Disclaimer: This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them.
Side Notes:
Thanks beta barefoot advocat for your suggestions…my wonderful muse! Again, thank you for not caving to the pressures to reveal my most secret of plot secrets :)
The Price of Admission
The man's fingers pounded mercilessly upon the ivory keys in a stormy downpour; brutal music poured from his being into the piano, flooded the room, and spilled into the hallway. There was nothing tender or kind about the notes, for these are the things of which nightmares are made—fury, hatred, despair, death. The composer's face was beaded with drops of frustration, his brow nit in deep lines as his demanding master took hold of him, commanding every movement from his body.
Oh yes, it would have been so simple blame those that had injured him:
That foolish maid, Papi, whose wary eyes and resentful nature had driven her to nose around his room for clues to his character.
Or Nadir Khan, the misguided daroga of Mazanderan, who had imprudently placed his faith in a murderous friend only to be abandoned to the Shah's wrath. Why had Erik followed the Persian's advice to go to London and accept Christine's love, when the man's own blind faith in others had caused him to waste away for years in a horrid prison?
Raoul de Chagny—how he could hate this youth, place the fault for his botched overtures to Christine squarely on the dead man's shoulders. That boy had always been there before him, rescuing her red scarf from the ocean, winning her love with his youthful fervor and handsome smile. Raoul had taken her as his wife and had given her all the things that Erik longed to—a home, friendship, passion and pleasure, even a child. Even though the boy was in his grave, his memory still held the young widow in a firm embrace; her angel had not been blind to her tears during the funeral scene at the Royal Albert Hall, the flashes of grief that passed over her face when she thought he did not watch her. And when Erik had held her in his arms; Raoul had been there in the back of Christine's mind, even as she stiffly returned the embrace of another.
Christine…that wicked, beautiful name was eternally burned into his flesh. Dear God, how close he had come to touching that ever-waking fantasy of having her at his side, his loneliness driven away by the mere sight of her drowsy figure glowing in the soft morning light, next to him, loving him.
The notes rose to dizzying heights, toppled back to the ground, then built up again, chord by jarring chord. The music pulsed through his veins until his fingertips were worn and his bruised ribs were numbed.
I have done all I can do! Erik's tortured mind raced through his actions of the past weeks: he had bled for her, killed for her, then soothed away her fears so she could sleep peacefully, knowing that there was one who guarded her with his very life.
And how has she repaid my attentions? By trembling with fright when I showed her just a mere fraction of my passion for her! By refusing to release me from the devils of my past, yet condemning me for the blood that stains my hands! Damn her and her naïve fear of death, darkness, and the ugly things of this world…
Damn myself for believing that I was worthy of a life with her, when all I am fit for is the cruel, lonely fate to which I am destined.
The man's hands stilled on the keys as the uncluttered truth settled into his abused body. He could hate her, spit upon her name, curse her until the day he died, but he could not blame her, when he was just as guilty as she. All of the warning signs had been there—even in Paris, while deathly ill with fever and delirium, he had known that their sad story would play out as it had before. He had told Nadir that the first time he tightened the lasso around someone's neck, she would reject him.
Yet he had foolishly charged forth like the proverbial warrior, his black standard of death raised high. And having slain the dragon with that blood-covered lasso, he had returned to his fortress, soul-sick and battle-weary, longing for the blissful embrace of his angel's arms. Only instead of peace, he found his very dwelling under siege, held hostage by the mutinous specters of his past.
Hour after hour, music commanded him. The pianist's torso twisted and writhed about as his arms swept back and forth, exertion soaking his wounded back with sweat and blood, causing such excruciating pain in his bruised ribs that eventually his brain shut it away, converting the searing waves to a dull throb.
Erik now understood that the demons would always be there, clawing, pulling him back to the slaughter of the dismal battlefield. He would never be allowed to cross that black chasm that lay between him and his beloved angel's plain of light.
The Persian was right when he said that Christine stood at the gates of Hell, unaware of the fire licking at her heels. But he had been wrong as well.
For Orpheus was not meant to guide Eurydice along the paths of Hades, back to world of the living. Eurydice must be the one to lead the way through the darkness, out of the remains of my shattered life…
…and sadly, she just does not have the strength to do so. Christine and I…we are forever doomed to repeat the mistakes of the past. Our souls have been entwined since the beginning of time, yet one is damned to hell, the other abides in the peace of Elysia.
