And guess who shows up in this chapter!

Disclaimer: Lyra, Phillippe, Rufus, and the baby all belong to me. Everyone else is property of someone else. The song was written by the incomprable Billy Joel, but it fits so I used it! (Thanks Billy!)

I put down the letter and rested my head in my hands. This was ridiculous, and all my fault. I should have told her about my past long ago, that way at least she wouldn't be afraid I wouldn't take her back. The problem was that the coast wasn't clear. The Thernandiers were not happy. In fact, they were furious. There were men all over Paris, searching for Angens. For the first time, I was truly pleased that I didn't have a last name. Those things had suddenly become dangerous. Well, at least now I didn't have to worry about that school. Now we both had a whole new set of worries. For instance, where was she? She had been going up the Eastern side of the country... What would she eat?

There was a bell. -Nadir again.- I thought. Sure enough, in a few more minutes he came in.

"Erik, is there any more news?"

"Yes, there is." I handed him the note.

He read it slowly, and I got up to pace the room.

"Merde!" he whispered. -And in French!- I thought, amused.

"Well, at least she'll see the world now, eh daroga? She hated that school, but at least it was warm and had food. She doesn't have anything now, Nadir. Her clothes were delivered to the office yesterday."

"I'm sorry Erik. I had no idea that this would happen. Can you find her?"

"I'll have to try, won't I?"

"And, de Changy... Is it?"

"Yes it is, Nadir. They had a child, no more than a year after she left. He's named after the late Comte."

"So they know then."

I looked at him, exasperated. "Of course they do, Nadir. Neither one of them is stupid."

He snorted.

"Well, not THAT stupid."

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I was quite pleased with the house. It was a wonderful find, just outside of a small town, and yet reclusive enough to be extremely hard to find. It must have been someone's summer cottage at some point, it had a wonderful little pond in the back and a very convenient garden which, although it had run a bit wild, produced enough to feed two people at least. The only trouble I would have was with real meat. Hunting was not one of the things I had learned.

I tried to get along as well as I could. I fixed up the house, I was quite good at that by now, and chose a room to live in. To my delight, I found a box of old books in the attic, which I attacked with a vengeance. I fished and gardened. I did anything to stop myself from thinking about the dance. It didn't work.

I didn't tell Father where I was in that letter. I very well could have! He would have come out here and either taken me back or lived with me. But, I didn't want to go back, or even to be around anyone. I was scared, and ashamed. So, I lived in solitude, stole a few steaks from the populace, and battled my guilt.

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"Phillippe! Oh my darling, I'm so glad you're home!"

"Mama!" I cried in joy. "Oh, Mama!"

"Ah! Our little scholar back again." Papa entered into our hug. "How are you Phillippe?"

"I'm good."

"And how was school?"

"Oh, it was wonderful! There was a dance, a few days ago, and I had to go because there wasn't anybody going to be at the school, and the dance was at a GIRL'S school. So I went, and I was really scared, and there was this girl who came and talked to me. She was really nice Mama, she reminded me of you!"

"Did she?" said Mama with a smile.

"Yeah. And she listened to everything I said and talked to me. And Mama, she wore a MASK!"

The smiles that Mama and Papa had worn dissappeared.

"Was it a masked dance then?" asked Papa.

"Oh, no she was the only one there wearing a mask. But you told me never to make fun of people who are different, so I didn't. Then she sent me away, when the big girl came over and made fun."

"She did?" said Mama. "And what was this masked girl's name?"

"Ummm... Lyra. Yeah, that's it Lyra... Angen, from Paris. She didn't have a Mama though, just a Papa. She was really nice, she had a pretty voice."

"Did she?" Mama wasn't happy at all now.

"Why don't you go say hello to Rufus? He's missed you." Papa smiled.

"Okay!" I grinned and ran out.

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As soon as he was gone to play with the Alastian, I sank into a chair. Raoul did the same, his head in his hands, the poor dear.

"Surely not, Raoul. I mean, it couldn't be."

"Yes it could, Christine. Think about it. A girl from Paris, named ANGEn, with a beautiful voice and a mask. She has to be related to him somehow. There are just too many coincidences."

"The poor girl. And Phillippe said that she was picked on by an older student. Wait, you don't think that she's the one that..."

"That the Thernandiers are looking for? Probably. She probably has a temper that knows no bounds. It would be extremely easy for someone with a temper like that to slap someone too hard. Then, who is to say if it was deliberate or not. I don't know, she might have sent Phillippe away BECAUSE she wanted to commit murder. And now there's a reward offered for her. Anyway, there's nothing we can do. Forget about her. Let's go play with Phillippe and Rufus. We still have to tell Phillippe about his special present."

I rubbed my stomach, which was so large at the moment that I was sure that it would pop. "Yes, he always wanted a little sister."

