AUTHOR'S NOTE: This chapter, the first Meg chapter, is dedicated to Bea. You've been patient with me all those months, and you've stood my recent crisis and helped me out of it. That earns more than just an Erik purr. Besides, you're the best translator an author could wish for, and you might well have taught me more Italian than my Italian teacher back at school. A great "thank you" for all that.
Pertie: No, not online video gaming. My sister and I are playing Harry Potter IV currently; I gave her a gamepad for Christmas and she's now playing Hermione on it while I play Harry on the keyboard. And we plan to invite my best mate, who'll bring his joystick and be Ron. And we don't play that much, only one hour and a half in the evening or something.
Polly: You'll need to make arrangements with Maurice, then…
Beregond's Girl: You're completely right, it's "plague" and not "sucks", checked it myself. Damn, damn, damn. No idea why I was so sure. Must be some other quote I'm confusing this with. Anyway, I know from an American student who came to our school that it's rather out of fashion and very British. Well, go figure some more, then…
Morleigh: Here's more. And wait 'til Book Five if you want a bit of… well, not really smut, but a bit of steaminess at least. No, I'm not a Raoul basher. I grew fond of the kid while writing The King of the Catacombs. (Kid? He's as old as I am precisely in this story, but you see where my loyalties lie…)

-.-.-

I. You must have been dreaming

"I wonder what's so important," Meg said between two highly laden forkfuls of lasagne. "They've been hiding in Chateaupers's office for two hours now, I bet."

Dropping his own knife and fork, Raoul fumbled in his pocket for his watch, grinning apologetically as the fork clattered onto the table, staining the tablecloth slightly with a mixture of béchamel sauce and tomato juice. "You've got no sense of timing whatsoever, I'm afraid," he proclaimed. "It wasn't even one hour yet."

Meg kicked his shin under the table. It wasn't exactly polite, but he had practically been asking for it. At least he had the grace to wince.

"Are you tormenting him again?" Christine asked suspiciously, waving a threatening finger teasingly. "You know the poor lamb is too much a gentleman to fight back."

"I ought to pinch you for that," Raoul mumbled through a mouthful of lasagne, though smiling tenderly at his fiancée sitting opposite him, beside Meg. Sometimes, Meg thought, it was just unfair. Why did everybody fall for Christine and was broken-hearted as soon as she turned her head from the suitor in question for only a moment?

Of course this was vastly exaggerated; there were only two such suitors who loved Christine so devotedly, and certainly it had been very far from pleasant to reject one and choose the other, but still… sometimes Meg wished for a little attention for herself. She had her friends, and friends she would not exchange for anything in the world, but sometimes she secretly wished to have a fiancée, just like Christine had.

Of course, there was Erik. Erik was still free, and he had made her a few offers which had made her giggle and blush furiously; he was quite ready to become her lover, she was sure. He was like a brother to her, yet there was something else, too, an irresistible draw… But at the same time, he was flirting quite shamelessly with her mother, which was a bit unsettling. To be exact, he flirted with most females he liked, really. Marie and Geneviève and Victorine, but also the girls he passed in the corridors – those who did not squeal and run at the mere sight of him, that was – and even the plump young woman in the cantina, the one with the jolly smile… During those last few months, he had become quite a charmer. A real Don Juan.

But he had not been quite successful yet. Of course, Meg had occasionally caught him kissing one of the Poussepain sisters, mostly Victorine, but she knew this was practically all he had yet managed to do. He wanted more, but he had not yet gotten what he wanted. Meg herself had had to refuse him a few times, though sometimes she had felt a tiny bit of regret. For this was where the problem lay: What he could offer her was an affair, and her mother would more than simply box her ears if Meg did anything of that kind. If they married, well, that would be a difference, but how should Erik ever get married? He was an outcast with no name… and moreover, he would probably outright refuse to.

Meg sighed inaudibly. Poor Erik, how should he ever lead a normal life?