By wearing my ring, she would shackle herself to a murderous criminal—a hideous monster.
Erik's fists came down mercilessly upon the keys; the last chord of his frightful composition shuddered about the room and faded into the walls.
Never, never again will I fall so far as to make such a grave mistake!
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
The composer pushed away from the piano with a last burst of energy, his entire reserve now spent. As the passion of the music drained from his languid body, the throb of his injuries flooded back, leaving him aching and worn to the bone. A blinding pain ripped through the entire left side of his rib cage, and he gingerly examined the reopened knife wound.
"Merde!" he hissed as the gash twinged again, and he clasped his side until the wave subsided, blood rapidly seeping through his sweat-soaked shirt.
A small gasp sounded behind him. Startled by the intrusion, Erik whirled around to behold the young Comte de Chagny standing in the ballroom doorway, the very image of the woman that had just haunted his music and his mind for countless hours. The child's dark ringlets curled in wisps about his forehead, emphasizing the paleness of his face. One hand tugged uncomfortably at his rumpled blue sailor tunic, the other clasped the plush toy "César" horse to his tiny frame. His quick, intelligent blue eyes were wide with astonishment as they darted from the instrument to the artist, awed by the strange, dissonant chords that had just thundered in the air.
Erik forced his angry, pulsing blood to slow as he studied the boy.
Not even a trace of fright, he noted with surprise; only…wonder. How could this child possibly be Raoul de Chagny's? For the Comte was a man who never had the capacity to truly love music. Why, there is not even a hint of the Chagny lineage about this boy, save for that ridiculous sailor suit his mother has forced him to wear. Oh yes, Christine was right—her son is destined to be a musician…
And just as quickly as the surprise had arisen, the masked man pushed it back. No, it would not do to become attached to Jean-Paul, for after the revelations of this morning, his Maman would be sure to keep her little son away from a killer. Erik wearily rose to face the boy.
"What is it you want, child?" he asked sharply. Jean-Paul's eyes widened further, and he pulled the small, white horse more tightly to him. The boy wavered in the doorway, unsure of whether to move closer to the man or turn and flee.
Erik sighed and turned a stony glare upon the little Comte de Chagny. "If you don't want anything," he said icily, "then I suggest you leave. I have no desire to be gawked at by a two-year-old." He watched as the child sucked in a trembling lower lip, a gesture so like Christine's, and slowly backed away from the room.
"Now!" he scolded, and the child scrambled down the hallway.
No doubt to keep his mother company in her tears, Erik thought dryly, his harsh manner with the boy secretly twinging his conscience with guilt. A new composition, however, began to take hold, and he forced his much-abused body back to the piano, a slave to the torrent of music that poured forth from his soul.
Christine lay awake in her bed, listening to the anguish-ridden chords. She buried her face in her pillow; the tears that had once trickled from her eyes and soaked the soft blankets had long ago run dry. Her heart ached as her angel's wretched music slammed against the walls of her head, shattering any remaining illusions she still held about the man.
Angel…
How should a woman react when the blinds are stripped from her eyes and she is forced to see what she did not want to—that he who she loves best…
…is a murderer?
Oh, she had known it before—Erik had been correct about that. Yet it had been so effortless to leave the opera murders behind; to write them off as semi-accidents or temporary madness and bury them deep in her subconscious, never to be remembered except in fleeting thoughts of the past. But a hundred…
A hundred people. People that had thought, felt, laughed, loved…
A hundred living and breathing souls—some of them deserving death, some of them not—but souls, nonetheless.
The horror of Erik's confession again clutched hold of her insides and another violent wave of nausea swept through her body. Christine groaned in pain and rolled off her bed onto the cold floor, her hands grappling for the metal basin. Pulling herself onto her knees, she crouched over the basin, retching and heaving for several minutes until there was nothing left in her stomach.
Weak and shaking from the exertion, the girl pressed her cheek to the cool wooden boards and listened pathetically as her spurned lover played on.
A deep longing suddenly welled within her, a pain that she had tried to push back for the sake of her son as well as her sanity. Raoul… she desperately wanted his strong arms about her now, to hear him whisper in her ear a promise that all hope was not lost. How she needed his level head and steady arms to guide her through this chaos, shield her from the horrid, cold realities of life.
