A/N: Hi, there. I must say, I am disappointed. 21 hits, and only seven reviews. Anyway, chapters should be getting longer from here on out, but I'm afraid they probably will never reach epic length.

OK, if you are R/C, and can take a little disgusting-ness, visit the Phantom Phan Guild on There is a thread there called "101 Ways to Kill Raoul." If you can handle it, go check it out, and yell at the phanbrats for being sadistic! When I saw it, I was truly shocked and disgusted, by more than numerous suggestions to kill our dear Vicomte with a butter knife or rip his skin off with giant earring hooks. Most of them apparently don't realize that they would have maybe a dozen teenage girls versus a twenty-something, probably armed, Navy soldier.

Please see bio page for disclaimer.

"DEVON, YOU LITTLE TOAD!" a female voice screeched. Meg blew out an exasperated sigh, and Mr. Weatherby rolled his eyes.

"I swear, that boy is goin' ta be th' death of his poor sister," the Englishman muttered as they hurried up the steps.

When they entered the sumptuous foyer, the first thing they saw was a soot-faced teenage girl flying down the grand staircase. The lovely golden hair, just the same color as her mother's, that she was so proud of, was singed and filthy, as well as covered in the white powder ladies of that age used on their complexions. She was in hot pursuit of a yelling boy.

Raoul de Changy strolled out of the study to the left of the grand staircase, caught sight of the fleeing children, and dashed to intercept them.

"What did you do now, Devon?" Raoul asked wearily, nonchalantly collaring his son and daughter inches from freedom.

"HE BOOBY-TRAPPED MY POWDER BOX, DADDY!" Angelique de Changy, the soot-faced, 15-year-old daughter of Raoul and Christine shrieked, glaring balefully at all and sundry. Meg winced. Angelique didn't have an ugly voice, but she hadn't inherited her mother's angelic tones, and she had quite a piercing yell when she worked at it.

"It was my birthday present for Mama!" shot back Devon, Angelique's 11-year-old brother.

"Your birthday present to Mama was shell-shocking your sister and blowing up her powder box?" Raoul asked wearily.

"I perfected my new shell," Devon said sullenly. "I found a way to detonate it from another room, and I sure didn't want to blow up anything else."

"Angel, are you hurt?" Meg asked, stepping forward, using Angelique's "normal" name. The official rule was that if any of Devon's many explosive devices hurt anybody beyond shell-shock and minor bumps and scrapes, he was banned from going near gunpowder for two months. Surprisingly, this rule seldom had to be enforced. The boy's little bombs seldom did more that flash, bang, and leave an impressive cloud of smoke and ash. In this case, it had also caused a flurry of face powder.

"No, Auntie Meg," Angelique said absently, still glaring at Devon.

"Good," Raoul said. "Devon, you have to clean up the mess you made, and pay for anything that was broken."

"What was broken! What happened?" Christine cried, flying through another door, dressed for riding. "I was outside when I heard something explode," she explained.

Angelique launched into an injured-sounding explanation, while Devon loudly protested his innocence, and Mr. Wetherby added his two cents.

"Mother, I wasn't doing anything, just sitting there, and then Devon goes and blows up my powder box! Now look at me!"

"But Mama, I wanted to show you my new shell for your birthday! It wasn't my fault dumb ol' Angel opened her dumb ol' powder box too soon!"

"Beggin' yer pardon, Yer Ladyship, but yer GOTS ter do summat about that boy! It's a wonder he ain't blown someone to bits!"

Meg just watched and smiled. Another nice, normal afternoon in the de Changy household.

The smile of contentment turned to a shriek of horror as a rat scuttled between the younger Giry's skirts on its way to Angelique. Everybody whipped around to look.

"Socrates! You know you aren't supposed to be out when there's company, naughty boy! You are Mommy's sweet little bunnykins, aren't you?" Angelique crooned, scooping up the squealing vermin as though it were a kitten. Devon made a gagging noise. It has to be noted that it was very well-groomed vermin, with no fleas, trimmed, clean fur, and well-kept claws and fangs. Even if Angelique did have some rather…unusual… pets, she kept them all housetrained, clean, and well-mannered (for the most part). Raoul dropped his face into his hands.

"Angel, I thought I told you to get rid of that rat," he said, even more tiredly, from between his hands.

"Christine, hadn't we better go?" Meg inquired tactfully. "Mr. Wetherby says that he knows a wonderful spot for picnicking."

"Indeed I does, Yer Ladyship. I've taken me own lunch there many a time," the elderly servitor said, jumping at the chance. He led the two women out.

The last thing Meg saw when she left was Raoul ordering the Devon to get cleaning, and threatening to drown Socrates the rat if he ever got loose when there was company again.

Mr. Wetherby's "pickernickin' " spot turned out to be every bit as peaceful and relaxing as he said. Meg and Christine reclined, daydreaming silently, on the grassy bank of a small, clear rivulet, under the spreading leaves of walnuts.

"What's it like?" Meg asked suddenly.

"Hmm?" Christine replied, languidly turning her head to face her best friend, eyes half-open.

"Having a family. Children. I know I should go mad within hours."

"I've felt the same, at times. When one of Devon's early bombs blew out half of his room, and all he could talk about was how fascinating it had been, for one."

"I remember that. He was, what, eight?"

"Eight and a half. Or whenever Angel brings home an injured wolf or whatever animal happens to cross her path. Once she tried hiding a bear in the stable. It nearly took a chunk out of Raoul when he went to go get it out."

"That's a new one. How long ago was it?"

"Last month." A slightly accusing tone entered Christine's voice.

"That was a while ago, I know. I'm sorry. It's just that we're all so busy down at the Opera. Did you know that the Emperor himself is going to attend this year's Christmas gala?"

"How wonderful! Madame Giry must be working you all to death, though." Now the Vicomtesse's voice was wistful.

"You miss it, don't you?" Meg asked suddenly. "You miss working at the Opera Populaire and singing."

"Well, I wouldn't trade my life right now for the world, but sometimes,… yes, I do miss it."

"Maybe you could come back and sing for us," Meg teased gently. "I don't think we have a leading lady yet, and we're doing Faust."

"Oh, Meg, you know I can't. Maybe all of us will come and watch, though."

"I hope to see you there."

They looked at each other for a moment, both stymied for words.

At that moment, Mr. Wetherby, who had been checking the soundness of the surrounding fences, came crashing back. "You ladies done eatin'? Wonderful! We'll be back in time for supper. Miss Giry, I hope you'll be stayin'? The missus said she was goin' ta make roly-poly pudding," he said enticingly. Meg smiled. She hadn't the faintest idea what roly-poly pudding was.

"I would love to," she said happily.

A/N: so drop me a line, tell me what you think.

C. Pitney: THANK YOU SOOO MUCH! I do love those in-depth analysises. I actually do do the "visualizing" thing in my head, but thanks for mentioning it. Hmm, I never thought about the name "Weatherby" being predictable. Have to work on that point.

Phantomfreak07: Glad you liked "Letters."

Leotabelle13: MUAHAHAHA! I see at least a few more cliffhangers in your future. cackles R/C does indeed rock.

Daisy Diva: Yay! Another R/C Shipper! Carlotta is coming either next chapter or the one after.

Torch baby: "Fashionable wasn't the same as comfortable" never changes. Have you seen those girls tottering around in those bikini-style "Naughty Santa" costumes in December?

Nota Lone: The Raoulists thank you for your support. Although pickernicking season is over, it was fun while it lasted.

Phantom Hamster: Welcome back. Thanks for the vote of confidence.