A/N It's a long one folks. Really, really long. Marilyn and Gaby- hope this is what you had in mind. Like I said...everything but the kitchen sink ;) FYI- The ballade that Louise mentions as her favorite is based on the song Through the Eyes of Love, written by Carole Sager and the late great Marvin Hamlisch. It's on a CD entitled Unforgettable, with John Williams conducting the Boston Pops. Give it a listen sometime.

And...curtain.

Paris-1889

This, my darling is the last of it. I wanted you to have this journal against a time that may come sooner than you think. Already there has been a great deal of interest concerning the ghost which once haunted the Garnier. I am afraid the facts will become garbled with time and the retelling; a diva was taken from the stage of the Garnier that night, but that is where truth ends and legend begins. What could be more thrilling than a beautiful blonde soprano swept from the stage by a mad genius obsessed with his love for her? Hardly the real story concerning a very sick and injured man half out of his mind with fever, not even certain of the lady's identity that he was kidnapping. The newspapers and a certain journalist have no wish to learn the real story, and it is far better if they never do, therefore I wished you to have the truth, strange as that truth happens to be. This will be given to you someday so you may know what kind of man your father was when he haunted an opera house and provided chills for some very susceptible ballet rats. But not yet. No, not yet.

Only one more thing to cover and I am done with this look back at the time a young ballerina was saved from an ignoble death and began her long journey home.

Your birth. How your father made it through those long and arduous months, I will never know. That he did it, for the most part, with tenderness and gentle humor, has always made me cherish him all the more. He never had a lot of patience, but he surpassed even my expectations by being the dearest man any woman could want. I was not the most placid of women, and carrying you for nine months was harder than any ballet I had ever performed. But it was worth every bit of discomfort- every night of missed sleep, to hold you in my arms and look at last upon your dear, sweet face.

And Papa? A man never lived that could love a child more than he did you at your birth. It wasn't an easy one by any means, and your father was quite often beside himself, but he never faltered in his devotion to the both of us, even when your Tante Maria refused to let him into the birthing room. He simply over-rode her and planted himself beside the bed until you entered the world. I think Maria refused to speak to him for days for intruding into an area considered sacrosanct by so many women. Your mother? She was eternally grateful to him for being there and providing his calm strength when she needed it the most. You were his greatest symphony- his most glorious opera- his dearest hope for normalcy. He just didn't realize it until he held you in his arms.

He was in awe of you as you grew. You were always exploring your world, and exhibited some of his qualities, (and my own) when it came to sheer stubbornness and willful behavior. But your very sweetness offset your recalcitrant nature, and the inherent shyness from your father has made you a favorite with everyone. I sincerely hope this doesn't cause you to have a swelled head, but Nadir adores you, you know. I often catch a look in his eye that doubts you could have sprung from such a source as your papa, but I assure you, it is only the truth. I see much of him in you. His intelligence, courage, and his compassion, which upon your birth, was set free at last. I may have started the process that changed an opera ghost into a man, but you finished it, and made him into the man he should have been all along. You were his redemption.

I end this now, dearest, with the hope that you have a clearer picture of what adversity your father had to contend with throughout his life. Was he ever a danger to himself and others? Yes. You should know this as well, to which I have explained to the best of my ability, starting with his own journey at a tender age from a home which never nurtured or cared for him, to his nightmarish days in Persia. I am very certain this knowledge will not change one iota the love you bear him. He wasn't always the best of men, and for this, he had many regrets. But one truth always stood out bright and shining. He always did his best by you and me. Never forget that.

I love you,

Mama

She looked one last time at the thick bound journal she had spent weeks working on, putting on paper their story- hers and Erik's, before setting it gently into the waiting box. Their lives. It would be given to their solicitor and kept until her child reached majority. She stood up and stretched, pausing to look out the window at the orange and gold trees rustling in the slight breeze. She loved the fall, the earthy mulch smell of wet leaves, the crunch of the dry ones underfoot as they walked in the park.

"Mama?"

Louise went over to the door and leaned out, "Yes, I'm coming!" She was on her way to morning rehearsal- the last before tonight's debut; afterward they would have lunch outside at one of the sidewalk cafes. After a few days of rainy weather, it was more than time to get outdoors and stretch their legs. She hurriedly pinned on her hat and gathered her handbag and gloves. She pulled the door shut and tripped lightly down the stairs, eager for the sunshine and blue skies of autumn.

"What did Maman say, Eugenie? You will eat something before we go to the park! Now behave yourself, or you may forget about feeding the ducks today!"

Christine took each little girl by the hand and looked in vain for an empty table, which was a lesson in futility; all of Paris seemed to be outdoors today. She only had to inform a maitre'd of her title and she would have a table very quickly, but this outing was not a quest for displaying and using her rank and wealth, but the leisurely excursion of a doting mother and her daughters on the sunny streets of Paris. She was just about to move on to the next crowded cafe, when her gaze fell on someone who looked familiar. She shaded her eyes and peered closer at the slender woman sitting with a small boy under the spreading limbs of a beech tree, and took a few steps closer.

"It can't be," she whispered, and tugged her girls over to their table. "Louise?"

The woman glanced up from her menu and looked into a pair of startled blue eyes. She broke into a warm grin. "Why, comtesse! But this is wonderful!" and looked immediately to the two little blonde girls standing beside their mother. "Please...join us!" Louise signaled for a waiter to bring them more chairs, and scooted closer to her son.

Christine got her daughters seated, and they immediately started whispering to each other, the youngest peeking between her fingers at the boy, while he eyed them with keen interest. The comtesse nodded at him. "Yours?"

"Yes. My son Hugo."

"These little chatterboxes are Eugenie, and her younger sister Adelphe."

Adelphe held up four fingers and solemnly looked at Hugo. "I am this many," she said importantly, then spoiled it by giggling.

"I am five," and crossed his arms over his thin chest.

Eugenie tossed her head, ringlets bouncing. "Well, I am older than both of you, for I am six years old and I have a dog. Her name is Lissie."

"I have six cats!" he said, daring her to top that in importance.

"Cats make my father sneeze," she declared, sniffing.

Adelphe took exception to this. "No, they don't, Genie! They make you sneeze." She turned back to Hugo, her eyes wide and envious at the obvious treasure of so many felines. "Can I have one?" and she leaned a bit closer to him, large cornflower eyes staring into his.

"They are too little to leave their maman."

"Awright. When can I have one?"

Hugo's face took on that perplexed look which unbeknownst to him, imitated his father's. It was the look of someone not quite sure how to end a particular line of inquiry- the look Papa often used with his mother. "Not for years and years," he replied, unwilling to give up any of his kittens, but seeing Adelphe's disappointment at this news, he found himself sympathizing with her, and added, "Don't worry. I know where you can get a frog."

"Awright," and she grinned at him so sweetly, he felt a twinge of shame.

She was a fellow cat lover and had none. Feeling an accompanying ache in his chest, the boy sighed mournfully and made her his last offer. "You may have one when their maman stops feeding them," he said magnanimously, and frowned when his mother winked at the comtesse.

