The building and subsequent second floor room was sumptuous in its refinement. The little lady – Fleck she'd clarified – led Christine into the space with little formality and stayed only long enough to ensure Christine did not touch anything.

The hardwood floors had been laid in an intricate, woven diamond pattern. The walls were wallpapered a deep burgundy, and several large landscape paintings hung overtop in thick golden frames. A grand piano rested in the far corner before a set of double doors, covered in reams and reams of music. A desk sat near it, organized chaos upon it. Other instruments were discarded thoughtlessly about the room.

Christine walked toward the small sitting area by a marble fireplace. The fine ivy design on the rug looked familiar to the one that had been on her apartment floor in the Palais Garnier. She nearly lost herself in the pattern.

There were no switches for electric lights, and as she roamed the room again, she realized candles were strewn everywhere. Much had changed for her phantom, but his preference for candlelight seemed unabated.

He was determined to make her wait for him. The more the minutes passed, the more her anger ebbed away to nervousness. She twisted her hands before her.

At a loss for any other action, Christine went to the piano and sat down. The Phantom's familiar scrawl filled pages and pages of music in red ink. His most current work sat on the upturned rack, merely a melody with words below in English. It was much like the piece Herbert had given her – an aria, but not an aria. "And you once said, I wish you dead. You sinner. I'll never be more than a wolf at your door, for dinner."

A whisper of wind disturbed a lock of Christine's hair, fallen loose from her low bun. She looked up when it tickled her neck, still lost in the music's melody. She jumped at the movement in her periphery.

It was him. Still as darkness. How long he'd been standing there, she could not say. Her Phantom stood before her, holding the balcony doors open in his hands. She smirked to herself. As if there would be any other way he would come to her.

He was still all angles, sharp and fine; his unforgettable porcelain mask the only bit of soft edge to be seen. And while he was still impossibly tall, he did not seem as imposing as he did when she was younger. Perhaps it was the loss of his fine evening wear and black cape. Perhaps the glow of the candles softened the edges of his white mask. A long overcoat hugged his body, accentuating the razor slimness of his waist. He looked almost frail.

But then Christine's eyes met his, and her breath caught in her lungs. Those mismatched eyes glowed with their own fire from within – so familiar and wild and hungry. All at once his presence seemed to completely fill the space. She was crowded in; she could feel him all about her, seeping in through her skin.

"You voice is even more beautiful than I remember."

A violent shiver stole through her. Christine had not known the depths of her longing for the deep timber of his voice until he'd spoken. Speak again, her mind begged, her parched state drying to an unabatable thirst. When he did not, she woke herself from her own perverse want and rose to stand next to the piano.

"Why would you need to remember? I'm sure you've heard me sing every day since I arrived." He smirked at her, but made no indication of moving from the doorway. "You played for me that first day of rehearsal. Didn't you?" The pause was painfully uncomfortable.

He moved from the balcony into the room, careful not to startle her. "I was informed that you wished to meet with me. As my note stated earlier, I am forever your servant. Anything you ask of me, I will do. What can I do for you, Mademoiselle?"

"You are Mr. Y, then."

"I am."

"And you did not die in Paris." Her throat felt like she'd eaten sand.

His tone was gentle, cautious, "Contrary to my former moniker, I am not a specter before you. No, I did not die in Paris." Hurt she'd buried deep within her bubbled up to her chest. He was mad, certainly, but the belief that his brilliant mind had been lost to her world—this world—forever had ate at her these last ten years. She let herself feel it now. Now that she knew it was a lie; now that she saw him before her and she would not get lost in the sorrow. Pain pressed heavy on her chest and her lungs struggled for breath.

"Why?" He did not answer, and Christine did not know if she was asking why he wasn't dead, or why he wanted her to believe he had been. "I've spent years…" tears threatened to fill her eyes. This was not what she'd come to say, was it? "I've spent years mourning you and here you've been free. Living well. Living." Envy dripped from her words.

His throat worked as he struggled to remain collected, "I would hardly call what I am doing living. And come now, Mademoiselle. Years mourning me? Why? What loss did I impart on your heart? Surely the lovely Vicomte was more than able to fill such small holes."

Words, voluminous and vulgar clawed at her throat, they urged her feet forward toward him, but would not rise as any reasonable sentence in her mind. He did not know, or could not imagine, what feelings twisted and writhed inside her. Anger rose first. Christine's hands desperately wanted something to strangle. Instead, one whipped out violently across his bare cheek. When her heated eyes met his defiant ones, only one word could she utter, "No."

His Adam's apple bobbed heavily in his throat. She did not wait for his response. She could not stand in this room any longer. She had to move. Damn him. And damn this whole world he'd created without her.

Christine turned from him and walked out the door.

.

He followed her on the dark wooded path back toward the bright lights of the park. She could hear his overcoat brushing the low foliage, his steps, ever graceful, were silent. She quickened her pace. His strong, thin fingers reached out and groped her arm tight, twirling her back before him. "We are not done speaking."

She couldn't help her words, "The last thing you ever wanted from me was to speak." Again, he did not reply, but held his body closer to her, menacing over her so she had to look up to his face. "Fine. If we're not done speaking, what would you like to say?" Her Phantom looked down at his hand on her arm, staring at the movement of his thumb rubbing softly back and forth. Christine clung to her anger and flinched in his grip, now was not the time to get lost in that small touch.

