The next few days were filled with seemingly endless hours of practice. There was talk that the managers were close to finding a new leading lady and that the Opera Populaire would re-open as soon as repairs to the stage and stalls were completed. Maman drilled us like soldiers in tulle. She was determined that when the Opera did re-open, we dancers and chorus girls would be at our best. I was so busy I could not find anytime to visit Erik, though I found myself thinking about him often. Many nights, as I lay wearily in my bed, I would wonder how he was

I could not help but feel compassion for the poor man. Alone, deformed, abandoned by the woman he loved enough to kill for. And I wondered....if Christine had not fallen in love with her handsome Vicomte, would she have come to love her Angel of Music?

I wished there was some way to help him. Not there was much I could do. I was just a ballet tart. Well, I could at least visit him once in a while, offer him a little friendship.

Three weeks later, I received a note. It had been posted from London and sent to me at the Opera House. I opened it.

"Dear Meg,

You have always been my true friend and I felt it would be wrong not to let you know that I am well. I cannot tell you all that took place after Don Juan Triumphant, but the Phantom spared my life and that of the Vicomte. Raoul and I were married a week ago in London. We plan to stay in England for now, but I dare not tell you where. I would not want him to know. I am certain he can never forgive me. Tell your mother that I am grateful for all she has done for me. Raoul, too, is thankful for her aid. God bless you, dear friend.

Christine"

I made some excuse to Maman and went to down to the lake. Erik must have heard me coming for he met me in the boat. He was well-dressed, too, in a dark suit and brocaded waistcoat. His face was covered with the same white mask that I had found that night. He was the old, familiar Opera Ghost.

When we had crossed the lake, I told him I had news of Christine.

He turned on me with an eagerness in his eyes that made me regret my words. How would he react to the note? Without a word, I handed it to him.

I watched him as he read it. He said nothing for a long time. I heard only a long, low sigh.

He stared at me, the note trembling in his hand as he sank to his knees.

"You don't know what happened that night," he said.

I shook my head and sat down on the floor near him.

"I forced her to come back here with me; I was going to make her marry me, no matter what. For a time, my love had turned to something else, something darker. I was like a demon in my rage. Christine was frightened, but I didn't care. She told me that she no longer pitied me, that her pity had turned to hate. The Vicomte came looking for her - your mother showed him the way. I was going to kill him. But I told Christine that I would spare him if she would promise to stay with me."

I saw tears forming in his eyes as he spoke. The note lay on the floor, a small white ghost on the dark Persian rug.

"She kissed me then. No one had ever kissed me. No woman, not even my mother. At that moment, I thought she loved me. I thought she really would stay with me. I was wrong. She only choose me because she loved him. The Vicomte had begged her not to sacrifice herself for him. In the end, that's what she did. She loved him enough to accept life with me in exchange for his safety."

I knew that his tears were mirrored by my own.

"How could I hold her to that bargain? I let them go. I knew that she would never come to love me. That she would never see beyond...this."

He made a sad gesture toward his mask and what lay beneath it.

"But, then, she returned," he continued, his voice breaking as he spoke, "For a moment, I thought she would stay. She gave me back the ring - I'd given it to her - and left me. For good."

I reached out and laid my hand on his shoulder. I had no words to comfort him with. I knew little of love myself, except the tragedies and bawdy tales of the operas. And I knew my voice would have been choked with sorrow if I tried to speak.

"Please, no pity," he said.

He rose and helped me to my feet. He turned to one of the shatter mirrors and starred at his broken image..

"Don't pity me, Mademoiselle Giry. Pity makes no difference. It changes nothing."

"If I call you Erik," I said, joining him by the mirror and looking at my own ruined reflection, "should you call me Meg?"

He left the mirror and sat down at the organ.

"You're too old to be called little Meg. Why not Marguerite?"

"You knew my name came from Faust?"

"A guess."

No one had called me Marguerite since I was baptized. It seemed disconcerting to hear him say the name now. I had always been plain Meg, little Meg."

I picked up Christine's note from the floor and held it out to him.

"Do you want to this?"

He took it and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.

"Thank you, Marguerite."

Later, when I emerged from the passageway, I found my mother waiting for me. She explained that the managers had indeed found a new leading lady - an American named Catherine Brown. She was no Christine Daae, Maman explained, but she was very good and eager to sing in Paris. They would be staging Berengaria of Navarre after all. I was to have a solo number as one of the ladies in Saladin's harem.

During the subsequent weeks, I saw little of Erik. We spent hours and hours preparing for the re-opening of the Opera. Rehearsals and costume-fittings took up all of my time; I did not have a free moment to make the trip into the cellars to see him.

Still, I did not forget him. I was certain he would never see beyond his unfulfilled passion for his lost Christine and I felt sorry for the way life had condemned him, the way he had condemned himself to become a living ghost, cut off from the world.

The night before the premiere of Berengaria, I found I could not sleep. I was not nervous. I had grown up in the theater and such events did not trouble me much. Maman, however, was exhausted. She seemed to tire easily these days. Quietly, I got up and looked out the window.

Above the leads and statues of the lower roof, I could see the silver stars and ink-black sky of a late winter night. The starlight threw the shadows across the roof toward the window. In the darkness, I saw a figure walking slowly along the parapet wall at the far side of the roof...a man in a cape. I could not see his face at that distance, but I knew that it was covered by a white mask.

The day of the premiere arrived. I went to see Madame Miron about my costume. She had it ready for me, a gauzy and very sensual dress of purple, trimmed with silver and gold beads. Next to the costume lay a large scarf of the same sheer purple. As usual, Madame Miron had plenty to say.

"Well, the managers ought to be pleased. It's nearly a full house; no one was sure if people would be willing to come back here after all that awful business with the chandelier. I suppose many people are curious you know. You know, they couldn't find anyone to take Box Five, after all. No one's brave enough for that yet!"

In my dressing room, I changed into my costume without help. Maman had her hands full readying the other girls. There were already several bouquets in the room. Most were from dashing young fops who frequented the Opera, looking for mistresses among the ballet and chorus. One lavish arrangement came from a certain Gaston LeCreuse, a wealthy merchant who had been trying rather too hard to attract my attention for the past two seasons.

I also found a soft parcel on the little settee. It had no card. I opened it and found an exquisite silk scarf inside. It was a brilliant thing, a deep turquoise embroidered with shimmering threads of purple, yellow, red, and emerald. It looked like something out of a Persian tale. I knew that it was a gift from Erik.

I wondered if he would be watching the opera. Would he be there, somewhere in the darkened theatre? I quickly laid aside Madame Miron's scarf and draped the Persian silk over my shoulders.

Though she could not compare to Christine, Mademoiselle Brown was indeed very good as Berengaria, wife of the crusading Richard Coeur de Lion. Off-stage, she was a pretty and pleasant young woman. Everyone took a liking to her and wished her much success here.

My solo came just before the Entr'Acte. I played the role of Zadira, a pretty harem girl who sings and dances before Saladin on the eve of a battle. As I performed, I let the Persian scarf twirl around me, the stage lights turning it into a luminous rainbow.

I gave the audience my best that night. I knew that Maman expected it of me and that the Opera Populaire's future depended on the success of Berengaria. And I still hoped that Erik was there, watching us.

Was it just my imagination, then, when I looked up toward Box 5 during the curtain and saw I what I thought was a white mask there in the shadow of the hangings?

I knew that it was not my imagination. When I returned to my little dressing room, I found a single white rose on my dressing table. A white rose tied with a black silk ribbon.