A/N: Thank you, all of you, for your support, reviews, and interest – some days, it's all that got me through when I thought of just throwing up my hands and giving up. lol (I'm a finisher but, like every author out there, sometimes get discouraged).

It's hard to bid farewell to characters I've known for years, who become like family (other Phanphic writers of long stories will no doubt understand) – it's bittersweet – sad, but a triumph – and this E/C tale was one of my faves I've written, so it makes it doubly hard. But the time comes, with every story told, to say goodbye. That said, I don't want to leave an author's note at the end of this chapter. So I'll ask now that if you liked the story, or just want to leave your thoughts, please review. :) I write HEAs, (what I prefer), but at the same time wanted to stay true to the Wuthering Heights feel. Since this is a twist on that classic, it didn't work to make a sequel, as some suggested - so this is what I came up with as the best way to finish the story. (I recommend for those who want a refresh to first read the short prologue found under "chapter 1")

Those who like E/C PotO music vids – I have a few on Youtube, including my most recent ("Never Alone") that are based on this story and a few based on the others. If you watch, be sure and read description to see how it relates.

Finally, for those interested, I'll start posting my PotO/Jane Eyre phanphic soon, and, of course, continue with those in progress. I love weaving PotO with classics that fit and giving my own unique spin to them.

And now, one last time, I return you to the tale of Christine and her Erik from The Heights…

Chapter LXXXIV

(Paris - 1919)

.

Monsieur de Galle stared with disbelief at the inscrutable caretaker when she said nothing more.

"And…?" he urged with barely concealed impatience.

"And that was the end of it. Christine's omen proved true. Those terrible shots fired – the sudden appearance of the gendarmes – neither of which had factored into their plan. That the gendarmes would arrive, and so many – that those men would actually fire on stage during the performance…"

She sighed and shook her head. "Such a tragedy. Most of the audience escaped unscathed, but not all. The chandelier fell you see – when he cut the rope, it crashed to the ground. The gendarmes there, the concierge – all dead – that man actually trampled like grass beneath the audience's feet in the panicked melee to leave the theater …"

She rose from her chair and moved slowly toward the opaque window, the droplets now only a faint smattering against the crimson pane.

"An investigation was made, or more to the point, a bloodthirsty mob headed by Inspector Leverton chased after them, into the cellars, but neither the Phantom nor Christine could be found and were presumed to have escaped. An extensive manhunt went on through the next day, during which time a secret passage was uncovered within the walls leading down to the caverns. There, the bodies of a man and woman were found washed up on the shore of the underground lake. Both wore costumes from the Don Juan. Both had been shot. The man was badly scarred on the right half of his face, and the woman had long dark curls. At the Inspector's request, both the Vicomte and Madame Giry identified them..."

The caretaker took a nervous breath, softly wringing her hands at her waist.

"Ever since that tragic night, legend has it that the spirits of the Phantom and his Angel suffer unrest and haunt this theatre, forever seeking retribution against those who did and would harm them and their domain - this their last dwelling place together …"

De Galle stared hard at her then snorted in a burst of scornful laughter.

"You expect me to believe your ghost story?"

"Did you not hear their voices in the dressing room?" she reminded with wide, anxious eyes.

"Put there by the phonograph YOU placed there! You deny it, but I'm no fool. Perhaps you think your ghostly tale will discourage me from my mission?" He shook his head in disgust. "Sorry to disappoint you, Madame, but it takes a good deal more than a bizarre and highly implausible story of wild misfits to frighten me from doing my job. From what little I've seen of this mausoleum so far, I'd advise you to start looking for other work and a new place to live soon, if this dump truly is your home." He stood to his feet. "Now, it's late, and I want to try and find somewhere decent in this hovel to get some sleep. Thank you for your charming bedtime tale."

With those snide words, he left the small sitting room once belonging to Madame Giry.

"Good riddance," the caretaker muttered and glared, pulling her shawl more tightly about her shoulders. "Try the stable – it would be perfect for you."

The departing storm flashed against the blood red pane, the distant boom of thunder echoing as if in agreement.

She sighed and turned to a side table, lifting from its surface four leather-tooled books that had fallen into her keeping. A culmination of years they held, dark and tragic, bright and beautiful. How odd that the entire sum of a lifetime could be held in one's hand.

The first two books she set aside, having read them often: one of a girl's childhood on the English moors with her beloved playmate; the other of her astounding and scandalous story that took place within this very opera house, and five cellars beneath in subterranean caverns.