But Raoul is not here, and now you have no one to turn to…not even your angel. She again lowered her face to the ground in self-deprecation.
Well done, Christine.
The frantic notes continued well into the early hours of the morning until, at last, the final melody trickled into nothingness. Apparently the musician was sated. When she rose from the floor several hours later to greet the wintry light of day, her fallen angel was nowhere to be found.
Days passed, and the Comtesse saw nothing of the masked man. Oh, he was still about—she was sure of it—for now and again, soft footsteps would float to her ear, or a door would open and close. And once, late at night, hushed voices were heard in the library. The woman knew that every-so-often, one of Erik's Sûreté agents would visit to talk about developments in their investigation of the Narodnaya Volya. Hope running through her veins, she slept peacefully that night knowing that in the morning, Erik would come to tell her of the midnight meeting.
She did not see him the next day, however, or the following three after that. As day after day flew by, she almost began to believe that he had not come to London at all! Several times she had knocked at his door, only to be met by silence—not even a slight shuffle of surprise from within the room.
How strange, she reflected, that no papers rustle, or chairs creak.
An idea unexpectedly began to take shape: perhaps Erik had resumed his prior ghostlike tendency to work throughout the night then rest during the day, and that was why she had seen nothing of him…
Deciding to test her theory, Christine rose late that night after the rest of the household was asleep. Throwing her blue wrap over her shoulders, she quietly made her way through the black halls, carefully listening for signs of life. A warm, yellow strip of light seeped under the study door and into the dark passage before her; sure enough, the scratching of an ink pen could be heard from within the room. Certain that her angel was indeed still a resident of the town home (and of London), she slowly made her way towards the door.
A slight movement in the corner of her vision sent her whirling around, gasping in shock. A pale, startled face peered back; her own silly reflection in the hall mirror! Relief filtered through her body as she laughed nervously at her jitteriness.
The scratching pen stilled, and the quiet squeak of someone rising from a wooden chair sounded in the charged air. Christine stepped back from the door, uncertain of whether to knock and formally announce her presence—which she was sure Erik was already aware of—or press her back to the wall and wait for the door to gradually creak open. Thus, she remained where she was, watching with anticipation as two shadows streaked the light that glowed on the polished floor.
He is there, just on the other side of this wooden barrier. All I have to do is reach out and grasp the knob, rap my knuckles against the door, and he will answer. Then all will be right again…
The woman took a tremulous step forward and lightly pressed her fingertips to the grain of the wood; she held them there for a moment, wavering with indecision.
A hundred people…
An almost imperceptible sigh escaped her lips; gently, her fingers brushed down the door, her hand falling back to her side.
At that moment, she loathed herself for what she had become.
How she had wanted to believe she was a stronger, wiser woman than the naïve girl of four years ago, that she could stand on her own two feet after Raoul's death and make decisions for herself and for her son. Yet in the course of a month, ever since she had descended into the dark labyrinth of the Opéra Populaire, she had been reduced to a sniveling mess of a woman. Now she was standing outside the door of a confessed killer in the middle of the night, again trembling with fear.
And continuing to stand here, for that matter, she chided, debating whether to even knock. Anyone with a lick of common sense would have turned around and marched back through the hallway, roused their child and hailed the nearest hansom cab.
But when one loves, common sense is often excused.
And when the killer is not a killer, but Erik…
Christine raised her fist decisively and rapped loudly upon the door. If her angel needed her to listen to him, then listen she must.
And she watched, stunned, as the shadowy figure retreated from the door and the light seeping into the hallway vanished, leaving her dejected. Alone. In the dark.
"Madame?" Papi called over her shoulder as she whisked another egg into the pudding mixture.
Frustrating thoughts swirled about the Comtesse's mind as she angrily kneaded the dough, sending puffs of flour flurrying about the kitchen and settling onto her apron, hair, and cheeks. Why shouldn't she be upset? After all, Noël was but two short days away, and there was still a Yule log to prepare, a Nativity crèche and other decorations to find, not to mention shopping for a few small gifts for Jean-Paul and the rest of the household. How was she to accomplish any of that, though, when no one was allowed to leave the house? When any extra items, other than the pantry stuffs regularly delivered, could only be acquired by submitting a list to Hale or Murray? And seeing as how Erik was the only one who conversed with them, and he had neither seen nor spoken to her since that day three weeks ago in the library…
Noël festivities, therefore, were rapidly becoming a lost cause.
