Author's Note: It's been so long since I last updated, and I'm so sorry for the delay. Other work has had to take priority this year, but I'm so pleased to be back with a new chapter.

Thank you so much for your continued support (and patience!). I hope to post the next chapter much more quickly.

There are a couple of Leroux and Kopit/Yeston references in this chapter, so I'd like to acknowledge those as sources of inspiration as well as the ALW musical.

Thanks for reading!

Chapter 24: A Disastrous Don Juan

Christine pressed her ear against the wall of Erik's office and listened for any sound from next door. The voices of Erik and the Minister of Fine Arts were low and muffled, and she could make out no distinct words. Sighing, she gave up her attempt to eavesdrop and returned to her seat next to Raoul.

"I'm sorry about all this, Christine."

This was the first time Raoul had spoken since they had left the office. Just a matter of moments ago he had seemed so confident, ushering the Minister across the threshold, but now he could barely meet her eye.

She forced a smile. "It's not your fault."

Raoul finally looked at her. His eyes seemed tired and slightly red, almost as though he had been weeping.

"My brother is very unhappy," he said.

"Your brother tore Erik's mask off in front of the entire audience. He wanted to publically humiliate him. And just now, he tried to blackmail Erik by threatening to ruin my reputation. I don't really have the energy to feel sorry for him."

Raoul blushed. "No. Of course not. I'm sorry, Christine. I just…I care about my brother. I like to think he's a better man than his recent behaviour would suggest."

Christine sighed. It was very difficult to stay angry with Raoul; unlike his brother, he was completely without malice. His hand was grasping the arm of his chair. Christine moved closer and briefly covered his hand with her own.

"I understand," she said.

Raoul gave a sad smile. "Thank you."

The door of the office creaked open, releasing the Minister of Fine Arts.

Raoul got to his feet. "I trust everything was to your satisfaction, Monsieur?"

The Minister nodded. "I'm reassured. Thank you."

"I'll show you out." Raoul turned to Christine, has manner formal once again. "Will you be all right, Miss Daae?"

Christine nodded. "I'll be fine. Thank you."

As soon as Raoul and the Minister were out of sight, Christine hurried into the office.

Erik was sitting very still, staring at the door as if he was caught up in a strange dream. His vacant expression only lasted for a second before he noticed her.

"Christine."

"Are you all right?" She went to sit beside him. "What happened?"

"I don't really know." Erik shook his head. "He reprimanded me for my unprofessional behaviour, as I knew he would. He said I should not have appeared on stage, that Piangi should have had an understudy. But at the same time he said he enjoyed my performance. It was most odd."

Christine stared at him for a minute. "What's so odd about that?"

Erik pulled at a loose thread that trailed from the sleeve of his Don Juan cloak. At last he gave a deep sigh.

"Nothing, I suppose." He looked up at her and smiled. "May I walk you home, Christine? It's very late."

They walked to Christine's lodgings in awkward silence. Normally, Christine would have taken his arm, but he didn't offer it. He seemed distant, lost in his own thoughts, and Christine wondered if there was something he wasn't telling her. Perhaps the Minister's reprimand had been more severe than he had admitted.

As they neared her home, her thoughts turned to the gold ring. Would she ever see it again? Christine had always been a dreamer, and now she imagined how the evening might have unfolded if Philippe had not attacked Piangi, or even if he had not unmasked Erik. Would Erik have come to her after the performance and proposed to her in a quiet corner of the Opera? Perhaps they would be leaving the theatre as an engaged couple.

It was the realisation that she would have said yes that made the tears rush to her eyes.

"Christine!" Erik had stopped walking and was looking at her in horror. "Why are you crying?"

Christine tried to smile, waving a hand in front of her eyes dismissively. "Nothing. It's silly."

"It doesn't look like nothing to me." Erik reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a handkerchief. "Tell me. Please."

"I was just thinking about the ring."

"Ah." Erik looked down at the pavement with something approaching shame. "Yes. I'm sorry. That was very presumptuous of me."

Christine wiped her eyes. "It wasn't presumptuous. Not at all."

"Impulsive, then. Forgive me."

She squeezed his hand. "There's nothing to forgive. I just wish things had gone…differently. That you had had the chance…"

Erik's eyes widened. "You mean you wouldn't have shunned me? You might have said…" he tailed off. "You wouldn't necessarily have said no?"

"No, Erik. I mean, yes, I wouldn't have said no."

Erik looked momentarily confused. Then his eyes widened.

"Right." He said. "I see."

"So where do we go from here?"