Not that she led a normal life exactly, she thought with an inward smile. No, not since that day when the opera had been on fire, when she had found a white mask down in the cellars. On that night, the Phantom had entered her life, and everything had changed in a most thrilling and exciting way. And it had never been boring since, she thought happily.

Well, at the moment this was even improved by the young man squatting on the floor scratching Senta's ears. Raoul had introduced him as Roger de Castelot-Barbezac some time back already, an old friend from his childhood days who now was a companion at arms. She had seen him a few times already, always with Raoul. Roger. What a nice name. And he had nice blond curls, too, and a nice sense of humour, and a nice smile, and a nice grin as well, and nice brown eyes… he was nice altogether.

And he actually giggled at her jokes.

"Second helpings, anyone?" the cook asked, gesturing with a ladle. She was a small, plump woman with curled hair of a dark grey, and she actually belonged to the Chagny family, but as the most faithful of their servants had followed them into hiding and now worked for Chateaupers, who had sent his own cook off to the countryside to stay with her family – not only for her protection, but also because he had not been entirely sure whether he could trust her or not, not in times like these. "Oh, Raoul, don't put your knife on the tablecloth!"

"Sorry." Raoul flashed her an apologetic grin which made him look a few years younger than he really was. "Can I have some more now?"

"Any time, dear, any time." The cook went to pick up his plate from the table to refill it, obviously delighted that her guests enjoyed being fed by her. "What about you, Roger? Don't tell me you've had enough, you've always possessed a mouth hard to fill." To Meg's surprise, she reached out to tousle his hair a little. "Ever since you were four years old and found your way into my kitchen for the first time."

Roger beamed up at her, both hands hidden in Senta's fur. "And I've never been disappointed with your creations."

The cook beamed as she picked up his plate as well. "And you, Christine? You are pale, child, and too thin for my taste; you ought to eat more. Another helping for Meg, too?"

But before Meg could answer, the kitchen door was opened, and in strode two tall, grim-looking men mostly dressed in black, both with their dark hair long enough to reach their shoulders. Maurice de Bracy wore his open, as he always did, while the Phantom had bound it back with a thin leather cord once again. "Do I smell lunch?" Maurice asked without any introduction. Right on cue, the ferret perched on his shoulder twitched its whiskers and gave a little squeak.

"They're coming to sit with us?" Roger asked, at once on his feet. "Oh, bugger!" And he hurried to take his place on the bench once again.

"Afraid I might eat your meal, eh?" Maurice grinned. "Well, move over. Madame, may I be so bold?"

"Of course, marquis." The cook positively beamed with delight at two more to feed. "And Erik. Do take a seat. There's enough for all."

"Thank you, but I won't take anything." At least he shrugged off his cloak, but he remained standing where he was, his features as unreadable as ever. As so often, Meg wondered what exactly was on his mind.

It was fascinating to watch how quickly the stout woman's expression changed from benevolent to stern. "Oh no, I'm having none of this, young man. I know exactly you haven't had one single bite today; your friends already told me. And you need your strength. Come on, take a seat, I'm sure your friends will make room for you…" And already she was ushering the Phantom towards the table, treating him as if he were just another friend of Raoul's. And what was even more astounding, he allowed her to. But Meg knew he had a good reason for this: At times he simply enjoyed being fussed over by a motherly person, having never had a true mother himself.

Which reminded her… How had that meeting with his mother gone, a few days ago? Christine had told her about it, but Meg had not dared to ask him. Not that she feared he would harm her, not really, but all the same… she had seen him furious several times, and he frightened her in that state, when his teeth were bared in a snarl of barely controlled wrath, when his eyes froze and burned her at the same time…

As he took the place on the bench beside her, dropping his jacket onto the floor carelessly as he did so, she shifted towards Christine, and he briefly passed a still gloved hand over hers in acknowledgement. Sitting at his left, she saw that his features were serious – no, more than that, she might as well call them stony. And even though he was so close to her that their bodies touched, he seemed so distant, so far, far away… God, what was he up to again? What had he and Maurice been discussing with Chateaupers that had put him in this mood, in a mood where he did not even smile at Christine?

