A/N: Thank you so much to MadameGiryMiranda. Reviews are always appreciated. And I wouldn't forget Queen-Chick and QueenSarah. Honestly, you are wonderful. Maybe a touch of romance in this chapter ;) to fill your desire.

Erik had waited four long years, his opera slowly dragging into oblivion. But he constantly played for Giry, for it was the only thing she would listen to. And as Erik grew more impatient, the lust for the kill became stronger.

Giry had notified Erik the minute of Debienne's refusal. She had cried with him, welling tears of remorse, solitude, and overpowering love. She did not understand her thoughts. It must have been something she ate, over four years ago, that caused her to act in such a way. Her heart leapt into her throat every instant she saw his face, even his malformed side she looked upon with joy, knowing that it was he. She wondered day after day if he returned the favor, begging silently to God.

It was in the early morning hours that she found four dead bodies of her compatriots in the darkened theatre. She had come to dance to the mute chords of Erik's opera, and instead found a horror beyond her imagination. The girl who had insulted her those previous four years, the girl called Renee, hung from a rafter, her eyes closed, but mouth agape in silent surprise. Fille, the younger of Renee's two sisters lay on the floor in a misshapen heap, her eyes open with muted terror. Another girl, she did not know her name, lay draped upon one of the sets they were using in an opera. And finally, little Kathrine, now twelve, was stone-cold on the floor with a deaf scream and eyes of dismay that greeted Giry's senses. Upon the floor there lay a note.

Four ballet rats for the four years in which you made me suffer.

O.G.

P.S. I request that Antoinette Giry may be appointed to the post of prima ballerina. Or I shall kill again.

Giry's swollen eyes tore from the note, and her sobs echoed through the theatre.

"Curse him." She muttered. "Why?"

With the courage that was left in her, she made her way to see Debienne and Poligny. She knocked on Poligny's door, and was surprised to find him flirting with one of his many mistresses.

"Michelle." He murmured, caressing her neck. "Michelle."

Giry cleared her throat obstinately, and made a small curtsey to the manager and his mistress.

"Monsieur, there is something I need to speak with you about."

"Well, speak up Mademoiselle." He said, put off by her interruption of his romance. "What is it?"

"The ballerinas are dead." She said with solemnity.

"What?" he said, exasperated.

"It is true." She whispered. "Come, Monsieur Poligny."

Normally it was uncouth for a ballerina to tell the manager what to do, but he paid no heed to the formality of the issue. Silently, he took her hand, and she led him down to the stage.

"My God." He whispered when he saw the girls' bodies on the stage. "Debienne!" he cried aloud.

"Please, Monsieur." Interrupted Giry. "I have a note, from the Opera Ghost."

Poligny's eyes scanned the letter, and his mouth fell agape with disbelief. Debienne came rushing in at his side, and looked with fear at the four young women.

"So the Opera Ghost exists?" he said, after he read the letter twice over.

"Yes." Said Poligny. "Indeed it seems true."

"Someone fetch the coroner." Said Debienne hurriedly. "At once!"

"I shall." Said Giry quietly.

"Good Mademoiselle." Said Debienne. "In the Rue St-Fauborg he is."

Giry bundled herself into her black shawl and donned her walking boots. In a fury she marched out of the Opera Populaire with an air of distinct and mournful purpose.

"Erik," she murmured, "I thought I loved you. Now I'm not so sure. Erik, sweet Erik."

She repeated this phrase until she reached the coroner's workplace. He was an old man, draped in black, seating on a wooden stool, but graced it like a throne. Coffins adorned the walls of the shop, and a single, human skull leered back at Giry from the mantelpiece.

"What do you wish for, Mademoiselle?" he said with a smooth, aristocratic accent.

"I wish you to come to the Opera Populaire." She said, "A few deaths must be recorded."

"Ah. I see. Emergency call?" asked the coroner.

"Yes." Giry gulped.

