A/N: Happy Easter, everyone! –brightly colored eggs for everyone… AND cookies!- Hope those of you who celebrate had a wonderful holiday, and those who don't… well, same thing, because you get off of work/school. ANYWHO, I think you'll like this chapter. I certainly like it better than the previous two, but then I'm a sucker for mush. Buahaha!

Disclaimer: -points to Gaston- This is all him, actually. Andy gets absolutely no credit for this chapter, for once.

The small window was partially hidden in a tangle of weeds and dead leaves, but the dim light that permeated the thick canopy of clouds overhead glinted dully on the mud-splattered pane, catching my eye. I dropped to one knee, stooped over to study the ridiculously small entrance. I squeezed my eyes shut, shaking my head and hissing through gritted teeth.

"Oh, the things I do for you, Christine," I sighed. With a soft grunt, I managed to shove the pane open on its rotted wooden frame, and angled my hips sideways, kicking my boots through the open window. Slowly, I eased my legs through, and scooted myself over the slippery mud and weeds and half-melted snow, wriggling my hips to squeeze tightly and rather painfully through the tiny space. Once my lower half was through, my torso and head slipped easily down, and I landed with a quiet thud on a cement floor. My sides burned, my hands were splintered and covered in sludge, and my entire cloak was drenched and filthy, but I was in. Shivering from the cold, I removed my cloak, wiped my hands on the inside of it, and took a good look around the frigid, dark room.

I was in a storage area of some kind… a basement. A large wooden bookcase was pressed against the far wall, along with a broken pew, several faded cushions, stacked music stands, and a small copper crucifix. Along the top of the dusty cross was an inscription in a foreign tongue… Latin, I supposed. I leaned forward to inspect the characters, when suddenly the organ blared to life above me. I staggered back, my hand flying to my pounding heart, glaring upwards in disgust. Just above my head, a man's singing voice began to accompany the organ; the words were again in Latin, of which I knew only the basic phrases… my guilt was somewhat consoled by the fact that even if I had attended the service, the intended meaning would have only been further lost on me.

A chorus of voices echoed the priest's sung prayer dutifully; I strained to try and pick out Christine's voice, but even with a trained ear there were simply too many people.

With a dejected sigh, I collapsed to the floor, my legs crossed in front of me. I rested my cheek in my hand, amusing myself for a while by picking out every fault of the organ player overhead. After a few minutes of this, I lost count of the numerous errors, and wished desperately for something to do. I climbed to my feet and began to pace the small area; something about this chapel made me inexplicably restless, and the recognition of this restlessness only made me more nervous.

Suddenly, in the middle of my zealous pacing episode, my eye caught on the faded, peeling golden letters of a dusty briefcase atop a box of papers. I halted in my tracks.

With trembling fingers and a throbbing heart, I lifted the aged leather case from the box. The pads of my fingertips skirted lightly over the letters, my eyes widening in disbelief.

"Gustave Daaé," I breathed, reading the gold print aloud. My knees nearly gave out beneath me, but I managed to grasp at the bookshelf and lower myself slowly to the floor, the briefcase clutched tightly in my trembling hands. I hesitated, my fingers pausing on the rusted latch, biting my lower lip pensively. I, of all people, understood the sanctity of privacy, but who knew what secrets and useful information this small case could contain? Perhaps there would even be something that I could use to draw Christine back from the vicomte's arms once and for all…

The temptation was too great. Without further pause, I flipped the latch open.

At the very top of the briefcase was a letter, dated in April ten years earlier.

My Dear Father Gregory,

It is with a heavy heart that I send you these items, belonging to the late Gustave Daaé, who went to be with the Lord late Tuesday evening. He asked in his will that these items be saved for his little daughter, Christine, so that she might remember her earthly father in the years to come. Unfortunately, I found that quickly following the memorial service, Mademoiselle Daaé was sent to live in Paris in the dormitories of the corps de ballet. Therefore I send these items into your most capable hands, that you might give them to her should she ever return to Perros (and I do expect this to happen one day soon— the poor little child was very fond of her father). Monsieur Daaé, God rest him, was a man of the kindest nature, and I wish to do him this one last favor. I do thank you for your cooperation, and remain,

Your dear friend and fellow servant of the Lord,

Father Constantine

My eyes burned with unshed tears as I folded the letter back reverently and began to thumb gently through the papers. A familiar photograph of a young man with kind brown eyes gazed up at me; it was the same one, albeit less careworn, that little Christine had placed over her candle in the chapel of the Opera. Beneath it was another photograph, faded at the edges, with little smudged areas that looked suspiciously like teardrops, of a remarkably beautiful young woman with blond curls, wide round eyes, and a painfully familiar smile.

