A/N: Apologies. This story isn't the only place madness is descending. OK, in this chapter I change POV for the first time of many. Later I do (I think) Meg, and Michel and Charles Varens. Believe me, it is necessary, and later on, I kind of like the way it works out. Read on.

Madness Descends

There was a silence, and Adele sat weakly on Jacques's desk. "I'm sorry."

I shook my head. "I was an idiot. It was only money." I turned to les Messieurs, looking each one in the eye. "Now, when I tell you what I am going to tell you, we will each hold the other party's life in our hands. I suggest you be very careful with mine, because mine bites. However…" I drew my sword and looked at it. "If you don't pledge to never speak of this to anyone, I will have to kill all three of you." Adele hid her face.

Michel looked at his brothers, both of whom nodded. "We pledge."

"Good." I put my sword on the desk, but not out of reach. An intimidated audience is one of the best kinds—only an audience that hangs on your every word is better, or one that is both at once. "This girl is my adopted daughter. She has lived and studied with me for eleven years. If you inhibit her progress in any way, I shall have to be firm. This is all you need to know." I put the sword back, unbelted the whole works, and handed them to Adelita. "For you, dear. I trust you haven't forgotten?" She shook her head. "Sign the contract, please." I scribbled out the original salary and put in the new figure—sixteen and a half. I knew I had to bribe them, and I knew they would take what they could get. She signed; I nodded and went out the normal door. They didn't need to know how to open mine from the outside.

Once outside, I looked both ways and disappeared through the wall, having no idea what I would do next. Eavesdropping had lost its charm, I couldn't concentrate enough to compose, I had fallen out of love with reading years ago (once I had read in all my spare time—way back at the gypsy camp), and there was really little else I ever did. And, just to complicate matters further, Christine was singing again. I couldn't understand the words anymore, but I could hear her voice, and it maddened me. I was a fool to have let her go. I was a fool to have let Raoul live. I was a fool to have not said the Three Words. I was a fool…a fool…a fool…

Finally I went below and played Bach on my organ, and Beethoven when I ran out of Bach, and a few others. Bach and Beethoven are among my favorite composers. They have, I think, the gift of music that I have, and that Christine had. They were visited by the angel of music. But as I played, I did not think of that. I thought only of my fingers, to the extent that I forgot about everything else. I played and played without ever stopping.

♫

Adelita

When Papa had been in the office, I knew something was wrong. He had never, ever, let les Messieurs see him closer than the width of the theatre—why should that change now, for me, for something I did not need? And he had not argued with les Messieurs about my original pay, a mere five thousand a month, though I could see why. I was in a tenuous position without the Phantom expressing undue interest in my financial affairs. And as I looked closer, I saw an unfamiliar expression on his face: there was fear, longing, desperation, and self-hate, all, I knew, because of his brief meeting with Christine. What had she really said, and what had he said back? He had been calm, composed, normal last night when we had talked briefly about his walk, but I could tell he had regretted whatever it was he had said to Christine. What had he said? Come to think of it, what would I have said? I thought about that. I had no idea. I walked back to the theatre without really seeing where I was going, and intending to keep this a secret. They would find out, they would scold me for not telling, they would coo over it, and all that could wait until les Messieurs decided to make it official.

That night I went down, not really wanting Papa to notice me, just wanting to see what he was doing. He was playing something on his organ—Beethoven, perhaps? There were beads of sweat on his forehead, and his eyes were shut. Everything but his hands was shaking. I got out of the boat and walked soundlessly to him. The floor was vibrating slightly, and I hummed with it. I tapped his shoulder—he didn't notice. Unsure what to do, I left him to his playing. I came back the next day, and he was still playing. I could not see any sign that he had gotten up. The only change was that he was playing a new piece. It suddenly occurred to me that this was one of the five or six times I had seen him sit at his organ without a pen and a composition in progress in front of him. What had Christine said to him—or vice-versa—that could have brought about this change?

The third day when I came down, he was playing Bach's Little Fugue. I have always liked that piece, and I to this day have no clue why. It makes me think of stairways As I approached the island, there was suddenly an agonized, inhuman yell when the music reached it most intense, and the notes cut off abruptly. Then a name, screamed, and echoed uncountable times—"Christine!" I poled as I never had before.

My father was lying on the ground behind the organ stool. The mask had been thrown and lay in the corner, and his hands were over his face. I gently pulled them away. The half-deformed mouth was swollen, and his lips were cracked. Was it possible he had had nothing to drink for three days? His cheekbones stood out more than usual. He had not stopped. Fool that I am, I had not made him eat or drink. Tears were running down my face—not his, though I could tell they would have been had he not been so terribly dehydrated. I ran to the cupboard and filled a cup with water, then held him in my arms and made him drink. Just a little, for I knew the consequences of rushing in blindly. I rolled him up in his blanket and went to ask les Messieurs for a week's leave. It was granted with minimal explanation—my father was ill, I needed a week off. They accepted that as if my father and I were both normal people. It was a pleasant surprise.

I began my week by organizing some of the mess down there. Papers littered every flat surface, and the majority of the crooked ones. I did not look at them, just organized them and put them in little piles in the corner. Luckily for me, Papa labeled each page with the name of the composition and the page number. It annoyed me to be unable to pick up my father and put him away, but I have never been strong—I have never gotten taller than five feet.

I had made definite progress on the floor when Meg arrived.

"Everyone heard how you took a week off for your father," She said in explanation as she got out of the boat. "I thought I ought to see if I could help." She looked around curiously. "I haven't been down here in twelve years."

"Thank you so much for coming, Meg," I said, tying up her boat. "I need help, but I didn't want to go back up in case they decided that meant my leave was over."

"So, what can I do? Help you get him into bed?"

"Precisely." We put him on a pair of blankets and slowly dragged him to the bedroom, then heaved him into the bed. He was unconscious, but muttered incomprehensibly when we picked him up.

Meg looked at his face, frowning thoughtfully. "He doesn't look so bad in this light," she murmured. I smiled behind her back. "What happened to him? He looks like he hasn't drunk anything in days—or eaten anything."

"I don't think he has."

"The organ business?"

"Yes." I had told Meg everything, of course, down to the pieces my father had been playing the last three days. "He was playing the Little Fugue—"

"Bach?"

"Yes, that one, and he stopped short and…"

Meg nodded and gave me a hug. That is one thing I like very much about Meg. She is never self-conscious offstage.

"One of us has to go shopping," I said, wiping my nose on my sleeve. "Why don't I stay? He'd be less surprised if he woke up that way."

"Fine with me." I detected something odd in her tone, but I didn't question it. It was not my business. "Do you have a list?"

"No. Just food for a few days—I've never known him to be picky—and firewood. He always made magical fires, and I don't have the Gift." I went to the closet wherein my father kept his box of money. I took some out and gave it to Meg with a box of the "Giry Chocolates." "I really appreciate this, Meg. You can buy whatever you want with the change, Father won't mind."

"Thank you, but I don't think I will. The chocolates are enough, or haven't you ever tried them?"

"I have. Take your time. We're in no hurry." I resumed my cleaning while Meg went back to the world of light. I had never realized how much time my father spent composing. I mean, I always knew it was his main occupation, but I had always assumed he slept sometimes. Now that I thought about it, I should have seen this coming.

A/N: In the next chapter, madness continues. I'm not entirely sure about the rest of it.