Good morning!

Hopefully this chapter will clear a few things up. I like to keep my options open, so things will happen on a purely need-to-know basis in this story.

No one has guessed the correct origin of the name MANSART, so I will give you a hint. The answer lays within Susan Kay's version of POTO.

It will take some real detective work to figure this one out.

Enjoy!

There was something incredibly soothing about the night air.

Erik had been walking for nearly an hour now. After his confrontation with Athena, he had quickly escaped the mansion they shared, hoping to clear his head even just for a moment.

It was a cold night; Erik's heavy woolen coat with sweeping dusters barely kept out the bitter bite of the cold wind, but it was still a more hospitable environment than his so-called home.

Home.

Before long, Erik's walk had brought him back to the steps of the Opera Populaire. Sighing, he began to head towards a hidden back door he hoped would still be there.

It was.

It seemed that while so much had changed in this alternate universe, an equal amount had remained the same.

The door opened smoothly. Erik ducked inside, all at once assaulted by the dank scent of the Opera Populaire's bowels.

Walking carefully over the familiar cracks and crevasses of a section of the lavish theater that was never used, Erik followed the winding passageways to the silent chapel that sat at the very heart of the immense building.

Two or three candles burned lowly, having no doubt been left behind by some of the more devout members of the cast or crew.

Erik raised his eyelids to the forgiving face of a particularly beautiful angel, etched into a stained glass window for all eternity.

It was the same angel that had looked over Christine as she had prayed for the soul of her father in Erik's previous reality.

"You know, I was always here with her."

Although he recognized the voice, it startled Erik. He turned slowly, seeing Charles standing still, looking up at the angel.

"She knew that," Erik told him. "Even if most of the time it was actually me."

Charles smiled, sitting down in a little crook on the other side of the room. "You provided her with a sense of comfort for a time," Charles nodded. "And for that, I will always be grateful."

"You shouldn't be," Erik disagreed. "I deceived her."

Charles nodded again. "Even the best of intentions sometimes hurt people," he said.

"I saw her today," Erik said suddenly. Charles's eyebrows rose, but he remained silent. "I thought for a moment she would recognize me, but she didn't."

"No one will recognize you, Erik," Charles said, almost sorrowfully. "The Phantom of the Opera never existed."

Erik's eyebrows knitted together. "So she will have no memory of anything that happened between us?"

Charles shook his head. "It's for the best, don't you think?"

Erik contemplated. "I suppose," he said, looking over at the older man. "This is not what I expected, Charles."

Charles stood up, sighing. "Nothing ever is," he said. "Humans, at their best, are merely opportunists. Your life now is possibly just as difficult as it was when you were scarred."

"If not more so," Erik grumbled.

Charles smiled. "Athena," he said, mentioning the difficult part of Erik's new life.

"Yes," Erik breathed. "She's horrible."

"It wasn't always so," Charles said. "There was a time when Athena loved you more than her own life."

"I can't remember such a time," Erik replied. "But she does."

Charles nodded again. "Second chances do not come without their challenges, Erik. It would upset the very fine balance of things if everything you wanted was delivered to you on a silver platter."

Charles placed a cold hand on Erik's shoulder. "Besides," he said, warmly smiling. "Isn't my daughter worth the effort?"

Erik looked into the man's eyes. "Why are you doing this for me, Charles? All those years…when Christine begged to see you…begged for you to appear…you didn't. Yet now…you come to help the monster that…"

"You are not a monster," Charles interrupted.

"Perhaps even more so now than I was!" Erik exclaimed. "I've married a woman whom I don't love…for her money…I indulge in the drink…whores…"

"Challenges," Charles soothed. "All challenges."

"Insurmountable obstacles!" Erik roared. "She has a fiancé…I am married…this life is just as cursed as the one before it!"

Charles smiled again. "Yet you are alive. She is alive," he turned, looking back up at the angel. "And instead of wasting your time trying to figure out a past that no longer belongs to the man you are now, you should, for once, look to the future."

Erik pushed his hair from his eyes. "How?" He asked lowly.

Charles shrugged. "Opportunity," he said cryptically.

And Erik watched as Charles Daae's smiling face dissipated into vapor and then nothingness.

Erik sank down into a morbid window seat, placing his suddenly throbbing head into his hands.

"I'm either insane or dead," he said aloud to himself.

"You don't look to be either to me."

For a moment, Erik did not raise his head. He was afraid that if he looked, the owner of that voice would disappear just as quickly as her father had.

