Chapter 4

When Christine awoke the next morning daylight was streaming through the windows, and she was alone. "Angel?" she called, looking around and seeing she was the last one abed. How late was it? She got up, pulling on her dressing gown.

"You were tired," came the soft answer, from somewhere she couldn't see. "Fleur let you sleep."

"Come out, then," she answered just as softly, "tell me last night was no dream?"

"Look at your hand," replied the disembodied voice.

She looked, and there, where she had placed it last night, was the filigree ring. She smiled, then sang, "Angel of Music, hide no longer, Come to me, strange Angel," and suddenly he was there in front of her. "How did you do that?" she asked before he wrapped the cloak around her, enveloping them both.

"I have my ways," he said enigmatically, letting his forehead rest against hers within the wings of the cloak. The mask between them no longer seemed intrusive, but a natural part of him. One gloved hand caressed her face; his lips kissed hers gently. "There is coffee," he said, stepping back and gesturing toward the small table. She had never seen the silver coffee service before. Another advantage to being a ghost? There were two china cups, and a tray of croissants.

"Only if you'll join me," she said, bringing the table closer.

"Very well, but I must go if someone comes." He was thrilled, but nervous all the same.

"Then I hope no one does," she told him, sitting down on the bed and gesturing for him to sit next to her.

"Agreed." Taking off the cloak he poured for them both, the black gloves looking very elegant as they gripped the cup. He was of course dressed neatly, but this time wore a green vest and brown trousers instead of black. He must have found time to change.

She snuggled into her Angel's side, his arm going around her shoulder. She could hardly believe this was real, and put up her face to be kissed; willingly he complied. "Erik," she began, in between sips of coffee, "why doesn't Meg know? She's lived her whole life at the House: why me and not her?"

A pained expression crossed his face. She started to apologize, but he stopped her. "No, it's all right, Christine, it was…very long ago." He put his cup down, put both arms around her.

"Fleur fell in love with Alphonse three years before Meg was born. They were inseparable. He was a dancer, arrived from Rheims, and Fleur was seventeen. LeFevre hired him, and they married." His eyes took on a faraway look. "I held Meg before she was an hour old. I took care of her while Alphonse and Fleur performed…I fed her, changed her, rocked her to sleep." He looked at Christine directly. "A tiny baby does not judge the face of the one who cares for her. Meg was perfectly content with me, and I loved her. She was the one person who never feared me, never drew back in horror or pity." He looked back through the years, seeing what once was.

Christine raised her free hand to his face, caressing the mask. Her soul felt for him. "What happened?"

"Tiny babies grow up. They start talking, and telling others about the man no one sees. I had to let her go, consigning myself to the shadows completely. I couldn't risk being discovered. Do you understand, Christine?" He turned his face to her, and once again she saw the fear in him of his past.

No, he would not be able to reveal himself, still could not. She kissed his cheek, nodding. Yes, she understood.

"I haven't spoken to her since she was three." He picked up his cup again, smiling wistfully.

So that was what Madame Giry meant. "What about me?" she asked. "Why look after me?"

His smile was brighter now. "Fleur asked me to," he said simply, then looked thoughtful. "I knew she was fetching you after your father's death, knew you would be alone in the world. Fleur would do what she could, but she could not watch you constantly. And there are some in this House whom neither of us trust," he said with a scowl. He stroked her hair, his eyes tender again as he looked into hers.

"Do you remember your first night here?" he asked gently. "You were crying, trying not to make any noise. But it was a strange place, a strange bed, and you had no one, not yet. My heart went out to you; even if Fleur had not asked, I would have sung to you, watched over you. If anything were to happen to you I couldn't bear it." He took her face in his hands, his heart full, and kissed her forehead.

She put her hands over his, feeling very small again. "Yes, I remember. And a voice, a man's voice, softly singing my name. I thought it was the Angel my father promised me. But it was you, it was always you."

"Disappointed?" he smiled, already knowing her answer.

"Never," she said, and kissed him, tasting coffee and him, always him. He had been there always, and always would be there. Her rock in an uncertain world.

Her Angel kissed her back, tasting coffee and his own sweet Angel. To the rest of the world he was a ghost, a phantom, but to the two women who gave his life meaning, he was now very real. He rejoiced in belonging to them both as they belonged to him. Soon, perhaps, he would be reunited with Meg, and his life would be whole.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door. "Christine?" called the voice on the other side, and the knob began to turn. "The ballet hall," her Phantom said, and disappeared in a rustle of fabric, as if he had never been there.

Meg Giry entered the room as if on cue. "Christine, Mother sent me for you," she said, taking in the coffee service, the two used cups where there was only one person. She puzzled for a moment, then drew a sharp breath, realization dawning on her. Lowering her voice to an excited whisper, she asked, "He was here, wasn't he?" she looked around quickly. "Erik! He was here, he must have been! Where is he? Christine, where?" she entreated, taking Christine's hands.

