A/N - Hi!! OK, now, this is probably the weirdest project I've ever undertaken, and I know it sounds arrogant, so please, bear with me :)

The first time I read the Phantom of Manhattan I was absolutely amazed. I just couldn't believe that this was the official commissioned sequel. But then I reread it, and I realised that a lot of its problems lay in the misrepresentations of the characters; I genuinely believe that there are scenes in it which could have been made very romantic, with proper handling, which Frederick Forsyth (as a thriller writer rather than a romantic one and a non-phan) lacked.

I have changed the story quite a lot; my largest manipulation is probably the presence of Antoinette Giry - I didn't like most of the own characters which were added to the book and I think that having another one of the characters we all know and love there would be a definite asset. (Plus, she's the only person who even comes close to having Erik's trust, and that's always useful :p) I have, however, retained the reporter and Father Joe, because I think they're probably integral to the entire plot.

For those of you who haven't read the book - well, you haven't missed much :p

The story so far: at the age of sixteen, Raoul de Chagny was emasculated in a shooting accident, and the presence of Madame Giry saved his life. (Point being, Raoul's incapable of fathering a child, and she knows that)

But now, thirteen years after the events at the Opera House, Christine is the Vicomtesse de Chagny and a world-famous diva with a son of twelve (Pierre). They travel with Meg as her maid and an Irish priest as a tutor to Pierre, Father Joe. Erik has moved to Manhattan and is currently taking the stock market by storm and raking in millions each week. He has a thoroughly untrustworthy and deranged servant called Darius, who is nevertheless indispensable to him because he knows Darius will stay loyal provided Erik keeps bringing in the money.

This first chapter, and, I confess, most of the following ones, are mainly from the point of view of Madame Giry (I just adore her!!) but Christine doesn't come in until the next chapter. This first chapter doesn't really have a great deal to do with the novel, it's just setting the scene, as it were ... Oh! And I suppose by the very nature of the plot of the novel, Erik has to be a little younger than any of the other versions set him - so I'm going to write him aged about fifty now, which would make him late thirties, early forties when the whole thing started. Yes, I know it sucks, but what can you do?

If you find any of them out of character, then please, do say so!! I'm a little unsure about this, so criticism is much appreciated and will be taken account of :)

"Why can't he see what he wants?

He wants the past undone.

Why can't he know what he wants?

His losing battles won,

To have never loved her, never known

How complete a loss can be ..."

"Quartet", The Secret Garden.

Antoinette Giry disembarked from the ship and handed her documents to the harassed-looking young man in a small office, who studied them for a moment, then handed them back to her.

"Thank you, Ma'am," he said with a loose American drawl. "Enjoy your stay now, y'hear?"

"Thank you," she said automatically in faintly accented English. "Tell me, where is the closest hotel to here?"

"That would be the MonteClaire," he replied, drawing a map across the desk towards him. "If y'go along Belleview Avenue, y'can catch a cab and they'll take you right there."

Antoinette studied him for a moment, then drew the map towards her. "Might I take this with me?" she asked, scanning the map quickly before returning her eyes to the young man's face.

"Sure thing, ma'am."

"Thank you," she said again, gesturing to the porter carrying her bag to follow her as she turned and disappeared into the crowd. She cast a strange figure; a tall gaunt woman in a sombre black dress on a scorching New York summer's day among crowds of holiday makers and their children in garishly bright clothes.

* * *

Antoinette sank down into a hard chair with a high back and arms and let her hair down out of its customary tight bun. Her head was aching from the fierce sun and already she felt overwhelmed by this over-exuberant country and its noise, its dirt, and its throngs of mad people, all of whom talked too loudly and too fast. The sheer size of everything was disturbing, and the refined gentility of France seemed a long way away.

And now that she was here ...what now? she thought dryly. It was all very well to make one's way halfway across the world as if on a pilgrimage ... but when one got there and discovered that their Mecca had been drowned in the noisy bustle of the street ...

She laughed suddenly with harsh self-reproach at her own folly. Madness ... pure madness. How to even begin her search for him in this country of millions upon millions, and even that assuming he had somehow slipped through the rigorous security at Elk Island ...

Antoinette sighed and sat back, resting her head against the hard back of the chair. She had a feeling that tomorrow was going to be a very long day.

* * *

Antoinette was up early, tired mentally and physically from a restless night and a series of faintly disturbing dreams which only served to heighten her vague sense of unease and forboding towards this bizarre new world in which she suddenly found herself trapped.

