I slipped out of bed before Raoul could rise the next morning and called for Caitlin, who scurried up as fast as she could with my travelling dress. She helped me into it and combed my hair into its neat tresses like she did every morning.

But this dawn would not see me head down to breakfast and her to her morning tasks, no. My dawn would be quite different to my children's and husband's.

My concierge ordered the driver to prepare the carriage and, by seven in the morning, after checking in on my children and kissing them goodbye as they slept, Caitlin and I were headed for Paris.

We exchanged very few words, except when I asked for the driver to hurry and ran through a list of items I would have the girl buy to make it look like I'd been busy shopping, especially for the boys' birthdays.

The cold morning had fully broken by the time we reached the city, the streets already swarmed with women in their dresses and bustles and men in hats, canes tapping along with their steps.

The driver stopped along the Rue de l'Opéra and the footman opened the door for us. Caitlin got out before me to help me out. I clutched my letter in its envelope and picked up my dress before it could dirty itself in the horse muck at the side of the road.

"Do you have the list?" I asked Caitlin while the driver clicked to the horse and went to find a resting place for them both. Caitlin nodded and took it from her pocket. "Good. We shall meet here in two hours. If I'm not here by then..."

What would I do if Erik was alive, if he wasn't so heartbroken now as before? I was unchaperoned but for my maid, and I could hardly drag her down with me if Erik appeared in a rage. He could do any number of things!

No, I scolded myself, quite prepared to kick myself in the shin. Erik, for all he was quite, quite, mad, wouldn't hurt me. He had thrown himself at my feet and begged for love. Surely a man as broken as he couldn't lift a finger against the object of his affection.

But that was five years ago, and a lot had happened between that day in the House on the Lake and now.

I trekked up the Rue. The Palais Garnier loomed before me, so intimidating nowadays that I couldn't quite bear to look at it. I kept my eyes on my shoes, heart hammering in my throat. There were still residents in the Opera House, so the doors would be open. But how could I just walk into the place without a lawful reason to, and, whats more, go beyond the public space?

What if my dressing room was occupied?

Nonsense! Erik would never let anyone stay there anymore!

But what if Erik was no longer there?

By now, I found myself before the steps to the front door. No, it was too big a risk!

But what about one of the many secret entrances? I touched the key around my neck. It never left its chain there - superstition, I suppose - and it unlocked the gate in the Rue Scribe he'd once shown me...

Before I could lose anymore resolve, I hurried around to the street. I glanced over my shoulder, waiting for the perfect moment when no prying eyes would discover my secrets, for my secrets were Erik's secrets, and Erik's secrets concerned no one but himself.

I slipped the key into the lock and turned it, wincing when it clicked a bit too loudly. The gate swung open with a loud screech. I bit my lip, turning to check the faces of a few passing Parisians. But they remained stony and oblivious, chins tucked into their coats against the wind, hats pulled low. It wasn't very suitable weather for women, not when it was so cold.

I slipped into the passage and pushed the gate closed as softly as I could. Erik had once shown me the way from the House on the Lake to this exit, pointing out the path to my dressing room along the way. Now, if I could just remember which path...

I started along the passageway, lighting a torch as I went. There was no other light, but as I went I heard the giggles and voices of cast and crew members over my head. Was this how Erik saw the world? So close, but always too far, too hidden, with him always beneath the floorboards.

The passage was narrow, damp and dark. A few candles remained in their holders, but they clearly hadn't been lit in years and had gathered a lot of dust. I felt my way along for the most part, the torch already dying. Going to the House with so little fuel left would be suicide, so I steered for a path that jogged a vague memory, almost as if Erik were there ahead of me, guiding me and showing me all of his wonderful and awful mysteries.

The stone here was somewhat darker than it had been a few hundred paces back, almost as if it had been burned. I swallowed. Indeed, when I ran my hand over it, it was. I wondered if they'd ever tried to rebuild this part of the building. If they had, surely they would have found a passageway, and found Erik at the end of it, for all tunnels led to the House, for better or for worse.

The dying light shone back at me all of a sudden. I reached out and put my hand against the cold glass of a mirror, which should, if I pressed it right, turn on its axis...

There it was! The mirror turned and suddenly I was five years younger. I'd found my dressing room.

It was just as I'd left it. Even the pictures on the vanity table that I'd never collected remained. The furniture was as it should be and the candles hadn't burned down in the slightest. The only difference was the thick layer of dust that had descended and settled amongst my possessions.

I sat on the stool before the table, looking over the dim room with fondness and heartbreak. I caught sight of myself in the mirror, much older than before and weathered by the process of mothering and raising the children. Behind me, the big mirror I'd come through, through which Erik had taught me and admired me.

If I'd looked closer at that reflection, I would have seen the amber eyes peering back at me from the mirror. But I was too transfixed on the other difference in the room.

There, on the vanity table where I'd always kept my copy of the latest libretto or dance instructions, lay a single red rose, the thorns cut from it with precision. I picked it up and lifted it to my nose, inhaling the smell I always thought I'd go to my grave without knowing once more. It was a real rose, not a fake one left here years ago.

And that meant Erik was alive. He was here recently enough because it hadn't withered in the slightest.

I put the letter down on the table, blowing the dust off and tracing in the remainder: To my Angel of Music.

With that, I stood from the stool and headed for the mirror again, bringing the rose with me. One last look over my shoulder...

We were very much the same, this room and I. We'd both aged and were past the beauty of our younger, more exquisite days. I managed a soft smile and stepped through into the passageway. It would be a long time before I saw that room again, if ever.

A rush of goosebumps pricked my skin, a cool, stale breeze chilling me through. I pulled my shawl a little tighter around me and fetched the torch, which had, curiously enough, been heaped with more fuel.

I didn't look over my shoulder at the shadows that crept behind me but took the torch and headed back up the passageway. A shimmer of sunlight up ahead barely caught the damp stone floor.

The almost inaudible rustling of fabric made me stop still. I stared at the little patch of light for a moment, almost shaking my head at his amateur mistake. Turning carefully, I looked back down the passageway.

He was looking at the letter in shock, and when his glowing eyes wandered up to find me watching him two hundred yards ahead, he caught his cloak and, flicking it in a wide arc, disappeared into the darkness behind him.

"Au revoir, mon Ange," I whispered, turning away again and suppressing a smile. "Or should I say, salut?"

It was time to go back anyhow; Caitlin would need my help in finding certain presents for the children, and even Erik would understand my desire not to let them down.

For Erik, though he was a cold man of darkness and secrecy, was more than capable of understanding a mother's love, for he had once loved with a bond of similar power.