Author's Notes: So sososososososo sorry this took so long. I have major huge tests this weekened, and then once I finished the chapter (in two days, so proud), the site wouldn't let me upload it! But now it's working again, thank God, and here's the chapter!

Chapter 15 – The Face in the Mirror

Danielle sat at the dining room table, warming her hands around her cup of tea. Nicola and Christine sat across from her on the couch, flipping through a gilt-edged ledger. The whole room was veritably draped in white: swatches of gauze, silk, linen, bouquets of lilies and roses strewn about as if a blizzard had overtaken the entire place. Nicola reached over and picked up a few roses, piecing them together experimentally. Danielle sat on the floor amidst all the white, her elbows on the table as she stared without seeing through the window where barely a shred of white could yet be found.

Jacques and Nicola's wedding was set for the twenty-first of December, the winter solstice, and the first snow in Paris. The snow that had been falling in Russia for at least a fortnight now, even in Germany, had yet to freeze over Paris. It was all just dreary rain here, still waiting to pull on its white gown.

Danielle had awoken in a hospital bed late at night nearly two weeks ago, her father the only one awake in the dim light from the corridor. Raoul had been examining the little music box, turning it over in his hands as it chimed its lilting melody, and when she had pushed herself up in the bed he had raised his head to look over at her.

"Did you find what you were looking for, dear?" he had asked Danielle sat up, shifting the warm sheets around her to keep out the relative cold. Her father got up and came to sit at the edge of the bed, his hand pressing briefly against her brow. "You look better. How do you feel?"

Danielle blinked and looked around a moment. "I feel…" She paused, her eyes falling on the music box in her father's hand, now still and silent. So silent…She licked her dry lips, and Raoul followed her gaze down.

"So you found him?" Danielle nodded, drawing her knees up towards her chest. One arm wrapped around them, hugging herself. "Was he as hurt as you were?" he asked. She froze, her eyes wide in the dark as she looked up at him.

"What?" she asked, her voice low.

"You've been asleep for three days," he said gently, winding up the key in the music box. He set it in his daughter's hand, watched her sigh and shut her eyes. He lifted his hand to brush her hair back, and rested his hand on her cheek.

"No, Papa," she whispered, shaking her head against his palm. "He's…he's all right." She fell silent, looked down at the box held so tenderly in her hands, and Raoul smiled faintly at her.

"You've grown up, Danielle," he said, nodding to himself as if he were only just accepting some hard fact. "You've grown up."

"…Danielle?" She snapped out of her reverie with a start, blinking up at her mother and Nicola. Christine set down a scrap of white linen and stood up. "What do you think? Shall you both try on your dresses?"

"Dresses?" she repeated. Christine smiled and leaned over to put her hand on her daughter's.

"You are a bridesmaid, Danielle. We didn't forget to get you a dress. Come, I'll show you." She and Nicola led her up to the bedroom, swept a dress out of the closet. It was a plain, elegant thing when Danielle held it up to herself, turning to the mirror. There were thin straps at the shoulder, and the white satin fell into graceful folds at the skirt. Nicola smiled over her shoulder at Danielle's reflection.

"Well, try it on," she prompted. A smile lit Danielle's face as she held the dress against herself, thinking of how magnificent Nicola's dress was if this was just the bridesmaid's outfit.

"Well, at least you didn't pick something hideous." She actually laughed, turning to dress behind the screen.

"See, Christine," Nicola said secretively in her mother-in-law's ear, "she's coming around." Christine smiled faintly, tucking a strand of curls behind her ear. They had all been worried about Danielle when she had arrived, not a home, but in the hospital. M. Nereaux had refused to tell them what had happened, claiming that it was not his place to say, but he stayed and watched over her recovery almost adamantly. Danielle had seemed perfectly fine when she came home, laughing and positively thrilled that she hadn't missed the wedding. She enjoyed predicted with Nicola, practically praying, that it would snow on the first day of winter, and staying up to tell them about what she had seen with a cup of hot chocolate in her hands. She never really spoke of what she had done, though. They still caught her staring off at nothing, lost to her own thoughts with a distant look in her eye. Christine heard the soft notes of a music box at night, though Raoul told her not to ask about it. And Danielle had yet to return to the Opera House.

She came out from behind the screen, smoothing the dress over her hips. Christine's thoughts stopped as she looked her daughter over. "Why, Danielle," she said with a smile, "you're going to make Nicola jealous." Both girls grinned.

