The chatter in Saint-Eustache church had grown loud with the waiting.

Madame Giry sighed as she listened to the rumors grow. She wondered how long Christine would make them all wait. But never once did she doubt that the little soprano would come. A smirk tugged at the corner of her lip as she glanced towards poor Raoul, who was taking turns between fidgeting and laughing his nervousness away. His friends did their best to cheer him, teasing him and reminding him that there was still yet time to flee, to escape this dreaded sacrament and live safe and free as a bachelor. He laughed, but his attention never strayed long from the door of the church, boyish in his hopefulness that Christine would appear at any moment. Any moment.

And then at last she did.

And Raoul burst into incandescent joy.

The organ blared to life, silencing the gossiping voices. It promised to be the most magnificent wedding that many of them had ever seen. Certainly far grander than any Madame Giry herself had been invited to before. A fairy tale compared to what her own had been like. Though for all that, she secretly preferred her own country wedding in that tiny parish church so many years ago. She could have sworn she'd felt God with her then, warm at her shoulder, pressed in tight with the rest of their family and friends. This, on the other hand – this was a spectacle, loud and gaudy enough that God might barely be noticed if he were to attend.

But even she, with her conservative sensibilities, could not deny that it was magnificent.

The pipes of the great organ – grandest instrument of its kind in the land – filled the church to bursting with music. She smiled at her daughter as she marched past in time to the stately notes of Wagner's bridal chorus. Or at least tried to march. In the end, it seemed, Meg simply wasn't capable of anything so dignified. She could only try – and largely fail – not to dance her way down the length of the nave. No discipline, she thought for the thousandth time, never dancing when she should and always dancing when she shouldn't. Even as she thought it, though, the smile did not leave her face. Meg was a beautiful bridesmaid. Then at last came Christine – and thats when her smile faltered.

Brides were often anxious on their wedding day. She herself had been so frazzled that most of the day had passed in a blur. But Christine's face was different. It wasn't the joyful fear of change, it wasn't stage-fright, it wasn't anything that she would expect to find on a new bride's face... But something in Christine's eyes unsettled her. Even through the gauze of the veil, she could tell. Something was wrong.

No one else seemed to take notice.

The organ boomed and whistled on, punctuated with happy sniffles from the packed pews. Raoul, when she glanced his way, stood proud as a peacock by the alter, his happiness visible from one end of the church to the other. Whatever it was, he clearly wasn't party to it. She wondered if catching sight of Raoul, a beatific vision in epaulettes and brass buttons, might sooth Christine – but unbelievably, she wasn't looking. Somehow it was the organist who had caught her attention, so acutely that she stumbled out of step, and lurched out of the procession towards him. The music faltered. The ancient stones echoed the soft gasps of those close enough to see the breach in etiquette.

The poor organist, an aging man with bushy white eyebrows, glanced helplessly at those nearby, completely at a loss for what to do with the young bride who was clinging to his shoulder. Straining to see over the heads of the crowd, she watched as Christine drew her shaking hand away, and laughed an incoherent apology. Hastily, the bride returned to her place. After another moment of confused silence, the organ sang out again. And the march resumed.

For the rest, the lapse was momentary. Dutifully, they pretended that no interruption had occurred, and watched raptly as Christine floated up to the dais, a vision in white, silk-wrapped prayerbook in hand. Shy as a shade flower, Christine joined hands with Raoul. The sniffling resumed, and young girls looked on, dreaming that their own weddings might someday be as rapturous as that of the handsome Vicomte and his commoner bride. For the rest, all was again as it should be.

Madame Giry, however, could not relax her grip on her cane.

She knew Christine well. As well as a mother might. And she understood then what that look in her eyes had been. As the ceremony droned on, she cast furtive glances towards the organist, listening hard. He played well; a true maestro. But then, the great organ required a great organ player, and the Saint-Eustache organist was renowned far and wide for his talent. Still... Was it possible? The rest of the ceremony passed unnoticed. With hope, and with fear, her eyes darted between the organist and the shadowy corners of the church, searching for signs of a ghost.

None revealed themselves.

