Disclaimer: I don't own the Phantom of the Opera.

Author's note: I hope you haven't given up on me, but unfortunately real life interfered with my writing. As Charles would say "Please forgive me". I promise to update chapter 5 a lot sooner.

I dedicate this chapter to my reviewers, especially LittleBelle, whose review warmed my heart. Thank you all, xx Rose

Well then - after nearly 6 months - here it is: Charles's Reply to Erik's revelations:

Hotel Sacher, Vienna – December 17th 1904

My dear Papa,

It has been only two days since I received the letters from Maddo, Rose and you. Only two days. It feels as much more. No, actually it doesn't – but it should. I feel suddenly and strangely confused by the steady movement of time. No matter how wretchedly unhappy, guilty and fearful I feel, there's still 60 minutes in an hour and the hours move at the same relentless pace. Somehow that adds to my pain; the state of my mind can be summed up in two words: absolute turmoil – and yet life around me continues as always. I even awoke to a bright winter sun yesterday morning (one feels it should have been an overcast, dark sky), which tells you that I was able to sleep – in spite of everything. How unromantic, how mundane of me. That thought made me smile bitterly – I am a romantic even now. I remember that Rose told me once (in one of her fits of attempting to sound adult) that I live my life as if I were a character in a romantic novel. Her exact words were "I think you see yourself as a mixture of Heathcliff, Count Vronsky and Marius Pontmercy, Charles. I can just imagine you standing on the roof of the Opéra, yelling at the gods because one of the chorus girls doesn't love you. Everything to you is Tragic or Momentous or Wonderful – you're worse than me and I'm a young, innocent girl..."

At the time, I was furious and offended. (Should that be Furious and Offended?) But I know now, she was right. I am romantic and as innocent as my 14-year-old sister.

Be that as it may, my world is constantly changing. It is as if I'm peering into a kaleidoscope and seeing familiar features become distorted shapes. Out of my beloved Papa's features is formed a heartbreaking story of such pain as I've never heard about before, a story concealed beneath a mask of such pain and anger I never even thought possible. But your story was always there, right beneath the surface of the smooth white leather; it's all the more frightening for it. It was there and we never knew. You carried such pain and we never knew. Worst of all, however, is that I alone provoked the turning of the kaleidoscope. I could have reacted otherwise, more prudently, more cautiously to Richárd's stories than cockily writing to Maddo, showing off. What I wouldn't give to be able to un-write that letter. I do hope, Papa, that you know that I never meant to cause you, Maman or Maddo such harm. And to make matters even worse, from your letter I understand that I have caused you even more unhappiness. Again, Papa, nothing could be further from my mind. In the egotistic corner of my soul I am saddened that you could think it possible of me. There is only one consolation for me – the accusation that I should have fled from your face is one which I can clear myself of, at least partly. I didn't run from your face. I ran from you.

It looks horrible on the page, so angry, so hateful. It isn't. Anything but, really. It had nothing to do with your face. Nothing. You spoke of lies and deceit. Well, even I can be deceitful. Does that shock you? I'm afraid this will shock you further.

I know the truth about your face, Papa. I've known for a long time, in fact longer than you obviously imagine. I sensed that you were not telling the truth already as a child. Whenever you told the story about the fire, you always looked strange, never quite meeting my eyes and at a certain point you would move away from the chair by my bed and stand by the window, finishing the story with your back to me. I suppose your behaviour is why the story fascinated me; the faint tingle of fear it gave me. Fear was an unfamiliar feeling, I only knew it from your story and when crossing Monsieur Champéry's field – the one with the big bull. Otherwise, growing up as son of Comte and Comtesse Tascher, my life was filled with love, music and laughter. Therefore it was natural to me to approach you for an explanation – I never had anything to fear from you. Not even then; you quietly told me that the fire was the cause of the "damage to your face". I remember it clearly, for I thought that "damage" was a strange word to use about your face, so harsh. I made a solemn decision that night in my bed, after having said my Prayers (Bless Maman and Papa, Maddo, Stava and Mélie – and please make me a great musician. Thank you.); never to ask for that story again.