Yet, evil desire and fraughtful curiosity got the best of him.

As he raised his eyes, he took in every inch of Christine Daae, who was standing before him in a tightly corseted black mourning gown. Golden brown locks of hair framed her rosy cheeks. Her pink cheeks matched her lips, which were curved up into a polite smile.

"Are you alright, Monsieur Mansart?" She asked, her perfectly arched brows coming together in concern.

Erik stumbled over his own tongue. "Yes," he managed.

Christine smiled. "You're out late," she commented. "Is something on your mind?"

Erik couldn't answer, the shock of being so close to Christine too much for his brain to process.

She blushed, mistaking his silence for irritation. "I'm sorry for being so intrusive," she said quickly. "It's none of my business. I'll leave you to your prayers."

Christine turned to go, her gown sweeping against the stone floors.

Suddenly Erik's brain kicked into gear.

She was leaving…

"Christine!" He said, perhaps with a bit too much urgency. The woman turned, her eyes slightly frightened.

"Monsieur?" She questioned.

Erik forced himself to take on at least a fragment of composure.

"You are not intruding," he managed, motioning awkwardly with his large hand towards the prayer alter. "I was finished."

Christine smiled, effectively breaking his heart.

He peeled his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "You're out late too," he observed. "Have you come here unescorted?"

Christine looked over her shoulder as if someone was following her. "Yes," she whispered, sounding like a child who was afraid of being caught mid-prank.

"That's fairly dangerous for a woman, isn't it?" Erik admonished, slowly falling into the warped father-like role he had created for himself in a previous life.

Christine shrugged. "I suppose it is," she said. "I know Raoul would agree with you."

Erik couldn't help notice the slight twinge of irritation in her voice as she mentioned her fiancé.

He cleared his throat. "When is your wedding?" He asked.

Christine sighed, lighting a candle. Erik was unable to pull his sight from the column of her neck as the flare of orange light illuminated her skin. "In a month," she said, sounding decidedly detached. She rubbed her hands together and straightened up. "If it were up to me, I'd rather wait."

"Why?" Erik asked softly.

Christine shrugged again. "It all feels very rushed," she said, raising her eyes to him. Then, smiling, she added, "But I suppose you've already been through this and know what I'm talking about."

Erik nodded slowly.

For a moment, the two stood in silence. Erik could feel Christine's eyes on him but was unable to look directly at her.

"You seem terribly familiar to me, Monsieur," she said, squinting her eyes a bit. "Are you certain we've never met before?"

Erik was caught off guard. He shook his head slowly. "I would have remembered you, Christine."

Christine continued to look at him, her face softening.

After a few awkward minutes, she cleared her throat.

"I should be going," Erik said, suddenly very aware of his close proximity to Christine.

She looked genuinely disappointed. "I suppose you should be," she agreed. "No doubt your wife is missing you."

She smiled sadly.

"It was a pleasure to see you again," Christine said, offering her hand.

This time, Erik took it slowly into his own, raising it to his lips and pressing a tender kiss on her smooth skin.

Goosebumps simultaneously rose on her arms.

"Goodnight, Christine," Erik said.

"Goodnight," she replied, her voice a mere whisper.

He turned to go and was just about to the stairs when she called him back.

"Monsieur Mansart?"

Erik turned, lifting an eyebrow. Christine rang her hands nervously.

"I wonder if you would mind terribly if I asked you a favor," she said quickly. "I don't know if this is something you ordinarily do, but after hearing you play today I simply must ask."

Erik nodded for her to continue.

"It seems I find myself without an accompanist," she said. "And I was wondering if I might be able to employ you for a few lessons."

Erik's heart leapt.

"I understand if this is too much to ask," Christine rambled.

"No," Erik interrupted,a bit too quickly. He forced the excitement from his voice. "It's not too much at all, Madame. I would be honored to play for you."

Christine smiled. "Thank you," she said earnestly. "Shall we meet here tomorrow? Say around three pm? Unless that's too soon...but the theater will be empty then…and I really would like to work on my main aria…"

Erik nodded. "Three pm," he echoed.

"I'll be counting the minutes," Christine said and then blushed. "Goodnight, Monsieur."

"Please, call me Erik."

"Erik," Christine corrected herself.

Erik dipped his head to herand then slipped up the stairwell before his legs gave out under him.

As he emerged onto the dark Paris streets, he heard Charles's voice carried on a particularly stiff wind.

"Opportunity…"