Note: Final part of the double bill. Enjoy!

A Phantom in Paris

Epilogue

Christine looked at her face in the mirror, still obviously pale despite the layers of make-up on top of her skin attempting to make her look like a wholesome maiden. Meg caught her pensive expression and smiled at her encouragingly.

"It'll be interesting to actually watch the performance for once instead of playing a part in it," she mused.

Christine needed no reminding that Meg had left the Opéra Populaire and would be travelling to England in a matter of days. Her audition for the Royal Ballet had been a triumph, and they had only learned of her success the previous evening. As happy as she was that her friend's dreams were on their way to coming true, Christine did not want the one person who had been a constant fixture of her life at the opera house since the beginning to leave her. It felt as if everyone who mattered in her life was moving away from her, and all so soon after one another.

It was the opening night of The Magic Flute, three weeks since that fateful night of the ball when Christine's world had come crashing down around her. Although no-one had said anything to her face, the rumours were all too clear to hear. Christine's voice had lost something since that night, although no-one could quite put their finger on what. She was still perfectly competent with a unique vocal quality, but her spirit, the indefinable spark that coursed through her notes as she sang, had died and was refusing to be revived.

Meg patted her on the shoulder.

"Christine, he'll always be with you. He'll always be here. Go out and floor them, for Erik's sake."

Christine nodded and Meg left the room to take her place in the auditorium with a final subdued smile. Christine rested her elbows on the dressing table, placing her head in her hands and forcing herself not to cry and streak tracks down her made-up cheeks. Ever since that fateful night, she had felt as if she was standing still whilst the rest of the world moved on around her, and she had absolutely no desire whatsoever to gain any momentum. She was numb, lost in her world, thinking always of what could have been and never of what actually was, despite the pain that such dreaming inevitably caused her.

"Mademoiselle Daaé, five minutes."

Christine left her dressing room, fixing a determined as opposed to desolate look on her features as she made her way down to the stage. She would still give it her all; it would be an insult to Erik not to be the very best that she could be. At the same time, however, she knew that she would never be able to give her all again. A small part of her whole, the key to the entirety of her voice, was Erik's and his alone, and it had died that night when he did.

She reached the wings, where Pierre and Pinceau were waiting for her and arguing in hushed tones about knots; they'd been having the same argument for the past month. For Pamina's first entrance, she was bound by the fearsome slaver Monostatos – played by the not-at-all fearsome Pierre, who always managed to sound more scared of his whip than Christine did – but when Pinceau's Papageno came to rescue her, he had often found in rehearsals that he could not undo Pierre's knots and Christine had been forced to spend the entire scene with her wrists tied together until one of the stagehands could cut her free.

"Messieurs," she whispered, announcing her presence. They stopped their quiet bickering and waved one of the hands over to tie her, these men knowing far more about knots than the singers did. After she was ready, Pinceau peered at her closely.

"Are you quite well, Mademoiselle Daaé? You look distinctly out of sorts."

"Just nerves," Christine said quickly. Pinceau smiled and put a friendly arm around her shivering shoulders, swathing her in his huge feathered cloak – he and Madame de Balzan had finally won their dispute with the costumiers without the need for hostage-taking.

"You will be perfect, mademoiselle. You always are. Now, good luck."

He gave her an encouraging little push onto the stage and Christine tried to focus and immerse herself in the music as Pierre began his solo. As soon as she had come into the light, she had been aware of something in the corner of her eye, an unnatural reflection from the direction of box five. She longed to get another glimpse but she would not be able to look up in that direction surreptitiously until the middle of her duet with Pinceau. Suddenly, time seemed to be going by extremely slowly, dragging along until she could satisfy her curious desire.

Finally Pinceau began their duet, and Christine started violently, Underneath his rich baritone, she could hear the hint of a softer, slightly higher voice, a tenor singing along melodiously, going up where Pinceau went down. It was a voice that she would know anywhere, even as quiet as it was. It was Erik's voice.

She opened her mouth to sing but no sound came out, and she knew that no sound would come out until she had looked up to box five.

He was there, gazing down upon her, flanked by Meg and Raoul who were grinning like the cats who had got the proverbial cream. He was there, he was real, he was alive. Christine felt the spirit that had been absent for three weeks roar into life in her chest once more, and she began to sing with the power and soul that her co-stars had so mourned the loss of, the songbird rekindled and soaring gloriously again. How she did not know, but her Angel of Music had returned to her.

The critics would later say that it was truly her best performance in a lifetime of astonishing prowess, but at that moment, Christine wasn't interested in what the critics made of her. She was far more concerned with immersing herself in the beauty of voice and music that she had not been able to do until now, until Erik returned to his allouette. The rest of the performance seemed to rush by in barely a moment, and as soon as it was over, Christine flew from the stage and into the house, caring not that she was still wearing her costume and make-up. She rushed up the grand staircase, much to the astonishment of the audience members coming down it, and she did not stop until she had reached box five. She paused outside for a moment, arrested by a sudden terrible thought. What if he had been a figment of her imagination, grief causing her to lose her sanity?

She flung open the door and there he was, alive and tangible, and sudden anger overcame her.

