Hello, readers!

Thank you so, so much for reading "His Consolation Prize." I loved writing it. And, to continue with Erik and Meg's journey, I have published a new story called "Her Heart's Desire." The first chapter is up, now. The first part of the new chapter appears below, as both an epilogue and a preview.

This was so much fun to write, because this is where I officially bridge the gap between POTO and LND. You'll notice that I took a few liberties. Most importantly, it has only been an eight-year gap…not ten. I just didn't want to age the characters quite that much. And I chose certain aspects of both the London version (which I have not seen in its entirety) and the Australian version (which I own). In fact, I listened to both of their versions of "'Til I Hear You Sing" over and over again, whilst writing.

I have a love-hate relationship with that terrible sequel to POTO. As we fanfic writers are known to do, I am rewriting it to redeem the characters I love so much!

Nothing is mine, really, lyrics included, of course. And, aside from your kind reviews, I benefit in no way from these properties.

And now, the preview for "Her Heart's Desire"...

Enjoy!
Jenn

It was sometimes hard to believe how much time had passed since Meg's voyage to America. Eight years…she had lived and performed in New York's Coney Island for eight years, now. A performer's schedule for Mr. Y's Phantasma was an exhausting one, but the morale of the company managed to invigorate them for the next show, the next audience.

Mondays and Tuesdays were their days off. Wednesdays they rehearsed and did two shows. Thursdays were for more rehearsal time and three shows. Fridays had four shows, along with any costume fixes or choreography adjustments that needed to be made. Saturdays were grueling. Six shows. Sundays were better, with only three shows. But afterward, the entire cast was expected to clean and prepare for the upcoming week's schedule.

Acts had been added and then replaced with better forms of entertainment. Songs written by the mysterious Mr. Y were periodically brought forth by the musical director, a position that also saw change. The current director was a portly man in his mid-forties, no family, who seemed to acclimate to Mr. Y's high expectations quite well.

One emcee had not been enough, for the eclectic show. Gangle was joined by Fleck, a dwarf woman with a fearless personality, and Squelch, a tattooed body-builder. It was an odd trio, to any spectator, but after their first appearance onstage together, no one could dispute the complimentary chemistry that each added to their overall performance.

Meg, known as Addie by the cast and crew, was responsible for all of the choreography, and she seemed to be quite content as the lead dancer. Everyone knew that she had a special connection to Mr. Y, as she had been with Phantasma since the beginning, but she would only smile sadly, if asked about the show's producer. Most mornings, she would dive off one of the many docks and swim in the frigid Atlantic, clearing her mind and soothing sore muscles. When it was too cold to do so, she would still walk along the docks or piers, watching the waves roll in with the tide.

And the secretive Mr. Y…was a mere shadow. Most of the company never saw him. They had heard about his half mask, and that he was French, but not much else. Gangle, Fleck, Squelch, Meg, and the musical director were the only ones to ever actually speak to him. They handled all of his business. Occasionally, a tall man in a dark cloak and suit could be seen darting between the rafters.

Once, while Meg had been teaching a routine to the chorus girls, one of them had pointed toward the ceiling. She claimed to have seen a masked face staring down at them. When Meg looked up, she barely caught the flash of cape swirling in the wake of his retreating form.

Usually, she would return to her private rooms at night and unwind from the day's activities. She turned on her Gramophone, had supper, took a bath, turned off the music, read for a bit, and then went to bed. The routine was relaxing, if unsatisfying.

But, sometimes, her program would be interrupted by him.

He would always knock politely, awaiting permission to enter. She never said no. Once inside, they would casually chat about the show, books they had read, or experiences in the city. Sometimes they ate together. On these special occasions, she would bathe quickly, forgo the reading and the music, and make herself ready for him. They would make love slowly or quickly, depending on his mood…

But he still would not kiss her.

Sometimes he would stay the night, holding her protectively. At dawn, she would smile and her morning swim would be canceled. Though, typically, he left her alone for the remainder of the night. She would toss and turn until the first vestiges of daylight invited her to return to the sea. After a ritual swim and a night without his presence, she was able to sleep soundly.

