Author's Note: Thank you to my readers and reviewers! This is another quite short chapter. Again, it felt like a natural place to stop. Please enjoy some Magician!Erik :)

Thank you so much for reading!

Chapter Nine: The Letter

It was amazing what one could find in a props store.

Erik had spent a pleasant afternoon searching for materials for his latest invention, and he had managed to find several pots of paint, wire, glue, paper, some scraps of leather, and a spool of very fine silk thread. A visit to the wardrobe department had yielded a bag of exquisite dyed gold feathers, and a small box of fake jewels. He was sure the wardrobe mistress wouldn't miss them, and even if she did, she would not suspect Erik until the night of the performance. And she wouldn't be able to do anything about it then.

He was basing his latest invention on an illustration he had seen in a collection of fairy tales, one of the books he had used to teach himself to read. Normally fiction held no interest for him, but there was an elegant simplicity and a darkness to these little stories which had charmed and intrigued him. This story had been his favourite. And it was all about music, which made it perfect.

It took him four days to make the creature. He worked all morning and afternoon, and then for an hour after his singing lesson, perfecting the delicate mechanism. Then he spent a further five days consulting his Guide to Ventriloquism, standing at the opposite end of the room to his creation.

It was tricky at first, but he found some of the singing techniques Christine had taught him useful. He would never be a professional ventriloquist, but perhaps he could do just enough to get away with this particular illusion.

He couldn't wait to show Christine.

2.

"No, Christine, no…you have to flick your wrist like this." Erik demonstrated for what she was certain was the hundredth time.

He plucked the golden feather out of mid-air. The gesture was quick, elegant, like clicking his fingers. He held it out to her. It was beautiful. Where had he even managed to find golden feathers?

She frowned. "You make it look so easy."

"That's because it is easy. You just need to focus. Try again."

This time the feather slipped out of her hand and glided to the floor.

"I can't do this, Erik. Can't I try something simpler?"

"This is about as simple as it gets."

"What about the fireballs?"

He stared at her incredulously. "Do you honestly think I'm going to trust you with the fireballs?"

"Well, can't I just find the feather? On the floor somewhere?"

"It won't look as magical. I'm trying to create a bit of theatre."

"Yes. And I'm trying not to make a fool of myself." She passed a hand over her eyes. "Remind me what the significance of the feather is again?"

"It's from a bird," said Erik. "Birds sing."

"And I have it because…?"

"I told you. Theatre."

"Right. So...let's say I've plucked the feather out of mid-air. What happens then?"

"You pluck three more." His eyes glinted with mischief.

"You mean I have to do this four times?"

"Yes. It's like a trail."

"Leading to…?"

His eyes lit up. "Well, I wasn't going to show it to you quite yet, but why wait? Would you like to see?"

"If it helps me make sense of this whole thing, then yes. Please."

"Give me one minute." Erik disappeared into the wings.

He returned a moment later, pushing a large wheeled object hidden beneath a dustsheet. It was half Erik's height, and irregular in shape, just a series of incomprehensible mounds under the cloth.

He trundled it to the middle of the stage and stood to one side. Then, with a flourish, he tore away the sheet.

Christine stared.

It was a bird. An outsized model bird covered in golden plumage, sitting on a wooden trolley. Its feathers were sprinkled with tiny jewels, and it had a pair of rubies for eyes. Its metal beak hung partly open, and its wings were lifted slightly from its body, as if it were preparing to take flight. Its tail was crafted from silver and gold paper supported by wires, like a kite. A wooden handle protruded from one side of its body.

It was beautiful, but there was also something about it that unsettled her. Its beak was a little too sharp, its eyes a little too blood-red and piercing.

She looked at Erik, who was smiling. He clapped his hands together in childish glee. He seemed absolutely delighted with this…thing. Whatever it was.

"Well?" he said. "What do you think?"

"It's…well, it's marvellous, Erik. I've never seen anything quite like it! You're a great artist."

He grinned. "Thank you. And yes, I suppose I am, in a way."

"Er...what is it?"

"It's a Mechanical Nightingale."

She looked at him uncomprehendingly.

"Are you familiar with the stories of Hans Christian Andersen? There's one called 'The Nightingale'. It's about an Emperor who invites a nightingale to sing for him at his court. Later, he's presented with a mechanical nightingale as a gift. He thinks its song is more beautiful than that of the real nightingale, who returns to the forest. But the mechanical bird breaks down. When the Emperor is dying, his courtiers manage to coax the real nightingale to return to court, and she sings for the Emperor. Her sweet song saves his life. Don't you think that's just lovely?"

"I suppose it is," said Christine, who had indeed heard the story and secretly thought it a little sad. "But what's this nightingale actually for?"

"It's going to sing a duet with you."

"It's going to sing with me?" She looked at the bird's handle. "Is it a music box?"