Vows were spoken, blessings given, and no angelic voices rose to object. The organ jangled back to life, Mendelssohn's wedding march reverberating from the arches. Once again she eyed the hands that coaxed out the melody, the feet that danced over the pedals, but could discern nothing that might betray him as an imposter.

Both having lost their parents early, there was no one to lead Christine and Raoul from the church. So the pair walked arm and arm together back down the nave. Raoul watched Christine so intently that it was astounding he did not trip. But Christine, unveiled, kept her eyes downturned. Madame Giry watched them pass, the two united now forever in the eyes of both man and God. Impulsively, she crossed herself, and murmured a tiny prayer for their happiness.

Unable to shake the disquieting thought that had gripped her, she lingered inside as the guests spilled out of the church with the bride and groom. She let her daughter be swept away in the happy tumble of the wedding party without her. Going slowly, letting even the most elderly hobble away ahead of her, she moved towards the organist's seat. He did not glance her way. He was busy with gathering his sheet music and covering the five-tiered keyboard with velvet cloths. And then his kin, or friends perhaps, were there to meet him, and he greeted them warmly. The group chatted happily, and she could see the musician gesticulate as he began describing the bride's strange behavior.

One of them made a joke. They laughed and clapped him on the back as they moved together towards the front door.

Some tight cord in her shoulders relaxed.

For a moment, she felt very foolish. Disguised as a famous organist in front of half of Paris? Even he wouldn't be bold enough... no, that was untrue. He had been bolder than anyone. But it didn't matter. Because, after all, he was dead.

She shifted her grip on the cane, grasping it firmly as if it could help her to brace her against her own regret. For a moment, she leaned on it heavily. Then her lips thinned to a sharp line, and she forced herself to hold up her head. Refusing to cast one more glance into the shadows, she looked instead towards the bright portal of the door, and took a determined step towards it.

"Madame Giry."

The voice was soft and clear enough that it might have been murmured into a hand cupped to her ear. But there was no one near her.

"You look lovely in purple. I did not know that you owned anything in that pallet. Or anything at all that wasn't black."

"...It is you," she breathed.

Movement caught her eye, drawing her gaze upwards. A figure emerged from behind the massive pipes of the organ. He might have been perched there all along, peering out from behind them while all backs were turned and all attention was on the alter. In the blink of an eye, the figure disappeared. Until it materialized again at her side, and a dead man's hand clamped down on her elbow with terrifying strength.

"I am pleased to see you. Though it seems the pleasure is only mine. How did our friendship falter?"

His voice in her ear trembled, though with fury or some other emotion she wasn't sure. With an insistent pull at her elbow, he steered her towards the wall of the south transept. She glanced around, but there were few left in the church, and those who remained had heir attention elsewhere.

"The fire," she whispered, "all of Paris thinks you're dead."

"Twice over," he replied. "You missed the second edition of Le Petit Journal this morning. If you leave here, you'll learn that I was cornered, and shot, my body lost in the Seine."

Madame Giry turned her head, but dared not lift her eyes. "If I leave...?"

The grip on her elbow tightened painfully. "You betrayed me," he growled. "You. You told him where to find me. You led him right to my house."

She quivered, thinking of things she might say as her eyes darted over the stone floor. But there was no point in denying it. She pressed her lips tight together in acceptance, grateful that Meg was with the wedding party instead of with her. Mustering what dignity she could, she adjusted her shawl, and gripped the top of her cane firmly.

"I did not want to, Monsieur – "

"Spare me your apologies."

" – But if things went again as they did, I would do exactly the same!"

His fingers dug into her arm, but her voice and conviction only grew stronger.

"After the premier of Don Juan I was left with no choice."

"No choice indeed," he sneered.

"Christine," she answered scornfully. "Letting her come to you is one thing, but snatching her from the stage and holding her captive?... and poor Piangi, who did nothing to earn his fate..." She gripped the cane harder so her hands would not tremble.

"By rights it is a fate you should share," he growled.

"Then why are we still speaking?" she asked, voice rising. "Why wait this long to find me? Why allow the wedding? What do you want, Monsieur?"

"You are alive for one reason."

"And what would that be?"