I didn't think much about it after my nightly resolve because – honestly Papa – however you got that face wasn't all that interesting to me when I was 8. You were still my Papa and nothing could ever change that. At least, that was what I thought the first 9 years of my life. The day, a year after the Last Story, Maman and you told me that I was the son of Raoul de Chagny was the worst day of my young life. Well, perhaps only surpassed by the first night I spent in Father's house – in a dark, quiet guest room, all alone. But that was the first time my existence was shaken to the core and I longed to return to normality. At that time my highest wish was to belong irrefutably to you and Maman, get away from Father. I thought it awful that I could not possibly get to look like you. I had gathered from Father's conversation with the Dowager Comtesse that I could well have been your child after all. I stood in front of the mirror, desperately trying to detect any likeness with you, but I knew it was in vain. Scars cannot be passed on from parents to children. I would have given everything to have but one nostril or a little red skin. I would give everything to look more like you, be more like you. You were perfect to me, my real father.

A few months later, Rose was born. I remember hearing Maman screaming bloody murder at you and that Grandmaman's only reaction was a hearty laughter, I remember the rejoicing and the bonfires to celebrate our new baby sister. But I also remember that you looked very red in the face, when you came to tell us children about the birth (I later learned from Maddo that you had fainted!). Worried, I asked our doctor to get you some ointment for your skin. He looked strangely at me.

"But, Master Charles, an ointment for burn victims will not help your father. He was born with those deformities of his."

That day I learned that you had lied to me, but rather that being angry my hope soared again. There was a chance now for me to get to look like you. I even tried to tell you, Papa, that day in the park shortly after Rose's christening. Do you remember? I could never blame you for concealing the truth – I always thought you had your reasons for it.

And what reasons you have...

So now you know what I know about your face – and how little it matters to me. And yet I ran from you. I couldn't bear to be in the same room as you – though not because of you, but because of me. I felt like an enormous disappointment to you. After everything you had given me – comfort, affection, love; still I chose to accept Father's invitation and spite you. I felt like a traitor – and yet I could not deny that I so wanted to go to Vienna. But whenever I was with you, you treated me with your usual kindness and confidence. I couldn't bear it; I didn't deserve it. Eventually being in your company became unbearable; I thought if I could only escape it... I ran from you. I spent days trying to convince myself that your kindness was your way of punishing me – I was searching vainly to find a way to blame you, not me – but I couldn't. I knew I only had myself to blame. And I disliked you a little for that. Please forgive me, Papa.

I showed Richárd your letter, as you doubtlessly had intended. He had come to the hotel to take me out to lunch as is his wont. We have been spending a lot of time in each others' company. He is a strange blend of kindness and icy contempt. Sometimes, I am not certain that he likes me at all, but then he completely changes demeanour and becomes the best possible friend. Of course, it has been wonderful to escape Father's boring plans. Thanks to Richárd and his family connections, I have seen some of the most beautiful palaces in Vienna and attended 5 different operas (though one of the performances was marred, when I discovered that Richárd had left in the intermission without taking leave first). Noticing yesterday that I looked miserable, Richárd decided to cheer me in the only way he knew how – with music: He took me to attend a rehearsal at the Wiener Musikverein. Even in my exhausted state, I marvelled at the beauty of the different concert halls and was astounded by the incredible acoustics of the Goldener Saal. It was a true Temple of Music.

However, I knew this meeting would be less pleasant. He would be furious to be proven wrong in his accusations. I have learned that Richárd does not care for knowing less than others – he can become decidedly malicious and vengeful when bested, so I wondered how I to tell him. It would have to be done delicately – especially as I wanted to revel a little in his mistakes.

"So, you see, Richárd, from my Papa's own writing – his own admission – that you were only partially right. Papa was after all born in Vienna, but not at the palace!"

Admit defeat, my dear friend, I thought. Richárd looked at me with a slight smirk on his lips and a sardonic twinkle in his eyes.

Here it comes, I thought, now he strikes. And he did.

"'Papa', eh? Seriously, Charles, you have no idea how childish you sound! Besides, isn't Comte Tascher only your Stepfather? Shouldn't you rather refer to him as 'my Stepfather' or 'the Comte'?"