"Here you are," the cook said, obviously ignoring his expression, because she just could not be oblivious to the mood he must be in, as she set a full plate before him. "An extra large helping with extra béchamel sauce. Eat. You'll feel better." Yes, she had noticed it after all.

The Phantom gave her a brief nod of thanks, but waited until everybody was served, and only then he started on his lunch. Meg knew exactly how much he liked the Chagny family cook's lasagne, yet all the same his features remained cold, expressionless, even fierce. Not even after he had killed those five Communards and hung their bodies from the chandelier – Meg still shivered at the thought, and also at the idea that he had just curled up beside her after he had done it – had he looked so vicious!

From Raoul's worried frown, Meg could tell that he was thinking just the same about the Phantom. Whatever had occurred?

"It's excellent," Maurice stated, feeding his ferret a small lump of meat. It was not that he did not realize what kind of mood had settled on all of them now, but he simply ignored it, and he spoke quite matter-of-factly, as always.

Intriguing man, this Maurice. And dark and mysterious, too… But no, Meg was not going to fancy him, definitely not! After all, rumour had it that he had more mistresses than he could count on the fingers of both hands.

Did Roger yet have a girl? Meg wondered.

"Thank you, marquis. But I'm afraid it's not quite what it usually is." The cook heaved a heavy sigh, and it was all Meg could do not to sigh along. "I would have liked to add some more tomatoes, and celery, too, but all I have is carrots. And not enough meat," she added grimly. For her, that certainly was a crime, not being able to provide all the ingredients she found necessary. "Those are dark times."

"Made even darker by those dirty Commune hounds," Roger muttered, stabbing his lasagne hard with his fork. He had a nice scowl, too. "They ought to be shot, every single one of them."

"Erik's doing his best already," Maurice remarked, casually flicking another little bit of meat at his ferret, which caught it easily. "No need to deny it, pal."

"I don't intend to." The Phantom's voice was a rough growl, and Meg almost winced. Couldn't Christine do something about him? Well, easier thought than done, certainly, but surely her best friend was able to calm him, wasn't she?

"That little chandelier joke of yours… You wanted them to know it was you." Again, Maurice spoke quite matter-of-factly, if perhaps with a tiny hint of sarcasm, not heeding the cook's stunned expression at the least. Of course, the woman must know all the stories about the Phantom, but all the same, since Raoul had brought him to her, she had come to consider him another playmate of her favourite little boy's.

Had the mood in the room not been so gloomy, Meg might have laughed at this idea.

"Yes." The Phantom had dropped his knife and fork and was now regarding his own right hand ponderously. And still he was wearing his black leather gloves.

"What have you been up to for so long?" Raoul interrupted, and Meg saw his bright eyes flicker over to the cook. But she was not quite sure whether this was a good way of diverting them.

While the Phantom merely shrugged and returned his attention to his lunch once more, Maurice shot his friend a little grin. "You'd like to know, eh? Well, no harm ever came from telling those you can trust. No, madame, stay, that includes you."

"Thank you, marquis."

"You're welcome." Maurice gave a little chuckle which seemed strangely out of character somehow. "After all, Raoul says you're family." The cook actually flushed pink at that compliment, and Meg just had to smile. "You see, we're part of an actual conspiracy. In order to rid ourselves of the Commune, we're employing the Prussians and their allies."

"What?" Meg blurted out, then clapped her hand to her mouth. She was behaving like a silly little girl once again, something she really did not want to do before all those nice young men!

Maurice gave her a little grin, which made her want to kick him from under the table. Sadly, he sat too far from her to kick him accurately; she was rather jammed between the Phantom and Christine, and besides, she might hit Roger instead. Moreover, Senta had moved to lie under the table, where she noisily lapped up the fresh bowl of water the cook had just brought her.

"What do you mean by this?" the cook asked, straightening up and wiping off her moist hands – Senta had licked them gratefully – on her apron.

