I pulled away first. I was trembling, and cold, but I knew enough to know that I didn't want this to happen now, not here, and not before we finished with Luke.

Luke was the priority.

"We have to get a written confession out of Cooper," I said, clenching my fists in exasperation. "We have to get it now. I can't believe I didn't think of that earlier."

The Phantom turned towards the staircase. "Let me tell him."

I nodded; he was as tense as strung wire; I could see it in the set of his shoulders. "Go ahead. I'm going back to my room."

He slipped through the rooftop door and was gone. I sat down on the nearest statue and wrapped my arms around myself, trying to stop shaking. It was not only from the cold - the shaking was more a combination of deep emotions and weariness.

I knew the Phantom was probably angry with me: he had shown genuine affection for me for first time with his hug. And I had quickly snubbed him. But this was understandable, I knew it was. I was feeling weak and confused, and I wasn't sure if I wanted to pursue this relationship yet, if it was one, and I knew I had to get rid of Luke first, before I did anything else.

Luke had to be dealt with…

And the Phantom…

The Phantom was a complex individual. He had been broken by Christine Daae's rejection, and before that, by something to do with his face (I could only guess at this – his mask hid so much more than simply the flesh, whatever it looked like). He was only held together by slim wrappings of sarcasm, malice, wariness, a small amount of compassion, and a thirst for justice.

Those things – and his odd partnership with me.

At least, I believed that he relied - somewhat - on our partnership. He had defended me numerous times over the past week, to numerous people, and the little things he had done added up to something substantial. At least in terms of what he had not done for others before.

A cold wind swept across the rooftop, sending goosebumps up my arms and down my legs. I got up and hurried to the staircase, my brain whirring madly.

The Phantom, if he still wanted to talk to me, would be waiting in my room after his little encounter with Cooper. I expected him to break the tension with several cold lines of sarcasm about my so-called "plan" and its aftermath.

But I hoped my room would be empty. I needed rest, and space, and a long time to think. If we were going to catch Luke in his lies, the groundwork had to be carefully planned, and firmly laid, before we sprung the trap.

The Phantom did not come back to my room that night, but he did send someone else in the morning.

I woke up to the sound of someone talking loudly a few feet away, and pulled the covers over my head.

"It is early, " I said, through the covers. "Go away."

"Katelienne," said Madame Giry, patiently (but loudly), "take those blankets off your head and look at me."

I said something unintelligible, and faintly profane, and sat up, letting the covers fall down around me as they slid off my head. "What?"

"Cooper won't be giving you a written confession."

I wasn't sure I had actually heard her correctly. "What?"

"Cooper," she said, "is in a coma in the hospital. He drank himself into a stupor last night. The doctors believe him close to death."

I was out of bed and grabbing bits of clothes by the middle of her second sentence. "Can I go see him?"

"He's in a coma, Katelienne," she repeated. "As in no, you cannot talk to him because he won't hear a word you say. I suppose you could go visit him, but you won't get anything out of him. What are you thinking of doing?"

"The Phantom," I gasped, now wrestling a dress over my head, "does he know? Are you sure we won't be able to get a written confession? What if the Phantom already got one?"

Madame Giry's reply was lost in the rustling of my gown. I pulled it the rest of the way down, ran to the mirror, and started fixing my hair. "What was that?"

"He's the one who told me about Cooper's participation." Her grimly serious face was reflected ominously behind me in the mirror; I ignored her stare of disapproval and kept tugging my curls into the right position. "He was also the one who spied on Cooper all night and followed him to the hospital."

"Why didn't he stop him from getting drunk?" I wailed, jabbing pins into my hair. "What was he thinking?"

"As far as I can tell, he was thinking quite clearly, Mademoiselle," she said, now sounding put-out. "The Phantom knows what he was doing. Do you really think that if he walked into a bar no one would notice? There are other things at stake here besides Luke."

I finished doing my hair and spun to face her. "Not anymore. Not if you actually want to help me. Besides Luke, there should be nothing else. He killed my sister, Madame Giry. He has to pay."

"Let me get this straight," Madame Giry snapped. "You wanted the Phantom to waltz into a bar, demand that Cooper stop drinking, and march him out of there to go write a confession about his part in covering up a murder?"

I considered this for a moment, then nodded. "He could have worn a wig or something."

Madame Giry banged her cane on the floor impatiently. "You are being stupid. Sit down and be quiet and let me fix your hair."

I sat. Madame Giry was a force of nature. Furthermore, it was clear I could do nothing to salvage Cooper's confession. I would have to come up with a new plan, which I could do while sitting.

After a minute of braiding, I ventured to ask a question. "Where is the Phantom?"

"How should I know?"

I sat there and stared blankly into the mirror, wondering how to make her tell me something, anything about him.

"He's probably sulking," she said, after a minute. "He was rather abrupt with me this morning."

I couldn't resist asking my next question. "Did you put him in his place?"

"Of course. Turn your head a little, that's it." She stuck a pin in my hair, frowned, and stuck another in.

"What am I going to do?" I said, mostly to myself. "We don't have the journal, we don't have Cooper, we don't have a confession, and we don't have anything to tie to Luke. He's as good as free, now that Cooper's out of the picture."

"He may live," Madame Giry said, but she didn't sound convinced. "What about your voice imitation plan?"

