a/n Here it is, the grand finale! Thanks for coming along for the ride—I love you all!

EPILOGUE

LONDON, ENGLAND—1911

The clanking across the hall was a bit annoying as the young woman sat at her piano, caressing the keys with long fingers as she eased into the music that was so familiar to her. A song, one her father sometimes sang to her mother, even now that he was so old. Even with a husband and three small children, she missed them so. She missed all her family, really. Most of them were back in France, but Gustave still toured around Europe with whatever opera his wife sang in, their five children in tow. Tristan helped Jean manage the Garnier in Paris, seeming content to be a bachelor and drive his married cousin crazy. Her sister seemed to enjoy gallivanting around Paris with her husband by night while being the perfect mother by day. Only sweet Mathieu, her dearest friend, had come to London two years ago. He was working on behalf of their parents as the patron for the London opera house. Lord knew the de Chagnys had the Paris house covered, and the Vienna house was run by Eva.

The clanking stopped and there was the sound of running water in the sink and she smiled. It was official—they were moved in. The house was clean and the carpets were new and now the plumbing was fixed. She stopped playing and rose as the plumber entered the room, wiping his hands on his work pants.

"Loo's workin' right, ma'am," he said, smiling slightly.

"Shall I pay you now then?"

"That'll be nice, ma'am, thank ya."

Gesturing the man to follow her, the woman swept back her long, dark tresses and walked down the stairs to the kitchen. Reaching for her pocket book, she glanced across the room at the plumber. He looked exhausted. As she handed him the owed money for his repairs, she asked, "Would you care for some tea? Maybe a sandwich or two?"

He grinned. "That'd be great."

As she bustled around the kitchen, he made cheerful small talk. She nodded and smiled her way through it until he mentioned music.

"Tha's a nice piano you've got in there—Steinway, isn't it?"

Turning her head to look at him, she gave him a quizzical look. "Yes. You know pianos?"

"A bit," he said, sipping at his tea. "I'm an organist, myself."

Intrigued, the woman sat down across from the plumber—she couldn't quite remember his name. "You're an organist?" she said, passing him a plate of sandwiches.

"Aye." He bit into one of the sandwiches and smiled. "Doesn't pay shit, though." He took on a sheepish look as he apologized for his language.

Laughing, she said, "It's fine. And in any case, shit does pay."

The plumber laughed delightedly. "You're a slapper, ain't ya?"

She smiled and sipped her tea. "In my day."

The plumber shook his head. "Ya read much?"

"I love to read."

"Ya like music, ya should read this." He reached into the small satchel he carried with him and pulled out a book.

"Where did you find this in English?"

"Bookseller down the street from my flat," he said. "'s about a genius. If ya read between the lines ya find that he's jus' like everyone else, only he don't look quite the same."

"How so?"

"Looks like death, the story goes."

Raising her eyes, she smiled slightly. "Do you think it's true?"

"Dunno. I don' think so. I never seen someone look like a walkin' skeleton. That Leroux was up his arse, tell ya that. Never know with those French, though—no offence."

"None taken." Leaning forward a bit, she put the book back on the table. "Mister… I'm sorry, what was your name?"

"Webber."

"Mr. Webber, I'm going to tell you a secret. It's got some fact to it. The people were real. There really was an opera house. But Leroux heard what every other Parisian did. Within a year of everything happening, the story was already distorted. But I know the truth." And she went on to tell him the true story of what happened—the story her father had told her before she left Calais.

"So he isn' dead, then?"

"No. He's sitting on a porch somewhere with my mother, sipping red wine and watching the sun set over the ocean." She leaned back again. "But let me make myself clear, Mr. Webber. You tell anyone what I just told you, I'll kill you."

He smiled. "Can I tell it to my kids, when I have 'em? Like a bedtime story."

"Make sure they don't spread it around."

"Right, Mrs. Butler."

a/n I know it's short, but it's an epilogue. Anyway, AWL's grandfather really was an organist and poor plumber in London, so I decided it'd be fun to have the true story be like a family story that only the Webbers know. Rock on, and once again, thanks for sticking through with me. I love you all!