"Treason," Raoul said darkly. "My father told me just the other day."

"And you never told me?" The Phantom did not snarl, yet Meg felt there was a hint of menace in his tone nonetheless.

"Sorry. My father wanted me not to speak of it to anyone. He made me promise." Yes, and Raoul did not break his promises, Meg was sure he never would. Raoul was a man of honour if she had ever met one.

"Anyway," Maurice continued after another forkful of lasagne, "we're trying to end this war as quickly as possible, seeing as it's lost already."

"It's not lost yet!" Roger protested, his smooth, youthful features indignant.

"Metz fell yesterday," the Phantom said quietly. "Do you know what that means?"

At first Roger just stared at him with his mouth slightly open, and Meg could clearly hear his intake of breath, a gentle hiss amid the clattering of knives and forks on plates. Then he slowly nodded.

"Another army marching from the west," Raoul answered instead of him. "Free contingents to beat off Gambetta."

"Precisely," Maurice agreed. "And the chance of leading the people of Paris into an uprising about equals that of Gambetta succeeding in defeating all those armies and breaking the siege. Even if we could overthrow Delannay, we would be far too weakened to destroy the ring from within. And winter's coming. From what we know, the Prussians have all the resources they need to outlast it. Whereas we have not. Listen, food's being rationed already, and it won't be long now until they start slaughtering all the horses we don't necessarily need. This war must end in order for us to survive."

Suddenly picturing the population of Paris dying of starvation, Meg felt her stomach twist into a knot, and she lowered her fork again, trying to swallow what seemed to block her throat. "But…" she began weakly. "But… if we starve… if people die… Delannay will surrender, won't he?" Please, please, just say he will!

"Never," Maurice answered curtly. "Not Delannay."

"But can't we make him somehow?" She knew she sounded stupid, but, for Heaven's sake, the Communards would not want to starve themselves! And they could not do this! They could not just let the inhabitants of the besieged city die! "Erik, can't you?"

"The Communards are many, child." This time the Phantom sounded weary, maybe even as if he had pondered that question before and come to conclusions which were all hopeless. "How do you expect me to manipulate every single one of them at once?"

"They're fanatical," Raoul interjected. "They consider themselves better patriots than even the emperor was. Besides, the German countries are all ruled by kings and princes and counts – by nobility. Can you see Delannay surrendering to a representative of the system he hates so much?"

Meg felt her eyes burn as they filled with tears at the hopelessness of the situation. Why, why on earth did this have to happen? Why did she have to live in such times? Oh, how lucky she had been only months ago to live in peace, and how oblivious to the blessing it was! Gazing into her plate of lasagne, she suddenly did not feel hungry anymore, even though the smell filling her nostrils still was delicious as ever.

But there must be something they could do! Just anything! There must be!

As if the Phantom had read her thoughts – and somehow she suspected he had – he laid his knife and fork down on his plate and said, quietly, "But we will not allow them to."

And at once the knot inside Meg's body did not feel as hard, as painful as it had felt before. Yes, there was something. Erik would not let Delannay do anything of that kind. Erik would deal with Delannay.

"That's where Erik comes in," Maurice continued, with a curt nod at the Phantom. The ferret squeaked, and he fed it another little bit of meat. "He's the only one stealthy enough to still slip in and out of the city, and he'll slip straight into the Prussians' camp, too, to deliver a message of Chateaupers's to Nordstedt."

"Nordstedt?" Roger repeated, and Meg was equally curious to hear who or what this Nordstedt might be, even though what Maurice had just revealed was exciting enough on its own already. Oh, Erik! Would he take her along perhaps? Well, maybe not exactly a good idea, but still…

"Walther von Nordstedt. The man in command of the force besieging us." Maurice cast a short glance around to see whether there were any more questions, smiled briefly at the cook's look of open-mouthed incredulity, and then continued. "He'll deliver the letter and carry back Nordstedt's answer, and then we'll see what is to be done. We all are aware that this is not exactly a pleasant option, maybe having to fight it all out in the city, so we'll try and find a way around that, but that's Nordstedt's concern already, he's the military man. We'll see whether he's ready to negotiate, and we'll see about his terms."

