I've been bombarded with career stuff but I promise to finish this and the rest of my stories. It might be a little bit slow because I just found out my next story is due in August. (NDBRs: That's Son of the Sea) Yikes! Anyhow, have mercy on me please! I'm seriously writing as fast as the Muse speaks and my fingers move.

Rose31

"Did you see that?" Firmin huffed. "He tossed the whole damned opera on the floor! And the pages aren't numbered! We will have to sort the entire opera! The entire opera!"

Several stagehands, who had drunkenly emerged from the back of the theater, began snatching up bottles of liquor, which Madame Giry was prepared to wrestle them to the death over. Meg rushed to her mother's side to defend the old crone even though one swing of the ballet mistress' cane kept the stagehands several feet from the bottles.

While Andre and Firmin argued and Erik kept La Carlotta at bay, Christine struggled helplessly in the corner, her protests drowned out by the rowdy bunch fighting for booze. Her dress was rather poofy, and since Joseph was standing on her hem, she couldn't knee him in the groin.

Just then, when she was certain he would drag her away, Raoul appeared and grabbed Bouquet by the shoulder.

"Unhand the diva at once!"

Bouquet stepped back and looked Raoul over as though gauging how long it would take to snap his aristocratic neck. With a reluctant nod, he straightened.

"All I wanted was a dance."

Raoul placed his arm over Christine's shoulder. He puffed out his chest like a proud peacock. "The lady's dance card is filled for the evening. Now, go away."

Christine, who was too stunned by her ordeal, merely stared in horror and waited for the stagehand to leave. With a nod at the rest of his drunken friends, he disappeared—but not before every guest in attendance stared at her.

"That brat is-a nothing but trrrrrrouble," La Carlotta trilled. She opened her fan and stormed away with Piangi waddling behind her, muttering something about his costume just making him look fat.

Christine barely noticed La Carlotta's exit. With Erik standing across the room, nothing else mattered, no one else existed. It was only them suspended in dramatic eternity, which was really only about thirty seconds. But there they were, in an empty room.

With Raoul de Chagny, who still held his arm over her shoulder. He was talking but Christine had no idea what he said. Erik continued to stare at her, his lips parted. His mouth breathing was no longer adorable. His hardened stare was no longer charming. The intensity of his presence left the room in utter silence.

She visibly shrank, wished she could melt into the floor. She wriggled out from beneath Raoul's arm and sprinted toward him, but it was too late. Erik wound up as much of his train as he could and took a small step back. In a cloud of smoke the floor opened and he vanished.

"Ooh! Pretty!" Meg clapped before the smoke made her cough.

Several feet from where the hole in the ground had opened Christine tripped over her enormous dress. She closed her eyes, slid across the floor, and fell into the opening, which closed over her seconds later.

Dazed, confused by the darkness, she remained on the floor. When she glanced up, she saw at least ten other Christine's with tangled hair, giant, poofy dresses, and confused expressions.

She was certain she'd hit her head.

-o-

He considered abandoning her, but he couldn't. That damned Vicomte had plummeted after Christine—his precious little lover whom he needed to protect—and his neck was in need of a Punjab.

Rope in hand, Erik stared through a small space between mirrors and waited for the lovers to discover each other.

Christine was first to recover from the fall. She blinked, primped her hair, and then stood.

"Hello?"

"Christine?"

The Vicomte had fallen and then rolled, his legs tucked beneath him. Erik watched him comb his hair back before he strolled out, looking quite dignified for a man who'd yelled "Mommy!" as he hit the floor.

"Raoul?"

Erik's jaw tensed and he hoped she appreciated seeing her little friend for the last time.

"Yes, it's me, Christine."

"What happened? Why are you here?"

"I was afraid this was another of Bouquets tricks and so I followed you."

He hadn't quite followed her. Erik had seen the Vicomte step on Christine's dress, trip her, and then tumble after her. It wasn't a plan but the act of a clumsy oaf.

"You shouldn't have followed me."

"I believe his trap may have swallowed up that Lu'oar fellow."

Erik held his breath, his eyes narrowed.

"No, Raoul," she sighed. "Erik did this on his own."

"He built a trap door in the middle of the dance floor?"

"I believe so."

"But how was the trap set off?"

She shrugged. "He must have stepped on the release."

Raoul scratched his head. "Interesting. I can't imagine how a whole opera house full of people have walked across the floor and not one of them has ever set off the trap. It's a mystery never fully explained." He paused. "Who am I to judge?"

"Don't judge him," Christine said solemnly. "You must return to the celebration at once, Raoul. Don't worry about me."

"I'm afraid I cannot do that, Christine. There's a madman on the loose. You cannot tell me Bouquet merely wanted a dance with you this evening. He wanted something more."

Christine began searching the mirrors for an exit and Erik stepped back. He instantly felt a hand on his shoulder, but before he could lasso the intruder placed the end of her cane in the middle of his back.

"He's no threat to you. Let them go at once. We must speak."

Erik shook his head. The cane jabbed harder against his spine. She'd paralyze him before he could deny her request. With a nod, he followed her and hit the release, which would free the two captives and lead them to a stairway in approximately thirty seconds.

-o-

Madame Giry didn't say a word for a long time, and had her eyes not been open, Erik would have sworn she'd passed out.

He hadn't been in her apartments for many years but nothing had changed. There were still stacks of letters on her dresser and old photographs by her bedside.

"It seems you have an enemy you never expected."

"Everyone I meet is my enemy."

She rolled her eyes. "You're not old enough to be bitter. You only earn it when you've taught the same dancing farm animals for years and they continue to disappoint you no matter how many bottles of wine you consume, how many tears you've shed, how many times you've screamed pirouette at the top of your lungs. Dance, you cross-eyed ninnies, dance!"

Erik cleared his throat, interrupting her wine-induced sermon.

"I digress." She took a seat and hit his knee with her cane, which he assumed meant he should do the same. "Perhaps I shouldn't say this, but Bouquet needs to have an accident."

He stared at her.

"One involving an embarrassing incident with one of the sheep, preferably."

"Kill him?"

Madame shook her head. "I didn't say kill him. You know what to do."

"Is this why you brought me here?"

She sighed. "To keep you from killing a boy who saved Christine at the ball? Why, yes."

"I don't need his help," he growled.

"Perhaps not. But Christine did."

"She belongs to me."

"As you belonged to the gypsies? No choices, no freedom--"

"Enough."

He stood and walked to the door, tired of their senseless conversation.

"Erik."

He lifted his chin but refused to look at Madame, despite expecting a cane to the back of his head.

"Not everyone you meet must be your enemy."