A/N: Please don't hate me! –sobs- I could never forget Phantom! This chapter took me For.ev.er. to write… four rewrites, not including the multiple paragraphs I deleted and rephrased. The first version was a laundry list, the second a random collection of introspections, the third just plain stupid. Don't ask about the fourth. This one, at least, is slightly tolerable. Please keep in mind that this is a filler chapter; I had to get Erik ready for the Masquerade, and he had quite a bit of preparation to do. To make up for it, though, I did add something that I think you ladies will enjoy… -smirks- So read on! And please don't forget to drop me a review!
Ooh, and something rather hysterical which my beloved twin dug up yesterday:
Main Entry: lotte
Pronunciation: 'lät, 'lot
Function: noun
Etymology: French, from Middle French
Date: 1977
: MONKFISH
Main Entry: monk·fish
Pronunciation: 'm&ngk-"fish
Function: noun
Date: 1666
: either of two goosefishes (Lophius americanus of America and L. piscatorius of Europe) used for food
"Little Fishbrain let her mind water… Little Fishbrain thought, am I fonder of grubs or of tackle or flies?"
LOLOLOL. Alright, I'm done. Just thought you Christine-loathers out there would enjoy that. -giggles-
I never did hear Christine's reply. By the time I drifted back to consciousness, the bedroom was still and silent beneath me. For a moment I simply lay there, my cheek resting heavily against the damp, rotted wood. The minutes ticked by unmarked except by the increasing serration of my breath as the severity of the past few moments began to sink in. Ever since Christine was a young child, I had prided myself in my ability to read her thoughts and emotions as clearly as if they were written across her forehead. The muscles in my weary heart convulsed as I realized that I had no need to hear her response; the look in her beautiful brown eyes that night on the rooftop spoke to me far more than words ever could.
I should have given up in that moment, curled in a ball above her bedroom, alone and defeated. The vicomte had won; he would have Christine for the rest of his life—whisk her off to a large estate in the country where she could live out the remainder of her days in the luxury and splendor known only to the selected few. And what a change it would be for her! To go from a lonely orphan, a mere chorus girl, to the Vicomtess de Chagny… any other girl would jump at the chance and never turn an eye to look back at the life she left behind.
But a new chain of thought took form in my cluttered mind, and fresh rage suddenly drowned out misery and dejection. Year after year, I watched the elegant ladies of wealth and prestige pour into the Opera Populaire, gliding around on their husbands' arms like elaborate accessories. Oh, they were undeniably stunning, garbed in gold taffeta and fine silk, drenched in glittering diamonds and rubies and sapphires, twirling around the ballroom with dazzling white smiles plastered across their beautiful faces. But there was something about these women of the Parisian aristocracy which had always struck me as extremely out of place: their eyes. They were empty, unseeing, cold. Dead. When I looked upon Christine, there was a sparkle, a glowing depth to her brown orbs which glittered more brightly than all the gold in the Persian shah's private stash. I fell in love with her every time I stared into them. But if indeed the windows were the eyes to the soul, then my perception of the elite women was an undeniably morbid one; they were as vacant inside—of emotion, passion, life— as the mannequin I had so carefully constructed of my beloved. My heart physically stung at the idea of Christine turning into one of them… just another trophy for the vicomte to put on display for his peers' approval.
She was a child. Confused and afraid, she had turned to her childhood friend for comfort, and found a pair of open arms. I could not blame her for the decision she had undoubtedly made, but no sooner could I allow her to sell her soul for a spot in the society of the elite, as just another beautiful mannequin. Comfort be damned, she could not do this; I would not let her do this. With every last breath in my body, I would fight for her.
She might not be pampered with maids and fine dresses and sparkling jewels if she remained with me; I could not promise her those luxuries. But in exchange for her sacrifice, in exchange for loving a monster, she could keep her soul intact, constantly feeding it with the fire and passion we created with our music. I alone could give her song, inspiration, and my undying love… I alone could give my angel her wings.
Slowly, very slowly, I gathered my weary muscles and forced my weight upon them, crawling on my hands and knees to the trap door at the end of the tunnel. I do not know how long I wandered the dark passages, lost in thought, oblivious to my surroundings.
