were monsters.

Returning to the apartment late one evening, he wilted onto the sofa and arranged himself into a pose which indicated complete physical and creative exhaustion.

"Oof," he said.

Christine looked up from her Italian phrasebook and smiled. "Good lesson?"

"How did you ever put up with this?"

Christine raised an eyebrow. "You mean, how did I ever put up with a perfectionist as a singing teacher?"

"Something like that. Oh, God. What have I got myself into?"

"At least you don't have to study Italian." She laid the book aside. "How on earth did you find the time to become fluent in so many languages?"

Erik grimaced. "I've read far too many operas. But I'm not as fluent as you might think. I know how to declare everlasting love and challenge my rival to a duel, but I'm not entirely convinced I know how to order a cup of tea."

Christine laughed. "Well, I'm having just as much trouble with my Italian teacher as you are with your voice coach, so I can sympathise."

Erik sighed and massaged his temples. "You know, all those months I taught you, I had no idea just how hard I was making you work. I'm sorry."

"That's all right. And you'll get used to it."

Erik wasn't so sure. The new opera season started in a week, and he didn't feel remotely ready. Christine, however, seemed to take it all in her stride.

They had married before leaving for Venice. It had been a small, intimate ceremony, in the company of their friends. Madame Giry had organised the flowers, and Reyer had been in charge of the music. Meg was bridesmaid. The wedding was followed by a party in the Grand Foyer of the Opera. Most of the company had attended, including Carlotta, who put aside any remaining feelings of resentment for one day, at least. She had become rather drunk on champagne and performed an improvised dance on the table (with Piangi as a reluctant partner). Philippe de Chagny had mercifully stayed away, but Raoul had come to wish them well.

Three days after the wedding, they had embarked on the journey to Venice. It had been the best month of his life. And yet…

He stood up and walked through the thin curtains, onto the balcony. Their rented apartment overlooked a narrow canal and a footbridge, under which gondolas would occasionally slide. Sometimes, he couldn't believe the city was real. It was beautiful, of course, but on evenings like this, he felt that he had stepped onto the world's most elaborate stage set.

A pair of warm arms stretched around him, hugging him across the stomach. Christine's cheek rested on his back, between his shoulder blades.

"Are you all right, my love?" Her voice was soft.

He sighed. "Yes. Yes, of course. It's just…sometimes I feel at odds with this place."

She kissed the back of his head. He'd taken the wig off; it was too hot at the moment, and as soon as he got home, he'd discarded it.

"You're homesick," said Christine. "It's perfectly natural. I am, too."

He turned to face her, being careful not to shrug off her arms. "You? But you seem so happy here."

"I am. The opera company is wonderful. I love the theatre. And I have you." She smiled. "But I do miss home. I miss Meg and Antoinette in particular."

"I miss Antoinette too." Erik laughed, and then grimaced. "Damn. I didn't want to admit it."

Christine chuckled. "Well, I have good news. It seems they're coming to visit for the start of the new season. This came this morning." She reached into her pocket and handed him a letter.

Erik's mouth twitched as he recognised Meg's looping handwriting.

Dear Christine (Mme Carriere!),

I'm sorry it's taken me so long to write again. Things have been so busy here.

What news? I hope you and Erik are well, and enjoying married life. Have you found an apartment yet, or are you still at the hotel?

You asked me to send gossip from the Opera House. The big news is that Sorelli has eloped…with Count Philippe! None of us can believe it. If it were me, I would have broken things off with him the moment he UNMASKED Erik onstage! But it seems they've managed to patch things up. They were last seen heading for Monte Carlo. The poor vicomte is beside himself. It's come as quite a shock, I think.

The temporary managers seem to be settling in well. Monsieur Firmin has a small reputation as a composer. I hope he doesn't try to stage anything. He's very serious and loves opera. I think Erik would like him. Monsieur Andre is a more nervous type. He shouts quite a lot. He used to work at the Opera Comique, and he 's writing a book called 'Memoirs of a Manager'.

We're rehearsing Faust. Again. Yawn. But I've been made leader of a row!

I know I asked for your news, but you can wait and tell me in person, because I'm coming to Venice with Mother. I'm so excited to see you! We'll be there the day before the new season premieres. Please ask Erik to secure some tickets for us. He can do that, can't he?

I must go. I promised to go shopping with Mother for a new suitcase.

Much love,

Meg

Erik shook his head. "I can't believe Philippe's eloped with Sorelli."