"Then it's a good thing I wasn't any nicer. Maybe there's still time to sew those hideous little sashes and sleeves on." The bride laughed, plucking at the thin straps as if considering how much thread it would take. Her hand paused, and she touched the chain around Danielle's neck. "What's this?"

"Nothing," she suddenly said, her hand flying to her breast. Nicola stepped back in surprise, and Danielle shrugged apologetically. "I'm sorry, Nicola. It's just…something I like to keep close." Her hand rested on the chain as she stared at the mirror distsractedly, and Nicola put her hand on the girl's pale shoulder.

"It's all right, Danielle. I'm sorry if I intruded." Nicola glanced at Christine in the mirror, standing off watching Danielle uneasily. She watched her daughter finger the chain absent-mindedly, and Nicola couldn't decide whether her solemn expression was for Danielle's loss, or Danielle's fate.

The front door to the house suddenly shut, and Nicola and Christine started out of their thoughts. Danielle merely shifted, turning her head to the bedroom door. She was suddenly at the banister to the stairs, leaning over to peer below. "Who is it, Alistair?"

The stately butler came to the foot of the staircase. "M. le Daroga Nadir Khan, here to see you, mademoiselle," he said in a drawling tone. The Persian peeked over the man's shoulder, his astrakhan cap in his hands.

"Good day, Mlle de Chagny," he said, smiling.

Danielle was changed in barely five minutes, and she sipped down the stairs to peck a kiss on his cheek. "So good to see you, daroga! How have you been?" Nadir turned at the sound of weight on the stairs, and bowed politely to Christine and Nicola.

"Madame Daaé." He kissed her hand, and she smiled at him.

"Dear daroga, are you here to take Danielle for tea? He's been missing it terribly, dear, stopping by at least twice a month to see if you were back." Danielle blinked in surprise.

"Yes, of course," the Persian said suddenly, and Danielle thought his cordiality was suddenly a little forced. Nadir bowed and offered her his arm, and the two left the house.

"Daroga, have you really been waiting for me this whole time?" Nadir looked slightly uneasy, and Danielle suddenly started and pulled her arm away. Her eyes fixed on the man standing leisurely at the end of the street. "What are you doing here?" she said, thought not entirely cruelly.

Francois Nereaux stood at the corner of the street, looking grateful to be back in the uniform of the gendarme. He bowed, lifting his hat to her briefly. Danielle looked between the two men anxiously. "Am I being abducted?" she snapped. Both men shared a look.

"Of course not, Danielle," Francois said, a faint blush staining his cheeks. He held out his arm for her. Danielle eyes it a moment before taking it warily. The three began to walk through the cool, crisp morning, damp after last night's rain, as Danielle waited for him to go on apprehensively.

"We're not going to tea, either," Nadir said. "We're going to the Opera."

"To the Opera?" she said softly. Francois stopped, drawing her to a halt beside him. Danielle was staring at nothing, again, blindly watching the few crisp leaves left swirl in the breeze.

"Danielle, are you telling me that you don't want to go?"

"She hasn't been back yet," Nadir said, watching her carefully. "What is that, Mlle de Chagny?" Danielle hesitated, looking around for a moment.

"I haven't had a chance to," she said, and Nadir actually snorted. Her spin stiffened. "Do you really want to know, daroga? I'm afraid," she snapped defensively, drawing her shawl around her closely. "The Opera is my home. I'm afraid that I'll go back, and it just won't be right. It won't be home. I don't think I could bear that." Francois put a hand on her arm, and was surprised when she didn't draw back. Danielle just stood there, her arms wrapped around herself.

"Danielle," he said gently, "would you play for me?"

That snapped her back. Danielle looked up at him, her brow furrowing. He could see her confusion, almost indignation: he wasn't the one who asked that. He took his hand back as she looked at him. "Fenris' Cry. Would you play that for me? He said that I should ask you."

"You never heard it? When you were following me across Europe?" She blinked up at him, and then suddenly nodded. "All right. I'll play it for you." She led the way, now, Nadir and Francois sharing a look behind her back. They followed her down the Avenue de l'Opera, past the Rue Scribe, and stopped before the steps of the Paris Grand Opera.

Danielle looked up at the façade with a tremulous breath, gazing at the columns and statues, all the way up to Apollo and his lyre so high above. Francois looked back from the top of the steps at her, frozen like marble at their foot. The Persian stopped beside her. "Mademoiselle?"