When I finally snapped from the trance, a chorus of excruciatingly off-key voices drifted up through the stone walls around me, causing me to flinch.
Masquerade! Paper faces on parade— masquerade!
Hide your face so the world will never find you.
Masquerade! Every face a different shade— masquerade!
Look around, there's another mask behind you.
"They're. Ruining. My. Song," I snarled, passing a hand over my eyes. Evidently, Giry was equally displeased with the performance; she interrupted the chorus with a sharp rap of her cane and a groan so loud it reached my ears three stories above her. Indeed, the success of this particular song was as important to her as it was to me…
Over fifteen years ago, before even Monsieur Lefevre was manager, I had composed the music for the winter gala, while young Céline had eagerly provided choreography. Under the cover of night, we had perfected our work over the course of a month, and I had presented it to the managers with firm instructions to adhere to Giry's commands. Reluctantly, they had agreed (the "disaster beyond your imagination" line was much more effective with those two), and unsurprisingly the masquerade was a smashing success. The Opera Populaire acquired more patrons after that single event than at any other time in its history. The managers were so thrilled that they had immediately promoted Giry and begun the habit of leaving me a considerable sum of cash at the end of the month in exchange for composing music for them. For each successful opera or gala they raised my pension by two thousand francs, with an additional monthly bonus for each new patron. The tradition carried on into Levefre's tenure, though I composed less and less for the public as my focus turned to my new pupil. Occasionally Giry and I would collaborate for a new production, but those instances grew increasingly rare after she was promoted to ballet mistress and my time became increasingly occupied with instructing Christine. I had always felt a bit guilty about receiving such a large salary while Giry struggled to support her young daughter, but she would hear nothing of taking a portion of my "hard-earned money." As a compromise, I would leave little presents for her in Box Five after every performance. And so our little routine had continued until the day that Levefre (the bloody chicken) left the fate of my opera house in the hands of those brainless twits Andre and Firmin.
I shook my head slightly to clear it of the memories, suddenly irked at Giry for her audacity. Whose side was she on, anyway? Had she asked permission to use my song, my lyrics in the upcoming gala? No! Granted, I never would have objected in the past, but since the new managers simply refused to comply with my orders and present me with my due salary, I had become rather reluctant to assist them in their little social gatherings. Perhaps I would just have to crash this one to make my point unquestionably clear.
A sly grin twisted my lips as the puzzle pieces finally slid together. Come to think of it, the upcoming Bal Masque would be the perfect opportunity to kill two birds… nay, a dozen… with one stone. Much could be accomplished in a single evening if I played my cards wisely. My mind reeled at the possibilities. With a whirl of my cloak, I took off at a sprint down the hall.
I had exactly three days until the Bal Masque. So much to do, so little time…
I began to make a mental checklist as I spiraled downward towards my lair, murmuring quietly to myself and ticking off items on my fingers. Once I reached home, I sat immediately at my desk and began to write the agenda down. My quill scratched hastily across the thin paper until finally I sat back to read through it, chewing absently on the end of the feather.
1. Finish "Don Juan Triumphant!"
2. Find leather binding
3. Bathe
4. Create/purchase Red Death costume (consult Poe) including mask and sword
5. Test trap door on main stairway to the torture chamber
6. Obtain gunpowder
7. Think of witty lines (absolutely must rhyme)
8. Eat something?
I bit the inside of my cheek, nodding to myself. In one swift movement I dropped the quill in its bottle, snatched up the paper and rose from my chair. Tucking the list into my cloak pocket, I moved immediately to my organ, sliding my fingers caressingly over the familiar keys. With a deep breath, I closed my eyes, calling upon the image of Christine. Sensual memories abounded within me; I could still taste her, smell her, feel her in my arms. Without even registering the movement, my fingers began to move across the keys… slowly at first, then with mounting fervor. Passion unfolded from my fingertips, swelling in the air around me with breathtaking force.
For hours I sat like that, my fingers dancing across the keys until they swelled and bruised painfully at the joints. With a guilty look at the grandfather clock I reluctantly brought the song to a close, wincing as my hand muscles buzzed numbly. They would undoubtedly be killing me tomorrow… but I didn't need to be focusing on tomorrow when there was still so much to be accomplished today. Sighing deeply, I picked up a piece of sheet music and my quill and went to work.
