Thanks to: Hero Sis, Appa, Lisa (haha, like the new word), trueurbanite (you know I was just teasing, right? I could care less whether you sign in or not. :D), phantomluver, Writer (it's in the dictionary! ahh!), PrincessSYS, and of course all the lovely readers.

Hopefully you like this chapter...I'm attempting to give the character of Mama Valerius more depth, as well as setting up a couple of future plot points I've had in mind for a very long time now...

disclaimer: I own nothing.

chapter 7 (part two)

"Come in."

I tried the handle and found it unlocked.

Mama Valerius had her back turned as I entered. "Hello, Meg," she said.

Shocked into silence, I could only gape stupidly at her.

She turned around slowly, a grin on her face. "Surprised you?"

I nodded.

She laughed. "Sorry, dear. It's a peculiar habit I have."

I smiled. Of surprising people?

"No, dear, of course not," she continued, as if she had heard my thoughts. "I recognize footsteps."

My mouth formed into a little "o" of realization, but my heart rate was still rather accelerated. It was only a coincidence that she was able to answer my question…no one had the ability to read thoughts.

Erik? a small part of me prompted.

I smiled lightly. There were, of course, exceptions…

"…and Mrs. Brown two doors down clunks around, but you—and Erik, I suppose, but I never hear him approach, so that counts him out, doesn't it? You, though, have a nice, graceful step, sort of like that of a nice little Japanese girl I met a few years back…tell me, dear, have you ever been to the Orient?"

It was only through comments like these—so similar to several I had heard before in the past—that I knew what she was talking about. "Ah, non, je suis un danseur," I said, hoping she would understand me, as I didn't quite know how to say it in English.

"Ah! Maintenant je comprends… Quelle sorte de danseur êtes-vous, cher?" she said, with such fluency that I answered back immediately.

"Je suis une ballerine."

"Wonderful!" she exclaimed, speaking English again. "You must show me sometime."

I was aghast; my mind had caught up with reflex, and I had finally identified what was so strange about the conversation. "You…you speak French?" I asked in my native tongue, just to make sure.

"Yes, actually," she replied, comfortable with the language. The familiarity sent a rush through my veins. "Though you understand English and should be learning how to speak it, I decided it would be much more beneficial to our conversation if I spoke to you like this."

"Thank you. You have no idea what this means to me…"

"You'd be surprised," she said with a grin. "Honestly, Meg, you give nosy neighbors like me too much credit."

I laughed. "I wouldn't classify you as nosy, really," I said. Which was true; growing up in the Opera had taught me that there was no such thing as privacy amongst those that lived in tight quarters. And Mama Valerius' concern about her tenants was almost apathy when compared to some of the girls I knew in the corps. "Well-meaning, perhaps, but not nosy."

"'Well-meaning'?" She chuckled. "That's a new one."

I smiled as well, I couldn't help it; her cheer was contagious. "Glad to be of assistance, Mrs. Valerius."

"Oh, dear, we've been over that…feel free to call me Mama, everyone else does."

"Of course. Thank you, Mama." The woman's openness almost made my eyes water; what I wouldn't have given for my own mother to be like this…

"Would you like some lunch, Meg? I have a few sandwiches handy."

"Oh!" I was starving, I couldn't remember the last time I'd actually eaten something. "Oh, yes, please, that would be wonderful."

She immediately stood and bustled about in her kitchen for bit, leaving me on the couch in the small parlor. I looked around, taking in my surroundings for the first time. Her apartment was substantially larger than mine and Erik's—and the rest of those in the small building, most likely—and was actually divided into a few rooms instead of the standard one-room-intended-for-multiple-purposes design. From my seat in the small, comfortable parlor-like area, I could see a short hallway leading to what I could only suppose must be a couple of bedrooms. In the opposite direction was the kitchen, from which I could still hear noises corresponding to Mama Valerius' search for the alleged sandwiches, and another hallway that could have led to a pantry or small storage closet.

The decor was distinctly…cheery; light colors and flowers and sunlight everywhere, adding to the definite "home" aura of the place, only augmented by the tell-tale portraits over the mantelpiece above the small fireplace. I sighed inwardly, some feminine instinct awakened within me; as I gazed around at the tidy flat, I couldn't help but imagine myself and Erik coming to own one very much like this sometime in our future.

"Here you are, dear," said Mama Valerius, and I turned around in surprise to see her emerge from her kitchen with a tray laden with all sorts of food. "I figured you would be hungry, since I haven't seen you—or Erik, for that matter—at a meal in nearly two days…unless you two found time to eat something?"

