Hello, readers!

"Her Heart's Desire" is a direct sequel to my story "His Consolation Prize." You don't need to read HCP to understand what's going on in HHD, but it definitely fills in the backstory for what transpired between the events of POTO that led us to Erik and Meg suddenly being in Coney Island.

This was such a fun chapter to write, because this is where I officially bridge the gap between POTO and LND. You'll notice that I took a few liberties. Most importantly, it has only been an eight-year gap…not ten. I just didn't want to age the characters quite that much. And I chose certain aspects of both the London version (which I have not seen in its entirety) and the Australian version (which I own). In fact, I listened to both of their versions of "'Til I Hear You Sing" over and over again, whilst writing.

I have a love-hate relationship with that terrible sequel to POTO. As we fanfic writers are known to do, I am rewriting it to redeem the characters I love so much!

Nothing is mine, really, lyrics included, of course. And, aside from your kind reviews, I benefit in no way from these properties.

Enjoy!
Jenn

It was sometimes hard to believe how much time had passed since Meg's voyage to America. Eight years…she had lived and performed in New York's Coney Island for eight years, now. A performer's schedule for Mr. Y's Phantasma was an exhausting one, but the morale of the company managed to invigorate them for the next show, the next audience.

Mondays and Tuesdays were their days off. Wednesdays they rehearsed and did two shows. Thursdays were for more rehearsal time and three shows. Fridays had four shows, along with any costume fixes or choreography adjustments that needed to be made. Saturdays were grueling. Six shows. Sundays were better, with only three shows. But afterward, the entire cast was expected to clean and prepare for the upcoming week's schedule.

Acts had been added and then replaced with better forms of entertainment. Songs written by the mysterious Mr. Y were periodically brought forth by the musical director, a position that also saw change. The current director was a portly man in his mid-forties, no family, who seemed to acclimate to Mr. Y's high expectations quite well.

One emcee had not been enough, for the eclectic show. Gangle was joined by Fleck, a dwarf woman with a fearless personality, and Squelch, a tattooed body-builder. It was an odd trio, to any spectator, but after their first appearance onstage together, no one could dispute the complimentary chemistry that each added to their overall performance.

Meg, known as Addie by the cast and crew, was responsible for all of the choreography, and she seemed to be quite content as the lead dancer. Everyone knew that she had a special connection to Mr. Y, as she had been with Phantasma since the beginning, but she would only smile sadly, if asked about the show's producer. Most mornings, she would dive off one of the many docks and swim in the frigid Atlantic, clearing her mind and soothing sore muscles. When it was too cold to do so, she would still walk along the docks or piers, watching the waves roll in with the tide.

And the secretive Mr. Y…was a mere shadow. Most of the company never saw him. They had heard about his half mask, and that he was French, but not much else. Gangle, Fleck, Squelch, Meg, and the musical director were the only ones to ever actually speak to him. They handled all of his business. Occasionally, a tall man in a dark cloak and suit could be seen darting between the rafters.

Once, while Meg had been teaching a routine to the chorus girls, one of them had pointed toward the ceiling. She claimed to have seen a masked face staring down at them. When Meg looked up, she barely caught the flash of cape swirling in the wake of his retreating form.

Usually, she would return to her private rooms at night and unwind from the day's activities. She turned on her Gramophone, had supper, took a bath, turned off the music, read for a bit, and then went to bed. The routine was relaxing, if unsatisfying.

But, sometimes, her program would be interrupted by him.

He would always knock politely, awaiting permission to enter. She never said no. Once inside, they would casually chat about the show, books they had read, or experiences in the city. Sometimes they ate together. On these special occasions, she would bathe quickly, forgo the reading and the music, and make herself ready for him. They would make love slowly or quickly, depending on his mood…

But he still would not kiss her.

Sometimes he would stay the night, holding her protectively. At dawn, she would smile and her morning swim would be canceled. Though, typically, he left her alone for the remainder of the night. She would toss and turn until the first vestiges of daylight invited her to return to the sea. After a ritual swim and a night without his presence, she was able to sleep soundly.

And this, for the most part, was what filled eight years of Meg's life.

It was a Monday, when she finally discovered what the Phantom did on the nights he did not visit.

She was re-reading Le Comte de Monte Cristo. It was the first thing she had purchased in New York, having loved the story so much. The novel was just as wonderful as she remembered, but she still felt the urge to put it down and find the man whom had introduced her to the world of Edmond Dantes.

Creeping out of her bedroom, she took a flashlight and silently made her way down the long hall to the opposite end of the theatre. Only she and Erik had living quarters. Everyone else that was a part of the show lived offsite, either in the supplied dormitory housing or in privately-secured homes. She passed the dressing rooms, one for the men, one for the women. They were spacious and simple, built for function. There were three luxurious rooms for guest performers, which were hardly ever used.

The air was chilly, and her nightgown provided no protection from the draft. She hurried to his room, wishing she had thought to grab her robe.

His door was closed, unsurprisingly, but she heard rustling inside. Holding her breath, she extinguished the light and knelt down to look through the door's keyhole.