By the time I dropped the last page of sheet music on the top of the pile, still wet with ink, the entire day had slipped by. I raised my heavy eyes to the clock and scowled, stretching my spine and groaning as the bones cracked in protest. Two in the morning. For a moment I debated going to bed, but finally decided that it would be a terrible waste of time. Everyone would be asleep at this hour, either gone home or to the dormitories; it was the perfect opportunity to sneak about undetected. With a shuddering yawn, I climbed to my feet and made for the nearest set of stairs.
While there were irrefutable downsides to living within the Populaire, good always accompanied the bad. It was in times like these that I truly came to appreciate the advantages of being the Opera Ghost. Within my opera house were several prop departments, ranging from embroidery to plaster to masonry to paint to ceramics. Several of Paris' most accomplished artisans were employed here, and on some days I contented myself with merely watching them at work. The set construction was of particular interest to me; I had spent two years of my youth as an apprentice to a master mason in Rome, a sponge to his vast knowledge of architecture and design. Later, as I grew up within the opera's protective walls, watching and listening, I came to appreciate the intricacy of every craft, and developed an insatiable hunger for knowledge. I wanted to do it all! So in the privacy of my lair, I taught myself to paint, sculpt, cast, and even sew, ever intent on bettering my skills. Once Christine had entered my life, I found myself more and more absorbed in her instruction and hence had little occasion to practice, but my mind did not work like most men; I could be out of practice with a certain skill for years at a time, then come back to it one day and pick it up as if I had never stopped. So it was that I trekked quietly to the fourth floor, where I deftly picked the lock to the plaster department.
A thick white dust hung in the air, and I choked a little as it coated the inside of my lungs. Clasping a handkerchief over my nose and mouth, I found the nearest gas lamp and quickly ignited it. Several masks in different stages of assembly covered the workbench; the craftsmen had indeed been working hard in preparation for the masquerade. I scrutinized their work for a moment, but found nothing to suit my purpose. Sighing softly, I grabbed an open sack of the white plaster mix, still in powder form, along with a few chisels and other tools to mold it. The bag was remarkably heavy, especially with sore hands, but I grunted my way down the stairs, my fingers screaming, unwilling to admit weakness. A weak man earned nothing—deserved nothing. A little organ playing certainly couldn't faze the great Phantom of the Opera!
Back in my lair once again, I dropped the sack with a heavy thud, collapsing onto my organ bench with a grunt. I merely sat there for a moment, catching my breath, before getting up to retrieve a wooden bucket. With a deep sigh that ended in a yawn, I drew water from the filtered pool and set it beside the plaster mix. Then, slowly and carefully, I sifted the dust through my fingers and into the bucket, churning the slimy substance with my hands. Soon it came to just the right thickness and texture, and I quickly scooped the wet plaster onto my face, smoothing it to fit every crevice and bump from forehead to upper lip. For a while there was nothing to do but wait for the goop to dry against my skin, so I leaned back in exhaustion, my eyes slipping shut. I must have dozed off for a few minutes, for when I woke the mask was hard and uncomfortable against my skin. I fingered the edges around my ear cautiously, and getting a good grip, pulled it slowly away from my face. A few stubborn little pieces of white plaster clung to the curve of my lip and nose, but aside from the few, almost unperceivable blemishes, the mold was flawless. I placed it on my workbench, careful to avoid black ink stains, and proceeded to scratch at the irritating clumps of residue. In the process, my wig toppled to the floor, and I groaned, lacking the energy to retrieve it. Instead, I continued the pattern, shedding of my cloak and boots, followed closely by my tunic, mask, and pants.
