Note from author: Thanks to DP1014 for improving this chapter. I am very grateful.

Palais Garnier, Spring 1884

Passing a window as she walked back to the ballet dorm, Emma realized just how late in the day it was. The sun was already high in the sky; she had missed class and was in for a flogging. Reaching the dorm she could hear a muffled voice through the door followed by a thump. Oh no, Emma thought as she took a deep breath and turned the door knob.

"Emma! Come here!" the ballet mistress screeched as she raised and adjusted her cane. Emma closed the door and made her way to what she knew would be a proper and painful experience. "Hands up, you know the drill." With tense shoulders she raised her hands and a moment later wood met skin. The following few seconds were filled with the sounds of the swishing air quickly followed with a smack. "Where have you been?" Madame Devereaux bellowed as she landed the final blow to Emma's now red hands.

Emma winced at the final blow; she bit her lip and glanced over at the only other occupant in the room, Lucienne. What excuse could she make up the fact she had been missing for half the day? "I… I needed some air and was out exploring Paris," she replied, hoping Madame wouldn't make her leave the corps. The ballet mistress stared at Emma before closing her eyes. Emma had been late to class before and had received a lashing for it. Though Madame hated lateness, she still could tolerate it to a point. However, at which point did Madame tolerate it to was the question. Emma, however, had did something worse—she had missed class, something she believed held a larger penalty. The ballet mistress sighed and opened her eyes, looking at Emma.

"You were lucky not to have been run over by a carriage or injured. And though this isn't the first offence and I should kick you out of the corps, I have decided not to… this time. But don't push your luck next time," she said as she glared at Emma.

With a nod Emma let out a breath as her shoulders dropped.

"Good," Madame said as she walked towards the door. Opening the door, the ballet mistress turned toward the girls and said, "I expect both of you in class tomorrow on time," before she shut the door.

Several minutes later in her dorm room, Emma sat on her bed and looked at her now red hands.

"That really hurt," she said as she rubbed her hands in an attempt to get the redness to go away.

"Yeah, it does," Lucienne replied as she walked over to Emma's bed and sat down. "You probably got a harder flogging than anyone else." Emma looked at Lucienne's hands; fading pink streaks could be seen across the back of her hands.

"Yeah," Emma replied as continued to rub her hands.

"So, where did you go?" Lucienne asked.

Emma paused and glanced at Lucienne before returning her eyes to her hands. She couldn't tell Lucienne where she had been—she had sworn not to. If she did, she would break her promise not to speak of where she was and the deal she made with Erik would be broken. He would leave her and render her to just being another face in the corps. She recalled the conversation they had just minutes prior to her emergence into the surface. Emma had been following Erik—or rather, guided by Erik—through the dark path, trying not to trip, when Erik stopped and turned toward her.

"Remember, if you speak to anyone about me, then deal is off. You break your promise, I break my promise to give you voice lessons—and without me, you won't rise to prominence like you want," he had told her as they looked at each other.

"I promise," Emma replied. Erik nodded before pushing the wall behind him and motioning Emma out into the hall close to the dorms. When they had been discussing the deal earlier, Emma had admitted to wanting more than being in the background—she wanted fame.

"You have talent and it would be a waste to throw it away," Erik had silkily told her.

"Uh, Emma?" Lucienne asked worriedly, eyebrows crossed with concern. Emma snapped out of her thoughts and looked up at her. Lucienne continued: "What happened?"

"I can't say," Emma replied, looking away. Lucienne scowled.

"Why not?" she asked as she leaned toward Emma.

"I can't say," Emma repeated. Lucienne stared at Emma for a few seconds before giving up.