His silence seemed to last for an eternity. He stared over her shoulder, apparently lost in thought, while his hand strayed to the pocket of his waistcoat. She wondered if that was where he had put the ring. Just as he reached inside the pocket, he wrenched his hand away, flinching as if something had burned him.

Finally, he met her eyes.

"I need time to think."

She tried to hide her disappointment. "I understand."

"Thank you." He lifted her hand to his lips. The formality of the gesture made her want to weep. "Christine, I love you."

"I love you too."

She watched from the doorway as Erik turned on his heel in a swirl of cloak and walked down the street. Briefly, he would blend into the darkness, a shadow within a shadow, only to reappear in the glow of a streetlamp. Then he vanished completely.

2.

The next morning, Christine left for the Opera House early. She hoped to speak to Erik before rehearsal began. She had barely slept the previous night; the worry would not leave her in peace, and all she wanted to do was talk to Erik again and make sure everything was all right.

The rehearsal had been scheduled for over a week, with the purpose of addressing any problems that had arisen during the first performance of Don Juan. Christine had assumed it would still go ahead, but now she wasn't so sure. She recalled how Erik had reacted when she had first seen him unmasked on the night of the gala. It had been a week before he had reappeared at the Opera. She hoped he would actually turn up this morning.

She approached the auditorium expecting to find it empty (she had noticed that the company weren't exactly early risers). But as soon as she reached the door separating the theatre itself from the backstage areas, she heard an excited babble of voices.

From the wings, she could see that at least half of the company were already gathered onstage. Half a dozen members of the corps de ballet sat huddled around something on the stage floor, while several singers peered over their shoulders. Christine lingered for a moment in the wings, listening.

"Look at this," said Meg. The dancer held up the source of the excitement: a newspaper. "Can you believe it?"

Christine felt cold. This could only be Count Philippe. She rushed from the wings and tried to fight her way into the circle.

"Christine!" Meg's hand fell on her shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. Thank you. May I see?"

Meg handed Christine the newspaper. Turning away from the group, she began to read.

A Disastrous Don Juan

Last night, Erik Carriere, artistic director of the Paris Opera House, made an impromptu appearance in the premiere of his own opera, Don Juan Triumphant, when the principal tenor, Ubaldo Piangi, became ill.

I have written before about my doubts concerning Carriere's suitability for the role of artistic director, and last night I had those doubts confirmed. Rather conveniently, there was no understudy in place for the role of Don Juan, so it would seem that Carriere has been hoping for this opportunity to arise. This would have been forgivable, if he had delivered a performance of quality. But while his voice is good, his manner is ungainly, and his acting uninspired.

And then, of course, there is the matter of his mask. If he believes Parisian audiences would overlook such a thing, then I fear he is even more arrogant than I have long suspected. His Don Juan would look more at home in a vaudeville show.

Christine Daae had the misfortune to sing alongside Carriere. One can only hope her performance was an anomaly, and not a sign that her voice has been ruined by Carriere's bad directorship. Her soprano, which once held such promise, sounded harsh at times, and weak at others, and one can only hope that her fledgling career is able to recover from such a disastrous piece of casting.

Christine's hands clenched into fists around the newspaper. She knew that if Erik had been in her place, he would have torn it into pieces. But she lacked the energy to be angry. And although she could see the damage the review could potentially cause, her overall feeling was one of contempt.

"It's awful, isn't it?" said Meg, looking over Christine's shoulder. "I don't know how he can write that about you, Christine. Or Erik."

"Well, we all know that Miss Daae was only cast because she's Erik's little favourite," said Carlotta, giving Christine an unpleasant smile from her chair in the middle of the stage. "And you all saw his face. It's not a very good face for a tenor."

A silence fell over the company. Some of the performers glared at Carlotta, and although Christine was pleased to see the company siding with Erik, a sad thought occurred to her: Erik's face is taboo. No one wants to talk about it.

"Is Erik coming back?" asked Meg tentatively.

"I hope so." Now Christine had seen Philippe's review, she wasn't so sure Erik would have the courage. He had been so close to leaving the Opera last night. She was suddenly afraid he would simply disappear.

"He's very ugly, isn't he?" said Cecile Jammes. "No wonder he wears the mask."

Meg glared at her. "Show some respect."

"Meg's right," said Carolus Fonta. "He was awfully brave to go onstage last night. If I looked like that…well, I don't think I would dare."

Christine whirled around to face the young tenor. "Would you all just stop? Last night was difficult enough for Monsieur Carriere, without you making it worse."