Danielle let her breath out steadily and took one step up. The daroga watched her and touched the thick envelope in his pocket, fingering it curiously. Francois pushed the door open, and held it before closing the heavy wooden entries with a thick, muffled sound. The main lobby was warm from the morning light streaming through the windows, stray dust motes dancing gin the velvety ribbons of light. Danielle looked around her, breathing in deeply before padding into the theater.

It was all the same. All blessedly the same. The plush velvet seats were still a meticulously groomed deep red; the chandelier still glistened above, the little door still sat beside it, painted to blend in to the frescoed ceiling. No gaping hole, like a void sucking all she knew from the familiar Opera House. The orchestral pit had barely changed at all. Francois came up as she climbed down into it, glancing around speculatively.

"Do you need the music?"

"No, Francois," she said without looking up. As she pushed her hair back, her fingers brushed the chain about her neck again. "I know it by heart." She sat, resting her graceful hands familiarly on the ivory keys.

The veil over that aching absence was suddenly pulled away, like the tarp over the skeleton of the chandelier locked away in the cellars, metal rims bent and twisted, a few forlorn strands of crystal and cut glass still dangling. Danielle's hands on the piano shivered, and she looked down at the keys in dismay.

"Francois," she said quietly, unable to look away from her hands. She couldn't hear it. The music was indiscernible, slipping from her grasping hands like smoke. Danielle couldn't even feel the memory of Erik's hand over her shoulder. She shivered and shut her eyes. "Francois, I need you to…"

"I can do it," Nadir suddenly said. Danielle opened her eyes and turned on the bench to look at him. The Persian came to stand behind her, his dark eyes seeming to understand. Danielle swallowed as she looked up at him. "Shut your eyes," he said, passing his hand before her eyes. She turned back to the keys, shutting her eyes. Nadir touched her shoulder fleetingly, let it hover there for a moment, and then let Danielle rest her hands on the ivory.

The music finally came as she sat there, wishing with all her might that it really was Erik standing behind her. She could almost feel his arm still on her shoulder, his thumb rubbing in small circles against her skin. She could hear the echo of the melody in her blood, if only faintly, and it was just enough to whisper Fenris into life. The wolf howled for her longingly, and her fingers held onto the last notes as if she didn't want to give them up, have the song end.

When she opened her eyes, Francois was staring at her with a glazed expression, his lips parted as if words had truly escaped him. He leaned back in the front row seat, shaking his head disbelievingly.

"Why didn't you play this when I saw you in Russia?" he asked. Danielle put her hands on the bench beside her, looking around at the theater for words.

"Because we were living the song that night. We didn't need to play it to hear each other." She raised her hand idly, her fingers tripping over the notes of the music box's lullaby. She had nearly forgotten the Persian was behind her until he sat down heavily in one of the musician's chairs. Danielle looked back over her shoulder at him.

"Mademoiselle," he said, turning a thick envelope over in his dark hands. "Does he love you?"

She took a moment before nodding. "Yes, daroga."

"And do you love him in kind?" Danielle's dark eyes watched Nadir, running his hands over the worn edges of the envelope. "Before he left Paris, he came to me. Staggered through my door, more like it. He came right into my living room and told me he was dying."

"What?" Danielle cried, pushing herself to her feet. Her slender hands clenching into fists at her sides, and a fervent light came into her eyes. Nadir sighed as he looked up at her, standing so much like a wolf over her fallen mate.

"Of love, mademoiselle." Her fists slackened, and she let her shoulders drop. Nadir watched her and realized that Erik had spoken true: if the woman had come to him and asked where Erik had gone, he would have told her. "He told me he was dying of love, mademoiselle, because of what had happened to you. Now, do you love him?"

"Yes, daroga," she said softly, sincerely. His hands paused on the paper as he looked up at her, intently searching for any shade of a doubt.

"Then this is yours." He stood and held out the envelope. Danielle carefully took it, touching the red letters in her name as she sank back to the bench. "You cannot imagine the nights I have spent this past year looking at that thing, wondering what could be so precious that you were not to have it until you came to my house. I would ask that you don't tell Erik that I gave it to you here?" he added hopefully. Francois stood and came to the edge of the orchestra pit as Danielle very carefully tore open the seal.

Her hand delicately pulled out first a note on a piece of small, thick paper, followed by a sheaf of parchment looked as if it had been torn from a book.

