(A/N: Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, phans everywhere, I proudly present...the sequel to "The Angel of Second Chances"! Now life is kind of busy, so I can't make any promises about how often I'll update, but Erik, Angelique, Pierre, and the others have returned.

I do not own the original Phantom of the Opera characters. I can, however, lay claim to Angelique, Pierre, and the other new characters that appear.)

Why is it the days that change our lives forever start just like every other day? I mean, even the smallest difference would be appreciated just so we know that this day will change everything.

In my case, the day that drastically altered my life-well, Erik's and mine to be perfectly honest-started innocently enough. It started with our four-year-old daughter patting my face insistently.

"Mama, mama!" she kept repeating.

I blearily opened my eyes. "What is it, Marguerite?"

"Gaston and I are supposed to go to Aunt Gina's this morning, and I wanted to say bye," Marguerite explained. Her lower lip quivered in an attempt not to cry. I was often fatigued from my third pregnancy, which unfortunately meant I couldn't spend as much time with my children as before. Marguerite sometimes thought she'd never see me again whenever I had to sleep (which was frequent), so I used every moment I could to reassure her that her mama would always be there.

"Well, I certainly wouldn't have let you leave without saying goodbye," I reassured her, pulling her close and kissing her cheek. She giggled and threw her arms around me—which wasn't very far considering my stomach's current girth.

"Marguerite. What have I told you about waking your mother when she's trying to sleep?"

My daughter and I looked over to where Erik stood in the doorway, voice and demeanor intimidating. As usual, he was dressed and immaculately groomed despite the inhumanly early hour it was…if nine o'clock in the morning can qualify as inhumanly early.

Marguerite wasn't put off; she knew that, despite his occasional sternness, her father loved her more than anything. "But we were going to leave soon, and I couldn't leave without saying goodbye to Mama," she protested.

"Mama's up?" Gaston's voice questioned. It wasn't long before my eight-year-old son poked his head around the doorframe.

Erik sighed. "Yes, your mother is up."

"Good." Gaston then proceeded to climb onto the other side of the bed and sat directly opposite his sister.

"Mama, I want you to know that I will take complete responsibility for Maggie today," he informed me solemnly. "She'll do whatever I say, right, Maggie?"

Marguerite stuck out her tongue, never liking how Gaston seemed to take his position as the oldest a little too seriously.

"Don't stick your tongue out at your brother; it's impolite," I corrected her. "And, Gaston, try not to get into another fight with your cousins."

"But, Mama, they said Maggie looked like the picture of the witch in their fairy-tale book!" Gaston protested in shock.

It was, unfortunately, true—poor Marguerite looked exactly the way I had at that age, but at least her nose was correctly proportioned to the rest of her face. On a positive note, her skin was not as sallow as mine, so there was a chance—rather faint but present, nonetheless—that she would grow out of it.

"Just because someone insults our looks does not mean we strike back. Right, Erik?" I fixed my husband with a knowing look, remembering the times he had almost come to blows with members of my own family because he couldn't believe how they could be so dismissive of me.

Erik sighed and came over to crouch down by Marguerite. "Marguerite, you look like your mother, and your mother is the most beautiful and talented woman in the world," he told her seriously. "Your Aunt Regina and her children are blind imbeciles—don't give me that look, Angelique; you know I'm right."

"They're not blind. They see just fine," Marguerite remarked in confusion.

"He was speaking metaphysically, Maggie," Gaston corrected loftily.

"Metaphorically, Gaston." This time Gaston had to accept correction from his father.

"Whatever. Let's go, Maggie." Gaston slid off the bed and headed out the door, Marguerite struggling to follow his fast pace on her short, four-year-old legs. The sight caused me to chuckle—as much as Marguerite might protest Gaston's lording of the fact that he was her elder by four years, she would follow him anywhere; likewise, there was nothing Gaston wouldn't do for his sister.

"Is something amusing?" Erik queried.

"Those two. I wonder how adding a third child to the mix will affect them."

"Gaston will enjoy having two people to boss around, and Marguerite will appreciate having an ally," Erik summarized matter-of-factly, offering me his hand so he could pull me out of bed.

I lurched against him awkwardly, and he held me steadily until my dizziness had passed. This third pregnancy had been far from easy on me; doctors couldn't say why. Erik, who read every medical textbook he could lay his hands on when I was first pregnant with Gaston, had been unable to find an explanation, either—and that worried him to no end. Truth be told, it worried me as well, but I tried to focus on ensuring that our newest baby—Erik kept insisting it was another girl—would be strong and healthy when she entered the world.

Erik, God bless him, had changed so much in our ten years of marriage. There were still occasional hints of his mad genius, but they were better controlled. He could interact in society without losing his temper or strangling anybody (although there were times I had to do some serious convincing to not do either of those). He finally had the normal life that had eluded him for so very long. And I was glad that I had been able to help him gain that life.