"Fine," Lucienne sighed as she returned to her bed. She reached for the secret stash of cookies she had stored from her last trip to the kitchen. Taking a bite from the cookie, she laid down on her bed. Odd, she thought to herself. She had told Madame Devereaux that she had been out in Paris—yet when asked where she was, Emma had gone quiet. Furthermore, when asked what exactly happened, Emma had avoided answering. Emma wasn't usually one to have secrets—unless, of course, she was sworn to secrecy. However, if it was just a secret between her and someone, why didn't she just say it was a secret? Lucienne pondered over this as she took another bite of her cookie. She glanced at Emma, who hadn't moved. Emma's eyes were unfocused—she was deep in thought. What had Emma so out of it? Lucienne thought. She won't give a clear answer… why? Suddenly it dawned on Lucienne: Emma was an open book unless someone else was involved. This person must have told her to keep quiet. If it was a harmless secret, Emma would have said it was a secret. But what if… what if this secret wasn't so harmless and Emma was threatened to secrecy? Threatened with her life, perhaps. It made sense; only a threat could keep Emma silent. Sitting up and shoving the rest of her cookie into her mouth, Lucienne told Emma she was going to see a friend before leaving the dorm. Briskly walking down several halls, Lucienne mentally took note of where she was heading. Finally, she reached her destination and knocked on the door.

"Meg? Meg Giry?" Lucienne cautiously asked. The door cracked open and Meg peeked out. Upon realizing who was at the door, she frowned.

"Lucienne, what is so serious that you have used my last name?" Meg asked, swinging the door wide open. "No matter, it must be really serious, as no one uses my last name unless it is of importance. Come, let's head outside as we're less likely to be overhead," she continued as she grabbed a shawl and closed her door.

Meg and Lucienne strolled along the dusty cobblestone path towards the river as the last golden rays of the sun shined through in the afternoon light as Lucienne voiced what she had observed and theorized earlier. Parisians walked passed the duo as they rushed off to where they needed to be, paying no heed to them, as coaches clopped down the street with their drivers pulling on the black leather reins of their horses.

"So you see, Emma could be in danger!" Lucienne concluded with concern. Meg nodded, her face dark and serious.

"I see," Meg said as they reached the bank of the Seine. Lucienne stepped closer to the edge of the river, observing the reflective golden streaks caused by the setting sun.

"What do you think?" Lucienne asked.

Meg peered out into the sunset as she replied, "I think… Emma may be in grave danger," she said in a low voice, "most likely because of the same person who kidnapped Christine. He or she must have returned for some reason." Meg pondered if it was the so-called Opera Ghost from three years ago that was back to stir up the same trouble. "None of us know what happened to Christine or the Viscount Raoul de Chagny, who went after her in a rescue attempt. We assumed they perished, as the investigation turned up empty. Over the years, people have just forgotten about them." Meg and Lucienne continued to stare at their surroundings, both lost in thought. Suddenly Meg turned to Lucienne. "There may be someone, though, who still remembers them and might know where they may have gone."

Lucienne slowly blinked, not believing what she heard. "Really?!" she asked.

"Yes. He used to be a mysterious opera regular known only as the Persian. After the events of three years ago, he suddenly stopped coming to the opera altogether. I still remember this vividly: whenever I and the other ballet girls spotted him, we would make this sign to ward off evil. We were extremely naive back then…" Meg took a breath as she thought of the strange Persian. He had been allowed to go backstage whenever he pleased—perhaps he had some knowledge of where Christine and the Vicomte were.

"Let's go, then! What are we waiting for?!" Lucienne spoke as she turned and took a few steps forward.

"Lucienne," Meg hissed which caused the girl to stop. "I don't even know where Persian lives." Lucienne turned around.

"What?" she asked.

Meg replied, "I said I don't know where the Persian lives." Meg repeated pulling on her shawl over her shoulder. Lucienne blinked in realization.

"Oh, didn't think of that."

Emma glanced at the clock as she sat on her bed, the minute hand moving closer to the top. She closed her eyes as she tapped her fingers on her lap to the ticking of the clock. He said he would be coming tonight—but was she early? Was he running late? What if he forgot—or worse—he wasn't going to teach her? But how could he abandon her when she didn't break her end of the deal? Perhaps she was too early and he meant to get her later on. Emma suddenly felt the tingles on her back, the feeling one gets when one is being watched. Emma opened her eyes just as a dark figure emerged from the wall.

"I have come for you."