A/N: Nice long chapter, here, to make up for the brevity of the previous one. I was surprised how little time it took me to write this; I finished it within a day. However, some elements of it bothered me for a while, and I went back and forth about either scrapping the whole thing and doing a complete rewrite or just revising it a bit. In the end, I just decided to leave it as is.

You'll notice the glossing over of many Leroux-ish points that don't need to be dragged out or explained in detail. It was getting quite tedious, rewriting every single thing that happened in Leroux—quite frankly, it was cramping my style, which is probably the reason for the mediocre nature of those particular chapters in which I did so; for the purposes of this story, I'm no longer deeming it really necessary to detail certain occurrences immediately as they happen. Everything can and will be explained later, whether in discussion or in thought, and in the meantime, knock yourselves out with the nice long chap.

Oh, yes. That vague literary reference in Chapter 27 was, indeed, Dorian Grey. Kudos to anotherblastedromantic for picking up on it.

Did I mention that I'm pregnant?


How utterly painful was the waiting, the slow torture mixed with excitement so intense it was a miracle Tora did not vomit all over both herself and her faithful companion.

They had come!

They were here!

"Oh, at last," Tora sighed, relief and anticipation tugging at her brain, making her want to cry with the overwhelming wonder of it all. She grasped his sleeve. "We're here, Patrick! We're here!"

He smiled, a sickly smile that didn't quite extend to his eyes.

"What am I to do?" he whispered suddenly, his head whipping around to face her. "I don't know anybody...I don't speak French...I'm good for nothing, Tora! Nothing!"

"Dear, I did try to teach you a little," she said indignantly. "You're so obstinate in giving up that you never tried to get past your Irish twisting of syllables and vowels."

"But what am I to do?" he uttered frantically, fingers twisting between them a lock of his hair, pulling at it so that it seemed as though it would come away from his scalp entirely.

She patted his arm. "We'll find something, mon frère. I'm going to take up dancing again, if they'll have me, and you can work as a...as a..."

She paused. "Oh, bother," she said, her nose wrinkling up in perplexity. "What can you do?"

Patrick put his hand to his face, looking to heaven in an attitude of noble martyrdom.

"I suppose I could always sweep floors," he said viciously, "but I'm a gentleman, Tora, and gentleman don't do that sort of thing. They live in a house and they have parties, and perhaps engage in overseas trade or invest in stocks and bonds. If word were to somehow get back to me mum and da'..."

"Don't worry," soothed Tora. "We'll find something."

"But there is no rich friend!" he exclaimed. "The lie I told to my parents was just that! There's no one here I know, and if there were, I'd be even more frightened. To think what my parents would say if they knew..."

"Patrick," Tora said. "How many times must I tell you not to worry?"

"It's all well and good for you," he said, passing a hand across his eyes, letting out something between a groan and a sigh. "You have a life to return to, friends to welcome you, perhaps even your old work, but what do I have? Nothing, that's what!"

"Patrick," said Tora, "even gentlemen sweep floors when they have nothing else to do."

Her companion was very still, quite silent, for what seemed an age. People had begun to move, to disembark, and Tora pulled at his arm, anxious to be off, to find a carriage or train that would take her home, but Patrick was immovable.

"I could, I suppose," he said. "Mum and Da' were potato farmers in Ireland when they were young, or at least their parents were, did you know? They worked as hard as anybody, and now they're in the upper echelons of Bostonian society. They even conquered that typical American prejudice, as they like to call it. Irish are not well-looked upon in most social circles."

"Patrick, let's go," pleaded Tora. "We can talk about it on the way, please, let's be off, or the boat's liable to leave with us still aboard, and there's no way I can abide that."

He finally moved, taking her hand, and they pushed through the masses until they finally were on dry, cobblestoned land.

"Silly Tora," said Patrick. "The boat won't leave for at least a day or two. Don't you think the crew and captain need a rest as well?"

Tora blushed. "Be that as it may," she muttered. "So. Are we agreed that you'll find some work at the Opera?"

"I suppose," he said. "It might be rather exciting, after all. I wonder whether I could get a free ticket."

Tora slapped him on the arm. "Now you're the one who's being intolerably silly," she said, trying not to laugh. "Patrick, have you any idea what tickets to the Opera cost? They won't give any away for free, and certainly not to the hired help!"

Patrick shrugged.

