A/N: Ok Emily, and all my other readers, here is the next chapter. If you checked on my URL, I mentioned that I had written this chapter, but my beta was taking a while reading it, so sorry about the long wait. I don't have time to reply to all of your wonderful reviews right now, but I want to thank everyone for reviewing.

Emily: Sorry it took me so long. All your questions should be answered by the end of this story, and yes, you are led to believe Aubrey's brother was murdered…we'll just see how that story unfolds…Erik doesn't think Claire's friend, Arielle, has the talent he wants to be present in his theatre. He wants these operas to be amazing, and her voice just isn't, plus, he's a sour-puss. Lol.

Chapter Nine: The Mirror

Claire twisted the long auburn strand of hair with her delicate fingers. Her features were aglow in the soft gas lights that clung to her bedroom wall.

The young woman's fingers swiftly glided to her ear, and she took out her last earring with care, all the while fixing her eyes upon her reflection in the mirror. She laid it down upon her dresser with a sigh. They were a beautiful pair, she thought of her jewelry. It is a shame I've lost its companion. But she thought it better to not have lost her life that night.

It was certainly not her first brush with death, Claire remembered, but it was the most fascinating. The thought of the infamous opera phantom rescuing her from drowning captivated her, as it would any young woman, she supposed.

Then a frown came to her soft pink lips. "How foolish I was," she said to herself aloud. Then she thought, I shouldn't need to be rescued; how clumsy and ignorant I must have appeared. With that, she blushed, embarrassed all of a sudden by her ineptness to remain the lady her father had so wished she would someday become.

He was a good man, she knew, and did not pressure her much. Though it frequently frightened him to watch his daughter grow to be so like his late wife. Claire reminded him of her so well, she was like a younger version of the woman he once vowed to love forever; and he still did.

She should be grateful, he often told her, but in his heart he doubted it. Andre blamed himself for Claire not being wed. He had wanted her to marry many years before this, but had promised himself to let his daughter take her time- now he knew she was taking too much of it. He feared she would never find love, or a proper husband.

Andre Bonamy stood facing the giant mirror in his own room. He glanced at his reflection with dismay. With his room filled with a soft yellow light, he could see clearly the creases and lines that marked his face; a reminder of his inclining age.

He frowned, and then suddenly felt something build in his chest. His frown quickly faded away and his chest heaved as he let out a mighty cough. His shoulders and chest lurched forward towards the mirror and he instantly reached for a soft white handkerchief from his jacket pocket.

Several more muffled coughs sounded, his lips pressed tightly into the wet cloth. As he pulled it away when the coughing storm had faded, he noticed the crimson stains of blood on the pearl cloth. His lips turned to a frown again. Time was running short, he knew, for him and his daughter.

"A suitor must be found," he remembered the words his brother, a doctor living in Paris had once told him. "She needs someone to fall back on when…" Ben had stopped himself. "You must find Claire a husband as soon as possible, Andre. You mustn't leave her alone when all your time is gone."

Andre hated the bluntness of his brother's words, which were quite cold in his hardened heart, but he did find truth in them. That is precisely who he saw in Aubrey- a suitor. A suitor with wealth, and a heart for the theatre. It was a blessing from God, Andre thought, and he only had to play his cards right to convince his stubborn daughter to marry the man and his worries would be almost over. Dr. Ben Bonamy had sad little about his illness for he knew little of it, but he told Andre he could live for weeks, or he could live for years, he just needed to be prepared for the worst.

Prepared, Andre scoffed, smirking at himself in the mirror. He hadn't even told his precious daughter the truth yet. No, he was not prepared; he didn't know when he would be.

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted as his daughter pushed his bedroom door open and let herself inside, a worried expression on her milk-white face. Her soft brow furrowed. "What is it Father?" she asked, gliding over to his side. "Are you alright?"

Andre spoke quickly, "I'm fine," he lied, taking a seat on his bed. "Just a little cough."