"I agree," said Monsieur Reyer, from his seat at the rehearsal piano. "He's still the director. Nothing has changed. It's probably best that we make no further mention of it."

"Of what, Reyer?"

The voice was loud enough to make the performers jump. Erik strode out from the wings. Christine suppressed a smile; it seemed like a deliberately timed entrance, and she wondered how long he had been waiting backstage.

Erik was a tall man, but his position onstage seemed to further emphasise his height. He loomed over Monsieur Reyer, removing his hat so his face was no longer obscured.

"I think you were discussing my face." His tone was amiable, but in a forced way, as if he was struggling to keep it light.

Reyer opened his mouth and closed it again. The ballet girls simply stared.

"Come on," he said. "I want to know what you really think. Aren't I hideously ugly?"

Now the ballet girls – and Carolus Fonta – were shaking their heads in denial.

"I suppose you've never seen such an ugly face. Perhaps you'd like to see it again, just so we can all be sure?" He reached for his mask. The ballet girls flinched. "Perhaps not." He stepped back, and addressed the company. "If anyone else would like to comment upon my face, please put all observations in a memo and give it to Monsieur Remy, who will see that such important missives arrive on my desk."

Carolus Fonta hurried to the foot of the stage. "Monsieur Carriere, please. I must apologise. I meant no disrespect…"

Erik held up a hand. "Thank you. Please sit down, Carolus."

"I'm sorry, too," said a small voice from the ballet corps. Cecile. "I don't think you're ugly, not really. You…you have a very pretty voice."

The corner of Erik's mouth twitched. "Thank you."

"You do have a wonderful voice, sir," said Anatole Garron. "You shouldn't hide it just because you're not…" he paused as Erik fixed him with a stare "…conventionally good-looking."

Erik rolled his eyes and snorted, but made no further comment.

"And I want you to know that I don't hold with that man's review," continued Anatole. "He's got some nerve."

"I quite agree," said Carolus.

"You were wonderful, and so was Miss Daae," Piangi volunteered softly, ignoring Carlotta's glare.

Erik's expression softened. He reached self-consciously for his mask, running his fingers down the porcelain.

"Thank you," he said, his voice shaking. "All of you. That means a lot to me. And I'm relieved to see you back, Ubaldo. How are you feeling?"

"Better, thank you, Signor Carriere." Piangi gave a weak smile. "I'm hoping that I'll have the opportunity to finish the opera tonight."

"Don't worry," said Erik. "Last night's events will not be repeated." He caught Christine's eye briefly, and she thought she saw a flicker of regret in his gaze. A sadness, almost. Then he straightened his shoulders. "I should like to apologise to you all for my…reaction last night. I shouldn't have lost my temper. But I hope you can understand that when my mask…when I lost my mask, it came as rather a shock."

There were murmurs of understanding from the singers.

Erik withdrew a notebook from inside his coat. "Thank you. And now, I think we should get on with the rehearsal. I have several notes which I need to give you, and then we can rehearse the second act, which was frankly shambolic."

He ran the rehearsal with his usual firmness, and yet Christine could tell he was nervous. Occasionally his hands would tremble against the notebook, and his gaze would flick to her, as if he were seeking reassurance. Whenever he looked at her, she would smile her approval. She couldn't quite believe he had returned to the Opera.

The notes took almost an hour, although there were less of them for the final two acts, as Erik had been onstage and was forced to give feedback from memory. After he had finished speaking, he announced a short break and told the company to reassemble in fifteen minutes.

Christine waited until the auditorium had emptied. When the last performer had gone, Erik sank into a chair. His head drooped forward until he was staring at the stage floor. He was like a marionette that had been forced to march around the stage, before having its strings cut.

"Erik?"

"Oh God," he groaned. "That was hard."

"You did very well." She placed her hands on top of his own. "I'm so proud of you."

"Proud? Why? That I can tolerate other people gossiping about me? That's hardly an achievement."

"It'll get easier."

"I hope so." He looked up at her. "I suppose you saw the review?"

She nodded.

"I'm so sorry, Christine."

"Don't be. The man is ridiculous."

"That's not the point, though, is it? It's the public we have to worry about."

Someone coughed. Christine turned just in time to see Monsieur Remy, the secretary, emerge from the wings. He looked nervous, and yet he was also smiling. In Christine's experience, this was quite an unusual occurrence.

"Monsieur Carriere," he said. "Mademoiselle Daae. Pardon my interruption…"

Erik stood up. "Yes, Remy? How can we help you?"

"Your presence is required at the stage door," said Remy. "There's something I think you both need to see."

