Disclaimer: -sigh- Doesn't everybody know by know that I don't own the Phantom of the Opera?

Chapter Ten

Chelsea burst through the door, giggling. Fans cried out her name as she shut the door, which made her giggle even more. "That was some performance," she remarked to Christine. "My nose still hurts! Didn't we teach Belle how to stage slap?" She looked up. Christine was staring at the mirror. Chelsea's stomach did flip-flops. "Um…Christine?"

"What?" Christine broke out of her trance and looked around at Chelsea. "Um, yes. We taught her to stage slap. Why?"

"Never mind." Chelsea didn't feel like going through it again.

"Tell me, Chelsea," Christine said suddenly. "Do you believe in the Angel of Music?"

Chelsea raised her eyebrow at the woman. "Um…no," she said slowly. "I mean, I've heard the story but I don't believe he actually exists."

Christine nodded and looked away. Then she glanced at Chelsea again. "Who taught you to sing?"

Chelsea was bewildered by the question. Why was Christine so curious all of a sudden? "Well," she said, thinking hard, "I guess Madame Giry came first, when she still ran the corps de ballet. She and Monsieur Reyer taught me to sing in the chorus. I practiced on my own a lot, in secret. My father isn't really fond of me singing, so I almost never sang at home. For the most part I observed other singers, their posture, how they breathed. Mostly I watched you," she added sheepishly. "You were the best role model."

Christine's eyes softened a little at that last part. "So you don't have a teacher or tutor?"

Chelsea shook her head. "No. That's why I'm so terrible compared to you."

"You're not terrible," Christine chided her. "You just need some-"

"Maman!" A small, brown-haired boy rushed into the room and jumped into Christine's arms.

"Nicky!" An older boy roughly pushed his way through the crowd, into the room, and slammed the door shut behind him. He too had brown hair. "Father told you not to run off!"

"Oh, calm down, Micah!" Christine laughed, tousling the younger boy's curly locks. "It is his first time, after all!" She turned to Chelsea. "Have you met my sons? This little ball of trouble is Nicholas, and that stern-faced, stickler over there is Michael."

Chelsea nodded at Michael, smiling. "Haven't I seen you around the opera house?" she asked curiously.

Michael shrugged. "Perhaps," he said politely, though he sounded slightly bored. "Sometimes I come here on errands, although very rarely."

"You've never seen me!" little Nicky piped up. "I never been here afore!"

"You mean 'I've never been here before,' right?" Christine told him, smiling proudly. Nicky shrugged.

The door opened again, and the Vicomte de Chagny entered, and Chelsea swore she felt bile bubbling in her throat. Her dislike of the viscount was intensified by the grand, fancy clothing that he wore. Who dressed that formally for an opera?

"Michael, Nicholas!" he said, sounding annoyed. "I told you not to go running off."

Michael opened his mouth, outraged, and ready to deliver a brash reply. At the last moment he thought better of it and scowled at the floor. Chelsea imagined herself in the same position, and realized that she would have spoken out…and probably landed herself in worse trouble.

"Darling, we're running a little late," the vicomte pointed out, glancing at an ornate gold watch. "We'll need to leave as soon as possible if we're going to catch the train to Italy. We wouldn't want to be late for the conference, would we?"

Chelsea saw Michael bite his lip, as though trying hard not to groan. He couldn't keep himself from rolling his eyes, though.

"All right," Christine sighed. "We'll leave now. Good night, Chelsea. I'll see you in a few days."

"And excellent performance tonight, mademoiselle," the Vicomte de Chagny added hastily. He glanced sideways at Michael. "Michael, stop slouching!"

"Merci, Monsieur le Vicomte," Chelsea said, curtsying respectfully and forcing a small smile. She glanced sideways at Michael, who now looked thoroughly annoyed. "Have a nice trip."

The vicomte thanked her and exited, quickly followed by Christine, who was still holding Nicky. Michael was the last to exit, and he dragged his feet, muttering under his breath.

"Um…Monsieur de Chagny?"

Michael looked up.

"You look like the kind of person who can't wait to move out of their parents' house," Chelsea said, "and I honestly don't blame you."

Michael smiled grimly. "Thank you, Mademoiselle…" he trailed off, waiting for a last name.

"You can call me Chelsea," Chelsea said quickly. "Everybody does."

Michael shrugged. "All right, Chelsea. You can call me Micah."

