A/N: Sorry this took so long. I was brain dead, and my beta was sick, and now I think I'm getting sick too, which really sucks. Anyways, it'll be a week or so before the next update, so sorry for the wait, but I've been really buys lately. I hope you all enjoy the chapter…it has Erik in it, and the Erik/Claire thing is about to begin. It actually starts in this chapter. Also, there's kinda two parts to this scene, but together they'd be long, so I just split them up. Please review! Thanks. By the way, le infant terrible, in French, basically means, the outcast, or the troublemaker.

Camlann: Yeah, Mme. Giry needs to know how to hold her tongue, especially in the situation she's in with Erik.

Imokk: Oh, yeah. She'll never expect all that she gets! Neither will you! Lol.

Marie Erikson: Prelude isn't boring! Thanks for the review though. I feel a little bit better now. Lol. Here's that Erik/Claire-ness you've been waiting for…and it gets so much better! I can't wait to start writing the chapters where they get to know each other more! Oh, this story hasn't even begun…

Chapter 11: The Chapel

"Aubrey, what do you think of the girl?" Mme. Asthore asked as she sipped her porcelain cup of tea. She sat on a light green couch; Aubrey stood pacing back and forth beside her.

"Oh, I like her," he said, nervously.

"Of course, when you're married," his mother continued, resting the cup on the silver tray that was placed on a wooden table in front of her. She glanced up at her son. "You are inclined, and expected to have a mistress or two."

Aubrey didn't know if he should smile or frown at the comment. "Once I'm married, Mother, I will want to change."

"Change?" Mme. Asthore scoffed. "Darling, if you are anything like your brother was, you will not change for this girl! Nor any girl, for that matter."

"But I'm different now, Mother. She makes me different. There's just something, something about her."

"I do not doubt that, my son," Mme. Asthore agreed. "If you think can be responsible enough to care for a wife, which I do encourage…"

Aubrey quit pacing and faced his mother, his wavy hair falling almost to his shoulders. "I can be," he said, not knowing if it was true or not. Yes, he would try, but he could scarcely imagine being with one woman for the rest of his life.

"She is a little old for a marriage," Mme. Asthore trailed off. "How old did Andre say she was? Twenty-one! If I had known that before, I would have never allowed you two to meet. Perhaps there is something wrong with her."

"It doesn't matter. There is nothing wrong with Claire, Mother," Aubrey jumped to her defense. "Her father promised not to pressure her into any marriages. The girl has a bold heart, Mother."

"How would you know?" his mother scoffed.

"Well, she told me what her father had promised, and I can see it in her heart that the girl has a mind of her own." shouted Aubrey, growing impatient with his mother.

Madame Asthore took another sip of tea. Aubrey had silenced her, if only for a moment. "It is your marriage," she finally said to him. "I only offer my counsel."

Aubrey's brow furrowed. Did he really want this? "I shall consider a proposal," he muttered, looking down at the floor. "Time will help me decided.

Mme. Asthore shook her head in dismay once her son had gone. "What am I to do with that boy?" she asked herself quietly.

She wasn't sure anymore if her son should wed such a free-spirited girl, whose father let her choose her groom. My son is a well brought up man, she thought. And I suppose he has the right to choose… No matter how her thoughts tormented her, Mme. Asthore could not decide if she would be pleased with Aubrey's proposal or not.

Little Claire's smile lit up her entire face. She sat in a row of wooden seats next to her father; they were in the first theatre Monsieur Andre owned.

They were watching an auburn haired woman singing on stage, dressed in a beautiful golden gown, rehearsing for an opera. "Someday," Claire began, leaning closer to her father. "I'm going to sing like Mama."

"Yes you are," Andre grinned at his only daughter. "And you're going to be wonderful."

"Madame Adrienne says I'm her best student," Claire said proudly.

"I'm sure you are, Claire," her father said. "And with more practice, someday, you will make your mother and I very proud."

"I will," the young Claire promised with a grin; one of her teeth was missing.

Suddenly, the woman on stage stopped singing. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes. She opened them again. "Angeline?" Andre called out with a worried expression. The maestro stopped the music.

Angeline smiled, embarrassed. "I'm fine," she lied, glancing at her daughter. "Maestro…" the music began again.