Louise laughed and leaned over, ruffling her son's hair. "It's a gift that didn't come easily, did it, Hugo?" and the boy nodded in confusion, knowing he had pleased his mother in some small way and felt all the better for it.

The little girl's smile widened even more, and she turned to her mother. "Maman! My own kitty!"

She looked dubiously at her daughter. "There are all manner of cats in Calais, Addy, and Pere isn't particularly fond of any of them," she watched as her daughter's face fell, "but I suppose if it's a gift-" and Adelphe clapped her small hands in delight.

Christine smiled at this, and glanced from her daughter to Hugo, charmed by the neatly dressed child, his raven hair sticking up stubbornly at the back of his head. She studied the boy, a feeling of recognition niggling at the corners of her mind. He was now explaining to the two girls how to catch their very own frog in the park.

Louise nodded at her son sitting with his dark head bent close to the two blonde de Chagny girls. "Quite a contrast, aren't they? Just like a blackbird among the canaries."

Christine laughed for it was true. "He gets his looks from your husband, I take it?" Where her daughters were pink and gold with bright blue eyes, Louise's son was the opposite. Thick, inky hair surrounded a thin, pale face lit by hazel eyes. Louise's eyes. He wasn't a handsome boy; his face was too narrow for that, his cheekbones too high and lacking that padding of flesh which rounded and softened, but the black hair contrasted against the pallid skin of his face was arresting, and his deep-set eyes framed by thick lashes were beautiful. It was a countenance he would have to grow into, but when he did, he would be a striking man.

"Yes. In some ways he does. How have you been, comtesse?"

"Very well, and you may drop the title, Louise! It came with my husband and I have never had much use for it. But to answer you, I am happier now that I have returned to Paris."

"Are you here to stay?"

She shook her head. "We make one trip a year when Raoul wants to visit his sister Agnes." She made a moue of distaste. "Simone died two years ago, and to be blunt, I don't miss her in the least. I know, that's bad of me, but we were never close. In her defense though, she did dote on her nieces."

Louise smiled. "I remember Agnes and Simone quite well. They detested any whiff of the theatre in their drawing room. Believe me, Christine, I sympathize."

"Agnes still wrinkles her nose when I enter a room, but it ceased to bother me a long time ago. We have a truce of sorts for Raoul's sake. Nevertheless, I wanted my daughters to see the city again; take them to the park, do some shopping. Calais is wonderful, but it does tend to get a little dull, and since Raoul couldn't get away for this trip, we decided I should come with the girls- oh, and their nanny, Georgette." She sat back in her chair, and smiled faintly. "We've been here a week already, and leave for home tomorrow." She frowned a bit, and looked curiously again at Hugo. "What is your husband's name?"

"St. Clair."

Her brow furrowed in thought. "The name is familiar, but I can't put a face to it."

Louise's glance was sharp; if she didn't know better, she would have accused Christine of dissembling, but a closer look at the other woman's face, showed no guile. "It's unlikely you would. He is not originally from Paris. He was born in Normandy; Rouen to be precise. We have a second home there; Hugo loves it. Here, we live in the Auteuil villas in the Arrondissement de Passy."

"Of course. The Right Bank."

She nodded. "It was important that it be within walking distance of the Bois de Boulogne. Hugo drags his father there quite often." Louise chuckled. "Although it might be the other way around. They like to look at the plant life."

"Your son reminds me of someone."

"Interesting," Louise said politely.

"Yes, isn't it? Are you happy, Louise?"

Her gaze fell on her son. The smallest of her two gentlemen. "Very."

"Then that's all that matters, isn't it? Woman to woman- that's all we have ever wanted." She looked down for a moment and hesitated a fraction. "I never got to thank you for wanting to help just before...well, just before everything went so badly. I should have trusted you more at the time, but Raoul thought you would tell Philippe about our plans. I realized a long time ago, that wasn't true."

The waiter brought their tea and scones and the three children stopped talking long enough to each take one. Very soon though, the three heads were together again as her son extolled the virtues of horseback versus camelback, and the little girls were hanging on his every word. Nadir told him many tales of Persia, something his father had no wish to speak of, but Hugo would always be willing to listen to the Persian's stories, and loved to pass them on to others less fortunate; that being anyone who had not sampled the storytelling abilities of the daroga. Louise often wondered if they weren't grossly exaggerated by Nadir.

She poured herself a cup of tea and blew on it before answering. "I couldn't have helped much as it was. I couldn't walk, so I would have been a liability to you. I am glad you were able to...to leave unharmed with Raoul. The only thing from that time which I regret, is what happened to Philippe. T-That and the danger you all were subjected to-" Louise saw Christine's look of consternation and hastened to say, "Nadir Khan told me a little of what happened that night. He is a friend of the family."

The comtesse cast a quick glance at the children and lowered her voice. "Raoul thinks my teacher killed him. Louise...do you know what happened to him?"

The moment to confess came...

"Phil had no business going into the cellars that night, Christine."

and went...

The younger woman regarded her silently for a moment, but decided not to pursue it. She really had no wish to rake up the past. "Never mind. I don't suppose it matters anymore." Her eye fell on the three children and she had to laugh. "They are getting along famously, aren't they? What does Hugo's father do?" she asked.

Louise felt as if she walked a fine line between telling the truth and hiding it. It felt odd. "He is a composer- among other things. You may have heard some of his work if you have visited any of the opera houses. Perhaps that's where you recognized the name." She saw no harm in giving credit where it was long overdue, and she said it with pride, for it was always a source of joy for her that her husband had at long last come into his own.

"My papa can make the angels weep when he plays his violin." Hugo looked up then, a milk mustache adorning his upper lip, and Louise leaned over with her napkin, wiping his mouth.

The comtesse glanced with amusement at him. "I can see that you are your father's most ardent admirer. As I once was with my own."

Louise smiled. "The sun rises and sets on Hugo's papa."

Christine's gaze lingered on the boy's face. "Raoul would love a son and heir. He adores his daughters, but he wants a boy to carry on the de Chagny line. Someday I hope to give him one. What about your husband? Does he wish for more sons?"

"No. He never really liked children all that much until Hugo came along."

"Hugo. Family name?"

Louise had to smile at that. Erik placed much more value on the written word than anyone he had known, living or dead. Therefore, his son should consider it an honor to be named for such a venerable personage. His words. "No. My husband is fond of Victor Hugo's works."

"Would you like more children, Louise?"

She shook her head and reached for her tea. "Motherhood ended with my son. It was a difficult birth," remembering her pain, and yellow eyes full of anguish for her suffering, "there will be no others." She was relieved when there was barely a catch in her voice.

"Oh, that must be hard for you and your husband."

"No. He was actually relieved there would be no more, but he and Hugo are very close. As for me, I have my two men and that's all I require."

"Dancing is still important to you, I trust? I'm afraid we don't get much news of the theatre in Calais."

"I have been ballet mistress for the past year now. You don't remember Vincente Breda, but he was ballet master before finding himself a wealthy patron." Louise laughed, recalling his hasty exit from the world of theatre, to marry a widow with more money than sense. "Not exactly a marriage made in Heaven, but it did benefit me, and I thank them both for the privilege," and she grinned. "Tonight though, I will dance. The performance this evening is special, Christine. My husband penned it and he insisted I perform it."

