Amelia is trying to be a good little author and be more responsible with her updates. Cookies and dog biscuits are appreciated. Here we are back to our main storyline -) I promised we'ed see some Erik soon, didn't I. Well, we do…but more daroga! Yes, dagoralove, everyone! Sing it with me!

Anyways…

Vanessa (Phantom of the Costume Closet)- ah, you shall see! All in due time, m'dear, all in due time! And if you don't give me my book back, I will rally the rocks' families against you! Mwa ha ha!

JeanMarie- indeed, there is another version of POTO written by British author Susan Kay. It is a retelling entitled "Phantom" that follows Erik pretty much from the moment he's expelled from the womb to the moment he goes up to glory. It's very popular in the fandom, and considered more or less accepted cannon. I personally have mixed feelings about it, I loved parts of it, but other parts of it really destroyed some things for me. Do read it, though, if you can get your hands on a copy. It's out of print, so the library is your best bet, or you can try or E-bay.

doe eyed dryad- interesting that you should ask that…

NADIR

I was awoken by the pale shafts of broken light filtering in through my small, dusty, grimy window. The morning shimmered like pale gold, bathing the scene with an antique, sepia toned atmosphere. A smell like a dusty library lingered in the early air as I inhaled my first waking breath of the day.

I rolled over and groaned aloud. Not even this picturesque ambiance was enough to make me want even vaguely to get out of bed. I fumbled around on the pine night table for my still-open pocket watch, gazing at it with bleary eyes. It was quite past the "decent hour"-that magical time of day between eight o'clock in the morning and nine at night when all respectable business was expected to be done- and yet, I saw no reason to get up. Erik wasn't expecting me until mid afternoon, and, as usual, I had no other engagements that day. Might as well sleep however long I pleased.

Reaching out as far as I could, I managed to slam the shutters on the little window shut without rising from my languid position. Contented, I was about to roll over and lose myself once more in the swirling abyss of darkness and dreams, when a jarring blow was struck to the door of my flat.

I reacted with such surprise it was a miracle of Allah I didn't fall straight out of my bed. Sitting up, I rubbed my eyes, and contemplated whether or not I had actually heard the knock. A second round of polite knocking dispelled all of my doubt. I sprang out of bed, cheeks hot, and bounded over to my wardrobe. "Un moment!" I called breathlessly, as I hurried to make myself decent.

Awkwardly bounding into the next room while still buttoning up my trousers, I wondered who might be knocking. True, it wasn't exactly early, per se, but I had little business with anyone in Paris aside from Erik, who had no reason come here anyway. Besides, if he really wanted something, he wouldn't have waited so patiently. He would have blown down the door by the time I had gotten my shirt on.

"Désolé! I'm very sorry!" I apologized hastily as I opened the door. A woman stood there, in relatively simple dress. She had a headfull of orange and grey frizz, and wore wire-framed spectacles that obscured her rather large eyes. She looked old enough to be mine or Erik's mother, in her seventies at least. Her skin was gnarled and spotted with age, and it draped over a frame that was as skeletal in appearance as Erik's, though she was slightly taller than either of us.

"I am Marie Perrault," she stated. Her voice quavered with an inherent and seemingly ever-present timidity.

"Nadir Kahn," I replied cordially, shaking her hand, which felt like its brittle bones might snap in my firm grip. Against the warm brown of my own skin, her flesh appeared a sickly grey.

"You are a friend of Erik's?" she asked. She eyed my tousled, thinning grey hair and wrinkled attire with politely concealed distaste, however, as reading emotions was a part of my profession, it was rather transparent to my keen sight.

"Yes," I replied, trying vainly to smooth a crease in my shirt. "Please forgive my appearance. I was caught rather off guard, still in bed actually."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, her eyes growing even rounder, "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to wake you…"

"No, no, it's quite alright. I'm getting rather lazy lately; it's good for me to be out and about before lunchtime." I gave a laugh that sounded rather more forced than I would have liked.

She returned it with an equally forced chuckle of her own. "Come in! Come in!" I said, leading her to a seat on the sofa. "Can I get you some tea?"

"No thank you," she replied. I stopped, confused. Invite the lady in, offer her tea, she didn't want any, now what was I supposed to do? Awkwardly, I sat down adjacent to her, changing positions several times before finally speaking.

"So…you've come to help Erik with the baby?" I asked, attempting to drum up some conversation.

