Sorry for the long wait! I got into a pretty bad writer's block, was really busy, and also was/am writing another story. Chocolate chip cookies to those who reviewed!

Sorry for the slight cliffie, also.

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Chapter Three: And Unwelcome Surprise

Angéle was playing with a new doll she got from her friend for her birthday. It had a porcelain face and black hair with sparkling green jeweled eyes. The green eyes and black hair combination intrigued Angéle, though, and reminded her so much of Erik.

She missed Erik dearly and wished she could go visit him. It had been almost a year since their encounter, but Angéle thought of him every day. In fact, she had been talking so much about Erik, she finally claimed one morning that he was part of the family and would hence be called "Uncle Erik". Her father had considerably blanched while a slight smile played around her mother's lips.

Today, she decided to complete the doll because she felt something was missing. And she knew what.

After a few minutes Angéle had taken some of her fathers papers and scissors, cutting the snow white square into the shape of a half mask. It was surprisingly acute for such a small child's creation and fit perfectly over the doll's right side of the face. Angéle smiled down at her creation, innocent pride welling up in her breast.

Footsteps were heard coming down the hallway. They were rather fast paced, light, and unusual to Angéle's ears. Definitely not her mother's, her father's, or any of the servants. Wondering who it was, Angéle stuffed away the mask in her dress and sat down on the chair with her doll.

In through the door came a women, about twenty years older than her mother. She was slenderly built, had long amber hair with a few wisps of silver, and large piercing brown eyes. Her dress was a stiff black dress; slim and strict. The way she held herself also intimidated Angéle for it was as straight as one could get. She felt herself cower when the woman's eyes swiveled onto Angéle's.

"Angéle? I'm Madame Giry, a friend of your mothers."

How could her mother have a friend so strict? Dismissing the fact, Angéle went into her newly smooth curtsey unlike the one she had a year ago.

"I am Angéle."

"Angéle, this news I'm about to tell you will cause you pain."

Immediately Angéle bit her lip.

"This morning, when your parents were traveling by carriage to visit me, they got into an accident." Angéle gasped.

"Are they okay?"

Madame Giry blinked back tears, trying her hardest not to allow her shoulders to slump down. She knew this news was going to hurt Angéle's innocence dearly and hated to see her once joyful face fall when she spoke up again.

"No, Angéle. They're not okay. They died. . . instantly."

Angéle paled to an unnatural white color.

Death.

It was a term Angéle thought unreal; a term only used for people that she didn't know.

So then how could her parents die? They were immortal. . . right?

But deep inside Angéle knew better.

Of course they weren't. They were like everyone else. But hearing that they died was still unbearable to process through her juvenile brain.

"They. . . They died?" Angéle managed to mumble. Madame Giry nodded numbly, a tear escaping the corner of her eye and falling down into her lap. Hastily she wiped at her eyes, but Angéle had seen.

Seeing such a strict and stiff lady cry was enough proof for Angéle. Her parents - the people she loved, the people she grew up with, the people who treated her like no other - were dead.

Too many feelings surged through Angéle's brain, making her dizzy. Tears poured out of her ears as she clutched the her black haired doll. Getting up, she walked over to her mother's favorite chair; the one right by the window over looking the rose gardens in the back.

She could have been sitting there; her mother could have been sitting in that chair, reading Angéle stories about princes slaying dragons to save the princess. She could have been sipping a glass of tea while chatting gaily to Raoul over the weather. She could have been sitting in that chair with Angéle on her lap so she could comb her hair while humming a gentle tune.

But she was dead. Her mother would never be able to comfort her again.

Finally after what seemed hours, Madame Giry spoke up, her voice freshly choked on sorrowful tears.

"I'm to take you into care by request of your father. My daughter, Meg, and I can raise you in our apartment. I'm sorry, but it won't be as luxurious as here. It will definitely be a change for you."

Angéle looked up dully into Madame Giry's eyes. For some reason the prospect of living with Madame Giry seemed incredibly uninviting; her father's typical choice.

"Who did my mother want me to go with?'

Madame Giry shrugged her shoulders shortly.

"She didn't say. There's no written explanation as far as I'm concerned, either."

"I don't want to live with you," Angéle said shortly, crossing her arms before wiping off some more tears.

"I'm sorry, Angéle, but you have no choice."

Angéle bit her lip, leaning into her mother's chair and savoring the lingering perfume of her mother. It was refreshing to remember her smell.

Then with a jolt, Angéle realized she didn't remember exactly what her mother looked like. How were her cheekbones formed exactly? What did her curls look like while in the moonlight? What feeling did her smile cause in her stomach?

