A/N: Hello everyone! Sorry this took so long to update, but I'm really busy, and writing two fanfics here, so please be patient. I do have wonderful news for you, though! Are you ready? Ok, here it goes…This is the last 'non-Erik/Claire chapter'. As of my next update, things will start to happen, and that's when the fun really starts. I know a lot of readers have stopped reading my story (shame on them) because they find it boring, but trust me, it will be worth it in the end, because I'm taking the time to make this story actually realistic and I don't think Erik would automatically be drawn to Claire for no apparent reason, so I needed some time for him to get to know her and what she's all about before he starts to want to be…friendlier…So cheers to all my faithful readers! And for all you ppl reading and not reviewing, please review! I'm writing this story for you, so please tell me what you think! Thanks, and happy reading!

-Modesty

Emily: As always, I appreciate you numerous, endless reviews, lol. What would happen if Erik tried Opium? I'm not sure, I'd bet my money that it's be very interesting! If Andre died, then yes, Claire would inherit the opera house. Erik's opinion on that may be somewhat complicated and it depends on how their relationship goes up to that point. But have no fear, it will all begin shortly.

Camlann: Yes, Andre is full of disasters…he's a walking disaster really, only not so much in a comical way- oh well. We'll have to see how Claire deals. Yes, Claire is an optimist, which will be strange considering that's a complete opposite of Erik, which is even stranger b/c that's almost exactly the same as Adima and Tristan! Wow…there's a connection there…By the way, I'm glad you liked my last chapter. I feel bad b/c it was so short, but I was having writer's block, and I couldn't explain in full detail what Tristan and Adima did together. Oh well…the next ones should be longer.

Marianne Brandon: I hope your happy, b/c the next chapter will have more Erik/Claire wonderfulness, and after that, it will only get better. Yeah, it kinda is like Moulin Rouge (which I LOVE, by the way.) With your tip, you seemed to have read my mind. –Grins-

Starnat: Yeah, in my dreams too. Lol.

Serena Fae: I would love to IM you, but I'm not allowed, and I don't have IM, but thanks for the offer anyway, and thanks for the review!

Chapter Ten: La Carlotta

"They brought her back!" Arielle shrieked in anguish. Both Adeline and Claire turned to her, Claire dropped her finger to her waist; it had been wrapping itself tightly around a long curl of her hair as she told Adeline of what she dreamed the night before. They were backstage, and the sun had risen only three ours before. "I can't believe it!"

"Believe it," Adeline said, bluntly.

"I'm sorry, Arielle," Claire said with sympathy. "None of us really like Carlotta."

"But Monsieur Bonamy hires her," the poor girl cried, her face red as a rose. "She is a better singer than I."

Adeline scoffed, "no, Arielle. A yowling kitten has a better voice than that toad!"

"Oh, you say that just to please me," Arielle said, softly. "Well, I am a dancer to begin with, and I shall remain one forever."

"At least you are allowed onstage," Claire offered. "Think of the glory you earned in Le Rouge Fevriar. It was magnificent."

"It is over."

"Yes, for now," Claire admitted. "But it was a grand adventure when it lasted, was it not?"

"It was," Arielle muttered under her breath. But she only wished it could last forever. Claire frowned, feeling sorry for her. Was it better to catch a glimpse of freedom and lose it, or to never have had it at all?

Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted as Madame Giry brushed by. "Madame!" Claire padded up beside her, her friends watching her with bafflement.

Mme. Giry slowed her pace, but did not stop. She turned to the young Bonamy with an expressionless face. "Bonjour," she said.

"Good morning, Madame," Claire greeted politely. "I was hoping you weren't busy, Madame. I have some questions to ask you."

"Perhaps I have answers for you then," she replied, simply.

"I know you don't want to speak of it," Claire began.

Mme. Giry held out a hand as if to stop her. "And I will not," she said. They were walking towards the stage and as soon as they were out of earshot of anyone else, Mme. Giry stopped and faced the curious girl.

"Madame, please-"

"No, Mademoiselle; ask me questions of relating to dance and I will help you, but never about him."

"Madame," Claire began sternly. "I know I gave you a promise, but this is my father's theatre…"

"And this is his life!" the words bolted form the woman's lips. "And he does not wish to share it with you, nor anybody else. I wish you'd drop the matter entirely."

"I cannot do that, Madame," Claire blocked the woman's path as Mme. Giry tried to walk away from her. "Please Madame; tell me, I must know the truth. I want to know what you know."

"Then you will learn nothing, for that is all I know."

"You speak falsely," Claire studied the woman's frustrated expression accusingly. "I know you know him, he called you a friend in his letter."

Mme. Giry puffed her cheeks out with rage and her face reddened. "Mademoiselle," she tried to walk around Claire, but the girl wouldn't let her by. "Let me pass!"

