Violet the BroadwayxDisneyfan: I'd just like to say a big thank you for all your reviews! I'm so glad you're enjoying the phic so far! I love to see what you think each week; hopefully this chapter won't disappoint!

"I advise you to comply:
My instructions should be clear.
Remember, there are worse things
Than a shattered chandelier..."

~ The Phantom.

Andrew Lloyd Webber, The Phantom of the Opera.

Jeremy pushed his crêpe around his plate absently. I watched him over the rim of my cup of tea, sipping it occasionally.

His emerald eyes were glazed over as we sat by the window, staring at his breakfast without really noticing it, and his fork clinked against the plate once or twice. I'd already cleared my throat a few times, trying to subtly get his attention; only once had he glanced up at me, before returning to his mind when I smiled.

"Ahem. Jeremy?"

Something in his eyes flickered, as though a bell had rung in his head like a master calling his servant. I smiled again and, finally, he put his fork down.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine."

I took another sip. "Are you sure?"

He looked back at the crêpe, pushing it about again. I set my cup down and caught his hand, squeezing gently. "Jeremy."

He froze at the contact, breath caught in his throat, and stared at my hand resting on his. Clink went the fork, and he shovelled some of the crêpe into his mouth.

"Please, tell me the truth. Why so silent?"

I felt his hand leave mine and reach for the napkin. He wiped his mouth and fingers, daring to meet my eyes through my new mask, a pretty gold one this morning to compliment my tsunami of hair.

"Scared, Nikki," he said at last, his voice barely just a whisper. "Frightened."

"Why?" I asked, crossing my cutlery on my plate neatly. "If you don't mind me asking, that is."

Jeremy blushed. Had he been in uniform, he'd certainly have pulled his cap down. But he wasn't. He'd dressed up a bit for our breakfast in Le Café de l'Opéra, choosing a clean, white shirt, dark trousers and a brown waistcoat. His tailcoat hung over the back of the chair. I wasn't sure how he'd manage to change in time for the morning routine checks at eleven, just three hours away, but I tried to have faith in him.

"It's the Opera Ghost," he said quietly. I glanced at a mark on the table, already knowing where this was headed. "Nikki, I... the truth is... well I'm not sure how to-"

"You were onstage at midnight, painting," I said slowly, staring at the remainder of my tea. Jeremy looked up at me with a frown.

"Yes," he said, leaning back in his seat and eying me warily. "But how do you know that?"

Now you've done it.

Oh, shut up, brain, what would you know?

"Because I was the one playing the violin in Box Five."

You are a terrible person, Nikki.

Jeremy stared across the table like a goldfish, all eyes and mouth. I quirked the sides of my mouth up sheepishly and fiddled with the handle of my teacup, waiting for him to say something, anything.

But Jeremy simply closed his mouth, a firm line setting into his brow, and took five francs from his pocket. Without a word, he left it on the table and walked towards the exit. I bit my lip as the bell chimed and the door closed softly.

I didn't see Jeremy for the best part of the day after that. I caught sight of Guillaume trying to woo a visibly uncomfortable ballerina, but as far as Jeremy went, that was about it.

Never mind, I thought, walking the death road to the tiny equipment storeroom and sneaking past Joseph Buquet as he spooked a few chorus girls with tales of sightings of the O.G. Jeremy didn't have Erik's level of expertise; he couldn't hide forever.

I spent the day polishing the statues that lined the corridors until they gleamed, musing over various problems I'd come across in the Opera House, ones I intended to fix once I had the manager's office to myself. Matushka had always reminded me to aim high, even if that meant starting at the bottom like she had, and look how well she'd done for herself.

I remembered my mother with a mix of emotions: a stern, critical woman with an eye for imperfections, she was strict on me as I grew, but also somewhat admirable. She was living proof that a woman with poor beginnings could achieve at least some social status, if she made wise choices and married the best available suitor. Perhaps that was why Erik sometimes compared me to her, and never with fondness.

Erik. I shook my head with a sigh and continued to polish the feet of a shining, golden goddess in the grand foyer. Sometimes I wished he could understand just how much I did for him. It would make my plan to rise through the social ranks much, much easier if he just worked with me to achieve it.

Something scuffed the floor behind me. I turned, cloth still in hand. The mask blocked some of my view, but it was enough to let me see a tense Jeremy Desrosiers as he scurried behind me, his legs working hard to charge past as subtly as he could.

"Jeremy!" I called with a grin, leaving my polishing cloth on the base of the statue and hurrying over. He froze, head ducking into tight shoulders, splaying his fingers. With stiff, slow movements, he glanced over his shoulder at me, completely red and tense, biting his lip. I lay a hand on one of those stiff shoulders and turned him around to face me.

His neat, formal waistcoat had been replaced with a tatty, work one, with more horse hair threaded through it than actual cotton.

"Are you turning into Nevel?" I joked, pulling some hair from his clothes and letting it float into my dust bucket. He didn't laugh. He didn't even smile. He just frowned and looked away, removing his cap to sweep down his dark curls. The grin on my lips faded. "Jeremy? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he muttered, turning away and trying to resume his walk down the hall towards the avant foyer. I caught him by the shoulder again and dragged him back to face me.

"Is this because I played the violin?"

He sucked in a sharp breath. "No, I..."