He released her and directed her back toward the building. When she did not move, he clarified, "I should think we would like to have this discussion where there will be no prying ears, or eyes."

Christine gulped a deep breath of the cold air and nodded in agreement. Though she couldn't fathom who would listen in the woods. Did not wait for him to lead her back to his home. When his hand touched her shoulder, she stopped and looked back, eyebrows upturned in his direction. She was not ready for the hungry look of longing on his face. Utterly self-conscious, as though she'd intruded into a private moment, Christine turned and focused all her attention on moving forward, the Phantom close behind.

They'd bared taken a handful of steps before she heard voices in the distance, bawdy and loud. Her phantom crowded behind her, muttering a curse under his breath. "Who is—" his icy hand covered over her mouth and did not release her until they were in the dark foyer of his home. She stared at him with astonished eyes. "Forgive me, they cannot know you are here," he breathed, and pushed her into a small, dark closet. "Stay here." The voices were much closer now. Mr. Y rested a single finger at his lips. Silence.

He wanted her to hide. He closed the door before her, blocking out all the light.

"So shy tonight Mr. Y! You must celebrate with us! My little Meggie was a triumph!" The man was drunk, clearly. Muffled cheers went up after his voice, indicating at least two or three more in his party. His fist banged loudly on the door. "Why is it always so damn dark around here?"

Her phantom made his way down the stairs with lead feet. A faint smile traced Christine's lips. That was very unlike her cat-like Phantom. He opened the front door slowly. "Mr. Cummings. What can I do for you?" His voice held no kindness in it.

"You were not at Meggie's performance."

"I'm often absent from the Spectacular. I'm sure Miss Giry was splendid as always." Meg! Meggie Gray was Meg? Damn Americans and their horrible accents!

"But you didn't see it. Here. I brought her so she can sing for you. So you can see it."

"Porter, please." Meg begged softly. "Mr. Y is very busy." It was the unremarkable man from the Cummings'. The brother. The one who'd spoken throughout dinner with his mouth full in an uncharacteristically monotone way. The one who'd looked so sullen when the singer did not show up, when Meg had not shown up.

"Nope. Tonight, you sing." He crossed into the foyer, his voice coming closer, "What would he be busy with anyway? Entertaining a lady?" He bellowed a good, long laugh at his own statement. The men with him joining in. When his humor subsided, he hushed, "Or are you entertaining that new little songbird from New York? The one with the warm smile but fish-dead eyes? Is she up in your room –"

"Porter!"

"—in her skivvies? I thought the Parisians value appearances."

"Porter, please!"

"Mr. Cummings," the Phantom leveled the full force of his displeasure at the man, "that is abhorrent conversation in front of Miss Giry, and you will not insult the reputation of Miss Daaé. As you've said Parisians value appearances." Christine found it hard to silence her breathing. The room suddenly bloomed thick with tension.

"You'll love her new song!" Mr. Cummings roared, ignoring the turn in conversation, and made his way up the stairs.

"Porter, he wrote it," Meg muttered. Their words faded through the doors above and soon all Christine could hear was a faint piano accompaniment through the floorboards.

As the song entered its second refrain, Christine quietly opened the closet door and ghosted from her hiding place. There was no reason to say any longer. She stole a long coat from the closet, hers lying somewhere near the kitchen of the house, and wrapped herself in it, the smell of amber and forest filling her nose.

Though it was much darker in the night than before, she found her way back to the lights and frivolity of Phantasma easily. The crowds were smaller, but more rancorous. She kept to the edges of the doorways and pulled the coat tight at her chest.

She stopped before a store front window at the center of Phantasma's main street. Bright gold lettering obscured her view inside. The Siren's Song, it read. The entire window looked as though it was underwater, tall green grasses and vibrant coral swaying gently in the unseen current. The closer Christine leaned, the clearer the object behind the glass formed a mermaid's tail. It shimmered blue and silver as it swayed in the light.

Christine pressed her nose against the glass, squinting to see more clearly. A pale face rushed out to meet her. Christine's own eyes grew wide as she fell back startled. The creature's features were sharp and fine, the peaks of her cheeks and brows nearly translucent, like glass. It followed her, mirroring her movements with an eerie elegance.

Christine could not look away from the creature's large brown eyes. She could not possible be real. Could she? The eyes looked so familiar…

"Mr. Y's automatons are really amazing, huh?" She jumped at Sam's question. "He calls this one his sea angel."

"Automaton? She looks real."

"That's the whole point."

"So they are machines?" The creature still followed Christine's movements, her hands touching the glass with their own curiosity. Somehow the fact that she was mechanical made her all the more eerie.

"I guess."

"How many does Mr. Y have?"

"In all Phantasma? Lots."

"Do they all have such expressive eyes?" She looked so lovely, but so very sad.

Sam struggled with her word. "They all have brown eyes."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "I asked him once. He said it's because all angels have brown eyes."

The Ferris Wheel lights flashed against the glass, casting clear light on the mermaid's face before going dark again. Brown eyes and brown hair still slightly curled in the water. She looked like Christine. Younger, but the fleeting resemblance was undeniable. The eyes looked familiar because they were hers.

"Christine, can I take you home?"

Sam took her hand and led her away, expertly weaving through the drunken crowds toward the station. The mermaid's eyes and the Phantom's voice would haunt her tonight. She was sure.