Disclaimer: Psst. Leroux's novel is in the public domain which is why all the other stuff out there manages to exist. As to all that other stuff, I dare not infringe upon their copyrights!

WARNING

I DO need to warn everyone though, that I went on a typo correcting binge between the dates of and 4/13 and 4/18/2008 and while I was re-reading for those errors I noticed some empty spaces, some little incongruities, and some things that would be more fun if I did them a little differently, so I added a word or two here and took out a word or two there... minor stuff, I thought... But you know the butterfly effect? The theory, not the movie... How if you change one miniscule little thing here, over time the effects are magnified? Yeah, well... it started to happen. So adding a single paragraph in chapter 19 or a few sentences in chapter 22 had this ripple effect that spread to other chapters.

Most of the early changes are minor ones, but then they get bigger. Sadly, I had to remove some of the happy thoughts, and I apologize to those of you who really liked them. Happy thoughts may come back later, but they really didn't fit quite where they were. I think the new version is much better.

Affected chapters: 19-29, though skimming for differences should be enough to keep you from being confused.

Original Author's Note at time of posting:
Okay, I want everyone to know that when this whole thing started, I really thought I knew where this was leading, but suddenly I'm not so sure anymore. That having been said, I went ahead with the next chapter anyway. All day today (okay... not all day today--I have a job and contrary to what one might guess from the way I've been feverishly posting, I am able to concentrate on it while I'm there... It just gets to me while I'm driving there and back and any other time there's quiet for a moment...) I worried about what I was going to do now that I've "written myself into a corner" so to speak. But then I had this sudden revelation--while WASHING THE DISHES no less!--and maybe I know where I'm going. But then again, maybe I don't. So, if anyone out there wants something specific, feel free to let me know. After all, someone did once beg me "Please have Christine come back to him" and I... well, I didn't necessarily ignore their plea... I just more or less postponed worrying about it until later. Well... guess what. It's later. I'm up for thinking about anything and everything you might throw at me now!

They made their way carefully but swiftly up the long narrow passage to the stables, the easiest place to exit with a horse and carriage unnoticeably, if indeed a tortured genius and an heiress-turned-scientist could exit a closed and desolate opera house with a horse and carriage unnoticeably in the dark of night when no other soul in the world was out with a carriage at all. The only factor in their favor was that perhaps with no other soul out that night, there was no one at all to see them.

They were a peculiar pair as they darted along, he in his usual attire plus a hooded black cape and his white mask, in the lead, almost pulling her along by the hand, she behind, also entirely clad in black save her powered white face, stumbling along and giggling like a child on a first outing without either parent or governess. They were a pair of contradictions; their garments suggested funeral while their mannerisms implied merrymaking and revelry. They had both been utterly burdened by their lives, and yet they seemed to scamper joyously toward some escape. Their bodies were those of a man and a woman each easily past prime, and yet from a distance, they looked like two youths, and though they were climbing through cobwebs in a rat-infested dungeon, their ambling seemed more apt to belong on a moor.

At the door he pressed her against the wall and suddenly disappeared in the shadows leaving her to wonder how he'd managed it. A moment later he materialized from the darkness beside her as though he'd been there all along. She'd not heard a sound, but somehow he'd managed to lead the already harnessed horse to the street in an instant and return to her side. He tugged her arm once and in a sudden swoop they were out the door and into the carriage. She looked about her in wonder. They were side by side on the bench seat of a small one-horse hooded chaise that he had modified by adding side curtains of black. He lashed the horse, which was also black, and they were off at a rather high rate of speed. It was a dark night—the darkest night of the month, actually, for it was the new moon; he'd planned this specifically lest they be seen.