---

Chelsea rowed the gondola across the lake, humming to herself like a little bumblebee. She went off course several times, seeing images of James instead of where she was going. After she almost lost her balance though, she forced herself to concentrate for fear of tumbling into the lake. Erik had said he had gotten rid of the alligators, but still…you couldn't be too careful.

When she reached the opposite shore, she was surprised to find that out of the seven thousand and sixty-two candles Erik owned, none were lit. Groaning, Chelsea retrieved a matchbook from underneath the organ and started lighting a few candles. She knew that Erik was hiding somewhere behind her; she could hear him breathing, even though it was very quiet.

"That kiss wasn't in the script." Chelsea flinched, but stayed calm. Alarm bells were going off in her head, but she forced herself to keep her cool. She had gone over what she would say in her head as she returned home, but she still wasn't totally sure of herself.

"Yes, I know," she said coolly. "It was one of Monsieur Reyer's backup plans in case the entire thing went wrong and we had to wrap it up with something big. The performance really wasn't that bad, but still…it wasn't a bad addition." In her head, she congratulated herself on thinking up such a plausible excuse.

Erik stepped into the small pool of light. His face was expressionless. Chelsea hated that look. "You looked like you were enjoying yourself," he remarked. That one statement sounded so innocent, yet Chelsea could tell he was implying something.

"Did I?" she mused, lighting a few more candles. "Then my acting skills must be getting better, for I honestly hated every second of it." She paused, scrambling for something strong to say. "His lips tasted like overly-salted fish!"

To her dismay, Erik didn't say anything. Chelsea could feel his eyes burning into the back of her head. She wondered whether or not he could see through her.

"You do realize, Chelsea, that the same rule that applied when you were thirteen still applies now?" Erik said at last.

"What rule?" Chelsea asked, her heart skipping a beat. Snap! Chelsea wheeled around and found Erik was holding two halves of a candle in one hand. He threw the pieces to the ground and advanced, his face no longer expressionless.

"Stop being coy, Chelsea!" he snarled. "You know exactly which rule I'm talking about!"

Chelsea flinched. She tried to regain her composure. "Oh, yes, um…that rule." She looked down at the broken candle, and her stomach did flip-flops. The necks of Erik's victims snapped exactly like that candle when he was angry. "Yes, of course it applies. I'm very…um…aware…er…why are you looking at me like that?" she whimpered.

Erik said nothing, his venomous glare doing all necessary communication.

"I swear there's nothing going on between me and James!" Chelsea shrieked, her father's expression making her lose it. "There never will be! I promise!"

For a long moment there was silence. Chelsea knew Erik didn't trust her. Finally he snorted and turned away, stalking off into the darkness. Chelsea sighed with relief and started off toward her room. She had just made some very interesting promises. Would she break them?

Instead of counting sheep, which never worked, Chelsea tried to get to sleep by reciting all the notes of her chromatic scale inside her head. But she kept getting distracted as visions of James shirtless raced through her head…

---

"Morning," Chelsea yawned. She sat down at the table and rubbed her bleary eyes.

"Good morning." Chelsea glanced up to see Erik sitting at his organ, which wasn't surprising. The thing that was surprising was that he wasn't playing or composing. He was just sitting there, staring at nothing.

Chelsea joined him on the bench. "What are you doing?" she asked quietly, frowning at the faraway look in Erik's eyes.

"Just thinking," Erik muttered, not looking at her. They sat in silence for a moment, and Chelsea wondered how many times they had done that. Billions, probably. Sometimes Erik just didn't like to talk.

"Well, there aren't any rehearsals today," Chelsea said tentatively, trying to break the silence.

"The opera house is flooded with reporters," Erik said dully. "You'll probably want to get up there soon or they'll never go away."

Chelsea sighed and rolled her eyes. "What fool of a person let them in?"

"Danderson."

"I should have known," Chelsea muttered. "I really don't like him."

"We'll just see about that by the end of the day," Erik said, snorting.

Chelsea looked at him suspiciously. "What do you know that I don't?"

Erik shook his head. "Nothing."

Chelsea stood up and started to walk away.

"Chelsea?"

"Mm-hm?"

"Have you ever wondered why you don't have a surname?"

Chelsea sat down again. "No. I don't have one because you don't have one."

"Let me rephrase that, then. Have you ever wondered why we don't have surnames?"

Chelsea scratched her head. "Well, it strikes me rather odd that you never had one, and it does cause me a bit of trouble up there, but it's never really bothered me. Why?"