Inside, Erik was fully dressed in one of his elegant tuxes. His back was to her, as he sat at his piano. He seemed frustrated, as if he was trying to compose but was unable to solidify the melody. One of his hands raked over the top of his head, through the unnaturally thick black hair. She could see that he was, as always, wearing his mask. Strange, that he would still wear it in a locked room…in solitude.

"Eight long years living a mere façade of life. Eight long years wasting my time on smoke and noise…"

She exhaled and listened to him sing the plaintive tune. Was this the song he had been writing?

He stood from the piano's bench and made his way toward the wall with the curtain. Meg's heart began to pound, at the possibility of finally being able to see what was hidden behind it. She had been in his room many times, but never alone, never without his permission; and some sage part of her mind knew better than to ask him to share that secret with her. He grabbed the tassel and pulled, simultaneously singing.

"My Christine, my Christine…lost and gone, lost and gone…"

Meg blinked. On the wall was a large portrait of her former friend. Christine's beauty was done justice by the artist. She was sure that the Phantom had demanded perfection for the image of his songstress. Meg found herself wondering if her friend still had the youthful beauty that the painting boasted.

He had halted his singing, as he stared at…her. At his monument to Christine. Meg started to stand, feeling satisfaction but not relief. She now knew what he kept hidden from her. But why?

"The day starts," he sang. Meg quickly resumed her spying position. "The day ends, time crawls by. Night steals in, pacing the floor. The moments creep, yet I can't bear to sleep…'til I hear you sing once more."

She listened to him bemoan his current state. The hurt that she felt magnified with every line he sang. Eight years…and he still wasn't over his precious Christine. What had he said to her that first night on the ship? It was so long ago, but she remembered. A "poor replacement." Meg was, essentially, a substitute for Christine. He had never taken it back.

"Let hopes pass, let dreams pass, let them die! Without you, what are they for? I'll always feel no more than halfway real, 'til I hear you sing once more!"

She couldn't be sure when she had started crying, but now she registered the wetness on her cheeks. It was clear that she was still a poor replacement. Still a consolation prize that held no real value. If she was honest with herself, she had always been. He felt nothing for her. Nothing lasting, anyway.

Meg pulled herself up, suddenly weary, and made her way back to her quarters. Her shoulders felt so heavy and her head seemed weighted down.

When she arrived back in her bedroom, she looked over at the copy of Le Comte de Monte Cristo that sat on her nightstand. A sob broke through her lips and she picked it back up. She lovingly stroked the cover and spine. Her fingertips traced the embossed lettering of the title, studying the graceful letters.

Her first purchase in America.

"Haydee was written for that purpose."

"For what purpose?"

"To serve as his hope for a new life, unblemished by his painful past."

"...So, then...does that make me Haydee?"

"Hardly, my dear."

She opened it to the familiar line waiting for her on the very last page. "…all human wisdom is summed up in two words: wait and hope.'"

She walked across the room, threw it into the trash can, crossed back, and fell onto the bed. That night, she cried herself to sleep.

The emotional exhaustion helped her slumber deeply. When she awoke, it was mid-morning. She readied herself for a morning swim, thankful that it was Tuesday; otherwise, she would have been very late in starting her day.

In the theatre, a few workers were repairing set pieces. She rushed past them without acknowledgement, despite their lecherous whistles. Thrown off by the later hour, she hurried all the way to the docks, desperate to resume her routine.

The docks, however, were bustling with people. Some were sightseers, some were workers…all of them were in her way. They cluttered her normally serene atmosphere. She sighed in defeat. Her swim could wait, she supposed.

Instead of heading for home, she walked along the shoreline to the closest pier. Unlike the sea-level docks, the piers stood high above the waterline. Dotted around the protective rail were tourists, fishermen, and seagulls. She found an empty spot and leaned over to look at the sea below.

"Careful, dearie," a grizzled voice called out to her.

She turned toward a man who stared back. He was fishing, and he looked to be about eighty years of age. His white hair and scraggly beard were oddly endearing, but his disturbing her could not go overlooked.

"I beg your pardon?" she questioned him, not letting a hint of her French accent break through.

"It's a long way down. 'Bout sixty feet, or so, I'd say," he looked over the side, and then back at her. "Not that high, really, but the water's quite shallow. You can see the rocks, if you look closely enough. The fall'd kill you."

She stared blankly at him, before glancing over the rail. Indeed, she could see the ominous rocks underneath the surf.

"Right," she muttered. When she looked back at the man, he was already back to tending his line.

The salty wind whipped her hair, as she stared out into the horizon. She suddenly felt displaced. She was not an American, nor was she a Frenchman…not anymore. She was no longer a ballerina, and she would never truly be known as a singer. Her mother was dead, and there was no one on earth who loved her. Not one. What kind of life was that? She was not tied to anything. And with nothing to ground her, what should prevent her from flying off the pier into the afterlife? Maybe she would be reunited with her mother. Maybe she would return as a fish. Either outcome was preferable to the misery of her current situation.

She shook herself. Suicide? She was honestly contemplating suicide? Her eyes refocused on her surroundings.

