Yet, though I had safely pass'd,
That weary, vexed main,
One loved voice, through surge and blast,
Could call me back again.

- Charlotte Bronte – Regret.

oOo

Setting Sail.

oOo

Raoul watched as the shores of his homeland became a mere spec on the horizon. The subtle sea air danced through his hair, and the gulls sang an inharmonious chorus. Their incessant squawking reminded him of Carlotta, he smiled at the thought. It seemed the memories of years gone by could still make him smile … sometimes.

He could feel his emotions conflicting with one another. He felt excitement, a new, positive chapter in his life was about to begin. He could, at last, throw the ashes of his old life into the sea, and watch them drown. But there was also a distant, soft sadness. Everything that had meant something to him in Paris would now be a memory. An ache burned subtly in his chest, and he doubted if it would ever completely fade.

Some scars never truly heal.

America. The sound of it made his insides buzz. It was the land of opportunity, the new world. His father had acquired a business in the state of California. He had many contacts already over there, old friends that had been successful in the prosperous state. And he had put Raoul in charge of the business. Raoul was daunted, but had accepted the challenge hungrily. It was a way to show his father and brother exactly what he was capable of, a way to make them forget about his previous business ventures - including the Opera.

He turned to see his wife standing on the other side of the deck. Her hair blowing in the breeze; she looked at the horizon sadly. He made his way over to her and put an arm around her waist. He stroked her pregnant stomach protectively.

"Happy?" he whispered. She smiled at the way his voice tickled her ear.

"Yes, how could I not be?" She said, placing her hand atop of his. "…your daughter has been kicking again."

"My son is going to be an athlete!" he countered.

"No, you are mistaken, monsieur; your daughter will be a beautiful ballerina!" She smiled, Raoul let a sigh escape.

"Please, anything but a dancer…"

She turned to face him, her eyes suddenly seeming worried.

"We will be happy, I promise. America will be a fresh start for the both of us. You will forget all about - " She stopped. Not wanting to say that name.

" - all about Christine," he finished for her. His eyes suddenly became cloudy with emotion. Annabelle could only watch sadly, as once again he was pulled back into the past.

"I hope one day you will love me as much as you loved her…" she sighed. He put his thumb under her chin, and she raised her eyes to his.

"That was my old life - the past. It's the future I'm interested in…" he said as he placed a kiss to her forehead. "Never doubt my love for you, I did love Christine. But it was not meant to be. I learned that some people can never truly be saved; it's all over now. A different lifetime." she put her arms around him, wishing she actually believed him. She knew, deep down, that there would always be a small part of him that belonged to Christine. But she had his future. Christine was nothing more than a memory … a ghost.

"I love you, and I will love our child." Raoul pledged as he held her in a tight embrace. For the first time in years, he was happy. He looked at the horizon again, only to be greeted by a field of blue sea. France was gone forever; it was no longer part of his life.

"Goodbye, sweet friend…" his heart sighed; he then took his wife by the hand, and led her below deck.

oOo

Madame Giry waited patiently at the harbour. The journey to Calais had not been pleasant, the public coach had been full of strange looking individuals, none of whom appeared to be concerned with the merits of public hygiene. She had turned her nose up at first, especially at the hooded and cloaked ones. She assumed them all to be criminals, fleeing to try and find cheap passage abroad.

But then a sudden thought, she looked again, hopeful, maybe one of them was … but then she had stopped herself. Such silly hopes, she was a grown woman - she should know better.

There had been no new sightings for years, which was probably a blessing.

For the last two years she had been scrimping and saving, getting by on what she could make from private dance lessons, working as a seamstress, even minding local children. Meg continued to send small amounts of money from London, even though Madame Giry had told her not to, she and Christine were doing all they could to get by. But Meg wanted to do all she could to help, especially now.

But now her second season at the London Opera was over, Meg was coming home. And although Annette could feel the excitement swell inside her, she also felt an anxious dread. It was another mouth to feed. And she would no longer be able to conceal the truth from her daughter. Meg had been away for nearly two years. In this time, Madame Giry had been able to make her believe half truths and elaboration, but that could continue no longer. Meg was not stupid; she would want to know everything.

