Disclaimer: I don't own either POTO nor Corpse Bride. But I like watching POTO whenever I can, and will certainly go to see Corpse Bride when it comes out. Just so you know!

Moonjava: I am glad indeed you like. Thanx for the rather more lengthy review on Memoirs of a Trap Door Apprentice – I appreciate, and am glad you appreciate in turn! Thanx again for reviewing!

MetalMyersJason: I am glad you noticed, and that you liked what you read! Here is another post, just for you, my friend! Now READ!

musicallover: Thank you for being so generally gushing. Well, not gushing, but certainly appreciative. I am glad I am one of your favourites. I like people liking me! It makes me feel fulfilled. I can't wait for Corpse Bride either – like I said, when we first saw it in the cinema my sister and I were just a little freaked; but a little while after I thought of it and compared it with Phantom; and suddenly, at about half past ten at night, it clicked! It was like Phantom! One desiree, two desirers - only the other way around concerning genders. The rest is virtually history! Everyone always does do Beauty and the Beast, 'cos it's that kind of story, I guess, and B&B always ends happily – gives them a chance to end Phantom happily as well! Patience; your desired chapter will be along soon…Damn; foreshaodwoing again! Sorry everyone!

Willow Rose (3?): Heya! Thanks for crushing me in a hug! I'm always doing it to other people; now I know what it feels like – and it hurts…anyway, glad you like your new laptop. And I think Flippy is a lovely name for it. Honest! I'm glad their fabulous – Ab Fab! Enjoy this one! I repeat, enjoy! And blessed be indeed!

SimplyElymas: Sadly, there's no embroidery in this chapter for you to glomp. There's a nice dress, though! I guess we all forget our lines once in a while – apart from my sister. Seriously. Ever heard of 'Xanadu'? Well, Lucie learnt the whole of that off by heart for her Speech and Drama exam. I can't beat that, dammit. And I'm supposed to be the literary one in the family! Poor Raoul, indeed. No doubt Raoul bashers are cheering me on to make him stupid. Well, I won't. So there.

Mominator124: No problem, luv. Anything for a faithful reviewer. The real action will begin soon, I promise – dammit, I'm doing it again! Darn! Sorry! But EC will come! Aaah! Couldn't stop myself from saying that!

Carkeys: Interesting username. I'm glad you love it. When will he come? Ask and you shall receive – oh, the writer above you is so going to have my head on a plate for that. But I shall just stick it back on again, as Andrew Lloyd Webber seems to do so well.

Ripper de la Blackstaff: Hi back! It's original, yay! I get a royalty for thinking of it, I hope! Raoul doesn't know his words; but he will not be going into the forest and so on and so forth. Don't get me wrong, I don't have anything against slash phics. I just don't like writing them. OR reading them. In any case, the title – 'Corpse groom' – wouldn't be accurate, since if it was a slash they wouldn't be able to get married, being in France in the nineteenth century. They probably wouldn't be able to get married even today, unless they went to Amsterdam or something. I hope I won't let it down either, believe me!

Morianerulz & Carlotta: You read a story called 'Coprse Groom', you have to expect a little morbidity. The way of the world, I guess. Just one of those things. Ah, life. Loath it or ignore it, you can't like it. Or is that the other way around? Anyway, glad you all like…I think.

Lydiby: You're welcome, luv! I promise I will try to make this as simple as I can – I know what's going to happen; just not sure how to get there yet! Oh well. C'est la vie. Here is the update – I hope you like! Cheers to you too, and chips and so on!

So, now we see from alternate views – view points which we haven't used for a while now. It's time for our beloved Madame Giry to take the stage once more – and some other characters. But no more! Read, and see!

Trials and Tribulations

'All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players.'

William Shakespeare.

