"You're going to Marseilles with a Russian Count! Cecily!" Linnea was moving methodically through Cecily's room, helping her to pack. Linnea's room had been mostly packed for weeks, the excitement of her upcoming marriage having fueled her efforts.

"Not exactly with the Count, Linnea. With his, well, friend, I suppose. I'm not really sure what to call Nicholai's relationship with the Count."

Linnea raised an eyebrow and smirked. "I don't think it's Nicholai's relationship with the Count that we should be trying to name at the moment."

"Linnea!" Cecily cried in protest, but the light in her eyes and the blush on her cheek betrayed her. She lowered her voice. "What do you think?"

"I think he is quite a fine man. He speaks French, you speak Russian, so communication is not an issue, and he obviously has good connections," Linnea said airily.

Cecily threw a pillow at her friend. "Oh stop that! You know what I mean!"

Linnea sat down next to her friend. "I think he loves you Cecily, and he's only met you a few times."

"Truly?"

"Of course!" Linnea bounced back off the bed and returned to the armoire. She began to rummage through the various dresses. "No, no, too stuffy. No, this is for work. Hardly. No, and what is this?" Linnea pulled a dress from the back of the wardrobe, a dress that Cecily had not seen in a very long time. "I've never seen this before! It's beautiful, wherever did you get it?"

The dress was still the color of the sea before a storm, and time had not diminished its beauty. She felt a pang in her heart at the memory of simpler times, but pushed them away. "You've seen it before. It was so long ago though, soon after I arrived here. Erik sent it to me. Remember?"

"Ah, yes, Erik. Whatever happened to him?" She began to fold the dress into the chest.

"He…" Cecily paused. What had happened to him? "He was not the man I thought he was."

"Ah, I see." If only she did see! If only someone else knew and understood, that she loved the man who caused everyone such pain. That she wished he would forget Christine for far more reasons than anyone else!

Linnea continued to go through Cecily's wardrobe, picking and choosing. Finally, she closed the lid on the trunk. "All done." She sat next to Cecily again. Both of their stomachs were turning, though neither wanted to admit it.

"All done," Cecily repeated, and both knew she was not referring to the packing. She took a deep breath. "I have something for you, Linnea." She stood slowly, leaning on her cane.

"Cecily, you didn't have to…"

"I know," she said quietly, and Linnea didn't protest again. "Here." She handed Linnea a small notebook wrapped with cord.

"What is it?"

"A story." Cecily looked away from her friend for a moment, and her eyes found the hidden panel, but only for a moment.

"I didn't know you wrote stories!"

"I don't." Linnea looked at her questioningly. "You will understand better when you read it. But don't read it until you've settled in. I think it will be best read like that. When you are happy."

Linnea looked at the volume with interest and concern. Cecily was melancholy, to be sure, and she hated leaving her in such a state. She was tempted to take the book back to her room and read the whole thing that evening, but she would honor Cecily's request. Surely there was no harm in waiting to read a simple story! "Thank you, Cecily. Thank you so much." The two women embraced, then Linnea went to the door. I suppose we both need our sleep then. I will see you tomorrow?"

Cecily squeezed her hand. "Of course. Sleep well, Linnea."

"Good night, Cecily."

The door closed behind Linnea, and Cecily collapsed onto the bed. Two other copies of the story lay on her desk, similarly packaged. One label was blank, the other had only an S written on it. She had now told someone of her connection to the Phantom of the Opera had now been explained to someone, but it was a story she could not simply tell. Linnea would read the tale and Cecily's explanation, and that knowledge raised a bit of burden from Cecily's shoulders.

Laying down, she pushed her mind to the next day rather than linger on lost years. Tomorrow she would be strong. She would not cry. She would not look back. She would avert her gaze from the opera house, and Paris with it, and look only toward the south, to a house by the sea in Marseilles.