"No reason in particular," Erik murmured, the faraway look back in his eyes. "I never chose a last name because I rather enjoy defying the rules of the society that forced me into hiding. That and I would never in a million years take the name of my parents."

Curiosity stabbed at Chelsea like a knife. She leaned forward, asking, "What was their last name?"

Erik shot her a sideway glance. "Destler. Why?"

Chelsea shrugged. "Just curious."

Erik shook his head. "The damned insatiable curiosity," he muttered under his breath.

"What?" Chelsea asked, thoroughly confused.

"Nothing! Just…just go, Chelsea."

---

"Ah, Chelsea!" Danderson shouted. "There's our pretty little star!"

Cameras flashed from all around the foyer, and Chelsea was immediately blinded beyond comprehension. Seeing stars, she stumbled backwards into someone's arms.

"Good morning," James whispered in her ear. "It seems the media has gone rather mad."

Chelsea shook her head, trying to clear her vision. "It appears so," she muttered darkly. "This seems like a bad way to begin the day."

James released her, chuckling, and walked away, pushing through the reporters toward the front doors. A second later Danderson had thrown his arm around Chelsea's shoulder, grinning broadly.

"Smile for the cameras, Chelsea!"

Chelsea blinked on purpose, barely suppressing a smirk when the photographers groaned.

"Well, mademoiselle," Danderson said loudly, "I hope you got plenty of sleep last night, because everybody wants to know all about you!"

"My apologies, monsieur, but I need to take care of some business," Chelsea said, trying to wriggle out of his firm grasp. She suddenly had the urge to be anywhere but here.

"Your business is here," Danderson hissed. Then, back to his loud, overly cheerful voice, he said, "The one thing the whole of Paris wants to know is…what is your last name?"

"Huh?" Chelsea gaped at him. Surely he didn't just ask what she thought he did?

"Your last name," Danderson repeated. "Parisians agree there's a certain mystery behind it, and they're dying to solve the case! That is, unless you don't even have a surname…"

So Erik had been trying to warn her about this. Why couldn't he just have told Chelsea what was going on? That would have given her time to think up a plausible lie. Unable to think, she mouthed wordlessly, her mind working itself into a panic.

Danderson smirked and let her go. "As you can see, we get all types here at the Opera Populaire." He walked forward, addressing the reporters. "Some of our performers are gentry, like the well-known Vicomtess de Chagny. Many of our ballet rats, however, are orphans. Those who have parents are typically poor. And they're all rather…flirtatious, when they're not onstage. All of our stagehands are drunkards, bastards, and thieves. And sometimes we come across people like Mademoiselle Chelsea here, poor, homeless, disowned by their family, and most likely sluts. However, we are able to-"

"Destler!"

Danderson turned around. "Pardon?"

Chelsea stomped over to him, fuming, shaking with rage. "My surname is Destler!" she screamed in his face. She stomped on his foot, just for good measure, and ran from the foyer. She ignored all cries of, "Chelsea, what's wrong?" and sped away toward the cellars and the subterranean lake. Working herself into a raging fury, she launched herself into the gondola and punted herself across the lake.

"You filthy, low-down, conniving, poor excuse for a British gentleman!" she shrieked, her powerful voice echoing off the walls. She drove her pole hard into the bottom of the lake. "You will not get away with this!" she screamed, pushing the pole even harder. "You'll get what's coming to you, you no-good, publicity-loving- AAAAAAAAAH!"

She had slammed the pole into the lake bottom and vaulted herself out of the boat, landing in the water with a splash. Thankfully, the water was shallow and she was able to stand. She scrambled to her feet, spluttering angrily, and kicked the boat. It turned over and sunk to the bottom. She now also had a throbbing pain in her big toe. Screaming furiously, Chelsea sloshed through the water.

When she finally reached the shore she discovered that Erik was gone. She hoped he had gone to strangle Danderson. She stomped ashore, soaking wet, and once again screeched in anger. She kicked over a few candelabras, but then realized she had set fire to the rug and had to stomp it out.

Seething, Chelsea snatched up her violin from an end table and launched into a ferocious, raging improvisation. Her anger hadn't even started to ebb away when she heard a loud twang! Two of the violin's strings had snapped.

This time roaring in anger, she slammed the violin onto the table and flung the bow away, not caring where it went. She stomped over to the organ and beat the keys with her fist, taking pleasure in the loud, angry sounds it seemed to make. Roaring again, she whacked the keys with her head, adding a searing pain in her forehead to the one in her toe.