"That's marvelous! What is it called?"

"La vie dans un reve. It is the life of a young girl named Isadora and her adventures with her companion, an older man named Cyprien." She looked at the other woman, her gaze softening a bit. "It is the story of how we met, put to music."

"Life in a dream. It sounds intriguing. I would love to be there for its debut." Christine looked at the other woman with a touch of sadness and nodded at her surroundings. "This is as close as I have been to the opera house in five years, Louise. Cowardly, isn't it? I think that should change, don't you? Face my demons, so to speak. I'll have to see about attending tonight."

Louise had a moment's unease. Face her demons indeed. At least one in particular. "I'm afraid it's a full House tonight, and unfortunately you're leaving tomorrow." Christine wasn't the only coward, she thought wryly.

"Oh, but I am certain a ticket can be found for the Comtesse de Chagny, Louise," she grinned conspiratorially, "so I suppose the title does have its uses, and do not forget that I was a celebrated diva for a short time. Where I met-" She glanced up at Louise and her smile became a little bitter. "Do you remember me talking about my teacher? I left here not knowing what became of him... sometimes...sometimes I can't help but think-" She crumbled some scone on her plate, pushing it around with her teaspoon. "It doesn't matter, I suppose.

"The...the Phantom still bothering the rats? It has been years, though I have often wondered-"

Louise shook her head. "No. It has been peaceful for years, although some of the older girls still love to taunt the younger ones with the usual hair-raising tales. As always, they are susceptible." She regarded the comtesse's hopeful face, and with a perturbed sigh, made a decision she prayed they wouldn't all regret later. "You would really like to see the ballet tonight?" She took a deep breath and dived in. "Then consider it done. I'll make sure you have the best seat in the House! Box Five, and you may keep Tante Maria and Nadir Khan company."

"Thank you! I would have been disappointed not to see you onstage again before we leave Paris. And dancing to your husband's music! How very remarkable."

Hugo, beside himself with pride and excitement, glanced at Christine and said shyly, "I will be in the pit with my father."

"He insisted on my taking the part of Isadora, and I in turn convinced him he needed to conduct his own music." Louise shrugged. "Those were the terms." She glanced fondly at her child. "Hugo asked permission to sit near his father. He is often there while they rehearse and the musicians have grown used to his presence. It is a little unorthodox, but my husband is known to be a bit...unusual," she cleared her throat, thinking that a vast understatement, "he decided for this one night, right beside him would do very well."

Christine gave an unladylike snort. "For a musician of his caliber, he sounds quite normal. They are all a trifle eccentric, are they not? I cannot wait to see what unfolds this evening!" Her eye fell on Hugo. "And you will have an even better seat than mine. It has been lovely seeing you again, Louise. It brings back many memories," she paused reflectively and shrugged, "good and bad."

The waiter approached their table with the bill, and Christine waved Louise away when she put out her hand for it. "No, I will get this. How many times did you offer tea and consolation to a nervous mouse of a girl?"

"Hardly that, Christine. Do you ever miss singing?"

She shrugged. "Oh, sometimes I wonder where I would be if I had continued on the stage. Who would not? But the only singing I do now is when one of my daughters asks it of me. The melodies of my childhood are all that really interest me anymore. The stage was my father's dream, and...and...his. It was never mine. The Angel of Music chose the wrong girl."

She put some francs into the hand of the waiter and looked at the three heads now close together, giggling over something. Well, she amended, two giggling, and the boy relating to them the time he was chased by a pair of angry geese in the park. He had warmed up to his role as story teller to the two laughing girls, and once again she searched her memory for a face... or even a name, but stubbornly, it would not reveal itself to her. She shook her head in frustration and stood up.

"Come along, girls. Maman has things to do before this evening."

Louise once again reached for a little backbone to warn Christine in advance of what she could expect tonight. Sadly, her spine refused to cooperate.

She sat waiting for her husband to finish with the orchestra, then it was home for a light dinner and return to the Garnier for the performance. The company had scattered for the few hours they had to relax and eat a light meal before returning to the opera house. The stage was a flurry of activity as the crew worked on the scenery, dragging the heavy props into place. Act one would be depicted as a dungeon cell, gloomy in the labyrinthine cellars as it so clearly was during the days of the Commune. Louise, her excitement banked for now as she kept her thoughts calm and untroubled, would soon take the stage again after a year's absence.

She sat near the orchestra pit surrounded by the splendor of the Garnier, her eyes closed as she listened to the music which came from the vivid imagination of her husband. He would lead the audience through the dismal days of privation, their journey to Orleans, and the affection they discovered for one another along the way. She smiled to herself. An affection which had caught fire and miraculously deepened into love - they just hadn't realized it then. It took ten years to do that. But she would be Isadora tonight, and relive those precarious times with Erik, and perhaps their eyes would meet at some point during the performance and they would remember.

She could tell by the change in tempo and what it depicted- the coda was close. She felt anxiety trying to make inroads on her calm, and forced it away. She said a small prayer then for a successful debut for him. He was a visionary when it came to music and she wanted, needed him recognized for it at long last. He deserved it.

She opened her eyes and trained them on her husband as he took the orchestra to the end, her gaze leaving his thin form and alighting on her son. She could just make him out to the left of the conductor's podium, and she laughed aloud to see his small hands furtively performing the same motions as his father- even to the conductor's baton in his right hand. He was welcome in the pit as long as he adhered to his father's rules, and as the musicians had learned to respect the father, they had grown fond of the boy, even going so far as to present him with his own tiny baton. She had observed her husband and son over the years- different in countenance- but often sharing some of the same traits and mannerisms. As time went on, she had been proven right about the love Erik had for his child.

She watched them both as the music reached its crescendo, the younger mimicking so well the movements of his sire. It was a ballade in the last act with a series of solos and pas de deux leading up to the discovery of Isadora's and Cyprien's love for one another. It was by far her favorite of Erik's music, soaring and majestic, filled with something her husband had only recently acquired- optimism.

Her mind started to wander as she listened, remembering the first days after Hugo's birth; awaking to find her son missing from his cradle and Erik no longer beside her. She had slipped out of bed, tiptoeing across the floor, and peeked into the adjoining sitting room. She put a hand up to her mouth in surprise to see her husband sitting on the sofa, their son in his lap. He had refused to hold the boy whenever prompted by her, instead, seeming content just to watch him- which he did often. She was relieved to see her two men together, and it brought a tired smile to her face. With a skeletal finger, he had lightly traced the soft curve of the baby's cheek, the rounded chin- the tiny, well formed nose. She had made her slow, halting way to them, still weakened and sore after the birth, curious about his detailed study of their son.

The only child they would ever have.