"Yes. In a way." Erik was smiling again. "You see, you're going to be the real nightingale, and I'm going to be the Mechanical Nightingale. I'm going to sing with you, but, all being well, it's going to sound as if my voice is coming from this bird. I'm going to use ventriloquism."

"You know ventriloquism?"

He nodded. "Gerard gave me a book about it. It's actually quite simple. Let me show you."

He disappeared into the wings once again. A moment later, she heard his voice call out: "Turn the handle, Christine!"

She turned the heavy wooden handle three times. There was a moment of stillness, and then the automaton sprang into life.

The bird fluttered its wings and waved its shining tail. Then it opened its beak, and Erik's voice emerged. He was singing the same French folk song which she had heard him practicing that first night at the theatre, his voice sweet and his tone flawless.

It took Christine a moment to realise that the illusion wasn't quite perfect. His voice was coming from the vicinity of the bird, rather than directly inside it. But she had no doubt that anyone sitting in the audience would be fooled, and enchanted. Once again, she was stunned by the flexibility of Erik's voice. How on earth had he managed to learn passable ventriloquism in a matter of weeks?

Erik's song ceased, and the bird grew still.

He emerged from the wings, looking a little nervous. "Well? What do you think?"

"It's wonderful, Erik," she said, and she meant it this time. "How do you make the wings and beak move?"

He smiled. "Ah! I would be betraying my vocation if I told you that."

"You showed me how to do the feather trick."

"That's simple sleight-of-hand. Anyone can do it. Even Robert. Even you."

She pouted. "Oh, thank you very much."

"I'm teasing."

"Hmm. I'll be the judge of that." She was quiet for a minute, looking at the bird. Yes, it was marvellous, but it was still troubling her. "Erik, wouldn't it be better to sing the duet where you can be seen? People will want to know where the voice is coming from, surely? You can still use your bird. You can throw your voice and make it talk."

He was silent for a moment. Then he sighed. "I fully intend to appear onstage. I have even asked for a new costume. If the first song goes well, I'll sing another song where they can all see me. A solo, like I've promised Gerard. But…I need to work up to it. The bird is…well, it's a disguise for me. If my nerves get the better of me, I'll have something to hide behind. Do you understand?"

Another thing to hide behind, she thought, looking at the mask. But then she dismissed the thought as cruel. If this was what it took to get Erik singing in front of other people, she would have to support it. She was his teacher, after all.

She nodded. "I understand."

He visibly relaxed. "Thank you. Now please can we work on some music?"

She smiled. "Anything to avoid practising that impossible feather trick again."

3.

Christine arrived at the theatre the following evening to find Simon manning the stage door.

"Good evening, Miss Daae. A letter arrived for you today."

Who could possibly be writing to her? She wasn't expecting anything. Unless it was some communication from the Garnier…But no, it couldn't be. She had made her intentions quite clear to the management.

Simon handed her an envelope. She looked at the address written in that familiar, elegant handwriting, and felt the blood rush from her face.

"Are you quite well, Miss?" said Simon, frowning at her.

"I'm…fine," she croaked. "Thank you, Simon."

She hurried to her dressing room and placed the letter upon the table.

She would not look at it. Not yet. She would wait until after the performance, or, even better, until she got home.

Why was he writing to her? No good could come of it now, no good at all.

She couldn't wait until after the performance. Perhaps that had been part of the problem in Paris. She had always been so eager to hear from him, to see him.

She tore open the envelope and sank onto her chair.

My Dearest Christine,

I do hope this letter finds you well.

Perhaps that's too formal. I'm sorry. I'm not sure what tone I should use, now.

My family never mention you, and until this morning I had no idea of your whereabouts. I'm currently residing at my sister's house just outside Rouen, and no news reaches us here. Not by the usual channels, anyway. I haven't seen a newspaper in weeks.

The day after you left Paris, I went to see Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin. The poor fellows went quite pale when they saw me. I suppose they had just cause to, having lost both their patron and their star in such rapid succession. I begged them to tell me where you had gone, but they swore they did not know.

But this morning I received a note from my dear Aunt in London. She has always doted on me, and she remembers our time at Perros Guirec, and you, with great fondness. She enclosed a clipping from The London Times, a review of your triumphant performance at this Grand Music Hall. Perhaps she cares not a jot for the opinions of the rest of my family, or perhaps they've deliberately kept her in the dark. Either way, I'm forever grateful to her.

I have not seen my brother. Perhaps one day I'll be able to forgive him for what he did to us, but that time is not now.

My darling Lotte, I know you told me not to find you, or think of you. And I've tried, believe me. But it's too impossible.

Please, if you can, send me a short reply. I just want to know that you're safe and happy. I worry about you, performing at a music hall. Is it entirely civilised? Are you alone in the city, or do you have friends? But perhaps I'm worrying needlessly and London holds no fear for you. You were always so much stronger than me.

I'm sorry things ended the way they did. I hope, even if we never see each other again, that we at least part as friends.

All my love, always,

Your Raoul