"Might as well get number three out of the way," I mumbled to myself, approaching the filtered pool. I stared blankly at my wash basin, then glanced skeptically back at the water. At the moment, I had not the time nor the patience to draw and heat a bath. I threw my hands up in the air with a sharp sigh. "Oh, what the bloody hell." Gritting my teeth against the sudden frigidity of the pool, I waded slowly up to mid-thigh. I squeezed my eyes shut in preparation, and suddenly plunged completely into the water before scurrying to the surface with a ragged gasp. The water was like ice! I shivered uncontrollably, my teeth chattering, as I rubbed my arms in a futile attempt to get warm. Goose bumps popped up along my chest and limbs as every last one of my nerves snapped to attention. My spine went completely rigid, but as the initial shock faded slightly I began to move my limbs hesitantly through the icy water. After a moment I sucked in a deep breath and suddenly plunged my head underwater, scrubbing vehemently at the mousy brown hair which covered two thirds of my head. The cool bath felt surprisingly good as it cleansed away the perspiration and natural oils built up for God knows how long. Unlike most people within Paris, I didn't often bother with time-consuming tasks such as eating, sleeping or bathing unless the circumstances absolutely demanded that I do so. Come to think of it, I didn't even own a bar of soap, save the one Christine had produced to do my laundry. At the moment I didn't feel like searching for it, so I scrubbed my flesh and hair particularly hard in a vain effort to compensate.
Once my fingertips had been rubbed raw and my scalp dripped with tiny rivulets of scarlet blood, I figured I had done the job well enough. I dunked my head underwater one last time and rubbed down the rest of my body briefly before climbing hastily out of the pool.
After nearly twenty minutes of searching in increasing frustration for a towel, it occurred to me that I no longer had one; I had used the only one I owned to rub down César after a particularly hard run in the countryside, and it had since been transformed into a grooming rag. Shivering, dripping all over my floor, and cursing viciously at my idiotic forgetfulness, I stomped into my bedroom, my cheeks flushing a deep shade of crimson. Thank heavens Christine had not been here to witness this little ordeal. I threw the mannequin a furious glance as I stormed past it, then shook my head with a growl of utter humiliation and self-loathing. Dear Lord, now I was embarrassed by a dummy!
I shoved an end table onto its side as I entered my bedroom, taking satisfaction in the destructive action. Still grumbling to myself, I snatched a black silk robe from my wardrobe and threw it over my trembling shoulders. The thin fabric did little to warm my flesh, but I felt a great deal more secure with some form of clothing covering me. The women in my life seemed to be taking greater liberty upon themselves to impose on my privacy; Christine had started the trend, followed by each of the Girys. I was not prepared to face the mortification of being caught buck naked, searching fruitlessly for a nonexistent towel; if one of them chose this moment to surprise me with a visit, I would be prepared.
Wrapping the silken robe tighter around my waist, I stepped warily back into the main room. I strode directly past the mannequin with my head held high, far too embarrassed to look upon the lovingly constructed replica of Christine. The likeness between the two was rather uncanny.
I gathered my trousers from the floor and hastily pulled them on, but tossed the shirt onto the untouched laundry pile which my little nursemaid had assembled weeks ago. I did not have the heart to clutter the room she had so thoughtfully cleaned; I had even kept the stacks of sheet music organized as she had left them— a true feat for a man who had lived in haphazard disorder for the past thirty six years.
I stared absently around the room, remembering. Waves of exhaustion rolled over me, and the gentle lapping of water against the stone shore nearly lulled me into sleep. My head bobbed dangerously, but a moment later I jerked awake with a shake of my head, rubbing my palms over my sunken eyes. I slunk over to the lake and cupped my hands, letting the cool water run into my palms. When they were full, I suddenly slapped the water up to my face, letting it trickle down my neck and chest. The water did very little to stimulate my numb brain, but it did provide enough adrenaline to propel me to my feet. With what little energy I had left, I grabbed my discarded mask, slipped it on, and headed up the stairs to the main level once again.
The promise of mischief brought a sleepy smile to my face as I made my way toward the guest stables on the main floor. The sky was a misty gray as dawn approached, casting eerie shadows across the cobblestones. I crept stealthily along the ridge of the buildings, glancing around warily and jumping at the smallest of sounds. The grooms would rise within the hour to begin their morning chores, and I had maintained anonymity for so many weeks now that it seemed a shame to appear just two days before the masquerade. Being caught would ruin everything.
