Firstly, a thanks to all my readers. Even if you didn't review, it is such a compliment that you consider my work good enough to read. To all of those who did and do review, I cannot express my gratitude. Your words keep me going into the late (and sometimes early!) hours. To the Mouse in the Opera House, Erik's Secret Admirer, Mystari, Aisuru-chan, Soignante, Ceris Malfoy, phantomangel132, satinzevi89, and littlemisshedgehog, thank you so much. To all of the people who put me on their favorites or alerts list, I am grateful.

Now, before I lose my composure completely, here's what you've been waiting for. Chapter 6, as it were.

Swear Never To Tell

Christine

She let the paper flutter, limp, back to the dresser. Her mind raced, a strange buzzing filled her ears. Meg. Christine knew there was a possibility that the Vicomte was lying, that he did not, in fact, have control over Meg's existence at the moment. It did not matter. If there was even the slightest chance, the most remote of possibilities... She could not let her own fear cripple her friend. Not petite, child-like Meg, the only one among them who had retained her innocence.

I will not have that innocence taken from her.

"Very well then, Raoul." She whispered to the empty room. "If you would tempt fate, let us see what fate has planned."

She swept up a cloak, made her way out through the drafty passages toward the stables. Her veins ran with cold blood, cold intent. She had no plan as to what she would do, what she could say to Raoul to make him see the truth, to prevent herself from committing the injustices she had already done. She would not betray them both a second time.

I will not wrong them. I will not. I will not. I will not deny Erik the peace he longs for. And I will not deny Raoul the truth he refuses to see. The same sleepy-eyed driver that had met Christine before was there again. "To the cemetery." She said quietly.A wave of deja vu swept over her at the familiar sight, the familiar words.

The air bit at her, snowflakes cold enough to cut.

Raoul

He waited for her impatiently. The snow around him shrouded the statues in cold light, only emphasizing the lifelessness of the cold stone. The silence was oppressive, pushing in on him from all sides, trapping him in a cold world of light. Grey light, white light. No presence among the dead stone other than his.

Christine, Christine. Where was she? Something in the Vicomte seemed to be shattering. All I want is for her to be happy. To see her smiling as she did when we were children.

I want to be the one that makes her smile.

It tore at him, constricted his lungs, froze his blood, to think that she might think herself happy with someone else. With that monster in man's form. Christine, Christine. Can't you see that he is only lying to you again? How long before he hurts you again?

How long before he reveals the devil behind the mask? His insides clenched tighter with every moment that passed. His heart pounded in his ears, the beat a steady melody in his head, pounding like the Phantom's organ below the Opera. Damn it, where is she? Where is she? He wanted to tear his hair out, to find something and hear it shriek as he throttled the life from it.

At the moment when he was sure that he would scream, a voice came from behind him. It radiated control, a gentle soprano lovingly tutored. "Vicomte"

He whirled. His heartbeat slowed, but the nervous tension in him did not ease. "Christine." He frowned at her, gently admonishing the pale, dark-cloaked figure in the snow. "I told you to call me-"

"I know what you told me to call you." The dark intensity of her eyes stood out starkly against the whitened face. He found himself magnetized, hypnotized by the force in those eyes, so different from the gentle assent he was used to seeing. How could she have changed so? What had caused this-this creature to take his Little Lotte's place. What did that monster do to her?

Desperation roughened his voice. "Little Lotte, you know why I asked you to come." Please, let her remember. He prayed. Let her remember that she loves me.

"I know." Her eyes were pitying. "And I cannot give you the answer that you seek."

He seized her hands, gripping them until he could feel bone. She flinched under his hands, he did not notice.

"Vicomte, you're hurting me." Her voice was clear, calm. How could she be calm?

"Why, Christine? Why can't you accept what Fate has given us? Why must you go back to that monster? Why, Christine, why?" His voice broke over her name. His body heaved with the fierce, tormented breaths that wracked his body.

"Why?"

Inside My Mind

Erik

His hand shook, the paper under his fingers crumpled with the force he had clenched them. Only one thought was in him, pounding through his veins, resounding in his head, resonating in his very soul. It was a word spoken with fear, spreading cold like poison through his body.

Christine, Christine, Christine.

The bastard had taken her.

Christine, Christine, Christine.

Erik had failed to protect her.

Christine, Christine, Christine.

Her beautiful voice echoed through him, raised not in song, but in screams. His hands shook on the bridle as he slid the bit into the sidling stallion. He repeated her name like a prayer.

Christine, Christine, Christine.