Giry led the man back to the Opera Populaire, still repeating the silent phrase in her head. In about twenty minutes they reached the Opera House, with its noble architecture and Grecian columns.

"Enter." She said to the coroner. "The managers shall wish to see you."

Giry ushered the coroner into the theatre, where Poligny and Debienne were still in awe over the bodies.

"Thank you, Mademoiselle Giry." Said Poligny. "Now." He said, turning to the coroner. "These deaths need a bit of explaining."

"Fair enough." Said the coroner with a noble but toothless smile.

Debienne silently gestured to Giry, and handed her a small, handwritten note.

"Thank you, Monsieur." She said, and he nodded silently.

She stowed the note in her pocket, and asked Debienne permission to go back to her room. He allowed her, but she took a meandering detour. With apprehension she took nervous steps down to the underground lake. The gondola was there, and she pushed herself across the lonely waters. Erik was sitting at the piano, a single tear streaking across his masked face.

"Oh Erik." She said. "How could you?"

"They denied me the request." He said stubbornly. "Four long years I waited, and nothing ever became of it. Thank heaven I still have the original, or it would be lost in shadow."

"But Erik." She began.

"No more buts, Antoinette!" he seethed at her. "It is my ruined life, I can live it in whichever way I want. I own the Opera Populaire."

"It seems you do." Admitted Giry, sitting down beside him, and taking the note out of her pocket.

"What is that?" asked Erik, gesturing to the note with a slight movement of his wrist.

"I do not know." She said slowly.

"Open it." Commanded Erik.

Giry obeyed, and read the contents of the letter.

Dear Mlle. Giry,

In light of the actions of the Opera Ghost, it is my esteemed and heartfelt honor to appoint you to the position of prima ballerina. I hope you have many blessings during your outstanding career representing the Opera Populaire, and may you forever grace the stage of this theatre.

With fond regards,

Monsieur Debienne

"Oh Erik!" she cried enthusiastically, completely forgetting the circumstances. "Oh Erik!"

Without the slightest hesitation, she leaned forward and kissed Erik on the lips. She broke off immediately, and continued on rampantly.

"It will be marvelous! Just think, me, prima ballerina! Oh, thank you Erik!"

"Antoinette, why, pray tell, did you kiss me?" asked Erik with a slight snicker.

She stared at him.

"I am sorry Erik." She said, holding her head in her hands. "I am so stupid."

"You mean you could love…such a monster?' he asked shyly, forgetting his headstrong, passionate manner.

"You are no monster Erik." She whispered.

She touched her lips with his, gracing them fondly. Soon, it became more passionate, and Erik's tongue fondled her lips, timidly asking entry. She obeyed with the generosity of her age, and let Erik's skilled hands touch her face and neck. With passion she traced a line around the outline of his mask, and tore it recklessly from him. He did not care, did not even wince, the passion was too strong. Finally, they broke away, her breathing fast and quick, his heavy and passionate.

"Goodnight," she murmured. "Erik, sweet Erik."

"Goodnight," he replied. "My angel Antoinette."

Later that night, Giry fell gracefully into her bed. She could not forget the deaths, but they remained in the dim, subconscious of her mind. Under her pillow she found a note, written deftly in Erik's familiar handwriting.

Antoinette,

My angel. I shall never know how I survived without your love. Peaceful dreams, my darling.

Yours forever,

Erik

Hurriedly she grabbed a pencil and some paper from her nightstand. Hastily, she wrote back to him.

Erik, love

You never survived without my love, because I always had it for you. I was just too timid to give it.

Your loving angel,

Antoinette

With careful steps she creapt down into the labrynith of the underground of the Opera House. She found the gondola, and, with a fleeting hand, put the letter into it. Then, with a solemn push, she let the gondola slide smoothly across to Erik's side. Without a backwards glance, she went back up to her own room.

Erik was still sitting at his piano when the gondola reached the shore. Slowly he lifted the letter out of the gondola. He read it.

And it was the first time in his life he truly smiled.