The guest tack room was on the west side of the barn, immediately beside the stall in which Monsieur le Vicomte was boarding his pride stallion. I studied the creature for a moment, tilting my head slightly to the side. It was indeed a magnificent beast, powerful and muscular, with a gleaming white coat. When I reached my hand out to stroke its neck, however, it yanked away as if it had been stung. I crinkled my nose and turned away in disgust. Like master like horse, I supposed. Increasingly convinced of the justice in my actions, I slipped hastily inside the wooden tack room, shutting the door securely behind me. The walls were lined with saddles and bridles mounted upon wooden blocks, each made of fine leather. I stalked around the edge of the room slowly, my hands clasped at the small of my back, studying the saddles until I found the one I was looking for. A brand new, polished saddle the color of rich coffee was perched on the highest rack, and with the dim light peeking in through the small window, I could just make out the name engraved on its gold plague:
DeCHAGNY
Grinning maliciously, I plucked the saddle from its support, running my fingers along the smooth leather.
"Perfect," I purred, tucking my trophy under one arm. The vicomte's saddle would make a fine cover for my opera, indeed.
I had to smother a chuckle as I slipped quietly out of the room and through a side entrance into the opera. Luckily, it was early enough that no one was yet up and about, but late enough that the exterior doors had been unlocked so that those with morning shifts could move from one section of the opera to another with ease. Still, I approached the main lobby with immense caution, my eyes jumping warily from one suspicious shadow to the next. Fortunately I met no obstacles, and reached the main stairwell without so much as seeing a rat. With great reluctance I stepped into the middle of the room, where anyone could have seen me in the growing daylight. Fate, however, seemed to have granted me clemency, for I reached the trapdoor in the very center of the broad room and stood there for a good long minute without being seen. The lever which released the trap door was hidden in the seal of the Opera Populaire, but was very difficult to spot unless one knew how to work it. Sucking in a deep breath in preparation, I nudged the toe of my boot into a specific spot in the seam of the circle, and the top layer of the seal disappeared into the floorboards. With an insistent stomp of my heel, the four-way jigsaw piece of a trap door gave way beneath me, and I dropped instantly down into my infamous torture chamber. I landed with a thud which I swore could wake the dead, and waited breathlessly as the trap door slid shut above me. I did not breathe for a few moments as I listened for someone to stir above me, but the anticipated noise never came. Breathing a sigh of relief, I collected the saddle (which I had dropped during the two-story fall) and glanced briefly at the walls surrounding me.
I was quite a sight. My thin brown hair stood completely on end, disheveled from the steep drop. The black silk robe had fallen open to reveal my bare chest, which was still dotted with faded bruises from Perros. My mask, at least, had managed to remain in place, but I was unaccustomed to seeing it without the black wig which usually accompanied it. Half of my deformed, bubbled flesh stood out above the white porcelain, and I sneered in disgust before turning sharply away.
The stairway to my left would take me home, but it was the passage to the right which I ducked into silently, my eyes ablaze. I hardly ever visited this level of the opera—I didn't often have need to visit the fourth cellar. General Napoleon had insisted that my opera house be used as a secret artillery base for his little skirmish with Prussia, and had "conveniently" stocked two dozen cannons and over three hundred rifles in the fourth cellar, only to be captured and abdicated. The French government, God damn the bloody fools, had, of course, forgotten their little stock pile after the loss of the general, and so the weapons had been left to rot just above my ceiling. I doubted Monsieur Lefevre had given this little tidbit of information to Andre or Firmin, and was not about to bother, especially when it meant sending French troops marching up to my doorstep. I had merely followed the same policy with the artillery that I had used with every other object left behind in my opera: if its owner did not deem it important enough to remember, then it belonged to me.
