A/N: Thank you so much, loyal readers, for putting up with the lag in between updates. My show is OVER April 9, and I will be much better about it then. A few little Easter eggs in this chapter...vague character traits taken from characters on a favorite former TV show…

Please review…I realize "Leroux" (and no, I don't own him, or Erik, or Raoul, or Christine, or, or, or… but I DO own Charles William as he is presented…) talks far too well for a drunk man, but there's a little artistic liberty there, so don't flame that, okay?

Raoul

The inside of the pub was disgusting. I hadn't noticed the smell before, so intent was I on finding M. Leroux, and the table we sat down to was filthy. I resisted the urge to wipe the seat with my handkerchief before sitting, and tried very hard not to think about it when I felt something wet soaking through the seat of my trousers. M. Leroux sat there blearily, and I wondered how credible, or co-operative, he was really going to be, but I had not come this far to question the little details.

The little details. There's a nice, tidy way of saying I was in hell!

I asked him what he was drinking, he said scotch and water, so I ordered two, though I disliked drinking and hated scotch. I had gone through a nasty bout where I drank too much wine after Christine's death, escaping into a world where the edges were softened and it didn't seem to matter as much, but I hated substance abuse, saw it as a sign of weakness, and managed to haul myself out of it before any real damage was done.

Well, I was going back on it tonight.

Coldly, calculatingly, I gazed at the man before me. He avoided my stare.

"Well?" he demanded. "You've got me in here, but I'm not staying for long." He was wrong on that, now that he was seated and settled in with a drink, I doubted he would be able to get up of his own volition after another round or so, and I intended to keep him very well plied. I might have lacked Erik's fine vocal skills and may be a mere novice in the art of general manipulation, but words flow easily as long as the liquor does (my brother Philippe still doesn't know he confided in me his deep attraction to his wife's younger sister the night his youngest daughter was born, but to be fair, his wife is a terribly frail, cold woman and I'm amazed they had children together at all), and I intended to have as long a conversation as was necessary.

I removed a notepad, which he eyed warily but did not mention.

"Well what?" I replied coldly. "I want to know where you got your information. You start there, leave nothing out, and I'll just jump in when the spirit moves me, is that all right?"

He sighed.

"Well, I read the papers," he began. "I think I already told you that. But it was all speculation to that point, no one really knew what had happened, except the primary characters, all of whom had cleverly disappeared or were avoiding the press."

I glared at him, but let the remark slide. He didn't need to know that while everyone thought we were avoiding the press, Christine was all but avoiding me, and everyone else, and my brother was busy making my life a living hell.

"So that was that, and I put it out of my mind. A few years later, I had the opportunity to tour the opera house, which included the cellars. I think they were trying to drum up some publicity, maybe were hoping for a little story on some of the new operas coming, but they let me have a look around on my own. I remembered that story, and went in search of something, anything, that might give me a little more information. Excuse me," he paused, signaling for another drink, downing it in record time, and turning, a little more unsteadily, back to the task at hand.

"I didn't find much," he said. "I didn't have time then to get into the walls- his house, I'm sure you know- but I arranged to come back another time. I brought an architect with me, and said I wanted him to explain some of the structural history for a piece I was working on. He was an old friend, and stood guard while I poked around, eventually finding my way into that insane mirrored room, and from there, into what I can only guess was a living area."

"Ransacked," I guessed, the first words I had uttered in several minutes.

"Quite," he agreed in what could almost be considered a friendly tone. "I don't know everything that went on in that house, but I could guess- sheet music everywhere! Bits of candles and pipe organs strewn about, rose petals, scientific equipment- the man must have been a genius!"

I sighed. I didn't need a homily to Erik any more than I needed the attention of a very obvious barmaid, who kept offering to bring me bread, another drink- when mine was still quite unfinished! – something to eat. She must have shown up three times in five minutes!

"Again, my time was cut short, this time by my friend calling to me, as he heard opera personnel coming down the stairs. I had time to-" he shifted his gaze, "borrow a few items for more reflection."

"Items?" I asked warily. If he had anything of Christine's-!

"A few pieces of sheet music," he said, "and what I thought was an accounts ledger. But it was a journal."

"A journal."

"Erik's, evidently, though it stopped approximately two weeks before the final disaster. But it pointed me in the direction of Nadir Khan, and Meg Giry."

"They talked to you?" Again, those shifty eyes. I hated reporters, I decided, and two-bit novelists, and drinkers, and that barmaid, who was becoming less and less subtle in her glances, and this filthy pub, and reporters, and most of all, scotch! I pushed the drink aside, took the barmaid up on her offer of a glass of wine, and waited for his answer.

"Well…no. Not exactly. Nadir Khan was rather ill at that time and insisted I leave the premises. But one of his servants, who evidently was a rather good hand at eavesdropping and snooping-" Oh, Erik, you fathered other children? Quite the ladies' man! Where had that come from? "and filled me in on some of the more salient points. And I was able to confirm bits and pieces from Meg Giry's daughter- very pretty girl – and other documents."

"Such as?"

"Surely you know Nadir Khan has passed away."

I had known that. The news had come to me approximately two years ago, and I had heard rumors he had been ill for some time.

"I attended his estate sale and managed to purchase a roll top desk that contained several old books the family had overlooked. Including more accounts of his friendship with your phantom, and his continuing friendship with Madame Giry- that would be Meg's mother, not Meg." That was a surprise. I had no idea the two had kept in contact, but then, Christine and Meg had drifted apart when we moved to London, and I had no idea what any of them were up to anymore.

"There were some pages missing, though," he said. "I had more than enough to write my book- which I thank you for reading," he slurred, and I knew this was coming to a close, at least for tonight, "but there were a few months where there were no entries at all. At least, not in that book."

"What dates?" I asked, though I knew. I had only one guess, and I was correct: the time after Christine's last visit to Erik. Nadir would not have allowed those pages to be permanently memorialized, if he wrote anything, he would have destroyed it, if only out of a sense of propriety to his friend.

"You don't look surprised," he said.

"Why should I be?" I asked, feigning ignorance.

"Oh, don't pull that aristocratic political garbage on me," he said. "I might not have your connections or clout, but I'm not an idiot."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Stop sounding so threatening," he said. "I'll tell you what you want to know and I'll even show you the bloody documents if you so wish, but you're not going to cow me or threaten a lawsuit or anything else."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because I've given you more than you know."

"What?"

"I didn't describe him like he was. You know that. I changed it." He had, too. There had been a description, but it was off: yellow skin instead of the pale, but white, hue Erik had had, eyes so deep you could hardly see them, instead of the sunken but very visible yellow-gold Erik had glared at me through so many times, a balding man where Erik was not, and other differences. It was close, though.

"So?"

"And I didn't end the story the right way, either."

"Come again?"

" 'Erik is dead,'" he quoted. "And he is. For so many years now. But your grandson speaks otherwise against a dead lineage."

Suddenly, the room was very hot. It was something I had not considered as much as I should have- that it would not just be my son who realized the truth.

"And if you're lucky," he concluded, getting up with more skill than I had anticipated he would have, and dropping a calling card at my place, "the fine citizens of Paris won't make the connection, either."

Somehow, I very much doubted that.

Very much doubted it indeed.

We should have stayed in London.