The maitre'd of the hotel watched her leave silently and disappear into the crowds which already swarmed through the streets of the city and shook his head with mild confusion.

"That is one very odd lady," he remarked quietly to one of the maids.

She glanced at the lady in question and shrugged her shoulders.

"She's French," she said, as if that explained everything, and disappeared into a nearby room.

* * *

Antoinette sighed and rubbed her eyes, sore from her lack of sleep and the mercilessly bright sun. She had visited every police station, every registry department, every official place of any kind whatever, and nowhere had anyone heard of a gentleman named Erik Muhlheim, or seen anybody who wore a mask to conceal their face. It was hopeless, quite hopeless ... she must have been mad to think she could find him.

Nobody was better at hiding from a world in which they did not wish to live than Erik.

She glanced up and saw a sign reading Delmonico's in old-fashioned copperplate printing; unlike almost everywhere else she had been today, there was nothing garish or flashy about it, and the building looked sedately cool and quiet - a welcome refuge after the gaudy bars and cheap restaurants which seemed to pervade the streets of New York.

She walked in and sat down slowly, smiling briefly at the waiter who introduced himself as Charlie Delmonico to take her order.

When he returned with a cool pitcher of iced tea, she asked, through sheer force of habit, the same question she had been asking all day, with little hope of success.

"Excuse me, Monsieur ... I am searching for information about a gentleman whom I believe to be residing in this city. Does the name Erik Muhlheim mean anything to you?"

The man glanced sharply at her.

"Muhlheim? Perhaps ..." Her expression changed, and he seemed to soften. "There's a skyscraper on Park Row," he said quietly. "The E.M. Tower - have you seen it yet?"

She shook her head.

"No matter, you will know it when you see it. It might, perhaps, be true that a somewhat reclusive gentleman named Erik Muhlheim is the proprietor of the company - that is, if the urban rumours are to be believed."

Antoinette barely heard her reply over the sudden ringing in her ears. Dropping an exorbitant amount of money onto the table, she rose to her feet and withdrew her map.

"Park Row?" she asked.

* * *

The map was worse than useless, she thought irritably a few minutes later. In a city as large as Manhattan, she would have expected some form of signposting; although, she reflected waspishly, if their signposts were as good as their maps ...

"Are you lost, ma'am?"

She looked up sharply and found a man, about her own age, dressed in a suit and carrying a case under his arm looking down on her.

"It's easily done," he said kindly, taking her silence as confirmation. "Where are you trying to get to?"

Antoinette cleared her throat. "Park Row, I believe."

"You're not far wrong, ma'am ... it's just a few streets away." He glanced at her map with sudden contempt. "God, that thing's utterly useless - it's a tourist map, it won't show you anything of any real value in the city. Come on ... I pass Park Row myself, I'll show you the way."

Antoinette stared at him for a moment before nodding briefly in acceptance. The one thing which continually took her aback about the Americans was their friendliness; in France, she knew, she would have been quietly and courteously ignored by all and sundry, and she would not have dreamed of asking for help. But here ... here everything was upside down and inside out and nothing made sense. The perfect country for a Phantom undercover, really ...

"Thank you," she said quietly.

Park Row was, indeed, only a few streets away; and, as Charlie Delmonico had said, once on it, she could hardly miss the immense tower which reared up seemingly to the sky. But that was not what made her catch her breath in her throat; a sudden, fierce flash of recognition sparked in her mind. The tower itself was alien to her; taller than anything she had ever seen in France, and a strange shape. But the loggia ... the loggia over the front was almost identical to that which crowned the Opera Garnier ... the entire building a shadow of the theatre in small, subtly indistinguishable ways, and yet retaining a certain obscure originality.

"Forgive me," she said quietly, laying a hand on her companion's lower arm. "Could you tell me who owns that building?"

The gentleman looked at her in surprise.

"Why, that's the E.M. Tower, ma'am," he replied. "No one is exactly sure who owns it ... the gentleman behind the money is said to be very rich and very reclusive." He trailed off at the expression on her face, then hastened to reassure her. "It's probably all urban legend, of course - the likelihood is that the company has some rather dodgy operating practices it would prefer to keep quiet and in doing so likes to keep a rather low profile."