"A little cough," Claire murmured. "That has been haunting you for weeks. Have you talked to Uncle Ben of this?"

"It is nothing," her father assured her. "I have always been susceptible to illness, as you know."

Claire frowned; it was true. Her father often grew ill, most of his sicknesses he blamed on the death of her mother. Could others, Claire wondered, have been perhaps from all the sorts of intoxicants he had soaked in at the local opium dens and brothels, which she knew he frequented quiet often, though he thought himself as sneaky as a shadow and thought his wanderings had gone on unnoticed.

Claire didn't know why she couldn't face her father about the matters, but she just couldn't, and so she never had. She'd certainly warned Margaret about it, and the maid had said it was as natural as breathing for men, so Claire hid her findings from her father and tried to ignore them. "You haven't answered me yet," Claire frowned.

Andre glanced up at her. How long would he be able to hide the truth form her? His gaze turned to his reflection in the mirror, and he shifted his seat on the bed uncomfortably. "Claire," he began, his heart heavy. Suddenly he changed his mind. "It is a cold, I think," he said. "But it is not all that bad," he could see the worry in his daughter's warm eyes.

She took a seat on the bed beside him, taking his hands in hers and smiling up at him softly. "What can I do?" she asked, softly.

Her father smiled. "All you can do is for yourself, now," he told her. "I grow old…"

Claire raised her voice, "You are twice my age!" she announced. "That is not so old."

"Bless you, Claire," Andre said, smiling, "but perhaps my body is tired and old, even if time has not caught up with it." Claire looked at her father, not quite understanding.

Andre lifted his hand from hers and patted her open palm, gently. "But before time will ever have me," he vowed, "we will find you a husband."

"A husband?" Claire drew her hands away. "Father forgive me, I am confused. Once moment you speak of illness and death, and the next you tell me I must find a husband…"

"Do you not want one?" Andre asked.

"I-I do," Claire looked at her feet; her toes barley touched the wooden floor. "I know you grow impatient, Father," she sighed.

"And for good reasons," he added.

Claire twisted her fingers around each other with discomfort. "I do wish to be wed," she finally said. "But to the right man."

"What do you think of young Asthore?"

Somehow, Claire knew this question would fall from her father's lips, she knew it. "I think little of him," she said honestly. Why was Andre's family so blunt all the time? Claire noted the dreary expression on her father's face. "But I've hope for him," she added with a smile. "He- he is kind."

Andre's frown quickly faded into a smile that lit his face. He looked five years younger. "Aubrey would be an excellent match for you, Claire," he said, hopefully.

Claire kissed her father's temple, softly. "Perhaps someday," she said, standing. "Now I must undress and prepare for bed. Margaret is waiting in my room. I shall see you in the morning, Father."

"Sleep well," her father called softly after her.

Claire winced slightly as her maid tugged at the stretched laces of her pale cream corset. "I didn't expect you to be returning home in an entirely new gown," Margaret said with a smile as Claire held onto the sides of her mirror tightly, trying to steady her balance as her maid gave another sharp tug.

"Are you tying this corset or untying it?" she asked, impatient, her ribs aching.

"Untying it," Margaret answered. "My apologies Mademoiselle, this one seems to want to stay attached to you forever."

Claire smiled. "Why must we poor women dress in such horrible clothing?" she complained. Margaret grinned, but said nothing.

"There," Claire heaved a giant sigh as her maid lifted the opened corset off her body.

Margaret gave her a night gown to dress in for sleep, and her mistress quickly put it on. Claire strayed towards the window, sitting on its windowsill. It was a large window that came only three feet from the ground.

Margaret followed her with a brush in hand, and as Claire stared out the window, lost in her own thoughts, her maid brushed out the tangles and bumps in her hair, which was exceptionally difficult that night. "Your head is damp," the maid said, astounded. Before Claire could think of a reply, Margaret found one for her. "If it rains Claire," she was scolding, "You should wear a hat, or use an umbrella. You are a young lady, not a tree, to stand in the streets wet and naked."

