Disclaimer (gasp): Original characters and plot belong to me. The end.

Laureline sat at her desk, penning a letter to her Maman. She had not written her for a long, two and a half month period that had been filled with the preparations for Hannibal. Now, the gala was over, Christine Daae had mysteriously disappeared, and Laureline had received yet another amorous letter from a man she'd never met.

Her mysterious suitor, who called himself Luc, sent her letters more often than could have possibly replied, if she had known to whom replies should have been sent.

But Laureline dismissed these thoughts from her head as she reread her letter.

Chère Maman,

We have enjoyed a wonderful success at the gala two days ago. La Carlotta, however, was indisposed of sorts and was substituted by one Mlle Christine Daae, who Albain Cretoux says is the daughter of a Swedish violinist. The reviews were splendid, and everyone was much pleased.

Monsieur Lefèvre, however, has passed ownership of L'Opéra onto two men of the junk business, Messieurs Gilles André and Richard Firmin. Our new patron, the Viscount de Chagny and his parents, are very wealthy and quite appreciative of the arts. I have not spoken to him yet, but Albain who has assures me he is of the kindest nature.

There has been a small scandal here, however, despite our success. Christine Daae, who sang the lead at the gala in Hannibal, has mysteriously disappeared. A lot of people suspect the viscount is her lover, but I think that's as far from the truth as can be. M le Viscount seems respectable as can be.

And as to how I have been these past months? I have been well, very well indeed, Maman. Nothing very wonderful nor terrible has happened, and I bask in the normalcy that opera life offers. Design clothes, help make clothes. Repeat. It is simple and easy, and the secret customers I entertain myself with add a bit of spice to life. I have not gained any new clients for a long time, and have no desire to. All my best tailors already work for one of my customers, and the others I do not trust to do their best. Albain's mysterious customer continues to accept my services, and I am sure he is glad of it. He seems to be very well off, but he is quite melancholy and ungodly. He seems to find our Lord to be an unforgiving, cruel tyrant of sorts. I find his lack of faith astonishing, and have been hard-pressed to find out why. At present, I know very little of M Dupoint, excepting his measurements and some points of view about L'Opéra.

I beseech you, come to visit us soon. I am quite eager to see you and Papa again, and Monsieur Fontainebleau expresses a desire to see all of us together. He is a wonderful man, and I find it a great pity he is so consumed with his work. I am sure he would be a wonderful man to help here if he were not so attached to remain an independent fashioner.

Nothing pleases me more, however, than the hope of seeing you again. I despair in this constant company of actors and stagehands; life has grown nearly dull in the same company. If not for Albain and his cousin Annie, I am sure I should perish in boredom. And speaking of Annie Cretoux, she has become engaged to a dancer named Jean. I am not sure of his surname, but he is a most respectable young man, and I am assured of their future happiness.

As to myself, do not feel distressed. I am perfectly content with my current situation as far as romance is concerned, and if it gives you any reprieve from your constant worry, I have been receiving letters of somewhat amorous intent from a man named Luc Neyrey. If you know of him, please send me information about him as quick as may be. I have never heard of him, but he attends every performance (he says it is under a different name) and knows that I am recently seventeen, and he calls me smart and a creator of beauty! Imagine, Maman, that I know we have never met. I cannot help but wonder if it is some scandalous trick or if this Luc does, indeed, find me so very amazing.

Aside from Luc Neyrey, no other men seem in the least interested in me. I have suspected Albain, but he denies it. I have noticed he is increasingly interested in a certain dancer, Meg Giry, and he was very taken by Miss Daae when he first heard her sing.

But do not worry for my happiness, Maman, I never have desired you to become vexed because of love on my account. As long as you and Papa are well and happy, I am happy.

And on this note, I bid you Adieu.

Je t'embrasse,

Laureline.

Laureline sighed. She wondered if telling her Maman (and, inadvertently, her papa) about Luc Neyrey was a good idea, but she knew it had to be done eventually. And now that she was seventeen and officially out, it had to be said suitors were expected to come her way.

Laureline had never been one for suitors nor being out; she was much happier to be in her office, drawing or playing flute or talking to Albain or Annie. But now, Monsieur Fontainebleau insisted that she come with him to parties and afternoon tea, as a cousin. 'Uncle Frederick' was a kind man with deep pockets, and he managed to whisk Laureline away from L'Opéra at least twice a week since her birthday in early July.

Although Laureline appreciated M Fontainebleau's concern for her reputation and life in society, she could not help but be a little downcast at the time away from her work. But she could not say no.

Fortunately, she had not men any young men that were delighted or at all moved by her in a romantic way. She had made acquaintances with a few charmingly clever men, although all but one were much older than she.

The one that was not much older was none other than Albain's eldest brother, who had long been away in Switzerland doing affairs of state. He had come often to L'Opéra to visit Albain and her during the day, and Laureline enjoyed his company immensely. His name was Joël Cretoux, and he had the same red-brown hair as his younger brother.

