"Wake up," a voice hissed, and Elizabeth stirred wearily. She had been unable to sleep when she finally returned to her bed, and it was nearly dawn before restless dreams had consumed her.

"Elizabeth!"

"Uhh... Mama? Please.." she pleaded, pulling the pillow atop her head.

Christine was in a vicious mood.

"Wake up, little wench! You shouldn't spend half the night in the streets of Paris if you value your sleep so highly."

Elizabeth sat up quickly, turning wide-eyed to her mother. She did not have to ask.

"Yes, I know.." Christine answered the silent question, sighing. Her anger softened a bit into a heavy sadness.

"Was it him, little Beth?"

Elizabeth wrapped her arms about her knees, curling up into as small a figure as she could manage. She nodded, propping her chin atop her knees.

"Why do you insist on disobeying me, child? What is so special about him?"

In an almost dreamy voice, Elizabeth replied. "Everything, Mother. The way he thinks, the way he views the common things. The way he speaks. His very voice. It's as though it gets lodged in my head and echoes and... I cannot stop thinking of him."

Christine stiffened. "His voice?"

Elizabeth affirmed the fears with a nod.

"Did you see him, all of him? Beneath the mask?"

Elizabeth shuddered a bit at the memory, nodding yet again.

"Tell me," her mother demanded.

"It was.. He was..." Elizabeth hesitated, feeling for a moment as though she were about to betray Nicholas with her words.

"He cannot help it, Mama."

Christine seemed restless, standing from the edge of the bed to pace it's length - wringing her hands nervously. "Tell me, child."

Elizabeth obeyed, her voice little more than a whisper. "Deformed, horrible. From birth, I assumed."

Christine looked as though she would swoon into a dead faint. Elizabeth was alarmed, and reached for her mother.

"What is it, Mama?"

Christine settled numbly on the edge of the bed again, and cast her sorrowful gaze toward her daughter.

"We need to talk, Elizabeth. Serious, adult things that even your father hasn't heard all of."

Elizabeth felt wary at her mother's words. She was sure something terrible and life-altering was about to fall from Christine's lips, and she wasn't sure she wanted to hear them. Teetering upon the brink of adulthood, Elizabeth reveled in the freedom of childhood. She was sure what was about to be said would send her comfortable world crashing down in a heap. She licked at full lips nervously, and nodded.

"It was a long time ago," Christine began softly, reaching for her daughter's hand. "A time we never speak of, and have not since you were born. When I was only a child, my father died. I came to live in Paris, in the Opera House. I was a chorus girl, a dancer, whatever was necessary. Auntie Meg? She was my best friend, and Antoinette became like my mother."

The solemnness in her mother's tone kept Elizabeth quiet, many curious questions curbed. Copper eyes stared intently.

"I was still lonely. Terribly lonely. I would even..." Christine shifted, already finding the recounting difficult. "Speak to my father, as though he were there. I missed him so terribly, little Beth. One day, a voice responded. A kind and gentle voice that sounded like the most beautiful noise from heaven. I believed he was an angel. The angel of music that my father had promised. He spoke to me often from then on, he gave me his music. He gave me my voice. He was my guide, my protector."

The story was so intriguing! Her mother had always seemed so reserved, and .. well.. boring. Elizabeth tried to squelch the delight she felt at the exciting story, adventure tinging the words.

"Something went terribly wrong. Your father... we met again, at the Opera House. He offended the angel, because he was courting me. My angel became fierce and jealous. He manipulated me, kidnaped me.." Christine hesitated, unsure of how many details to give her precious daughter, who's eyes were now as wide as coins.

"At any rate, he nearly killed your father and forced me to choose. If I chose him, he would let Rao- your father go free. If I chose my own freedom, he would kill your father. I chose him."

The weight of her words rocked Christine. She had chosen him. Why had he made her leave? And why had she? A familiar torment surfaced, and Christine struggled to bury it once more. Bitterly, she continued.

"He released us, moved with compassion I suppose. I left, and married your father. I could not stop thinking of him, I was haunted by him. He was always there, singing songs in my head.."

Christine cleared her throat, and Elizabeth spoke, thinking the tale was finished.

"What has this to do with Nicholas, mama?"

"Patience, child. A few years passed, and I don't remember how it all began - but a beautiful gypsy woman came into our lives, and apparently his. They were lovers, and she became pregnant. He never knew, however. They..." Christine, yet again, hesitated. Could she reveal the horror of her own actions to her child? The sin in her own nature, the cruelty of her actions - would she impart them?

"They fought and separated. The woman died in childbirth and I suppose the child was spirited off to an orphanage."

Elizabeth felt heat flush her cheeks. This was quite the upsetting story, but the more morbid it seemed to get the more uncomfortable Elizabeth felt. How could such a sad tale relate to the stable-boy she felt affection for? "Mama, please.." she begged, spurring Christine onwards.

Christine sighed heavily, having hoped Elizabeth would make the connection on her own.

"His face, Elizabeth. My angel's face, the Phantom's face. It was deformed and hideous, just as you described. And his voice, sweet child? Pure and perfect, and it seemed to echo in my mind when he spoke..."

"No," Elizabeth struggled numbly against the realization that threatened to shatter her innocent bliss. "No, it cannot be! Oh, but what does this mean? He has a father? Who is he, Mama? He deserves to know! I must tell him!"

Elizabeth worked herself into a frenzy, now out of the bed and pacing it's side herself. Christine reached out with a calculated grasp and captured her daughter's wrist, wrenching her around so that they were face to face.

"No," she threatened cooly. "You will never speak to him again, Elizabeth. His father was a murderer and worse. He destroyed the entire Opera Populair and nearly destroyed me. If any of that blood runs in him, you should be terrified. You will not see him again, do you understand?"

The fire in Christine's eyes was fierce, and Elizabeth knew that the only thing she could do was acquiesce. And so she did, whimpering lightly at the rough grip her mother had on her.

"Yes, Mama. I understand."

Christine held her a moment longer, searching her eyes for dishonesty. Elizabeth struggled to remain calm, and then averted her gaze as soon as she thought it acceptable.

"Good," Christine said, replacing her tone with a warm and mothering one. "I love you, sweet girl, and only want what's best for you. Say, have you seen William since that dreadful accident? He hasn't called in a few days. Did you have words?"

"No, I simply think he miscalculated. Turns out I'm a dreadful bore," Elizabeth lied, surprised at how easy that was becoming.

"I see. Well, brunch will be served soon. You will join me."

With that, Christine swept out of the room with all the grace that had once commanded the heart of the Opera Ghost himself. Elizabeth fell into the bed, exhausted in mind and body.