"My apologies," Claire said with a sweet smile. She would leave Margaret to her assumptions; she was tired of lying to everyone that evening.

She sighed deeply, closing her eyes. Her room smelled of fresh scents: the sweet perfume her father had doted upon her earlier that afternoon in celebration, the clear scent of roses lingering in the air… It must have come from Margaret's perfume; Andre had given her that as well. It was strange for her father to be so kind to a servant, Claire thought, but perhaps Andre was changing. Perhaps his spirit had lightened with the highness of the evening.

"He means to see me wed," Claire breathed, eyes fixed upon the dancing leaves on the black silhouette of trees outside her window. Margaret said nothing, but stroked Claire's hair gently. "He really wants it; perhaps more than I do."

It is then that her maid spoke, and with gentleness in her voice. "Claire," she said. "It would be good for you to marry. Weddings are happy occasions, and you can't possibly fear one."

"It's not that I fear a wedding, Margaret," Claire opened her eyes and looked at her maid. "I fear who I will wed."

"Does your father have someone in mind?" Margaret was quick to ask. When Claire answered with a 'yes' and a sigh, she gave her a simple answer. "I know little of love, Claire; I will admit to you that. Perhaps I will never know it," her eyes lowered with sadness, but she wouldn't allow it to get the best of her. "But I do believe that you are capable of love, and Aubrey is capable of it as well, though I know you doubt his intentions."

"How do you know this? And how do you know my father thinks of Aubrey as my suitor?" Claire asked, bewildered, turning her head.

"Hold steady," the maid scolded, turning Claire's head back to look out the window with her soft hands. Then she answered. "I am not a fool, Claire," she said, simply. "Who else would your father think of? He thinks well of the boy's mother, and the apple falls not far from the tree," she quoted the famous saying. "He may be a good man, for all we know," she continued. "Perhaps the reason you resent him so, is that you fear commitment, and loss," Claire thought of the loss her father had suffered for so many years; the loss of her mother. The maid struck a harsh and terrible truth: Claire feared loss; it was only natural for her.

"I do not resent him," Claire stated, turning her head again, only for it to be turned back to look out the window. The night was calm and dark, with soft and soothing winds. "I just…" her voice trailed off. "I don't know, Margaret. Perhaps this is foolish but…"

"But what?" Margaret asked as Claire quieted. The maid lowered the brush, she was done now, and Claire was thankful for it. She faced Margaret with hope in her eyes. Margaret's heart took a heavy sigh as she stared into those hopeful and glittering eyes.

"Father used to tell me, when he did speak of my mother, that…that he loved my mother the moment he saw her. He called it true love- love at first sight. It always amazed me. Now I don't know if love can be that way, coming to someone so fast they hardly knew what hit them; it certainly hasn't happened for me." Margaret frowned, feeling sorry for Claire, whose eyes had dulled in sadness much like her own. Claire took her friend's hand in her own and offered a decent smile. "Fairy tales," she spoke softly. "My father told me fairy tales to give me hope, didn't he?"

"I don't know," Margaret shook her head. She could only have been thirty, or thirty-five, Claire thought, and probably too old now to find a good husband.

She ignored that thought. "Someday," she said, her smile and eyes brightening at the thought. "We will both of us be wed, and to wonderful, charming, handsome men."

Margaret's eyes twinkled. "And rich," she added with a chuckle.

"Yes," Claire agreed. "But for now," she covered her mouth as she yawned. "I do believe we should both be sleeping. Goodnight, Margaret."

"Sleep well Claire," Margaret said as she exited the room, shutting the door softly behind her.

Claire lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Her eyes were weak in the dark, and she could hardly make out the shapes of the furniture in her room as she turned on her side, bringing the warm covers up to her chin and sighing softly. "I know little of love either," she said to herself quietly. "But I know I will find it." With that thought still fresh in her hopeful mind, Claire found sleep, and in her sleep, dreams.

Ok, please review! Thanks!