I blushed deeply, and she laughed, putting the tray on the worn but still beautiful coffee table in front of me before sitting beside me on the sofa. "It's perfectly all right, my dear, I know exactly how that sort of thing goes. Feel free to eat as much as you'd like," she said, before standing up and reseating herself in a squashy-looking armchair next to the couch, angling it in my direction.

I merely sat and ate for a while, reveling in the company, but soon I felt the compulsion to say something. Pouring myself a second glass of lemonade from the pitcher that Mama Valerius had seen fit to include on the tray, I said, "You're terribly kind to offer all this food… You see, Erik often goes days at a time without eating anything, and he sometimes forgets that I'm not like him."

Mama Valerius raised an eyebrow. "And not once over the span of two days did you see fit to remind him?"

I blushed again, and she laughed. "Only teasing, Meg. Like I said, you can have as much as you'd like, it's no trouble at all." She paused, following my example and pouring herself a glass of lemonade, sipping it thoughtfully. "You say Erik goes days without eating?"

I nodded. "Sometimes, yes. Usually when he's working on something." My thoughts fluttered to the stack of sheet music on the battered desk at the far end of our apartment, and I wondered if he could be working on one of his compositions right now, imagined him pacing, ranting under his breath about his inability to compose without a piano there, and then doing it anyway.

"Odd. Ever since I've met you two, he's shown up to nearly every meal."

I smiled wryly. "I think it's because he likes your cooking."

She laughed. "My dear, I wouldn't be at all surprised if that were the case."

She laughed again, I joining her, before falling once more into comfortable silence. Eventually, she asked me, "How old are you, Meg?"

"I'll be nineteen in a few weeks."

I saw the glimmer of shock on her face before she continued, "And how long have you and Erik been married?"

That took a little more thought. "About…five months? We were married at the end of May."

She nodded. "That seems about right…" She sighed, leaning forward in her chair, regarding me with something akin to pity in her eyes. "So the dream is beginning to fade, am I right? And you're still so young…"

I toyed with the idea of saying that being with Erik was anything but a dream, even at the beginning, but I knew that the moment I said it I would be lying. "It's…difficult at times, yes."

"Oh, my dear, I can imagine. He's very volatile, isn't he?"

I smirked inwardly; poor Mama Valerius didn't know the half of it. "That's one way to describe him, I suppose. But I love him very much."

"Yes, I can see that." She tried smiling again, but it died half-way on her lips, not quite making it to her eyes. She paused for a moment, as if gathering her thoughts, then began again, "My dear, you must realize…"

"If this is about the other tenants, don't worry, Mama, I know what they think, and so does Erik," I said, my voice a little harsher than I had originally intended. "I know it seems like he doesn't care, but—"

"Once again, you give me far too much credit." Her smile was a grim one, fiercer. "Very little goes on in this building that isn't brought to my attention sooner or later." She looked at me, and I suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable, like I was being visually chewed up and swallowed.

"Anyone can see that you love him," she continued, her scrutiny of me softening a little. "That much is evident from the way you look at him, the way your eyes light up while you talk about him. I'd almost say that it's youthful infatuation, but there's also a sort of sadness, a bitterness…jealousy, perhaps? The way you carry yourself speaks otherwise, however; so proud, so defiant… You are your own mistress, are you not? Or wish to be, at least. And not even nineteen?" She tutted quietly, shaking her head. "Yes, Meg, there is obviously more to you than that pretty face, much more. What has happened in your short life to make you so, my dear? And married so young, to a man at least twice your age, a true beast to your beauty…" She faded into silence, staring intently at me, curiosity unbridled.

I looked away from her, staring instead at my lap. I knew why she wanted to know about everything—Erik and I were the strange enigmas in her well-ordered world—but I was unsure whether or not to trust her with the whole truth. I highly doubted that news of the Opera scandal had even made it across the Atlantic immediately after its occurrence, let alone nearly two years after the fact, but I couldn't risk it; I didn't want to jeopardize Erik and our life here with careless actions that could potentially result in our arrest or, even worse, being deported and taken back to France. As far as I was concerned, a return to France, no matter how much I wished it otherwise, meant certain death for Erik, and possibly for myself as well. We could only run for so long, and once caught, we would have to stand trial…and, no matter how much I had loathed them at one or more points in the past, I couldn't bear even thinking about my mother and Christine having to witness such a thing.

"Of course, you don't have to tell me anything, dear," said Mama Valerius, interrupting my thoughts and the bleak direction they had taken, something for which I was extremely grateful, and I let out a small sigh of relief at both this and what she had just said. "No, of course you don't… I was only thinking aloud, you must forgive me for making you uncomfortable."