"Really?" said Christine. "I can. The man was miserable."

"How so?"

"I don't think he was happy being an aristocrat. Maybe he'll be happy now, and leave everyone else alone."

"We can but hope." Erik paused, and swallowed. "Christine? Do you think we did the right thing, leaving the Opera and coming here?"

"The Opera will be fine. We'll be fine."

Erik grasped the balustrade and looked out over the canal. "I'm just worried I'm out of my depth here. As a performer, I mean. Maybe if I'd done all this years ago…"

"You're here now. That's the important thing. You'll be wonderful." She wrapped her arms round his neck and pulled him into a kiss. "My Erik…"

"Christine…"

He took her hand, and they stepped back through the curtains.

2.

Christine was sitting at the pavement café, waiting for Meg and Antoinette. Erik was having another singing lesson, and had promised to join them as soon as he could.

She had chosen the café because there was music and good hot chocolate, which Meg loved. It was also located on St Mark's Square, so it was easy to find.

Her book was open, unread, in her lap. Christine couldn't concentrate – she found she was nervous. She wanted her friends to like Venice, and to be happy for her. Before she had left Paris, Meg had told her – at great length – how much she would miss her. Antoinette had done pretty much the same thing to Erik, asking him if he was absolutely sure that he wished to leave the Opera, even if it was just for six months.

Perhaps bringing these two lives together wasn't such a good idea. Perhaps the visit from her friends would just make her feel more homesick.

"Christine!"

The joyful squeal rang across the square. Christine looked up from her book and saw Meg hurrying towards her, wearing an inappropriately heavy coat and carrying a suitcase. Antoinette walked behind her, dressed in her customary black.

And all her doubts evaporated as the ballerina reached her and Christine found herself encircled in a hug.

Twenty minutes later, the three of them had made themselves comfortable at the little round table, and were sipping tall glasses of chocolate. Meg hadn't stopped asking Christine questions. She wanted to know every detail about her new life in Venice, about her apartment, about the opera house. It was just like old times, and Christine found that she didn't feel sad or awkward in the least.

Madame Giry laughed. "Meg! Give poor Christine a chance to breathe."

"Sorry, Christine," Meg dabbed chocolate from her mouth with the corner of her napkin. "Oh! Where's Erik?"

Now it was Christine's turn to laugh. "You mean you've only just noticed he's not here?"

"I'm sorry, I was just so busy talking. And he is quiet."

"He'll be here as soon as he can. He's with his voice coach."

Madame Giry raised both eyebrows. "Erik has a voice coach?"

"Yes. Ironic, I know."

"And how is he dealing with that?"

"The pressure's getting to him a bit, I think. You know Erik. He always worries he's not good enough. He's a perfectionist."

Antoinette shook her head. "That poor man."

"He's fine, I think."

The ballet mistress gave her a serious look. "I meant the voice coach."

A shadow fell across the table. And a warm, honeyed voice said: "May I join you?"

"Erik!" shrieked Meg, jumping out of her seat and skirting round the table. She gave Erik a quick hug, which he returned awkwardly. "How are you? You look…different."

Christine smiled. Erik was wearing a suit of light fawn linen and a grey panama hat. Three days of the Venetian summer sunshine had been quite enough for him to abandon his customary black. He looked well, less pale and thin, and the lighter colours brought out the brilliant gold flecks in his eyes.

"Thank you, Miss Giry." He turned his gaze towards Antoinette, and gave a brief bow. "Madame."

Antoinette's face broke into a grin. "Erik! Why so formal? Sit down, have a drink. Recover from your ordeal."

"Ordeal?" Erik looked confused, then winced. "Ah. You mean my singing lesson."

"How are you getting on?"

"Well, I still have a voice, so I suppose that's something."

"Why do you need the training?" said Meg. "You taught Christine. And your voice always sounded perfect to me."

Erik stared moodily at the hot chocolate and pastry which had been placed in front of him. "Thank you, Miss Giry. You flatter me. But I'm not a trained singer. Not entirely. I was forced to abandon my tutelage before my voice had fully matured, and since then, I've been largely self-taught." He sighed. "Apparently, I have much still to learn."

"What are you rehearsing at the moment?" asked Antoinette.

"I'm playing Pamina in The Magic Flute," said Christine.

"And I'm Nadir in The Pearl Fishers," said Erik.

Antoinette smiled. "Ah! Au fond du temple saint is one of my favourites."

"Yes, well, I would reserve judgement about that until you've heard my version," said Erik.

