A/N…I want to thank my beloved reviewers. As a favour, I always check out the fanfictions of those who have reviewed mine. You all have absolutely no idea how much they mean to me, unless you yourself are authors of fanfiction, and have experienced that joy that you can't quite put words to when you see a new review in your box. It keeps me going. It's strange how important it is to get feedback on your writing—it's like a mother hearing compliments given to her child. Or something. Ha! Anyway, two things: For those who haven't read my author's note in the beginning, it would be very helpful to me if you'd tell me which was your favourite line(s) of the chapter. Second, the song Erik gave to Madame Giry in chapter 3 is to the tune of Learn To Be Lonely (or No One Would Listen).

Gustave

"Papa! Papa, my scarf!" she cried, her hand tugging at mine furiously.

I looked down, and followed her outstretched arm toward the sea, where her mother's red scarf drifted over the little swells a few feet off the shore.

"I can't lose it! It was Mother's!"

My heart sank at the sight, even more quickly than the dampened red fringe of the garment. It had been Adele's favourite scarf…I had bought it for her before we were even married. She said it reminded her of rose petals in winter. She was always so poetic. "I am sorry, Christine. There is nothing we can do about it now."

She looked up at me, incredulity written in her features. "But we must save it! It will drown!"

I smiled fondly, sadly, at her, and squeezed her hand.

As soon as she saw that I was going to do nothing about it, she broke loose from me and ran toward the breaking waves.

"Christine! Christine, stop!" I called, sprinting after her. European water was dangerously frigid—especially against the fragile skin of a child. I easily caught up with my little girl, and pinned her struggling arms against me. She wailed her protests, and I did my best to calm her.

"Somebody!" she yelled, her generally sweet, quiet six-year-old voice suddenly reaching amazing dynamics. What a singer she would someday make! "Somebody save my scarf!"

But there was no one on the beach but us. No one…I glanced around in embarrassment…no one save a little boy in a grey sailor suit and his nanny.

"Boy!" Christine wailed. "Help me!"

I hushed her. "Pay her no mind…she is only upset," I tried to explain. Christine, however, bit my hand, and I yelped, but did not let her go. "Christine, you will stop this display at once," I demanded.

Christine collapsed in my arms, bawling. I knelt behind her and turned her around, and she clung to my neck. "It was Mother's," she wept. "It was Mother's, and now I shall forget her forever."

My heart wanted to break for her, but I was very good at appearing strong. "Hush, darling," I whispered to her. "I'll sing you a song."

She looked up at me, her tears streaming from the corners of her brown eyes into her equally brown curls. She hiccupped.

I opened my mouth to begin a lullaby, when a woman's piercing scream invaded my ear. Both Christine's and my eyes threw themselves in the direction of the silver-haired nanny, who had her hands up against her mouth, as the thin breeze tousled the ribbons of her bonnet.

I followed her gaze, and stood. The little boy had run into the sea. I swept Christine into my arms and thrust her into the nameless woman, who took her with a look of stunned confusion. What a storey this would make! Running once again through the sand, I leapt into the frothy waves after the boy. "Oh," I gasped. The water was a terrible shock as it bled through my heavy clothing and against my skin.

The little boy's fist grabbed up the dark red scarf, and with a shout of triumph, he disappeared beneath the surf. I was in great pain, but somehow a smile worked its way into my dripping features. Every nerve in my body standing on end, I reached into the dark blue-green sea and felt my hand close around a woollen collar.

A moment later, and the little boy and I were sloshing through a foot of water toward the beach, with a frigid wind nipping at our cheeks. My little Christine and the boy's nanny rushed toward us through the sand, and the grains flew up and stung at their skin and clung to their clothing.

"Raoul de Chagny, you will not ever do that again! Your father will have your hide for such a display!"

I turned to Raoul, who looked up at me and grinned, his blue eyes twinkling. He stepped toward Christine and offered his hand, and the scarf, to her. "Here you are, Mademoiselle." Christine stared at him for only a moment before snatching away the scarf, nuzzling her face in the wet knitting. She beamed at the little boy.

I gave a congenial smile to his nanny and held out my hand. "Good evening, Madame. I am—"

"Gustave Daae," she gushed, and offered me her wrinkled white hand. I kissed her knuckles, smiling in humility. Though an artist could not survive by his talent alone, it was always such a flattery to be acknowledged. "It is an honour to meet you. I am Evita Reinard, governess to the little vicomte."

"A vicomte?" I marvelled, appearing impressed for the bold child's sake. "That explains your bravery…and your swashbuckling nobility."

