Disclaimer: They don't belong to me.  If I was going to get metaphysical, I'd say they belong to themselves, except they blatantly don't; they're slaves to Leroux and Webber, poor things.  Someday they'll start a rebellion.

Thank you, gentle reviewers, one and all.  If I owned the world, it would be portioned out among you; since I don't, well, it's the thought that counts, right?

Oh, and my apologies for the relative shortness of this chapter.

            "Well, this is just dandy," said Philippe aloud, staring at the body.  "Very thoughtful of the Phantom, really.  What on earth am I supposed to do with this?"

            "We could always -"

            "We're not calling in the police, Raoul.  They couldn't lift him anyways."  Philippe sighed.  "Where's Carlotta when you need her?" 

            "Onstage," said Raoul helpfully, "with the Phantom and my darling Chris-"

            "That would have been a rhetorical question, Raoul."  Philippe sighed again.  "Why me?" he demanded, of the world at large.  "Why?"

            Raoul smiled.  "Because you're sensible, Philippe," he said, "and sensible people are rare at the opera."

            Philippe stared at him.  "That actually made a great deal of sense.  Are you feeling all right?"

            His brother shrugged.  "So where should we put this body?"

            "Let's put him over in the wings," Philippe decided.  "Hopefully no one will see him there until we can deal with this in a reasonable manner." 

            It was at this point that a large roar rose from the audience.  Although Philippe didn't know it, Christine had just unmasked the Phantom.  This flustered one of the stagehands so much that he accidentally pulled open the curtain, revealing Piangi's body – held in a very incriminating manner by Philippe – to the audience.

            Philippe froze.

            There was a moment of dead silence.  Suddenly, Raoul leapt up next to Philippe and shouted, "The Phantom of the Opera has struck again!"

            The crowd did not take much encouraging.  "The Phantom of the Opera!" they twittered.  "The Phantom!"

            Philippe gave his brother a dubious look.  "Was that a quick-thinking act to save my reputation and the de Chagny name, or a petty little piece of revenge on a rival?"

            "A little of both," admitted Raoul sheepishly.  Then he added, rather petulantly, "Anyway, they would have assumed it was him no matter what anyone said.  They always do.  They blamed it on the Phantom of the Opera when the pipes were clogged last month -"

            "Actually, that was his fault," remarked the thin, black-clad woman who materialized next to them.  "That was the day he accidentally dropped his mask in the toilet."

            "Well, that was information I desperately needed," said Philippe wearily.

            "Raoul."  The black-clad woman, whom Philippe now recognized as being the same one he had seen in the halls earlier that day, turned now to the younger de Chagny brother.  "Christine needs you."

            Philippe had had enough.  "No, she doesn't," he snapped, stepping in front of Raoul.  "My brother has gotten into quite enough trouble for one day.  Right now, he's going to go home with me, throw out all the pink outfits he bought, and apologize to the butler for helping to ruin his suit.  I'm sure whatever Christine needs can wait until tomorrow."

            "She's been kidnapped by -"  The black-clad woman lowered her voice mysteriously.  "The Phantom of the Opera . . ."

            "Fine," said Philippe.  "Since he never leaves the Opera House, I'm sure neither he nor Christine is going to go anywhere in the next twenty-four hours.  Raoul, on the other hand, is going home.  He can rescue her first thing in the morning, how does that sound?"

            The woman blinked at him.  "I don't think – where'd he go?"

            Raoul waved cheerily from a box overhead.  "This friendly Persian fellow said he'd lead me to the basement," he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth in order to be heard over the screams of Carlotta, who was not taking Piangi's death at all well.  "I should be back just as soon as I've defeated him, all right?  Philippe, don't wait up – I can take a cab home!"

            "Raoul, you get back here -" shouted Philippe, but it was too late; his brother was gone.  Philippe sighed, and turned to the woman, who looked stunned.

            "But I was going to show him the way -" she murmured.

            "All right," said Philippe, making a brisk decision.  "How does this sound?  Why don't you show me the way, and I'll rescue the silly chit before Raoul needs to get involved."

            The woman eyed him dubiously.  "How exactly do you expect to do that?"

            "How does Raoul expect to do it?" countered Philippe.  "At least I can perhaps talk sense into him, which is more than Raoul will do.  Anyways, the Phantom owes me for leaving me with that dead body on my hands while he went gallivanting off to play at acting."  He glared at Piangi, who had certainly been more trouble than he was worth. 

            "Well," said the woman, grudgingly, "all right.  Just make sure you're out of the way before the angry mob gets there, that's all I'm saying."

            "I'll certainly keep that in mind," said Philippe, and followed the woman in black to the secret entrance to the Phantom's lair.