-- (Feb. 6) If you have not been here in a few days, there's another new chapter you need to read first.

A/N:The problem, dear readers, when you attempt something like this is that you greatly extend the scope of time past the original story. For instance, Kay ends her novel in 1897, when Charles is 17. He is 23 when his son is born, so…1903, now Charles is six, almost seven, and it's January, making it 1910. That's all I'll say right now. But oh, it's going to get interesting…

Thank you SO much to my noters…I appreciate every one!

The diary of Charles William, January 17, 1910

Father is going to the art gallery tonight. I wanted to go, but he said it was a party just for grown-ups. He said I would have a much better time at home with Grandfather, but then Grandfather had to attend a different function, so the cook is watching me tonight. I'm excited, because she hasn't seen any of my magic yet! I have to be careful, though, after the sparking dessert, I was punished by not being allowed to play piano for a whole day! I suppose it would have been less harsh if Grandfather's tie hadn't singed...but it was only a little...I have to work that out for next time.

In school I am learning more about architecture and some calculus. I don't like calculus much, it's very easy but it's not very creative. I like to create things! The other day I designed plans for a cathedral that my tutor seemed very impressed with, and I added on to the operetta I am writing about winter. I rather liked the minor chords to signal the shorter days, but I am not pleased with how I wrote about snow. I think it's too heavy, but I needed to show how cold it was.

I told Grandfather that when I am done with Winter, I should like to write a requiem. I don't know why he got so pale, but he changed the subject.

I am lonely. I don't tell Father because I know he tries his best, but just once, I'd like to play with another child, even if they wouldn't be interested in my fugues and buildings. Once, after Mass, when Father was talking to the priest, I walked up to a boy who looked about my age and asked him if he enjoyed flying kites when the weather was nice. It was a windy March day and I thought if he said yes, then I might ask if he would like to come over that afternoon, or some other, and fly kites in the backyard. But he just shook his head and looked around for his mother, who came and told him it was time to go.

I thought perhaps the boy was just out of sorts, until I went up to a slightly older girl who I had heard singing to herself as she walked out of church. She had a pretty voice, and I wanted to tell her so, but she, too, walked away without doing much to make excuses.

I wonder if I will ever have friends my own age, if people will want to talk to me for any reason other than my talents. My tutors are working to publish some of my music, and I am excited, but I know that won't matter to other children. They only care about simple, stupid things, but I think it would be fun to play games with them. I could win at hide and seek, I beat Grandfather and Father all the time.

I suppose I shouldn't let it bother me. I've come this far without them, I don't suppose it will be much harder to continue. I wish I understood. I wish I could make them understand. But even I know you can't explain certain things.

Charles

Standing in the gallery, completely unable to see the artwork for all the preening ladies and bragging gentlemen of society, I remembered why it had been so long since I had attended an art gala. At least at piano concerts, the sound of the music forced all in attendance to be still and listen. Here, there was nothing to do but attempt to admire artwork and possibly drink champagne, although I knew that wasn't the point. I had always hated organized events where the sole purpose seemed to see and be seen.

Already I had caught two ladies making their way over to me, and I narrowly avoided them, only to come face-to-face with M. Bellatois, one of the concert hall managers where I had recently played, who seemed all to eager to engage me in discussion.

I was trying to find a tasteful way to listen to his ideas on music and new movements without rendering myself unconscious when I saw a most welcome sight: Angelique, cornered by some aristocrat, looking desperate for escape.

"I do apologize," I said, breaking my acquaintance's reverie for all things Joplin – all the rage on The Continent – for the first time in almost 10 minutes, "but I see an old friend with whom I simply must speak." The man simply nodded, his eye now captivated by a slender blonde who looked entirely unaccompanied.

"Angelique!" I broke in, courtesy for her companion to the wind. There are certain privileges to being respected nobility, one of them being that a little well-placed rudeness can get you quite far. The look on her face told her captor that he had just found himself in the position of third wheel, and he slunk off, his eye now also on the slender blonde who was nodding enthusiastically to whatever M. Bellatois was talking about. Probably ragtime- the man was dead set on the trend, which had started years before in America and was working its way over here, much to the chagrin of many a classical pianist. Even Charles had heard something on it somewhere, but was also more inclined to Mozart and Bach than anything so modern. I supposed I could consider myself fortunate there.

"Charles!" she exclaimed. "I am so glad to see you! I have someone I'd like you to meet."

I had no idea what she was talking about, but I could guess she meant her dancer friend. I had no comprehension what it was she wanted from me, in one moment she was dressing up for dinner, in the next, she seemed to be pushing me into someone else's arms without compunction.

But the woman who she brought me over to seemed to already have her arms occupied by a rather portly man with glasses who looked vaguely familiar but whose name I could not place.

"Charles, I'd like you to meet my friend Simone, she said.

"A pleasure to meet you," I said, raising her hand to my lips for the briefest moment, aware of the eyes of the man on me the whole time. There was something about him that struck me as very intelligent, and I wondered what he did for a living. Simone was quite clearly Angelique's ballet friend, her slender neck, visible with all her long, honey-colored hair pulled back, and slight, lithe frame gave it away, along with the way she carried herself. One does not grow up in the arts and learn nothing! I wondered how she had come to marry- no, I saw no ring – be in the company of such an unattractive man.

"Likewise," she said, a smile on her lips. She really was a beautiful woman. For the first time since Rosalind had left, I felt a real rush of attraction to someone, and quickly lowered my eyes so as not to give myself away. Aristocracy might get away with a slight bending of social propriety from time to time, but stealing another man's woman right in front of him was unthinkable.

"And this is her escort- oh, I'm terribly bad at this," she said, flushing a deep red. "I am so sorry, but-"

"Think nothing of it," the man said in a deep voice that seemed to laugh even as he spoke. I extended my hand.

"Charles D'Chagny," I said, and waited for his response, but at first none came. His pale, fat face seemed to drain of color a bit. Simone glanced from me to her escort, and I wondered if I detected some sign of apprehension, but decided it was simply in the eyes of the man. Perhaps he perceived me as a threat to his lady? He stared at me a long moment before he came to his senses, plastered on that social smile I had seen moments before, and shook my hand.

"Gaston," he said. "Gaston Leroux."

A/N: Nothing like catching up to the future, is there? I had to come back and write this, I was driving home from rehearsal and the last piece clicked...trust me, it's going to pick up from here on!