We walked back to the road and the carriage was indeed there. Erik helped me in and then settled into the corner.

"It will be spring before we know it," I said, for no particular reason. I only wanted to him to talk to me.

"Yes, the Opera season will be ending soon."

When he said that, I realized that I was eager for it to end. For the first time, I looked forward to the beginning of Lent.

I was not used to long outings and I found that I was getting sleepy. Erik slid closer to me and let me rest my head on his shoulder. I didn't wake up until we reached the Opera House.

It was very late, but there was something I wanted to say before I prepared for bed. He was seated at the organ. He never played it, but sometimes I found him there, his hands resting lightly on the keys. A score lay on his knee, a pen was in his hand.

"Erik, if you aren't too tired, I would like to talk to you. Just for a few minutes."

He nodded, laying aside the music and his pen. I drew an ottoman up beside the organ and sat before him..

"Erik, I don't want to stay with the Opera company."

"I suspected as much. You've performed better than ever these past week, but I know your heart isn't in it. I watched you and I sensed it."

He leaned back in his chair and I noticed that he was not wearing Christine's ring.

"Your mother certainly had grand ambitions for you," he continued.

"They were her dreams. I thought they were mine, too. But they are not."

I rose to retire, but there was one more thing to be said.

"Erik, thank you for today."

In the morning, I went to see Messieurs Firmin and Andre. I explained to them that I no longer wished to remain with the Opera and that I did not wish to sign a contract for the following season.

I was surprised by their sincerity when they expressed their regrets.

"We will, of course, see you at the ball. And you are always welcome at the Opera Populaire, you know."

After I left the managers, I went to see Monsieur Reyer. Of all of the people who lived or worked at the Opera Populaire, I think he was my favorite. He had always been there, longer even than Maman. I wanted to tell him in person that I would not be returning next season.

"I'll be sorry to lose you, but I understand. Your heart isn't in it, n'est-ce pas?"

I smiled and nodded. I knew Reyer would not argue with me or try to dissuade me from leaving.

"By the way, if you will forgive an old man's curiousity, where have you been all this time? I know you gave up the apartment..."

"I am staying with a friend."

It was the truth. Nothing more or less.

"We will, of course, see you at the Mardi Gras ball."

"Oh, the ball! I had forgotten!"

M. Reyer laughed.

"You forgot? You Opera girls never forget the masquerades! You must be in madly love with someone, Mademoiselle Giry."

As if to silently confirm the truth of Reyer's words, my eyes happened to fall on an opera score in a black portfolio. The gilt letters on the cover read:

Don Juan Triumphant - O.G.

I wondered why he kept a copy of Erik's mysterious opera.

I thought of Don Juan Triumphant, remembering how the audience puzzled over the dark and harsh passion emotions in its music. Music that he had written for Christine Daae.

I could still see him there on the stage, singing with her, singing to her. I could still see the passion in his face. I remembered how, as their duet ended, he did not let her go. He held her close, caressing her face. And he begged her, pleaded with her.

Save me, lead me from my solitude...that's all I ask ...

It was at that moment that she tore away his mask.

I paused in the hallway; it was as if that memory was shattering my heart.

The Masked Ball held on the eve of Ash Wednesday always marked the end of the Opera season. It was a wonderful party and, no doubt, there were many people who were glad to see this season end.

After supper, I mentioned it to Erik.

"Do you plan to attend," he asked me.

"Yes, it's probably the last one I will go to. Will you be there?"

"Me? Surely, you remember that I was there the last time," he snapped.

As if anyone who had seen Red Death could forget his sudden appearance on the grand staircase, his burning eyes beneath the skull-like mask, his taunts to Carlotta, Piangi, and the managers. Nor could I forget the look in his eyes when he faced Christine, newly engaged to his Vicomte.

Perhaps I had been wrong to suggest, but he spoke again.

"They all think I am dead. It would be a fine joke on the managers if their late Ghost were to attend. They would never know that, among their guests, behind one of the masks was their old Phantom."

He toyed idly with the fringe of my black shawl which lay over arm of the settee.

"Do you want me there, Marguerite?"

"It would make me very happy," I admitted.

"Then I will be there."

The next morning, I went to Madam Miron about a dress. She often made masquerade costumes for Maman and for me.

She showed me a bolt of rich crimson silk. She thought it would suit my dark brown hair and fair skin. I did not like it; it was too bold and it made me think of the scarlet trappings of Don Juan Triumphant. Also, I had decided I would wear the Persian shawl that Erik had given me; the crimson silk would clash with it.

"Very well," Madam said, a bit exasperated, "it's your dress, anyway."

I chose the fabric I wanted and gave Madam a sketch of what I wanted. She seemed surprised by my picture.

"It's quite good, little Giry. Perhaps, since you are no longer with the chorus, you'd like to design some of the costumes."

I laughed and shook my head at the suggestion.

On Fat Tuesday, I went to Madam Miron and she helped me into the gown. I didn't want Erik to see my costume until my toilet was completed so I borrowed a long robe and covered the dress with it.

Once in my room, I finished my preparations. The dress was of a cream-colored silk. It was in the old Empire style with short sleeves and a skirt sweeping back to a slight train. The dress was almost stark in it plain lines. I swept my hair back into a low chignon and fasten my pearl necklace around my throat. It matched the silk perfectly. I draped the vivid Persian shawl over my arms and put on my mask, a cream silk domino trimmed with tiny beads in the same rich colors as the shawl. I drew on my gloves and went down into Erik's study.

A bouquet of white roses lay on a little table beside the desk. I fastened one to my hair.

He was adjusting his mask and did not see me enter. I thought I would faint like a silly little ballet rat when I saw him. His costume was very similar to the Red Death outfit, but in a lush black velvet, trimmed with gold and silver embroidery. He put on his cloak and turned to face me.

"You look very beautiful, Marguerite"

He made an elegant bow and offered me his arm.

We made our way along one of the marble galleries overlooking the foyer. The Opera House was, as it always was on Fat Tuesday, filled with merry guests. As we walked toward the mezzanine, I realized we were attracting many curious and admiring glances.

We soon encountered Messieurs Firmin and Andre.

Monsiuer Firmin was dressed as a troubadour and Andre was...well, I am not sure exactly what his costume represented!

They were both in high spirits and greeted me with enthusiasm.

"Mademoiselle Giry, you look exquisite," said Firmin, raising his champagne glass as if to toast me.

"We are so glad you decided to come," added Andre, "and, my dear, who is your companion?"

I thought I should collapse with laughter at their ignorance and at the sardonic gleam in Erik's eye.

"Ah, Monsiuer Andre, you must guess," I said quickly and lightly, "I have promised him not to tell."

We moved continued down to the next landing. Behind me, I heard a young woman's voice...it sounded like Mirelle.

"Is that Meg Giry? She looks so different!"

Another young woman joined her.

"And who is that man with her. He is beautiful!"

If only they knew, I thought.

We had just reached the mezzanine when I saw Christine and Raoul de Chagny in the foyer.

I had never imagined that they would return to the Opera.