During her labor, she had been aware of her husband having forced his way into the birthing room as she struggled to bring their baby into the light of day. Below her waist, the agony had unfurled like a full blown rose in shades of pain from a steady cramping, to the much sharper variety that grew ever stronger with each succeeding wave. Arrayed on the bedside table were the painkillers prepared by her husband for this very moment, which included crampbark tincture for the birthing pains, and a massage oil with clary sage and chamomile which were applied at intervals to her abdomen and back by Maria. Erik held a cloth briefly to her nose and had her inhale between pains. Her aunt and the midwife had watched this with suspicion until he curtly explained its beneficial effects. He had called it Mazanderan scent, and short whiffs of it allowed her some welcome rest before the onset of another contraction.

His terror for her was well hidden, shoved ruthlessly aside as he kept his voice calm and steady, imploring her to squeeze his hands every time the pain reached its zenith. After the seemingly endless hours of torment and exertion, the lusty cries of their son were heard, and Louise managed to smile in her exhaustion, thinking he sounded very bellicoso. Her boy was not happy leaving his warm and safe nest. Maria's worried face had settled into more placid lines once Louise had safely delivered, and she and the midwife left the little family alone at last. The door had no sooner closed behind them, when Erik walked on stiff legs to the chair by her bed and sank weakly into it. Staring at his wife and child, his mouth worked soundlessly, seeming bereft of speech. But, oh his eyes had expressed so very much before he leaned forward and dropped his head in his hands, narrow shoulders shaking with abject relief. In that moment, Louise knew she would take the stoneseed extract. For him. She could handle her pain; she simply could not bear his.

He had glanced up from the baby in his lap, his expression stern. "You shouldn't be out of bed, Louise."

"I wanted to see what my two gentlemen were doing." She sat down gingerly, and her husband put up a hand to steady her. He looked her over carefully, and satisfied with what he saw, went back to his study of their boy.

He smoothed the fluffy shock of hair on the baby's head; hair as black as his father's. "He doesn't have that vaunted beauty prized by so many mothers. He will be a blackbird among the canaries, won't he, Louise?" his hand still gently caressing the small head.

She snorted as she watched his fascination with his son. "I don't want a golden haired beauty. I adore my little blackbird."

Erik nodded. "As do I... as do I," he said with a catch in his voice. "He has a nose. My boy has a nose. Such a normal component of anyone's appearance, whether it be large or small, dainty or...or aquiline. Some worry over the size or shape of it, but after all... it is still just a nose." He ran the tip of his finger down his son's nose, and the baby twitched a little in his sleep. They both watched as a tiny bubble of saliva left the corner of his mouth, and Erik gently wiped it away. "But remove it from the face completely, exposing nasal cavities to the morbidly curious, and it becomes less a conceit and more of a terrible travesty. I spent untold amounts of my time hoping- praying he...he-"

He stopped, unable to go on, and she slipped her arm through his, leaning her head against his shoulder. He looked at his wife then, his eyes bright. "He is perfection," and continued stroking the tiny cheek. "Erik has a family now," he whispered.

During her pregnancy, they bought their home; a three story second empire with large, spacious rooms and lots of windows; Maria loved it and blessed Erik for thinking of her when he bought the house. She had her own suite of rooms, and a well stocked kitchen with the latest in appliances and the room to create all sorts of culinary wonders. There was an immense dining room with floor to ceiling windows which opened onto a terrace, and two sitting rooms, plus a library on the first floor, lined with shelves holding hundreds of books. Erik's music room was toward the back of the house facing the river, and he would closet himself inside it for hours when creative juices began to flow. Nadir was more often than not, a frequent visitor to their home; he was Maria's dearest friend, and Louise well knew, her aunt's lover. She was happy for them. They also had a role to perform in the lives of the St. Clair family, and considered themselves to be an integral part of it. And they were.

She sighed as the music ended and the musicians scattered for the few hours before the House opened for the performance. She still had trouble believing that it had finally happened, and her husband was doing what he was made for- sharing his music with others. She recalled how it all came about.

He had played a portion of the ballet for her after he had completed a quarter of it, and she had been very enthusiastic. Getting it performed in the theatre wasn't a problem. Richard and Moncharmin had been buying Erik's music for years. Louise had started out as the go-between for her husband and the managers, but the rest she had left up to Erik, and his meeting with the managers had gone very well. They had both laughed privately at the fact that Moncharmin and Richard were in the presence of the former opera ghost and none the wiser, apparently never connecting the appearance of Erik at the former manager's retirement party years ago, to the composer they now sung the praises of. Therefore, selling the idea of La vie dans un reve was easy, and it wasn't long before Erik had cajoled her into taking the lead. She had made her own demand of her husband to conduct his music and the stage was set.

She was forced out of her reverie by the arrival of her son, who had spotted her in the auditorium, and pointed her out to his father. Still lean to the point of painful thinness, Maria had long ago given up on her campaign to fatten up Erik. She now accepted the fact that his build was a part of him just like the color of his eyes and hair.

He bent down and kissed her. "Are you ready to go home?" He nodded at Hugo who was leaning against his mother's seat. "He wants to check on the kittens before we return, and Fleur seems intent on making them disappear. She is quite the magician in her own right."

Fleur was her son's gray tabby who had just given birth to a litter of kittens. Louise remembered her Monsieur Erik who had not awakened one morning three years ago. He had lived out his last years with a special place in her heart, and she felt another cat would be ideal for Hugo. Erik had agreed to look into it, and one day last year he came home with the little gray and black striped kitten and their son was ecstatic.

"She keeps moving them because Hugo won't leave them alone! They are too young to play with, as I have told him a number of times." She accepted the hand he held out to her, and rose to her feet, the three of them making their way out to the street where their carriage sat. "That was lovely, by the way."

He blew out a frustrated breath, his mouth tightening. She saw it in his eyes, his growing unease as he was about to step into the public arena after years of shunning it. His music revered or reviled. Erik would never admit to nervousness over such a thing; his anxiety revealed itself in the form of angry complaint and a short fuse.

"It's not good enough. The strings aren't blending the way they should, and I am not satisfied with only four harps. I requested six. Why the devil do they develop a bookkeeper mentality when I ask for the required number of instruments? Their feeble excuse is that there are no more to be had in the whole of Paris. God's bones!" he railed. "They should have done what I proposed, and stole them from the Comique. Offer them more money and they will come. But do those two dunderheads consider it? Too damned tight fisted by half, Louise. After I'm through with Moncharmin, I will have my harps before tomorrow night's performance; the piece was written for six, not four, but the jackass insists the show will go on regardless. Well, of course it will! It is my show, but their absence compromises the integrity of the performance, and even if I have to string him up, I-"

"You," she cut in hastily, "are becoming anxious and it's making you cross." And a little bloodthirsty. "You worry needlessly, husband. Every opera...every ballet goes through this very same process- messy and ofttimes frustrating, but in the end worth it. The music speaks for itself and it truly is beautiful."

The boy looked up at his father and proudly stated, "Gaspard said it is...it is beautifully difficult and Papa is a sa-di-stic bastard for writing it."

"Hugo!" and she stared in horror at her precocious son, while choking on a laugh. Gaspard was the principal second violin in the string section and highly opinionated. She covered her gaff with a rattling cough before her eyes flew to her husband's expecting an explosion.