He made a hard left down Rue Scribe, turned left on the Boulevard des Capucines, then right onto Avenue de l'Opera, which he galloped the horse down until he reached Rue de Rivoli where he turned right, then swiftly left again, momentarily on something that didn't seem to be a street at all. Suddenly, they were along the Seine, and he slowed the winded horse to a trot, then a walk. The stars glittered overhead; the dark water beside them coursed by, a dark and ominous challenge to their seeming joy. She let out a high laugh like the tinkling of bells and leaned out into the open air. He threw his head back and laughed with her, a dark and sinister laugh, not quite certain what had come over him. Then they rode in silence for a while along the river, she staring out over the water and he looking ahead between the horse's ears at the route in front of them for an extended period of time. After he assured himself that the route was clear ahead and checked to ensure that no one was following, indeed that no one was around at all, he allowed himself the luxury of looking up at the stars, out at the water, and finally across the carriage at the woman sitting beside him. She had pushed the curtain back ever so slightly and was leaning out taking in the night air.

How he wished she wouldn't do that! He could almost see the moonlight shining off Christine's blond tresses as she leaned out the window of the brougham the night Raoul encountered them and called her name. Though there was no moon to be seen tonight and the hair of this woman was decidedly black, the look was simply too familiar. He shifted the reins in his hands and tugged a little at her hand in the hopes she would move from the window, which she did, at least temporarily. She smiled at him in the darkness, and he reflected upon Christine's smile that night in the brougham before...

He cursed internally. He'd purposely made this completely different. That had been a desperate attempt on his part, while this had begun as her idea. It was a different carriage, a different horse, this time he was driving.

She smiled at him... And he remembered her smiles all that fortnight while she remained with him, how they sang together, and how she had somehow made him feel confident enough to go about unmasked—indeed, to allow her to burn his mask! How had she convinced him? He remembered her words, so gratifying, so treasured at the time, yet so hollow in reality! I swear that you are the most unhappy and sublime of men; and, if ever again I shiver when I look at you, it will because I am thinking of the splendor of your genius! How pathetically he had believed it, perhaps solely for wanting to believe after so many years... How he had believed and gone about with his loathsome ugly face exposed before her! He shuddered now to think upon how he would actually try to catch her eye if in day-to-day activities. And he allowed himself to believe, when she looked upon him, that she was not filled with horror and dread. To reflect upon it now was beyond embarrassing, it was humiliating, and he was filled with shame. He shivered and it was not due to the cool night air but to his having realized that he had done the same thing again. He had gone about unmasked before this one. It was all happening over again!.

This one was leaning her head out again then looking back at him with seeming delight. Oh! but they were so good at pretending anything—until the time came to commit to pretending for a lifetime and then it was all "I can't" and "don't ask this of me."

He tried to think of something else but the thought of Christine throwing an envelope from the brougham suddenly materialized from nowhere and he stole a glance at his companion. Surely she carried no surreptitious messages intended for unseen followers, but what was her secret betrayal? He envisioned himself on his knees before the beautiful Christine and he realized he had reduced himself to nothing and gotten nothing in return. It might have been worth it, this complete abandonment of self-worth, if he had won the prize of her in the end. But he gave away his last shred of dignity and gained absolutely nothing in return. He visualized himself on his knees kissing the hem of her dress and he looked up and her eyes were shut tight. Had he really seen that? He hadn't noticed it before, or if he had, he had put greater stock in her words than her actions, for he had ignored it entirely. He trembled at the memory.

He felt a presence beside him, an arm around his thin form, a gentle and concerned rubbing from which he pulled away, instinctively. And to distract her from his withdrawl from her he lightly said, "I've been meaning to talk to you about the Opera."

She turned a kind face toward him. "Why is that?"

"It is the matter of the purchase. It doesn't please me." He was aloof.

"Indeed?"

"Indeed. It does not. Not in the least. For, though no one has entirely understood, through the many times it has changed hands, it has always been mine. That is as it should be." He enunciated every word carefully as he did when he was making a threat in the days before the departure of Christine.

She moved against him slightly nudging him with her whole body. "Ah. Well, I don't think I would consider such place at all if it didn't come with a mysterious masked figure," she replied. A thin smile played at her lips.

"Elizabeth, you can hardly think I am joking," he replied, and it was not lost on either of them that the first time he managed to use her name was in reproaching her. He was suddenly more angry that sorrowful, though had he been asked to, he could not have articulated when it occurred or why.