"Mamman!" an exited voice called from the other side of the harbour. "…Mamman!" Annette turned to see Meg sprinting towards her. Her beautiful blonde hair fanning out behind her as she ran, Meg reached her mother in seconds, and threw herself into her arms. She looked as vibrant and beautiful as when she had left for England.

"I have missed you so much, Mamman!" she giggled happily.

"Oh, I have missed you too, ma chérie!" Annette said, trying to hide the tears that threatened to fall. "More than you will ever know!" Annette could see a young gentleman following Meg sheepishly. His arms were full of luggage and his cheeks flushed. He was very well dressed, and handsome, in a flustered, English sort of way. Meg let go of her mother and walked to stand next to the young man. She looked nervous.

"Mamman, this is Peter…my fiancé…" she said as her cheeks blushed into a deep crimson. He dropped the luggage to the ground and held out his hand to the older woman. Madame Giry looked down at his hand for a few moments, and then shook it firmly. Her lips remained pursed into a grim line.

"It is a great pleasure to finally meet you, Madame." he said politely in faultless French. "…I must correct Marguerite, we are not officially engaged, not yet. I would never ask such a thing without gaining the correct approval from you…" He smiled his nervous smile again. This pleased Annette somewhat, but she was still not happy about the situation. She would need to get to know this young man properly.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, monsieur. Meg has mentioned you in her letters; I look forward to getting to know you. Now, let us be getting home. It is a long journey back to Paris, the sooner we leave, the better." Annette said with a weary smile. Peter picked up the luggage and began to follow the women to the transport.

"Do you have accommodation, monsieur?" Madame Giry asked, turning to Peter.

"Mamman!" Meg chided under her breath, the older woman chose to ignore her.

"Yes, madame, my father lives in Paris, so I'll be staying with him." Madame Giry nodded, silently relived. Then Peter spoke again. "You must all come to dinner, he is very keen to meet you, and Christine, of course."

"Thank you, monsieur. That is very kind of you." she smiled as warmly as she could. Meg, who had been gazing at Peter, turned to her mother with worried eyes.

"Mamman, where is Christine?" she whispered, "…I thought she would be here with you, I haven't heard from her for so long…" Madame Giry felt her heart sink - it was starting already.

"She, was detained…in Paris, something that could not be helped. But she sends her apologies, and her love. You will see her shortly." Madame Giry said. She could not meet Meg's eyes.

Meg frowned, her mother seemed odd, almost uncomfortable. But she could not peruse this in front of Peter. She bit her lip, vowing to get to the bottom of her mothers strange behaviour as soon as she could. It seemed to be going well between Peter and her mother, better than expected.

In truth, she had been dreading this meeting for weeks. She knew how her mother could be, and so, she had lied in her letters, telling her mother that Peter was a friend. It was only on his sudden announcement that he was coming to Paris with her, much sooner than they had previously discussed, which had forced Meg to admit the truth. She didn't know why she had concealed the truth from her mother. She supposed it was because she didn't want her to worry; there had already been too much woe in their family.

Meg felt a new burst of excitement at the thought of seeing Christine again, it had been so long. At first, Christine's letters to Meg had been very frequent, full of her thoughts and feelings, and memories the two of them had shared. This was for the first six months, after that, the letters began to stop. Then they became more vacant, asking questions but providing no answers, like they were being written by somebody else.

Then, one day, no more came. Letters from her mother arrived regularly, and Christine was always mentioned. But it seemed she was always too busy to write a letter herself. Meg was confused; this had been very unlike Christine. And now her mother was acting strangely. Something was amiss.

Meg took Peter's hand as he helped her into the coach; she looked into his eyes and smiled. His love had always been steady and sincere, and she had been content with him in London. She loved him very much. But now she began to wonder just what strife would await them in Paris. And what new trouble she was introducing him to.

oOo

Dr. Mathieu LaClaire,

242 Rue Jeanne d'Arc,

Amiens.

23rd October 1883.