Laureline had to admit Albain and Joël made a very fine-looking pair. Albain was boyishly slim with a youthful look about him, even though he was already twenty-two, while Joël was stately and handsome. And they had the same lively eyes, brown in colour and full of ease. Indeed, Laureline would be quite content to paint them together, save for the fact that Albain was very mobile.

So for the meantime, Laureline was content to begin a painting of the brothers from memory. She felt a long-needed bit of serenity take hold in her mind as she gathered her brushes and palette. She moved from her desk and stood in front of her easel.

She made outlines of them in a rich brown-blue, Albain-to-be sitting casually in a chair and Joël-to-be standing slightly to the side. Joël's hand rested on the back of Albain's chair, making Albain the major focus, but the way Albain's arm rested drew an invisible line towards Joël as well.

After painting with base tones, Lisette left her easel to let the paint dry and sat once again at her desk, pulling out a thick piece of watercolor paper and pulling out her best brushes, a set she'd received from her 'uncle' Frederick Fontainebleau.

She sat back, and bit then end of a nib holder she often liked to chew on when she thought. She used it for writing letters occasionally, and more often than not it lay forgotten behind her two most cherished gifts, the figurines from Albain.

But now, she held it in her mouth like an unlit cigar and mixed her watercolors to paint a new scene that stood in her mind from a memory.

In it, there was a small carriage with two women, a man, and a girl. Laureline recalled herself and her mother, and a Signore and Signora Gabriel; her three-year old self had been wearing a white dress with a green sash that had been her first self-created dress.

She began with a gravel drive, the tiny stones each a single dab of the wet color, and made a group of horses that pranced under the direction of a dignified driver. Laureline fancied his name was Paolo, and that he had run away from barbaric Southern Spain to live a cultured life in Italy with a secret love named Carlita.

She stood then, having decided to resume Joël and Albain's portrait, and turned, only to find someone standing not three inches away from her.

"Good God!" Laureline cried- or more appropriately, would have cried, if the person hadn't covered her mouth with his hand. She realized who it was, and relaxed. M Erik Dupoint removed his hand from her mouth. "M Dupoint- Erik," she amended. "Why must you always sneak up on me? You might have made me ruin my paintings."

M Dupoint smiled, eyes glittering. Laureline noticed his mask was a little crisper than usual.

"Why, did you get a new mask? How is it I didn't know about it? Have you been sneaking to other people?"

"I did make a new mask, and that is all three answers in one."

"You still could be sneaking to other designers," Laureline said, sounding hurt. Erik laughed almost darkly. Laureline gave a heavy sigh.

"What is it you want today, Erik?"

"Why, whatever is the matter, Mlle Le Moûel? You sound quite exhausted."

"I am, so don't ask me for something unreasonable."

"Have I ever?"

"No, but please do not start now." Laureline scowled at his hearty laugh. "You've interrupted my painting; I haven't painted for weeks."

"You are quite good." Erik looked at the picture she had started on her easel. "Is this-"

"Albain in the chair, and his older brother. What do you want? I'm in no good mood."

"I would like to get your measurements, madamoiselle."

Laureline looked at him with great amusement. "Why, whatever for?"

"I am going to make you a gown for the masquerade."

---

Laureline did not know what possessed her to let Erik measure her, but she felt a little redeemed by insisting that she write it down in her own system, and then teach it to him.

"What next?"

Erik had just measured her arms, and Laureline said, "Waist. But I'm wearing a corset, does that make a difference?"

"Only if you won't wear it the same way for the masquerade."

Laureline thought for a moment, then nodded. "I'll make it tighter, but I'll need Albain to do it for me. I can't do it myself; tying knots has never been my strong point."

Erik cleared his throat awkwardly. "I can do it for you, if you like-"

"Thank you! That would be excellent. Then I can surprise Albain when he sees my costume. What will I be, Erik?"

"A secret, madamoiselle," Erik said, his eyes twinkling. Lisette stuck her tongue out at him before ducking behind the screen. The rustle of fabric filled the new silence.

After a minute Laureline stuck her head out. "Can you help me?" Erik started, then nodded. He went over to her, and she swung out the screen to make room for both of them while still concealing her from her door in case someone should enter.

Laureline noticed Erik was strangely stiff, and she sent him a grateful smile. "I'm sorry, this must be awkward for you."

Erik went red under his black mask. "Rather," he agreed. Laureline was wearing a white under shift that fell only a little down her thighs and high socks that hugged her legs. Her corset wrapped around her, making her slimmer than should have been completely natural. But she was in perfect comfort, it seemed.

"Could you just tighten it a little bit? As far as these things are concerned, a little goes a long way," she said, trying to ease the tension. He laughed, agreeing. Erik worked for less than thirty seconds; after that, he fetched the measuring tape and measured her waist before putting it back to how it had been.

Laureline breathed a little easier. "Thank you so much, Erik," she said. "I'm sorry I'm not more adept with my own clothes."

"No worries, madamoiselle," Erik said. He went back around the curtain while Laureline put her dress back on, and when she came back out, pinning up her hair, he smiled. "Now, show me how to write the measurements in your strange way."

Laureline was all too happy to comply.