A/N: You guys didn't ACTUALLY think I'd skip over all the rehearsals to get immediately to PonR, did you? Hehehe. O:) This chapter is short-ish, but hopefully what it lacks in quantity was made up for in quality. –crosses fingers-

Oh, and I absolutely MUST take this opportunity to thank, bow down to, and express my utmost adoration for the lovely joanieponytail. She has my eternal gratitude, because being the absolute sweetheart that she is, she bought and sent me a copy of Susan Kay's "Phantom." –insert 'ooohs,' 'aaahs,' etc- She asked absolutely nothing from me in return but to continue with this story…

This chapter, and the one before it, are officially dedicated to her. Thank you SO very much… you're my hero!

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Passarino, faithful friend,

Once again recite the plan!

"CUT!" Madame Giry shouted, running her slim fingers through her hair in exasperation. "Meg, what in God's name are you still doing onstage?" She stormed over to her daughter, notorious cane in hand, which she proceeded to tap metrically on the floor. "Pass-a-RI-no, FAI-thful FRIEND… Three pirouettes and you're off. Don't dally." With a sharp sigh, she whirled about to face the maestro, giving a frustrated shake of her head. "Once again, Monsieur Reyer. My apologies, Signor Piangi…"

I massaged my temples with two fingers on each hand, attempting to ease the throbbing beneath the pads of my fingertips to no avail. It was if a drum was situated in the center of my head, and an infinitesimal man was pounding vehemently away on it, merely for the pleasure of tormenting me.

For awhile I had thought it impossible for even the most idiotic, uneducated, artistically deficient bums of society to ruin my life's masterpiece. Evidently I had underestimated the stupidity of mankind.

Passarino, faithful friend,

Once again recite the plan!

Your young guest believes I'm you:

I the master, you the man!

"Wait, wait!" Reyer interrupted, lifting his mousy face from the orchestra to point a hesitant finger at the actor who had been foolishly selected to play Don Juan's subordinate, Passarino. I was beginning to wonder if the man could perhaps sing even one note in key; apparently the maestro shared my appraisal. "Signor Rossini, yes, um… let's, let's try that once more, if you don't mind…"

The portly Italian, who might have been Piangi's twin brother had I not known better, threw his pudgy arms in the air, letting out an indignant screech. "'Owwa many times we gonna do zees one little part? What's wrong zees time, Maestro, eh? Ask Piangi! Sound perfetto to you, right, il mio amico?"

Piangi puffed out his broad chest, making a sort of high-pitched squawk of concurrence. I sighed, pulling a small off-white card, a bottle of red ink, and a clean quill from my cloak. With as legible of handwriting as I could manage in the dim light, I hastily scrawled a petulant note. Leaving the stationery utensils on the rafter, I rose to my feet and grabbed a nearby rope, sliding silently down it with the dexterity of a spider. Fortunately, Madame Giry stood off to the side in one of the right wings, her cold blue eyes mirroring my frustration. As I was not in the mood to hold a hushed conversation with her at the moment, I simply dropped the letter on her neatly styled head.

She did not so much as blink before rolling her eyes and picking up the pristine card from where it had fallen at her feet. "Oh, honestly, Erik, your flair for the dramatic grows tiresome," she grumbled, holding the letter at an arm's length as she read through narrowed eyes.

Giry—

Kindly remind our Italian friends that we have a schedule to maintain. One more interruption and Carlotta might find herself short a manwhore. Better yet, perhaps another set will come loose and dispose of all three of them at once! Wouldn't that be a treat?

Intervention would be a wise move on your part. I have no patience for this.

Erik

The ghost of a smile flitted across her lips before she tucked a stray wisp of hair into her immaculate bun, folded the letter in half, placed it in her skirt pocket, and rapped her cane sharply on the stage. All eyes turned to her stony face, and she tilted her chin up as if daring anyone in the room to defy her authority. When no one did, she crossed the stage at a leisurely pace and stopped in front of the lead actors, placing one hand on her hip.

"Must I remind you gentlemen that we are working on a rigid schedule?" Her tart eyes turned upon the maestro. "Monsieur Reyer, my girls need a great deal of practice with this routine. Might I request that, unless absolutely necessary, we run through the entire scene before pinpointing problem areas?"

Reyer opened and closed his mouth several times, uttering unintelligible fragments of words and phrases, his hands twitching as if to more adequately convey his response.