Fear of forgetting spread over Angéle, intertwining her soul with so much panic she fainted, doll falling to the ground, a slight crack forming over it's right side of the face.

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Angéle woke up with a pounding head ache for her little head. She groaned and curled up in a tight ball on her bed, the cotton sheets slipping off her small form.

Then her eyes shot open.

She didn't have any cotton blankets, and she was still in her dress.

Gasping, Angéle sat up quickly, looking around at where she was.

She was lying on a small bed dressed in plain cream cotton sheets. The room was small and wooden with a chest to one side and a desk to the other, only one small window allowing a faint trickle of morning light in. The door was to Angéle's right, and her attention was drawn to it when it opened.

Angéle was expecting her mother or father to come through with smiles and a tray of cookies. But when Angéle saw Madame Giry enter with a bunch of folded cloth, the full force of remembrance struck Angéle.

"Good morning, Angéle," Madame Giry said before putting away the cloth.

"Where am I?" Angéle asked quietly, huddling up on the bed, trying to hold back the tears.

"You're in my daughter's room. She's agreed to take over the couch. This shall therefore be your own room."

"I want to go home."

Madame Giry sighed and looked at Angéle.

"Your house was put up for sale last night. It's no longer your home any more."

"I don't want to stay here."

"It's my duty to keep you as another child."

"But I don't want you as a mother!" Angéle yelled. This was all too much for her. "I want my mother and father back! I want to go to sleep in my own room. I want my mother to talk and sing to me. I want. . . I want. . ."

Angéle slumped down in her chair, emotionally drained for such a small once lively girl. Madame Giry observed from the other side of the room.

"I want my doll. . ." Angéle finished lamely. She needed to see something that resembled a familiar face.

Madame Giry left the room. At first Angéle thought it was because she was fed up with Angéle, but was proven wrong. Instead Madame Giry came back holding her doll with black hair, sparkling green eyes, and the cracked face. She handed it over to Angéle who cradled it to her chest with one hand, her other in her dress pocket, lightly touching the homemade white mask for reassurance.

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The song just didn't sound right. Those two - three - no, four bars just didn't fit with the rest of the melody. Frustrated at his failing attempt for perfection, Erik crumpled up the paper and stomped away, seething.

To clear his thoughts, Erik put on his cloak and hoped in the gondola, realizing that going for a walk might help him cheer up like it did the last time.

Angéle.

Her angelic form still pierced his soul with innocent beauty. Just the thought of her soothed and calmed Erik when he was in a ballistic mood.

He knew it would be impossible to ever see her again. Even if Christine trusted him, Raoul would eventually find out and shatter Erik's dream of being a Godfather.

Climbing out of the Opera Populaire's ruins, Erik looked around, pulling his cloak collar up higher. Then, with hastened footsteps, Erik walked along the abbey streets.

Just as he was passing a street her saw a familiar sight ahead of him. It was the street Christine and Raoul carriage had broken down in. On the other side would have been where Erik met Angéle. Looking down the street from the shadows, Erik made a decision and swiftly walked down the cobble stoned street.

At the end he looked over and observed the place where Erik and Angéle had conversed. He stood where Angéle had stood and immediately felt warmth sweep over his body as he imagined her smile.

The euphoric feeling was swiped from his soul, though, when something hit his legs.

Looking down, Erik saw a version of that days newspaper, fluttering away from him down the street in the strong wind.

Erik leapt after it, grabbing the paper and bringing himself into the shadows to read. It wouldn't hurt to know what was going on in the world.

There was something about a small fire in a factory, a new cafe in all it's glory, and some political and international junk. Immediately bored by it's contents, Erik closed it, ready to throw it into the wind so it could continue its pinwheel spin down the street.

He was stopped when a picture caught his eyes on the last page. Quickly opening it back up, Erik studied it more closely.

Sure enough, it was a picture of Christine and Raoul, both dressed finely in their wedding clothes. Erik had never seen Christine so happy or Raoul so handsome. It hurt to know that they were only like this away from Erik's monstrosity. He studied Christine's every facial expression leaving Raoul unsurprisingly alone. Smiling slightly, Erik looked down to read the article.

This proved very disturbing.

'The Vicomte de Changy and His Wife Immediately Die After Carriage Accident Five Days Ago.'

The paper escaped from Erik's hands, continuing it's spins in the wind, it's chaotic unstableness representing Erik's new found emotions.

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Dun dun dunn!

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