A/N: Nothing much to say on this end, except for the fact that I felt incredibly sorry for Meg Giry whilst writing this chapter. I'm really horrible to the characters sometimes, aren't I?

Meg blinked blearily, the world slowly swimming back into focus. Suddenly, she remembered recent events and her eyes snapped open, straining against the inky blackness of wherever she was. Mon dieu, where am I? She thought, struggling to make her chloroform-impaired mind work properly.

She had been captured, she knew that much. But by who? And why? As far as she could tell, no one had any serious vendetta against her, or a vendetta at all for that matter. So why on Earth... oh. She shut her eyes tightly and a long sigh of despair rushed from the very core of her being. Gaston Rosseau must have garnered the information—not from Nadir, she knew, so probably from recollections of interactions at the Opera Populaire—that Juliet and Meg were good friends. That would make her an excellent source of information to him if she talked. Unfortunately, she had little doubt he held the power to make her do so.

But who was the man who drugged her? She hadn't recognized him in the least, but it was clear to her now that he was in some way affiliated with the singer gone nearly mad. His voice had been strange, an odd accent she couldn't place. He also sounded a little bit uneducated, like a... Oh, no. If her assumption was correct—Meg really hoped it wasn't—the man was most likely a gypsy. Some gypsies were known for being mercenaries for just about any trade one would care to mention. If one had a sum of money to offer, one could usually find a gypsy to help them out. Especially if said job leaned slightly in the direction of the sinister. Meg's situation corresponded well with that description.

Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the dark room. It looked like an old sitting room with a heavy dust layer over every surface and the floor. The furniture looked ancient and in none too excellent condition. Rips and tears were scattered across the upholstery. None of it looked to be of any significance in the way all of the various trinkets were hastily cluttered and knocked over. The mess was recent, judging by the displaced dust.

Meg wondered for a fleeting instant if she was just dreaming and had landed in some sort of mystery novel her mind had created. Or rather, she hoped that was all that happened.

In her heart, she knew it could only be Gaston who ordered her capture. He was the only person who could possibly want some sort of information from her. Footsteps approached the closed door to her right and she prepared herself mentally, calming her rapid heartbeat and locking down the fear dominating her mind. She would not say anything that would endanger her friend. Nothing.

The door creaked open and Meg drew herself up as far as she could from her bound position on the floor, staring in the approximate direction of the shadowy figure's face. Her gaze was proud, unflinching. The figure—Gaston, probably—struck a match and began to light the various candles in the room. Of course he wasn't going to open the curtains, not while he held her hostage.

When the room was dimly lit the man, who was indeed Gaston, made his way over and crouched in front of her. His vibrant blue eyes glittered threateningly. "Mademoiselle Giry it's been far too long, don't you think?" he asked sweetly. Sweet like poisoned honey.

"Not nearly long enough," she hissed. "What's all this for? If you fancied a chat, you could've stopped by. There was no cause for all of this." She purposefully played naive.

Gaston chuckled, a truly awful sound, and caressed her cheek smoothly. She flushed and moved her head away as far as she could. "Oh my pretty mademoiselle, I think you know what I would like to talk to you about. It requires a bit more... perhaps I'm searching for the word secrecy. Now," he murmured, the sweetness draining out of his voice like water out of a leaky glass, "I'd be ever so grateful if you'd tell me where the Opera Ghost has taken Juliet."

"Why?" Meg asked, in part because she was stalling and also because she wanted to know just how much hell the pair was going to go through in the near future.

He gave her a mock-mournful look, adopting a sickeningly patronizing voice. "Come now, Meg. We can do this the easy way, or we can make this exceedingly difficult for both of us. I'm sure you want to do it the easy way, don't you? Where are they?"

She pursed her lips tightly. If there was one thing she hated more than just about anything, it was being patronized. She knew she was small and had a propensity to be rather foolish at times, but the nickname that followed her around constantly, "Little Giry", was one she secretly despised. "Even if I knew, I would never tell you," she growled.

His eyes became sapphires, faceted and solid. "I'll not ask again before this takes a turn I can assure you will not be pleasant for you," he said harshly. "Where have they gone? You may just as well get it over with and tell me; I know you know and I will find out one way or another."

Meg gave him her darkest glare. "Go to hell!" she snapped. And then she did something she came to regret wholeheartedly in the near future. She spat in Gaston Rosseau's face.

For a moment, it appeared both of them were equally surprised by the bold act. Seconds later, Gaston's face contorted in an ugly snarl of disgust and he slapped her across the face so hard she could feel the shape of his hand tattooed in a burning outline on her left cheek. "Fine, so be it," he snarled, getting to his feet and stalking out the door. "We'll do it the hard way."