"Oh, it's fine, Mama. It wasn't any worse than anything else I've been through, I promise."

"I don't doubt it," she replied, the fierceness returning for a moment, but this time protective rather than predatory. "Speaking of which: I've been…ah…chiding those whom I've heard saying rude things about you two behind your backs." She attempted to look contrite, even embarrassed, but her large smile ruined it.

I laughed. "Well, everyone is entitled to their own opinion, I suppose, but…thank you, Mama, I really appreciate it."

"Of course dear, it's the least I can do." She paused, looking at me again, then sighed softly. "Meg, you remind me so much of someone…"

"Who?" I asked, curious.

"Myself, if you can believe it. I was actually raised in France…ah, I haven't told you that? I was born here, in New York; my mother died in childbirth with me, so I was sent by my father off to live with his sister in Paris. He was a merchant, so he traveled quite a lot, and he thought it more appropriate that I have a more stable living situation rather than roaming everywhere along with him.

"When I was seventeen, I lived in Sweden for a while, at first only vacationing with a close friend of mine; then I met Tomas.

"He was nothing more than the local tailor; both my father and my aunt would have denounced him as 'trash'…in fact, I think both of them did, on several occasions." She grinned, then continued, "We were both very young, and very much in love…my father was against the match, obviously, didn't want his only child associating with the likes of a poor Swedish tailor, but I didn't care. I stayed with his parents for about six months while he worked, getting extra money from various odd jobs, and with the help of a friend we were able to elope and leave for the States.

"We owed him so much, Tomas and I…even though he was younger than us, he was able to help in so many ways. He was a traveling musician, a violinist, and he already had enough of a reputation that he was able to have us escorted out of the country and on a ship heading for New York." She sighed, a faraway look coming to her eyes. "Lovely Gustave…I wonder whatever happened to him."

Gustave? I'd heard that name before, but I couldn't quite place it, and the sudden feeling of uneasy familiarity was overwhelming. "Your friend…you said he played an instrument?" I asked; why was this scenario so familiar?

"Yes, he played violin; it was his dream to make it to all of the huge concert halls in Europe."

"And…and what was his last name again?" My hands were shaking as I folded them and placed them in my lap.

"Oh, goodness, let me see…it's been so long…Daae, I think his name was. Yes, that's it: Gustave Daae."

I fought to keep my jaw from dropping, and settled for my eyes widening hugely instead. "I…I think I know his daughter," I said quietly. "Back in Paris…we danced together, in the same ballet corps."

She grew excited. "You do? How is he, did you ever meet him? Even after Tomas died I tried reestablishing contact with him, but I couldn't find him."

I bit my lip. "Unfortunately…the only reason that I met Christine, his daughter, was because my mother was charged with taking care of her after…after her father passed away."

Her expression grew somber. "Oh. Oh, I see…"

I reached out, placing my hand gently on one of her own. "Christine spoke of him often, though. He sounded like a good man."

She only nodded.

I sighed, coming to my feet. "I should go. Thank you for inviting me over for this talk, Mama, it means a lot to me."

She smiled gently. "Of course, dear, it was my pleasure. Just so you know, my door is open to you at anytime, should you ever need it."

I nodded, heading for the door. "Thank you… oh, Mama Valerius?" I paused, turning around to look at her from where she still sat in her armchair.

"Yes, what is it?"

"Could you…could you possibly not mention to anyone—particularly Erik—about Monsieur Daae? He…the name upsets him," I said, hoping my vagueness would not prompt questions, knowing they undoubtedly would.

I could see the question in her eyes, but she only said, "Of course, Meg."

"Thank you for everything again, Mama." I stepped over to the door, pulled it open, and shut it behind me quietly, then leaned against the wall in the hallway.

Daae. Mama Valerius knew Christine's father. I sighed; how could I have ever thought that by coming here Erik and I would be able to escape? Well, physically, we had. Emotionally, spiritually…we weren't even close. People could travel, could live in hundreds of places in one lifetime if they so chose, but their pasts, their memories came with them. I had purposely disillusioned myself into believing that we could escape our past by leaving the country, when, in reality, we were both constantly haunted by it. In each of us rested memories of our sordid histories in the Opera that had somehow become entwined, and only through our separation would we ever truly have a chance of escaping, of forgetting. But, of course, leaving Erik was the last thing I ever wanted to do, and then I realized that the trick to overcoming the past was not running from it, was not even learning from it, but simply living with it.