"Wonderful!" Giry exclaimed, clapping her hands once. She turned smartly on her heel, immediately launching into brief, blunt instructions for her ballerinas. "Giselle, you looked like an unbalanced goose that last time around. Tighten your first pirouette; bring your arms in closer to your chest. Melisande, your role as a prostitute does not give you permission to flash the crewmen— don't look so surprised, Miss Bonner; I saw it quite clearly, and I don't expect to see it again. Sidonie, you are not a flat-footed duck; point your toes. Meg, hustle your last turn and get off the stage. Is everyone clear?"

A resounding chorus of "Oui, Madame," came from the ballerinas before they scattered across the stage, diligently taking up their proper positions. I couldn't help but smile. If ever there was a woman who meant business, it was Céline Giry. Although she frustrated me to no end at times, I could not help but admire her fearless candor and commanding presence. She had been a great influence over the years, and her cooperation was priceless in times like these. As she resumed her spot in the wing and the rehearsals started up once again— thankfully without interruption— I climbed back up to the rafters, scribbled a note that read simply "A thousand thanks, Erik," and dropped it at her feet.

I could have sworn I saw her shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.

My focus on the ballet mistress was short-lived, however; Christine had just appeared two wings behind Madame Giry, awaiting her cue. In a matter of seconds I had climbed to a perch ten meters above her curly head, melding into the shadows. From my hiding place high in the rafters I studied her every move, quickly evaluating her current mood. She was as nervous as I had ever seen her, although she was trying very hard to cover it, and almost succeeding. Her beautiful face was locked into a neutral expression; she held perfectly still, not jiggling a foot, shifting her weight, wringing her hands, or chewing her lip as she normally did when fretful. The façade was nearly perfect, save her eyes, which darted absently upwards or to Box Five every few moments almost imperceptibly. Christine knew I was watching her… studying her, and she was putting on one hell of a show.

But evidently she had forgotten that I had been studying her for ten years, memorizing every last detail of her flawless form and heavenly voice. I understood her body language better than spoken word. Externally she seemed perfectly at ease, but I knew that inside she was writhing under my gaze, her innards turning to molten lead beneath my burning eyes.

Or perhaps that was me. Upon reconsidering the situation I found that it was I who was nervous to the point of trembling, my gut churning and twisting itself into knots. This, all of this, was for her… I had written the opera specifically to fit her range, her voice, but had never heard the meticulously composed notes pour from between her full pink lips outside of my imagination. For years I had waited for this moment…

I held my breath as the music softened to the gentle tinkling of bells. For a moment, it looked as if Christine would drop her guard and balk; she hesitated, blatant fear flashing across her delicate features. All eyes in the room were on her. It appeared that she was frozen in place, incapable of taking those first fateful steps onto the stage.

Reyer's eyes rolled to the ceiling, but just as he raised his baton to silence the orchestra, Christine seemed to remember herself. Drawing in a deep breath, she stepped forward onto the stage, her head held high.

No thoughts within her head but thoughts of joy

No dreams within her heart but dreams of love!

A ringing silence ensued as tears streamed down my cheeks. Although her voice wavered slightly, from nerves or a powerful surge of emotion, her voice belonged to the angels themselves. My breath escaped me in a shuddering rush as I doubled over, grinning through my tears. I could not have critiqued her even if I wanted to; it was perfect.

"Brava, ma amour," I whispered as the orchestra finally seemed to catch its breath, launching hurriedly into the next few notes. The entire auditorium was on pins and needles, waiting to hear her angelic voice again— anticipation crackled in the air, almost suffocating in its intensity.

I hardly heard the first exchange between Piangi and Rossini. Unable to bear listening to the Italian blob butcher the role of Don Juan, I fixated my attention on Christine and refused to see or hear anything or anyone else. Her acting was mediocre; her heart wasn't in it. There was no fire in her eyes, no passion. I had seen her drunk on desire, malleable to the power of my voice and hands and tongue… and this empty-eyed, fragile young woman onstage looked nothing like the fiery Christine I knew and loved.

Monsieur le Vicomte is to blame for that, I mused angrily. He would pay soon enough— I alone held the key to Christine's soul. With a single burning glance I could disarm her senses; with a single caress I could bring her to her knees; with a single kiss… well, that was yet to be seen, but I was nearly positive a kiss would be all it took to claim her heart once and for all.