The door slammed shut and as the candle flames quivered, it looked to Meg like they were as scared as she was for what was to come.

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Juliet marked the page in the book Erik had loaned her at the sound of a knock on the door. A messenger boy stood at the door with a telegram clutched in his hands. He looked to be slightly out of breath.

"Telegram for someone with the last name Leroux," he panted. "Told it was top priority."

Juliet raised an eyebrow. She could think of no reason she or her father would receive a top priority telegram. "Thank you," she said, accepting the envelope and sliding a nail under the seal.

"Shall I wait for a response, ma'am?" the boy asked.

"No, thank you," she dismissed him, drawing the telegram out and unfolding it. Her blood ran ice cold in her veins.

Meg kidnapped. Possibly Gaston. Do not come. ~Nadir.

Oh he—that sneaking bastard. He was using her friends now. She had to hand at least a little credit to him; he knew intricately how to get to a person. If he had Meg—and she didn't mean to insult her friend—then it was not a matter of if he found them, but when.

Her feet were still finding their way into her shoes when she ran out the door, slipping ungracefully and causing a few odd stares to be directed her way. She couldn't care any less. Her mind was set on getting to Erik's flat.

She rapped her closed fist against his door sharply. "Open the door, Erik. Hurry," she murmured, her free hand clutching nervously at the folds of her dress. Adrenaline made her skin clammy and her fingers twitchy. The few seconds it took Erik to answer the door felt like they stretched on for years of never-ending anxiety.

"Oh, Juliet, it's you?" Erik opened the door, a smile turning the corners of his mouth up. "With the way you were knocking, I could've sworn you were Nadir, if only for a moment." Juliet paled at those words, causing Erik's good-natured smirk to slide off his face rather rapidly. "What is it? Has something happened?" By something, he was referring to whether a certain crazy man had done anything.

Wordlessly, she handed the now-rumpled telegram over. She didn't trust herself to speak. He scanned it quickly, the color draining from his own face until the uncovered side nearly matched the mask in hue. His eyes slowly moved up from the fatal words to see her expression that bore extraordinary likeness to a frightened deer.

"It'll only be a matter of time now," she whispered, stepping inside and closing the door behind her firmly as though that act alone could keep Gaston from reaching either of them.

Erik set the paper down and pulled her into a protective embrace, resting his chin on the top of her head. "I know," he sighed heavily, one hand stroking slowly through her hair.

Juliet burrowed into his arms, breathing in his comforting scent of aftershave, ink, and paper. "What will we do?" she asked, a thick haze of fear settling in her thoughts.

He held her tighter in response, kissing the top of her head. "We'll be ready," he murmured, his tone daring the man to even try and get near the woman he held in his arms.

"I love you," Juliet whispered, realizing only after she said it that it was the first time such words had ever come from her mouth and wondering too late if she ought not to have said it. It had just tumbled out in the heat of the moment, but she meant it no less.

A miniscule twitch ran through the tips of Erik's fingers, but he made no move to move or turn away and hide. Instead, he drew back just far enough to touch his forehead to hers and rub his thumbs gently across her cheeks, right under her eyes. "I love you too," he said softly, his lips touching hers in a delicate kiss. She responded, her arms settling around his shoulders and fingers stroking through the silky hair at the nape of his neck.

She couldn't have been more terrified, but she also could not recall ever feeling happier.

Let him come, she thought. Let him bring all the tricks and weaponry he desires. I have all I need right here.

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Meg's heart, which had sunk in despair, leapt right back up past its' original spot and into her throat when the door opened again. This time, Gaston wasn't alone. With him was the man who had drugged her. An unpleasant sneer twisted his mouth when he crouched down next to her. "Mademoiselle Giry, did he not warn you to cooperate?" he inquired. When she said nothing, he continued, "that's such a shame, because now you have to deal with me."

She bit back a shriek of surprise when he hefted her into the air. He carried her like she weighed little more than a sack of flour, moving her over to a chair. She had no time to think before her arms and ankles were tied tightly to the legs of the chair. The rope was rough and abrasive against her skin, quickly rubbing it raw without much movement on her part.

"Meg, I'll give you one last chance to say this of your own free will before you regret your stubbornness," the gypsy man said in a faux-pleasant voice. "You know what this is, do you not?" He pulled a long object from behind his back and tipped her chin up firmly with it. She swallowed hard. It was a riding crop, and a nice one at that.

"Yes," she murmured, lowering her eyelids to avoid eye contact.

"So we move back to my inquiry. Where are the mademoiselle and the monster?"

Meg clenched her hands until her nails dug into the fragile skin of her palms. "Sorry, who?"