The third journal she opened, carefully thumbing through its contents, skipping a multitude of pages to read those most favored, now and then a melancholy smile lifting her lips, before going back to the first page…

x

March 6, 1869

It seems fitting to begin this journal after our escape from Paris, as this is the start of our new life together.

Despite the unforeseen arrival of the gendarmes, all went according to plan in the finale of the Don Juan, including the belief that our aria ended in tragedy, a belief that Meg, bless her eager soul, has assured us she will spread like wildfire. Erik reassures me that my idea was the only way to end the infernal chase of those who wished us dead, to give them what they desired – our deaths – and genius that my husband is, he conceived a plan that was foolproof. I still shudder to think of him stealing those poor wretches' corpses from the morgue, to trick the authorities into thinking they were us, and have said a prayer that their souls may find rest.

Nor was Raoul pleased that Erik cut down the chandelier, which wasn't part of the plan – arguing that the expense will be great to replace it. Erik stated that this was war, and those men of Monsieur Picard's had it coming, as did the wily fiend himself. Raoul argued that others could have been killed with his reckless stunt – to which my dear Phantom acerbically replied that he would NEVER feel remorse for a feat that saved my life, that the Vicomte had no cause for complaint – the majority of onlookers escaped still breathing, those that mattered – and he knew the exact trajectory and where the chandelier would strike. At such a cavalier response, Raoul threw up his hands and left the chapel. My mastermind of a husband later told me that the fallen chandelier was intended only if it proved necessary, and it did - as a safeguard of diversion to use if we were surrounded – to incapacitate or at the very least stall our enemies. Trust him to think of every detail.

Thank goodness Monsieur Reyer and the orchestra ran clear of the danger in time; nor were any of the actual audience killed, though sadly there were injuries inflicted from the shattered crystals, and the resulting fire. The crew used buckets of sand – (which Erik told Raoul to prepare in advance) – and were able to extinguish the flames before they spread. Madame sent word that there was little other damage. Only a third of the main theater needs work, though the managers have complained they are ruined and cannot continue. Good riddance I say. Once repairs are made, the opera house is in need of better management.

I did point out to my superstitious husband that both Meg and Madame Giry were in the wings and saw him unmasked but suffered no "evil eye" curse. The Girys are both alive and well, certainly not driven mad. He said nothing, but I hope in time he'll dispense with the foolish notion ingrained into him by gypsies, of thinking his dear ravaged face can cause harm.

We hid at the chapel in the woods until the time came to depart. To my delight, Father Dominic performed a short ceremony uniting Raoul and Arabella in holy wedlock. Erik remained a silent witness, but I could see the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes that Raoul would no longer present a problem as a rival. (As if he ever was one.) Arabella, Raoul, and I promised to meet again one day, though after having watched Erik glower, with arms crossed, standing at a distance as we said our farewells, I doubt he'll agree to a reunion in the not so foreseeable future. Not that I blame him. I still find it difficult to forgive the de Chagnys for their hand in our separation four years ago, though after the extensive aid both Raoul and Arabella have given us in our escape from our enemies and from Paris, I am trying to put all of the past behind me and forget.

Jacques has endured the journey surprisingly well, clutching his malformed stuffed horse when we boarded a train, later this ship, always holding to my hand or Erik's. We prefer the solitude of our cabin and during the voyage leave only to stroll the deck when it's dark and most everyone lay sleeping, including little Jacques. To stand at the rail with Erik behind, his arms wrapped about me, and look up at the brilliant canopy of stars spangled across an ocean of nighttime sky - it feels as it did when we stood together on The Summit of our beloved moors, as if we could take on the world and all who are in it.

I must go, Erik is calling me to come to bed, and I certainly have no desire to make my dear Phantom wait.

x

January 27, 1870

Sweden is all I remember it to be (what little memory I possess of it) – the weather here is certainly much colder than in Paris or England! I was overjoyed to find my mother's relations, and though my silent masked husband raised many an anxious brow, no one was unkind, for which I am grateful. We found a small cottage to let in Stockholm, and inquired immediately at the Kungliga Operan. They do original productions but also those renowned throughout Europe, and I was able to audition for Mirielle, though only made the chorus. My Maestro assured me that was natural, since I was starting afresh, this time with the maiden name of my maternal grandmother. When I learned of it through documents found, I laughed in delight. I am now known as Christine Eriksson, wife of manager and budding composer Erik Eriksson. He is not exactly thrilled with our new name (he mentioned it being redundant) but I want no other. It's perfect.