"But does he really care about the city?" Christine asked into the silence that ensued. "If they fight a battle in the middle of the city… many innocents will die."

"Aren't they dying already?" Maurice asked grimly. "Anyway, it's unpleasant for a conqueror, too, so Nordstedt will try to avoid it at all costs. Don't be afraid." Fending off the ferret, who tried to climb into his plate, he scraped up the last bit of tomato juice and béchamel sauce remaining, and Meg seriously wondered how he had just managed to finish his lasagne so fast while talking most of the time. "And when they attack, we attack. We'll strike at the strategic points in order to end it all more quickly. Once again, Chateaupers is thinking of Erik here."

"For all the strategic points?" Raoul asked doubtfully. "He'll need an army."

Maurice shrugged. "Chateaupers thinks he's quite capable of leading one."

"I can't." The Phantom spoke rather sharper than Meg would have expected, and with such angry intensity that Meg almost edged away from him. Lord above, no reason to get that furious, now was there?

"Erik," Christine began, tentatively, while Raoul was frowning at the tablecloth. "You know, perhaps –"

"This is not me," he interrupted, quietly but very decidedly, and Meg suddenly wondered whether he might be referring to some discussion he and Christine had had earlier on. "You know it's not. And it never was."

"But you've had it so often now," she insisted, and Meg was sure now that they were simply continuing something they had spoken about before. "Maybe you'll know how to do it."

"No," he insisted. "You've seen it yourself, and I'm sorry I made you. There's nothing I can learn from it."

"It wasn't your fault. I don't blame you." Christine hesitated for a moment. "I'm sorry I brought it up."

"Never mind."

Both Raoul and Roger were throwing her a questioning look by now, but Christine ignored it and looked at her plate instead. What was it she was keeping from everyone else? What was it she was not even telling Raoul about?

"Well…", Maurice began, casting the Phantom a glance before he returned his attention to his furry pet.

"Could I have a word?" the Phantom interrupted, addressing Christine over Meg's head. "Now." There was a surprising urgency in his voice, Meg noticed, and she seriously wondered what was the matter with him, and what secret he and Christine shared.

Was she jealous? No, of course not, Christine was her best friend! Or, to be honest, maybe a little bit. But just a little bit. No more than that. Certainly not.

Again Christine hesitated, then she nodded. "Alright." Then she gave the others an embarrassed little smile. "I'm sorry. We'll be back in a moment, and I'll tell you what was wrong."

From the look the Phantom was wearing, Meg guessed that he would prefer to keep it quiet, but if Christine had said so, then at least Raoul would certainly be let in on the secret.

Which meant Meg might be left out once again.

It was not right to think so, she reproached herself. They all were her friends, and they were entitled to have some secrets. And Roger and Maurice weren't told, either, most likely.

Yes, but had Roger and Maurice been there when she and the Phantom and Christine and Raoul had battled the Lost Ones? No! It had been her who had stood at her friends' side, not someone else!

But she had not been too useful, actually, she had to admit to herself. Well, maybe she had shown Raoul and Christine the way down to that hall Créon and those others had been occupying, the way she had discovered earlier on, so they could free the Phantom from the Lost Ones' clutches, but apart from that, there was no major achievement she could recall. Raoul had accompanied the Phantom more often than she had, and he had really fought down there, while she had just added to those gypsy servants' general confusion by waving a pointy object at them, mainly, and the actual work had been left to the men, to the Phantom, Raoul, Gaston and Serge mostly, and Leclair, maybe. Whereas she and Xavier and the other girls had not done much exactly… except Christine, of course. Christine had guided them and helped the Phantom and even saved his life in the end, in some complex battle of minds Meg did not quite understand. No, Christine and Raoul had done much more than she had.