"I could sneak you into the wings, admittably," she said, "and you could watch from there. Or even the catwalks, above the stage."

He grinned. "How exciting!" he sighed. "And just think, from the catwalks, I could see down the fronts of all the dresses of the—"

He let out a yelp as a small female fist connected squarely with his stomach.

"Pervert," she said. "You bloody male."


It was reported that after the incident involving both a chandelier crash and Carlotta's dreadful misfortune on the night of a Faust performance, Christine Daaé had disappeared into thin air.

Bad enough that the chandelier had fallen on the head of the new concierge. Bad enough the managers had been walking 'round like ghosts themselves. Bad enough Carlotta had turned into a toad—at least vocally, although there were some who knew her that said she'd always possessed the personality, at any rate, of the aforementioned amphibian.

But Christine Daaé, the public's darling, who since the night of her triumph had not appeared in a starring role again, had vanished completely. It could not be explained. The patrons of the Opera were stupefied, and her peers were worried sick.

Such was the atmosphere into which Tora and Patrick were plunged when they finally arrived, after a long day's journey, to the Opera Palais Garnier.


It was indescribable to see her lovely city once more...it was just as she had imagined it! The streets were emptying, true, at the advent of dusk, and more disreputable occupations were just beginning to emerge from the alleyways, but Paris by sunset was beautiful. It was home.

She tapped on the ceiling of the hansom. "L'Opera Garnier," she said in her lovely French. "There, you see?"

"I know where the Opera is, mademoiselle," returned the gruff, disgruntled voice of the cab driver. "I've been to Paris many a time."

"Perdonne-moi," muttered Tora, feeling the familiar blush creep up her cheeks. "But how was I to know?"

Patrick elbowed her. "What are the two of you talking about?" he muttered ferociously. "All I could make out was the word Opera, and even that was a stretch of my aural skills."

Tora waved him off. "Nothing of consequence," she said in English. "I simply told him where to take us."

The cab pulled up to the Opera, and Patrick stepped out first, offering her his arm.

"Merci beaucoup, monsieur," said Tora to the driver, handing him the fee.

He tipped his hat to her and flicked the reins, driving off into the encroaching gray dark.

The two stood there, on the steps of the magnificent building.

"Well," said Tora, shivering, feeling the urge to vomit from excitement all over again.

Erik, Erik, Erik!

"We're here," she said, and, holding his arm as he proffered it, they made their way up the steps into the main foyer.

Patrick stared in wonder at the Grand Escalier, the network of three massively ornate staircases, one leading up to the two that converged to the right and to the left.

"Come on, Patrick," urged Tora. "We need to speak to the management."


As they walked the hall, Tora espied a familiar face, and lost no time in reacquainting herself.

"Gabriel!" cried Tora, running up to him and taking both his hands in hers, letting forth a soft babble of French that had Patrick shuffling his feet in consternation. "Well, do you remember me?"

He stared at her for a moment, and then it dawned on him. "Ah, little Margot!" he said, delight infusing his features. "It was said by some of the administration that you'd be one of the principal dancers before your twenty-first birthday, you know. I wonder if that would still apply. You are quite the lady now, aren't you?"

"Not really all that much," she said embarrassedly, "I'm still the same old me, you know, even if my clothes are just a bit more fine."

"You've been in America, then?" he asked. "I heard the chatter in the corps de ballet, when you'd gone."

"Yes, visiting family with my aunt," she said. "I never knew I had any until she came, you know, and...but where are my manners? Patrick," she said, speaking to him in English. "This is Gabriel. He is the chorus-master here at the Opera. Gabriel, c'est mon ami, Patrique."

Gabriel nodded, winking at Tora. "Ami, eh?" he asked. "Ton ami, ou ton amour?"

Tora blushed. "Non, non," she said, shaking her head. "Mon ami."

"Ah," said Gabriel, winking again.

Patrick looked as though he were about to explode.

"Tora," he said slowly. "Why do I get the distinct feeling that I'm being discussed?"

"You are," she said carelessly. "Don't worry your head over it. Gabriel," she said in French, "where can we find Debienne and Poligny? I need to speak to them about..."

"Debienne and Poligny,little miss?" he asked incredulously. "Oh, that's right. You weren't here...they just changed managers a matter of weeks ago. The new managers are Mssrs. Moncharmin and Firmin, respectively."

"Ah," she said with some trepidation. "I see. Do you think I could convince them, Gabriel, to reinstate me in the corps, and to give Patrick a job?"