Breathing hard, she rested her head on the keys, staring at the ground. She noticed a leather case tucked carefully under the organ. She picked up the case, brushed off about an inch of dust, and stared at it. Stamped across the case in gold letters was the title Don Juan Triumphant!

Aha. The score of the infamous opera, hidden away to all but its creator. No doubt Erik would become very angry if he saw her looking at it. With that thought in mind, Chelsea smirked naughtily and opened the case, flipping through the score until she found an interesting-looking song. The Point of No Return.

Chelsea placed the score on the stand and began to play. Normally she would have messed up on the second note, as the organ wasn't her best instrument. But with this one particular song, her hands seemed drawn to the correct keys. Glancing up every once in a while at the lyrics, Chelsea became intrigued. What could cause her father to write something as…naughty as this?

Soon she found she was sucked into the music. She couldn't have stopped, even if she had wanted to. An enraged madness, a bolt of insane energy seemed to course through her, and she pounded the keys, playing well over the fortissimo level.

When will the blood begin to race…

Chelsea's blood was indeed racing. She had no idea why. She suddenly became very dizzy, her vision blurring, her head spinning. She continued to play, no longer needing to see the notes in front of her. She could hear the rest of the orchestra. Not just in her head, but for real. The violins were whining in her ear, the cellos weaving their harmony around her head.

When will the flames at last consume us?

With that, the flames consumed Chelsea, and she spun into darkness.

The music was still there. And now she could see. Her vision was terribly blurry, but at least she could see. She was sitting in a velvet chair, dressed in an expensive gown. There were people all around her, deathly quiet and on the edge of their seats as they listened to the music. She looked up and saw the stage. It looked different from the stage she knew. She couldn't see very well, but she could tell that this stage was larger than the one she had performed on. The set was interesting, to say the least. There was a large bridge in the middle, rather like the part from the set of The Island of Dance. The bridge stretched across an imitation bonfire. Two figures were winding up two spiral staircases that were attached to the bridge. The acoustics were very different from what Chelsea remembered. They were better acoustics. The music lacked the annoying echoes Chelsea was familiar with.

She tore her eyes away from the performers and glanced upwards, expecting to see a chandelier and ugly rafters. Instead, she was greeted by a masterpiece on the ceiling, a masterpiece of what seemed to be painted angels. The chandelier was there, but it was a different chandelier from the one she remembered. Without the rafters the music sounded much smoother as it traveled through the theater.

"Past the point of no return!"

The music reached yet another crescendo, and Chelsea's eyes snapped back to the performers. They had met in the middle, and the man was holding the woman against him. Chelsea squinted at the performers. She couldn't see their faces, but it looked like the man was wearing a black mask. She supposed that was part of the costume.

"We've passed the point of no return…"

Chelsea watched, enraptured, as the man caressed the woman lovingly. The music got slower, and the lyrics were so sweet they made Chelsea want to cry.

"Anywhere you go, let me go, too!

Christine, that's all I ask of-"

For some reason he never got any farther. The audience members around her gasped and screamed. Chelsea couldn't see what was going on; her vision was too blurred. Before her eyes, the performers disappeared. Chelsea gasped as they fell through a trapdoor and into the pit of fire on the stage. Then she heard a loud jingling overhead, and looked up.

The chandelier was crashing down toward her! She screamed, scrambling up from her seat, but it was no use. The candles burned into her eyes as the hulking mass of gold and crystal fell, gaining speed as it dropped down toward the helpless audience. Then it hit, and Chelsea was slammed into a deep, dark, blackness.

Chelsea jerked awake and screamed. She unstuck her head from the organ keys and shrieked, "Daaaaaddyyyyyyyyy!"

"I'm here, Chelsea. Right here!" Erik was at her side instantly.

Chelsea threw her arms around him, crying into his shoulder. "I…I had the m-most terrible d-d-dream!" she sobbed.

"Shh, calm down," Erik whispered comfortingly, smoothing down her hair. "It was only a dream."

"But it seemed so real! It was terrifying!" Chelsea hiccupped, tears rolling down her cheeks.

"I would think so, falling asleep after playing that," Erik muttered, glaring at the score. "Would you care to tell me about this nightmare?"

Chelsea gulped, then started to tell Erik everything that she had seen.

