A/N: Wow. It's been a while. Sorry about that guys. I've been really busy! I don't have time to reply to reviews, but hopefully you'll like this next chapter. Please remember to review!

Chapter Thirteen: The Truth

Erik lifted the light plaster into the light of the candlelight, eyeing it thoughtfully. A river of golden sheen splashed across its surface. For a minute he actually thought it beautiful. Garish, he thought, casting the mask to the floor angrily. What am I getting myself into?

He turned to look out upon the lake, a vast water, cool, calm, and dark. It had been hours since he had made his decision. She will sing for me…

"Erik," the Phantom turned at the sound of his name. Madame Giry had come in from a secret entrance that only she and the Opera Ghost knew of. She was carrying a large tray. Erik glanced at its contents. A soft, pale green apple dappled with lighter green splotches, he noticed, a slice of bread, and a glass of milk.

Madame Giry set his breakfast tray upon his desk, but Erik did not move. He stayed where he was, looking out over the lake, deep in thought.

Madame Giry sighed. "Eat Erik. You must eat."

Erik stuck up his nose and glared at the glass of milk. "Water," he said calmly. "I asked that you serve me water instead of milk."

"Erik," Madame Giry began to protest. "It will give you strength."

"Oh, I have strength," Erik said sarcastically. "It's beauty I want. Milk clogs the throat, Madame, you know that as well as I."

Madame Giry crossed her arms over her chest with a sigh. "You can drink, or you cannot," she said simply. "I am going to teach my girls."

Suddenly Erik changed the subject, stopping Madame Giry before she could leave him. "Have rehearsals begun?"

"Yes, Erik."

"Good," he didn't smile.

Madame Giry bowed her head slightly. "I'll be back in the afternoon Erik." And with that, she left him there alone. As she headed for the secret door, she noticed the golden mask on the floor but said nothing of it to Erik.

Claire held her father's arm as they walked across the stage. All four eyes were fixed upon the dancers as they rehearsed and Madame Giry barked instructions to them.

"Aren't they beautiful Father?" asked Claire, butterflies drifting in her stomach. She couldn't help but sense she was being watched by someone she could not see. It was a strange feeling, and she hadn't quite grown accustomed to it yet.

"They certainly are," Andre agreed, eyeing the young girls as they leapt across the stage as one.

"Madame Giry is an excellent teacher- don't you think?" asked Claire.

"Oh yes," her father agreed quite simply.

Claire eyed the woman suspiciously, as if warning her not to stir up any trouble or her or her father, and when Madame Giry caught her eye, she simply nodded a quiet greeting and ignored her otherwise.

Lost in his own silence, Andre frowned with recollection. The words of his brother, and doctor kept ringing in his mind: "Get her out of the house, Andre. No one seems to want to believe me, but consumption is contagious. At least, it's a theory of mine. I've seen so many deaths, Andre. I'm sorry about Claire." Andre had shrugged off the warning, not wanting to believe it at all. "Think of your wife, Andre…Think of your daughter."

"C-Claire," the man stuttered.

Claire glanced at her father; he looked strangely nervous to her. "What is it?"

Andre glanced down at his boots as if they were extraordinarily fascinating and he just couldn't possibly look away from them. "Never you mind." Claire furrowed her brow. "I-I can't remember now…what I was going to say. Forget it."

"Father," Claire stopped walking. "What's wrong?"

She could see tears forming in his eyes. He glanced around him. There were people everywhere. "Come with me first," he ordered, leading her backstage where it was much more quiet and secluded. When they were finally alone, he licked his lips and began. He licked his lips, nervously.

"I-I didn't want to say this here- now, but I…I…If I don't do this now, I never will."

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"Claire, daughter," Claire could tell he was nervous. "You know that I am ill…"

Oh no…thought Claire.

"…Well, I think it would be best for us to be spending less time together."

"What?" Claire didn't understand at all.

"I'm sick, Claire," Andre forced the words out of him, shoving them out with all the force he could muster. "I'm not well, and if you stay with me, there is a chance you may get sick too."

"How-?"

"You're uncle thinks so. He told me."

"When?"

"Long ago, Claire. When does not matter." He sighed. "I don't want you living with me anymore, Claire."

"Why are you telling me this now?" Claire asked, taken aback.

"I was reminded of it," Andre answered coldly. "Last night, I gave it a good hard thought. I just haven't been able to tell you."

"How sick are you?"

"I don't know," Andre said, regretfully. "I'm so sorry Claire." He could see her eyes filling with tears.

"But I prayed for you!" she shouted, not to anyone in particular. "This can't be happening!"

"Claire!" Andre grabbed her by the shoulders. "Quiet! No one is to know of this- do you understand?" She nodded, quietly. "Now hush, child. "It is not as serious as I may have led you to believe. I'm sorry if I worried you."

"W-where will I go?"

"For now," he began, shakily. "I'm sure you can be boarded here, in the opera dormitories. I-I'll speak to Madame Giry of it right now." He spun on his heels.

"Wait…" Claire called after him. "I'm scared."

A/N: Review now!