Instead he merely chuckled and ruffled his son's hair. "Why, yes, child. I suppose that's true; the score is difficult for a less competent musician, and the label attached to me is also true; it would serve him well not to forget it," Erik said gently, keeping his large hand on the boy's head, but his mellifluous voice had grown a sharper edge to it, one limned with frost, and Hugo knew that tone well, "but such language in front of your mother is unacceptable. Sadistic bastard is a term I do not wish to hear again coming from your tender mouth. Understood?"

Hugo nodded and scuffed a toe along the floor. "Yes, Papa," he mumbled to his shoes.

Erik cupped a hand around one ear. "What was that? I am afraid I didn't quite hear you."

The boy looked up at that beloved and imposing figure towering far above him, wondering not for the first time, how his father had no trouble hearing something spoken from across the width of a room, but failed to hear him now, standing right beside him.

Hugo repeated himself loudly and clearly so there was no doubt this time that his father heard him.

"Excellent!" Erik turned narrowed eyes on his wife. "And you, madame, require a tisane of lemon and raw honey to soothe that cough."

The laugh had slipped out before she could stop it. Such was the precocity of their son. It wasn't the first time he had repeated nearly verbatim what he had heard, but this was definitely the worst. "It's nothing. Just a tickle," and she dropped her eyes from his, saying in a low voice, "He listens to everything, Erik, especially when the talk concerns you. Such is the price of his adoration, so you needn't glare at me like that! He simply caught me by surprise. I never know what he will say next!"

"That is true, darling, but you must admit, he is very adept at discovering what others are thinking and passing it on."

"I'm not so sure I want to know," she said dryly as they reached the sidewalk. "However, you need to relax a little before tonight."

"Mm," he absently agreed, putting a hand to the small of her back. "I really should send the two of you home and remain here."

She smiled in commiseration and put her arm through his, giving it a comforting squeeze. "You, my love, are a perfectionist and won't ever be pleased with it, will you? But it was lovely. I stand by that."

"You would not feel so if the tempo caused your timing to be off, now would you?" he snapped. "Why did I let you talk me into this insanity? Madame Guillotine would be much more welcoming than the halfwits who usually populate the Garnier of an evening!"

She ignored his fractious tone, knowing he was fretting over his music and the public's reception to it. She was well used to her husband's moods. He was in and out of them quicker than she could perform a series of deboules. That would never change. "You let me because you know very well no other conductor can do it justice better than its composer! And I trust you more than anyone to keep everything smooth and seamless tonight."

He glanced down at her and his mouth twitched a little. "In that case, I'll see what I can do."

"That's better. Now, come home with us? Please?"

He helped his wife into the carriage, and she was gratified when he got in and settled beside her, rapping on the wall with his knuckles. They left the curb and eased into the crowded street filled with jostling carriages, horses, and pedestrians.

He remained quiet as they wended their way home, and she knew he was going over all the seemingly endless details for tonight. "We can return early if you feel you must," she told him quietly.

He hummed noncommittally, squeezing her hand in reply.

She uneasily cast her mind around; she needed to let him know that Christine would be in the opera house tonight. Not warning him could lead to some very awkward moments- awkward for no other reason than the past was sometimes better left alone. She hoped she wasn't so much of a coward to even consider not saying anything. Dropping this in his lap now though, could be very inconvenient; nevertheless, she took a deep breath, ready to confess, but as it was, her son mentioned it first.

"We met the Comtesse de...de...Chanee today, Papa. She was nice and smelled good." He tilted his head and glanced at his mother. "Although not as nice as Mama," he said loyally. "She has two girls and we had milk... and scones. They were not so very bad... the girls, not the scones.

"They have yellow hair just like Ceci Caron," he added helpfully.

Her husband had become very still, eyes shifting from his son to Louise. "You met Christine today?"

She nodded. "They are back in Paris for a visit. Just her and her daughters. Raoul couldn't get away, so she came by herself." She observed him, trying to gauge his reaction, but he had turned away. "She is coming to the ballet tonight. As our guest in Box Five."

He sat with long legs stretched out as much as possible, and gazed out the window, noticing very little.

"Erik?"

At last he looked at his wife, showing her nothing but blank mask and inscrutable eyes. "I will see her after the performance."

Louise glanced at Hugo, who was now watching them curiously, and smiled. "Of course. I think you should."

"Does she know La vie dans un reve is my work?"

"Ah, no, but she will soon enough."

"Obviously. Did you inform her that we are married?"

"No."

"You didn't wish for her to know that I am your husband?"

She stared at him, and sputtered indignantly, "Well, of course I did! I would shout it from the rooftops if your life wasn't so littered with-" She stopped, about to point out his nefarious past, but she was quite sure he already knew it was littered with the bodies of his victims. She glanced at her son who was as usual paying close attention to his parents. It had never been easy sparring words with Erik, and it was even less so now. Gamely, she tried a different tack. "Perhaps it is a lifetime of guarding your identity that kept me quiet, but I see no harm in her finding out tonight that normal doesn't always mean the most prudent course. Sometimes the road less traveled conceals the dearest prize of all." There! Take that, husband.

He put his head back and looked with exaggerated interest at the ceiling, pursing his thin lips. "Or could it be that Louise was feeling guilty for denying knowledge of me to Christine all those years ago?" one amber eye rolling toward her, awash in amusement. "Well, it is undoubtedly too late to remain your little secret, isn't it?"

"Ooh, you are supremely wicked, Erik!" and lowered her voice as their son continued to watch them. "You know exactly why I pleaded ignorance of your existence back then," she countered.

He reached for her hand and held it to his lips. "I most certainly do."

He kissed each of her knuckles before drawing away, but held on to her hand. Her eyes remaining on his, she wasn't surprised at all when his voice landed softly in her ear.

"May I entice you into listening to the don tonight after the performance? You seemed to enjoy yourself quite a bit the last time, if I'm not mistaken."

"You know very well I did," she said crisply, "the same as a gentleman of my acquaintance, as I recall."

"Without a doubt."

"Mama?" Her son looked enquiringly at her.

"Nothing, darling."

"Oh? I think it is everything. You in my arms. What more could I want?"

"Two more harps?" she asked innocently, tongue firmly in cheek.

A deep chuckle from his father had Hugo turning to stare at him.

For Louise, the black velvet sound of it raised the fine hairs at her nape. Married seven years and he could still make her shiver with longing. "I would be delighted to join you for some music later...and perhaps a little dancing?" Her eyes as they cut sideways up at him were sultry and devilish- holding a sweet promise for him alone.

She sat in the plush seat feeling shock and no small amount of anger as waves of sound overwhelmed her. She glanced to her right and Madame Renaldi smiled at her. She then turned to her left and met the eyes of Estelle Caron, attending this evening with her husband Gilberte. Christine's eyes flew back to the gaunt figure of the conductor. She had been captivated from the very beginning, as the cunning music encouraged the listener to step inside for a while and forget everything else as the tale unfolded. Louise had danced to it. Her entire body had performed a story set to the enchanting melodies by the very man the ballerina had denied knowing seven years ago. Erik. It must be. No other man moved with such fluidity and ease- no man was so utterly singular as he. And yet, still not trusting her eyes, she had snatched the opera glasses from her lap and taken a closer look. And knew for certain. And was stunned.