Dear Danielle,
I knew that you would not waste time to see the daroga before coming after me. I cannot know whether you have found me by now, or stopped looking, whether you hate me. But you must forgive me. It tears at my heart to leave you behind. I swear on whatever soul I have that I will meet you as soon as I can. I'm a wanted man still, but there must be a place, somewhere on this vast earth, where I can escape to. Where we can escape to.

Danielle held the note loosely as she shifted the parchment forward. The edges were frayed where it had been taken from its book, but the lines were clear enough. Ode to a Nightingale was sketched in the corner of the page, and below as was single stanza of Keats' poem:

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Called him soft names in many a muséd rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.

Danielle, very slowly, very solemnly, folded the page back up and held it to her heart for a moment. Nadir and Francois watched her carefully, but they both might as well not have existed. Her fingers tightened on the envelope, and she slowly became aware of something still sealed within the packet. Setting the two papers down beside her, Danielle upended the envelope over one hand.

Two odd, bronze keys fell into her palm, clattering metallically against each other. Nadir leaned forward as she held one up to the light, examining the strange, flat edge where the teeth should have been. The other, when she picked it up, was normally shaped, though at the other end was an intricate little knot what looked like a Persian design.

"What are they for?" he asked quietly. Danielle shook her head, still examining the knot. When she abruptly stood, she nearly hit Francois, who had leaned farther over the banister of the orchestral pit to see. He started back, snatching his hat off, but she paid no heed. She stood as if in a trance, staring fixedly at the key, and climbed the few steps out of the pit. Nadir and Francois followed as she padded silently through the theater. She led them through the foyer and pushed open a door on the far end, leading them through shortcuts even Nadir had no knowledge of. Francois suddenly drew to a halt as they broke free into the main corridor that led down, now he knew, to the cellars.

"This is the place," he murmured, looking around at the hallway practically burned into his memory. Danielle paused, blinking in the dim gaslights as the damp breeze only barely rising from the cellars lifted her hair. She looked back at Nadir and Francois as if she had forgotten all about them, the keys still held tightly in her hand.

"Neither of you can come," she said, looking at them both. Nadir shook his head at her.

"Mademoiselle, I already know what lies down there. Please, let me see what those keys open." Danielle frowned at him, shifting the bronze around in her palm

"You're too curious sometimes, daroga. He doesn't, though." She nodded to Francois, who went stiff in indignation.

"Danielle, do you still think that I would use any knowledge against you? I…I trust you. About Erik. I wouldn't betray you both." He blushed at the admission, but his spine never bent. Danielle gaped at him.

"You…" She swallowed, staring at him in amazement. "Francois, you…you trust us? You would really…" Francois came before her and rested a hand on her arm. Her voice faded away as she looked down at it.

"Yes, Danielle," he said. She stared up at him in disbelief, her breath catching. She hurriedly spun away, a hand going to her mouth as her shoulders shook with one slight tremor. Francois waited concernedly until she took one gasping breath and walked into the gloom.

"Then come," she said softly, her voice thick.

The moment the damp, heavy breeze truly enveloped her, Danielle sighed. It still felt almost the same, but she couldn't help thinking that she felt a twinge as it blew, as if the wind were pulling at that empty place in her. Her steps echoed through the eerie silence as she climbed down the sloping road beneath the Opera. The boat was still there, tied to the ring in the wall where she had left it a year before. She picked up the pole and stepped into the boat, motioning both men to get in. They both tried to take the staff from her and push the boat along, but she refused. They sat in the prow, looking around as she silently drove them forward.

It was too quiet. Neither man would, notice of course, but Danielle did. The water didn't make a sound, neither the lap of the lake against the keel nor the comforting drip of water far off. The lake barely reflected the light of the lantern at the prow, just a pale suggestion of the candle. No otherworldly weavings of light cast back by the lake's surface like it ought to be. It was as if the lake itself had lost its magic, its music. When the shore rose up to meet the hull, it only wearily scraped against the boat. The candles breathed into life resignedly when Danielle stepped out of the boat. Erik's home was still the same; she couldn't place what made it seem so…lifeless, except for his absence.

Was she always going to feel like this? It was all the same, except the crushing silence that was creeping around her like ice. With a shudder she tossed it off, climbing up to the bedroom without a backward glance to the men. Nadir and Francois climbed out of the boat, and even the daroga couldn't help but look around in amazement. He touched the stone walls as he looked around, glancing over at where Mlle de Chagny had disappeared. Francois touched the ivory keys of the organ, brushing the dust off in what might have been respect.