"I was in a theater. It was different from the one upstairs. Two actors were performing that song, and I couldn't really see them but I could feel the passion! Then the song got slower. The man was singing to the woman, who was playing a character named Christine, and he stopped so suddenly! I don't know why, but everyone started screaming, and the man and woman disappeared! They fell right through the floor, through the stage! There was so much fear and hate in the air! And the chandelier fell down and crushed me!" she concluded, sobbing again.

"Why were you playing that?" Erik hissed scornfully, glaring at the score.

"I'm sorry!" Chelsea wailed. "I couldn't stop myself! I was so furious, and I wasn't thinking, and I'm just so sorry!"

Erik sighed heavily. With a grunt, he picked Chelsea up and carried her to her room like he did when she was six. He set her down on the bed and tucked her in.

"What you saw and what you heard was a dream and nothing more," he told her, his voice wavering slightly. "Try and relax. Go to sleep, it's late." He left abruptly, leaving Chelsea alone to wonder why he sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

---

"Yes, the original opera house had a painted ceiling over the audience," Meg huffed impatiently. "Why?"

"I needed to know," Chelsea said, wringing her hands. "Can you please tell me what happened that night when Don Juan was performed?"

"No!" Meg snapped, turning her back on Chelsea. "I don't know what happened! All I know is the Opera Ghost performed in it and dropped the chandelier on everyone, okay?"

"That's not true!" Chelsea protested. "If you don't know anything then how do you own his mask?"

Meg stiffened, then turned to glare at Chelsea. "I'm not telling you anything," she said softly, but still menacingly. "You may be cocky knowing that you're safe from him, but I value my neck! There have been too many accidents, Chelsea. I'm sorry." She walked away, disappearing among the crowds of people on the stage.

"What happened to you yesterday?" James asked, coming up behind her.

"That piece of filth insulted me and embarrassed me in front of the reporters," Chelsea said, jerking her head in the direction of Danderson. She walked out onto the stage, sweating from the intense backstage heat. "It was probably all over the newspapers today."

"It was," James confirmed. "I read a couple of the newspapers…they all said Danderson was in the middle of this big huge speech and you interrupted him, stomped on his foot, and left. What was that all about?"

"He insulted practically everyone under this roof!" Chelsea pointed out angrily. "He called me a slut!"

"What?"

"You heard me! I think we should tie him up on the catwalks with an apple in his mouth," Chelsea grumbled. "Opera Ghost fodder."

"Or perhaps Phantom Angel fodder," James said quietly, gazing off into space. "She is rather touchy about those things."

"I suppose she is," Chelsea mused, raising an eyebrow at him. "James? Why are you so thoughtful all of a sudden?"

"I was only thinking that she would be the best…person, for lack of a better word, to ask," James said, taking Chelsea's hand as he strolled across the stage.

"Why?" Chelsea tried to sound utterly perplexed.

James took a while to answer. "Well…it seems like she cares. The Opera Ghost seems to care only about productions and business. The Angel actually cares about our well-being. It's kind of…sweet."

Chelsea had to fight hard not to gag. Oh, Lord…he's falling in love with my alter-ego! "Do you know something about her?" she asked quietly.

James gave her hand a quick squeeze. "No more than you do. I promise."

You liar. Chelsea wondered how much James lied on a daily basis. Deciding the thought was unimportant, she brushed it away and changed the subject. "So what are you going to do after Island is over?"

"I'm going back to being a stagehand," James said bluntly. "There's too much stress involved with being a singer. I'd rather just go back to ropes and ladders. What about you? Are you planning to audition for the next show?"

"For the ballet," Chelsea said. "I think I'll give singing a rest. I'll still be able to be Christine's understudy, which is just fine for me. Besides," she added as an afterthought, "my father doesn't really like me to sing. He lets me, but he really doesn't like it."

"I like it," James told her, smiling and raising his eyebrows. "Especially those…er, dramatic parts."

Chelsea giggled, knowing exactly which parts he meant. "Oh, really? The dramatic parts? Which ones?"

"One dramatic part in particular," James murmured, stopping in his tracks. He took Chelsea's other hand and pulled her toward him. "That one particular part where we joined at the middle of a bridge in the darkness, singing passionately…"

"Ohhhhh, that part…" Chelsea wrinkled her nose cutely. James chuckled and touched his nose to hers.

"ACK! No PDA's!"

Chelsea turned around and glared. "Belle, what on earth is a PDA?"

