Author's Note: It is June and a great many readers are on vacation, I'm sure, but I figured I might as well go ahead and post the next little bit here during the day on Friday. There may be another Sunday post or there may not, but here's a little something to get your weekend started, if you're not one of those folks on vacation.

Disclaimer: It is very difficult to sue anyone from the grave, and Leroux The Phantom of the Opera has been in the public domain quite a while. Therefore, my grand plan to claim it as my own, wait for Leroux to sue me and confront him about his word choice has failed miserably. Does anyone else have any ideas?

Warning: While not AS funny as some of the preceding chapters, depending on your sense of humor and good you are at predicting what happens next, you may find yourself amused. Therefore, take all necessary precautions.

Erik's first letter to the managers, the polite one he composed so meticulously the same night Darius and I helped him by writing other letters, was not taken seriously. He sent a second, in which he cautioned the managers to make peace. His demands were, dare I say, modest. Only the return of "his" box, Christine Daaé's singing of Marguerite that evening, the reinstatement of Madame Giry as the keeper of box five, and a confirmation of their willingness to pay his salary—only willingness, mind you; he did not even demand the money! Sadly, he was ignored yet again.

He was particularly disturbed by the dismissal of Madame Giry.

"Can you imagine," he began, "They fired that poor widow over nothing! Over having gotten a footstool all those times for the ladies and returning the fan that my Marie-Élise dropped that night that I... er... distracted her.

"They didn't fire her over the fan and the footstool, Erik. They think she knows the truth."

He became still more indignant. "That's ridiculous! How could she possibly know? If she knew the truth, she would have told, that's for certain. It's her belief that keeps us going. That, and English toffees."

I frowned at him. "I know that. And you know that. But—"

"Yes, yes, I understand it," he complained. "It simply isn't right. That poor woman has all those children to support and no help."

"Poor woman," I agreed. "How long has it been since old Jules Giry died? She must be dreadfully lonely." I felt a bit guilty, to be honest, for I had had a brief relationship with her eldest daughter and perhaps she had expected that to lead somewhere permanent.

An uncomfortable silence followed my remark, spurring me to glance at Erik questioningly.

"Never mind," I said at once when I saw the look upon his face.

"Well, she was...." Erik left the thought hanging, incomplete.

The thought of the way in which I had ended things with Little Meg would not leave my mind. But her mother...? "I don't want to know, Erik," I insisted. "Don't tell me."

Meanwhile, Erik's threatening letter was ignored, the managers decided to spend the performance in box five, Carlotta was informed that her position as Marguerite was in no danger whatsoever, Christine was relegated to the chorus with the possibility of occasional small parts, Madame Giry was not reinstated, and the twenty-thousand francs were not paid.

Erik sent Carlotta a second letter advising her to tell the management she had a dreadful cold and simply could not sing, but neither that nor the hearse he sent circling the block around her hotel to appear to her as a bad omen if she happened to look out the window persuaded her. Of course he could not use the same method he used previously to prevent her from singing that night, and I rather suspect that part of the reason she was angry with Erik was that it was plainly his fault that Christine Daaé had been given the opportunity to triumph in the first place.

I found Erik sulking silently on the couch in the flat on Rue de Rivoli, his elbows on his knees and his fingertips making a tent in front of his vacant nose as he plotted some terrible revenge.

I told him I thought he was going to too much trouble. He asked me how anything could be considered too much trouble for two hundred forty thousand francs a year. It is difficult to argue with that logic.

He sulked a long time, but eventually went out without telling me anything of his plan.

When next I saw him he was escorting a heavyset and somewhat common looking woman to a carriage. I stared after him in consternation. The woman was not attractive, not shapely, obviously not wealthy. Of course, I have mentioned before that Erik had an affinity for all women. I have recognized that he showed as much interest in women beneath our social class as he did those above it. I have perhaps failed to mention that he commented once that he loved the variety of them, that he loved to explore the differences among them, and that every single one of them was beautiful in her own unique way. Whatever the case, I was still a bit surprised for the woman was not one of those poor but beautiful types about which men so often fantasize. No, she was large and plain and unsophisticated. I wondered what was the plump woman's secret beauty, how Erik had uncovered it, and whether he would ever reveal a bit of it to me.