As luck would have it, (I heard of no tricks or notes from a ghost and Erik swore he did not maliciously intervene), I rose to understudy in less than two months, and so swiftly I could scarce draw breath - the night arrived when I took the stage as the lead. It was in a word, sublime, as my dear Maestro would say, my only regret that it was not his opera. I was required to attend the usual festivity afterward, but managed to slip away, where Erik and I had our own private toast and celebration. He gifted me with a red rose bearing his signature black ribbon - what he then told me symbolizes his undying devotion for me and his utter delight in a performance well executed. Ah, my silver-tongued Phantom always knows the words to say to make my heart sing.

With the audition of Roméo et Juliette I received the starring lead. I really should write more often in this journal, but this past year has been devoted to the fame and hard work of all things opera, and my dear husband and Maestro, and I just haven't found the time. Even now, I must cut this short as we are due to attend a gala for the opening, hosted by the mangers. How strange to see Erik get along with men of that stature! Though he still claims (to me only of course) that he could better manage the opera. (And I heartily agree.) Both men, brothers and partners, have looked at Erik's compositions with interest and advised him to seek to publish his works, giving him names to contact. (Also of which I heartily agree.)

These works are not an opera with a story to tell, but are still his glorious music, with notes and lyrics that set my soul to flight. I told him so, and he smiled and said, "As you have always been my muse, is it any wonder that an Angel would inspire such feeling?" I ask - is it any wonder I love him so! Thankfully the mask, which of course we knew would be asked about at some point, is never again questioned once Erik briefly mentioned an accident suffered. We both know the brutality of the truth, all he has endured would not gain him public sympathy, and so it will remain our secret.

As for those clandestine events in Paris and what led to our union and reunion, Erik and I have agreed that those pivotal and emotional days shall also remain our secret.

x

February 8, 1871

Three things, each of the most astounding magnitude, have happened in the course of two days, and I am still reeling from the shock.

The first event, but by no means the least eventful, occurred when Jacques quite suddenly entered our bedchamber and caught us in a kiss – and Erik without his mask. My poor husband went chalk white with shock, the dark, brutal scars even more vivid. The boy stared hard at his face then turned and ran from the room. Erik and I shared a tense look, and I saw his fear, which I desperately prayed would prove groundless and not again cause him devastation. He tied his mask on and followed the boy, fearing he'd run away from the cottage into the snowstorm. Imagine our surprise to find Jacques in the parlor, sitting on the floor beside the grand piano. When my husband entered, the sweet lad looked up from his soldiers, still his favorite toy, and hopefully smiled, holding them up as an invitation to play. Tears of relief swam in my dear Erik's eyes, matched by my own tears of happiness. I knew all along that Jacques would accept his brother, no matter his appearance, but some things just have to be experienced to be understood.

The second event happened only this morning and spurred my compulsory decision for the telling of the third…

But I am getting ahead of myself.

My husband walked into the parlor, a piece of paper in hand, his golden eyes alight with triumph.

"Erik?" I rushed to him, eager to know what caused such a brilliant smile, but he only led me back to the sofa and gently pushed me to the cushion.

"You will need to be sitting down to hear this," he explained with his usual enigmatic flair.

"Well…?" I laughed when he hesitated overly long. "Tell me!"

Instead, he handed me a telegram. It bore four lines that will change our lives forever.

You were correct. Stop. Christine did not kill Henri. Stop. Real culprit Victor, caught in second crime, confessed to both. Stop. Christine is free and clear of all charges.

Le Vicomte Raoul de Changy

I stared, unseeing, at the paper, barely able to conceive what I read.

"What you said about that foul day never ceased to haunt my thoughts," Erik explained quietly, his tone jubilant. "Something felt remiss- and then it struck me. Standing against the wall, in the corner where that fiend had you trapped – you would have had to use your left hand to reach for the kettle on the stove. When our fool tutor forced me to learn with my right hand, I recalled it did not possess much strength, it was weak – as your LEFT hand would be, since it is your right hand that is strongest."

I shook my head, completely at a loss. "I don't understand. What does it matter if my hand was weak?"