Just as Angeline opened her mouth to sing again, she closed it, shutting her eyes with pain. She clutched her chest with her hand. "Angeline!" Andre leaped from his seat, running toward her as she fell.

Little Claire stared in wonder. A nearby stage hand rushed over to her, as she watched her father take his wife's hand in his own. Was he crying?

"What's happened?" the little girl asked as the stage hand lifted her into his arms.

"Call a doctor!" someone shouted from on stage.

The stage hand glanced at the maestro. "I'm taking her home!" he said, leaving the theatre with Claire clinging to him.

"No!" Claire cried, knowing something was wrong, but not knowing what. She was too young to understand…

"Poor child," the house maid said softly to the other.

"Has she even left her room?" asked the second.

"No," the first shook her head.

The second clucked her tongue with disapproval. "Poor, poor thing." Claire opened her door a crack, listening intently to their conversation, though she could not see them.

The first maid sat down on the emerald green sofa with a sigh. "Monsieur Andre had better return from the hospital tonight," she began. "He can't leave his daughter like this. She has no idea what happened."

"He won't tell her," the second maid said with a frown. "He hasn't even walked in the door since the accident."

"That girl needs her father," the first maid nodded towards Claire's bedroom.

"Poor Claire," said the second. "I've seen the world's sorrow in that little girl's eyes. Andre must see to her. She doesn't deserve to be abandoned like this," the red haired woman shook her head.

Claire felt tears rise in her eyes. She sniffed, letting them fall, putting up no fight against them. Where were her parents? Where was her mother? What had put the maids in such distraught moods in the recent days?

Claire was watching her father from afar, remembering the dream that had haunted her the night before. Her fingers pranced delicately across the pearl white keys of the piano. Its coal black surface gleamed vibrantly under the light. She looked down at the keys, and at her fingers as they danced, and every now and then, she would glance up toward the couch.

Andre Bonamy paid no attention to his daughter as she played for him. His eyes were glued to the numerous sheets of paper before him. They were manager's papers, papers that concerned only his eyes. He had been reading the script for Le Infant Terrible, but he had set that down on the table near the couch, and had finished looking at it.

"How's the opera?" Claire asked, glancing up at her father as she played.

He didn't even look at her. "It's fine, I suppose," he said, not admitting the true genius behind the piece he had been reading. He wanted to hate it, for he hated everything from the Opera Ghost, but he couldn't help but be captivated by the opera, the music, the writing, and the talent. He would be dead before he'd ever admit so, even to his daughter.

"What is it about?" Claire inquired.

Andre cleared his throat and finally looked up at her. "Oh, just a- a story about this, this boy who is," he picked up the leather bound script and looked over its cover with hidden admiration. "Shunned by society because of his parents' fortune, and he…he becomes a murderer."

Claire frowned. "A murderer?"

"Yes," her father said, casually. "Following his parent's footsteps. He became the monster society had said he would be." He set the script down again and resumed looking over his other papers. "I'm a little apprehensive though, for I've never put on an opera of such…drama," he admitted. "It is a rather dark play."

Claire's fingers tapped the keys again, as if her finger tips weighed more than they did. "Well," she began. "There's no harm in being different."

"Claire," her father asked, wearily. Claire looked up at him, his eyes were cold, and grave. "Do you know what day it is?" Claire nodded, without a word. She knew exactly what day it was; the anniversary of her mother's death. Her father seemed content, for he said nothing more of it.

Andre gave a muffled cough, raising a closed fist to cover his mouth. His daughter glanced up immediately at him, but said nothing. "What are you playing?" he asked her, calmly.

"The Promise," she answered, in a mystified tone.

"It's beautiful," he said, followed by another pair of coughs. By the time he was done, Claire could see a stain of blood on his fingers, and she cringed. She lifted her fingers from the keys and stood, her hands falling to her sides. "What are you doing?" Andre asked, concerned.

Claire breathed hard. "There's something I must do," she said. "Pardon my leave."

As she climbed into the black carriage and found her seat on a small leather bench, Claire whispered to herself. "Please, Mother Mary," she said quietly. "Please help us." She couldn't get the image out of her mind, the image of her father, with blood dripping down his palm. Her blood froze.