Cursing, he discarded the saddle and leapt on. The stallion's head jerked up as he kicked it into a startled gallop. The darkness was fast settling in, the snow turning grey underneath the creeping night. Until the last rays of the sun caught it, turning it to livid blood and flames.

Christine.

Gossip's Worth Its Weight In Gold

Madame Giry

She felt the tension draining from her body, tangible as though it had been blood, at the sight of the coach that halted in front of the Opera. Upon it was the Leinette crest of her sister's deceased husband, the horses were the trademark Friesians that were the pride of his family's stable.

Madame Giry rushed down the steps, a smile of pure relief robbing her face of years. The door opened and her sister stepped out.

The woman radiated energy, charging everything in her vicinity with he force of her personality, the shining aura that hung around her like a breath of summer. Silvered blond hair was swept away from a face that was too spirited, too emphatic, to ever earn the description of "pretty". It made her shocking, breathtaking. The air of decadence, of life around the woman felt like a rush of warm air to her sister. She embraced her daughter's namesake. "It has been too long, Marguerite."

The woman smiled at her with an overwhelming fondness. "You work yourself to hard, Marie. I have said it once, and I will say it again."

Madame Giry raised an eyebrow. "Only once?"

Her sister waved a hand airily, dismissing the irony in her voice. "Come, Marie, I know there is nothing you would rather be doing."

"Indeed not." Madame Giry smiled.

"And how is little Meg?"

Warmth suffused her features. "Not so little anymore. She has herself a fiancé, now. The Opera secretary, a honorable young man."

Madame Leinette smiled. "Let's hope she doesn't run him ragged. What a vivid young girl! When shall I be meeting my dear niece again?"

Madame Giry shook her head. "Business first, pleasantries later, I'm afraid, Marguerite."

The woman sighed. "Of course. You did request my help after all. Where are those paragons of morality, the Opera Managers?"

"I hope you will not use those words to their faces."

"I suppose it would be rather tactless of me. And no help to you at all. But my dear, I thought you already had a patron. The young deChagny?"

Madame Giry's smile was tight. "He has not been the paragon of virtue that he would like the public to believe. He has frightened one of my girls very badly and is in the process of trying to subdue another."

Her sister's mouth pursed, eyes narrowed. "Where are your managers?"

Firmin

"Really, Andre, I don't know why your letting it upset you so. It's only a rumor. The Vicomte hardly seems-" Ridiculous man. Why the devil is he being so gullible as to believe the gossip of stage hands? Andre's hair was testament to his worry, it stuck out like a ruffled mane from his head. He tore at it now as he paced, voice raised in panic.

"Firmin, do not be an ass! If the public thinks that our patron is drying up, the Opera will fail! And where do you propose to find another?"

"Why don't you try praying for a miracle, Andre?" Firmin snapped impatiently, now becoming worked up himself.

"Excuse me, messieurs. I hope that I am not interrupting your work."

Firmin whipped around to face the ornate double doors. His eyes passed over Madame Giry to the woman beside her.

Aristocrat. It was the one thing that came to his mind. She had the polished air of nobility, her dress opulent to a degree that would have been distasteful but for the way she eclipsed it, lighting the room with a powerful presence. This woman meant money. She meant opportunity.

"No, no, my dear woman, not at all." Beside him Andre was looking slightly punch-drunk. "I'm terribly sorry, but I don't believe we've met before?" Madame Giry smiled slightly, he wondered fleetingly what the ballet mistress was doing with this woman.

"Let me introduce you sir. Monsieur Firmin, Monsieur Andre, this is my sister."

Her sister? Firmin wondered. What the devil is going-

"-Madame Marguerite Leinette."

Leinette? Leinette? Firmin's heart leapt. The Leinette's were a very old family, dating back to some of the oldest written records in France. Notoriously reclusive, they were artistic connoisseurs, avid intellectuals and, above all, absolutely, fabulously rich. Firmin swelled with pompous purpose.

"I have long wished to see the Opera Populaire that my sister tells of so lovingly." The woman's voice was infused with energy, her movements quick and graceful as fire. "I must admit, the reality outshines the descriptions." She bestowed a smile upon the bemused Andre, who could not seem to believe the opportunity that had fallen into their laps. "Before I came here, I promised myself one thing, and now that I see the Opera, I feel I cannot do without it." Firmin became slightly wary, but, at her next words, very nearly gaped.

"Let me become the Opera's patron, I beg you, messieurs"

Firmin was definitely going to church tomorrow.

Again, thanks to all of my readers and reviewers- your opinion means so much. Chocolate, cookies and hugs to you all.

Lee