I do recall begging you not to worry in a previous letter. Please, my Christine, if I must hire a cab and have the driver push the steed into a gallop so I may fall at your feet and beg for your good, sweet nature to grace this earth once more, make no mistake, I should do so in a heartbeat.

I nearly cried when I read that sentence, because it was at that moment that my wild imagination and I envisioned Erik, in his black mask, his cloak and his suit, jumping from a speeding carriage, sprinting across the lawn and throwing himself at my feet before this marble bench in the vast expanse of the de Chagny House garden. But when I opened my eyes, I was reminded that my fantasies remained locked away inside my overreacting mind.

I was sitting outside in the garden when Caitlin brought me the day's post, reading a copy of a book by a Monsieur V. Hugo, which wasn't very suitable for a lady, but amused me all the same.

Caitlin didn't ask when I threw the book down beside me and snatched the letter, tearing it open and pulling out its contents. She simply bit her lip, curtsied and headed back indoors.

Now, as I sat at my writing desk, tapping my dry pen against the table, I was hit with too many thoughts to put down on paper.

May 22nd, 1886.

To my fondest Erik,

I appreciate your concern, but I must ask again that you do not worry too much for me. My life here is the stuff of childhood dreams. It is a life like this that I would imagine you would have led, had nature been fair to you.

Banquets are seldom held at this House, but, with so many families of higher names in France, there are always celebrations somewhere, or courting seasons, festivals, baptisms, weddings and every other type of event worthy of good food and wine you can think of! One does get quite tired of it all after some time however. There are, afterall, only so many social outings one can bear per month.

The gossip you ask for is plenty. There are stories of adultery almost every week, and it is being speculated that a certain Count's cousin managed to shoot his poor friend in a row over his fiancée! Of course, you will remember that gossip never really interested me. Still, I find certain stories, however wild and ridiculous, to be quite enthralling and exciting! Even if they are not true (and some I hope are not!) they still provide ten minutes of chat between my friends and I.

There was once a rumour that the Opera Ghost had been sighted in Paris, purchasing a casket of ginger spices at a market stall. Naturally, all attention turned to me for a few weeks. I did wonder if it was you at all, as you've never usually allowed yourself to be seen, let alone recognised. That was three years ago.

And two weeks later, I'd begun to have those dreadful headaches and shed mournful tears, for the stranger at the twins' birthday seemed to confirm my fears of Erik's living. Still, I couldn't very well put that in my letter, so I dipped my pen once more and continued.

I find myself compelled to point out that, in your previous letter, you misused a comma. I'm afraid it changed the meaning of the sentence entirely and I don't quite understand. You see, you wrote 'My dearest, Christine' and not 'My dearest Christine,". Did you mean to consume all my thoughts with this single flick of your pen or was it a mere mistake of the hand?

Anyhow, I must tell you about little Philippe. You'll never guess, but his governess told me just yesterday that he has been accepted to join a prestigious school quite near Paris (forgive me, the name escapes my mind. Perhaps I shall write it at the bottom of this letter if I remember)! As for Christopher, he is to be sent to an academy of music in September!

Though I am proud of them - how could I not be? - I cannot help but wonder how they will manage without each other, for they are the most amiable of companions and spend every waking hour playing Revolutions on the carpet with those accursed soldiers Christopher is officially 'collecting'. Collecting, I say, with the money he's robbing me of in exchange for his silence in regards the secret correspondence I share with you. And he is not yet even six years of age, the little monkey!

I do hope you are keeping well! When the boys start school this Autumn, I shall be sure to write to you with the progress reports their teachers will post to Raoul. I know you are interested in their lives, which fills me with a sort of comfort. Raoul is practically bouncing off the walls with glee and I find it quite pleasant to relay my thoughts to you by letter, where I am not interrupted every two sentences by someone grabbing me and spinning me in excitable, ballroom circles around the dining room.

I remain,
Your Christine.

Postscript: Marius Desrosiers has even promised to pay for part of Christopher's schooling in the hopes of being a future patron! Can you imagine my little boy on the Opera Garnier's stage? How magnificent that day will be, with you watching from Box Five on the grand tier and I from the box opposite with Raoul! I look forward to it! Adieu, mon ange, adieu for now.