Hello again! After days of penance done by fanatically reading, watching, listening to and generally being obsessed with the Phantom of the Opera, I have returned!

The reason for this bizarre fixation was both to improve my aim as I chucked darts at Christine's picturesque head…and because I wasn't really happy with my last chapter. SO I'm trying again with another chapter.

PhantomIsLife: I agree! No more of this Christine/Raoul stuff! Thanks for the encouragement!

The Cure: Thanks for the compliments, Liane! I am keeping it up, as promised!

Ophicial-Phan: Oh good, I was hoping someone would tell me Madame Giry's first name! I've seen so many different versions so I wasn't sure if…AAAAHHH! No! I want the phantom cookies! Give them to meeeeeee! (breaks down hysterically, crying and laughing manically at the same time) Anyhoo, thanks for reviewing and all!

Emmanuelle Grey: (tosses Raoul voodoo doll at Emmanuelle, along with a couple of extra sharp pins to stab him with) YAYA! Someone else who doesn't particularly like the long-haired foppish…for lack of a better word…FOP! Phantom reigns supreme! (huggles her cuddly plush Erik doll, complete with miniscule Punjab lasso)

Butler's Lassie: You shall get E/C, oh, yes you will (adopts Yoda accent) mmmhummm, get E/C you will! (drops out of Yoda accent) Yes, Erik is rather…sexy, is he not? Ho hum…there's the lovely body AND the emotionally tortured soul, with certain psychotic tendencies, hatred for chandeliers and a mask! What more could you want?

THANKS FOR REVIEWING EVERYONE! And now on with…

Masked Rose

Disclaimer: Sigh...must you rub in the fact that I own nothing of POTO? NOTHING?

(By the way, I remembered the English guy that played him in the musical who I couldn't remember at the beginning of the last chapter! MICHAEL CRAWFORD! (snaps fingers) His name was lingering at the back of my mind for ages, then I was trying to persuade my baby bird not to eat my new designer jeans and it just popped up!)

And here is Chapter 2 of Masked Rose…

Chapter 2: Confrontations

When Raoul arrived back at his estate, his chief servant, Pierre, met him with a troubled look. 'Good evening, Vicomte. I trust you are well?'

'Well as can be expected, Pierre.' Stripping off his gloves and handing them to Pierre, Raoul eyed him. 'Is there something wrong?'

Again, that pause. Raoul felt his heart beat slightly faster. 'Pierre?'

'It is…the Comtesse, Sir. She was…quite upset early today, for reasons she did not explain. She retired and has not been seen since. She has ordered all maids from her, Vicomte. I…I believe she wishes to be left alone!'

These last words were called in vain after the fleeing figure of his master, charging up the staircase two steps at a time. With a sigh, Pierre retreated to the kitchens, speaking harshly to a few maids in his way, who skipped backwards, mumbling their apologies with lowered eyes.

Raoul tapped lightly on the oak door which separated him from Christine. He opened the door and glanced around, to find his wife seated by the window, watching the rain. The tracks of recent tears stained her delicate face and her deep brown eyes were filled with a deep sorrow. 'Christine, what is the matter?' In a number of steps he had cleared the room and crouched at her dainty feet. She turned her head, gracing him with a long-suffering gaze, before glancing out towards the window, as distant and pale as a painting on a slip of parchment. 'Please Christine, why do you cry? I cannot bear to see you in pain. Please?' Christine turned, her eyes sweeping over Raoul once more. His entire stance was bent towards her. He truly cared for her and she had been less than a good wife to him, often becoming increasingly quiet, with her eyes fixed somewhere on a point where Raoul could not follow, a gentle smile curled about her lips, as though she smiled upon a fond memory.

'Have you, by any chance, seen the paper today, Raoul?' Her voice was soft, demure. Only her eyes were hollow with a strange emotion he couldn't name.

'Why yes, but Christine what do you mean…?' She only stared at him, her messy curls framing the white face, the trembling lips. Raoul stilled his movements for a minute as understanding dawned. 'Oh I see. You speak of him.' His face darkened slightly. Pain thrilled through Christine at the look on his face. 'What do you mean, him? How can you brush my Angel aside so easily? You cannot even bear to call him by name!'

She rose angrily, following a pace behind as Raoul stormed away from her. He whirled suddenly on her, fury deepening in his usually soft eyes. 'You never even knew his name!' Christine did not back away from him, anger hardening the gentle lines of her face, although inside she despaired. You thought he would understand. You trusting fool, Christine! Raoul is still jealous of him, even though he probably lies dead!

'I cannot believe you would mourn such a pathetic and twisted individual, Christine! Quite frankly, I believe he deserves to have been caught! They shall hang him and good riddance, I say!' White-hot fury encased Christine, her eyes snapping. Unable to answer, she moved away from him, towards another door. His next words, however, stopped her dead in her tracks. 'You received a letter from Meg Giry today. She wishes for you to come back to the Opera to visit her, a month from now.' She turned back to Raoul. He stood, back to her and arms folded, the comment spoken, apparently, to the floor. 'I am beginning to think, what with your continuing obsession with that madman, that you should not go.'

