Author's Note: Thank you so much to all my readers and reviewers! I'm so glad you're still enjoying this; your comments mean a great deal to me. I'm sorry there has been another gap between updates, but I'm hoping to get the next chapter up fairly quickly, as it will run directly on from this chapter.

You'll notice that this chapter takes us a couple of months forward in time, which I hope works. I view this, with the musical's timeline in mind, as the beginning of Act Two (but don't worry…it won't take me another two years to finish!)

I hope you enjoy!

Chapter Fifteen: I've written you an Opera

1.

Erik glared at the sheet of manuscript paper. It was covered in scrawled music notes that danced, mockingly, before his eyes. Seizing his quill pen, he drew an angry black line across the entire page, and then tore it into tiny pieces for good measure.

Sighing tiredly, he massaged his aching temples and wondered why this had ever seemed like a good idea. Reaching inside his desk drawer, he placed a fresh sheet of paper on the music stand and waited for something, anything, to inspire him. He strained his ears in search of the sounds of the street, but the office windows were of thick glass and all he could hear was the occasional rumble of a carriage on the cobblestones. He pressed a few keys experimentally, in imitation, but it was no good. Something was definitely wrong.

Behind him there was a click as the door opened. Erik knew who the visitor was, so he did not bother to turn around. Instead he kept his gaze schooled to the keys of the piano.

More sounds behind him. The shuffle of paper. A delicious smell, like freshly baked bread.

"Erik?"

He winced. Any minute, she was going to see the blank sheet of paper, and know that he had written exactly nothing. Three hours of work with nothing to show for it save a floor covered with discarded paper. She would surely laugh at him.

He felt the gentle pressure of her hand on his shoulder. He did not flinch – he was beyond flinching now – but instead gave a weary sigh.

"Good morning, Christine."

He heard her soft chuckle. "You could endeavour to sound a little more enthusiastic," she said. "And besides, it's afternoon."

"What?" Erik almost knocked the piano stool over in his haste to get up. "What time is it?"

"Quarter past two."

"And I'm supposed to be addressing the patrons …"

"At three." She was still grinning, and the expression would have infuriated Erik if he didn't find it so utterly enchanting. "You've been in here for seven hours, Erik."

"But this is terrible. The Undersecretary of Fine Arts is coming too. And it isn't even finished. What am I going to do?"

Christine watched in barely concealed amusement as Erik dashed around the office, gathering his cloak and hat and stuffing sheets of music into his leather portfolio. He ran to the cupboard and flung open the door, adjusting the angle of his hat in front of the mirror. Christine sighed. It saddened her that the mirror was still kept out of sight.

"This damned ridiculous hat," he growled, tugging aggressively at the brim.

"Erik?"

His head appeared from behind the cupboard door. "What? What is it?"

"Come over here."

With an impatient 'humph' he stalked across the room and stood in front of her, tapping his foot against the carpet. She held out a bundle wrapped in brown paper.

He eyed her suspiciously. "What is it?"

"Take it and see."

Snatching the package from her hands, he unrolled the paper and peered at the contents. His face softened into a smile.

"Chocolate croissants." He sighed. "How did you know?"

She giggled. "I've seen you smuggling them past Madame Giry on many an occasion. You wait until she's out of the office before you eat them, I notice."

He pretended to glare at her. "You have a way of finding out my secrets, don't you?"

She nodded, but did not reply. And suddenly, she found she had to turn away from him. She could discover his secrets – if they could be called secrets – by observation. She knew about his fondness for croissants and very strong black coffee. She knew that he pretended to loathe sentimental music, or anything romantic, while secretly he adored a happy ending. She knew he kept a book of fairy tales on the shelves in his office, hidden behind a hefty tome on music theory. He liked fine wine, and fine clothing. He pretended to love the dark, but actually he adored the sunlight.

In two months, she had learned so many small yet important things about him.

And yet still he never actually told her anything.

"What's the matter?" He was regarding her with a quizzical expression, a piece of croissant halfway to his lips.

"Nothing."

