Friends! Here is a fluffy, not-really-plot-moving chapter just to open the new sequel. I hope all of my old reviewers from The Vicomtess de Chagny come to join me here! I have most everything outlined, and I can already say that this story will be much shorter then the original. I hope you enjoy it despite that!

If you have come across this story and have not read the first one, I really suggest you do, otherwise you will be dreadfully lost! ;D

Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera, like, it all. The only thing I do own is Adelaide, although – don't tell her that! Some OCs I'll bring in later are actually owned by history, so…this might be interesting! But, yes, yes, yes, not owned by me, rights go to Andrew Lloyd Webber, Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and not in that order.

I honestly wonder what it would what happen if someone posted something here and said, "yes, I own everything!" …if anyone ever finds a story like that, please, please tell me.

Alright, read, enjoy, review! , etc.

My son was born on an early May morning, in the seclusion of our cottage with the help of a silent midwife and our original servant girl, Jane. I paced nervously outside of the hall, watching Victorie – still clad in her nightgown - out the window who was enjoying the very early morning sun. I had sent her out when Adelaide's cries became too shrill.

For the first time since her return, I compared her to Christine once more. This time, the differences more so amused me. Christine had cried out for my reassurance and supporting words through the closed door; Adelaide cursed my name a thousand times over, wished me pain and death, and swore many times, "never again, never again!" Christine's had been a surprisingly quick delivery, while Adelaide's continued for at least twelve hours.

I became concerned when those cries, after a few hours, had ceased and only soft cries of resignation to the horrible pain could be heard from my place in the hall and the urging of the midwives became louder. I began to pray, for I had not planned on the need to fetch a doctor. And where to fetch one, I knew not. I had left my sister's house, taking only Jane and our belongings without a note or a hint to where we had gone. I thought I would send a letter with no return address when we reached the United States.

I feared death in childbirth with Christine, and then with Adelaide. It was natural for me, as my birth had been the cause of my Mother's death. I constantly tried to remind myself of the differences in circumstances. My Mother had been significantly older at the time of my birth then either Christine – who survived – and Adelaide. Also, I knew Adelaide to be stronger then the both of them.

And yet, what if there were complications that should arise due to her inadequate care during the months of her abduction? Not to mention the constant stress of the entire situation. I had silently forgiven Erik for his crimes against me a second time, but a death of either my wife or child, or both, caused however indirectly I would never forgive him of. I had lost Christine, and lost Adelaide once…I could not bear to be a widower once more.

My thoughts were interrupted when the bedroom door quickly opened and the squall of an infant could be heard. Jane appeared at the door.

"Monsieur," she said quietly, and bobbed a curtsey.

"Everything was…alright?"

She nodded, a smile breaking her obedient little face.

"Well," I said, "will you please fetch Victorie from outside and send her in when I call for her, and also, see to the pay of the midwife when she leaves."

Jane nodded profusely and headed to the front door. Not waiting for Victorie's return, I walked calmly into the bedroom.

The midwife was pulling away dirtied sheets, and I caught sight of a basin filled with blood and vomit before quickly averting my glance, sickened. The babe's cries continued to fill the air, and I saw the midwife's assistant begin to wipe the child. My little wife was attempting to prop herself up with her elbows and sit comfortably. Her hair was plastered to her sweaty forehead, and even her lips were absolutely pale white.

I quickly strode to Adelaide's side, kneeling and helped her lean back and pushed the pillow underneath her, gently.

She looked at me with a feeble smile and let her head rest against the headboard.

"You don't want to divorce me, do you, darling?" I asked, smiling and taking her hand. "After all I heard from you, I thought I should try to get a head start and arrange the papers."

She blushed, bringing only a slight color to her ashen face and squeezed my hand. She was breathing heavily, the sound was hoarse and pained.

"You must be exhausted, ma pauvre chéri," I began pushing her wild hair over her shoulders. She nodded, still unable to speak.

"Here you are, there, ma'am," the midwife came over, and I quickly stood. "Sir," she said, speaking with me now, "a healthy boy."

She handed me the small, warm bundle and continued speaking.

"I was concerned for your wife for a bit there," I saw Adelaide sit up and try to follow her rough French, a worried look spreading over her face, "but, she came through right, once she stopped fighting it. Also, she refused the use of chloroform. "

I felt guilty when she had said this. Adelaide had mentioned once before the idea of not using anything that would dull her senses for fear of saying something that might give away her location during her "disappearance" or any details concerning it while under the influence. I looked over at her, wanting to apologize.

"Future children…?" I asked quietly in French, turning back to the midwife.