"If you tell me now," I whispered, "I won't tell anyone you use the stage after hours."

It was quite the mean bargain to make, but it worked. He seemed to deflate and the delicate emeralds carved in his eyes swept over the hallway.

"I just..." He sighed, plucking up his courage once more. I leaned forwards in anticipation. "I overheard Christine talking about her father sending her an Angel of Music-"

"Oh, for pities' sakes," I groaned, rolling my eyes.

"I just wished my father could do something like that!" he continued quickly, clutching my arm and looking me right in the eyes. "It was something I made up when I was grieving the most! To have an angel play for me as one sang to Christine! But only Guillaume ever played, until last night."

I wanted to sigh and tell him to grow up, but how could I when he was regarding me with such innocence and vulnerability? Something about that look stabbed a dagger into my heart. He'd thought an angel had heard his prayers, and I'd ruined his dreams instead. I was getting to be quite good at that.

"An angel..." I repeated slowly, looking at my feet. "Jeremy, what happened to your father?"

Silence. He looked away, letting his grip on my arm go, and turned to the nearest window, looking out into the street below.

"He was killed," he whispered at last, and I felt a chill rush down my spine, knowing what was coming next. "By the Phantom of the Opera."

He caught my gaze in the reflection, with all the sadness of a child. Something in my chest shattered into a million pieces and I had to avert my gaze. Why did I feel so dirty and evil? I wasn't responsible for Erik's actions, least of all while I was out of the country. But I'd grown up with the boy and treated him like my own little brother. Surely that held me somewhat accountable?

"I'm sorry," I muttered, blessing myself against the whirlwind of thought. Jeremy scoffed and pushed away from the window.

"Save your breath, my friend," he replied, making to stride out of the hallway through an arch that connected it to the next corridor. "I don't want your pity."

Pity. The word alone was another dagger in me, and I understood his hate for it.

"That's not what I meant," I called after him. He stopped on the threshold of the archway, leaning one hand against the wall. "I'm sorry for tricking you."

Something shifted in his persona. For a moment, I imagined him turning, running back to me and sweeping me into a tight hug, however improper that might be. But Jeremy sighed, raised his head and headed out of view altogether without another word, leaving me completely alone in the shining, golden hallway.

"What's going on up here?" I hissed, tiptoeing up the corridor to the managers' office. A particularly large group was bundled just outside, pressed against the wall and window to hear the conversation inside. I spied one familiar face and instantly regretted everything.

"Skulking are we, Mademoiselle?" Guillaume smirked. I scowled at him and pushed my way to the front, resting my ear against the door. "Will you be playing us a pretty little ditty tonight, if you catch my drift?"

"Shut it."

A few hours had passed since I'd seen Jeremy and I'd just finished cleaning as many statues as I could find. The day was beginning to stretch for three o'clock in the afternoon now, but that was quite long enough for me.

Murmurs vibrated through the wood, too soft to distinguish. The managers' and a woman's voice. That was as much as I could make out.

The doorknob turned. I jumped back, the crowd parting behind me as the Red Sea did for Moses. Christine Daae stood on the threshold, blinking at the gathered group, her hair a mess of unbrushed coils. She caught my stare and went a pasty shade of white, then ducked her head and scurried away down the path created for her.

Murmurs arose from the gathered crowd, the beginnings of inevitable rumours and lies. Amid the chaos, I slipped after Christine, hurrying after her as she walked back to her shared dressing room at an even quicker pace.

"Christine," I whispered, loud enough that she alone heard me. By now the halls had nearly cleared of people and she stopped with one hand on the door handle to her room. "Christine."

That made her freeze entirely.

"What was that all about?" I said quietly, coming up behind her and leaning against the wall. She sucked in a breath. Why was I having that effect on people today? Was it something in my attitude? The new mask?

"They want me to play Siébel, in Faust," she whispered, a single, diamond tear rolling down her perfectly smooth, porcelain cheek, lit only by the nearby candlelight.

"And why is this so terrible?" I knew I would regret asking that, but I said it all the same.

"Because Erik wants me to play Marguerite," she said, resting her head against the door and letting more tears roll down her cheeks. "Marguerite, Nikki! He sent Messieurs Firmin and André a note detailing that wish, but they refused!"

Everything within me sunk to new lows. What had started as a relatively good morning, if a little awkward once breakfast rolled around, was getting longer and more tiresome as it went on. I thought longingly of my bed Down Below, wanting nothing more than to just sink into the creaky mattress and sleep everything away.

"What happens now?" I murmured. Christine blew out a long breath, closing her eyes and shaking her head. She sniffed and stood upright, brushing her cheeks down fiercely.

"I'll talk to him," she said, her voice firm and set. I worked my jaw back and forth, thinking that through for a second before she spoke again. "He threatened tragedy if I didn't lead the production. But he'll listen to me, I know he will."

"He loves you," I muttered again, trying to remind her - and myself - of the man who'd thrown himself at her feet and begged for love. "You know that, don't you?"

The Christine I'd seen on stage, the Christine in the rumours and the Christine I'd met on the rooftop all seemed to disappear before my eyes as she opened the door and stepped inside, turning back to me as she closed it.

"He would commit murder for me," she whispered, shutting the door and locking the dark world of the Opera House out.