My dearest Mathieu:

I hope this letter finds you in good health and high spirits, when last we spoke I feared for you. You did not seem yourself, my friend, and it pains me to think of you in this way. You have always been the greatest believer in our dream, even more so than me, and I cannot let you give up on this great vision that we share.

This is the reason I write to you now, not only as a concerned friend, but as a colleague. Something has been brought to my attention, something that could help in the advancement of our cause. I beseech you to come to Paris at your earliest convenience, so I may discuss the case with you on a deeper level. For personal reasons, which I will disclose to you in person, I am unable to handle the situation myself. And so, I tell you this with optimism and trust, so that hopefully you will find a way to act on my behalf.

I have heard a story on my recent travels, one that I think will interest you very much. It was this story that originally brought me to Paris, I came in search of answers, but all I have uncovered are more questions, more mystery. At first, I did not quite believe this story, but it is all true, my friend, very true indeed.

It is the recent events which concern us, but I will go onto that later. To understand the intricacies of this case, we must first go back several years, back to the very beginning.

I do not know if you will recall the mysterious events that took place in Paris two years ago, but it is a very strange affair, some now call it a legend, but as I said before, it really happened.

I shall now tell you the story, the tale of The Phantom of the Opera…

oOo

It was to be morning before they reached Paris, the sky was already growing dark, and the roads ahead were blurred. A thick, veiling mist clouded the journey ahead.

"The worst fog I've seen for years!" Yelled the coach driver, "we'll have to stop, I won't drive through that, who knows what we might encounter along the way! There are some strange folk on these roads at night."

They stopped at a large, friendly inn in the centre of Abberville, a small but welcoming town north of Amiens. Madame Giry was worried; she had told Christine they may be late back, but she had not envisioned this. Christine was sure to be scared, all alone for the whole of the night. But, then, Christine was often in the dark these days; day or night. And there was nothing to do, they were stuck here, Annette could only pray that Christine would be all right.

They had secured two rooms, one for Peter and one for Madame Giry and Meg. The coach driver had advised that they all retire early, he hoped to leave by first light, provided the haze had lifted, and he would not hang around for late risers.

"Mamman, please, tell me what's wrong." Meg said, watching her mother brush her hair.

"Nothing is wrong, my child, rest now, we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

"Mamman – please,"

"There is nothing wrong, Marguerite! Now, please, let me have some peace!" Madame Giry snapped, slamming the hairbrush down. Meg felt her eyes begin to well up. "Forgive me, I did not mean to snap," Annette said, sitting beside her daughter on the bed. She tucked a blonde lock of hair behind Meg's ear. "It has been a very long day; I will explain everything to you tomorrow. But now, we both need to rest."

"So there is something wrong!" Meg said, "Is it Christine? Has something happened to her?"

"Christine is fine, my dear, do not fret. Now, to bed with you! Or we shall miss the coach in the morning."

Meg sighed, and climbed into her small bed, knowing she would get no answers from her mother tonight. Madame Giry got into the other bed, and blew out the candle.

"Mamman," Meg whispered.

"Yes, Meg?"

"I did mean it before, when I said I had missed you. I'm really happy to be home."

"And I am happy to have you back, my dear. Paris hasn't been the same without you."

"Goodnight, Mamman."

"Goodnight, little Meg."

oOo

And now you can see, my friend, how this story raises more questions than it answers. Particularly the events of late, which are perplexing to even the most intelligent mind!

I have yet to meet the infamous mademoiselle Daae, from what I can gather, she now works as a seamstress with her adopted mother. But I do not want to meet her until the time is right, this is a very sensitive matter, and we must approach it with caution. This is imperative, the timing must be perfect.

I think we should speak to her adopted mother, Annette Giry, she could be the key to solving so many of the mysteries that cloak this case. And it is my sincere belief, that once she hears our proposal, she will allow us to talk to mademoiselle Daae.

I hope the information I have relayed to you sparks your interest. As I said to you before, this case depends on you. I am unable to conclude matters myself; you are the only person I trust to handle this!

I urge you to come to Paris upon receipt of this letter.

Your loving friend,

Dr. Ambrose Gaudin.

oOo