"Don't Madame," Claire said to her, as the older woman turned on her heels. "I will not stop asking you." Mme. Giry sighed, and turned to face Claire, her expression grave. "You are acquainted, aren't you?" Mme. Giry did not answer, but Claire could see the truth in her bold, grey eyes. "I have a right to know, do I not?" she assumed. "He saved my life, and he haunts my father's theatre- I should know all I can about him. Why do you deny me this knowledge?"

"It is a cursed knowledge," Mme. Giry snapped. "Perhaps it is in your right to know," she admitted softly, "but that does not change my mind." She could see the disdain on the young girl's face. Mme. Giry's cold eyes calmed, and she took a deep breath.

"But why can't you tell me? Is it because he is a murderer?"

Mme. Giry's eyes grew suddenly wild. "Where did you hear that?" she gasped.

"Em-" she stopped herself abruptly. "Everyone knows that," she said, matter-of-factly.

"I suppose you take it lightly," Mme. Giry suggested.

"I do not!" Claire denied, recognizing that it was an insult.

"And it shouldn't be taken lightly," Mme. Giry snapped. "For it is a very serious matter, involving very strange circumstances, which do not involve the manager, and owner's only daughter."

"Then think of me not as Claire Bonamy, Madame, for I must know the truth. I have been pulled into something now that I cannot be relieved of," Claire complained.

"You have your curiosity to thank for that," Mme. Giry scolded. "Don't let it get the better of you again."

Madame Giry was about to walk away, when Claire said, "Madame, I am not afraid of him."

The woman stared at her with awe. "He should frighten you. He frightens all others."

"Well I am not they," Claire said softly. "And I am not afraid as they may be. Call me foolish or call me bold, but-"

"I'd call you foolish," Mme. Giry interrupted. Why wouldn't this girl leave her be?

"Will you give me nothing then?" Claire asked. "No information at all? You will leave me to my assumptions? Or perhaps you will leave me to discuss the matter with my father," Claire coked her head as she said this. She had the woman by the hand now- Madame Giry could not lie to her anymore. She knew the woman held more information than she was giving, which really was none.

"He would not believe you," Mme. Giry snapped sharply. "And if he did, would you tell him that you were down in the depths of the opera house? He would not like that, I assume. Claire frowned, she was right. And she would never go back on her word. Who had who by the hand now? "Claire," Mme. Giry spoke softly, her lips seemingly burdened with every word she said. "You are bright, and young, and beautiful, and have much to live for." The storm in her eyes had ceased, and the oceans in them had calmed to a soft blue. "Do not throw all that away, by meddling in affairs that should not be meddled with."

"Madame," Claire spoke softly then too. "I have said I am not afraid. Just tell me, please. I want to see who you see in the Phantom of the Opera."

The storm seemed to rise again in Madame Giry's eyes. "No, you don't," she breathed. Without another word, she took her leave, and Claire let her. Mademoiselle Bonamy just stared blankly after the woman as she left and disappeared around a corner of the stage. She could not win.

Angrily, Claire rushed across the stage, paying little attention to all else around her. La Carlotta was still singing to her right, and the maestro guided her through song, as the chorus backed her up at certain parts of the song, and her little poodle snapped at Claire's heels, skipping past her. Claire huffed, frustrated with the little beast.

She looked upward, trying to ignore it, when she suddenly heard a screeching yelp, and felt soft paws beneath her feet. Carlotta nearly choked on her own breath as she spun around, horror painted all over her face. "No, no, no!" she exclaimed, furious, as the tiny lap dog scurried over to her master. Carlotta picked the dog up and cradled her in her arms.

Piangi stood beside her, and Carlotta quickly shoved the poodle in his arms, and started for Claire. The young girl froze, oh, she had done it now. "What is wrong with you?" Carlotta snapped. "You dare hurt my little puppy! You dare! Maestro, Maestro!" she shouted to the poor white-haired man that stood, rubbing his gloved hand across his heated forehead. "Do something with this girl, before she kills my doggie!"

Claire opened her mouth to apologize, but another voice answered. "She meant nothing by it," Adeline glided to her friend's side, protectively. "Carlotta, keep that stupid rat off the stage, and out of everyone else's way and perhaps she will not get under someone's feet!"

Carlotta gasped, her jaw dropping to the floor, her eyes wide as windows. She pointed to Claire and Adeline and shrieked, "You!" as she rushed towards them.

"I'm so sorry, Signora," Claire breathed, backing up.

Piangi stood between them, still hugging the poodle to his chest. He was facing the Prima Donna. He spoke swiftly to her in Italian, while Claire and Adeline just glanced at each other in shock.