"We'd work something out," she said.

"Ah, so then you would 'let me stay,' then?" he said seriously, pronouncing each word like a death sentence. "I would not accept charity from you."

"Let me see if I understand this correctly," she began, ever logical. "The many times it has changed hands, it has always been yours?"

"Correct."

"So if it were to somehow fall into my hands, it would still be yours?"

"Of course."

"Then I fail to see the problem."

"It has always been rightfully mine," he said, "but it is long since time that it were mine in name as well as in spirit. I built it with my own hands. Do not think I will let it go so easily." His voice had become ominous and she was reminded of the day she first encountered him. She could almost feel the bony fingers in her hair, twisting. Still, she had gotten past that somehow, and beneath it lie something almost, but not quite, tender. Perhaps with time...

"How would you manage it?"

"I have already told you I didn't spend the money," he said without looking at her. She cursed the mask that made it harder still to see his already difficult to read dark eyes. "Do not assume that everyone who chooses to live beneath the ground is destitute."

"That's not what I meant. I meant exactly what I asked. How would you manage it? I thought you made it clear you didn't want to be seen. Else we'd be doing this," she waved her hand to indicate the carriage ride "in the daylight."

He considered. Of course she was right, and it made him hate her for a moment. He turned to glare at her. "I have put myself on display for far less in the past. Do not think it is fear that keeps from doing so." But he could not have been entirely truthful, she realized, for he was angry, and fear and anger never travel far from one another.

He realized it too. That was long before the murders. Exposure now would surely result in swift action.

What was the point in arguing, she wondered? If it meant that much to him, so be it. She'd had her brief adventure. She'd even solved the mystery, though her seriousness about commitment whatever the nature of the relationship, bound her never to tell a soul. She would return to her work. Perhaps they'd even stay in touch. She smiled to herself considering the reactions she'd get from her physician friends as she opened mail written in that strange hand, closed with that strange wax seal. Indeed, she'd had a true adventure on her holiday. Enough excitement to last her perhaps the remainder of her life. Though she hadn't quite proved the point she'd hoped to, she could be probably content with this in time. She could still consider pursuing that other idea if she wanted to. The inspiration was all she'd needed. Not help. And she certainly didn't need an opera house to tie her down to Paris, a town where she knew no one—save her strange companion.

Out of the corner of his eye and around the edge of the mask, he'd seen her smiling. Anger glittered in his deep-set eyes as he turned toward her. He'd have seized her if he hadn't had the reins wound so tightly through and around his fingers. "Now I make you laugh, do I?"

"Why are you acting this way?" she asked him.

"I behave how I wish," he said simply with a swish of the whip. She noticed that though the whip urged the horse forward, his fingers were tight on the reins, holding it back. The animal's ears flicked back and forth with indecision; Erik's apparent conflicting emotions were contagious. Even she felt it: the sudden need to flee conflicting with the desire to stand her ground.

"If it means that much to you, all you need to do is say so," she tried again.

"I thought that's exactly what I was doing." He voice was deep and far away.

"All right then. That settles it. I'll tell Monsieur Richard and Monsieur Moncharmin that I've been called away suddenly. You may handle it as you wish."

His eyes shone dangerously in the dark. "Ah," he said, and it was a revelation and an accusation at once. "May I, then?"

"Well, what do you want me to say? Is there a right answer? If I say you can stay, it's charity. If I say you can have it, I'm presumptuous. If I say I don't want it, you'll be insulted. I'll stay. I'll go. What is it you want to hear?"

He turned his head away slightly. She was right, perhaps. He would be angry with her no matter what she said. Why was he so angry?

"How about this: you tell me exactly how it is to be done and whether you would like my assistance. I'll do as you wish and not a thing more."

How could he argue?

She reached for his hand, and he was thankful he had worn his gloves tonight, for he didn't want her to touch him.

"Think on it tonight. Tomorrow you shall tell me exactly what to do, and I shall comply." She somehow succeeded in getting one of his gloved hands free of the reins and was holding it. He tugged it away irritably.

