I am so sorry it has taken me such a phenomenal time to update. I had a serious case of writer's block and just couldn't think of a way to carry on the story in a way that seemed vaguely sensible. I finally came up with this, which although not perhaps quite the direction I originally had for the story, seems to work pretty well. Sorry it is a short chapter. I am still compiling the ideas for the next chapter, so hopefully I can get that out within the next week or so. Hope you like it, and once again I apologise for the slow update.

"Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind." – JIM MORRISON, An American Prayer

- Estelle Tiniwiel - x -

"W-Well, Monsieur… I…."

"Come then, Little Giry, spit it out! I want to know why you have my mask!"

Meg's eyes closed and her shoulders slumped, and she emitted a sigh of resignation.

"You must promise not to laugh at me if I tell you."

Erik couldn't imagine what she could have to say that could possibly make him laugh right now, so he gave a short, sharp nod of agreement.

"Well, part of it was because I thought that you might regret leaving it behind later, after all I can't imagine that it would be easy to find many porcelain mask makers, and part of it was because… was because…" Here she stopped, looking down at her feet, and inhaled sharply: the deep breath before the plunge. "The other reason is because, quite frankly, ever since I first heard of the Opera Ghost the idea of it fascinated me. I imagined all sorts of wild and ridiculous stories to explain him; I built up a picture in my head of what this Ghost would look like, what his personality would be… what had killed him. I suppose you could say I had a crush on an idea – Erik's eyebrows shot up – similar to Christine's adoration of her angel – The eyebrows set themselves back into a frown -. But then I found that my Ghost wasn't a ghost, and Christine found that her Angel wasn't a messenger of Heaven, but a man. He was a man, not an apparition, and I heard his story – Here Erik turned, glaring, to Madame Giry, and took a step forward – but honestly, Monsieur, the people telling the story did not know that they were being heard! I listened at the keyhole to my mother's door as she spoke to the Vicomte and learnt about my Ghost, and his story was sadder and more romantic than any my mind had so far created. I pitied him. I did. I took his mask because he had left it behind. I didn't want anyone else to find it. It would have ruined my love completely if someone else had had it: that mask represented he who had left, and who I doubted I should ever hear of again… or see again…" She trailed off, unsure of what to say next, or how to put it.

Madame Giry steadied herself and tried to gather her thoughts into something coherent. Erik just stood there stunned.

"Well, Meg, I think we have heard quite enough from you for today. Go downstairs and sit where Monsieur Erik was sitting earlier and think long and hard about what you have just said and what you really think. Before now I have heard many words from you saying how the Phantom is someone to be hated for all the bad he has done, and now this! I think you need to get your head straight, young lady, before you are involved in this business further!"

Meg got up and walked out, eyes to the floor.

Madame Giry turned to the Phantom, fear and anger for her daughter evident on her face, and the look in her eyes easily telling him that he had a long way to go before he could regain even her trust.

"Well, Monsieur, I hope you are pleased with yourself. I am going to leave you in here. You may come out whenever you wish, but you are not to go near Meg. I will not have her being taken advantage of, do you hear me? I refuse to lose another daughter to you."

Erik nodded dumbly in agreement and Madame Giry left the room frowning, closing the door gently behind her. Erik had heard what Madame Giry had said, but was having trouble making it go in, his mind going over and over the speech he had just heard from Meg.

My Ghost. Crush. Love. My Ghost.