She had never found the courage to ask him about the overheard confrontation with Count Philippe. It had been almost two months since the Count's departure from the Opera, but his words still troubled her. Although Erik had grown more relaxed in her company, he was still very reticent about certain things, and his history with the Count was one of them. He never talked about his past, even though she had attempted to broach the subject on several occasions.

They had spent a fair amount of time together over the last two months. Erik had resumed his role as her music teacher during the rehearsal period for Faust, tutoring her between rehearsals. Generally their friendship was a formal affair – despite his insistence to the contrary, she was certain that he still did not entirely trust her – but at least he no longer shied away from her when she took his hand, which was something. And he would talk endlessly about music, even though he seemed unable to talk about himself.

Earning his trust was a struggle, and she wondered if she would ever really know him.

He wrapped up the remainder of the croissant and placed it on the desk.

"I quite understand if you're nervous," he said softly. "I'm nervous too. Do you know this is the first time in more than twenty years that any of my music has been performed?"

The confession startled her; perhaps this would be the opportunity she had been waiting for.

"What happened the last time?"

He shrugged. "Oh, nothing. Which is sort of the point. I was auditioning for the Conservatoire."

Christine's eyes widened. "The Paris Conservatoire? Where I studied?"

He sighed and nodded, drumming his fingers absently against the lid of his piano.

"And did you get in?" She prompted.

He gave a snort. "What do you think? They told me my music was uninspired…but really I think they turned down my application because I refused to take my mask off."

A memory suddenly came to Christine. She remembered her audition for the Opera, nearly six months ago now, when she had performed that sweet, perfect love song. And she heard Erik's voice in her mind: That music is childish and uninspired. I never want to hear it again.

She walked slowly to the piano and placed her hand gently upon his, forcing him to stop the anxious drumming of his fingers.

"That song was yours, wasn't it?"

He blinked in confusion. "What song?"

"My audition song. For the Opera."

"Oh." His gaze dropped to her hand. "Yes."

"I didn't think it was uninspired at all. I thought it was quite lovely."

The ghost of a smile twisted his lips, then vanished just as quickly. "Thank you. It was just a piece of youthful drivel. But thank you."

Christine knew better than to try and convince him otherwise. She had heard the music which Erik was now writing, so it was little wonder that he viewed his romantic ballads as 'drivel' in comparison.

"What did you do when you couldn't go to the Conservatoire?" she asked.

"I…" he hesitated. He was looking at her intently, as if he wished to share something with her. Christine held her breath and waited. But then Erik withdrew his hand with a sigh.

"I found work where I could." This was his only admittance to a further life before the Opera. Christine felt a pang of disappointment as she watched him collect the portfolio from beside the piano. He forced a smile. "I've allowed you to distract me with your croissants and conversation. And now we're even later than we were before. We should hurry."

Brushing several flakes of croissant from the lapels of his coat, he made for the door.

"Erik?"

He paused. "Yes?"

"You shouldn't be ashamed of your music, you know. You'll impress them today. I know it."

"Impress them?" He blinked, and his mouth turned upwards in a smile. "I hope to do more than impress them, Christine. Far, far more."

2.

The Grand Foyer was perhaps the most resplendent room in the theatre. With its two rows of gilded chandeliers, full-length mirrors, columns bedecked with the building's signature lyre motif, and ceiling of Baroque murals, it was quite obviously a room which had been built to impress.

It wasn't Christine's favourite; she preferred the more understated elegance of the smaller foyers. But Erik had chosen this room on purpose, to showcase the Opera's wealth and power, and – he suggested mockingly– to distract the invited audience from any deficiencies currently present in his music.

Today the room was full of people. Some of them – the Undersecretary of Fine Arts and his fellow dignitaries, along with around fifty patrons – were seated upon plush red velvet chairs. An area at the back of the room was reserved for the press, for whom Erik had not provided chairs, perhaps as subtle revenge for certain printed injustices. The audience faced a makeshift stage, upon which there was a grand piano, a podium, and four members of the orchestra, called upon for the day to form a string quartet. Reyer, the conductor, paced frantically from one end of the stage to the other, running one hand through his hair in a harassed manner. The background to all of this was a large billboard, currently swathed in a sheet of golden fabric from the wardrobe department.