'You cannot order me around like some petulant child, Raoul! You cannot stop me from going anywhere I wish!'

He turned abruptly, anger marring his pleasant face, strands coming loose from his usual ponytail and floating about him. 'What if I do not wish it of you to go?' The threat in his tone was obvious. Christine took a step towards him, her eyes glittering. 'I shall go, whether you wish it of me or not, Vicomte.' And she swept away from Raoul, stirring the dust motes on the floor to gold as the sun peeked through the rainy mist, illuminating the Vicomte for the briefest of moments before the clouds closed in.

That night, Christine lay awake, listening to the rain pour outside. Raoul had come to her some hours after their argument, apologizing profusely for his behaviour and suggesting they speak of the trip to Paris in the light of a new day. She had smiled, albeit coldly, accepting his mincing words but lay in his embrace like a porcelain doll, silent and submissive, which she had began to notice, he expected of her. But instead of staying in their bed this night as she had so many times before, she pushed Raoul's arm from about her waist and rose, drawing the lace aside to look out the window. She traced two droplets journey down the glass with her fingers, frowning slightly as they spiraled apart in their descent, further and further, until they disappeared into the stream of raindrops, becoming indiscernible, irretrievable.

Meg entered the passage slowly, a tray balanced before her, heaped high with food, her large eyes straining to pierce the darkness she entered. The large bow which fluttered in her hair caught the light spilling from the room she had come from. Moving slightly further into the room, Meg called softly into the shadows, 'Monsieur?' There was no answer. Erik paused in the darkness of his shattered lair, looking up and piercing the blackness with experienced eyes. Had there been a voice? About to pass it off as a cry from his obviously deluded mind, there was another soft call, almost beyond the edge of his hearing. Erik growled, showing his gleaming teeth in a fit of anger. Must all the population of Paris choose to delve into his lair? Moving swiftly, he grabbed the pole he used to pole his gondola and floated down the underground labyrinth of canals. He did not wish to have a confrontation with the younger Giry but doubted her mother would spare him if the hapless child happened to find any of the traps he had constructed over the years to keep overly inquisitive stagehands from venturing too far down into the cellars. He reached the other side and sprang to earth, landing as neatly as a cat.

Meg had nearly turned to go, her heart fluttering in her chest but no sooner had her fingers scraped the surface of the mirror which led to Christine's abandoned dressing room, that a voice stopped her. 'What are you doing down here?' Meg's insides turned to ice. He was there, somewhere in that choking darkness at her back. Turning boldly back to face the damp corridor, she said, 'Mama asked me to bring you down some food.' She indicated the plate she held with trepidation. 'She said…' Meg's voice broke with terror. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She wondered briefly whether the Phantom could hear it and then dismissed the thought with a toss of her blonde curls. 'She said you would not have much thought for food, as usual.'

Erik had stood quietly in the darkness until now, eyeing the profile of Antoinette's daughter with a sort of morbid curiosity. At this last comment, a thin-lipped smile darted across his face. He could just imagine Madame Giry's face as she said those words to her highly-strung daughter, with a mocking tone and a stiff smile. He took a few gliding steps towards her, barely noticing the plate of steaming food she held in nervous hands, eyes darting towards the mirror from which light streamed. Meg's eyes still roved the darkness, obviously still completely oblivious to his position. 'Well then,' he breathed, inches from her right ear, 'you give Madame Giry my gratitude,' she nodded quietly, looking relieved, 'and remind her that I enjoy my privacy and may not be as forgiving to the next ambassador she sends.' Meg's breath caught in her throat. His voice was now as dead and cold as the wind.

Black-gloved hands came from the void and courteously relieved her of her plate. Having completed her duty, Meg leapt for the mirror, taking a frightened look backwards as though she expected the Opera Ghost to be chasing her. Instead, she only caught a glimpse of white, as a mask shone for an instant amongst the blackness in the light from the mirror. Then she was gone, the ribbon from her hair bobbing fitfully as she fled the room, the mirror swinging behind her. One hand came out and pulled the mirror back into place with the ease of long practice and a sigh came from the darkness. Then the figure in the dark was gone, his long strides carrying him soundlessly back down the passages underneath the Opera.

There you go! Now read and review! And don't worry, Erik's not going to get with Meg or anything. He just scared her witless, is all…Next chapter: We fast forward a certain number of days to when Christine comes to the Opera. Now then (evil grin) shall Erik and her meet in the next chapter? Or should I hold it off for another, say, three or so chapters? Hmm? Oh well, I'm off to brood over my other neglected fics.

Until next time, Gentlemen, I remain your obedient servant,

O.G. I mean Taluliaka.