"You asked if I was your friend, did you not?"

"Indeed."

"And I said I was, did I not?"

"Indeed."

"Then?"

He pretended to merely glance in her direction, but his eyes sought out hers and stared into them with a piercing intensity. Then she would not try to take it from him? He could almost believe her. If he could believe her in this, could he believe her in other things, then? She had left when he asked her to. She had not removed the blindfold before instructed to do so. She had returned when he asked. She had not exposed him the world above, had not betrayed his confidences as far as he could tell. She had never ridiculed him anyway. Did this mean he could actually—trust her? No. He could never do that... But perhaps she could be of some use in the matter of the sale of the opera house. After all, it would be difficult to make a deal such as that in a mask, and appearing without it was, of course, unthinkable. Yes, it could work then, if she were willing to make arrangements on his behalf. But he would have to be very, very careful.

She held out her hand again, tentatively. This time he took it, and though he cringed a bit, inwardly, he tried to shake his anger, his hesitation, his apprehension. After all, it was a wondrous night, and it had begun nicely enough until... Well, until he'd ruined it, like he'd always managed to destroy or alienate anything of value he encountered... Yet perhaps it--this night, anyway--could be salvaged after all. "My apologies," he said, looking rather in the opposite direction and swishing the whip again. This was twice now he'd had to say something to that effect to her. What was happening to him?

"Think nothing of it," she replied, leaning back out through her make-shift window in his curtain to look up at the stars, and he speculated that only someone with a trick up her sleeve would forgive him so easily. He knew, for he occasionally doled out falsities and appreciated how they worked. Or someone in love, as he had repeatedly forgiven Christine. Or someone full of pity, as the daroga had repeatedly perhaps forgiven him, though he hadn't used that word in particular. He altered his position on the matter. Only someone who had some specific ulterior motivation would forgive him so easily. He wondered what hers was.

The wind picked up and she took down her hair, leaning out again. "You should try it!" she cried out. And as the city decidedly slept, she ventured, "If only for a moment, remove the mask. The air will do you good."

"Perhaps," was all he replied, guardedly, though he considered it something he might someday try, if he could be assured of absolute seclusion. The air was delightful, mask or no mask, and he lightly lashed the horse into a run again until they were pounding down the road as though to leave the darkness of their recent discussion and of their respective pasts behind them.

But it was no use. Without fully paying attention to exactly where he'd been going, he'd taken a recognizable route, slowed the horse again, and trotted down a familiar street: Rue Notre Dame-des-Victores. He realized his mistake too late. It was possible to turn a carriage around here easily, but he simply could not once he realized where he was. Suddenly, it was as though the past month had not happened, as though there was no one in the carriage beside him, as though he were entirely alone, though not a bit lonely, for he was close enough to feel her presence.

He was entirely unaware of the entity seated beside him as well as of the passage of time. He stopped the chaise and looked up. And seated there at the window as though she had been waiting for him, was she. Ah, she looked as lovely as he remembered, though a bit more wistful, and for a moment he could imagine it was he for whom she wished as she stared out at the moonless sky. A sigh escaped his lips as he stared up at her. How utterly like an angel she was there above him, just out of his reach, tempting him. And suddenly, before he could draw himself away from the window, she looked down and her expression changed entirely. As he lashed the horse into a frenzied gallop toward the opera house, he was very glad he had not taken off the mask to feel the cool night air, for he was once again aware of a presence beside him, as well as of tears running down his face within the mask.

So... where AM I going with this? If you can figure that out you're WAY ahead of me... So why not send me a suggestion? As a matter of fact, I've got about a million hits and, like, two reviews. (Okay... so I exaggerate in both directions, but what do you expect?) So, if you're sitting there thinking (like I often do...) I really hope this story goes such and such a place, why not suggest it? Or if you don't want to do that, how about just saying whether you love it or hate it? Or maybe just hit the review button and type "I was here" just to do it. Or how about "Kilroy was here" if you like? Whatever... Just say SOMETHING!!