Antoinette released him, nodding her head. "Thank you," she murmured absently, refolding the map automatically as she stared up at the building, so reminiscent of the Paris Opera she couldn't understand how it could have been overlooked by this country of millions.

She drew a deep breath and stepped up to the door.

* * *

There came a sharp rap on the door, giving Erik time to rapidly push the framed portrait he had been studying under a sheaf of papers and draw a few towards him as if he truly were studying the state of his shares.

Darius entered the room silently, his face, as always, bone white and utterly devoid of expression.

"Master ..." Erik glanced up as if seeing him for the first time.

"Yes?"

"There is a lady downstairs who requests an audience with you."

Erik laughed shortly. "Impossible. Send her away."

Darius appeared unfazed. "She anticipated that response and asked me to tell you that if it would encourage you, she would request the time of le fantome de l'Opera as opposed to Monsieur Erik Muhlheim."

Erik stiffened, his eyes moving instinctively to the portrait he had quickly slipped out of sight under the pile of documents.

"What does she look like?"

Darius' cold eyes registered faint surprise at the urgent undertone in his usually apathetic master's voice, but his voice was as calmly controlled as ever as he replied,

"I couldn't say. I have not seen the lady myself - the doorkeeper requested she be brought to your attention."

Erik swallowed hard, his mind racing as he flicked a hand with what he hoped came across as careless detachment.

"Very well," he managed through the sudden lump in his throat. "Show her up."

He rose swiftly from the table and poured himself a stiff brandy. For once, he was glad of the mask - this unthinkable meeting after so long would doubtless stir emotion he had been trying, however unsuccessfully, to extinguish for the past thirteen years ... he could not bear for her to view his pain yet again. This time he would remain in control.

Perhaps it would have paid to have been watching Darius at that moment; a vague unease might have crept over him at the coldness of his servant's eyes as he watched his master fight to control the tremor of his hands.

* * *

There came a knock on the door and Erik rose instantly, taking an automatic step toward the door before he remembered himself and moved back.

Darius stepped into the room, followed by a woman.

For a moment, all that registered was that she was not Christine, and the sudden disappointment was so acute, so very nearly unbearable, that a wave of dizziness swept over him and for a moment he thought he might faint. He gripped hold of a chair back, clenching his fingers around the wood with a force fit to splinter it, fighting to remain in control.

"Madame Giry," he said finally. "What a surprise."

Antoinette's eyes swept impassively over him. She had not missed his initial reaction to her entrance, and it suddenly occurred to her who he must have thought his caller was. A woman who knew his past ...

"So I was right," she said softly. "I knew it had to be you."

He laughed, the sound forced and strained, and sank down into a chair, gesturing for her to do the same.

"It had to be me?" he questioned.

She nodded. "Who else would build a skyscraper so reminiscent of an opera house?"

He laughed again, this time sounding more genuine. "Ah, you spotted it. I must admit, I have been rather surprised that no one in this entire city has noticed the similarity - but then, the Americans have a notorious lack of culture and the rumours surrounding the place are of course infinitely more interesting than its architecture."

"Mmm," Antoinette agreed briefly, rising and crossing the room to look out of the window. "It is a beautiful building, though ... certainly impressive."

There was a short moment of silence, before Erik rose, albeit a little unsteadily, and crossed the room to the drinks cabinet.

"You must forgive me, I am forgetting my manners. May I offer you a drink?"

She shook her head. "Thank you, no."

"Where are you staying?" he asked suddenly, pouring himself a small brandy and sipping at it.

"At the MonteClaire," she replied.

"Oh, that's ridiculous," he said quietly. "There are spare rooms here, there's no need for you to be staying in a second-rate hotel like that." He paused briefly. "How long were you planning to stay in the country?"

She shrugged. "I'm not sure ... there are no definite plans at present."

He looked at her for a moment, then nodded and turned away. "You are of course welcome to stay here for as long as you wish," he said quietly.

"Thank you," she murmured.

There was a brief pause before Erik turned back to her and gestured towards a chair.

"Do sit down," he said with a sudden forced formality. "I suppose I should ask you what brings you to America."

She glanced at him. "I'm not quite sure, really ... a whim, I suppose. I retired from the Opera just over a year ago ..."

He laughed softly, without malice. "So I would imagine the corps de ballet are now running wild and endorsing their slightest whims ... it's rather a shame they don't have a resident ghost any longer, that could prove somewhat amusing."