"Christine…" He sank down beside me and patiently grasped my shoulders. "There is no way you could have bashed in his skull using your weak hand, your weaker ARM, and with one single blow. I sincerely doubt you could have done so with your right arm either. It takes enormous strength, and, my dear, especially then, you were as fragile as a kitten. I had no wish to say anything to you and give false hope if proof could not be found. But before we left France, I sent a letter to Alric to investigate in England, to redeem himself after his negligent error of false information concerning you - this time refusing all payment until he found absolute proof, which he was then instructed to give to the Vicomte …"

I blinked, hardly able to follow his excited explanation, while deep in my heart other words resounded with joyous relief –

It WASN'T me! I DIDN'T kill Henri…

My dear Phantom had restored to me my spirit, my soul, my voice, my heart – and now my peace of mind. And he'd given me even more than that…

"Do you know what this means, my love?" He dropped one hand to my leg, where my fingers immediately found and intertwined with his. "It means you no longer have to fear that someone may recognize you. You are free as the wind, to go and do and be whatever you like. And at last my would-be executioner will face his well-deserved execution."

"It means so much more than that…" I hesitated, having put off what needed to be said long enough and gently drew his palm upward the fraction needed to lay protectively against my stomach. "It means we can go home, Erik. I want to go home and have our child there."

He froze, his eyes going wide and burning golden.

I bit my lip apprehensively, awaiting his full reaction. He could still fly into a rage, and from previous confrontations on the subject, I knew that this news would not be exactly coveted. I also knew the reason for his chief fear, and hoped that Jacques accepting the nature of his face would serve as a reminder.

To his credit, none of his former impatience or angry desperation surfaced at the idea that was now so much more than that.

"A child?" he repeated hoarsely. "How…how long have you known?"

"I had it confirmed by a physician last week. It's why I swooned at the rehearsal and why I've been evading you on auditioning for Faust."

"I thought it was exhaustion..." He shook his head, stunned. "What of our dream to take on the world with our music?" he asked quietly after a moment, his eyes on our hands still held to my stomach.

"I only ever wanted to sing your arias, and we can still have that." I gently slipped off his mask and laid my other hand against the twisted scars of his face, so familiar to me. "We shared the dream, my love. I had the limelight, the stage, the roses thrown at my feet - together we took Paris and Stockholm by storm. I took the stage with you, my dear Maestro, always to guide me. And it was magnificent. A memory unforgettable. One day, your works will be published, you are too much a genius composer for them not to be. But Erik, what I really want now is to go home. Now that WE CAN go home. I want to return to the wild moors where we grew up and to The Heights to live and raise our child there. Please don't be upset."

"Upset?" He shook his head and looked at me as if still in a daze. "Christine, all I ever wanted was you…But I know this is important to you. Each time your menses came, I saw through your nonchalance to the disappointment you tried hard to conceal. And I…" He swallowed hard. "Perhaps the child will learn to accept me, as I am, as Jacques has done?"

I smiled in joyous relief, never having believed he would yield so readily after our many arguments on the subject. Clearly, he had given the idea some thought.

"Of course she will. She's part of me. She won't be able to keep from loving you immensely."

"She?" He cocked a brow.

"You would prefer a son?"

"I…" He let out a breath. "At this moment I'm trying to conceive the concept of a child."

I giggled to see my eloquent Phantom at a loss for words and could not resist a bit of teasing. "The conception is already made, my dear," I said, tongue in cheek, "and it will be one or the other...so which do you want?"

He turned his head to kiss my palm. "Gender is unimportant. I only want you safe…and…the child," he said haltingly, his fingertips making the barest stroke of acknowledgement against the slight curve of my belly and making me fall more deeply in love with him, if that is even possible.

He sighed. "I pity those who will never again have the privilege to hear your voice, but as long as you promise to sing for me, I shall be content with that."

"I will always sing for you."

The old promise made will not be difficult to keep. Often in the evenings of our leisure, he plays and I sing or – most glorious – we sing beautiful duets of love, the music a part of our souls that helped to unite us and make us whole.

I smile as I write this, for he has come up behind me, as silent as always, his hand now resting on my shoulder, no doubt reading what I have written. What the future holds, I cannot say, but I am excited beyond measure -

We are going home.

x

August 16, 1871

Where to begin? So much has happened; so much time has passed since we left Sweden. But there just never seems to be enough of the minutes left to write!