"Her mother," I whispered, tracing my finger tenderly over the high cheekbones, pale forehead, and gentle smile. Somehow, these pictures made me love Christine all the more… to have a history, faces, memories to imagine and piece together… I felt closer to her, connected with her, as a previously invincible barrier had been shattered at last. Eager for more, I placed the pictures gently to the side and began to rummage through the rest of the briefcase.

There were pages upon pages of sheet music, from countless artists and countries and time periods. Most were extremely complex; Daaé, then, had been as good as rumors granted him, if not better.

One thin sheet of paper in particular caught my attention: in the upper right hand corner of The Resurrection of Lazarus, a light, gentle hand had written "Little Lotte's lullaby." I stared unblinkingly for several moments, my hand clasped over my mouth. My eyes scanned the intricate array of notes scrupulously while I played those notes out in my head. When I was sure that I had burned them into my mind, I put the paper down, closed my eyes, and replayed the song silently by memory. With a terse nod, I tucked the music away with the rest, a devious smile tugging at my lips. Oh yes, this would work very nicely indeed…

I placed the contents reverently back into the briefcase and snapped it shut, then tilted my head to the side, listening to the goings-on above my head. The priest was in the middle of delivering a long, fiery sermon (which I found to be remarkably dull), and I estimated that the service would probably continue for another half an hour, at the very least.

The smile on my face widened as I set the briefcase and my cloak on the outside of the window, and climbed out with considerably less effort than it had taken to enter. The front of my white shirt was covered in muck, but I couldn't have cared less; I knew how to draw Christine back to me, at last!

A/N: Oooh, to stop here, or not to stop here… THAT is the question! Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to make the readers suffer another cliffhanger, or bore them with an exceedingly long chapter…

-smirks- Oh, I'm in an evil mood today. Sorry, folks… gonna stop here for now. I have to keep you reading somehow! But if you REVIEW for me, perhaps I'll be uber-quick with the next update -hint, hint!-

Venus725: I really need to drop by and read your story… my muse just wouldn't leave me alone last night! (not entirely a bad thing) I'm glad it wasn't too horrible. I actually have nothing against Catholics, as I have Catholic friends myself, so please don't interpret it that way… it's Erik, I tell you! LOL.

Number356: -faints- Another new reviewer? However do I get so lucky? Oh! –new reviewer dance- I actually made a new reviewer dance. Haha! I'm crazy. Well, I'm SO glad you're enjoying it; it's very fun to write!

Hriviel: Thank you, my dear. –grimaces- I'm going to have to go back and fix those mistakes sometime… I'm a perfectionist, what can I say? You're completely welcome for the nod; I couldn't very well take the credit for your idea, now, could I? Oh yes! And I checked with Noelle; Erik's all yours for Thursday. Ooh! Lattes and veggie pizza? Good times!

Opal: FOUR times, hon. LOL! The last time, I drove half an hour in the pouring rain on the highway to get there, and it was SOLD OUT, but… ahem… I managed to get in. LOL, don't ask. O.G… Hahaha! Omg, that's awesome!

Lady Golodwen/Feagliniel/Lady G. (assuming you're the same person, LOL!): OMG, I have never laughed so hard at a review in my entire writing career! –rolls on the floor- Also, I've never heard of a PotO fan who hates the Phantom, come to think of it… -laughs harder- Ah well, there's a first time for everything, and I'll overlook it because you called me "love," "dear," "darling," etc. LOL. Ack, can't stop laughing. Thanks for brightening my day; I'm very glad you like it, even if you don't like Erik. More for me! Mwahaha!