A passenger liner was slowly making its way into port, most likely from some European location. She smiled when she remembered her journey with the Phantom. It had been two weeks, in those cramped quarters, but so much had changed between them. She needed to remind him of that. She needed to show him that, unlike Christine, she was here, with him. And she needed him. He needed her, too. She just had to be patient.

Sometimes it took a while for someone to look with their heart and not just their eyes.

She walked back to the theatre with a spring in her step.

In New York City, reporters lined the pier where the great ocean liner was expected to dock. The ship would unveil many famous celebrities, but none more anticipated than the reclusive Vicomtess Christine de Chagny nee Daae. She was expected to arrive with her husband, the Vicomte, for her debut in America. The world-famous opera diva had come out of retirement for the opportunity to perform for Mr. Hammerstein, but her arrival was discreet. Mr. Hammerstein only wished to announce her performance once she had arrived in America. Rumors had circulated, though, and a sizeable press circuit waited for the Vicomte and his wife to come down the gangplank.

Meanwhile, Meg arrived back to the theatre just in time to see Fleck leaning out of the horseless carriage.

"Will you hurry up! We need to leave NOW!"

"Bonjour, Fleck!" Meg called out. "Where are you-"

"I'm coming!" a male voice answered. Gangle dashed out of the theatre, turning back to yell out, "Squelch!"

Squelch soon emerged, calmly walking toward the vehicle. He smiled and waved at his favorite girl, Miss Addie. Meg waved back, with a puzzled look frozen on her face.

Before she could ask where they were going, Gangle hopped into the cab and pulled the large tattooed man in behind him. The carriage took off in a hurry, and Meg raised an eyebrow in utter confusion. She dismissed the strange behavior of the trio away easily. Obviously, "Mr. Y" had requested them to run an errand. Fleck took any task given to her by the producer very seriously, striving to always be in his good graces. Gangle was more flighty. Sometimes he was eager to please the creator of Phantasma, but at other times he acted resentful of his servant-like position. Squelch just followed wherever the other two went.

Meg walked back to her room and changed into rehearsal clothing. Adjacent to her room was a small practice studio with mirrors and a barre. It had been too long since she had gone through her classic warm-ups and exercises. She took her time, meticulously correcting every placement, from her hands to her feet. She couldn't go en pointe; her feet were no longer accustomed to the strain. But maybe she could work back up to it…

"Addie! Are you seriously dancing on your day off? What shall I do with you?" one of her dancers, Ellie, teased.

"It's just a little exercise. It helps me relax-"

"Anyway, so, you're French, right?"

Meg blinked at the sudden change in conversation. "I…yes, I'm from France."

"Have you been to Paris?"

The former ballerina smiled. "Yes," she softly spoke.

"You lucky girl! What I wouldn't give to go there, someday!"

Meg felt her cheeks flush. "Yes, you should. It's lovely." She continued her exercises, struggling to concentrate on counting.

"Anyway… gee! Listen to me! I always get lost in my own conversation!" Ellie openly laughed at her frivolity. "What I came to ask you is whether or not you've heard of the French people that are coming to New York. Do you know 'em?"

"French people? I imagine there will be many 'French people' arriving by boat. How else are they to travel?"

"No," Ellie sighed. "These people are like, royalty, or something." She looked perplexed. "What is a Vicount, anyway?"

Meg shook her head. "A vicomte is part of the nobility. A count, basically. Not royalty, technically." She let go of the barre and turned to her friend. "Who, exactly, is it?"

"Some French count and his wife. She's some famous opera singer, or something." Ellie's eyes glassed over dreamily. "Oh, what I wouldn't give to be married to some rich French man!"

The color drained from Meg's cheeks as she took in the information.

"Do you remember either of their names?"

Ellie snapped back to attention.

"I don't remember the man's name, something exotic, but I think they said his wife's name is 'Christine'."

The color drained from Meg's face, and she could not respond immediately. Her mind raced and she felt such perplexing, conflicting emotions.

After all these years…Christine! She will have news of Mama! I will see my dear old friend, again! Erik…does he know? Surely, he must. Will he try to see her? What will happen if-

"Hello?! Addie!"

Meg squinted at Ellie, trying to see past her thoughts.

"I asked if you'd heard of her! Have you? Do know who this Countess is?"

"I-" Meg hesitated. Volunteering any information about her past, she had found, only led to more questions. And those questions became more and more intrusive. She shook her head, instead, at her friend. "I doubt I've heard of her. I've been away from France for so long…"

"Well, I can't wait to see what this dame looks like! I'll bet she'll be wearing all of the newest fashions from Paris! Or, who knows? Maybe she'll be another ugly rich woman who happens to have the right pedigree, huh?"

Meg smiled tightly, not wishing to hear unflattering statements about her friend, but also unable to jump to her aid.

"Perhaps. I have to be going," Meg excused herself and abruptly exited the room.

"Bye?" she heard Ellie call out behind her.

Entering her own room, Meg turned and locked herself in. Her heart was beating swiftly inside her chest. She felt quite anxious, knowing that some event was on the horizon; she felt quite certain that, whatever came to pass, none of it would be under her control.