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It was lonely in the cabin. Very lonely. But I couldn't go into town, they would arrest me! So, I decided to stop being Lyra, who was hunted. I went out to the pond, and cut off my hair with my dagger, trimming it with the pond as a mirror. I was twelve and a half, so there was no need for me to do anything else. I changed my name to Luke, and went into town.

All told, I fit in pretty easily. I got into a few fights, and when I won I became an accepted member of street rat society. In no time, I was a scuffling, stealing, swearing, no-good hooligan, and I was good at it. I learned a lot from those guys, though most of it wouldn't be considered wisdom. The mask was actually benifitial, it gave me a "tough" look that no one else had

But there is only so much that can be gotten out of such a relationship. True, my pick pocketing improved enormously, and my vocabulary expanded at a rate that was unbelievable. Yet, I wasn't happy. The truth was that I was homesick. I took to watching the town's families, especially the mothers. It suddenly hit me that I had no idea if my own mother was even alive any more. She had been cruel, and a drunk, but I had loved her. Then, I had forgotten her for years. I quietly added this guilt into my pile.

There was one family in particular that I loved to watch. They lived out of town, in a mansion. I had seen Notre Dame and all of the houses of the rich in Paris, but this place was enough to take even my breath away. It was huge. The grounds extended for miles in every direction. In order to actually see anyone, I had to dissappear at about noon and hike until almost three o'clock. Then, I would hide up in a tree above the walking path, and wait.

The mother took a walk at about three thirty everyday. She was pretty enough, with skin that was only beginning to show age, and hair that fell in waves of brown ringlets. However, it was her joy with the world that made her beautiful. The first time I saw her, one February morning when I was still out of breath from scampering up the tree, I thought, illogically, of angels.

In better weather, she would walk out, her newborn in her arms and her dog at her heels, to a bench that curled luxuriously around a large tree just a little ways from the one I perched in. There, she would read, or write letters, or even, sometimes, just sit and think. Then, at about four, her husband would join her. He was undeniably handsome, and just as happy as she was. They would sit and talk for quite a while, in subdued tones that, hard as I tried, I could not hear. They would laugh and whisper to each other, so in love that it was almost disgusting. Eventually they would get up and walk to the house.

From the snippets I did hear, I knew that they had a son away at school, and they couldn't wait for summer break to start so that he could meet his brother. The man, who I nicknamed Jacque, said something about hoping that he wouldn't be dissappointed that he didn't get a girl instead. They laughed at that.

Then one day, the mother, who I had named Genevieve, came rushing out before I had even settled on my limb. She was sobbing madly, a bundle flopping in her arms. A fold of the cloth fell back, and I saw the bloated face of the baby, obviously dead. I gasped, and tried desperately not to cry. That would only give me away. All I managed was to hold back the sobs that threatened to rack my body and let the tears go. This wasn't right. I had never seen a family that deserved this less.

She sat on the bench and began to rock slowly back and foreward, still clutching the little bundle to her heart. Then, with an unnatural suddeness, she stopped. She looked down at her baby and began to croon something to it. This wasn't good. I slowly began to climb though the trees, trying to hear her.

"It's alright little one," she moaned. "Shhh, it's okay. You musn't cry so. Your father will hear you, and he will be ashamed. Shh."

-Oh good Lord, no. She's mad!-

"Hush, darling. You're just tired. So am I. So tired." She began to sing.

Goodnight, my angel, time to close your eyes And save these questions for another day. I think I know what you've been asking me. I think you know what I've been trying to say. I promised I would never leave you, And you should always know Wherever you may go No matter where you are I never will be far away.

Goodnight my angel, now it's time to sleep And still so many things I want to say. Remember all the songs you sang for me When we went sailing on an emerald bay. And like a boat out on the ocean I'm rocking you to sleep. The water's dark and deep inside this ancient heart You'll always be a part of me.

Goodnight my angel, now it's time to dream, And dream how wonderful your life will be. Someday your child may cry, and if you sing this lullabye There in your heart there will always be a part of me.

Someday we'll all be gone but lullabyes go on and on. They never die, That's how you and I will be.

Her voice, which was as beautiful as the sunrise, broke at that last bit. She slumped over the baby and began to cry again. "Oh Father!" she cried, and then in a softer tone that seemed to rip out from inside her, "Oh Angel!"

I slumped against the trunk, almost directly above her. I knew that song. Hadn't Father sang that many times, after I was in bed? I would lie, looking up at the ceiling and listening to him singing that. I just never knew who he was singing for.

The father, Jacque, ran down the path. She looked up, gave a cry, and flew into his arms. He held her, and the dead baby, in his arms, stroking her hair. After a few moments, I could just barely hear him whisper, "Oh, Christine."

I fell out of the tree.

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