That night, the managers did indeed sit in Erik's box. Darius and I did not attend, obviously, having no place to sit, the box being occupied by Richard and Moncharmin. That night, so I'm told, La Carlotta sang Marguerite. Christine Daaé was present on stage as Siebel, the part of a male youth, the rival for Marguerite's affection, and a very small part at that.

That night, I was told, the huge chandelier in the center of the amphitheatre somehow fell. As it plummeted toward the floor, the Opera was plunged in darkness. Chaos ensued. Faust was cut short. One—Firmin Richard's concierge—was reported dead, crushed by the weight of the chandelier. I could not ignore the fact that moments before the chandelier fell, a man's voice had been heard calling Carlotta atrocious names and laughing that tonight she was singing to bring down the chandelier. I remembered Erik's anger with Carlotta and his threats to both her and the management, but most of all I remembered Erik's cough, the rattling sound of a descending chandelier and my own words: "You'll have Michel to blame when someone dies." No Rasheed, I told myself. You have yourself to blame. You knew what he was going to do, and you could have stopped him. You and you alone could have stopped him.

I remained awake at the flat that night, waiting for Erik to arrive. Alternately I worried for him and hated him. In the space of one evening, he had transformed himself from my light-hearted and generous friend to a ruthless murderer. I wasn't sure what I would do to him when he arrived. A variety of ideas tromped through my mind. I would call him what he was—a murderer—and insist he turn himself in. It made no matter that he was my friend, that I depended upon him, that he was closer to me than my own brother. A moment later I vowed to hide him, to lie for him to the ends of the earth. Immediately thereafter I knew that our friendship was finished. I would leave the flat taking Darius with me. We could stay with our parents for a time, then I would make a concerted effort to find myself gainful employment. The reality was, I had become so accustomed to living off Erik that hadn't even honestly tried in such a long time. If Erik was a rakehell, then I was certainly the sluggard, for do not the two nearly always go together? Perhaps there was work for me—and for my brother as well! We had become lazy living here with Erik. We had allowed him to make us dependent upon him, and for that our punishment was our loyalty to him. He had made us mere slaves. I hated him.

I wept. I could not hate him. He was my childhood friend and had done so much for me. I would risk anything for him.

And yet, I could not. Murder! How dare he expect it of me?

But perhaps it really were an accident. No one is going to die, he has assured me. So certain he had been! And yet, someone had. How horrified he must be! What guilt he must suffer! I felt my heart ache for my dear friend as I remembered his emotion the night of the death of Joseph Buquet. Poor Erik! I thought.

I got up from the couch and paced. I looked out the window. Somewhere, out there in the city, Erik undid himself with grief and guilt, and here sat I in my comfortable flat at his expense. I got my hat and coat. A moment later I threw them onto the floor and collapsed onto the couch yet again. What good would it do to go out and have Erik come home to find the flat vacant, his dearest friend having deserted him?

I paced. I wrung my hands, and I wept yet again. Then I grew angry once more. I seized a bottle and threw it full force against the wall. I screamed. I tore my hair. And I cried once more.

Erik did not arrive. I remembered that not all were accounted for after the tragedy, and terror crept into my heart as I considered the possibility that Erik, too, had been crushed beneath the weight of the chandelier. Erik, Erik, my heart cried. How have I judged you so harshly?

But, no, he is not dead. Erik cannot be dead, I told myself. He is merely helping the wounded. After all, was it not entirely like Erik to always help those in need? Surely Erik was at the Opera, still doing his duty and going beyond.

And yet it was his own fault, the stupid fool, for ever encouraging Michel to do something horrifying.

I cursed my friend yet again, then threw myself upon the couch in fresh tears. I must have cried myself to sleep, for I remember nothing for an extended period of time.

When I came to my self once again, I knew that I must go and find him, alive or dead. It is what a true friend would do.

Shameless Begging: Any thoughts on this chapter? I was afraid perhaps not. Do you know what I REALLY want to hear right now, though? What do you think is going to happen next? After all, keep in mind this is a comedy. It's not so funny when folks keep dying, so... what gives?