"You're not performing together?" said Meg.

"We're singing together at the gala tomorrow, to begin the new season," said Christine. "And then at the premiere of Don Juan next month." She grinned. "Monsieur Guizot is very excited about it."

"And I have my reservations," said Erik, tearing his pastry in half.

"Why?" said Madame Giry.

"Monsieur Guizot has a Concept," was the dark reply.

Meg blinked. "A what?"

"He has a very particular vision for the production, entirely different from my own."

"Oh dear," said Antoinette.

Christine clicked her tongue. "For heaven's sake, Erik! All Monsieur Guizot wishes to do is set Don Juan at the time of the Venice Carnival, so everyone can be masked and the instances of mistaken identity seen more plausible."

"No one ever criticised Mozart for being implausible," grumbled Erik.

A smile played on Christine's lips. She turned to their guests. "Ignore him. He's just jealous because he wishes he'd thought of it himself. Because he has to be a genius at all times. Don't you, darling?"

Erik tried to glower, but it dissolved into a smile.

"Christine is the true genius. You'll see that at the gala. You are coming, aren't you?"

Meg grinned. "We wouldn't miss it for the world."

3.

Erik stood before the mirror in his small dressing room.

Word had spread to the gossip columns about Erik's debut, and not all the comments were kind. One respected newspaper had accused La Fenice of sensationalism, of 'hiring a cabaret act' to appeal to a wider, 'less refined' audience. Six months ago, such remarks would have crushed Erik's confidence, but now he found they had lost some of their sting. Let the critics hear him, and judge him as they will.

There was a knock on the door. For a horrible moment, he thought it was his five minute call, and he grabbed his mask from the dressing table. But then there was another soft knock, followed by a familiar voice: "Erik? May I come in?"

Erik opened the door to find Professor Guizot, also dressed in his finest evening wear. He was holding a small wooden box.

"Professor! What can I do for you?" Erik's pleasure turned to alarm when he saw his mentor's serious expression. "Is there something wrong?"

Guizot shook his head. "No. Everything's fine…There's just something I need to tell you. And to give you. Something important."

"Now you do have me worried," said Erik, gesturing towards a spare chair. "Won't you have a seat?"

"Thank you." Guizot placed the box on the dressing table and sat down. He was quiet for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts. Erik resisted the urge to pace. "As you may remember, when you were…away…with that terrible fair, I kept up a friendship with your mother. I would often visit her."

Erik forced a smile. "I know, Professor. And I'm very grateful."

"Before she died, she entrusted me with some things she wanted you to have, things she said were rightfully yours. She was always so sure you would come back, even when I had my doubts. She said you were brave, resourceful, and I should give you these things when you returned." The Professor smiled sadly. "The first was the ring."

Erik looked down at the black onyx ring on his little finger. "That was you?"

"It belonged to your father. He left it with your mother when he went away. I believe he wanted you to have it, too." The Professor looked at the floor. "When you returned from the fair you no longer knew me. I got the impression that you were trying to sever all ties with your previous life, so I thought it would be better for everyone if I simply sent it without comment. I'm sorry if I did the wrong thing."

Erik swallowed hard and covered the ring with his other hand. "It's been a comfort to me over the years. Thank you for sending it."

"And there's also this." Guizot indicated the box on the dressing table. "Your mother wanted you to have it on the night of your debut. I intended to give it to you in Paris, on the first night of Don Juan, but what with everything that followed…" Guizot spread his hands apologetically, and stood up. "I'll leave you alone to open it."

"Thank you, Professor," Erik struggled to keep his voice even.

Guizot paused at the door. "Your mother always knew you would have a debut. She didn't know if it would be as a singer, or violinist, or composer, but she often spoke of it. She was always so proud of you, Erik. She would be so happy tonight."

Guizot put out a hand. Erik didn't shake it. Instead, acting on an impulse that surprised him, he put his arms around his mentor in a brief embrace. "Thank you, Professor. That means so much to me."

When Guizot had gone, Erik reached for the box. He undid the clasps, and lifted the lid.

A sob caught in his throat. Inside the box, there was a tiny, exquisite toy theatre, crafted from delicate pieces of wood, painted in bright colours. The stage was set with tiny figures, and there were several changeable backdrops showing a lake, a castle, a forest, and the inside of a grand palace.

Across the top of the proscenium arch were two words painted in gold: 'Erik's Theatre'.

Erik wiped his eyes with a handkerchief.