I stepped into the cavernous room with a shudder; the air was cold and damp, and sent a shiver running up my spine. I pulled my robe tighter around my shoulders and shifted the saddle on my hip before taking a hesitant step toward the nearest cannon. In the dark the guns were difficult to recognize except as black humps, and I nearly tripped over the top of one of them, stubbing my toe in the process. I bit down on my tongue to stifle a yelp, hissing through my teeth. With a soft moan of pain I crammed the saddle on top of the cannon and leaned against it, bending down to massage my smarting toe. Eventually the pain subsided enough for me to stand with little more than a wince; I could only hope the bone was not broken. Cursing the French army under my breath, I hobbled to the front of the gun and knelt at its muzzle. Very slowly, I stuck my hand into the round opening and inched my fingers deeper inside. When the pads of my fingertips encountered the smooth, round shot, I stopped, pressing my weight down on the muzzle and prying at the ball with my fingers. Soon it popped loose and began to roll toward the front of the gun, and I jerked my hand away, dreading the prospect of smashing my already-bruised fingers. The heavy shot dropped out of the gun with a reverberating thud. I flinched at the unwanted noise, holding my breath for a few seconds. When no hint of noise responded, I kneed the ball to one side and delved my hand into the bore again, inching my fingers further down until they found a coarse material. I made a small grunt of triumph and chewed my lower lip as I stretched as far as my arm would reach into the opening, getting as good a grip on the edge as I could manage. My fingers pinched into the corner of the material, and very slowly, very carefully, I edged it toward the front of the cannon. When it was close to the rim of the muzzle I grabbed the flannel with both hands and crawled backwards, pulling the sack into my lap. I collapsed back on my rear end under the surprising weight of the little parcel, and sniffed at it experimentally. Nodding slightly to myself, I climbed swaggeringly to my feet and tucked the sack under one arm. It was gunpowder, alright. With my free arm I snatched the saddle from atop the troublesome cannon and began my slow, cumbersome journey down to the cellar below.
For once, I did not care that my footsteps were loud and heavy against the cold stone stairs. Exhaustion had taken its toll on my body, and I could no longer keep my watering eyes open. Fortunately, I knew these tunnels well, and could have just as easily traveled them blindfolded as with a blazing lantern. On the last few steps I stumbled wearily, dropping the sack of gunpowder and the vicomte's saddle with a dull thud. Sprawled out on the floor, I moaned groggily and shook my head in a fruitless attempt to rid it of the sleepy haze. I would not give in to primal needs until every last one of my wits failed me. Out of pure stubbornness, I managed to flip onto my stomach and half-walk, half-crawl my way into the main room. I spotted my cloak which lay in a crumpled heap by my desk, and staggered over to it. My agenda was still tucked securely in the pocket, and I pulled it out and catapulted up onto my desk chair with a source of strength still unknown to me. I unfolded the paper and grabbed my quill with trembling hands, clenching the muscles firmly in a vain attempt to still my quaking handwriting. Prying my eyes open painfully, I began to check off each of the tasks accomplished, and stared emptily at those still left undone. With a weary sigh, I reluctantly admitted defeat. The costume would have to wait until tomorrow; I could hardly hold my head up as it was.
I did not even bother to put my quill back in the ink pot before stumbling up the stairs toward my bedroom and relief. I stopped only for a moment to gaze upon the beautiful face of the mannequin. My bloodshot eyes softened at merely the thought of her…
Christine… I sung hoarsely, the gentle notes wavering in the still morning air.
Slowly, reverently, I brought two shaking hands up to the mannequin's head, and carefully removed the wedding veil. Two tremulous lips caressed the delicate rim as I cradled the precious object to my chest. My eyes slipped closed as I climbed the last two steps and stumbled into my coffin. It was there, curled in a ball, that a single glistening tear caught in the wedding veil hugged tightly to my cheek. I remember nothing more before succumbing to merciful sleep.
A/N: -sigh- I'm so sorry about this chapter… it was long, boring, and tedious, but necessary. I do hate these filler chappies, but what is an authoress to do? Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em. On the upside, the masquerade is next, and my little tangent is over! Woo hoo! -giggles-
WOW! So. Many. Reviews. –baffled- This is awesome… but I must point out that since I do respond to every single review, I can't make them too long! Know that I still love y'all just as much, I just don't have the time to properly express it!
Haizea: -offers a razor- Have fun with that! Haha. I know, I know, I can't believe I dared to abandon Phantom even for a little while. But it won't happen again, I swear!
Venus725: LOL! Yeah, why is it that the trampslut whorebitch and co. always wins? Ah well, Erik'll show them up with his cute, pompous little debut in "Why So Silent?" -grins-
RainsPhantom: Oh, no need to make up excuses for her! Fever or not, who in the world would choose Raoul over Erik? I mean, COME ON:P lol
Mrs. Butler: It's going to follow the ALW movie/musical's ending… but there will be an epilogue, and that's all I'm going to say.
Hriviel: YAY for specific points! Yeah, Andre was an easy scapegoat… he's just so funny! Giry kicks butt, and I love writing her with a temper. Raoul IS sappy, but yeah, he generally is… AIAOY? I rest my case. LOL.