Christine saw all this from her chair at the side of the stage, where she was sitting with a group of specially selected company members. Meg was seated in front of her, practically bouncing up and down in her chair. Christine feared that she would leap up and launch into a series of pirouettes at any moment, simply to release some of her limitless energy.

"I've never been to a press conference before," Meg exclaimed. "Oh, Christine! Isn't it exciting?"

Christine nodded, but she wasn't so sure. The whole event seemed nerve-wracking and slightly forced to her, not to mention a little out of keeping with Erik's character. Not for the first time since he had described his idea for a launch, she wondered exactly what he hoped to gain from publicising his new opera before it even began rehearsals.

Madame Giry stepped onto the temporary stage. At first no one seemed to notice; the representatives from the press were too busy gossiping amongst themselves and consulting their notebooks. The ballet mistress coughed loudly, and, when this failed, she was obliged to strike her cane against the wooden floor of the platform. Meg stifled a giggle, and the audience turned its attention, somewhat resentfully, towards the stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to welcome you to the Opera Garnier. Today, our new season will be announced by the artistic director of the Paris Opera, Monsieur Erik Carriere."

A hush fell over the assembled audience. The press, who had been looking slightly bored, suddenly stood up straighter, peering around the heads of those in front to acquire a better view. Erik had never announced a new season personally. This task usually fell to Monsieur Leferve, the business manager, who would go and talk to the press and government officials on an individual basis. But today Leferve was sitting with the rest of the company, staring rather resentfully at his clasped hands.

Erik emerged from behind the covered billboard and strode smartly onto the stage. He was dressed in an elegantly tailored suit. At the very last moment, he had exchanged his customary fedora for a top hat. Christine thought the hat did not quite suit him - it seemed to throw his figure off-balance - but she had the impression that he was trying to look even taller than he actually was. This course of action was not remotely necessary; Erik was quite sufficiently intimidating without a hat of any sort. Christine found herself impressed that a man who could appear so shy could so easily command attention upon a stage. She felt a twinge of regret, on his behalf, that he had never become a professional singer.

Erik held up a hand for silence, but the audience was already quiet. Christine realised that this was likely the first time that most of them had seen the legendary Opera director in person.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said. "Thank you very much for joining us today. I appreciate this meeting is a slight departure from convention, but I felt that it was necessary." He paused, and allowed himself a glance around the room. "I know that many of you will have attended performances here in the past, and I would like to thank you for your continued support."

This was greeted with a polite round of applause. Erik cleared his throat, and Christine realised that, despite appearances, he was still nervous.

"I have now been director for five years, and I am very proud of the Paris Opera and all that the company has achieved in that time," he paused. "However, I feel there are changes which must be made."

This was greeted by various mutterings from the press and members of the company, together with a few raised eyebrows from the patrons and government officials.

"My first proposal is quite simple. Beginning this season, I intend to dim the house lights during all performances. I feel that the lighting is an unnecessary distraction from the presentation on stage. It is quite unacceptable when singers are trying to work and the patrons in the boxes are waving to each other across the auditorium."

This gained a few groans and murmurs of disgust from the wealthier patrons, who liked nothing better than watching each other during the performances.

"Secondly, I intend to dispense with the outmoded model of scenic design, which involves the overuse of painted backdrops. There are scenic designers at work in France today who are championing the use of solid forms and structures. I would like to be the first major national theatre to make use of these innovations. There will be no more painted trees with painted shadows. We must learn to use our stage flexibly and dynamically, and employ the same principles to our set designs that an architect would use when designing buildings."

This was met with a stony, rather bored silence. Christine found herself wondering if anyone actually knew what Erik was talking about.

"I hope you will find these changes agreeable," Erik continued. "But there is something else, something for which I will have to beg your indulgence. For five years now, I have strived to bring the best of contemporary opera to my audiences. Each year, I have staged one opera by an unknown composer. This season, I intend to depart slightly from that tradition. This year, ladies and gentlemen, I am going to stage my own opera, in collaboration with Hector Chalumeau, who has agreed to act as my librettist.'

