A/N: I am so sorry for being remiss in updating. But I've been having a terrible argument with myself no I haven't! about which direction to choose for this chapter. If you'd just listen to me, it would have been written already Shuddup! No, you! No, you! My idea is better so – umph! shoves mouthy alter-ego in a box Anyhoo…I hope you enjoy…and as always, my heartfelt thanks to the reviewers.


If there truly was a ghost of the Opera Populaire, it was the pale dancer who went through the motions of living and dancing, but seemed to exist in some kind of private purgatory.

Madame Giry had tried to speak with Rose after having found her in the catacombs. But Rose remained steadfastly mute, offering neither rage nor sorrow in response to the ballet mistress' comfort. Rose had simply remained within herself, choosing the safe haven of dignity in order to deny the weakness she felt she had shown…the vulnerability that he had thrown back in her teeth with those cold, unthinking words.

Madame Giry watched nervously from the wings as three of the dancers began their seductive flamenco with their partners while Christine Daae and Ubaldo Piangi sang "The Point of No Return."

Christine's voice was pure and stretched to its limit by the music, tested on the rack of mad genius but not found wanting. Piangi's voice seemed warped and unable to bend as the music demanded. And the choreography he had mandated for this song! Good heavens, but the pairing was frightening. Piangi – nearly half a foot shorter – running his podgy little hands over Christine's body.

Raoul de Chagny was there, as always, when Christine was on stage now – even when just in rehearsals. Madame Giry saw him sitting up in the managers' box, rubbing his jaw and staring possessively at his fiancée. Madame Giry glanced up at Box 5, which was predictably empty. But somehow…somehow, she knew the composer was keeping an eye on his show.

The duet was nearly at an end, and Christine and Piangi as Don Juan and Aminta were due to retire off stage and allow the flamenco dance to resume. Madame Giry's glance at the opposite wings showed a white-faced Rose, thin and determined, ready to make her entrance. This was the first time Rose would dance his flamenco on stage.

Rose came out in long, sweeping steps, the train of her tight red gown trailing behind her. Madame Giry nearly gasped audibly. This was the Rose as she had seen her before…before…This was the young woman who came alive in dance, who needed no words other than the movement of her body to express exactly what she was thinking.

Every action, every turn of her head, every step, leap and spin was a screaming declaration of passion and pain. Betrayal and desire, innocence and lust, all easily conveyed as if she were speaking.

He watched and felt as if his heart was being strangled in his chest. Here was the accusation he knew he deserved. Here was the recrimination that took the place of angry tears. Here was evidence of one of his most monstrous acts.

And yet, as much pity as he felt, he knew his words had been…true. He desired Christine. Even now, his fingers itched to squeeze the life out of Piangi for touching her. The only consolation was that he had choreographed those movements for himself, to practice so that when he sang to her, when he told her of his love, all he would have to do is think of that…not pay attention to the mechanics of performance.

His eyes remained fixed on the stage, and he found his thoughts dragging back to the tiny dancer who dominated the space with a demanding, commanding presence. Uncomfortable flashes of that lithe frame in his arms, responding ardently to his kisses, his touch, inviting him to an intimacy when no one else had even dared touch his hand…

…except Christine, of course. He had caressed her, even carried her to her virgin bed. But, the unhappy thought came to him of how all touching between them had ceased once she had seen his face…damn her for removing his mask! Rose hadn't, though undoubtedly she was curious.

He almost laughed at that moment. Here he was, the monster to end all monsters, struggling like a lovelorn youth between two women! But a dark sobriety instantly engulfed the moment of levity as Rose sank to her knees, sweeping her arms across the floor in a gesture of agony.

He could take her in his arms, kiss her, caress her, smooth away with his thumb that little wrinkle that appeared between her brows. And somehow, he felt that she would…be content to be held by him…that she would not rip away that mask, that horrible, raping gesture that was the cruelest thing….damn Christine!

But he would have Christine, oh yes he would. This opera was written in his blood, every note was a beat of his heart, and all of it for her. She would throw her lot in with his…or be made to. But he would have her.

In the madness that consumed him, one stray thought of calm and sanity lingered. He would make amends to Rose before chaos consumed them all.


"What!"

Rose's surprise was evident, the single word infused with both confusion and anger.

"Why am I being pulled?" she demanded fiercely, glaring at Madame Giry.

"Because, ma fille, that is what he wants," the older woman said wearily, fighting her own swell of anger.

"It's not fair!" Rose said, choking up on an entirely different emotion.

Madame Giry sighed, fingering the black-edged note she held. "He is often capricious," she commented dryly. "But this time, I do believe it is for the best."

Rose's jaw set, and her eyes were suspiciously bright. "He wrote that flamenco for me," she said between clenched teeth. "I put everything I had into it to show him that I could…I could…I could do it even after…"

"Perhaps that is why," Madame Giry said softly, reaching out to touch the girl's shoulder, noting sadly that she nearly winced at the touch. "Perhaps he wanted you spared the taint of this sordid –"

"It is not sordid!" Rose flashed, knowing in that quiet part of her soul where the storm didn't rage that her words did not match the real reasons for her anger. "It is a work of genius. And if Christine does not understand that, does not understand what he has done, why he –"

"Christine's reasons are her own and not yours to dictate," riposted Madame Giry, interrupting in her turn.

Rose's face crumpled, and she looked small and forlorn.

"Do not mourn for a fate you cannot have and would not want to have," Madame Giry said calmly. "This story was set to play out long before you set foot in this opera house. Be glad he considers you worth saving. It is not a redemption he confers on many. Not even Christine."

Rose, biting back unladylike words for which she didn't know the French equivalent, simply nodded and left Madame Giry's dressing room.

She climbed the stairs to the rotunda. Of late, she had taken to retreating to the strange little dusty attic. Looking down at the intricate pattern of the chandelier had seemed to soothe her, as if her thoughts were captured and reflected in each one of the crystals.

Silently, she pushed open the door, but froze on the threshold.

He looked up just as he took hold of the final rope. It never hurt to be prepared, and his success as the Opera Ghost had been predicated on careful planning and an unending attention to detail.

"What are you doing?" Rose asked, her face going white at the sight of him holding the ropes to the chandelier.

He couldn't very well tell her, and yet, he clearly couldn't deny it, either.

"What do you think I'm doing?" he replied, his voice a low, intense whisper, his eyes fixed on her. Lord God, but she was tiny! He had only seen her from a safe distance since that night of the masquerade ball. But now, in the same room with him, almost close enough for him to touch…she seemed fragile, breakable, even smaller than when he had held her, warm and soft in his arms.

Rose stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. She turned back to face him, her expression unreadable.

The very gracefulness of her step made his breath catch in his throat. Christine, he thought. Remember Christine, Christine, Christine…

"I want you to know that I…forgive you," Rose said, her voice tight and pained, as if each word cost her heart a drop of blood.

Rose, Rose, Rose…the mantra suddenly changed with her words. She forgave him! She pardoned his sin against her! She…she…was so brave, so good, so like the angel he pretended to be.

He remembered the sight of her, the bedraggled, invading angel standing resolutely on the rocky ledge in his lair.

"You are kind," he murmured, the hands that held the rope white-knuckled.

"No," Rose replied instantly. "I am foolish."

There was a moment where it seemed as if one or the other was on the verge of saying something more, where their gazes lingered. Then, suddenly, in a swish of skirt and silk, Rose was gone.

He stood still, a statue in agony. His eyes remained fixed on the door whence she had fled. His mouth worked in a strange grimace, and his hands tightened convulsively on the rope.

Finally, with the sigh of a condemned man, he finished tying off the chandelier.