Renée Giry had worn some extravagant outfits in her time. There was that gown she had worn at that truly odious ball, when she had been the not-quite escort of the Comte du Lamballe; a ridiculously over-elaborate creation of yellow silk and beading, seemingly attempting to make up for the obvious intent of he who had given it to her. And there had been the unfortunate incident with the Gisle dress, which had been far too over the top, in her opinion, for someone who was supposed to be dead and risen from the grave; when it had slipped down in mid performance and practically exposed her rather diminutive corset, and all the flesh that it failed to conceal – though her husband to be, who had been watching the performance, had certainly not been unappreciative of the unplanned display.

But this…she thought, as she ran a hand over the black silk of the dress that now lay upon her bed, this outdoes everything.

She had rarely seen such a dress that was so lavish and at the same time so elegantly simple, even in the old days of her triumphs upon the opera stage and afterwards in the foyers; fashioned in a style that would not look out of place on the lithe frames of Japanese geishas that she had seen in prints and even occasional photographs, the dress – more of a black and gold kimono, actually – lay upon her bed, as if the woman who had worn it before had simply lain down to rest, and in doing so had melted away, leaving the extraordinary garment where it lay.

Renée idly wondered who had worn the dress before her. It was obviously far too much to believe that it had been made especially for her; but she guessed that it had probably been brought out of storage somewhere; for her.

She sighed. She couldn't accept this. It was, of course, very kind of Comte Philippe the Younger to provide it for her, at such short notice; but she still could not accept it. She wasn't prepared to accept favours from the man, just so that she could fit in at that wretched masquerade ball they were having.

Besides, she knew how such a game worked – you couldn't live two weeks in the Opera House without learning how such games worked – and she knew that if a single woman starting receiving favours from a single man, there was bound to be assumptions at the least, let alone rumours. She couldn't risk her Meg falling under the shadow of suspicion of having a widowed mother who had an 'understanding' with a Comte. And in any case, she would never betray Georges; even if her morals were not so strict.

Meg, bless her, wouldn't see it like that at all; at least not at first. If the dress had arrived while her daughter was present, she knew, she wouldn't have had a moment's peace until she had at least tried the thing on.

It really was a very beautiful dress, though. There were special hairpins, to tie her hair back in just such a way as to suit the outfit.

There was even a fan…

Oh, for goodness sake.

She turned her back on the dress, and marched to the door. Then, on second thoughts, she doubled back; and hid the outfit, complete with its trimmings, in one of the many chests of drawers in the room. She didn't want a certain someone – or some ones – coming across the gift, and making assumptions.

That task having been carried out, she left her room, with one purpose in mind; to find the Comte, and have a polite but firm talk with him, and tell him, once and for all, that she would go in her own clothes to this ridiculous masquerade, if she went at all.

Of course she would first have to find him; and that could prove a daunting task, in a house like this. She decided to start with a basic search plan – finding out if someone else knew where he was. So saying – or rather thinking – she proceeded to make her way along to one of the smaller drawing rooms, where the Comte's two sisters were usually to be found.

Only in this case, it was only one to be found. As she pushed the door open, the Cometess du Barry looked sharply up from her book, where she sat by the fire. But she was alone; for the first time since Renée had met her. That in itself was an anomaly; the younger, former de Chagny sister was almost never by herself these days, for all that she did not speak to anyone other than her close family. Renée had long given up trying to engage the woman, who really was not much older than Christine and her own Meg, in conversation; she seemed almost drained of any emotion whatsoever, as well as her voice; caused by the treatment of her husband and his continuing infidelities. That man is truly a pig.

But all the same, Renée did not overly pity her. From what she knew, Celandine had given in far too easily. She had no time for women who did not make an effort to make their lives easier. And, as far as she could tell, Celandine had no time for her, either, as she wallowed in her own self pity.

So it was all the more of a surprise to her when the young woman actually tried to smile, though it seemed to cost her a great deal, and setting down her book, stood up, in order to speak.

"Are you looking for anyone, Madame Giry?" came her voice, slightly cracked – whether from tears or simply general disuse Renée had no idea.

"Yes – your brother, Madame. I was wondering if you had seen him around anywhere lately."

Celandine's forehead creased in thought. "I think he has gone to the library – he seemed annoyed about something, but I did not know what. He may still be there."