Louise had known him when he spoke to Christine through a wall. It was irrefutable now. Sorelli had once looked into her eyes and lied about the man using her for his own purpose. She sat there stiffly, feeling as if a great conspiracy had been enacted against her, but before many minutes had gone by, her anger had withered away as she was drawn in against her will.

Christine watched as the ballet told a story of privation and danger. The tale of an uneasy alliance as the man and girl traveled far from Paris and built a fragile bond along the way. She closed her eyes and listened to the aching quality of the music, which beautifully revealed the budding affection between the two; the fits and starts of any relationship as it finds its emotional legs, and the growing awareness of something even deeper taking place. Every rapture, every agony of love was called forth, wringing out the last bit of sentiment and not letting go until the ending note. She was staggered by the genius of his work.

Shock had been the paramount emotion as she watched that tall, spare figure moving with graceful expediency to the conductor's podium. It still reverberated in her.

This was Louise's husband.

Hugo's father.

Erik.

Christine wondered how many others were privy to the fact that it was his and Louise's story playing out before their eyes? Cyprien wore no mask, his face was perfectly normal. Perhaps the whole truth would have been far too disturbing; a deformed misfit finding love with a girl nearly half his age, might detract from the beauty of the music and the message it conveyed. Not to mention the harsh light which would shine that much brighter on its misanthropic composer.

Her former teacher looked different in his white tie and tails- unfamiliar to her as he took his place in a world far from shadows, where he once hid behind walls pretending to be an angel. He was now living a life in the light with a wife and son, but she couldn't shake the image of the broken man that last night in the cellars. She thought he had died all those years ago, alone, unloved and mourned by no one. Soon though, her confusion was left behind as the music swept her along on an ever faster current. Christine was quite certain that an unseen connection of spirit flowed between husband and wife...friends...lovers. It was there in every lush note, every liquid measure- the composer's great love for his prima ballerina. He provided her the means to dance, with his slender frame a fluid metronome as it swayed to the beat, and by the precise and elegant movements of his hands guiding the instruments of the Garnier's superb musicians. Louise gave it back to him tenfold, as she danced for him and him alone.

A dream moving forward and becoming life- realized at last.

The final act had begun when a note for the comtesse was delivered to their box. Puzzled as to whom it was from, her first thought was for her daughters and husband. She opened it and read-

Permit me a moment of your time after the performance. Nadir Khan will escort you to the small practice room. Erik

"Yes," she whispered.

The Persian looked at Christine's flushed face as she read the note, and turned to Maria. "But why does he want to see her? He said nothing to me, except to bring her there. Does he mean to attempt another abduction?"

Maria looked askance at him and snorted. "Don't be ridiculous! What could he possibly gain from it?"

"To us...nothing but trouble. For Erik, who knows? Perhaps he means to force her to sing again. You don't understand the convoluted thinking of the man. He took her from the stage, Maria, and as you recall, it ended quite badly. I am certainly too old for a repeat performance!" he replied sotto voce.

Maria's lips curled up in a smile and she nodded at the stage below them. "He already has everything he desires."

"All the same, I will take my time escorting the comtesse there. Just so he may come to his senses and refuse to see her."

She patted Nadir's hand affectionately. "I have a fairly good idea of why he wants to see her. You men! You are the ones for theatrics! Not the women." She turned and gave Estelle a wink. "Aren't men melodramatic?"

Estelle looked at her husband and said with a twinkle in her eye, "Oh, yes, most certainly. But that is why they need us. Just to keep their feet planted firmly on the ground!"

Louise took her last curtain call, and caught the eye of her husband, who had been literally stunned by the audience's rousing standing ovations, repeated on five different occasions. His eyes shining with pride and excitement, he bowed low to her. It was a wonderful moment for them both, and a good time to retire as prima ballerina. She quit the stage and hurried to her dressing room. When she entered, she went directly to her vanity table to begin removing the heavy makeup, and there propped against an enormous vase of red roses was a note. First she lifted the card that came with the flowers, and couldn't stop a smile when she read it.

To my dearest traveling companion- I would do it all over again.

She held the card up to her lips and closed her eyes. "As would I," she whispered. Next she picked up the note, which was from him as well. An assignation in the small practice room. She would have to hurry.

She buried her nose one last time in the heavy scent of the roses, and began wiping off the grease paint before having one of the costumers help her remove the beautiful silver dress she had worn in the last act. Her son arrived with Maria, and she hugged him tightly.

"You were beautiful, Mama," he said, tugging on her dressing gown. Obligingly, she bent down, and he cupped a hand around her ear. "Papa told me to tell you so," he whispered conspiratorially.

She hugged her boy tightly and kissed him on both cheeks. "Why then, I thank the both of you, kind monsieur!" she replied laughing.

Maria took him by the hand. "It was lovely, Louise! I add my admiration to Hugo's and Erik's. I was entranced by it all, and both of you should be very pleased. Are you attending the reception in the Ice Room?"

Louise shook her head. "Absolutely not." She grinned at her aunt. "Erik's words, not mine. There will be no speaking with intrusive reporters or listening to swell headed managers for untold tedious hours, drinking their atrocious selection of wine. Again, his words, not mine. I just happen to agree."

"I am afraid his new status as a successful composer, as well as an evasive one, will only help fuel interest in him. Eventually, he will have to meet his public, Louise."

She was in the act of giving her son another hug, and glanced up at her aunt. "Then you don't know, Erik, tante. He will only say that he has already become acquainted with the public by standing in front of them for two hours. He has no wish for the glare of publicity; only the opportunity to share his music. Which he has done exceedingly well."

"He most certainly has done that," she said with admiration. "There was a reporter just outside your door when we arrived. Did you speak with him?"

Louise nodded. "Yes. Erik may shun them, but it's not wise to make enemies of the Paris newspapers."

Maria nodded and turned to Hugo. "Well, child. Let us be off. Tante is ready to go home." She glanced at her niece with an arch smile. "Have a lovely evening, cara."

A steady stream of flowers and well wishers descended on her, but at last she was able to change into her ruby dress. It was her husband's favorite, and she intended to please him in every way she could tonight. It was their triumph together. She made her way through the formally attired gentlemen crowding the corridors- those hoping to get lucky with any one of the ballerinas who had danced across the stage and into their libidos.

She arrived breathless at the practice room, glanced quickly around and slipped inside. He was standing stiffly near the piano, watching her as she crossed the room. To Louise, her husband seemed barely self-contained, as though he thrummed with a surplus of nervous energy. Neither one spoke as he opened his arms and she walked into them. He held her close and nuzzled the smoothness of her neck.

"You were wonderful tonight! Prima ballerina, indeed. None better!"

She linked her arms behind his neck and leaned against his whipcord length, breathing into the hollow of his throat, "I had the most divine music to guide my steps. They loved it, Erik! They loved it and they will want more from you. You should be very, very proud. I know I am."