"I don't see why not, with all of us who knew you before to vouch," said Gabriel. "Don't worry, Margot. They're a tough nut to crack, but they'll bend, no doubt, on account of your having worked here before. He," said Gabriel, waving a finger at Patrick, "might have a bit of trouble, but I'm sure we can work something out. Only let me go find Rémy. Rémy!" he shouted, setting off down the hall. "Come here for a moment!"

Rémy had just been going in the direction of another lavish corridor.

"What is it now?" the man snapped. "I tell you, if it has anything to do with our managers, they're not seeing anybody. They've been acting odd these past few days, I tell you, as if they'd seen a ghost!"

At the word ghost, Tora blanched.

So did Gabriel. "Rémy," he said, "You know you shouldn't joke about things like that. For all you know, it might be real."

"What, real?" Rémy said. "The Opera Ghost? Indeed not!"

But his face had gone a little paler, and his eyes a tad rounder.

Tora felt giddy, faint.

"The Opera Ghost," she whispered, the moniker like a prayer uttered to a divine God. "Opera Ghost."

"You don't remember Margot, here," said Gabriel. "You never really knew her. She used to dance, oh, what was it? Two years ago? She's been visiting in America, and she'd like to be reinstated."

Rémy looked at her critically. "Reinstated, eh?" he said. "Well, I suppose that's up to the ballet mistress to decide. Run along, girl, and see if you can persuade Mme. Gervais to..."

"This young man," inserted Gabriel, "would like a job as well...ah, what was it you wanted to do again, boy?" he asked, turning to a stupefied Patrick, who realized with a slow, cold horror, despite his lack of understanding for the language, that he was being spoken to.

"Tora," he muttered. "Help."

"Oui, Monsieur Rémy," said Tora quickly, proceeding to tell him that Patrick wished to work as a stage hand.

"Indeed," said Rémy. "Well, I suppose we could use another. Come along with me, young man, and we'll..."

"But, Monsieur Rémy," said Tora, looking stricken, "he does not speak any French."

Rémy stopped dead in his tracks. "No French!" he exclaimed. "Then how do you expect him to work here?"

"I..." stammered Tora. "I...that is, I..."

"Young lady, if he cannot understand the French language, then he cannot learn how to lift the props, or to manage the sets, and he cannot follow commands. How do you propose—"

"He can pick it up," muttered Tora lamely.

Rémy shook his head. "Absolutely not," he said firmly, adjusting his pocket watch. "It is completely out of the question."

Patrick gathered enough from the negative expressions and gestures to know that he would not be allowed to work. "Tora," he said. "Tell them I can sw..."

"It's no good, Patrick," she said. "You'll have to learn at least rudimentary French before you can even do that. You'll have to at least be able to follow simple commands."

"No, no, people who don't know a native country's language work as servants all the time," he protested. "Tell them I can sweep, or clean...or...something."

Tora sighed. She told them.

Rémy looked at him. "He does not seem like a poor man," he said with a sniff. "Whyever would he want to engage himself in such lowly pursuits?"

"He simply wants to have something to occupy his time while here," she said. "We don't have anywhere to stay, you see, and..."

"Ah!" said Rémy sarcastically. "Middle-class tramps?"

"No, not at all," said Tora, alarmed, looking at Gabriel, who shrugged.

Rémy sighed. "Very well, mademoiselle. Go and speak with Mme. Gervais, and I will handle your little friend."

"Merci, Monsieur Rémy," she said with a quick curtsey. "Merci beaucoup."


"Ah! Mlle. Margot," said Madame Gervais, her quick, sharp eyes brightening. "I should have known that was you...but I did not recognize you with your hair grown so long, and your clothes..."

Tora blushed. "My hair has always been long, madame," she said nervously. "I...I was wondering, now that I am here again...might I perhaps be reinstated into the ballet corps?"

Mme. Gervais put her hands together, steepling her fingers, leaning back into her chair. "Ah," she said softly. "But it has been two years, my little one. Have you been keeping up with your practice?"

Tora blanched, shifted. "I...yes, after a fashion. I made sure always to do the stretches every morning, mostly out of habit, and..."

"Show me," said the ballet mistress, her eyes glittering. "Show me, and perhaps we can restore you to your place, ma petite."

Tora cleared her throat.

She wondered, suddenly, with a flush, if...if...