It hurt more than I expected. I turned away abruptly, but Richárd droned on in his deep voice.

"So, where shall we go today, Charles – ah! I see the Comte has provided us with an address. Well, that's not far away. What say you, my little pilgrim, do you want to go to the shrine of your deformed saintly Stepfather?"

I refused to take the bait and turned to face him, though I did not trust my voice enough to actually speak. I nodded. Richárd gave me the letter and rose from his chair. Just outside the Hotel we met Father. My companion greeted him heartily, while I tried to behave like the perfect son without making it obvious that I wanted Father to leave as soon as possible.

"Perhaps Monsieur le Vicomte would like to join us for a short stroll about town?"

A slight twitch of Richárd's lips, the one I have come to know as his smile. But what his lips can't or won't do, his eyes can – amply. Father looked into the bewitchingly smiling eyes for a few seconds and immediately accepted.

"I'd be delighted, Prince Richárd! This is extraordinarily kind of you, both of you. Charles has been slightly out of spirits for the past few days. Bad news from his sister, I gather."

"Yes, Monsieur, I have noticed it, too. I hope, Charles, that this little excursion will cheer you up, especially since your Papa has graciously decided to accompany us."

The mask of the perfect son slipped a little. I shall never know how Richárd's badly veiled irony managed to escape Father's notice, but somehow it did. He merely smiled his usual gentle smile at me (how I have come to hate that smile!), forcing me to mask my unhappiness and to try to control my urge to beat Richárd's princely nose to a bloody pulp, which at that moment was extremely tempting! I knew he had done this on purpose, my punishment for proving him wrong. But I also knew that had I struck Richárd, I would face the horror of horrors; Father being quietly horrified. He would have spent the rest of the evening sternly reproving me and reminding me of my responsibility as a nobleman. Papa, I can only take so much of the Chagny code of honour, so with that prospect in mind, I managed to refrain from throttling Richárd. I suppose you would say that even Father's facade has its silver lining.

After five minutes of walking highly 'out of spirits' behind Richárd and Father I decided to catch up with them. When I caught Richárd's eyes, he winked at me as if he knew exactly what I had been thinking. I tried to ignore him, tried to think of other things. But the alternative to being angry at Richárd and Father was dwelling on the horrible circumstances of your birth, the disgusting Monsieur and Madame Epping, to say nothing of the woman who gave birth to you. A mother, she was not. I think you will wonder that I have not written of it before, but Papa, I do not know how to express those feelings I have for those people. I have never wanted to become a murderer before, but those... they tempt me. But it is futile to hate them so. I cannot remove the pain they caused you and that is the only thing I want to do.

There it was, the house, where you were born 71 – no, 72 – years ago. It was not what I had expected. I don't know what I had expected, but not this. It was just a normal building – white painted, red tile roof and several big windows bringing plenty of light into what from the street seemed like well-spaced rooms. Just a normal house in a decent, but not fashionable part of town – there was nothing spectacular, nothing sinister about this house. At first, I couldn't picture you here – or the awful people (much too nice for them). I crossed the street and tentatively touched the wall. I looked up, trying to figure out where the nursery would have been. I looked up at the dark blue sky of a cold winter afternoon, the first stars twinkling so far away. I wondered if you had once had the same view of the sky and decided that you had; suddenly I could feel you here. It made me take a deep breath and let my shoulders sink to their usual level. I exhaled peacefully.

"What are you looking at, Charles?" (Trust Father to interrupt my thoughts.)

"Probably nothing important, Monsieur le Vicomte, but I believe the young Comte Gustave Tascher has asked Charles to study bourgeois Viennese architecture. We'll leave you to it, Charles..."

I didn't understand the sudden kindness from Richárd. As I turned my eyes from the house and looked at him, I saw him look slightly confused as well. He padded my arm uncomfortably and looked away. He knew.

"Well, can't you study architecture for your...for Gustave later, my son? It's too dark to see anything properly."

I had to, Papa. I'm sorry but I had to tell him.

"Papa was born in that building."

"Excuse me, Charles?"

