Thank you to His Midnight Music, Mominator124, Child of Dreams, MarilynKC, lindaweng, SloaneDestler, Phantomgirl24, Batty Dings, peanutpup, and Teen543 for the lovely reviews!

Note: Someone expressed confusion over why Christine trusts the Phantom in the last chapter, why she seems in her letter not to suspect him of kidnapping Isabelle. All I can say is look back at chapter 8 :)

Chapter 10

Christine

I was triumphant.

I looked at the letter he'd left in response to mine. It had taken everything in me not to cringe while writing out my loneliness and sorrow. Not only because it made me sound desperate to a man who may or may not be a kidnapper.

But because the words weren't entirely a lie.

I'd opened the envelope, anxious to see if he'd taken the bait or if my words had no effect.

Dear Christine,

I do understand. Loneliness is a near constant in my life.

If a friend is what you need, then I can fill that role. I will continue to write to you promptly and without fail.

Sincerely yours,

Erik

I wasn't sure whether to feel guilty...or disgusted. If he was innocent, innocent of anything nefarious, then this was cruel. On some level, it was incredibly mean to trick him this way. But if he was responsible for Isabelle's disappearance, then his words were eye-roll worthy at best and evil at worst. So, I suppose, until I found out, I shouldn't feel too badly.

From the other side of my bedroom, Meg stirred in her bed. I took the letter out from where I was hiding it in the pages of a book and placed it back into its envelope, stuffing it with the others in the bottom drawer of my dresser, under my clothes. It was late, nearing midnight, and I was not tired. I was also thirsty.

Still in my nightgown, I left the bedroom for the kitchen, where I was surprised to find Madame awake, sipping coffee and reading a novel at the dining table. She saw me and smiled.

"Unable to sleep?" she asked.

I shook my head. "Just wanting some tea."

"This late?"

I smiled back. "All right, yes. I am unable to sleep."

She nodded knowingly. "That disappearance has Meg shaken as well."

"It's disturbing to say the least." I wet my lips. "Do you have any ideas of who it might be?"

"Not a clue. I wish I did. It could be someone right in front of us."

Or someone in the rafters, I wanted to add, but didn't. I sighed and crossed to the stove, where the tea kettle was waiting. I filled it with water and put it on the heat. I drummed my fingers on the counter, a question itching in my mind and throat.

"Madame?" I asked, and turned to her.

She'd brought her attention back to her book, and didn't move her eyes from the page. "Christine?"

"Do you actually believe in the Opera Ghost?"

At that, she did look up. She paused. "Yes."

I opened my mouth, inhaling air to speak.

"But," she continued, "I don't believe he is actually a ghost."

My breath was caught in my chest. I stared at her, waiting for her to continue.

"I believe he is an angel. A fallen angel, perhaps. One that still seeks to do good amongst the chaos he causes."

I deflated with an outbreath. I blinked at her and felt a stitch form in between my eyebrows. "Madame?"

"Well, he cannot be a ghost. I don't believe in such foolishness. But angels exist, don't they, Christine?"

I stared at her. She said it so Madame-like - no-nonsense and straightforward. Without question. "Yes."

"And fallen angels exist, at least in theory?"

"Yes, I suppose."

"Then who's to say this Phantom is not actually a fallen angel, posing as a ghost?"

"Why an angel?" I said softly. "What if he is just a man?"

"No mortal man can do the things he does. No man can make his voice appear right next to your ear when he isn't there at all."

I raised my brows. "You've heard him do that?"

"Many times." She considered me for a moment, then closed her book. She adjusted her glasses. "I am going to tell you something I have only ever told Meg."

I sat at the table with her, ready to listen.

"When Monsieur Giry died a year after the theatre's opening, I was beside myself with grief. My husband been not just a spouse, but a friend - my dearest friend. So his loss made me...well. I lost my mind, Christine, I really did. And not even my daughter made life seem worth living. The darkness simply took over one day; after rehearsal, I went to the roof, fully prepared to jump."

I sucked in a breath. "Madame-"

She held up a hand, not to be pitied. "But a voice - his voice - stopped me. He told me to step away. He told me that the theatre would suffer without me, that my daughter would too. And he said it as though he was directly to my right, though when I turned to look, he wasn't there. No one was there. Anywhere. I was the only one on the roof."

I stared at her, taking in her words.

"That was the beginning of my relaying his messages to the staff. Every so often, he will still speak in my ear. We will talk. Not often, but it happens." She smiled. "Your tea is about to whistle."

Indeed, three seconds later, the screeching of the kettle began. I quickly removed it from the heat, then looked back at her.

"Thank you," I said, "for telling me."

"I need no thanks. I do not see myself as weak, so telling you was not an act of courage."

I nodded, and turned back to the kettle.

And as I made the tea, her words - the ones regarding her speaking verbally to the Phantom, how he whispered into her ear, how they held entire conversations without him ever actually physically revealing himself to her - churned in my mind. They had to have an explanation. There had to be some trick.

Whatever the case, her words also gave me an idea.

I poured the tea. I brought the cup back to the bedroom I shared with my surrogate sister, and I pulled out a sheet of paper and pen. I set a book on my lap and, in the candlelight, began to write my humble request.