And this, for the most part, was what filled eight years of Meg's life.

It was a Monday, when she finally discovered what the Phantom did on the nights he did not visit.

She was re-reading Le Comte de Monte Cristo. It was the first thing she had purchased in New York, having loved the story so much. The novel was just as wonderful as she remembered, but she still felt the urge to put it down and find the man whom had introduced her to the world of Edmond Dantes.

Creeping out of her bedroom, she took a flashlight and silently made her way down the long hall to the opposite end of the theatre. Only she and Erik had living quarters. Everyone else that was a part of the show lived offsite, either in the supplied dormitory housing or in privately-secured homes. She passed the dressing rooms, one for the men, one for the women. They were spacious and simple, built for function. There were three luxurious rooms for guest performers, which were hardly ever used.

The air was chilly, and her nightgown provided no protection from the draft. She hurried to his room, wishing she had thought to grab her robe.

His door was closed, unsurprisingly, but she heard rustling inside. Holding her breath, she extinguished the light and knelt down to look through the door's keyhole.

Inside, Erik was fully dressed in one of his elegant tuxes. His back was to her, as he sat at his piano. He seemed frustrated, as if he was trying to compose but was unable to solidify the melody. One of his hands raked over the top of his head, through the unnaturally thick black hair. She could see that he was, as always, wearing his mask. Strange, that he would still wear it in a locked room…in solitude.

"Eight long years living a mere façade of life. Eight long years wasting my time on smoke and noise…"

She exhaled and listened to him sing the plaintive tune. Was this the song he had been writing?

He stood from the piano's bench and made his way toward the wall with the curtain. Meg's heart began to pound, at the possibility of finally being able to see what was hidden behind it. She had been in his room many times, but never alone, never without his permission; and some sage part of her mind knew better than to ask him to share that secret with her. He grabbed the tassel and pulled, simultaneously singing.

"My Christine, my Christine…lost and gone, lost and gone…"

Meg blinked. On the wall was a large portrait of her former friend. Christine's beauty was done justice by the artist. She was sure that the Phantom had demanded perfection for the image of his songstress. Meg found herself wondering if her friend still had the youthful beauty that the painting boasted.

He had halted his singing, as he stared at…her. At his monument to Christine. Meg started to stand, feeling satisfaction but not relief. She now knew what he kept hidden from her. But why?

"The day starts," he sang. Meg quickly resumed her spying position. "The day ends, time crawls by. Night steals in, pacing the floor. The moments creep, yet I can't bear to sleep…'til I hear you sing once more."

She listened to him bemoan his current state. The hurt that she felt magnified with every line he sang. Eight years…and he still wasn't over his precious Christine. What had he said to her that first night on the ship? It was so long ago, but she remembered. A "poor replacement." Meg was, essentially, a substitute for Christine. He had never taken it back.

"Let hopes pass, let dreams pass, let them die! Without you, what are they for? I'll always feel no more than halfway real, 'til I hear you sing once more!"

She couldn't be sure when she had started crying, but now she registered the wetness on her cheeks. It was clear that she was still a poor replacement. Still a consolation prize that held no real value. If she was honest with herself, she had always been. He felt nothing for her. Nothing lasting, anyway.

Meg pulled herself up, suddenly weary, and made her way back to her quarters. Her shoulders felt so heavy and her head seemed weighted down.

When she arrived back in her bedroom, she looked over at the copy of Le Comte de Monte Cristo that sat on her nightstand. A sob broke through her lips and she picked it back up. She lovingly stroked the cover and spine. Her fingertips traced the embossed lettering of the title, studying the graceful letters.

Her first purchase in America.

"Haydee was written for that purpose."

"For what purpose?"

"To serve as his hope for a new life, unblemished by his painful past."

"...So, then...does that make me Haydee?"

"Hardly, my dear."

She opened it to the familiar line waiting for her on the very last page. "…all human wisdom is summed up in two words: wait and hope.'"

She walked across the room, threw it into the trash can, crossed back, and fell onto the bed.

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