The gypsy man shook his head with a smirk, clicking his tongue in disapproval. "Wrong answer."

An involuntary gasp of pain escaped Meg's mouth when the crop whacked across her lower ribs. It was meant to spur a sedentary horse, not a human, and it burned with a deep, stinging pain. Oh God, please let my resolve be strong, Meg prayed, breathing deeply and slowly.

A second strike landed on her upper arm, more painfully and forcefully than the first. She bit down on her lip, screwing her eyes shut tightly.

"Has there been a change in your answer?"

Meg shook her head resolutely, a soft cry forced from her when the crop landed on bare skin for the first time. "Never," she hissed.

Meg had soon bitten a bleeding gash into her lip as the crop smacked ruthlessly into her skin again and again. The gypsy man favored striking her bare skin, raising welts and breaking skin. Blood trickled down her arms, ruining her dress. She'd given up trying to remain entirely silent, shrieking in pain in an attempt to keep her exclamations wordless.

"Mademoiselle Giry, you are far too stubborn for your own good," Gaston's voice came through a haze of pain. "I advise you just to tell us where the Opera Ghost is, before you do yourself some permanent damage."

"Before I... ah!" Her words were cut off by a choking cry as a result of another blow. "Before I do myself injury? Who is wielding the riding crop, me or your mercenary?"

"You know, Monsieur Rosseau, I do not believe this is going to produce answers," the gypsy man remarked conversationally. Meg was afraid of his tone. It was light, but intentionally so, covering up an underlying air of irritation and impatience. "Shall we try something else?"

Meg could see Gaston adopt a pensive look. She hated him. Hated them both. But especially that thrice damned singer. He made her stomach churn sickeningly just looking at him. He'd tried to kill a dear friend of her mother's-she didn't know Erik overly well-and more importantly, one of her best friends. It could nearly go without mentioning that he was arrogant, rude, and pretentious. Nearly.

"Yes, I believe we should try something else," he agreed, his tone almost lazy. He looked over to the pained, sweating young girl. "Any suggestions?"

"One," the gypsy man replied, whipping a knife from his belt and slicing the sleeve from her left arm, freeing it from the ropes at the same time. Meg hardly had time to blink. The knife, which was a bright silver color from tip of the blade to the end of the hilt. It was an unusual weapon and she might've been fascinated if she weren't practically hyperventilating in fear. "Yes, it's a strange blade, is it not? It was given to me by the kind Monsieur. He said it used to belong to his brother before he met his untimely end, it was the only thing he managed to salvage from the fire at the Opera Populaire."

Meg's heart stuttered in her breast. Philippe's knife. That was the one that he had stabbed Juliet with. "... I see," she managed to say, every inch of her skin burning. She was suddenly terribly afraid of why he'd sliced her sleeve off.

"Why so silent, mademoiselle? Are you afraid?" the lithe man leered.

"Not now, nor ever," Meg lied, lips white and thin. Her heart was stuttering in her chest erratically and the gypsy could feel it because his fingers were clenched around her slender wrist, hard enough to bruise.

"Really, how interesting," he said in a soft, sibilant voice. "Perhaps I can change your mind." He pulled her arm straight out, a hard, yanking motion that made her gasp. The blade of the knife hovered above her skin, creating a thin shadow. "Are you now?"

A long, high scream of pain ripped from Meg's lips when the sharp knife sliced through her skin with a blinding pain. It was not merely a line slashed, the mark was purposeful, the beginning of a pattern. He raised the weapon for a moment to allow the pain to resonate in her senses, to allow the sensation of droplets of blood trickling down her skin to register before he made the next cut.

Whatever her previous definition of pain was prior to this experience, it hardly compared. Her entire arm was on fire with an unquenchable flame. The pain was so strong it made her head spin dangerously, her vision spotting and swimming into an indistinguishable blur. A constant outpour of screaming left her throat raw, but it was nothing compared to the pain in her arm. The sharp tip of the blade sliced her skin open like it was no thicker than parchment paper.

Finally, he withdrew the now-scarlet blade and Meg drew heaving breaths, her cheeks wet with copious amounts of tears. "Your thoughts, mademoiselle?" His rough voice snuck into her ear boldly. She said nothing, feeling as though speech would not be possible. "No? Shall I start again?"

Only one new cut had been made before she cried out in a rough, hysterical way, "Please, please, no! No more, I'll..." Her voice broke. "I'll tell you."

Both men leaned in, disgustingly interested. "Well?" Gaston demanded. A quiet whisper issued from her lips, not able to be heard by either of them. "Speak up, idiot girl!"

"Normandy," she murmured, tears clinging to her lashes and reluctantly falling as though they didn't want to give the singer the satisfaction of seeing them."They're in Normandy."