She tried to blow an irritating strand of hair from her face, gave in, and brushed it back with her messy, paste-coated hand.
"Madame?" the voice called again, and Christine broke from her angry musings to turn to the maid.
"I'm sorry, Papi, what was that?" she asked apologetically.
Papi sighed at her mistress' absentmindedness and pointed to the container of sugar on the table. "If you would, please sift the sugar into the pudding while I stir. If we are to finish the Bakewell before the evening meal, we'll have to work a bit more swiftly." The maid watched as Christine quickly grabbed up the sifter, accidentally knocking two eggs from the table in the process. The frazzled girl gasped, then frantically searched about the kitchen for something to clean up the mess.
The woman really could not be put out by the Comtesse's attempts in the kitchen, even though her efforts had actually doubled Papi's workload. Her mistress had little to no experience with baking, cooking, cleaning, all the things that she herself had been taught from birth. But the lady's heart was in the right place, and she desperately wanted to be of some use about the house; so instead of sending the girl away, Papi patiently allowed her to help in the kitchen, correcting her work when she wasn't looking.
"Never mind the eggs, Madame. I will take care of those. There is something that needs to be done, however." Papi kept her eyes lowered to the Bakewell pudding, not quite daring to meet the other woman's gaze. "If we are to have a proper Noël réveillon, then we will need a few more things that aren't delivered by the grocers."
Christine nodded in assent, understanding the maid's unspoken request. "Don't concern yourself with it, Papi; you can give your list to me and I shall speak with him. Or try to, anyway." For whether he would actually admit her long enough to give him the list was the true question.
"Oh, my Butterfly! What smells so delicious in here?" The back door flew open and old Norry tramped in, ducking through the doorway as a squealing Jean-Paul clung to the burly man's shoulders. He swung the laughing toddler down and gathered up his daughter in a great hug. "Enough to drive a man half-crazy with hunger, whatever it is." He turned towards the oven and spotted the Comtesse in the kitchen as well, covered from head to toe with flour and some sort of white paste.
"Oh," the caretaker ducked sheepishly. "Beg your pardon, Madame. Didn't expect to see you in here." Christine smiled a self-conscious greeting and tried to brush the flour from her dress, but she only succeeded in making a further mess. Her little son flung his arms about her legs, also coating his green tunic with flour. Sighing, she picked up the boy with her messy hands, kissed his cheek, then planted him on one of the table chairs. The old man glanced away, his kind nature not wishing to further her muddled state.
And then an idea came to her—Norry! He is a good, honest man, someone that Erik might listen to…
"Norry, I have a slight favor to ask of you," she began apprehensively, turning back to the dough on the table. "Could you please take a household list to Erik? I believe he may be in the study, but as you can see, I'm rather tied up at the moment." She held up her flour-covered hands as proof of her predicament.
Her words were spoken offhandedly, but her eyes betrayed her. They pleaded with the old man for help in her desperate plight, and he could hardly refuse, though his greatest desire was to steer clear of any and all involvement in the personal affairs of the Comtesse and this reclusive masked man.
"Very well, Madame," he sighed in resignation, "but I'll just leave this with him—nothing else." He took the piece of paper from her proffered hand and turned to leave.
"Norry," Christine called softly, and the man turned again. "Tell me if he is unwell, please? That is all you need do."
Erik tossed another log onto the waning fire, stirred it to life, then gingerly folded his long, still-bruised frame into the study's desk chair. Drawing the piece of paper from his vest pocket, he unfolded the missive just delivered by Hale—the Persian's reply to his letter sent not three weeks ago. Again, he read over Nadir's irritatingly small handwriting:
As-Salaam Alaikum, my friend,
I am glad to hear that you are still living and safe after the occurrence in Kensington; your particular method, incidentally, is now discussed in every quarter of the agency in Paris, as well as London. I should also warn you that Raoul de Chagny's sisters are beside themselves at the disappearance of the young Comte and his mother, and have been crying words like "foul" and "kidnapping" about Paris. M. David has tried to tell them that their family is safe, but still they threaten to take control of the estate if Christine does not return soon. The avocat has assured me that these threats are hollow, however, since there are several who can vouch that both mother and son are alive and well.
