A/N: First, I'm sending good thoughts out to a certain PPNer's daughter- get well soon! Second, thanks to everyone who squees and reviews and just generally offers support and encouragement. Ya'll rock. Any grammatical errors are my own- this version is self-betaed, and there are just some things that shouldn't be done alone.

1870, February 15.

Dearest Angelina,

I write to you on the ending of a most auspicious night! I can barely contain my excitement, my joy, my fear, my precocious sense of worth and most certainly, the strange prickly feeling in the nether part of my unseen self.

As you know, M. Reyer was most pleased with my audition, and proceeded to offer me room and board at his domicile, which I politely yet emphatically refused. 'Tis far better that I sleep on the tiny chaise lounge in my dressing room, the one with the enormous mirror and strange odor of longing, than to accept the invitation of one's chorus master to lodge in his quarters. I shudder at the impropriety!

I am pleased to report, precious sharer of our mother's womb, that I have indeed made a friend! A young chorus girl named Mademoiselle Lissy de Mithrileux charmingly congratulated me on my brave performance, as though I was unaware of my brilliance. She did, however, use the phrases "violent vibrato" and "soul-splitting over-acting," though I believe she was merely teasing me as Father used to do. I believe I shall keep Mme. Lissy for a future confidant.

After the audition, I retired to my room to freshen up, though I hardly needed to do so. I chose to caress my arms with fresh lavender and rub a little cake flour on my legs, just as a precaution. Who knows when some strange, leather-gloved caped figure of mystery and drama might happen upon my path and dare to sniff my many-fragranced self?

I, myself, cannot imagine such an event.

Though the hour was late and I was without accompaniment, I chose to don my royal blue cloak, snatch up my copy of Ulysses and the latest edition of Paris People with that sniveling Compte de Changy on the cover (I dare say a greater fool was never born- Christine is a pestilence on the male sex and he married it!), I crept through the theater towards the exit on the Rue Scribe.

The darkened street was populated with only a few huddled shadows, muttering to themselves much the way M. Reyer and M. Firmin were just hours earlier. I clutched my cloak around me, hoping that I might find a small and warm café to enjoy a spot of tea and sing to bring the downtrodden joy.

No sooner had I closed my eyes to reminisce on my triumphant evening than two filthy vagrants surrounded me, breathing heavily and faintly grunting. I tried to run, dear sister, but they had me cornered! I knew not where to go! I darted to and fro, skittered back and forth, lunged stage left and stage right, performed one perfect pas de chat and tried to grand battement in the face of one of my attackers. Alas- my ballet skills are enveloped with too much grace to truly be threatening!

And so, my sister, I thought I would perish that very night! My attackers muttered frightening things to me, and just as they closed in, I saw a rope go over one mangy neck!

I bravely closed my eyes and sat on the ground.

In a matter of seconds, I heard the second body fall, and a pair of strong hands gripped my arms.

"Come," was his only whispered command. As he shuttled me forward, I caught only the faint glimpse of something white.

A perfect half mask, incredulously suspended over the right side of his face. I could make out no other features in the darkened Rue Scribe, and yet I allowed him to handle me in this fashion towards a gate on the side of the opera house. When we approached it, he pushed me forward and stepped behind me.

"Put your hands on the iron bars."

Without thinking I did so, bending forward slightly. His breathing grew labored.

"Never mind. Stand up please!"

Suddenly I felt a piece of silk over my eyes. Then another, heavier fabric. Next a bit of netting and finally a bag.

"Turn around."

I turned, stumbling a little.

"Can you see?"

"No," I said softly, using my melodic voice to soothe him.

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Three?"

Silence met my guess.

"How many now?"

"Monsieur, I cannot see! I merely meant to impress you with my intelligence, that I could divine your thoughts even under duress!"

"I see. Then let us be off."

When at last we arrived to what must have been the fifty-seventh cellar beneath the Opera Populaire-Garnier, the masked man methodically removed my blinding devices.

Oh, sister, you could not believe the site I beheld! At first, I thought the room was on fire, but it was really millions of candles! I saw a tiny detailed replica of the opera stage, and sheets of music everywhere! My captor-rescuer-masked-man-of-mystery-and-sensuality was obviously quite the painter, as I saw numerous sketches of a woman who looked just like me everywhere! And strangely, a small dark-haired doll in a white dress suspended over a flame via a noose.

"Mademoiselle, you should know better than to traipse the streets of Paris at night unescorted. You could have been ravished."

"Ravished!" I shrieked.

"Ravished," he nodded.

"Are you going to ravish me?" I trembled.

"I'm not sure," he admitted.

"Monsieur, what does ravish mean?"

"I have no idea."

We both looked down, studying the stone floor for clues as to this concept of "ravishment."

"Monsieur, who are you?"

He looked up suddenly, his blue-green-gray-brooding eyes darkening, glittering, sparkling and almost dancing, which is actually strangely funny to see…

"I am a ghost, a man, a musician, a poet, an architect, a composer, a voice teacher, a part-time magician for children's parties, a passable chef, an adequate sommelier, a ventriloquist, a potions-maker-"

"Yes, yes, your resume is impressive. But what is your name?"

He stiffened. "My name is-"

I inadvertently sneezed.

"My name is Er-"

I coughed delicately.

"Do you have allergies?"

I nodded.

"Fine then. My name is…"

I held my breath and pinched my nose.

"Cecil!"

I stood aghast, then promptly and appropriately fainted. I write this letter to you by the light of solitary candle in a small stone alcove as I lie in on scarlet red sheets in a swan bed.

Should I be concerned that M. Cecil sleeps on satin sheets in a bed shaped like a swan? Surely the Compte de Chagny sleeps in a pink polka-dotted footed jumper and sucks his thumb like a baby…

Yours,

Catherine