Disclaimer: I do not own most of these characters, just a few here and there that I have made up somewhere along the line, and you'll be able to pick those out easily. I do not own any of the songs in the story either; I just really love them and find that often songs just fit in too well in my stories. I'm going through another "Scarlet Pimpernel" phase right now, so more lyrics from that show might pop up here… oh, right, and I don't own any of the Shakespeare either. Please read & review, I am always open to any ideas and suggestions.

This chapter will be from the point of view of the Secret Admirer…

Many thanks to my faithful reviewers!

There was no show on the Sunday following the Christmas masquerade, and good thing too, because he was exhausted. The past few days had really taken a lot out of him and he had stayed at the ball far later than he had planned. Oh, but it was Carlotta, he rationalized with himself, and if it was for Carlotta, it was all right.

He checked the clock on his mantle. Three in the afternoon. What could Carlotta be doing? There was no show that evening and Christmas was only two days away, so perhaps she was out shopping? Yes, he decided, she was out shopping.

With movements that were swift yet elegant, he went over to his desk and picked up the next gift that he was going to present to Carlotta. He quickly wrote a card and placed it under the ribbon of the package, and set off to find Carlotta's dressing room.

He knocked on the door and there came no response. Good – she was out. He turned the doorknob and cheered inwardly; Carlotta had left it unlocked, and he wouldn't need to pick the lock. Stepping inside and making sure to lock the door behind him, he breathed in the sweet aroma of the perfume that he had given her the day before last. Her ball gown from the previous evening lay once again on the couch, just as it had lain yesterday before the masquerade.

The dragonflies lay on her vanity in a neat little pile next to her earrings; she had looked so radiant in them. He walked up to the vanity and set the package down, and as he did, something caught his eye. The journal that he had given her on the first day lay wide open, and there was a sentence jumping out at him: Seeing Yvette in the garden last night is more than my weak heart can handle. I have a new love, yes, but just the thought of her with my Ubaldo, let alone the sight… it is too much for my weak heart; it weakens more and more with every thought, and try as I might, I fail to drive my love for Ubaldo from my heart. It is an impossible task; I now understand why so many heroines take their lives rather than endure this suffering; it is a fate far les painful.

He looked up from the open journal and stared back at his reflection in the mirror. My Ubaldo she had written. My Ubaldo. My love for Ubaldo.

Now he was sure of it, and any and all doubts were erased from his mind. He looked away from his reflection, his mind now flooded with thoughts. He turned to leave, and the elegance and grace with which he had entered the dressing room abandoned him as he bumped into a chair. My Ubaldo… my Ubaldo. The words continued to echo in his mind as found his way to the door and out to the corridor.

I fail to drive my love for Ubaldo from my heart. The words rang wildly in his ears as he walked through the Opera House. People called out to him as they passed him, but he did not hear them. All he could think about was that journal and the revelation contained therein.