Author's note: One step closer to what we know is coming. I'd love to know your opinions on this. I'm not just asking to up my reviews tab, but this fic is not over and this is not my last fic, so I would love to know any suggestions you have.

Thank you to Sleepy Angel and Intoxicated by Erik's Music, who always comment, as well as my other 'regulars.' I love to hear what you have to say!

To those who suggested Raoul seemed to get over Christine rather quickly…he's definitely on the rebound, but it has been about a year, so we'll see where that goes.

To the noter from Chapter 4 who caught the gross error…yes, I know it is Raoul, for some reason, my spell check likes to suggest Raul is fine…does anyone know how to go back and edit these things?

Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, not mine…

Carlotta smirked to herself in the wings. One glance into the audience had told her all she needed to know. Her plan was working perfectly!

Admittedly, in the beginning, the puzzle pieces had not put themselves together perfectly. Seeing Christine in Italy had been a surprise she would have rather done without, but as time wore on she found it increasingly odd no one spoke of her husband.

Indeed, finding that wedding invitation among Meg Giry's things had been a bit of a surprise. Carlotta had been snooping, looking for a caricature that had been circulating the ballet corps…a drawing that apparently depicted her running about with a crazed look on her face as ghosts chased her about the opera. She had been sure she would find it among Meg's things, but approaching footsteps had halted her search and she had been forced to stuff the invitation in her pocket and pretend she was looking for Madame Giry.

It wasn't until she was in Italy she chanced to wear that cloak again, not a favorite by any means, and had re-discovered the invitation. This was also approximately the time when the Italian opera house had become almost as unbearable as the one in Paris, with objects flying towards her with no provocation and disembodied voices calling to her from every corner whenever she was in her dressing room or alone in a hallway.

It had taken her awhile, she would admit, but as severe questioning revealed no knowledge of Omar Girard, or whatever that stupid invitation had said, she began to imagine that Christine was hiding something, and the more she thought about it, the more she began to connect the dots, to realize it wasn't a coincidence, that it was too well-planned for such misfortunes to only befall her when she was associated with Christine. Her nerves shot, her paranoia at an all-time high, she blamed Christine for her problems and had decided that whatever specter had haunted them in Paris had followed Christine here.

Carlotta was not immune to the rumors that had circulated about Christine's final night in the opera, but had trouble believing some of them, especially that it had been some man, not a ghost at all, but a living, breathing man, who had become taken with Christine and had been able to make her life so miserable. She especially had trouble believing that any man would be enthralled with Christine's voice when she, the greatest singer in Europe, graced the stage as well.

Ghost or man, she had decided it no longer mattered. Rumors aside, she knew there was one thing more sure than love or death, and that was the pride of an aristocrat. She was sure that Christine's lovely ex-fiance would be interested to hear of her whereabouts…she had written the letter, relying on rumors for some, guessing at the rest, and the finished result was a strong, if dramatic, little piece of bait. If she had to have her dragged from Italy, kicking and screaming, she would be rid of that formidable threat once and for all!

Raoul had been enjoying a late breakfast after a long night out with his brother when the post arrived. He accepted the letters his servant brought him and laid them casually on a nearby table, intending to look at them after he dressed. It was going to be a fun afternoon, he had planned a number of fun things for he and Isabel to share, not the least being meeting with the priest to discuss wedding plans.

Sitting back in his chair, Raoul reflected on Isabel…and Christine. Christine, he knew, would never fully leave his memory. Every now and then, he would feel a jolt of electricity and remember something about her…the way her hair smelled, her laugh, her wide, innocent eyes as she listened to what he was saying.

Except that wasn't the Christine that he had left, it wasn't her at all, and while part of him ached for his childhood love, another forced him to accept the fact that she was gone, as good as dead, in some aspects, for those months in Paris had changed her. He felt a familiar bile rising in his throat as he thought of that opera ghost, that man, whatever he was…at least now, he was dead, but he had ruined his child bride-to-be, taken his dreams and dashed them on the floor, and he knew that he would never be able to forgive that.

He loved Isabel, he knew that, too, but it was different, much different. Isabel was security, Isabel was fun, but Isabel did not know him the way Christine had, and he did not share her life the way he had shared Christine's, falling easily back on a childhood joke or an old story, touching on their past as he hoped for their future.

And yet, he was excited to be married, for all that, and if sometimes the past came back to haunt him a little too hard, he simply remembered his last moments with Christine, those moments where she all but told him she would never be able to love him…could never, not as long as her heart belonged to a dead man! The words he had spoken to her made him flush with shame, but there was nothing to be done of it now. He wondered what had happened to her…

And then the letter. When he had opened it, and saw the typewritten face, he at first thought it was a letter from Isabel.

My dear Raoul, it began, and Raoul felt a smile come to his face. He enjoyed it so when she used little pet terms for him, it made him feel innocent, happy…but the next lines drove the smile from his face.

My dear Raoul,

Perhaps it is entirely inappropriate of me to write this letter. It has been, after all, approximately one year. I hope you are well. I was well, but you must know what a toll these months have taken on me. I do not know how to tell you how much I miss you.

At this, Raoul stopped reading, his heart in his throat as he checked the postmark on the envelope and recognized the name of a city in Italy. "So that is where you went," he murmured, too stunned by the letter in his hands to think to be upset or angry. The writing did not sound entirely like Christine, but he had been a poor judge of character before, and turned back to the letter.

I started singing again, but have found that the joy the stage brought me is no more. I am finishing my contract on the last day of the month and will not return to the stage. It is not what I expected, and there have been terrible things happening…how I wish I had never left Paris! I have not been happy since the day I last saw you.

Raoul, I am so sorry for all I put you through. If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I would love to see you in Italy. Perhaps, then, we could begin again.

Yours,

Christine.

Raoul slumped in the chair, all color gone from his face, his mind a raging mix of emotions. Christine wanted to come home! That filled him with happiness, but also anger and confusion. She had not been happy since the day she last saw him? She had practically thrown him out! How dare she think they could just pick up as if nothing had happened! How dare she ask him to forget Isabel – though he admitted to himself there was no way she could have known of her – how dare she!

No, there was no future for them. And yet…the letter had hinted at terrible things, things evidently terrible enough to get her to write, to have her ask him to save her. Lover or not, angry or not, Raoul could not find it in his heart to deny her help.

He decided to go to Italy and help her. Then, perhaps, he could have the closure he needed and be able to return to his life with Isabel, free of the ghosts that had haunted him all this time….

Raoul started as the lights in the Italian opera house dimmed. The address on the envelope had been that of the theater, he had no idea where Christine lived.

Erik could have seen him, if he looked, but his mind was too lost in his own affairs. As the lights dimmed, he leaned forward to catch the first glimpse of his wife, oblivious to the young man who, three rows ahead and two seats to the left, did the same.

And then the opera began.