"Thank you, Madame. That is where I shall look," Renée replied, still keeping her voice calm and polite, and keeping back her surprise at Celandine's sudden talkativeness. Why, she had said more now than ever before, to her at least!

Though she was eager to find the Comte, she was also eager to cultivate this possible friendship, if for no other reason than because there would be one more person to talk to in this beautiful but vast and lonely house. And so she said, quite without thinking, "Are you looking forward to the masquerade, Madame?"

There was no perceptible change in the young woman's face; but it was as if a light had suddenly gone out in her eyes, leaving cold, dead lamps in their wake. But to her credit she spoke, and Renée heard only the barest quiver in her voice as she did so.

"Yes. Very much so. There will be many guests, I believe. La Sorelli, all the way from Paris, for one."

She said no more; but her silence told Renée all she needed to know. She had heard, while still in Paris, that La Sorelli, the newest star in the corps du ballet, was 'on terms' with somebody already, after only a few dances on the stage; and her wonderings about this mystery patron were now answered. How many mistresses does this man have? And to openly flaunt his latest one, in front of her…

Celandine, in the meantime, was attempting to smile again. "I hope you find my brother soon, Madame Giry," she said, softly, her voice catching at the end of the sentence. She paused, as if she would say more, but then suddenly choked, turned and fled the room. But even her flight was not swift enough to prevent Renée from seeing the sparkle of tears at the corner of her eye.

She sighed internally, as she exited through her own door. More complications…

Oh, the Devil take it. The Devil take it…

Philippe looked around in distraction at the piles of books lying around him. He seemed to have pulled every single book in this part of the library off the shelves; and yet there was no sign of that one. And now he was going to have to entertain the possibility that it had been taken. Again.

But by whom? Any number of people could have entered the library in the past two weeks, and taken it at any time; and he had no way of knowing. No way of knowing at all…

I should have dropped the damn thing down a well. Or into a fire, preferably. But I had to put it back in the library! The least I could have done was hidden it a little better…

But he had. He had tucked it away somewhere so obscure in the shelves of the library that he had thought no one would ever venture to that particular spot to look for a specific book. But apparently someone had. And had taken the specific book.

Damn. That book's trouble. I know it is.

"A problem, Comte?"

He started, turning around. He had not realised that he was not alone in the library – until now, when it was far too late.

"Madame Giry."

"Comte." The woman nodded her head, but did not go into the bother of performing a curtsey. Strangely, he was not annoyed by this. Well, technically speaking he was, but not as irritated as he knew he should by all rights be, in the face of less respect. Then again, he was tired to women curtseying to him like grass in a wind storm all the time, and men bowing. It was a change to have someone stand straight when greeting him.

"I hope that there isn't a problem?" the women went on, casting a glance at the relative mess of the bookshelves. He did so as well, doing his best to appear calm and refined.

"Non, Madame. Simply trying to find a book, that is all."

"Any specific one?"

"Just a poetry book," he replied firmly. The woman was looking at him with that icy blue stare of hers that he knew so well from the past two weeks; and he had no desire to be on the receiving end of it.

Or do I?

To quell the treacherous little voice in his mind, Philippe swiftly asked, "Have you had a chance to try on the dress that I sent you?" He secretly delighted at the thought; the dress was surely a way of finally breaking the ice between the two that had lasted ever since she had first come with Meg and Christine, and been potentially humiliated at Grand-pere's hand. He had hoped she would see it as a type of olive branch, being the perceptive woman that he judged her to be.

So her reply to his enquiry was all the more surprising, and slightly shocking. "That is what I have come to speak to you about, Comte. I am very grateful for your gift, but I do not feel I can accept it."

"What? Why?" he heard himself blurt out, staring at her. At the same time he was aware of the slight amusement in her eyes at his reaction; and he became silently furious.

"Because it is much too great a gift for me, Comte, I must confess," the woman was saying, even as he fumed, "and besides, I have no shortage of dresses for this – masquerade, if I must so attend." She nodded her head again, and to him her smile seemed to silently mock him.