"I see no reason why not, monsieur" she reassured me. I smiled in relief. Christine's midwife had suggested – nearly ordered – to be sure it never happened again, for the sake of her health.

"Thank you," I said earnestly. "Our maid will see you paid." I nodded to the door, and after picking up her tools, she left.

Turning to Adelaide, I placed the baby in her arms, finally getting a chance to look at him. His eyes were pressed closed, and his features were so undeveloped, I was unable to see any vestiges of myself, or of Adelaide, in him, but I hoped in time they would become more pronounced.

Poor Adelaide looked overwhelmed by the slight weight in her arms and gasped slightly upon seeing the child's face. I nearly scowled at myself for not expressing more excitement, but, the entire scene was reminding me painfully of Christine with the birth of Victorie and how animated and excited Christine had been: talking until she fell asleep and then babbling once again when she awoke. For as difficult of a labor as it had been for her, she had never let me know and you would have thought the experience had been the best of her life.

I did believe Adelaide was subdued purposely, for she knew that fact. Just as she had worn off-white at our wedding, and I'm sure many other examples I was blind to. However, when I studied her more closely, I knew that was not the case. She was in genuine shock.

After a time, she glanced up at me, her eyes full of tears and a childish grin beginning to spread over her face.

"What?" I asked jokingly, "you want another one now?"

She nodded dramatically and began to laugh, caressing the child's face with her fingertips, and bent to place a delicate kiss on his wrinkled, red forehead as if the boy was made of glass.

A little demand from outside the room broke the silence.

"Papa, Papa, I want to see!"

Adelaide beamed, and quickly wiped her tears with the back of her hand, and sat up a little straighter. After an approving nod from my wife, I opened the door and Victorie shot in like a bullet and ran to the other side of the bed, jumping on my side as if she had never been taught a manner in her life.

"Gently!" I cautioned her quickly, defending Adelaide's current delicacy, but the new big sister paid no mind.

"Would you like to hold him?" Victorie shook her head eagerly and Adelaide instructed, "Alright, well, sit with your back to the headboard, and your legs flat out in front of you. Now hold out your arms."

With limbs as shaky as her voice, Adelaide placed the boy in Victorie's arms. She cried out in excitement and held him close.

Unable to deprive Adelaide of her deserved affections - due to my selfish reasons, only - any longer, I knelt next to her once more and took her face in my hands and showered her clammy face with kisses.

"Thank you, darling. Thank you for my boy!" I am afraid that my voice revealed too much forced enthusiasm although I truly was happy.

"I gave you a son, just like I promised I would," she murmered, her cheeks flushing with an odd combination of pride and embarrassment to my burst of attention once more.

I gave her another series of kisses and told her I was quite proud of her strength.

Fortunately, it seemed that bit of gratitude and affection was well received. For, when I pulled away, her face had filled with color again and she starred at me, her eyes full of joy.

"What shall we name him?" she asked softly, laying her head back once more and shutting her eyes.

"I had originally thought after my Father…but, in light of recent events, I believe we should do something more English. More American."

Adelaide opened her eyes quickly, and gave me a warning look, for, we had not yet told Victorie of our plans.

"I had thought William perhaps, after my Father."

"William Burnett?"

"Yes," she smiled, in recognition of her maiden name.

I helped her slide more towards the middle of the bed, and I sat upright next to her and pulled her into me from the waist up, and she curled up in my lap as she had that afternoon in the carriage. I pulled her hair through my fingers, massaging her scalp and temples.

"Does your headache?"

"Yes," she mumbled hoarsely, "but, I assume it's normal after childbirth. And from lack of sleep. What time is it?"

"Just after nine."

She nodded, truly not caring and pressed tighter into me, wrapping an arm loosely about my waist.

Thus, we sat for but an instance in time that felt like an eternity to me, and I wanted to keep this moment forever. Those moments in life are so very rare, I took advantage of the silence to look back upon a few. I suddenly felt like an unfaithful husband through thought; the majority of my memories were with Christine.

I thought of the moment when Christine and I sat on the ground, our hands intwined, while her Father played the violin and told us a story from the North. The scene of Paris asleep beneath us, and Christine clutching my shoulders near Apollo's Lyre also flew through my mind. How young I was then…and so full of hope!

I then realized that all of those moments had been shared (the latter of which I had come to discover years later after a long conversation with Christine years after our wedding) with two other men both of which Christine cared for very deeply: her father, and her maestro.

But now, I sat quietly, knowing that this third moment could never be taken from me. It was mine, absolutely.