But I had benefited from our marriage, too. After spending most of my life being resigned to the fact that I was unattractive and that people would never tell me otherwise, it was something of a shock to hear Erik tell me every day how I was beautiful. Even when I felt sick and bloated from pregnancy, he would say I was beautiful. And hearing that constant reassurance made me see myself differently.

When I was younger, I would look in the mirror and hear the different names people called me. Now when I looked in the mirror, I would hear my husband telling me how wrong those voices were.

I must have been staring thoughtfully at Erik as I pondered this. "Now what are you wondering?"

I smiled at him. "I was just thinking about how lucky I am to have a husband like you—a family like this. You know, when I was younger, I was convinced I was going to wind up in some loveless arranged marriage."

"No, instead you got stuck with me," Erik agreed.

"Trust me; despite all of your flaws, you were a much more attractive potential husband than some of the others my parents were trying to get," I told him. "Now help your fat, bloated wife down the stairs so she can have breakfast."

The rest of the day was supposed to pass calmly—since pregnancy #3 frequently left me tired, Erik had suggested letting the children visit their cousins for a few hours every day, giving me some much-needed relaxation time. Relaxation never amounted to much more than sprawling on the small sofa Erik had in his study and reading to myself while he worked with his music, an arrangement similar to the one we had enjoyed (well, I had enjoyed) back when we were just master and pupil. Sometimes, though, I had enough energy to sing with him...and I would find our song to be much more beneficial than three days straight of napping.

Today was one of those days when I did have enough energy for our music, and our voices twined with long familiarity. I never love Erik as much as I do when we sing together.

It was in the midst of this euphoria when a sharp pain in my lower back sent me to my knees. Immediately Erik halted his playing and came to help me.

"Angelique?" he ventured.

"Erik…" I struggled to keep my voice steady, "…I think I've gone into labor."

"That's impossible," he stated flatly, his eyes betraying his rising panic. "You're not due for another two months."

"Tell—that—to the baby," I groaned through gritted teeth. Why was this hurting so much?

Things swirled woozily, and the only thing I was really aware of was when Erik gathered me into his arms and practically dashed back upstairs, laying me gently on the bed.

"I don't want to leave you, Angelique," he whispered, pressing a kiss to my cheek, "but I've got to get Robert. I'll be back as soon as I possibly can."

I nodded, too shaken to speak. Erik kissed me again and sped out the door, and I was left to wait for my doctor brother's arrival. I took the time to try and get as comfortable as I could, but the pain was distracting—and frightening. I wondered if I was going to die.

But I couldn't die, not now! Although I had every confidence in Erik when it came to raising our children, I knew he would blame my death on himself…and I wouldn't be around to convince him otherwise.

I love him, Lord. Give me more time with him, I prayed.

"Angelique?"

"Right where you left me," I called out as strongly as I could.

Erik entered, looking more flustered and disheveled than I had ever seen him before. Robert wasn't with him, though. Instead he was accompanied by a young woman with hastily pinned brunette hair.

"Robert was with another patient; he'll come as soon as he can," he explained. "In the meantime, Collette will have to help."

Collette was a new midwife and had recently joined my brother as an assistant of sorts. She was a pleasant, capable woman, so I relaxed slightly—but only slightly; I would have felt infinitely better if Robert had been there. My brother had delivered my other two children; he would best know how to handle any emergencies.

Erik turned to go as Collette prepared to deliver the baby, but I called him back. "Please stay," I begged.

He hesitated. "Normally you"—

"Not this time," I shook my head. The first two times Erik had been irrevocably banished from the room, but this time was different. I was scared—really, truly scared, and I wanted, no, needed him with me.

He must have guessed my thoughts because he climbed onto the bed gently and propped me up against him.

"I'm here, Angie," he murmured. "Everything will be fine."

And I believed him…up until Collette shrieked and backed away to the door, her cries mingling with those of my new baby.

"What's wrong?" I demanded worriedly. "How's the baby?"

Collette didn't answer, her mouth working convulsively as she tried to speak. Eventually she gave up and fled as though she were on fire.

Erik started after her, but I clutched his sleeve. "Let her go, Erik. It's not worth it. Just make sure the baby's all right."

Erik gave me one of his old Opera Ghost looks but reached for the baby, determined to finish the unpleasant job of cleaning. But now his eyes widened in shock, and an inhuman howl of grief came from the same mouth that so frequently emitted a voice to rival the angels'. The next thing I knew, Erik was on his knees and sobbing into his hands.

"Erik, what's wrong?" Why was everyone being so uncommunicative?

"Forgive me, Angie. Forgive me," he moaned.

Frustrated, I pushed myself up so I could see. There, laying squirming on a towel, was my new daughter.

A daughter who had inherited her father's face.