All the same, she had been there. And she always was there when the Phantom needed someone. As if it were her fault he preferred Christine, she thought in a flare-up of sudden anger.

And she had a right to know what this was about. "If you'll excuse me for a moment," she told the others. Getting up decidedly, she left the kitchen as the Phantom and Christine just had. No doubt, the others would think she was visiting the lavatory or something. But she would go and find out what those two were up to.

Once out of eyeshot, she treaded as softly as possible, and she was glad for the thick carpet in the corridor muffling her footsteps. Where could they have gone? She strained her ears for any spoken word, yet all she could hear was someone – probably Millet, Chateaupers's butler, since there were very few servants in the house, as it seemed – busy with something in the drawing room, what exactly she could not quite determine. Biting her upper lip with concentration, she carefully ventured another few steps – and then at once she thought she could hear voices from directly ahead. Passing large and slightly dusty bookshelves as the corridor broadened, she followed them quietly until she came to the point where the corridor broadened even further and led around a corner into a room she had not entered before, just where a display of china vases stood, and then turned into the passage to the upper floor staircase and the one leading down to the cellar level where the billiard-table stood. Meg could not help but grin at the thought of this highly amusing game.

But soon enough the thought of billiard was driven out of her mind again, for now she could hear the voices clearly, and although they were not speaking very loudly, she could understand what they were saying. Edging a little closer carefully, Meg tried to breathe as softly as possible.

"I don't want to see it again," the Phantom was saying fiercely, and Meg could vividly imagine his eyes flashing as he spoke. "I'm sick of it. And I won't believe it."

"You're frightened, Erik." Christine spoke very gently, very soothingly, as if to a child. "You're afraid of falling asleep."

"I am." His voice was rough, tormented somehow. Could he possibly be speaking of those nightmares he had mentioned, those strange nightmares of battles and burning towers? "I feel they're infiltrating me. They're trying to force me to… to be what they show me I am. But I'm not!" At once there was grim determination in his voice, and desperate defiance. "I'm not, and I never was! I'm no angel!"

"I know, Erik. I know."

"And I can't do it. I can't lead an army. I'm not who you saw in that dream."

"Oh, Erik…" Christine sighed, and Meg wondered how she could possibly have seen anything of that nightmare. "It's a dream. Just a dream. You are who you are. And you can lead your men because it's you who is leading them, not because you're having nightmares about the fall of the Pillars of Heaven. Say, does Chateaupers know about those dreams?"

"No."

"Then don't tell him," Christine said firmly. "Not yet."

It seemed to Meg that the Phantom was growling. "Not ever."

"Eventually, maybe. He's a friend."

"But he thinks what Créon thinks I am." The Phantom's voice sounded pressed, strained, as if it were hard for him to keep himself from shouting.

"Forget about Créon. It's nothing but a dream."

"Christine…" He was speaking very softly now, and Meg had to strain her ears to catch every word he was saying. "What if Créon was right?"

Meg felt her insides freeze, though she did not quite understand why. Créon. He had scared her, more than anyone else had ever scared her… but what was it he was right about? What had he told the Phantom? Some strange stories, from what he had said, and from what she had heard herself, strange tales about his past, more like legends than anything else. How could they be true?

How could they frighten the Phantom so, the one who feared nothing in the world?

"I haven't told you everything." There was a tremor in his voice now, and at once Meg felt frightened, too. When he was, how should she not? He was so much braver than she was, and he had been there to protect her these past months, but how could she feel safe any longer if he did not? It was foolish, maybe, but all the same, she suddenly felt as if it all depended on him… as if the Lost Ones and the Communards and all that frightened her would come and get her now.

"Don't speak about it if you don't feel ready for it." Strange how Christine had suddenly taken charge, her childhood friend, a girl of seventeen, so much younger than he was. But suddenly it seemed to Meg that she was the adult now, and he nothing but a little boy.