He was about to replace his mask, but then, at the last moment, he left it on the dressing table beside the toy theatre.

Then he took a deep breath and left the room.

4.

Christine was waiting in the wings. Her eyes widened when she saw him.

"Erik, you've forgotten your…"

He shook his head. "No, I haven't."

She looked momentarily confused. But then she realised what he meant to do. "Oh, my love, are you sure?"

"I'm quite sure, Christine. I want no masks tonight, no mysteries. Just my voice." He smiled, aware that the expression was a little lopsided. "Just us."

She took his hand and squeezed it, and rested her head against his shoulder.

Their first song would be the duet from Don Juan Triumphant, and after that they would sing Erik's new arrangement of his love song. It would be fire, followed by warmth.

The music began, and they stepped onto the stage together.

5.

Christine found herself wiping away tears. "I'm so proud of you."

"And I you."

They were backstage, in each other's arms, listening to the applause.

Christine had not felt so nervous onstage in many months. It was partly performing in a new place, and partly because she feared Erik would allow his own nerves to overcome him, particularly without the safety of his mask.

But it was clear from the first few lines that this would not be a problem. The audience faded until it was just them and the music. When the applause came, the new discordant sound was startling.

Now they were concealed in the shadows backstage, safe again from the glare of the lights, but so elated that they had stood onstage together.

"We should go down," said Erik. "Face the public, as it were."

"Just one more minute," said Christine. And kissed him.

6.

They paused at the foyer doors, listening to the sounds of voices and clinking glasses within. The party already sounded somewhat raucous.

"Are you sure about this?" asked Christine.

"Very sure." Erik reached for the door handle. "We don't want to keep the Girys waiting. We'd never live it down."

The foyer was crowded, and at first the appearance of two more people didn't attract any real attention. Just as Christine was thinking they might be able to keep a low profile after all, she heard an excited shriek. A moment later, Meg had wrapped her arms around her.

"Christine, you were wonderful!" she squealed. "I've never heard anything like it. And Erik…" She turned to beam at Erik, who stood with a quiet dignity, hands clasped behind his back, still unmasked. "I always knew you were a wonderful singer. Ever since that night at the bistro."

"That seems a very long time ago," said Christine. She recalled Erik's nerves that night, and how he had been forced to flee from his small audience. That had also been the night she had doubted she had any future at the Opera. They had both come so far.

"Yes, you both did well," said Antoinette, stepping forward. Her stern face broke into a broad smile. "I'm so pleased."

Christine became aware that the other guests were glancing in their direction. They nudged each other and smiled, the women whispering behind their fans. She felt cold for a moment, and glanced at Erik, but he did not seem disturbed by the attention.

Professor Guizot pushed his way through the crowd.

"Erik, Christine, I must congratulate you. Tonight has been a triumph, I hope you'll agree. Come, I must introduce you to…" He glanced around the foyer and frowned "…well, almost everyone."

They spent the next hour being led around the room in a small procession, Guizot introducing them to aristocrats, famous composers and singers, patrons, critics, and various members of the cultural elite. A few of them looked surprised upon seeing Erik's face, but everyone was polite, and some of them were gushingly enthusiastic about the performance. Guizot seemed delighted.

Finally, after a whirl of compliments and names they would not remember, the evening was over.

Erik and Christine walked home together. He had a small box tucked under his arm. He hadn't yet told her what it was, but had promised to show her when they got back to the apartment. He still hadn't replaced his mask, but the brim of his panama cast a shadow over his face.

"That wasn't much of a celebration," said Erik. "I didn't even have time for a glass of champagne."

Christine stopped, and removed a bottle from beneath her coat. Erik's eyes widened. "Where did you get that?"

"Madame Giry gave it to me."

Erik grinned. "That woman is a bad influence on us all."

"Where do you think Meg gets her ideas?"

They passed a canal, where several gondolas were moored in a row, bobbing gently on the water. Erik glanced at them. "I wouldn't mind hiring one of those. I could learn to punt."

Christine laughed. "You would make a fine gondolier. You could even sing."

"I might just do that," he took her arm, and they continued walking. "What would I sing? I couldn't sing Don Juan. It would be highly unsuitable and put the tourists on edge."

"You could sing anything. You would make a fortune. More than the Opera is paying you."

Erik smiled. "What about this?"

They walked home, arm in arm, Erik's tenor voice drifting through the streets of Venice. Christine laughed, and joined him in a duet.

The End