But no.

He was a blurred edge, a preoccupied smudge at the very ends of her brain. If he were here, or even thinking about her, she knew out of pure instinct and prior experience that his presence would be sharp, like the blade of a razor, sleek, sliding. He was only an echo, a faint and vague suggestion. It was clearer than it had been many a time while living across the sea, but...

"Are you deaf, child?" snapped Mme. Gervais. "Dance!"

Tora stumbled, trancelike, and when old habits struck, it was like the fall of rushing water. Accustomed to the familiar, lifelong rhythm, the steps fell into place, like the ticking of a metronome, the chiming of a bell.

She saw the stiff corners turn up on the stern mouth, ever so slightly, as if frightened of showing genuine delight.

She tried to end en pointe, but her shoes crumpled beneath the pressure and she fell to the floor, panting.

Mme. Gervais laughed heartily. "Ah!" she said delightedly. "You forgot you were not in your ballet slippers, non?"

Tora struggled to her feet. "I suppose after that faux pas I will not be allowed to return," she said sullenly.

"You talk like a crazy woman," said the ballet mistress. "I would be mad not to let you return. You were a fine dancer in your day, Tora. A fine dancer. I shall never forget your last performance, in Carmen, when you nearly put my best dancers to shame."

Tora swallowed. She suddenly remembered the precise events leading up to that torrid dance, and the memory made her flush.

"Then," she said slowly, "I am to be reinstated, Madame?"

Mme. Gervais waved a hand dismissively. "If you can pay for it."

Tora froze. Patrick had money, enough money to keep them alive for a few months, but she was sure it would not extend past that.

Mme Gervais smiled hawkishly. "You know, your wealthy patroness has not forgotten you. She was quite devastated when she noticed you were missing, but she had high hopes of your return. Perhaps you might persuade her to pay for your room and board again, if you do not have the means yourself to do so."

Tora sighed. "Oui," she said. "I will speak to her as soon as possible."

"Well," said Mme. Gervais, hoisting herself from her chair in a graceful movement. "That is that, then, isn't it?"

"Oh, merci beaucoup, Madame," said Tora gratefully, grasping her hand.

She shook her off with a grim smile. "Get to the dormitories, foolish girl. Quickly, now! I trust you didn't keep your old Opera clothes?"

Tora blushed. "As a matter of fact, I did," she said slowly, "but they are so old and worn, I thought perhaps..."

"It does not matter," said Mme. Gervais curtly. "I shall have the dressmaker fit you immediately. You have enough money for that, at least, I presume?"

"Oui," said Tora. "But..."

"What about your shoes?" snapped Mme. Gervais. "Your ballet shoes?"

"Oui, I kept my shoes," she said. "I..."

"Do they fit?" asked the woman. "Are they still in suitable condition?"

Tora nodded her head like a mute servant girl, quickly, alarmed at the brusque line of questioning. She had forgotten how intimidating the ballet mistress could be in one of her infamous moods.

"Ah, good," said the woman. "Go and get settled in the dormitories, then, if that's where you'll be staying." She waved with a sharp-fingered hand, nails long and menacing.

"Oui, oui," said Tora rapidly, backing away and hurrying into the hall.

She was in such a hurry to tell the news to Patrick that she used one of the more forgotten corridors, a dark shortcut, and it was there, not paying attention, that she heard a strangled gasp, and stumbled straight into a black, foreboding form.

They went down together, flailing, and she realized, with a panic so sharp it made her throat close and her lips move soundlessly, that the leg beneath her was slender, far too slender for a man, but this was surely no woman.

Oh, great heavens, no. I mean...YES! No! What...

Her hands grasped the folds of the cape, and she fell backwards, letting go with a wrench.

She saw his eyes, his glowing, expressionless eyes, all she could see in the dim light besides the tall black shape, looming above her, and suddenly, without warning, whatever or whoever it was—and her brain was far too excited to discern whether or not it was in fact He—disappeared with a soft whoosh.

Tora lay there, on the cold floor, dirt and dust gathering on her dress, and then she scrabbled upwards with wide eyes and a sorrowful, open mouth.

Had it been He?

But if it was, her mind thought furiously, why did he not say something? Why did he act as though I were simply another unknown ballet rat, wandering the halls? Why did he not...

She looked around, eyes searching, too frightened to call his name, too embarrassed beyond words.

There was nothing. She was alone.