"It is all I ever imagined! You have no idea what it means to me! To go from a lurking spectator... existing in the dark; always on the fringe of living, to being in the midst of it. They applauded my music! Standing ovations. For me, Louise. For Erik. They even accepted the mask...they-" He clutched her tightly, a little bit of desperation seeping into his touch. "It is almost too much to bear at the moment. And you, wife...dancing to my music," he whispered, his hands refusing to be still as they wandered across her back, skimmed her waist- touched the soft swell of her breasts.

She could feel him shaking from the reaction settling in, and she well knew he was soaked with sweat from his exertions. Performing was a double-edged sword, and her husband had not spared himself as he stood at the podium tonight. He was overwhelmed, she realized, and very near the point of mental exhaustion. One didn't spend a lifetime of being shunned by one's peers, only to become celebrated and even admired without consequences. He would need some quiet time to digest his success before he would be able to accept it as his due. She turned the talk away from his triumph tonight and reached for the mundane. For the soothing touch of family.

"Hugo didn't seem too disappointed that we aren't going home with him tonight."

Gratefully, he cast his mind away from the shock of the limelight and shook his head. "I don't wonder at it. He cajoled me into taking him to the Bois tomorrow so he can feed peanuts to the organ grinder's monkey. He has taken a fancy to it."

"Oh, no you don't, Erik! You will not bring a monkey home! We already have too many cats...a... a pony, and a pair of lovebirds. He's been angling for a dog now, and Maria will have your head if you do! And she doesn't want any more amphibians in the house; Hugo should leave the frogs in the park and not on her dinner table."

"He only wants to feed the monkey peanuts, Louise, not invite it to dine with us!" he protested.

"That's a relief!" she said, reaching up and smoothing his hair back. "What else does he have planned for his papa?"

"He extracted a promise from me to rent a boat, and kindly informed me he will do all of the rowing so I may rest, due to my advanced age," he replied wryly.

"Ooh, that is nice of him! I thought I heard your knees creaking," she told him playfully, "but a rest won't hurt. After I'm through with you tonight, you'll need it."

"Hoyden," he said fondly. "Care to join us?"

"Would your son approve?"

He rocked her gently in his arms, and put his lips to her ear. "Doesn't matter," he whispered. "His father does," and Louise laughed.

He looked down at her, still so taken by this graceful woman who had consented to be his wife. "Louise, I asked you here because-" He was interrupted by a tap on the door and slipped out of her arms to answer it. She knew who it was before the comtesse entered the room.

Christine stood on the threshold with the Persian, who took one look at Louise standing in the middle of the room and broke into a huge grin.

Erik narrowed his eyes at the sight of that smile taking up most of Nadir's swarthy face, and closed the door on it.

Christine looked up at the slender man before her. He had changed. The white mask was fitted to his face; cut out around his thin lips and bony chin, only appearing as a pale blur from Box Five; it was more life-like now than it had been seven years ago, allowing him the illusion of normality, at least from a distance. Up close, it was more readily apparent. His formal suit fit him in a way that accentuated all of the positives in his lanky frame; he was elegant and sophisticated...two words she never would have used to describe Erik when he was her teacher. But probably the biggest difference was the change in his demeanor- he was a satisfied man and it showed. All due no doubt to the tall woman behind him who believed in something no one else had.

Erik observed his former pupil and decided that life had been good to her as well. She remained a pretty woman, still slender, but the thing which stood out the most, was the look of a woman who had found her niche in life- one far from the stage. He felt the old pain blossom in his chest; the knowledge that a great talent was left to waste away from disuse. He would never understand a woman's need to create life rather than the creation of pure, exquisite sound...but he accepted it. The diva who now graced the Garnier's stage was a blessing compared to the retired Carlotta, but would never have Christine's vocal range, or sheer crystal tones. He sighed and glanced at his wife, who was closely watching the other woman, then back to Christine.

"Thank you for seeing us tonight, comtesse. We won't take very much of your time."

His voice could still raise a shiver along her back. That beautiful timbre which was alluring whether in speech or raised in song. The times in his little home she had wondered what those long, supple hands would have felt like against her skin; a faceless lover who had an element of mystery hidden behind that black silk; the mystery harshly solved when she had wrenched his mask away and found what was hidden beneath it.

Those images had faded with time, but now they came rushing back. When she read his note, she thought it would be just the two of them, and she had looked forward in girlish anticipation to meeting him after seven years. Never mind that she couldn't wait to get away from him when he was a broken man, ill and seemingly used up. She had willingly left him behind and escaped into her new life as the Comtesse de Chagny, only dragging out his memory in the velvet darkness when her hidden thoughts had freer rein. She had thought him to be dead, and although he had once been a danger to her and others, throughout the years she had regretted her lack of compassion to a soul lost and hurting. Seeing him successful and happy, she felt the weight of that old guilt slip free.

Erik ushered both ladies to chairs, but remained standing. "I'm certain you are wondering about my need to see you again, comtesse, but we-"

"Please, Erik, there's no need to be so formal, is there?"

"Very well. When Louise told me she had met you this afternoon, I thought it was more than time to offer my profound apologies to you for the way you were treated... by me." He cleared his throat and put his hands behind his back. To Christine it brought back memories of lessons in his home, and his similar stance when he was lecturing her on some fine point of pitch or inflection. She had the oddest feeling of having come full circle, to once again be in his presence. He was alive, she kept telling herself. Alive. And she was glad, but it would have to be her secret. Raoul would not feel as she did. Ever.

"...forgive me, Christine?"

She was jolted out of her reverie. "Yes...I forgive you for that." She looked down at her gloved hands.

"I had the temerity to force you into receiving my instruction when you were confused and still grieving for your father. For nearly killing your b...the vicomte. It is a frail thing indeed, but you have my heartfelt apology."

He watched her face, his dream of her becoming a great diva turned to ashes years ago. In his own happiness with his wife and son, it had been the one thing he regretted the most. Taking advantage of a young girl's youth and inexperience- her still active grief over her father's death, and foisting his tutelage onto her frail shoulders and starting a series of events which inadvertently led to Philippe de Chagny's death.

She had to know one thing. "Did you kill Philippe?"

"Directly?" He shook his head. "No, I did not. He was floating in the lake when I found him."

Christine regarded him silently for a moment, seeing a man who had wrestled with his demons. And won. "I forgave you years ago when I thought you were...you were...dead." She smiled slightly to see his shoulders relax a little. She turned to Louise. "I however am surprised that your subterfuge has continued, madame, even into this afternoon when you could have told me the identity of your husband then. It was a shock for me to see who was conducting the Paris Orchestra," she said, her tone brittle.

Louise was about to open her mouth to reply, when her husband spoke up. "I am afraid Louise was protecting me, Christine. She has always done so, even if I have not deserved it," he said quietly.

Louise had the grace to look ashamed. "I hope you can forgive me for misleading you, comtesse. I meant no harm."