"I must." He sounded determined, but all the same, Meg still thought to catch a frightened undertone. Maybe she was imagining things – and she hoped she was – but maybe she was not… "About my father. I told you my mother didn't know him, and all she could tell me was that he looked like me." There was a brief pause; but for Meg it seemed to stretch into eternity while she waited with baited breath. "I was lying, and I'm sorry. I have no father."

Pressing a hand to her mouth, Meg managed to stifle her gasp just in time. What was he telling her friend there? Did he really mean to say… No. It was impossible. How could he ever mean anything like that?

"You believe me, don't you?" Was there really a hint of bitterness in his voice?

"I believe your eyes." How could Christine be so calm when she said anything of that kind? How could she, in the face of what he had just told her?

"I did not believe it myself, at first. And I still don't want to. But I saw it in her memories. I know she wasn't lying."

"Maybe…" Christine hesitated. "Maybe she's… a little crazy…" But she sounded quite unconvinced, somehow.

"That's what I thought. But it still doesn't explain why I saw myself in her memories. Myself as I am in those dreams."

"My God," Christine whispered, and inwardly Meg repeated the same. Heavens have mercy on you, Erik, who are you? Who are you really?

"I'm my own father, Christine. She saw me on that night when she conceived me. I didn't watch what that vision of me or whatever it was did exactly, but I have a pretty good idea. She had that dream, and then I was reborn."

Christine was whispering something to him, soothing words from the way it sounded, but Meg could not quite understand. She just stood dumbfounded, feeling as if the world slowly revolved all around her.

"Please, Christine. Tell me that I'm no angel." He was pleading, like a frightened animal seeking shelter from a predator it knew it could not elude in the end.

But Christine said nothing, nothing at all. Meg wanted to run over to him, to hug him tight and tell him whatever it was he wanted to hear, but she found she could not. All she could do was stand there and stare at the tapestry beside her, those red roses entwining, myriads of red roses…

Red roses. He was everywhere, it seemed. Everywhere.

My God, why did I have to go and listen? Why?

But then he spoke again, and a change seemed to have come over him. "No. I won't give in so easily. I won't believe it. It's all Créon's fault."

"It was only a dream, Erik. Only a dream." But Christine did not sound convinced, somehow, nor did her voice carry the defiance Meg had heard in his.

"And a nasty one." He sighed heavily. "I'm really sorry for making you witness it."

Witness it? Now what was he talking about this time? Meg felt confused and unsettled enough already without him irritating her with sudden topic changes. Suddenly she felt like kicking him in the shin for being a nuisance. But only a bit, not too hard.

"It's not your fault," Christine assured him, like she had done just before in the kitchen. "You didn't do it on purpose. You thought I might be able to shield your dreams like you used to do with me for so many years…" There was a short pause, in which Meg frowned at the tapestry hard, trying to get her mind back to a proper pace. For many years? Of course, he had been her Angel of Music, and she had seen him in her dreams… but had he been shielding them, then? Controlling them, even? Somehow this was not very surprising. Unexpected, perhaps, but she should have guessed so. "Maybe I should not have tried it while sleeping," Christine continued. "I mean, when you do it, you wake whenever anything bothers me, and you change it. But I… I can't. I don't know why. Maybe because I don't wake as easily as you. Or because I'm doing this all with borrowed powers."

Ah, so this was how it worked! The delight at discovering the answer to a riddle she had wondered about almost drove away the uneasy feeling that still was over her, and the sensation of… loss? Of loss? Did hearing strange things, to say the very least, about Erik really… hurt her so? It was Créon, she told herself, Créon was giving her that feeling; he had scared her so much, after all.

But still…

"They're yours to keep." A little of the gloom seemed to have lifted, and suddenly there was a hint of amusement in his voice. Strange, it occurred to Meg, how a tiny change in his mood could affect everybody else, even a hidden listener…

"But all the same, I got them from you, in some way I still don't understand."