The little blonde tilted his head modestly, and rivulets of water streamed down his face. "My father is the Comte Philippe de Chagny, Monsieur Daae. We are both fond admirers of yours."

I laughed at the adult-sounding little boy. "Then you are a true gentleman, if you are a lover of music." I hugged my arms, chilled, and stole a glance at my enamored child. "May I escort you to your carriage, Monsieur le Vicomte?"

"Oh, do," said the governess. "He'll catch his death out here."

"We can't have that," I added, and the four of us continued up the shore, with our high-class companions leading the way. Christine clung to my hand, shy as always. I would speak for her, lest she regret her reservation later. "How old are you, Vicomte?"

"Ten," he said proudly.

"Well, Christine," I said to my daughter, "it seems your hero is not much older than you at all!"

Christine blushed. "He is old. He is nearly an adult!"

Raoul giggled at this, as did Madame Reinard. She turned to me. "You have my gratitude, Monsieur, for fetching Raoul from the sea."

"And he has mine," I returned, "for fetching my late wife's scarf." The road came into view, where a grand carriage awaited. "I would hate for the little boy to catch a cold. I would give him my coat, but…." I held out my arms, letting the sea that dripped from it finish my sentence.

The old governess nodded in thanks. "I have warm clothes for him in the carriage. Come, Raoul…you will catch your death out here," she repeated.

"Yes, Ma'am." Raoul gave us one last smile before turning toward his carriage.

"Wait!"

The three of us looked down at little Christine. I smiled, confident at her confidence. She hesitated, and broke free from my hand, running until she was before Raoul. She beamed up at him, and he smiled proudly. "Monsieur," she greeted, curtsying. And then she motioned him down with a wiggle of her finger. He leant to lessen the few inches between them, and without another word, Christine stood on her toes and kissed his cheek.

He straightened and his hand flew to his face, and Christine yelped and scurried back in my direction.

I laughed and took her into my arms. Raoul made a face and grimaced at the hand that had wiped Christine's invisible gratitude from his cheek. Christine's face flushed with the cold and with giddiness, and she held her scarf to her lips.

As we made our way back toward the path that would lead us to the inn, the carriage passed us. The young vicomte draped himself out of the window, smiling at us. "Christine," he called. "Don't you lose your scarf again!"

His governess ushered him back into the safety of the carriage, and Christine buried her face in my wet coat.

…

Erik

My good manager, most curious of all men.

I stare at his profile and stately forme—despite the odd position I find him in now. He is an interesting specimen. I never liked his moustache. Under most circumstances, his age and his oiliness would prove far from desirable. Wealth, however, attracts the underprivileged women of this world with greater ferocity than a handsome smile or a charming laugh. Monsieur LaBrant has always exploited his wealth, and gathered about him closet whores wherever he chooses to exploit it.

I do hope he enjoyed the last woman who made love to him. It seems a proper requiem.

I am an unfortunate man to love a woman who has a daughter from another suitor. My promise not to harm the child still grates at my desire to, but I know deep within me, however reluctantly, that little Meg is safe from my wrath. Fleeting curses did enter my mind while I held her, for she is and will continue to be only a nuisance, but my understanding of Madeleine is that she loved her Henri and loves this little chit just as much. She finally has become a mother. Perhaps, now that she has been granted her wish, she will see me as a man and nothing else.

My thoughts centre themselves on the situation I have before me. Blast; now I must find a new manager.

LaBrant's eyelids are glued to his brow and his cheeks, exposing the white bulbs and tiny red veins beneath them. Death, it seems, is not as fascinating when it is observed from the curious eyes of a bystander. In fact, his lifeless forme appears nearly natural, and looking upon him gives me no great ardour of divine command over mortality. It is time for me to raise the grate.

"Obtuse man," I mutter at his unheeding ears, my hands callusing themselves on the counter-wheel. "You had always been so agreeable."

The grate lifts itself noisily out of the water, and my manager's body floats to the surface. His fingers are still excruciatingly entwined within the bars. I wonder at the pain of drowning, and if it is similar to strangulation. Both are due to a severing of oxygen flow, and both leave the skin purplish in colour. Understanding that I cannot fully credit myself with Yvette's death, it still has not been long since I last took a man's life, albeit the first time in years due to a foolish promise once made to Madame. Therefore I am naturally curious and a bit resentful that the water trap stole his breath before I could.

I admit, however, I did not want him to die yet.

I lift his dripping and rigid body from the green water and touch his cold, leathery hands. If only he hadn't been so curious. He had always been so agreeable.