Upon our arrival to Haworth, we were stunned to learn the details of Henri's death. The horse and rider I'd seen at a distance when fleeing The Heights, and thought to be Henri's friend, instead belonged to the Vicomte's stables. Victor was a gambler like Henri, in debt to him. After he thought he murdered Erik he hoped that foul act would cancel all debts owed, but my cousin wasn't satisfied that Victor could offer no proof of a body. (Another lie my cousin told me, both of them fiendish devils. May they rot.). Victor's debt to Henri increased over time, in excess of four hundred pounds! My attack on Henri only incapacitated him. Victor entered the house after I fled and saw an opportunity to escape his exorbitant debt by finishing Henri off with the kettle. The spy that Erik sent asked questions that made Victor panic, killing another man in his flight to flee, and later when captured and questioned, he confessed to both crimes. Victor is in prison, awaiting execution, and I am just so thankful the ordeal is at last over –

– and we are home!

Oh, I never thought this day would arrive. How I have missed our beloved wild moors…

In my condition, I cannot sit a horse, so Erik and I walked to the nearby meadow on our first day back. The Summit will have to wait, too, but oh, what a wondrous time we had, welcoming our kingdom of heather, rock, and wind into our embrace once again…

Erik says I'm an incurable dreamer - THIS from the man who played a Phantom and haunted an entire opera house with his musical demands! Ha!

Two months after our homecoming, Berta surprised us and returned to The Heights with little Henley – a chubby lad of four. Thankfully he looks like his mother and has her sweet, quiet disposition. Berta's sister died and she has nowhere else to go, so of course she will stay here, and has offered to help train the new servants, who are quite green but thankfully tolerant to the strict mandates of my unconventional husband. Erik bought The Heights, free and clear, also taking care of the enormous debt linked to the estate that Henri's gambling caused, (Henri left no will) but my nephew will always have a home here, and Jacques has found a little playmate. Berta was tickled pink to learn that Erik and I married, and not one bit surprised that he excelled in his musical career. To think, they are going to put his beautiful songs into a compilation for the piano! I am so pleased for my Angel and each night that he plays his beautiful music, I sing for him when I'm not too exhausted, often encouraging him to join me.

It has been lovely seeing the de Chagnys again, though it came as no surprise that my husband made himself scarce during their visit. For me, all bitter animosity has dulled into poignant regret. I was able to extend forgiveness and renew friendship. (How can I hold a grudge for well-intended omissions when my sins against Erik, spoken in thoughtlessness, were ten times more beastly?) Arabella and Raoul have a sweet little cherub named Philip. In holding him, I eagerly long for the day when I shall carry my own babe in my arms. I have blossomed (Erik's words, and that's putting it nicely) and waddle like a duck when I walk, now that the time draws close at hand. Erik has been a comfort, though at times distant, and I know he struggles with his own fears. Yet every night, as we lie in bed, (usually when our little one is most active), my Angel of Music sings her to sleep, and we three are content.

x

October 1, 1871

Last night as my husband lay down beside me, he was boyishly eager, and I sensed a bit of the old mischief, still so much a part of him. Warily I waited for what he would say.

"I have decided on a perfect name for the child."

We had discussed names all week, none favorable to either of us, including my dear mother's name of Olga. Perhaps as a second name but not one I could see myself using daily. It is to my great delight that the closer my time has drawn, the more interest Erik has shown in our imminent family.

"Tell me," I prodded, urging him with a smile.

"Aminta."

I crossed my arms over my corpulent belly and stared down at him. A difficult feat when lying on one's back, even when propped with pillows.

"Erik, you cannot be serious."

His golden eyes twinkled as he leaned in to kiss my pouting lips.

"I vowed to you that with my next opera I would name the lead Aminta if you should wish, since I could not make changes to the Don Juan." At my wary nod he continued, "Whether I will be inspired to write another opus of such magnitude, I cannot say. At this point I enjoy composing the simpler arias. I told you then that you could help shape the character of Aminta as you see fit for the next story told. I should think mothering a child falls under that category, the story entirely our own. And do not forget, my Little Angel, it was that role, no matter how underhanded its conception, that brought us together."

He did have a point, but Aminta Olga? Arabella once told me the name Aminta means vindicator, protector, and defender…worthy titles all.

Still I am uncertain.

x

October 16, 1871

The name haunts me, in that I have not been able to stop thinking about it these two blasted weeks. When I spoke about it to Berta, she shook her head at my stubbornness in the belief that we will have a daughter and brought up the distinct possibility of the child being a boy. Perhaps, but his name took no decision to make – Erik and I both readily agreed a son will be called Gustave.

x

January 3, 1872

We spent our first Yuletide together as a new family, and what a doting Papa my Erik is! I fear our Aminta will become quite the spoiled little princess, since Erik seems to think a cradle will not do for his cherished little girl and only Papa's arms and shoulder will suffice. He has a calming touch no one else does, how well I know, and Aminta ceases to cry the moment he's there to hold her. How delightful to see him like this! Though at Berta's jest that the day would soon arrive when both little Henley and Philip will be vying for the affections of our beautiful daughter, I seriously thought that Erik might swaddle Aminta and carry us both off to a cave to hide.