There were mutterings amongst the crowd.

"Now," Erik resumed, "in case you're thinking that I am taking a huge risk, that I have no reputation as a composer, and this is merely a vanity project, I would like to reassure you that the production already has the support of an influential patron." Erik walked towards the covered billboard. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you: Don Juan Triumphant."

Then, with the theatrical flair of a magician, he pulled aside the gold curtain to reveal a poster. Christine strained to see the details. There was a painting of a woman in Spanish dress, holding a fan aloft, and a man in a black robe. They appeared to be wading through flames. There were a number of gasps from the audience, and the reporters began to scribble frantically in their notebooks.

"Now I will welcome any questions you may have," said Erik.

The crowd erupted in a flurry of noise and activity. Most people in the room raised a hand, and Erik pointed to a young man at the back of the room. "Yes. You."

"Monsieur Carriere, your critics say you have no formal training in this business, and are therefore unsuitable for the post of artistic director. What is your response to this?"

Erik regarded the man coldly.

"The critics do not know anything about my background. The truth is I do have some formal training. As a young man I studied singing and composition."

Clearly nervous, the man shrank back slightly, almost colliding with the journalist behind him. "I've found no record of your time at any of the French conservatoires…"

"That is because I did not train at a conservatoire. There are many other places in which a composer can learn his craft. Next question, please."

One of the government officials raised his hand.

"I should like to know the identity of the patron who has agreed to support this…" he paused, and stared at the poster. "Project."

"He wishes to remain anonymous for the time being, but I hope he will reveal his identity on opening night."

"Is it the Comte de Chagny?" This from another member of the press.

"No," said Erik, with a frown. "It is not."

"Is it true that you've broken off all association with the Comte de Chagny, despite the fact that he secured your position at the Opera in the first place?"

"The Comte de Chagny did no such thing," said Erik. "And we had no choice but to go our separate ways. His vision for the future of the Opera was very different from my own."

"Given that you also wish to use the Opera to further your musical career, I would suggest that it is not so different." This came from a portly, middle-aged gentleman in the front row of patrons. His eyes were sharp and intelligent, glittering behind a pince-nez.

Christine saw Erik's hands clench into fists, saw his arms start to tremble. But despite his repressed nerves he managed to keep his composure. He fixed the man with a powerful stare.

"I would suggest that you listen to my work before making comparisons with that of the Comte de Chagny," he said in a low, dangerous voice.

The man leapt to his feet. "Monsieur Carriere, I have been following your career with interest for many years. You have my respect for taking artistic risks, and yet I fear this is a step too far. The Opera does not belong to you, sir. It should not be a platform for your amateur experiments…"

Amateur. Christine cringed at the word. She looked at Erik and saw that the unmasked side of his face was a picture of barely controlled rage. And yet, somehow, he kept his composure.

"It is experimentation, sir, which prevents our great artistic institutions from turning into museums."

"And it is the ignorance of people like you, sir, which is corrupting great music and turning our great Opera House into a laughing stock. Good day to you."

The gentleman kicked his chair to one side and marched out of the Foyer. The rest of the audience stared after him. Meg turned to look at Christine, her eyes wide with fascination.

"I had no idea that anyone cared so much," she whispered in a voice filled with wonder. "It's only opera."

Christine hoped fervently that she would never say such a thing to Erik. He was gripping the sides of the podium with tense fingers, as if awaiting some further reaction from the crowd.

"I think that's enough questions, Monsieur Carriere," said the Undersecretary of Fine Arts, mildly. "I do not wish for this to descend into a riot. There are government officials present."

Erik nodded. "Thank you. I quite agree. Now, if you would indulge me, I wish to play you some selections from the score."

He gestured towards Reyer, who nodded.

There was a moment of silence, as the audience seemed to hold its collective breath. Christine waited for the first crashing chords. She locked eyes with Erik, who, she realised, was actually smiling.

Reyer raised his baton. And the music which filled the Grand Foyer that afternoon was like nothing Paris had ever heard before.