She smiled. "Quite ... from what I hear, the ballet is in a deplorable state at present, probably not helped by the fact that Monsieur Firmin retired a few months after I did, but Monsieur Andre is still there ..."

"And Meg?"

The question came so neatly that, but for the faintest tremor of his voice; or was it the restless movement of his hand upon the desk? she might not have realised the implications of her answer.

"Meg is a lady's maid now," she replied, selecting her words carefully. "She remained a dancer at the Opera Populaire for two years after your departure, until she suffered a fall and her right knee was permanently damaged. She will never dance again, but she makes a living nonetheless."

"A good family?" he asked quietly.

She looked him full in the face for the first time.

"Why do you ask me these things?" she asked finally. "Why ask, when it is so clear you are already aware of the answer?"

He rose and crossed the room, turning away from her to stare out the window. She continued speaking to the rigid back, not missing the tremor of his hands as he moved to open the window and catch a sparrow which perched on the sill.

"Yes, Meg is the maid to Christine de Chagny."

He remained silent, gazing out the window to the sun setting across the bay.

Antoinette sighed, her anger dissipating into lingering sorrow.

"Thirteen years, Erik ..." she said softly. "Isn't that long enough?"

He turned slowly back to face her.

"Thirteen years ... it doesn't sound such a long time when you put it in years. Days, though ... four thousand, seven hundred and forty five of them ..."

He sighed and raked a hand back through his hair, and she was suddenly aware that he was making a massive effort to contain himself and regain his composure.

"What number suite are you in at the MonteClaire?" he asked finally. "I'll have someone sent over to collect your luggage directly."

* * *

Antoinette turned over and stared at the ceiling, black in the darkness. Somewhere, buried deep under all the layers of guilt which were slowly suffocating her, was the question of what would genuinely be best for all concerned. She had no doubts that Christine desperately wanted her child's paternity kept a secret, perhaps with good cause; but did Erik deserve to know? Surely, if she could relieve even a little of his intense personal suffering, it would be worth it ...?

Antoinette sat up and massaged her aching temples. Her customary insomnia, sporadic and occasionally shaken in France, had returned with a vengeance and this was not the first night she had sat awake thinking far too much of things which would have been better left forgotten.

She leaned forward and sighed faintly. Her mind insisted on replaying her conversation with Erik, over and over, until all she could hear was his voice, on the verge of suppressed tears, murmuring Christine's name as though he feared to break it.

She rose and paced the room, touching her fingers to the walls as if to reassure herself that she retained some grip on normality; her utter physical exhaustion had driven her almost to distraction in the last day or two, and now, when she so desperately wanted to sleep ...

She laughed softly. Erik never slept, she knew that much; haunted by nightmares which plagued his subconscious whenever pure physical exhaustion knocked him out, he had always survived on amazingly little sleep. His insomnia had always worried her slightly, not least because he invariably refused to discuss it with something more than his customary stubborn indifference towards his own health and problems - if she had learnt one thing about Erik in all the years of their bizarre acquaintance, it was that if he was avoiding a subject, it was for a very good reason.

She continued to pace the room, her mind ceaselessly revolving around the two young people whose lives she held unwittingly in the balance; neither of them fully aware of the consequences should she tell what she knew.

Suddenly she stopped, her mind drawn out of her reverie by - what? A sound of some description ... she listened intently for a moment or two, and the sound came again - a sob, almost a whimper, the sound of a human soul in fear or agony.

Antoinette drew a dressing gown on and slipped out of her room into the dark corridor, pausing outside the next room as a sharp intake of breath, almost a sob, found its way through the door.

She opened the door very cautiously, unsure of what she might find therein. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dark, until she realised that it was a bedroom; large, surprisingly bare, with uncurtained windows, a bare floor which seemed to stretch on forever, and a small Spartan bed pressed up against the far wall with a single thin blanket crumpled on it.

She glanced around the room, her eyes settling on the windowseat. Against the backdrop of the night sky, silhouetted by the moon shining in through the window, a figure crouched, his body shaking with uncontrollable sobs, his fingers clenched tightly around something small and unyielding.

"Erik?" she whispered, taking a step further into the room.

He started violently and sprang up with a speed that defied imagination. Whatever he had been clinging to so desperately - a picture frame, she could see now - slipped from his grasp and landed on the floor with the sound of glass shattering. He knelt to retrieve it, brushing shards of glass away from the frame before dissolving helplessly into tears again and raising his hands to cover his face.