I wish I could state that the nightmares disappeared, for both of us, though they do come with less frequency as the years pass. And we have each other to comfort when they do occur. With everything at last resolved between us, there is no longer blame. Do we fight? What married couple doesn't, and my dearly beloved Phantom can be so damnably stubborn. But then, so can I, and when we mend our differences it is as beautiful as the most glorious aria performed, and as passionate…

Looking back on all I have written in the last two journals and this one, I blush to see how forthcoming I was about those private moments shared, quite scandalous really, but I rest in the knowledge that my eyes alone will see these words, and Erik's of course, until the day we are but dust of the earth. It is my hope that my daughter can look past my candid descriptions of the heart, should she read this, and gain whatever knowledge is helpful. However, I resolve to be less colorful in the future. It seems it is not only my tongue that tends to get carried away with what should not be expressed, but my pen as well. I have improved greatly in holding it – my tongue, that is. Though as it is time for Aminta to nurse, and I hear her Papa singing with his angel's voice to occupy her attention and prevent her demanding cries until I can get there, I should put down pen as well.

x

The caretaker smiled and closed the cover, thinking about the many entries inside the last journal that dwindled a little more and more with the passage of time and the addition of each child …

There, Christine Eriksson wrote of the legacy she and her beloved Erik carved of music and of family, teaching their five offspring respect for The Heights and the land. Often their parents would visit the moors, hand in hand, or together on horseback. Those times the children learned were for their parents alone, though they enjoyed family outings too, replete with picnics. Glorious days, when their Papa would play his violin while their Mama would sing to the heavens, the moors filled with their ethereal music as the cool winds blew and even the wildflowers seemed to dance.

Life had been bountiful for Christine and her Angel in their small corner of the world, filled with music and love and laughter. His songs he sold under the name Eriksson were widely enjoyed, and the sacred hymns he wrote anonymously were dearly treasured. A rare treat would be when those of their small village would hear the masked man's remarkable talent as he played the organ in the empty parish church, a black cat often sitting near, and it was whispered that in the autumn following their return to England it was Erik Eriksson who orchestrated the good Father Dominic's transfer there, (perhaps with the help of the Vicomte), though neither man owned to it and such a prospect was considered highly unlikely. After all, how would two such important individuals know a simple village priest from France or even care to request him as a minister when the former passed away? Though the reticent masked man did appear to enjoy his weekly chats with the kindly old priest …

The caretaker smiled at the thought, and turned to the final entry of the last journal:

Summer of 1910

It is a strange thing, time. The months rush forward and the years fall away, before their existence is scarcely realized. Why is it that when we are young, we look to the future, eagerly contemplating each day's arrival without truly enjoying the present in which we live? I have learned since the tragedies of my youth to cherish each moment for how precious it is, and with my beloved Erik by my side that is not a difficult concept to grasp. If only time did not rush forward so quickly!

Our eldest, Aminta, has endured much since the loss of our sweet baby granddaughter last winter, but she is strong of spirit, and Philip clearly adores her, even Erik can see that. Having lost two of my own before they could enter the world, I am confident that my daughter, who is so like me in both appearance and character, will get through this dark time... Our youngest, Angelica, is seventeen and a woman newly engaged, to Henley of all things, shocking to conceive though not altogether unexpected, as much as they adore each other, and my dear Erik is struggling to come to terms both with his little girl growing up and her choice of a husband... Our boys, Gustave, Erik Jr., and Benjamin all are happily married, each with their own dear children, and successful in their careers. They visit when they can, or we visit them, and I am thankful for that.

How I wish to grab hold of the tail-end of these rapid moments and force the days to slow their steady course, but it is to no avail, since the progression of time has not truly altered. Only my concept of it is changed. That is what happiness does, I am told. So I enjoy each second of the present for what it brings, both the good and the bad, for the bad is worthy of similar regard, since in overcoming the obstacles we are brought closer together in this delightful madness we share. In hope and in fear. In life and in death.