At last, I have found an answer to your question regarding the entry in Christine de Chagny's bank ledger. My sources tell me that this is a false name for a certain former People's Will radical who testified against the chief revolutionaries during the Trial of the Fourteen. Thus, one man crippled the entire organization. Needless to say, he has completely disappeared from the earth and probably has no intention of resurfacing again.
How Raoul de Chagny was connected to him, or why the Comte gave him money, is unknown. I believe that the only man who can tell us that is the revolutionary himself. The Sûreté, however, has informed me of his general whereabouts, so I shall relocate the Comtesse and her household to this particular city and continue the investigation from there.
Now, in regards to the above matter. You must know that your letter has caught me off guard, but then you have always had a flair for the dramatic, du stæm. I believe that you are correct in moving the Chagny family to this certain region. However, after our conversation at M. David's, I cannot understand why you wish me to journey on with Madame de Chagny while you continue my work in Paris. Hale, however, has steadfastly assured me that this is what you desire, so I shall question you no further.
I will give you more thorough explanations for all of the above when I arrive. I am currently making the necessary arrangements for the relocation, and look forward to joining you on the 27th day of December. And while you and I do not celebrate this holiday, my friend, I am sure that the rest of your household does, and is making preparations for their festivities.
So I wish you a Joyeux Noël, and many blessings upon your house.
Nadir Khan
Erik studied the letter once more, then refolded the paper and tucked it into his vest. He leaned back in his chair and silently reflected on the Persian's words.
So it is done, then. I shall leave her in the daroga's capable hands and once again help her from afar; unfortunately, it now appears, M. David will be assisting me in Paris. Erik grimaced at the thought of again dealing with the buffoon. Nevertheless, it is best this way.
As he quietly pondered over Nadir's words, another unbidden image surfaced in his mind…
His angel stands on a rooftop, gazing out over a city glowing in the orange light of dawn. Her face is no longer pale and drawn, but kissed by the sun; her crisp, white clothing loosely billows about her bare ankles as she slowly moves along the rail. The morning breeze gently whips about her dark curls…she tilts her face, ever so slightly, to let the warm rays fall upon her, breathing in the exotic, spicy air.
This is how I shall think of her, when I have returned to Paris. But not now, not yet…
Turning back to the task at hand, the man reached across the desk, pulled out the Chagny bank ledger, and flipped the pages until he came to the particular entry he had sought information for:
500,000 francs, paid in full to Sergei Dagaev: transfer to Doveritelny i Investitsionny Bank, St. Petersburg, Russia
Then he turned back several pages to another odd entry, one of many within the ledger:
20,000 francs, paid in full to C. Daaé: transfer to Ceska Obchodni Banka, Praha, Bohemia
Erik skimmed page after page, unconsciously tapping each out-of-place entry. Why would that boy transfer money to an account in his wife's maiden name, and with such frequency? Unfortunately, Christine was probably the only one who could answer this question. And this meant that he would have to speak with her.
An abrupt knock sounded at the door, sending him spinning around in surprise. Another sharp pain shot through his side and he clenched his teeth, cursing the knife wound that would not seem to heal.
"Monsieur, I have a small matter I must speak to you about," the deep, gruff voice called from the other side. Erik sighed with relief when he realized that it was not the Comtesse begging entry to his study. He had had no desire to speak with her since the night she had wandered the hallways, wavering so pathetically outside his door.
"Enter," he clipped, admitting the old caretaker to the room. The masked man lifted his face from the ledger to observe the servant hovering in the doorway. "What is it that you want, M. Nitote?"
Norry cautiously stepped into the room, peering about as if expecting someone to leap out from behind the door. "Beg your pardon, Monsieur, but the Comtesse asked me to give this to you." He shuffled forward and held out the slip of paper to the man. Erik, however, made no move to take it, so he carefully laid it on the edge of the desk. His task complete, he turned to flee the room as soon as possible. Remembering his promise to the lady, however, his eyes hastily darted over the man to determine whether he was in good health.
A bit of bright red at the pale man's side caught the caretaker's eye, and bit-by-bit, Norry began to see this ruthless human being in a new light.
Clearing his throat, the old man chose his words carefully. "A man's got to eat, sometime."
