So I was in Myrtle Beach for a week and spit out two chapters. The second one will be up shortly, m'dears! Shortly meaning whenever I get to it.

Disclaimer: I own neither Phantom of the Opera nor Series of Unfortunate Events to which the first paragraph gives an alluding alliteration.

.o.O.o.

The last time Erik was abandoned he had been helpless to protect his heart out of love for Christine and respect for her decision. At present, his passion demanded action that could hardly be accomplished. He should free her from the volatile Vicomte, but there was no telling where she was. If still alive – that blow had cost her a great deal of pain – Erik could not even guarantee that she remained in Paris.

For two days he paced the lair like a caged lion: his every step reminded him of his oppression, angered him, and did nothing to ameliorate his wounds …the emotional ones anyway; de Chagny's attacks had absently been patched with old rags. He had discarded the mask, blaming his foolish desires to be human for everything that had happened. At any rate, the caged beast in him jotted a mental note never to visit a menagerie again. In those forty-eight hours his mind hovered on the brink of loneliness, the blade burrowing all the deeper as he yearned for a certain companion.

His saving grace came at noon the third day. Erik was eyeing his battered organ, deciding whether a bombastic dirge or simple minor violin concerto was best to accompany a funeral procession, when music overly pleasant for his current trauma boomed down from the ceiling. Some crumbling bricks rippled into the Lake.

Ah, the opera, yet proceeding with life, no cares for its premier connoisseur. In fact, he cocked his head to hear better, this overture was that of a show with an exquisite ballet. The smart click of toe blocks came to mind, a sound recalling happier days when he'd privately tutored Christine the ballerina in her dressing chamber. Images of the girl flooded in: Christine stretching during an adagio, Christine whispering conspiratorially with Meg, Christine receiving correction from Madame Giry…

Giry! She had been like a mother to his Christine! If anyone knew where she was secreted, it would be the ballet mistress. He cast a forlorn glance towards his stationery. A note would consume far too much of his invaluable time. Erik might be a caged lion, but Christine's captivity was far more desperate. Sighing, he threw on fresh clothing and headed upstairs.

.o.O.o.

Erik stood in the cool shadows of the wings for a quarter-hour before realizing his presence wasn't all that eminent. Finally, he took matters into his own hands by raucously clearing his throat. Giry raised a quizzical eyebrow towards the dimness but remained hard-pressed to leave her dancers, forcing him to enter the gaslight haze.

A clarinet hit an unsavory note. The entire ballet corps let out one histrionic gasp. It was nice to be remembered.

"Erik?" The ballet mistress now spent no time in hastening to his side. "What are you doing here?" Her eyes noted every line marring his already ruined face.

He swayed uneasily. "Christine." There was meant to be more, his mind insisted, but the speech died, unworthy words to be near her name. Giry, as always, knew the opera gossip, and his meager utterance was sufficient for her understanding.

"Erik," she reached towards him, faltered halfway, "perhaps it is best that you merely forget about her."

"No." He did not mean to sound so juvenile. "I cannot forget about her. I must see her."

The woman was severe wrapped in her ashy muslins; she thoroughly ignored his last declaration. "She is with the Vicomte now. The opera house has received enough attention from the papers lately. I won't let you be the straw that destroys us."

His fevered brain fought against the palpitating onslaughts his heart gave as it sought to climb his throat. "Where has he taken her? Please, Madame, for an old friend's health."

The slight woman pierced him with her icy stare. "Monsieur, you are interrupting my rehearsal with senseless distractions. Please clear the stage."

With his cape sweeping over the floorboards, Erik sprang from the stage, crossed the orchestra pit, and settled uneasily in the audience. His head throbbed under the burden of it all. He had to see Christine, obviously; she was his life and blood. But his oldest friend would not aid him for fear of betraying the Opera Garnier. Yet, this was his home; should he not fight for it as well? And he loved Christine, did he not?

The jewel tones of taffeta blurred until the stage was awash with swirling aquamarine mists. Erik let his tears loose their chains. He was weeping openly now, and it did not matter. In truth he was alone again, this time possibly for good. Salty rivulets crowded behind his mask and flooded onto his lapel. None of the pressure on his heart subsided.

He stood as the piece ended, feeling every one of his years. Where could he turn now? Back to the Lake was the reasonable answer, so he hoisted himself back onto the platform to disappear behind an upstage passageway.

Erik had gone a few paces into the wings when a small hand touched his now sodden shoulder. He whirled about, causing the little Giry to recoil. Meg was garbed with a florid leotard and tutu. A tiara dotted with faux diamonds sat atop her golden chignon. Evidently she played the principal role.

"Yes?" He managed. It was as though he were speaking to a faerie queen.

Without preamble she handed him a slip of paper. "Raoul has her at their Paris apartments. This is the address. He gave it to me should I wish to visit Christine, but you need it more than I."

She gave a grim nod and was out in the stage lights before Erik could express his gratitude. This was probably for the best as Madame Giry was highly protective of her only child.

He looked down at the folded calling card in his hand. Unlike Meg, he could not walk in and request a visit. He demanded something more.

But yes, mais oui, he would call.