The chime of the music box's cymbals suddenly turned both their heads, and they climbed quickly up to the bedroom. Francois paused at the head of the steps, looking in at Danielle. She knelt at the chest beside the bed, running her hand over the base of the music box. The cymbals seemed to echo weakly in that somber silence as she lifted the Persian key and fitted it into a cleverly disguised keyhole in the wood. The drawer popped open, and she lifted it carefully, rising to sit on the bed. They both watched as she picked up the diamond ring nestled inside and set it down on the sheets almost dismissively. Her fingers instead lingered on the simple silver hoop of the ring the daroga had given her, the magic trick Erik had pulled apart and split between them. Nadir recognized it as she set it down beside the diamond ring. She sighed and rubbed a finger along the shaft of the key now returned to her palm, and suddenly frowned at the drawer. The red satin inside of it was bunched in a corner, revealing a soft white beneath it. Her hand cautiously touched the satin and pushed it aside, drawing out the soft white piece of leather.

The white kid mask was so small when she spread it out on her lap, the eyes staring up at her almost inquisitively. The white porcelain mask hadn't evolved far from it, she realized with a small smile. Had the child's mask always been in the drawer, and she had just missed it the last time she had accidentally opened it? Or had he left it for her, who did not care about the mask on the grown man?

The other key suddenly weighed in her hand unbearably, and she looked past Nadir and Francois at the cove. She stood, dropping the mask over the rings as she walked past them. Her gaze was fixed on the mirror, the one looking glass left, and his words in the falling snow of Germany echoed in her mind. When you look in the mirror, I will be there beside you…

She came so close to her reflection that her breath fogged the glass, misting over its smooth surface. She passed her hand over the edge of the mirror and fit the slim, flat key between the glass and the gilt frame. The velvet draped over the corner slipped and cascaded over the glass, and Danielle moved her arm to hold it behind her. She ran the key up and down the frame before it suddenly gave way, falling into a keyhole. Nadir peered over her shoulder as she glanced at the mirror and braced her shoulder against it.

The key turned with a solid click like a deadbolt sliding free, and the entire looking glass fell back against the weight of her shoulder. Francois started as the velvet drape swung loose and Danielle disappeared behind it. Cautiously, Nadir reached out and pushed the velvet back.

Cool, fresh air wafted past them from the dark corridor. Danielle stood in the middle of it, her hand still on the key in the glass. Her shawl slipped from her shoulders as she stared down the hallway, the wind caressing her cheek gently, lifting her hair as if it were an old friend. It almost seemed to blow the fear of the empty stillness away, carrying a pregnant silence with it. Behind her, Nadir picked up a candelabrum, the wavering light casting shadows that spilled around her. Her hand loosened the key from its lock and slipped it into her pocket. As Nadir and Francois came beside her, Danielle took a step forward, trailing her hand along the cool stone wall.

The tunnel stretched nearly a mile beneath the city streets, and when they finally reached a door Danielle touched the lock. She pulled back out the Persian key from her pocket and fit it in the door, taking one deep breath before pushing it open.

Daylight streamed in through the doorway, nearly blindingly bright after the dark of the tunnel. The three came out into it, blinking about as their eyes adjusted. The sounds of Paris flooded their ears, horses and buggies rattling by on the cobblestone streets, pigeons cooing as their wings beat the air. Nadir blew out the candles and set them in the corridor as Francois shut the door behind them. Looking around, Danielle suddenly realized where they were.

It was the Rue Tronchet, barely a hundred yards away from the intersection of Place de la Madeleine. The church itself, in all its Grecian glory, rose just at the end of the street.

Danielle glanced back at the door behind her. Its worn green stain was the color of the sea, just a plain door amongst the buildings and storefronts. The only thing special about it was the handle, worked in the shape of an intricate, almost life-like ebony grasshopper that seemed to match the little bronze scorpion on the end of the flat key.

Author's End Notes: Well, so sorry that this took awhile, tests and whatnot taking up my much needed time. But here it is! The poem is just one of the stanzas from John Keat's poem "Ode to a Nightingale," so I take no credit or anything. It's a beautiful poem that I really love, might even be my favorite, so I definitely recommend going and reading the rest of it.