Daydreamingturtle: Awww, you're so nice to review more than one chappie! New reviewers, take note and follow her example! I LOVE reviews! Thanks for taking the time to give me specific feedback; I really, really, REALLY appreciate it:D
KimSparrow: Aye, aye, Ma'am! -giggles- You had me laughing uncontrollably at the "SAVVY?" line. :) A genius for suspense? Moi? You flatter me! –blushes-
Jinxd n Cursed: Thank you. :) The updates will be coming much, MUCH faster once summer break starts. One week! -waits impatiently-
Noni Noelle: Yes, yes, you saved that chappie from utter doom by sappiness. Even RAOUL isn't that bad! -giggles- Thanks, ma cherie!
The Singing Fox Demon: Haha, your review had me in stitches. Glad you agree! It's all Christine's fault! Poor Erik indeed! Harumph! LOL.
Shadow Fox Forever: Oooh, or else, huh? –cowers- I'm sorryyyy! This chapter took me forever to write! Summer's only a week away, and then I'll write like a maniac, okay?
Lady G: Oh, you know Erik can't stay mad at you all that long. And admit it: you've grown to love him. :) LOL… you're one of the few who appreciated Raoul's "sappiness", but I must say I'm glad it didn't go unheeded. He IS a sweetie.
Joanieponytail: Oh, I know, isn't she a pain? –giggles- It's rather difficult writing Erik so in love with her, because I absolutely despise the brainless little twit… -sighs- I know… she knew he was right above her, listening, and she STILL acted that way, not once, but twice: on the rooftop, and now with the proposal. Will she ever learn? Thanks—I love writing bumbling characters like Andre and Firmin, but Madame Giry is my ultimate favorite.
Sakume: Double yay! You passed the test and had an awesome birthday! -takes goodie bag- Mmm, sweets! Thanks, hon:D
Phan: Why, thank you! -beams and blushes while doing new reviewer dance-
Sandy: That's okay, babe—I'm just glad you find time in your packed schedule to read this little phic of mine, let alone review. I love you to death! Let's hope Kess and Cass stay put throughout the summer, or we'll be in trouble!
LePetiteChristine: Well you should be happy with this chapter… it's VERY long. Lol. Speaking of which, ahem, little missy, you're back from Alaska—get writing! ;) I have written Star Wars fics, to answer your question… quite a few, actually, but they're on a different site.
Cathedral of Chaos: Thank you! -does new reviewer dance- In chapter one, he's approximately 27 years old.
Marianne Brandon: -alternates beaming and gaping- Ladies and Gentlemen, it's officially the apocalypse. The greatest phanphic authoress ever has decided to not only read, but faithfully REVIEW this story. I'm still in shock, Em! So glad you like it, even if it's undeserving of such high praise; you're such a sweetheart:)
Gerryroxmysox: Hey, awesome screen name! He rocks MY socks too! –drools- Aww, yeah, he is cute when he causes trouble. Tee hee. Okay, well, have a great summer, and don't forget to review -hint hint, nudge nudge- when you get back! ;)
Ever Rin: -does reviewer dance again- Whew, you guys are going to wear me out here! -laughs- Err… sorta? It follows the ALW movie/musical storyline, but there will be an epilogue which may or may not make you happy. I'm in the process of writing an E/C, though, so hang in there!
Arwen1604: I like chapter ten, too… it's one of the few that I'm rather proud of. LOL. -pants heavily, doing new reviewer dance again- No, don't die! -sends Erik over to do mouth-to-mouth resuscitation- There, better? XD
Jessie: LOLOLOL… okay, I'm sure that review only made sense to ME. Thanks for reading and reviewing, love! You're now officially "in the clique." –grins- Now if you review MORE, perhaps I'll send you hot shirtless Gerry pics… haha. (This is my real life best friend for those of you who don't know her)
Erik's Dark Lullaby: Awwww, thank you! And WOO HOO! Someone agrees with me that Raoul isn't the culprit here! -does new reviewer dance AGAIN- (I LOVE this!) Oh, you're nicer than me… I respect Erik immensely, but I don't hold back when it comes to dissing Christine. Lol.