"Yes. I finally came to that conclusion myself, but it took me a while to get there," she said bluntly. "Although I had to forgive you, didn't I? You were a friend to me when I first came here and provided me with hot tea when I didn't have a sou to my name! But tonight! Your performance transported me to a world I would love to visit again," she got to her feet, "unfortunately, it is time to return home. I miss my husband."

Louise got to her feet as well and took the other woman's hands in hers. "It's been good seeing you again, Christine. Don't be a stranger. Come back to Paris more often."

"I'm sure my daughters would like that." She turned to her former teacher. "You have finally met your destiny, I think. There is greatness in your music, Erik. I hope to hear more from you in future."

"You may be sure of it, Christine," gently taking one of her hands and placing a light kiss on the knuckles.

"That's not the way of Parisians," and smiling, stood on tiptoe, bracing her hands on his shoulders. "Come down here, maestro," she said softly, and when he dutifully leaned over, she kissed each masked cheek before stepping back. "I don't have to tell you to take care of that young son of yours! He's quite his father's champion. My Adelphe was very pleased with him." She looked up one last time at the retired opera ghost, her fear of him a thing of the past, before preceding Nadir Khan out the door. "And do not forget... he owes her a cat!" her laughter floating back to them as she disappeared down the hallway.

He turned to his wife, an unseen eyebrow raised in inquiry. "A cat?"

"Hugo promised her youngest daughter a kitten."

"I hardly think we need bother delivering a kitten clear across the countryside," he muttered, dismissing the notion out of hand. "After all, there are felines the length and breadth of France."

"Yes, I'm aware of that, but apparently Raoul is not fond of them and Christine thought if it was a gift, it would be acceptable."

"He doesn't enjoy cats, eh?" He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Then the young mam'selle shall have one." He tilted his head. "Perhaps two. And I know just the man to deliver them."

"Is he a charming Persian gentleman of our long acquaintance?" Louise grinned and looped her arms around his neck.

"Mm. I'm certain he won't mind in the least."

"Frightening, isn't it? Our thoughts seem to run along the same lines anymore."

"Frightening? No. Not at all. I would call it interesting." He put a finger to his upper lip and stroked it. "Very interesting. Well then, do you know what I am thinking right at this moment?"

"The don awaits."

He smiled with satisfaction. "Why, yes," he murmured. "Clever, clever girl."

"Of course. I have to try and keep up with you, don't I?"

He laughed outright at that, the beautiful sound of it teasing her already heightened nerve endings as they started down the deserted hallway. The sound of hushed voices suddenly reached them, and Louise let out a squeak of protest as Erik grabbed her around the waist, hauling her into a dark corner- his old friend.

"Why are we hiding?" she asked, bracing her hands on his chest. They were standing in a shallow niche provided by the gilded statue of Terpsichore, the goddess of dance. The muse's sightless eyes stared with blank unconcern at the man and woman huddled against her.

"Some of my more entrenched habits do indeed die hard," he said softly, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. He held a finger to her lips. "Shh."

He no sooner had, the young girls appeared in the hallway.

The smaller of the two nervously glanced around. "I told you, Agnes! I heard him laughing. I swear I did!"

"The ghost hasn't been spotted in years," she replied shortly. "You must have heard one of the stage crew, you silly twit!"

"Well, if there isn't any opera ghost, then I dare you to walk into Box Five. Alone."

"Whatever for, Josie?"

The younger girl shrugged her shoulders. "Just to prove you're not scared even a little. Where's the harm if you don't believe?"

All the while the two ballet rats argued, Erik had his wife pinned against the wall. She stood there quietly in his arms, her nose uncomfortably pressed into his bony Adam's apple. "Won't they ever leave?" she whispered irritably.

"They are leaving now," he growled, his frustration apparent.

"All right, but don't you dare enjoy it," she warned.

His exhilaration from their triumphant evening had him feeling decidedly puckish, but the excited light in his eyes dimmed a little. He had been prepared to have Terpsichore speak to the insufferable little dancers as he had done on occasion in the past. It had always amused him to watch as chorus girls and ballet rats alike, had turned in confusion searching for the owner of that sepulchral voice, only to hear it issuing from the cold marble lips of one of the many statues in the Garnier. Unfortunately, Louise was right. They didn't need a re-emergence of the opera ghost fueling the superstition of the company. He would have to take the edge off of his elation through other means. Delightful means.

The half-lidded glance he gave his wife was a different one altogether. She knew that look well. "Yes," she breathed, and tightened her hold on him. "I want you too," her mouth widening in a smile of anticipation.

Agnes turned in a circle in the passage, shaking her head. She did not hear voices. She did not. She stared at Josie. "D-Do you hear voices?" and when Josie nodded, her eyes wide and fearful, Agnes put hands on hips. "You only want to frighten me and it is not working. There is no such thing as the opera ghost and you know it!" she retorted, fed up with this childish game. "He is just an ugly old spook drummed up by the older girls to frighten us!"

Oh ho. Old and ugly, is it? Child, even though it is true, you have just thrown down the gauntlet. It was an opportunity he could not allow to pass by. Louise could do repair work tomorrow during rehearsal. With an apologetic glance at his wife, he became the ghost one last time.

"Agnesss," the spectral voice hissed in her ear, and she froze. "Don't look behind you," and Agnes jumped as though flames were licking at her feet. Nothing could induce her to remain there, as she let out a banshee screech and fled the corridor, never once looking back. Josie was on her own.

She stared after her friend who was running as if chased by the devil. "Where are you going?" Her own disquiet mounting, she stared in bewilderment as the tutu clad body of Agnes disappeared down the hallway.

The remaining ballerina's look of agitation mixed with unease amused Erik very much, but he had indulged himself this one time, and managed to keep quiet.

Not so Louise; the situation was too absurd- the former opera ghost cowering in a dark corner with the ballet mistress. It was absolutely ridiculous and she clapped a hand over her mouth. She would have to have a talk with the two girls on the morrow and convince them that they were hearing things. Louise had been impressed when Agnes sprung into the air in fright- it had proved to be a very nice brise, and a jump the girl had never done well until now. All that would be required for a repetition of it in rehearsal tomorrow would be to scare the girl silly. Which only increased Louise's hysteria, and she felt the betraying bray of laughter bubbling up.

Erik stiffened beside her, and her other hand joined the first, clamping tight against her lips as the unstoppable snort became a giggle, escaping before she could stifle it.

Josie's eyes widened in wonderment, and she turned and fled after her friend. No one would believe her. No one. "The ghost has a lady!" she shrieked. "I-I heard her. Mon Dieu! The ghost has a lady!"

"Yes, and quite a giddy one at that," he agreed dryly, as he eyed the lady in question. He straightened to his full impressive height and took his wife firmly by the hand, his impatience growing as he led her to the fifth cellar and their assignation with the don.

"There is no ghost," she replied, her loving eyes shining up at him.

And it was so.

He had become a man with all of the joys and tribulations that state of being entailed. The Phantom was gone. Erik lived. The slight breeze from their passing disturbed a program from La vie dans un reve lying on the floor. The morning's paper L'Epoque, would, in only a few hours, declare the new ballet a triumph and a dream realized by its elusive composer and the prima ballerina.

It was the simple truth.

Fini