The songs my beloved Erik composed I once sang to the culmination of our dreams, and roses were thrown at my feet as proof of our great triumph. Yet in gaining the world, I learned what truly mattered and made me happiest was to be with my husband and my children. I enjoy our cozy duets by the hearth fire and those times when we sing together as a family, as much as I once craved the glamour of the footlights. We, Erik and I, have both found something always missing before: a sense of serenity that has enriched our faith in each other, in the world, even in God.

Our three sons are as lovable and mischievous as their father, and our two daughters are the apples of Papa's beautiful golden eyes. These are the true riches, and home is the sole place my heart longs to be. My family is my home.

I have found that fairytales don't have to be flimsy and can be real, even those of gothic proportions. How else can I explain my find of a lifetime of untold bliss with the husband of my dreams, who is to me both my Angel of Music and my fierce and passionate dark Phantom! I chose to rewrite the story, the fair maiden chose not the prince but the beloved beast who was no true beast at all – perhaps that is what made our tale more genuine…

And magical.

For only in tales of eternal love is a true-to-life fairytale possible, and I have the everlasting proof to know such things do exist...

"Aminta?" a familiar voice came from the corridor.

"In here."

She closed her mother's journal and laid it atop the others, brushing away the tears. Her fingers went to the silver locket at her neck, replaced with a new chain shortly after Papa broke it at the Bal Masque, and now containing the likenesses of both her dear parents. How she missed them so! But they had taught her love that was deep did not perish. And her heart always sensed them near.

To those fortunate to know them, Mama's beauty and voice matured into an elegant grace oft admired, though Papa never ceased in calling her his Little Angel, much to her delight. Papa always cut a dashing figure of mystery, with or without the half mask he wore in public. When at home, among his cherished ones, he wore no mask.

Her parents were extraordinary in their shared talents, wealthy in love and in assets, but preferred the simple life of hearth and home to one of society and grandeur. Once every couple of years they traveled the world, always together, often visiting Aminta's brothers, and twice visiting Mama's friend, Meg, who in her youth achieved great success as a prima ballerina.

It was after their last journey taken in their dotage, when a terrible avalanche claimed both their lives, that Aminta discovered her mother's journals and learned the undisclosed and shocking tale of the legendary Phantom of the Opera and his beloved Angel of Music. As stunned as she had been to unearth their dark secrets and as heartbreaking as it was to lose her dear parents, Aminta found solace that they were discovered in each other's arms, as they long vowed to one another – never to be separated, even in death.

Of course legend blossomed into epic proportions and ghost stories long prevailed, many of the curiosity stalkers and publicity hunters swearing on their mother's grave that they had seen the Phantom on this or that dark night and heard an Angel's song sweetly chiming in the wind. Years prior to that, in England, curious tales of the secretive couple who had lived at The Heights ran rampant, the mystery surrounding them at times inflamed. But once in Paris, having heard the haunting stories, Aminta realized just how legendary her parents truly were - and used that to her advantage.

With the traits given her of her papa's sly cunning and her mama's indomitable spirit, she and her husband devised the scheme of ghosts, using her parents' rare, old, private recordings, to keep the place protected from those sneaky weasels who would destroy it - namely new management who seized the building in the year after Papa and Mama's death, when Father de Chagny suffered a stroke that put him in a wheelchair two months after Mother Arabella also passed away. Aminta and her husband still held sway as initial stockholders and only needed a little more time for the rest of the Eriksson family and Philip's brother and sister to arrive in Paris with their contribution of funds, to buy off the shares of those opposed and cast their votes at the appointed meeting.

Aminta's sister Angelica was due to arrive tomorrow with her husband Henley, and her three brothers, Erik Jr. a budding orchestra leader in London, Gustave, an architect newly widowed and currently touring buildings in Spain, and Benjamin a university professor at Oxford – all had promised by telegram to come immediately and were due to arrive tomorrow. Uncle Jacques, now custodian of The Heights, also had a vote, and had dropped everything, leaving his son and daughter behind to manage things there, so as to take a train with his wife of twenty-two years, a pretty milkmaid who found a deep affinity in communicating with her deaf uncle that few ever had.

Vindicator. Protector. Defender.

Aminta de Chagny was none of those.