I do not need this, he thought, even as he struggled to obtain a grasp on the situation again – or more likely a stranglehold. "Madame, I see no reason why you should not wear the dress. Surely there is nothing the matter with it?"

"Oh, there is indeed nothing wrong with the garment – it is simply that I do not believe that I am worthy of such a rich gift. You should not have troubled yourself over me so greatly, Comte." Giry's eyes seemed to be fairly sparkling with mischief; to him almost intolerably. "Good day to you, sir."

She made as if to walk away; but hardly without realising what he did his hand was suddenly around her wrist, holding her, pulling her back to face him. You're not going to get away so easily, Renée Giry.

It was a moment before he realised what he was doing – that, in effect, he could be accused of molesting a lady; of even abusing her, perhaps. For a very tense two, perhaps three heartbeats he stared down into the woman's face; waiting for her to pull away from him in outrage, or shout angrily, or do something, anything, rather than stare back at him with those icy blue eyes of hers, which her daughter had obviously inherited.

Very fine eyes indeed…

He forced himself back to the matter in hand; that was that she, apart from giving a short, quickly suppressed gasp, had made no sound at his potentially violent prevention of her leaving. He took the opportunity to speak. Leaning forward, he said softly, without letting go of her wrist, "Worthiness of such a gift is not the issue, and you and I both know that, Madame. Now, tell me the real reason why you will not accept it."

For a moment there was silence in the library, except for their own breathing. Then, with a slight shrug, and a small smile, Giry said, "It is a fact of life which always emerges, Comte – when a woman with a child, no matter how grown, receives gifts from a man of higher class, even when there's no father, people talk." With a sudden, swift motion, the woman propelled herself up onto the balls of her feet, to whisper in his ear – for the Comte stood more than half a head taller than her – "And I believe you would rather keep the de Chagny name clean, even when your brother-in-law threatens to drag his own through the mud; hmm?"

"…yes," Philippe managed to get out, after a moment's hesitation; and swiftly released her wrist, as if it had scalded him. "I did not realize when I sent it to you that it would offend you so. I am sorry."

"Oh, I am not offended, Comte. I merely take precautions," the woman replied, as she settled back onto the soles of her feet again, having been released. "My motto, even when I danced, was 'I make sure'." She flashed him a rare smile, that actually showed her teeth for once. "And it still is."

I wonder what inspired her to create that motto? the tiny part of his mind whispered to him. Trying desperately to force himself to stop conjuring certain possibilities concerning she who stood before him, he merely replied, "A very admirable theory, and one that we all should adopt, I am sure."

She smiled back, her teeth gone now, but her lips still curved. "I must take my leave of you, Comte. Unless you would like some help with your book?"

"Book?" He passed a hand through his hair, hoping that it was not shaking.

"The one you were looking so avidly for," Giry pressed, looking over his shoulder, no doubt at the pile of books that had been taken off the shelves, "when I interrupted you in your labour. But perhaps I had best leave you to it."

"Yes. Perhaps you had."

The woman nodded again. "Bien. I will see you later then, I trust, Comte?"

"Of course, Madame."

As Giry walked away, Philippe leant back against the bookcase, and raised a hand to his temples, attempting to quell his suddenly aching head. He was exceptionally glad no one had been there to see that; to see him so bested.

That book? He had hardly so much as thought of the thing since he had first begun to talk to her. His mind had been on other matters entirely.

Philippe would perhaps have been comforted if he had seen the way that Renée Giry, the moment she had quitted the library, walked down the corridor and leant against a door frame, reciprocating his action of bringing the hand to the forehead – the only differences being that her hand shook slightly as her fingers caressed her brows; but also she grinned softly, as if at some private joke that no other had any part in.

Meg picked up the book that her friend had left upon her bed, and examined it with mild curiosity.

"Good book, is it?" she called to the corner of the room, where Christine was pulling something out of the wardrobe.

"Very good. It has some beautiful poetry in it. I don't know if you would like it, though."

"I can try it, at least. May I borrow it?"