"Yes…" she replied, slowly. Then, "If it is not too much to ask, Monsieur…how did Erik happen to come by a child?"

"She is his…" I answered, equally cautious. "There was…a woman, a woman that…that undoubtedly felt something for him…though…though I…I myself am not certain that it was indeed…indeed, well…love. And together, they had a child. But she left…she returned to her world, the man that she truly loved, and Erik has the girl."

Marie Perrault looked slightly shocked. "Pardon me, Monsieur…a woman...consorted…with Erik?"

I nodded slowly.

There was an awkward pause.

"So," I began, rather louder and more sharply than I had intended to, "how is it that you came to meet Erik?"

"I was a friend of his mother's," replied Mademoiselle Perrault, seeming glad for the change of subject. "I helped take care of him when he was young. I haven't seen him since he came back to the house three days after she died…"

"How long ago was that?" I inquired, the police officer in me surfacing once again.

"Oh, I don't know…" she replied. "Several years ago."

So this was after he had left Persia, I noted, filing the trivial fact away for further use.

"We met in Persia," I offered. "He was court magician for the shah there, for a time. Then there were…some circumstances, and we both left, reuniting coincidentally here in Paris."

Perrault looked intrigued, and I could tell that she was very interested in exactly what Erik had been up to these past forty or so years, but she restrained, in a polite, ladylike manner, herself from bludgeoning me with questions.

"So," she said instead, "are we going to go speak with Erik and the child?"

"Oh!" I said, realizing that I should have thought of that immediately. "Of course. Just give me a few moments to tidy up, and then we shall be off."

"Where does he live?" She asked.

I sighed. This was going to be an interesting little opera that unfolded around my friend and his children, I could tell. "Someplace…unconventional…"

>>>>>>>>>>>

"This is where you live?" Marie Perrault sputtered incredulously,

"Mmmhmm," conceded Erik groggily, still fumbling about with the laces of his mask. Like myself, Erik was a late sleeper, especially since late nights trying to calm Etoile, or holding a pot beneath her to catch her vomit had become the norm. He blinked, finished tying his mask, and held out his skeletal hand. The scene was almost a direct repeat of the events that had elapsed at my own home earlier, I observed with some humor. Erik and I were more alike than we imagined, as scary as that thought sounded to my calm, rational mind.

She shook his hand, looking slightly confused. Obviously, she had yet to learn that Erik tended to be far less imposing in the morning.

"I presume you have been well," he said formally.

"Oh, yes, quite," she replied. "My mother just passed away at ninety, I believe I told you about that in my letter," Erik's eyes flashed with the mention of it, though with amusement or fury of some sort, I could not say, "but other than that sad occasion, I have been doing very nicely. And you?"

"I wish I could say the same. Unfortunately, I have experienced just the inverse, mainly tragedy with a few brief moments of amusement. Though I suppose that accompanies the profession. Being the Opera Ghost is such a morbid position."

"The Opera Ghost?" Perrault murmured, comprehension dawning on her face. Of course she would have heard about the chandelier incident, and its ghastly connotations, and I had the impression she knew Erik well enough not to put such an episode past him. I could see fear awaken in her deeply lined face.

"Yes. Not the most enjoyable occupation, but it is a decent living, and one must feed one's children," Erik drawled. He was obviously trying to lay everything out on the table. If there was to be drama, I would think he wanted it good and done with.

"So, that is why I have come, is it not?" she replied, as nonchalantly as she could muster, though I noticed that she bit her lip rather frequently. "Why don't you introduce me to the baby?"

"Of course. Just a moment," Erik answered, sweeping out of the room, obviously fully awake now.

"He's not as awful as he makes himself out to be," I reassured Mademoiselle Perrault in a whisper. "He does a few pranks every now and then for money. Personally, I of course disagree with his means, but the opera really does have money to spare..." She just looked at me, eyes pleading. I sighed. "He is a good man, Mademoiselle. Beneath his whole 'Phantom' act, he still has an honest heart. Trust me. I have witnessed it. Just give the man a chance. Do it for the baby."

She nodded slowly as Erik reentered the room, Etoile in his arms. "Mademoiselle Perrault, this is Etoile."

Marie Perrault made a slight involuntary choking noise, her glasses sliding down her nose a bit, and her skin turning a shade pale enough to make Erik look like an African. "Oh, Erik dear…" she sputtered, "she has your…eyes."

Erik nodded, amusement and ineffable sadness dancing through his yellow orbs almost simultaneously. "Indeed, she does."