Christine tried to make sense of what Meg was saying. How did she know? Had Madame Giry told her daughter the truth? "Meg, how do you know that name?" she asked. Would it be all right to tell what she knew?

Meg began looking around the dormitory, trying to find hidden doors in the panels. Christine had to ask her twice more before she stopped, coming to the bed. In a hushed voice, she said, "Christine, Mother told me, she told me about the Phantom of the Opera!" The questions came out in a rush: "What does he look like, where is he? Is it true you're engaged?"

So many questions so suddenly, Christine was taken aback. At least she knew how Meg had found out. "Meg," she began, "please, wait. I'll answer what I can, just please wait!" Finally Meg came to sit beside her, eagerly picking up the cups. For a moment Christine had a flash of what she must have looked like as the toddler Erik cared for. "Meg," she began again, "do you remember when you found me in the chapel, and I told you about the Angel of Music? How I thought it was my father's spirit coaching me?"

"Oh yes," Meg answered with delight, "and it was really Erik all along, wasn't it, Christine? How romantic! How exciting! And now he's asked you to marry him, how perfectly wonderful!" she slowed down now, the words more coherent as she came around to her own childhood. "And…he took care of me, didn't he? Christine? It is true, isn't it?" she asked, hope shining in her eyes. "Father died so long ago, I never knew him." She looked down at her hands, "Now, to find someone else who did…don't you see, Christine, it's like a second chance," she said earnestly. "You will introduce me, won't you?" she pleaded, and Christine could not help but smile.

"Of course I will, as soon as I can," she told Meg, and was rewarded with a hug.

Meg pulled back suddenly, dismayed. "Oh, but Christine…what about Raoul?" she asked.

Christine looked at the rose ring on her finger. "My life is here, Meg. He will have to understand that." And where had Raoul been all those years? The echo repeated in her mind, her Angel's accusations returning. No, she would not forsake the man who had given her everything for the one who had forgotten her.

The two women met Madame Giry in the ballet hall, just as the Phantom had said. More a large space between dedicated rooms than anything else, its smooth floors and openness allowed the corps de ballet to practice at almost any hour. The Ballet Mistress left the lines of ballerinas to finish the piece they were working on and joined her daughter and Christine to one side. Quietly she asked, "And how are you, Christine?"

"I'm well, Madame," Christine replied, formal after last night's encounter and in front of the ballerinas. "Thank you for the rest, it was quite late."

Glancing at them both, Madame Giry added, "You have questions, yes? You both do," adding, "Wait here, the lesson is almost finished." To the girls, she called, "That is all for now! Tonight's rehearsal in two hours on the stage!" and gave advice to several ballerinas as they dispersed.

When the hall was empty, she turned to the two young women. "And now…what would you know?"

Meg was first. "When can I meet him? Mother, when?"

Fleur considered a moment, studying the scaffolding overhead. "You are sure?"

Meg thought about it seriously. "Yes."

"Even though he wears a mask?" she pressed, watching her daughter carefully. She approved of what she saw there. "Then now."

Both women were surprised, nervously looking around.

"Erik," Madame Giry called softly overhead, "Please, my dear. Come down." She moved back toward a corner where several stairways intersected, providing a quick escape if he needed one.

The girls joined Fleur in looking up. To their astonishment, a piece of darkness detached itself from the further darkness of the overhead flies and ropes. It disappeared. Long moments stretched out as they waited, hearing only the voices of other workers in the House.

A black cloak appeared just behind Madame Giry, came silently to stand beside her. The white mask and glossy black hair made a surreal counterpoint to Fleur's natural beauty.

"Meg?" The man in the cloak said, keeping the mask turned toward Fleur. His black-gloved hands were unsteady as he lifted them, just a little, toward her.

Meg put her hands up to her mouth, suddenly shy. "Oh…it's true!" she whispered, and closed the last few steps between them, looking up at his face. Hesitant, she took his gloved hands in hers. "I can't believe it."

"You were three when we last spoke," he said uncertainly, his voice rough. "I'm sure you don't remember me." He looked to Fleur, his eyes pleading.

Fleur stepped in to help. "You may not remember Erik, but you do have something of his," she said warmly. "The music box? The one with the little cat on it?"

"Oh, that's my favorite!" Meg exclaimed, "I still play it every night!" Shyly, she looked at their hands. He hadn't let go of hers. "You gave it to me?"

"I made it for your eighth birthday, just as I made one for Christine," he answered, trying not to boast. He was rightfully proud of them.

"Thank you," she said, and stood on tiptoe trying to kiss his cheek. It took him a moment, then he obligingly bent down to give her his good side. He wasn't used to being kissed as a routine thing. Impulsively, Meg hugged him hard, tears springing unexpectedly to her eyes. He gasped at the contact, then his arms went around her and tightened, and he let himself feel the happiness of being reunited with his own special child.

Footsteps. "Later," he said quickly, stepping back and into the darkness once again.

Meg's arms were suddenly empty.