"Comte Erik Tascher was born here, Father. I should like to visit the apartment, if possible."

"No. That will not be possible, Charles. We cannot simply barge in like this – and to strangers, into the bargain. No, I won't have it. Did HE put you up to this?"

"No, Monsieur. I did. I asked Charles to find out exactly where his Stepfather was born. I have long been an admirer of Comte Tascher."

And before Father could say another word, Richárd had opened the gate and begun to ascend the staircase to the second-floor apartment. Not daring to look at father, I followed, not caring if he followed but strangely glad when the footsteps behind me told me that he had.

A rather startled maid answered the door, when Richárd banged on it. He kindly apologised for the interruption and enquired after her employer. With the dinner napkin still hanging from his waistcoat, he appeared at the door a moment later. A quiet middle-aged man, red of hair and face with kind eyes; he immediately asked us inside when he heard that you were born in his apartment. Richárd never even got to introduce any of us properly much less say your name.

"Come inside, please. Agnes, would you take the gentlemen's coats? Of course the young man should see where his Father was born... Only natural to wish to know ones roots, I once visited my grandparents' farm in Saxony, very fascinating, indeed. And you must be the uncle?"

The last was said to Father, who looked too shocked to speak at such a suggestion. Richárd's eyes flashed a smile and any awkwardness vanished. The gentleman – Monsieur Friesch – noticed me trying to peer through the open living room door.

"Right this way, sir. Come inside."

Of course there was nothing to see. The interiors had (presumably) changed from the lightness of the classicistic style to the heavy, overly decorated design favoured by most today. What must have been your Mother's bedroom was now a dining room with yellow walls (though most of the wallpaper covered by boring paintings of landscapes and dead Austrian Emperors) and a massive mahogany dinner suite. It was dreadful. But, Papa, to be able to stand in the room where you were born, see those accursed dining room windows and think of your cold hearted grandfather and your suffering, but malicious mother...how terrible and poignant. Feeling faint, I sat down on one of the mahogany chairs while Monsieur Friesch – and his rotund, plain if nice wife – talked to Father and Richárd, until Richárd went to admire the view from the living room windows. (He even opened one, then closed it quickly again) In the 20 minutes we stayed there, I did not utter one word. I couldn't.

We were all silent as we walked home. Partly because the kind Friesch couple had talked incessantly – I believe we were the most interesting thing that had happened to them for years – but mostly because your spirit loomed large around us, inside us. Richárd seemed more out of spirits going back to the hotel than I had been going out. Father had lost his smile and composure as we descended the staircase, he walked very close to me – eyeing me nervously. And I...I couldn't make any sense of my thoughts or emotions. I felt sad, elated, miserable and relieved, all at once. I missed you all so much.

Richárd left us in front of the Hotel, quietly shaking Father's hand and then mine. What was going on inside that brilliant, sensitive, dark mind of his? His eyes looked tired and apprehensive.

"I'm sorry, Charles..."

Then he was gone, leaving Father and I to share a strained, silent meal together in his room. As I left for my room, he stopped me at the door.

"I won't pretend to understand what's going on, Charles, why you would deliberately put me through this without telling me anything... I won't pretend to like this hold HE has over you, but...Charles, if you're in trouble...unhappy...talk to me. Will you?"

I hope you won't mind Papa, but I promised him that I would. I think he knows that I never could, but it was kind of him to offer. It made me feel less alone.

So now I sit writing at the desk, pretending I'm not tired, pretending that I'm not frightened of your anger, pretending that I'm not crying for the little unwanted boy you once were. I don't understand it and that hurts most of all. How could a deformed face cause such pain? How could they not see you, your heart? Guide me, Papa, please... Explain it to me. I'm lost and afraid of the pain you have felt, of the life you may have lived – so differently from what I imagined...

Who are you, Papa? What happened to that child? How did that become you? Tell me...

Your loving son,

Charles

PS, I have just received your Wonderful telegram. I am so glad you like your birthday present (even though apparently it's 4 months late). It was so difficult to find anything, but I thought you might like the Rachmaninoff piano concertos. His music has always reminded me of yours.