Hey everybody, sorry it's been absolutely ages since I updated this fic. Things have been nuts, but that's no excuse. Here ya go - I'm coming back to this world, or trying to! Reviews are great... 3s!

~ Ten Years Later ~

"Maman, where the devil is my tutu?" Moriana Christine groaned. Nowhere in the pile of tulle and lace was a small adult tutu to be found, and rehearsal began in just ten minutes.

"I don't know, Ana. Did you look in the dormitories under your bed?" Christine asked, trying to keep her voice at a soothing level, although in her head she truly wanted to scream. She was already frustrated because of a delay in the performance, due to Monsieur Reyer's misplacement of the score. Since the maestro turned seventy (a miracle in itself), he seemed to lose everything from his baton to his eyeglasses, which were usually on his face.

"My name is not Ana, for the last time!" the thirteen-year-old screamed. "My name is Moriana, and you will call me Moriana!" she stomped her foot for good measure. A change came over Christine's face; it crumpled and her eyes filled with tears as she sank to the floor.

Moriana's sister waltzed into the room. She took one look at her mother's shaking body and screamed, "What have you done now?" to her angry sister.

Moriana rolled her eyes. "Nothing."

"Then why is Maman crying?" Sylvia asked, running over to her mother's lap. "Don't cry, Maman!" Christine gathered the eleven-year-old in in her lap and kissed her hair, sniffling back another sob.

"It's alright, Sylvie"Christine sniffed. "Moriana is just frustrated, that's all."

"It's because she's having a baby!" Moriana cried. "It's not my fault! She was like this with Tommy, too, remember?"

Christine stood and smoothed her daughter's dark, curly hair. "It's alright, Sylvie, Moriana is right. Someday you'll have a baby and you'll understand."

"I'm never getting married and having children," Moriana announced. She turned to the door and marched out.

Christine sighed and told her other daughter, "I'm going outside for a moment. Run along to rehearsal and I'll be there in a minute." Sylvia did as her mother ordered and Christine hurried out the opposite exit. She flew down the halls, up the steps, out another door, and onto the rooftop. Here she was able to lean against a warm stone horse, and could draw a deep breath or two to stop panting.

She closed her eyes and sank to the ground, her head in her hands. Her head was pounding, she was sweating (wouldn't Madame be appalled?), her stomach was churning, and the baby was kicking her fiercely. "Stop that!" she reprimanded softly. She reached deep into her corset and drew out a cigar and match. If only Raoul knew, she thought, lighting the cigar. Her smoking had begun out of curiosity when she and Raoul were married seven years ago, and she had craved it even more when she was carrying their son. Now it was more comforting than anything, especially when Raoul was away... like now.

She sighed. Raoul had gone to his dying mother's side, and while Christine had begged him to take her along so Tommy could meet his grandmother, Raoul had made her stay. He took his son, but didn't think she should travel in her condition.

Christine stood and snuffed out the cigar, then stuffed it back down her bodice. "That's not good for you, you know. Not good for your relationship with Monsieur le Vicomte, that is," a voice suddenly whispered right behind her. She jumped and whirled around, trying to find the owner of the male voice. She had certainly not forgotten her experience with the Opera Ghost – her ex-husband – and she knew that he was still there, but she hadn't heard from him since she left. Her anger had died away, but so had everything she'd ever felt for him. Her passion was Raoul's and her love and care went to the children in her corps de ballet, including her three children: Moriana Christine, Sylvia Catherine, and the doted-on only son, Thomas Matthew de Chagney. Raoul hated it when she made the six-year-old dance, but she insisted that is would not detract from his masculinity.

"Who is there?" she called to the voice. Her ballet slippers made no noise as she ran between statues in an attempt to locate the man.

"I am your angel of music," he sang tauntingly. She stopped in her tracks. What now?

"Who?" she whispered.

"I am your angel of music."

"Erik?" her heart pounded.

"I am your angel of music."

She swallowed. "Show yourself!" she tried to call, but her words were drowned out by the sound of his voice. I am your angel of music, come to me, angel of music...

Christine's throat was suddenly dry. She dashed down the steps, through the halls, running, running, certain he was behind her every step of the way.

She crashed through the door of Catherine's bedchamber, knowing that was the one place he wouldn't dare enter. "Christine!" Catherine cried. Christine crumpled in a pile at Catherine's feet, heaving sobs from the bottom of her soul.

Catherine knelt by Christine rather slowly (at thirty-four, she was finding floor-work harder than ever). "Christine, what happened, ma cherie?" she whispered, bringing Christine to a sitting position and wrapping her arms around her. "Hush, hush, it's alright, dear. Tell me, tell me, what happened?" Christine just sobbed heavily into Catherine's shoulder.

Monsieur Firmin walked in and, seeing his wife on the ground with Christine, knelt to help them up. Catherine looked at him with a worried look in her eyes. Firmin shrugged and shook his head as Christine continued sobbing. Catherine rubbed her back, doing all she knew to calm the weeping woman down. "Shh, my dear child, you'll make yourself sick!" she murmured soothingly. Firmin backed out the door again, mouthing, I'm taking the children to a café.

Catherine nodded and continued to stroke Christine's back. She brushed Christine's hair back from her face and rocked back and forth like she had done when Christine was young, a good twenty years ago. "My dear, whatever happened, it can't be this bad," she whispered.

"Yes, it is!" Christine sobbed. She was beginning to hyperventilate. "He's back, Erik, the Opera Ghost, my angel... he's back! He'll kill Raoul this time, he'll take my children!" A deep breath shuddered through her, and she closed her eyes. "I'm so scared," she whispered. Then she slumped against Catherine, unconscious.