At last she began to sing again. As always, she was a magnificent soprano, but now, although her voice rang out clear and strong, the magic was lost. No one else seemed to notice; the men gawked openly, the women shot her jealous looks. But I heard the change all the same. Had we been in a lesson, I would have stopped her immediately, commencing a long-winded speech about the importance of singing with soul.

You have brought me to that moment when words run dry

To that moment when speech disappears into silence

Silence…

Unfortunately, I could do nothing but look on in disappointment as she sang her lines with as much emotion as a pale, beautiful rock. If Carlotta was the epitome of the over-dramatic, at the moment Christine was her polar opposite. Sighing dejectedly, I scowled and clutched my forehead with one hand. This would not do at all.

Piangi's infuriatingly off-key voice only served to hasten my oncoming headache. Had I retrieved a mangy alley cat from the most decadent slums of Paris and lit its tail on fire, its screeches would have been more pleasant to listen to than this "world renowned" opera singer. Hearing his terribly incompetent voice try to perform my masterpiece was going to make me sick in a very short amount of time. At the very least, I would try to position myself so that the contents of my stomach splattered all over his bald head. The thought brought a satisfied smirk to my face, but it dissolved almost instantly as the Italian's voice joined Christine's and they walked steadily toward one another.

My stomach flipped, shooting my heart up into my throat.

Past the point of no return

The final threshold…

Precisely on cue, their hands found one another's waists. My cheeks and eyes burned as I watched him spin her about and clutch her to his bulbous stomach. Christine, too, blushed furiously, her eyes going wide in fright.

In an instant the Punjab lasso was in my hand. From my spot high above the stage I had been able to see what the other performers and coordinators could not; that sick bastard had one hand pressed tightly to Christine's abdomen, pulling her uncomfortably close. His hands found her breasts and lingered there far longer than was called for. All the while Christine struggled almost unnoticeably in his firm grasp, her expression one of a scared child. His grip on her only tightened as she squirmed.

It took me all of ten seconds to untie the rafter hanging beside me, and another five to scrawl out the words, "Touch her again, and it will be your head." I quickly secured the note to the slab of wood with a piece of rope and dropped it on the floor half a meter behind him. The crash of the fallen rafter brought the entire rehearsal to a screeching halt, and several ballerinas screamed in terror, expecting another corpse. Piangi squealed like one of the girls, releasing Christine instantly and wheeling about to look at the fallen beam. His piggy eyes quickly found and scanned the letter, the color draining from his face. Before anyone else could see it, he snatched it up and tucked it in his breast pocket, streams of sweat trickling down his pudgy face.

"What's going on up there?" Monsieur Reyer demanded of the stage hands, who could do nothing but murmur flabbergasted apologies.

"Maestro!" Piangi cut in briskly, wiping his streaming head with a crumpled handkerchief. "I, eh… I theenk I'ma comin down with something. Fever or… something. I go back to my dressing room now, okay? Okay. Partiamos, Carlotta… ciao, Rossini! Ciao, everybody…"

I watched him with narrow eyes until he was far, far away from my precious student. Christine slumped in relief as he disappeared backstage with the Italian diva in tow, her eyes swimming with tears. Madame Giry evidently saw my pupil's distress, for she quickly called it a day and dismissed her ballerinas for showers and their midday meal. I had never been more grateful to her in my life. The performers filed offstage in relief, and finally Giry and Christine, too, slipped out with the rest of the crowd. I followed along, traversing the vents and hidden passages directly to Christine's dressing room. Fortunately I made it there ahead of her, and had just enough time to place a blood red rose on her vanity and slip through the mirror.

Much as I wanted to stay and see her reaction, my soul was howling with the need to pour my aggravation into music. Aside from the brief moment of soul-soaring perfection within the first two lines of the aria, the first rehearsal had been an utter disaster. I had braced myself for such, but the disappointment hung heavy on my shoulders nonetheless. Sighing deeply, I crept down through the catacombs, repeating a single phrase over and over in my mind:

Only thirty more rehearsals to go.

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A/N: So what did you think of my spur of the moment excuse for Erik killing Piangi? Lol. I just had to give him more justification than "He felt like it." Anyways, thanks so much for reading and REVIEWING (hint hint, nudge nudge). ;) Love you all! –brownies for everyone-