Christine exchanged a glance with Erik.

"What is it?" Erik sounded wary.

"It's…rather hard to explain. I think it would be best if you saw it for yourselves."

Erik grumbled, annoyed at the interruption. Christine followed him with some trepidation. As they neared the stage door, a familiar scent glided towards them. She grasped Erik's arm.

"Erik? Can you smell that?"

He nodded. "It smells like…"

"Flowers. Roses."

As they reached the entrance to the stage door waiting room, Remy stepped to one side.

Christine gasped. Every surface inside the small room was covered with flowers. They were mainly bouquets of red and pink roses, but there were other flowers too, turning the drab little room into a veritable florist's shop. The face of Jean Claude, the stage door keeper, peered out from between two particularly large bouquets.

"What's going on?" Erik looked at the flowers, and then at Jean Claude.

Jean Claude gave him a rather long-suffering look. "Some flowers arrived this morning."

"Yes," said Erik. "I can see that."

Jean Claude pointed to the bouquets on the table in front of him. "These are for Miss Daae."

Christine hurried forward. "They're beautiful!" She examined a note that had been tied to a particularly magnificent bouquet of pink roses. "Congratulations on your premiere…From your patron… Really, this is too much." She moved to the other side of the room, where a trestle table had been unfolded with the aim of accommodating three more bouquets. "And there's these, too."

Jean Claude smiled. "I'm afraid those aren't for you, mademoiselle."

"Oh?" Christine raised an eyebrow.

"They're for Monsieur Carriere."

Erik eyed the flowers suspiciously. "Don't be ridiculous."

"It's true," said Christine, examining the bouquets. "To congratulate Monsieur Erik Carriere on his debut at the Paris Opera House…"

"Why would anyone send me flowers?"

"It seems you have an admirer," said Christine. "Three admirers. Oh, don't look so mortified!"

Erik coughed. "It is rather embarrassing, Christine."

"Why?"

"Nothing quite like this has ever happened to me before."

Christine shook her head. "It's no good. I might as well give up now. You're going to be swept off your feet by some exquisite beauty who fell in love with you from her box last night."

Erik's face had turned so crimson he almost matched the roses. "It's not funny."

"I never said it was," said Christine. But she was smiling.

"I also thought you would like to see this," said Jean Claude, handing Erik a folded newspaper. "Page twelve."

Erik turned to the correct page. Christine watched as his eyes widened. With a shaking hand, he passed the newspaper to Christine.

"Another review," he said.

For a moment, Christine was filled with dread at the thought that Philippe had submitted his thoughts to another newspaper. But as soon as she began to read, it became clear that this review was not the work of O.G.

The premiere of a new opera, Don Juan Triumphant, was saved from disaster last night when an unknown tenor took the place of Ubaldo Piangi, who had been taken ill.

The masked tenor turned out to be none other than Erik Carriere, artistic director of the Opera Garnier and composer of the work in question. His voice is quite extraordinary, and while it took a moment to become accustomed to the mask, it is a testament to Carriere's abilities that this critic soon became used to it. After all, theatre naturally requires a suspension of disbelief.

Mademoiselle Christine Daae sang alongside Carriere with beauty and passion. Together, they are magnificent, certainly the finest pair of singers which I have seen grace the Palais Garnier stage in the last five years. One hopes to hear much more from them in future seasons, especially in the great romantic operas, in which I am quite sure they would excel. They sing like they have just fallen in love for the first time.

Meanwhile, I encourage opera lovers throughout Paris to reserve their tickets to Don Juan post haste, just in case Daae and Carriere are not reunited in the near future.

P. de St-V

Christine pointed to the critic's nom de plume. "Do you know who that is?"

Erik was staring straight ahead. He had gone very pale. He managed to nod. "Yes. He's a true connoisseur. He has reviewed opera all over Europe."

"But that's wonderful, Erik."

"Is it? He's telling people to book tickets."

"We're a theatre. Isn't that what people are supposed to do?"

"I need to get word to the paper…Tell them there's been a misunderstanding."

"What do you mean?"

"Christine, he's suggesting that we're both going to be singing Don Juan again. Together."

Finally, Erik's reaction to the review made sense.

"Oh dear," said Christine.

"Indeed."

In the ensuing silence, Christine heard the click of footsteps in the corridor. The door opened, and Madame Giry stepped into the room.

"Good morning, Madame," said Christine.

Madame Giry nodded a greeting. "I thought you should know that Don Juan is completely sold out."

The newspaper fell from Erik's hand. "This evening?"

"For the rest of the week."