Erik turned back to the ledger, waving his hand dismissively. "I am perfectly capable of caring for myself. Leave me." He opened a drawer and pulled out a blank sheet of paper, took up his pen, and began to scratch something across the top, acutely aware of the old man watching him intently, making no move to leave.
"All the same, Monsieur, your side is bleeding." Norry spoke more boldly than he normally would to a gentleman, but this was not a normal French household. And now that the strange man's eyes were not upon him, he was able to speak more freely. "Those men that night—they attacked you, I suppose, when we left." He paused, the truth of their situation now falling into place. "They would have come after us, instead. I guess that means I'm indebted to you."
Erik threw down his pen in exasperation. "Are there no secrets in this house? Really, sir, I desire you to leave at once."
Instead, Norry pressed on, at last knowing that something needed to be said to ease the tension in the household. "We are in close quarters here, Monsieur, and problems are bound to erupt. So that's why—" again he paused, cautiously choosing his words. "I need to ask you to forgive my girlie." He watched as the man's eyes narrowed coldly.
"Your daughter," Erik hissed quietly, "is on very dangerous ground. You should advise her not to cross me again." He turned back to his papers, but the caretaker noted that his hand made no movement toward the discarded pen.
"I will." Norry pulled a wooden chair up to the desk and flipped it backwards. Swinging a leg over the seat, he comfortably settled himself across from the man, paying no mind to the look of horror that crossed Erik's face. "The thing with Papillon is, there's a lot of anger an' hurt mixed up in there, after Perri an' all, even before that. She means well, though, an' she did what she did to set things right, not to be cruel to anyone."
The masked man opened his mouth to protest, but the father continued, holding up a hand. "Now I'm not saying what she did was right—snooping about your things like that. But she only acted rashly because she cares about the Comtesse. Madame de Chagny—"
The mention of Christine caused Erik to seriously consider whether it would not be best for him to simply leave the room, for the direction the man's words were taking triggered a certain unease. Something about old Norry's blunt, unguarded manners, however, made the man want to hear him out; made him feel almost…normal. So he remained in his chair, quietly studying the servant.
"Madame de Chagny—now there's a woman with a big heart. But you see, its still achin' right now. It's a hard thing to do—let go of someone you love. An' the Comtesse—well, she's gun-shy, I guess you would say. Doesn't like confrontation much; gets all weepy an' overwhelmed when things come down on her too fast. I've seen my share of her little nervous fits, believe me." The caretaker chuckled, and Erik couldn't help but inwardly smile at the man's all-too accurate analysis of Christine. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest as Norry continued.
"My wife was the same way. I loved her nigh on six years before she finally married me. Her head was filled with thoughts of some other fellow—a man that died in one of those bloody peasant revolts in '48 or '49. Oh, she loved me enough, but her heart was also achin' and torn between the past and the present." Norry swept a calloused hand over his face and leaned forward against the chair, tilting it onto two legs. "Like I said, its hard to let go an' all—takes some time an' lots of patience. An' if I pushed her when she wasn't ready, it would've backfired on me. You see, I loved her enough to wait…" The old caretaker let the chair legs fall back to the ground and raised his wizened eyes to meet the man's at the desk.
Erik squirmed under the steady gaze, the servant's words hitting too close to his own story. He quickly dropped a cool mask of indifference across his features, picked up his pen, and tried to find his last train of thought before the interruption. "While I'm sure your intentions are good, Monsieur Nitote," he spoke tersely, "I am afraid that there is much more to this situation between the Comtesse and myself; obstacles you no nothing about. And at the moment, I really have no desire to fraternize with you over them."
The old man nodded sadly and rose from the chair to take his leave. "As I said, I don't mean to interfere. Just plain advice from an old man—take it or leave it." He shuffled across the room to the door.
"Monsieur," Erik called to the caretaker; he halted in the doorway and turned back, his bushy eyebrows raised inquisitively. "You remind me of an acquaintance of mine—a Persian. He never ceases to dispense unwanted advice, as well. Inform Madame de Chagny that I will speak with her in an hour's time."
Norry nodded in approval. "She'd be in the nursery with her son by then, I would think."
Note: Thank you to the reviewers– I am glad that you have been pulled in to the story! Please feel free to read and review again. I promise to listen to all feedback, both good and bad.
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