"...I need your help."

She laughed, and the sound magically loosened his grip on her. She turned to look him full in the face, finding him wrapped from toes to crown in paupers rags, a tussled wig covering his head and a dirty strip of muslin tied below his eyes to hide his face. "...When have you not," she muttered. He released her completely, and shuffled back a step. His free hand, she noticed, he kept wrapped around his middle.

"Helping you bloodies my own conscience," Madame Giry said. "Why should I help you any more."

"Because I would wager that little Meg Giry does not always keep her hand at the level of her eyes," he answered.

Her face blanched. "...you wouldn't," she whispered. "Not even you."

"Wouldn't I?" Erik hissed. "Are you sure?"

Her silence answered for her.

"...As always," he continued softly, "I will pay you. Handsomely."

She laughed again, soft and hollow. "...And what shall my duties be this time?"

"First, I shall require the services of a doctor. A discreet one."

She frowned at him, and when he looked down towards the arm still tucked against his body, her gaze followed. Gingerly, he moved his hand to show her the blood that had soaked through his stolen rags. Madame Giry let out a gusty breath, and then a chiding cluck of her tongue.

"You are getting old at last."

"The policeman was an unexpectedly good shot," he hissed, putting pressure back on the wound.

"I've never known you to be so sloppy."

"It was necessary," he snapped.

"You're saying you let yourself be shot?"

"Certainly."

"Why?"

"Because she must believe that I am dead," Erik hissed with sudden violence. "It is essential! It is of the utmost importance that she believes me to be dead." He stumbled back, the rush of emotion seeming to have drained him. "...that way, she'll be free to live..." Slowly, he withdrew, and seemed to regain his composure. "...After that, I will need clothes. I have a preferred shop that I will send you to. They have my measurements. I'll need a place to stay while I recover... and then, I will need you to arrange passage..."

"Passage," she repeated.

"Yes."

"You're letting them drive you out of Paris at last," she said.

"...Yes."

"Where will you go?"

Erik looked away, his eyes wandering listlessly over the multicolored windows.

"...I don't know. Somewhere far away. Somewhere I have never been... I'll leave the continent... The Americas, perhaps."

"The Americas..." Madame Giry murmured. "There was a new opera house commissioned in New York just last year, was there not? The Metropolitan Opera, I believe they are calling it. They are building it now. Is that where you'll go?"

She paused for his answer, but he did not look up. She could not see his expression beneath the rags, but she could clearly read the defeat in his bearing. After all these years of fighting, she thought, he has given up. The flutter of pity it evoked in her was overwhelmed by a bilious wave of bitterness. It roiled up from her belly, taking hold of her heart and her head and her mouth.

"...It is rumored," she said casually, "that they are acquiring their own Swedish Soprano for their inaugural season."

Madame Giry felt his eyes snap back to her then, but she turned to walk in a circle around him, her cane clicking against the stone with every step.

"Do you remember Mademoiselle Nilsson? She debuted here in Paris. Since then, it is said, she has perfected her bel canto. Perhaps this upheaval will not amount to much at all. Perhaps your life will resume there precisely where it left off here. It would probably be easy for you to carve out another little kingdom for yourself. The founders are all nouveau riche and bursting with money, so you could probably insist on an even bigger salary. They do not yet know that they require the services of a ghost, but you will teach them. You can build a new nest, bring terror upon a new unsuspecting little fiefdom, moon over a new muse, and live comfortably in the dark while your soul rots and your genius goes to waste. Again. And then I suppose it will be my work to perpetuate these rumors about your death, so that you can continue your charade undisturbed. But what hold will you have over us then, Monsieur? What will keep me from telling the police and the papers and the Vicomte de Chagne and anyone who will listen exactly where you've gone?"

She looked up to meet his gaze, and regretted it at once. Erik's eyes, two amber panes of glass, flickered and burned with the fires of hell behind them. They pinned her to the floor and bore into her very soul.

"You, Madame?" he said, voice silky with fury. "Well. With all these other Swedish sopranos abroad, I shall undoubtedly require a chaperone to keep my eyes from straying. You, and darling little Meg, will be coming with me."