"Public Display of Affection," Belle informed her, staring at her as though she were an icky centipede. "And they're really no fun to watch." The other ballet girls murmured their agreement.

Chelsea rolled her eyes. "Well, you could just not look."

"Go ahead and start stretching, girls," Meg called, striding toward them. "Chelsea, James, go see Monsieur Reyer and warm up."

Chelsea and James joined the other singers at center stage and warmed up with a few bars of the opening song. While she sang, Chelsea looked upward at the ceiling and wondered what kind of stupid architect would put rafters in a theater. Obviously someone who had no idea what acoustics were!

---

James wandered aimlessly around the darkened stage, thinking. He was no longer on the night shift, as the managers had gotten rid of it when he got the part of Ben. He was waiting hopefully, although his faith was beginning to dwindle. It had been five days since the opening performance of Island. He had stayed late at the opera house every night, hoping he would be visited by the mysterious Phantom Angel. He had been disappointed every time.

He sighed and checked his pocket watch. It was past midnight, and he needed to get home. Otherwise he would be tired for the next day's rehearsal and performance.

"Still here, I see."

James jumped looking around for the source of the voice. "Yes, I am," he said to the room at large, not knowing in which direction he was supposed to speak. "Um…where are you?"

The Phantom Angel laughed. Lightly, softly, mysteriously, she laughed. "I am everywhere, lad. Surely you know that by now?"

"Where have you been?" James asked, realizing too late that he was sounding selfish. "I…I've been here for the past five nights. You never showed up."

"I was waiting for you to deflate your head."

James blushed profusely and massaged his forehead. "I suppose…maybe…I've gotten a little…cocky."

"A little?" James wheeled around- the Phantom Angel had appeared right behind him. "That doesn't exactly cut it. Parading around the opera house with the chorus girl on your arm, posing for the reporters, spontaneously bursting into song? Be more humble, Monsieur James. Remember- you were only a stagehand before Island." Her blue eyes glittered dangerously in the dark, and even though she was several inches shorter than he was, she seemed to tower over him.

James bowed his head. "I apologize."

"You are forgiven." The Angel started pacing in front of him. "You performed very well in the opening performance, although you seem to lack confidence." James half-listened, watching the Angel's dark, curly hair flounce behind her as she walked. "You mustn't let the audience scare you. You have to jump out there and grab the opportunity! Be aggressive! Grab it! Can you do that?"

James nodded. "Yes."

"Good." The Angel continued to pace. "Be more confident, and grab the opportunity."

On some weird impulse, James leaped forward and caught up the Angel, swinging her around in a circle before letting her fall halfway to the ground, catching her at the right moment. "Like that?" he asked softly, grinning devilishly into the Angel's face.

She was shocked, to say the least. She mouthed wordlessly, anger creeping into her pretty features. Finally she spluttered, "You are very rash, Monsieur James!" She regained her composure. "May I please get up now?"

James pulled her back to her feet, wondering why the devil he had done what he did. The angel brushed off her dress, then acknowledged him.

"Yes, like that. Although I would prefer if you didn't do that from now on. I'll leave you to go home and rest, but remember what I said. Be more humble."

The Phantom Angel took her leave, disappearing into the shadows. James sank to the floor, burying his face in his hands. What on earth had possessed him to do something that stupid? He hadn't been able to stop himself. He had felt, for a moment, like he was looking at Chelsea.

"Hold it!" James muttered, removing his hands from his face. He frowned. "No. It couldn't be…" He shook his head, but the thought remained. He stood up and started on his way home, trying to forget the insistent theory. But he couldn't.

---

A/N: For some reason this chapter was extremely hard to write. But I think I got my point across. Chelsea's getting ideas about Don Juan Triumphant, Christine's getting ideas about Chelsea, James is getting ideas about the Phantom Angel, and Erik's realizing what's going on between Ben and Lyssia. We are getting closer and closer to PWEC! In case anyone was wondering, this part of the story takes place toward the end of November. Christmas and the New Year's Masquerade are coming up. Let's see, where did I put that mistletoe? I chose Destler as Chelsea's last name because I really like it. It has a nice ring to it. I'm not entirely sure which version of Phantom it came from, but I'm borrowing it.Please be kind and leave me a review, let me know how I'm doing. I apologize for not updating very quickly, but after-school band rehearsals have started up again, so I'm very busy. Not to mention all that stress over the week about my journalism article…whoops. Wrong story. Anyway, please review! Thanks for reading!