Carlotta huffed and puffed in anger, but eventually Piangi's words started to calm her. She grabbed the poodle from his arms and petted it softly, glaring at the girls. "Don't touch my doggie again!" she shouted, threateningly as she turned around, speaking softly to the dumbfounded dog.

Piangi sighed, glaring at Claire. "Watch you step next time!" he admonished.

"Come, Claire," Adeline took her friend by the hand, leading her to the wing of the stage. "Goodness, Claire," Adeline breathed, excitedly. "Of all the things we could have done to bother her, I give you credit for one of the best tricks."

"It wasn't a trick," Claire assured her. "The dog ran right under my feet."

Adeline was smiling brightly, she did not believe her. "Well, it was magnificent. Too bad it's not enough to make her leave."

"That would be nice, wouldn't it?" Claire asked.

"Yes," Adeline agreed with haste. "But I don't think we'll ever get that woman to leave- and believe me, there have been attempts."

"By whom? Claire asked, giddily.

"Well, wether you believe it or not, I think it was the Phantom. He bothers her too," both girls smiled at that thought.

"Perhaps he needs to try harder," Claire teased.

Adeline shook her head. "No, not even that would do. The woman will be dead before she gives up the spotlight."

Erik smiled slightly as he eavesdropped on the girls' most entertaining conversation. There was a tiny crooked hole, a crack of some sort, that stretched out a few inches down the wall behind the stage and the Opera Ghost stood, watching all the commotion in his opera house with pleasure, and jealousy the same.

If only he could be there, like the rest of them: beautiful and in the open. In his youth, he had spent countless hours dreaming of life lived without loneliness, without his horrifying appearance, but as he aged, and grew wiser, he began to realize that his fate and exclusion was inevitable. He would never be like them. Never- he was unique, and he loathed himself for it.

But as he stood there, listening with keen ears, he reminded himself the true reason he was still alive. It was not for company, it was not for companionship, nor love or hate. It was for the Opera Populaire; it was for his work; his operas, his costumes, his music. He was alive because of it- but not forever, he thought with a sigh. He was nearly halfway through with Don Juan Triumphant, and that would be his last piece, the finale to his life's work and dedication to none other than himself, and his work, for it was all he really knew.

He knew nothing of the outside world, nothing of love, little of kindness. He had only been a boy when he found himself in that dark embrace that became his home for all eternity; his house by the lake, under the Opera Populaire. It had become a part of him, just as the influence of the opera had.

Claire and Adeline tried their best to speak amongst themselves loud enough to be heard over the belting music that poured from La Carlotta's lips. She raised her voice to an extreme pitch. Stage hands were moving set pieces behind her. Gabrielle, the chorus master worked with his pupils as they and Carlotta sang in harmony.

They had been speaking of all sorts of things, particularly what Claire thought of Aubrey. She told Adeline of the events of the night before; what her father told her. "So will do as your father wishes? If Aubrey asks, will you marry him?"

"My father has no say in it," Claire said, simplistically. "He promised me."

"Claire," Adeline began, sweetly. "I was thinking, though it really isn't my business…"

"Well, what is it?" Claire asked.

"Why was it so important for you to speak with Mme. Giry just a while ago? I mean, you ran after her, and I watched you. You seemed so strange- is everything alright?"

"Yes, it is," Claire lied. "I just had, questions for her, that's all; nothing important."

Adeline was too smart to believe her. "Alright then," she smiled. "Keep your secrets. I'll speak of them no more!"

"Good," Claire smiled. "Oh, you should go, Adeline," she said, her expression changing. "The rest of the dancers in your group are leaving with Madame Giry."

Adeline frowned. "Oh, time to rehearse, is it?" she asked, annoyed. "Well, it was nice talking with you, Claire. I'll see you tomorrow." She left with a smile, and followed Mme. Giry, and the rest of the ballet students for practice.

Claire glanced around her nervously. She acquired a strange sensation that someone was watching her, though she thought she was the only one there. She leaned her back against the wall with a sigh, looking down the hallway. She looked left, and she looked right, and when she looked left again, she felt a fire in her blood.

She grew angry- angry at Mme. Giry for keeping secrets from her. She had a right to know, didn't she? Why was it so important that these secrets be kept? Surely she must know, at least for her father's sake- this was his opera house now, she didn't care what anyone else thought. "I'll find out for myself," she mumbled aloud, lifting her back from the wall.

"Claire."

Claire spun around. Where did that come from? That voice; she knew she heard it. It was a whisper, but she knew she heard it; it wasn't all in her head. Claire swallowed hard, her eyes darting all about in fear, then she stared down the hallway- it was empty, and silent. An eerie sensation washed over her, and her blood ran cold.

A/N: Ok, now pretty, pretty please, review! Thanks.