The carriage stopped just outside the Opera Populaire. There was no church nearby that Claire knew of, so this, she assumed, would be the next best place to pray.

It didn't take long for her to open the front doors, which was possible because she had slipped the key in her fingers on the way out of the house, taking it from its usual place on the front table near the door of their house. She walked past the entrance hall, and found the cold, dark hallway she was searching for. It led to a small set of steps, and as she made her way down, she felt a cold draft, cold as ice. She shivered, and pulled her cream shawl tighter across her shoulders.

She finally found what she was looking for, a door. She placed her hand on the rusted door handle, and turned the knob. The door opened with a click, and Claire found herself in an all too familiar room. Candlelight washed into the room, and the colorful glass painting on the window across the room seemed to have a vibrant glow that caught her eye.

She closed the door behind her, and glided toward the candles that sat, perched on a table against the wall. Upon the wall hung a picture of the Virgin Mary, smiling down on Claire with warmth upon her lips.

Claire kneeled at the foot of the table and began her prayers, folding her hands just above her lap, and closing her eyes. She remembered what her mother had told her once, when she was very little and scared. She couldn't remember what had frightened her so, perhaps it was a bad dream, but Claire recalled that her mother had been by her side in an instant calming her. Her mother had told her then what to do in times such as this. "Pray," Angeline had whispered. "Pray to God that your troubles are over, and sing to his angels. They love it when you sing to them." She had smiled softly then, and little Claire had smiled too. "Dear Lord," she began. "Thank you for all you've blessed me with. I know my mother is with you at this moment; please continue to protect her in your haven. Please, give my father strength in these hard days, especially today. It is a terribly hard day for him. And bless him with sense enough to call a doctor to his aide, for I know he is not well, and his sickness has haunted him for quite some time…"

Erik listened intently. He had hidden in the space between the walls where Claire had once found herself, some time ago. He had led her with his voice to the door where she had slithered out of his sight, and he thought, hoped, for good. But now he wasn't so sure what he thought, or how he felt. He was almost as intrigued with this girl as she was of him. He couldn't possibly understand why she had such an interest in him, and the thought of this troubled him deeply, and excited him all the same.

Erik had been wandering about his opera house when he had heard the opera door open wide, a blast of cold air enter, and then the door slammed shut again. He went to investigate the sound when he arrived in the entrance hall, lights dimmed, alone, and finding it empty. At the slight sound of tapping footsteps, he decided to follow, and once he saw Claire slip in through door to the chapel, her fingers clutching the door as it closed behind her, he sped quickly to a secure hiding place, taking the long way around.

As he listened to Claire's whispers and prayers, he couldn't help but grin. Oh, what a poor dear, he smirked. Her life is so horrible isn't it? Oh, little Claire, what a sad life you lead. Your mother is dead and your father a fool. He frowned. "At least they loved… and love you."

Claire's blood froze in her veins. "Who is there?" she asked, fearing she knew the answer. Sure, she had thought meeting the phantom would be fantastic, but now that she thought of him being near, it startled, and frightened her more than she wished it would. She glanced around, warily. "Phantom? Is it you?" There was no reply. "F-father?" she asked, hopefully, her voice trembling and weak. "Hello?"

Erik cursed himself with fury. He must have spoken aloud without even thinking. It wasn't often he had to think to himself, for alone in the depths of his island retreat, there was no need to talk softly, or in his head, for there was no one to listen, save an occasional Madame Giry, and Erik cared little if she heard his babblings. He had to think quickly. Frantically, he searched for the words inside him, but it took a moment or two to find them.

Carefully, he said, "Does he answer you prayers, Mademoiselle?" Before he gave Claire a moment to answer, he added. "My prayers have never been answered. Why would you be any different?"

Claire's mouth was wide and gaping. Erik continued. "Perhaps he does not hear me? Perhaps he does not have ears for le infant terrible."

"You are no such thing," Claire found herself saying, shakily. She covered her mouth with her hand. Why did she say that? "The Lord listens, Monsieur. He is a good Lord."

"Well," Erik spoke more calmly now, and his words were less rushed. "I've never been a man of God."

A/N: Ok, I've been good, right? So please review! We're getting close to 100!