"You!" she began. "You… I thought you were dead!" But the rest of her vehement speech died in her throat as Erik opened his arms for her and she half-fell, half-ran into them, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face in his collar bone.

"You're alive," she whispered. "You're alive. But how?"

She pulled away from him slightly without breaking hold to peer over his shoulder at her friends, who were waiting off to one side looking sheepish, having pulled the box curtains across and closed the door to afford them some more privacy.

"You knew," Christine said accusingly. "You knew all along, and you let me believe he was dead!"

"Christine, we wanted to tell you," Meg said, her voice genuinely apologetic. "Honestly, we did, but we had to make sure that everything was all right, that the monster had really died. And the plan was so cobbled together at the time that there was no way we could let you know beforehand."

"But how?"

Christine was cut off by Erik sweeping off his mask and pulling her into a kiss.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't help myself," he said as he finally released her. "It's been awful these past few weeks, seeing you so melancholy and being unable to assist."

"Couldn't you have pretended to be a ghost?"

Erik laughed.

"I think the Opéra Populaire has too many ghosts already," he said.

Christine shook her head.

"I still don't see how… And the inspector…" She glanced at Raoul. "Did you corrupt the incorruptible?"

Raoul smiled.

"No, I didn't even try. Why don't you sit down, Christine? It's rather a long story."

Christine did as she was bid and Meg, Erik and Raoul began the tale of Erik's survival. Raoul, it transpired, had for the most part just told the inspector the honest truth about Erik's circumstances (tactfully omitting Christine's feelings for him and vice versa), his suspicions concerning André's behaviour, and their plan to 'kill off' the monster. When they had aborted their plan in the wake of André's intervention, Erik had doubled back and told Meg that he was going to try and head to the roof. Meg had ten taken one of the mannequins that they had originally been going to use for the plan and waited in the costume store room, directly below the stand-off on the roof.

When Erik had fallen, or rather, jumped, he had landed in the hay wagon usually parked outside the theatre for the cab horses who would wait there, and Meg had thrown the mannequin out of the window before running up to the climactic scene above her. Christine remembered seeing the hay wagon below her, but she had thought nothing of it, never suspecting that Erik might be hidden in it.

"But what about you identifying the body?" Christine asked Raoul.

"Ah. That's when I stopped being quite so truthful to Monsieur l'Inspecteur," said Raoul. "I saw that it wasn't Erik as soon as I got close enough, but I didn't let on and he merely put a sheet over him and waited for the public gravediggers, who never care whether they're putting a person or a sack of vegetables into a box, as long as the police pay them."

The plan had not gone completely smoothly – André's bullet had badly grazed Erik's shoulder and the wounds had taken a long time to begin to heal, which was why they had not announced Erik's continued survival sooner. In Christine's eyes, it no longer mattered. He was there, he was alive, he was with her once more, and this time the shadows of the monster would haunt them no longer.

There was a knock at the door and Erik hastily resumed his mask before Meg opened it. Firmin and Madame Giry were standing there, and Christine received the distinct impression that they had been holding hands until the door opened.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Daaé, an excellent first impression for the new season," said Firmin, kissing her on both cheeks. Christine could smell the wine on his breath. "And… who's this?" He looked at Erik, raising an eyebrow at his slightly unusual appearance.

"This is Monsieur Erik…" Meg struggled for a surname.

"… Chanteur," Erik finished, extending a hand to André, who took it unsurely. "Christine's tutor. I'm afraid I have been absent on commission in Persia for the last year."

"Mademoiselle Daaé's tutor!" Firmin began to shake his hand vigorously. "Well, if I may say, monsieur, she is exquisite, you should be extremely proud."

"Richard…" Madame Giry began softly, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Firmin looked down to see that he was in danger of shaking Erik's hand off; behind the mask Christine could see that Erik's eyes were narrowed in pain – that was his injured arm.

"Ah, yes, sorry." Firmin let go. "Well, a spectacular performance all round. And Mademoiselle Giry, congratulations on your forthcoming voyage, the Opéra Populaire wishes you the best of luck at the Royal Ballet."

"Thank you, monsieur."

"And Monsieur le Vicomte, I hear you've been thinking about some business ventures in England too."

"I, well, erm…"

Christine looked at Raoul to see that he had gone bright red. Meg, grinning wider than Christine thought physically possible, slipped her arm through his slyly.

"Well, we'll leave you all to your own devices," said Firmin. "Congratulations again!"

The four were left alone once more.

"Well, I think that brings things to a most satisfactory conclusion," said Meg. "Come on, Monsieur le Vicomte, I think we ought to give Monsieur Chanteur and Mademoiselle Daaé a little time to themselves to catch up, seeing as though he has been away in Persia and hasn't seen her for a year…"

"Of course," said Raoul. "You will come and dine with us, though? I've booked us a private room at La Perle de Notre-Dame."

Christine nodded and Raoul and Meg left the room. As Erik removed his mask and welcomed her into his arms once more, Christine smiled. As Meg had said, the tale of the monster in Paris looked set for a most satisfactory conclusion…

Fin

Note2: For those of you without French, chanteur means 'singer'. Very unimaginative of me, I know…

*Kimmeth peers out from underneath her colander.*

Am I forgiven now?