"You have my thanks, mademoiselle," Gaston said, once again playing the French gentleman. "My humble apologies about the manner in which this information was obtained."

Meg hung her head, wanting nothing more than to die of shame. She'd betrayed them. Juliet, please forgive me, she thought. I'm a terribly weak little fool.

The gypsy began to remove her bonds, only to haul her roughly to her feet and maintain his hold on her. "Monsieur Rosseau, if we wish to make good time to our destination we ought to leave now."

Gaston checked his watch. "Yes, you're right. You don't mind escorting the mademoiselle, do you? I really should leave a note for a few people."

"No, not at all. We'll be waiting for you at the train station," he replied. Meg's blood seemed to turn to icy sludge in her veins. Perhaps she'd been delusional in thinking she'd be simply let go. He kept one arm firmly around her waist, the other clenching her arm that wasn't injured.

"Where are you taking me?" she muttered dumbly, woozy from the pain she'd endured.

"Normandy, of course," her captor replied as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Your... usefulness to us has not quite run its' course." He paused. "I have one stop to make on the way there, but it won't be too long. I'll bind your arm in the carriage, it would not do for you to get an infection, would it?"

How kind of him to worry. Meg felt a little flash of anger ripple through her. Once in the carriage, she braved a look at her arm. Tears flooded her vision yet again. There was a word on her arm, glistening scarlet.

Traître.

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"Monsieur Nadir, are you quite sure we ought to return to your home?" Antoinette Giry's lips were set in a tight line of worry. "There are places we have not yet looked."

Nadir shook his head, feeling a sense of helplessness creeping around the edge of his consciousness. "We've been looking for hours, Madame. Both of us are nearly faint with exhaustion and hunger. A short rest won't make a horribly big difference."

Antoinette stopped and swung him around to face her with a sense of urgency. "To you, it might not," she said fiercely, her hands gripping his upper arms tightly. "But my daughter is my whole world, Monsieur. After my husband died, she was the one bright spot in my otherwise only black world. Often, she was the only reason I rose from my bed in the morning. And to think that anything may have happened to her..." A choked sob issued from her throat and her eyes became bright with unshed tears. "To think any harm may have come to her is unthinkable. Please, try to understand."

Nadir thought of Rookheeya and their beautiful son, Reza, and his throat became suddenly tight. Reza had been the rising and setting sun of his life partly because he was the last living tie he had to his dead wife. When he died, a part of Nadir died with him. "I do," he murmured quietly. "If we stop at my flat, I can pick up some portable food. I understand you want to keep looking, but you'll only be doing yourself—and your daughter—damage."

Antoinette slumped, her exhaustion becoming suddenly apparent. "Yes, you are right," she said, her voice quiet.

Back at his flat, Nadir brushed his house servant, Darius, aside with a quick excuse and darted into the kitchen to gather some dry food to be eaten while on the go. "Not now, Darius," he said. "I'll look at my mail later."

"But sir—"

"Really, I just don't have time," he said distractedly, waving an errant hand in the air. "It can wait."

"Sir, this letter was delivered by a man who said it was of importance to you," Darius protested. "I asked him his name and he told me you would know when you read the letter."

Nadir stopped in his tracks, a chill settling heavily on his skin like evening fog on a river. "Give it to me," he said softly, taking the hastily closed envelope and opening it so fast he sliced a cut in his finger. With a muttered curse, he unfolded the letter. A far louder and more colorful string of curses followed.

Normandy. Dear me, M. Khan. Dear me. Three train tickets purchased, I do hope Mademoiselle Giry enjoys traveling.

The paper fluttered from his nerveless fingers and landed on the table. Antoinette came running into the room.

"What? What is it?" she asked urgently. When his eyes merely traveled in the direction of the dropped letter, she snatched it up and scanned it quickly. Her face rapidly drained of color and she swayed on the spot so much that Nadir gently guided her to a chair.

"That horrible, horrible man," she said feebly. "The train will have left by now and another train won't leave until at least midday tomorrow. What will we do?" She closed her eyes and began to pray silently.

Nadir still didn't understand how Christianity was supposed to work, but he did pray to Allah that no significant harm would come to Meg, Juliet, or Erik.

"I'm going to send a telegram to Erik and buy two tickets on the next train," he said firmly.

Erik, please take care of Juliet and yourself. As you once told me, I believe your tedious health has become very dear to me.

A/N: I just finished rereading Phantom. If you haven't read it, I highly recommend reading it.

Any good? Please review? And if you have any ideas for how you think something could possibly go, please tell me in either a review or a PM. I take all ideas into consideration.