A/N: Okay, so I lied. ;) I started writing the next chapter, but there were too many gaps and unanswered questions, so I added in this little bit. Fear not, for the remarkably lengthy chapter is on its way, as promised. Here's a little something to satiate you until that time...

Disclaimer: Wow, this is getting old. And I'm running out of quirky comments, too... Er... -can't think of one- Nah, they ain't mine.

Her chestnut curls were fanned out across her silk pillow, making her look every bit the part of an angel. She smiled up at me as I placed a reverent kiss on the back of her hand, her fingers extending to stroke my left cheek lovingly.

"Sleep well, Christine," I whispered, backing toward the half-ajar mirror. "You must be well-rested for your performance tonight."

She rolled her eyes humbly. "Thank you, but the part will not be tolling. The page boy's role is silent."

I looked at her with mild surprise. "Page boy? But my dear, you shall be playing the role of the Countess."

Her brow creased slightly, and she propped herself up on an elbow. "I'm afraid you're mistaken; La Carlotta is-" A sudden understanding registered on her face, and her cheeks went pale. "Oh no, Angel, you mustn't..."

I laughed quietly and swept over to her, gently urging her to lay back down. I brushed my fingers over her cheek, and she grabbed my hand tightly in her own.

"Promise me you won't hurt her, mon ange," she begged. "I couldn't stand it..."

"She will not suffer any physical pain," I assured her with a secretive smile. "Her pride, on the other hand, could use a severe lashing..."

Christine cringed, and I suddenly became serious, rubbing her cold fingers gently. "Do you trust me, Christine?"

She hesitated, but nodded in defeat. "You know I do."

I smiled gently. "Then know that I will not do anything to break that trust." She returned the smile, and I left her bedside quietly, slipping back through the mirror without another word.

Now on to more official matters, I told myself. I crept through the dark tunnels of my domain, occasionally peering through a crack in the stone or trap doors in search of my assistant. The dining hall, backstage, her office, Box Five, the managers' office... she was nowhere to be found. I soon grew exceedingly frustrated with my inability to summon her on a moment's notice (normally I was not so easily enraged; my haste was fueled by the self-assigned obligation to help Christine's career progress as only the Phantom himself could), and by the time I finally found her, I had worked myself into a fuming temper.

Madame Giry sat in a plush velvet armchair, which was partially hidden behind a large set piece from a production nearly ten years ago. Her long, bony fingers were entwined with her daughter's flaxen hair; her hard blue eyes were narrowed in concentration, following the deft movements of her hands as she added strand after strand to the thickening French braid. A recalcitrant expression contorted Meg's dainty features, suggesting that the two had recently had a falling out. I glanced up at her mother for confirmation, and found it immediately: her jaw was set in a firm line, her muscles tense, her movements exaggerated ever so slightly. My anger dissolved into curiosity, and I decided to wait a moment before interrupting; it was helpful to know the goings-on of my Opera House, especially those of my sole employee and my beloved's best friend.

I didn't have to wait long.

After a particularly harsh tug on her fine tresses, Meg sighed loudly. "Mother, I was just worried about Christine-"

"Hush, Meg," her mother hissed. Madame Giry was silent for a moment before adding quietly, "He does not wish to harm you, but he is a very private man. You must not provoke his anger under any circumstances."

I stiffened. What had Meg done that could arouse such fear in her mother- fear of me, nonetheless! (for I was not entirely stupid; I knew to whom she referred) I leaned forward to hear more, but both women fell into an awkward silence. Madame Giry finished braiding her daughter's hair a moment later, and squeezed her shoulder gently. Meg turned to face her, a slight pout tugging at her lower lip.

"I meant him no harm," she said quietly. "You told me he is not as evil as the others say. Why, then, do you fear him so?"

Madame Giry shook her head and sighed. "Sometimes, Meg, you must simply learn to trust my judgment." She cupped her daughter's cheek with one hand. "This is one of those times. All I ask is that you leave the poor man alone. He has suffered enough."

Meg frowned, but nodded. "As long as he does not harm Christine."