"Neither do I. But maybe I'll yet figure it out." There was a moment's silence, in which Meg held her breath not to be discovered, wondering how it was exactly Christine had learned to read the Phantom's mind. Somehow, her mother had suspected, some of his powers had seeped over into her unnoticed while their minds had been entwined in dreams, but to Meg, it did not sound too plausible, though she had not told her mother so, of course. Yet she had no other explanation to offer.

"Perhaps I'm getting like you, too," the Phantom suggested, and though it was not quite clear from his voice, Meg was sure he was smiling now. Whatever happened, however depressed he really felt, he always was back on his feet once the others needed him to give them strength. But what did he really feel like, underneath all that?

"Are you?" Christine certainly was smiling in return, she sounded like it.

"Maybe… You know, maybe I'll start giggling now and fussing over Raoul's silly hair and squealing when poked –"

"Squealing?" she repeated.

"And gossiping," he finished, quite unabashed.

"I don't gossip!" Christine protested, while Meg used her fist to stifle a giggle, astounded at how fast he had managed to change everybody's mood completely. "Anteater!"

Though she was trying very hard, Meg could not quite silence a snort of laughter this time, yet luckily Christine's merry giggle – undoubtedly at his expression – made it inaudible.

His soft chuckle was only too well known to her. "Again the humorous animal nicknames?" The tender fondness in his voice sent a twinge of jealousy through Meg, though she felt a little ashamed of herself immediately. But then all happiness left his voice once more, to leave it cold and expressionless, empty as a barren field in winter. "No, but I'm serious. It's only a dream, and still I can't go on like that."

"You need rest," Christine said earnestly.

"How? There's nobody who can banish those dreams, is there? They won't let me rest."

Christine replied to this, but Meg did not understand what she said, for precisely then a hand was suddenly pressed over her mouth, and she was pulled backwards by the shoulder, away from her two friends. Too surprised and shocked to properly fight back, she struggled only feebly, and at the same time she felt shame flood her, shame at having just been caught eavesdropping.

Once they had turned the corner, she was released once more, and she spun around to face whoever had just pulled her away, intent on telling him what she was doing was none of his business, and that she had every right to eavesdrop if she wanted, and – "Raoul!"

"Hush!" he hissed, bringing up a finger towards his lips.

"What were you doing?" Oh, Heavens, he would know exactly what she had been doing, of course… Suddenly she wished she could just stamp a hole into the ground, no matter if that would damage the carpet, and disappear. And that she could not made her angry enough to kick Raoul in the shin really hard, yet at the same time, those earnest, gentle blue eyes simply could not be looked at while kicking their owner. Fuming inwardly, Meg stared at her own feet instead.

Raoul was silent for a moment, as if he were pondering the question. "They'll let you know when they're ready," he then said, gently, but firmly. "Until then, it's none of our business."

"What do you mean?" Meg asked, then felt like boxing her own ears for pretending to be so stupid. Raoul knew exactly that she had understood, and she knew that he knew.

Why did she always have to appear like a silly little girl to all the good-looking young men? Why did she always manage to make a bad impression? She felt the blood rush into her cheeks, and blushing made her feel even more stupid than she had felt already.

Raoul chose not to comment on her last remark. "Give them time," he insisted. "I know it's not easy, but we must trust them."

And to think he was Christine's fiancé, and the Phantom his rival… At once Meg could only admire him for what was true generosity. How much he must love Christine! "It must be hard for you," she said, feeling foolish. And she was not able to be like he was, and most likely she never would…

He sighed softly, almost inaudibly. "Yes," he said. "It is." Bowing his head, he swallowed, then he cleared his throat a little nervously – strange, he had no reason to be nervous – and nodded towards the other end of the corridor. "Come. They'll wonder where we've gone."

The blood still pulsing hotly in her cheeks, Meg accompanied him back to the kitchen, intent on keeping it a secret between them that she had tried to spy on her friends.

But all the same, she could not help wondering what kind of dream this must be, this nightmare the Phantom had mentioned several times now, and to her as well, that he was trying to reassure himself so hard it was only a nightmare and nothing more…