"Get out!" he managed, turning away from her as if to conceal his grief.

"Oh, Erik ..." she breathed, moving to kneel beside him. He jerked away from her touch, one arm rising as if in defence. Gently, she took the frame from him and brushed away the few remaining diamonds of glass, noting the picture of Christine it held without any great surprise, and the spots of blood where he had evidently cut himself on the broken glass.

"It can be repaired," she said gently, touching him lightly on the shoulder. "I'll send it off tomorrow, if you like."

He twisted away from her, hopelessly trying to cover his face.

"Please ..." he wept, the blood from his fingers staining the mask. "Just go, will you?"

"Don't be absurd," she said quietly. "Of course I'm not going to leave you on your own when you're like this. Just try and calm down a little, all right?"

It took about half an hour for him to calm down enough to regain a little of his customary reticence.

"My apologies," he said very quietly, standing up and crossing to the window. "That was a display I would rather you hadn't seen."

She shook her head. "It doesn't matter, Erik ..." She wondered suddenly if this was a regular occurrence; for him to sit up all night weeping, then pull himself together in time for his facade of invulnerability to be preserved in front of his staff in the morning.

She stood up and crossed the room to stand beside him.

"This," she said quietly, tapping the broken picture frame, "will do you no good at all."

He laughed bitterly, a certain agreement in his tone. "How puerile," he said quietly, every word loaded with contempt and self-loathing. "A grown man still dreaming after a chorus girl ..." He turned sharply away from her, and poured himself a glass of brandy from a decanter on a nearby table, downing it somewhat more rapidly that he should have. He laughed slightly, passing one hand across the mask and down the good side of his face.

"Thirteen years," he said softly. "How ineffably pathetic."

Antoinette stood up and touched him lightly on the shoulder. He remained motionless, staring forward at nothing, but she could imagine exactly what he was seeing.

Finally he wrenched his mind back to the present and turned to face his former box-keeper.

"When was the last time you saw her?" he asked, finally abandoning all pretence.

"Erik ..."

"Please."

There was a long moment of heavy silence before Antoinette turned away and poured a glass of water from a carafe on the table. Her voice came, flat and resigned, as if from a distance.

"Just under a year ago. She returned briefly to Paris for a charity gala at the Opera, and I called on Meg."

"She is happy?"

"Meg? Yes, she is quite content, I believe."

"Antoinette!" The depth of emotion in his voice made her catch her breath, even before it occurred to them both that he had, for the first time in their bizarre acquaintance, addressed her by her Christian name.

He turned abruptly and crossed the room to stand by the window once more.

"Please," he said, very softly.

Antoinette closed her eyes on tears. "I'm sorry, Erik ..." she murmured. "Why must you make me tell you things which can only hurt you?"

She felt him shake his head; whether in response to her or simply as a measure of containing himself she would never know.

"Tell me about the child," he requested abruptly, turning away from her and once more taking up his stance at the window.

As if he had read her mind ... Antoinette glanced sharply up at him, but his eyes were fixed on the distant bay, dappled in the moonlight, and she had a sneaking suspicion that he had no idea what he was truly asking, merely seeking to buy himself a little time to compose himself and ensure he would not break down again.

"He is a lovely boy," she said finally. "Very much like his mother. He is ... very handsome ..." She watched the pain slide across Erik's face before he turned away and downed another glass of brandy with alarming speed.

"Like his father?" he asked, the depth of bitterness in his voice audible even above the strangling detachment he was trying to force.

"No," she replied quietly. "Very little like his father."

There was a long silence.

"God!" he laughed shortly. "That bastard really does have everything, doesn't he?"

Antoinette sighed at the unconscious irony. "He has less than you might imagine," she said quietly, the guilt closing in again.

Erik turned back briefly to face her, and she cursed inwardly to see tears glistening unshed in his eyes.

"He has Christine," he said finally, turning back to stare out the window. "She is everything."

His voice cracked on her name, and he turned hastily away from Antoinette, one hand reaching up to cover his face, the other gripping the table for support.

And in that one moment, when the emotion threatened, for the second time in one night, to overwhelm him, Antoinette made the snap decision which would turn the entire world upside down for her pair of star-crossed lovers, and alter the lives of those around them beyond all recognition.

"Erik ..." she said quietly, laying a hand on his arm and feeling him stiffen at the touch. "Sit down. There's something I have to tell you."

To be continued ...