"It's too implausible. I have no idea how we're going to work this out."

"What if I spoke to the police?"

"They'd probably believe you. But you'd have nothing to base your story on. Besides, the only person that would back your story up would be me – and I'm here under an assumed name. They would ask me questions I couldn't answer."

"So that's why you refused to help the Phantom in the first place," she said, tugging on my hair. "Sorry if that hurt. You couldn't go to the police because you weren't who you said you were."

"Exactly," I said. "And now I can't either. Madame Giry, I never wanted to drag anyone else into this…"

"Except the Phantom. You were planning to blackmail him, weren't you? I bet you were surprised when he turned the tables on you."

"How did you guess that?" I asked, surprised.

"Oh, that novel you were writing. I suppose you thought you'd threaten to publish it if he didn't help you. Of course, that idea is down the drain now."

"Yes, he actually wants me to publish. He said he wanted the fame."

"Oh, did he?" Madame Giry laughed to herself, and stuck a final pin in my hair. "Here, look in the mirror."

She gave me a hand mirror and turned me around, and I held up the mirror and examined the back of my hair. It was very pretty.

"Thank you," I said, and gave her a hug. "For listening. For everything."

"It's nothing, dear," she said, patting me on the shoulder. "And don't worry, something will come up. You'll catch that man. With our help, of course. Don't go about getting a swelled head."

"I won't," I promised, wondering where she had gotten that from. "Oh, yes, tonight's the rehearsal dinner, right?"

"Yes. You better be there; Luke asked about you, and I told him you already had a dress. He suggested that you wear blue."

I scowled. "Thank you, I suppose. And I do have a blue dress, but I'm only wearing it because it may throw him off my trail. Not because it matches his eyes, or some rubbish like that."

Madame Giry smiled at me, nodded, and let herself out. I sat down at my desk, and stared into the mirror again.

How I wished that Claire was here to help me.

The rehearsal dinner was a traditional affair, and every cast member was always invited to attend, along with a few notable people of the Opera.

Luke, as he was the manager, had invited those people he thought were notable, namely: me, Madame Giry, someone called Count Le Nansen (who I had never heard of before), and the current prima donna, Jeanette.

I knew absolutely nothing about the other "notable" people except for Madame Giry, and I was not expecting much. I intended to focus my attentions primarily on Luke, to watch him for signs of distrust or confusion, and I also intended to keep an ear open for the Phantom. I hoped he would show up: the Opera populace would be thrilled. And Luke would be rattled.

When I entered the great dining room at six-thirty, the tables were glittering with glass and silver and gold, and the room was filled with hundreds of ball gowns, tuxedos, fabulous jewelry and waiters. Everyone was decked out in their finest. Every candle in the room was lit.

I made my way through the crowd, keeping my eyes open for Madame Giry (she had told me she would be wearing dark green), and fiddling with the sapphire necklace I had chosen to wear. It was my mother's old jewelry: she had given a few pieces to me after Claire's death in an attempt to cheer me up.

I hated crowds: they always made me feel slightly claustrophobic, and I did not like the feel of people brushing up against me as they went past, especially older men (or younger, it just depended on how they looked at you). I finally caught sight of Madame Giry – she was wearing green after all – and was about to pass through a group of men to reach her when someone spoke in my ear.

"Go outside," said a voice, a very distinctive voice, and I turned around in surprise.

But there was no one that appeared to be speaking to me; everyone was preoccupied with their own conversations. I stared around in confusion.

Oh.

I picked up my skirts and made my way towards one of the side doors, hurrying past people and kicking someone in the ankle to get his large body out my way. People finally began moving (to the tables, I supposed), and I found my way to the door and went out.

It was much cooler in the halls than it had been in the stuffy dining room. I drew in a long breath of the silky air, and tugged at my necklace again. Where was he?

"I'm right here," he said, as if answering my unspoken question, and I blinked and saw that he was leaning against a pillar, half hidden from view.

"What are you doing out here?" I hissed.

The Phantom sighed, and came out from behind the pillar. He was wearing his usual dreary colors.

"Warning you, it seems. You're seated close to Garmin, are you not?"

"Yes, I think so," I said. "Yes, I am."

"He has changed the proposal date. He plans to ask you tonight, after the dinner. Do you want him to ask you?"

This was ludicrously obvious. "Of course not!"

"Then don't go back in. Besides, you need to work out the finer details of our plan. Madame Giry told me you were at a loss."

"Traitor," I said, under my breath.

"I overheard you talking, anyway," he said. "But if you still want to catch Garmin, let's go – I think I may have an idea."

I looked at him, thinking, about to make up my mind.

The door swung open behind me.

"Katelienne?"

I turned around.

"There you are," Luke said, his blue eyes radiant against the black and white of his evening wear. "Come back inside; we're ready to start! And you have to meet the Count; he's simply dazzling. What are you doing out here, anyway?"

I forced the words out, praying desperately that the Phantom had vanished. "Cooling off. It's a little warm in there, you know."

Luke took my hand. He didn't seem to have noticed anything unusual. "Why, yes, you're burning up! Come back in and have some water. The Count is very interested in meeting you! And you wouldn't want to miss tonight."

His smile was wolfish, cunning; his hand was like ice.

I followed him back inside.