Madame Giry yanked her hand away from Meg's cheek, her own brow creasing stubbornly. "Mademoiselle Daaé's business is her own. If she chooses to associate with him, then..." She trailed off, then looked up at her daughter severely. "It doesn't matter. You heard me, Marguerite Eloise, and I expect you to respect my wishes, if not his."

"Yes, ma'am," Meg mumbled, blushing at the rare use of her full name.

Madame Giry nodded. "Good. Now hurry; I can hear the orchestra warming up already." Meg returned the gesture, then hurried off in the direction of the stage. Her mother sat quietly for a moment, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

"I find it remarkable that the entire Opera does not know your whereabouts at all times, Monsieur Erik," she said suddenly. Her blue eyes snapped to mine, glinting in amusement. "Your breathing could wake a sleeping giant."

I smiled behind my mask. "Luckily," I countered quickly, "There are no sleeping giants within the Opera Populaire."

She chuckled softly- a rare spectacle, indeed- and tilted her head. "You need something, I presume?"

I frowned. "An answer, first of all. Dare I enquire as to what Meg could do to earn such loathing from me?"

She sighed, lifting her shoulders in a shrug and crossing her legs beneath her skirt. "She entered Mademoiselle Daaé's dressing room last night, hoping to congratulate her, and mysteriously-" She cocked an eyebrow pointedly. "Discovered a beam of light coming through a crack in the mirror."

My heart skipped a beat. "She followed us..."

"Not very far. I realized where she'd gone and brought her back before she could even reach the lake." She seemed to sense my skepticism, for she added earnestly, "And she received a severe chastisement about the dangers of doing so again. I rarely refer to the... exaggerations of Monsieur Buquet..." I snorted, and she nodded her understanding. "However, they seem to have proven effective in preserving your sacred privacy, Monsieur Opera Ghost." Her eyes followed the trail that her daughter had taken moments ago. "I believe her word; she will not investigate the situation further."

Satisfied with her explanation, I nodded. After a moment's hesitation, I added, "I would not hurt her, Céline."

She smiled weakly. "I worry, Erik... sometimes I think even you cannot control that temper of yours." She fell silent, studying her folded hands intently. I did not answer; I was simultaneously outraged and shamed by this simple statement- partially because of her indifferent candor, mostly because I knew it was true.

It was she who finally broke the heavy silence. "But I highly doubt, Monsieur, that you came here to discuss my daughter."

"You assume correctly, Madame," I replied, a bit more harshly than intended. I grabbed the five letters from my inside left coat pocket and dropped them into her lap through a trap door in the ceiling. She read the spidery red scrawl quietly for a moment, thumbing through the envelopes before catching sight of one unsettling name. She looked up at me with wide eyes and produced a noise that lingered somewhere between a groan and a sigh.

"I understand that stirring up chaos within this Opera House is one of your favorite pastimes, Erik, but must we involve her?" she grumbled.

I laughed. "I did not cast La Carlotta in Il Muto, Madame; therefore I am not to blame."

Her long, slender fingers united with her temples and moved in rhythmic circles. "I have a migraine already." She sighed. "In person, then?"

"No," I replied quickly. "No, they are each to be delivered to them anonymously via the Opera's post system, save for the last, which you are to present to them together once they have received their individual letters. Understood?"

She nodded weakly, continuing to rub her temples. "Yes, Monsieur; of course, Monsieur; whatever you say, Monsieur..." I laughed, and she smiled, tucking the notes carefully into her robe.

"My deepest thanks, Madame. And believe me this: all of Paris shall thank you, too, when it is Christine in the limelight tonight instead of that Italian pig."

"Then I depart on winged feet, Monsieur Opera Ghost." She winked, and began to follow in her daughter's footsteps toward the stage. She hesitated halfway down the hall, and called over her shoulder, "By the way, I adored those Belgian chocolates you left for me two weeks ago..."

"Understood," I laughed. And with one final, curt nod, she disappeared behind a navy curtain.

With a practiced twirl of my cloak, I turned on my heel and headed quickly back home. My lips curled in a satisfied smirk as the orchestra's music drifted through the walls, and I breathed an almost inaudible, "Showtime."