All that had been needful was to hold the ravenous hounds at bay a little longer. One bloody weekend to be precise. Two inconsequential days…

And she had failed. Failed her siblings, failed her family, failed her dear parents' memory –

The horrid jackals would tear down this wondrous edifice that had survived a fire and a war and a Phantom, this remarkable palace of music that she and her husband had been hoping to restore to its former glory days. With their only surviving child, Reginald, grown and married, this had been their shared aspiration. To revive this magical theatre of enchantment, where her parents had again found one another and fulfilled a lifelong dream…

…all of it soon to become no more than rubble on a vacant lot.

Philip entered the room and she walked swiftly into his strong arms.

"It didn't work…" Aminta took a shuddering breath against his chest. "The building inspector came, and – it didn't work. Oh, Philip, what are we to do? All is lost! Our parents' legacy - gone! Destroyed! Those bastards have won."

"Hush, my darling." He lightly kissed her head of dark curls. "We've been through much worse. We'll survive this too."

Aminta sighed, desperately hoping Philip was right.

Her own story with the eldest son of the Comte had been a forbidden love that both Papa and Father de Chagny strongly opposed but eventually came to accept after their first grandchild was born, and ironically, what brought Papa and the Comte to become distant friends. Never bosom companions but no longer preferred enemies. Of course Mama and Mother Arabella had helped their husbands reach that difficult plateau, and over the course of time, both men struck a partnership in the ownership and management of the opera house, a legacy intended for their children and their children's children...

For however much longer that would last.

Aminta wiped her eyes with the edge of her sleeve and attempted to pull herself together, as a vicomtesse should.

"At least you were able to get the victrola working again, though sadly the scare wasn't enough to change his mind. And whatever did you use to make the mirror glow like that? I could see the blue light all the way down the corridor."

A peculiar look glittered in his grey eyes. "I've been in the second cellar this entire time, looking through storage crates for parts to fix the victrola."

A frisson of unease shivered along her spine.

"But then how -?"

"AGHHHHHHHH ...!"

A bloodcurdling scream interrupted Aminta's bewildered words.

She shared a stunned look with Philip, then both raced toward the dark lobby –

- where they narrowly missed being mowed down by the building inspector. His eyes were wild, his face white. His balance was affected, as if he'd been drinking.

"You can KEEP your damned haunted house – I want NOTHING more to do with this accursed place! If they want it torn down, they'll have to find someone else for the job." He never ceased his frantic gait toward the entrance. "Just let me OUT of here!"

Aminta nodded for Philip to unlock the front door and see the inspector out.

"I'll be fine. Go," she said vaguely at her husband's look of concern, her startled attention drawn elsewhere…

A soft bluish-white radiance came from inside the theatre auditorium.

Stunned, she moved through the doorway from which the inspector had just fled…

… and stared in disbelief, her heart pounding with shock as numbly she walked down the middle aisle toward the front, where the stage curtains had been drawn wide.

In the thick gloom of darkness, the illumined forms of a man and woman stood close with hands clasped, facing each other center stage. Both were striking in appearance, both wore elegant clothes of a bygone era. He stood tall and commanding. She had long ringlets of curls flowing down her back…

As Aminta drew nearer, she could see with a thrill of disbelief that their glowing forms were transparent, fading a little more with each series of hurried steps she took toward them.

The woman suddenly looked her way and blew her a kiss. The man also looked and lifted his hand in tender farewell. They turned then, as one, their eyes only for each other, and smiled as if at a shared secret. In the next breath, they whirled away to the rear of the stage and fled from sight, holding hands and melting into the shadows, their dwindling laughter musical, their voices ethereal…

"Wait!" Aminta cried and rushed forward, a tear breaking free to roll down her cheek.

"Angel…"

The lyrical whisper caressed the musty air of the theater...

...a chill breath of reassurance against her ear.

Shaken, she clutched the front end row chair for support and blinked wide eyes in astonished wonder – but saw only an empty stage covered in a thick coat of dust. Heard only the heavy silence. The theatre was dark and still as before, the sole lighting dimmed and coming from the frosted globes high on the walls.

Had she only imagined her Papa's beautiful voice? Imagined, too, the ghostly vision of her parents, young and carefree, brought on by the true tale she had told from reading Mama's journals?

She felt helpless to say, but a strange, electric warmth tingled through her blood...

And she shivered to see onstage, in the deep shadows where they had stood, what appeared to be a long-stemmed rose tied with a black ribbon.

Yes, she had heard the stories. Here, and in England.

As legend had it, the Phantom and his Angel were ever near, always watching …

And for those who listened closely, it was believed that in the moonlit nights, on the windswept moors of Haworth, the whisper of their angels' song could still be heard.

.

~~xx~~