Christine laughed. "If that's what you want, I'm not really the right person to ask, since it doesn't belong to me. Yes, you can; but don't lose it. I want to give it to Raoul tomorrow."

Meg sighed. "What a wedding present – a book of poems!" She flopped down into the chair, opening the book at a certain page. "And you-"

She stopped, as she caught sight of what Christine was wearing. It was not that it was bad – a dark green velvet riding suit, with a matching cape and smart riding hat, suiting Christine's colouring to perfection – it was rather more her purpose for wearing it that puzzled Meg.

"And where are you going?" Good grief, I sound more and more like Mamma these days.

"Out riding, of course," Christine replied crisply, as she picked up her kid gloves from her makeup stand.

"I can see that, Christine. Why, exactly?"

"I want to see someone about a certain matter."

"Who?"

The dark haired girl sighed. "Pastor Defarge, if you must know. I want to ask him something."

"Christine, you'll see him tomorrow at the masquerade anyway? While go out in the cold when you can wait until then to ask him whatever you want to ask him?"

"Because – because it's very important, do you see what I mean?"

Meg considered. "Something about the wedding?"

Christine pulled on her gloves. "Something about Raoul."

She stood up, laying the book down. "Then I'll go with you."

"No." The abruptness of this made her check, staring at her friend. "I'd rather go alone, Meg, if it is all right with you."

"Why?"

"I'd just rather, that's all."

She gazed seriously at Christine. "Christine, why are you going out alone? It's early afternoon; Pastor Defrage lives a long way away – surely you won't get back before nightfall?"

"I'll be fine, Meg. I'm not a little girl, I can go out riding on my own."

"But across countryside that's unfamiliar to you? In the snow?" Meg stepped forward. "I'd rather you didn't."

"I'd rather I did." Christine shot back, cuttingly. The force of her words made Meg take a step back.

"Christine…what's the matter? What have I done to make you so angry?"

Christine said nothing for a few seconds. Then, she sighed. "Oh, Meg. It's not you. It's…it's just everything. This whole mansion. The whole wedding. My whole life."

"What do you mean?"

"Ever since we came here, I've hardly been by myself for one minute; and I can't expect something like that to emerge again in the very near future." Christine sank down to sit on the chair arm. "I'm tired, Meg. Tired of being heir to the Daaé estate; tired of the prospect of being the future Vicomtess de Chagny; tired of beign a good, perfect little girl, waiting for her wedding. I'm tired of it all. Just for once I want to spend an afternoon as I did in the days before this, before…" She paused, and then went on, in a different tone. "I just need a change. Some fresh air and a long ride will do me good, I am sure. I need to get out of the house for a while; without anyone knowing where I am." She smiled, rather awkwardly. "You understand, don't you?"

Meg nodded silently. She understood all too well.

"So, I'll just ride over and see the Pastor; and I'll be back as quick as I can, I promise."

"What shall I tell them if you miss dinner?"

"That I feel a little sick; I'm in my room and do not wish to be disturbed, by anyone. That I'm resting for the masquerade tomorrow." Christine got up again, and made for the door; then backtracked, and planted a quick kiss upon Meg's cheek. "I'll see you later."

"I wish I was going with you. This place is beautiful, but you can have too much of a good thing."

"I just…need some time to myself, Meg. Some time to think."

And Christine had been gone nearly five minutes when Meg said out loud, to the empty room, "To think about what?"

She didn't expect an answer; and of course she didn't receive one. Dully she sat down in her chair again, and looked at the pages of the book without seeing them. Somehow, she had lost all her candour and enthusiasm for reading the thing.

She could not help thinking, over and over again, until it became almost a beat in her brain: Something has happened. But I don't know what.

And Madame Giry has her moment! Ah, why shouldn't she have a chance to make a man feel confused and awkward? In this Giry's about thirty-seven or thirty-eight, and not hideously deformed,so she still has capable flirting abilities – and if you don't like it, lump it.

More coming soon! Keep your eyes peeled – and your mouses ready to click on the review button. Or is it mice? Whatever, just review, people, and oblige the seamstress. Hey! Another catchphrase is born!