Disclaimer: I don't own POTO or Corpse Bride. Meh.

(Eeep! I've heard 'they're taking down stories that reply to reviews! What shall I do? Help!)

musicallover: Pretty and touching, I hope. That's what everyone else seems to think. Ooo, I love Sleepy Hollow! I remember, I was having a night in with Mum and Lucie, and we were eating a Chinese takeaway; and we had rented some DVDs, and I demanded that we play Sleepy Hollow first; and I was gleefully laughing along while Mum did not look too pleased. Hee hee hee. With my morbid tastes, my favourite action bit is when the horse man rides down into the tree with Lady Van Tassel, in that great shower of blood. But I like the bit with the 'bewitching me' and Ichabod and Katrina having a big old hug as well. Awww… Thanks for the compliment! I liked Dracula a lot; but I find the later bits a bit boring and hard to understand – I prefer the first half with all the business with Lucy! Chips, y'all! SB.

Simply Elymas: Awww. Here's a tissue. (Hands tissue.) Oh yes, not sure what to think now. Poor, poor girl. I think those two are a bit like Laurel and Hardy – only with more angst. 'This is another fine mess you've gotten us into, Erik!' Or two of the Marx brothers. 'Hey, Erik! You got a woman in there?' 'She's my sister!' 'Yeah, well I'm her brother! Get her out!' Ha ha ha ha ha. OMG OMG OMG. Ha ha ha ha. (Well I find it funny, even if no one else does. Guess that means I watch too much Laurel and Hardy, and A Night in Casablanca.)

Chantilly xx Lace: Yeah, I wanted to make their relationship be a little different from other ones written; Nadir is sort of a father figure to Erik – since he's been dead for far longer – and Erik's sometimes the annoying kid brother; yet at the same time they're like brothers, sharing in their pain and loss, even if Nadir pretends he's given his up – because, remember, Nadir was betrayed and murdered as well. I love Leroux – making you cry so much! But musical and movie has such good tunes! I love 'em all!

Morianerulz: Oops. (Kicks self.) Ouch. Oh well, like you said, easy mistake. America's such a confusing place. I remember Bob Hope said that Central California is 'where the fog from San Francisco comes down to sneer at the fog from Los Angeles.' Not that I'd know. Good chapter indeed. Here is more for you!

Voldivoice: I've been to both. Going over to Ireland at least two or three times a year – up until I was about twelve, when Grandfather died, so we didn't have so much incentive to go over any more. I led a pretty sheltered life too. I've never even taken the bus to school – not that I can at Epsom College, the bus service they employ doesn't go anywhere near my house. And I told my parents 'You want me to go to a school that lasts until six and includes Saturday lessons, you're going to have drive me there or nurtz.' All right, I didn't say nurtz. I never really say nurtz in my day to day conversation. Let's keep those things unmentionable, shall we? Ec goodness suffices for vitamins? Could go to Land of the Dead – or to heaven, perhaps? 'Between a rock and a high place is in fact a real place – in Lancre in the Terry Pratchett books. I'll write as fast as I can. I know what's going to happen, but I've still got to write it down. Nuts. Luck to you, from the divine seamstress.

Kat097: Sheer dumb luck. Or maybe I've had previous lives, so I could practise my writing over the hundreds of years. Maybe I was Mary Shelley in a past life – that would certainly explain my tendency to read Gothic stories and be depressed and have weird dreams, though maybe not my aversion to surgical tendencies. Honestly; we must be the only family in Surrey to eat dinner while watching an operation on some poor person's stomach and spleen. Not in real life, on the TV. Yurrrgggh… - if I believed in reincarnation. Maybe I do; I don't know. And you are good at writing – or have you forgotten to check the number of people who have you on their alerts and favourites lists – me, for one! Forgiven yet?

Lydiby: I know what you mean. A few days back I really thought our internet connection was going to pack up. Eeep! We shall have to wait and see about the happy ending, shan't we? As that woman who shot herself in the head in Desperate Housewives said, 'Not all of us can have a happy ending.' Or something along those lines. I cannot say anything on that particular subject – otherwise it'll just ruin everything. I know what you mean; I have zero tolerance for the boys in my year. That may be because I have a bad temper sometimes; at any rate they tease me. All I did at one point was say I would rather eat glass than kiss a certain boy – kind of as a joke – and they held onto that and would not let it go. Grrr. Curse them! Curse them! I wish Celandine could have gotten away as well – I've made a real rat out of Louis, haven't I? I'm feminist as well; and I weep for our generation – though I haven't died my wardrobe black yet; apart from my favourite t-shirt, it makes me look peaky. But good for you! Good for anyone who wants to be different! As Avril Lavigne said in one of her song lyrics, 'I'd rather be anything but ordinary.' I like Les Mis; I've never seen the actual show, but we've got a video of when they did the tenth anniversary at the Royal Albert Hall. My favourite songs are 'Master of the House' and 'I dreamed a dream'. But the Lovely Ladies just scare me. Well done to whoever played Valjean; I'm certain he deserved it! I'm a bit tired too, but I must go on. Writing, I mean.

Mina: Yes, poor Erik. I'm subjecting everyone to torture. Well, if it was all phluffy and nice, would you read it? Maybe…my mother says you can get used to anything after a while; and it's surprising what love cane help to overcome. I'm not saying it will be love – we must see how the story goes. Shows you are devoted to your little phantom, that you want a happy ending for him. There's quite a lot to go, so it won't be finished soon, I'm afraid…moo ha ha ha.

Willow Rose (or Lady? Hmm…something to think about…): In certain frames of morbidity, sometimes it is not possible to have a happy ending. Tough, but true. Of course, I'm not saying that's not going to happen here…but we shall see. At least we can be comforted by one thing…we know Erik won't die. The fact that he is already dead is entirely beside the point. Blessings to you, loyal reviewer of the Scots.

Erik'sTrueAngel: All you need is love…love is all you need….yayness!

This chapter is dedicated to my precious, precious elder sister, Lucie; who, having gotten the adequate A level results, is eligible to attend university in September; who is a truly remarkable young woman in every single way, and who also compels me to eat her scones.

Promises, like pie crusts, are made to be broken.

Proverb

Wool over eyes

It was the sound of crying that woke Cecile up from her dozing. She had been roused more than once by the sound of the Mademoiselle moving around next door; and now, when it had seemed that she would get some sleep after all, that crying had started. Not full out tears; just quiet sobs; and somehow that was worse.

It was horrid; lying there and listening to Mademoiselle crying on the other side of the wall, so close as if she were in the same room as her. She sounded as if she was in pain; as if she had hurt herself; and it hurt to listen to her. Every time there was a pause between sobs, and she hoped and hoped that it was over, that she had fallen asleep, her hopes were dashed when another one came, tearing at her ears and making her want to cry as well.

But she hadn't been like this before. No; Mademoiselle had certainly never behaved like this; never cried at night; never sobbed as if her heart were breaking. She understood about crying at night – she had cried a little every night for two weeks when she started in her first placement, before she came here; and she knew that one didn't simply start crying in the night for no reason.

Well, there was a reason – it was because you didn't want to risk anyone else seeing. She understood that as well.

So what had happened?

Of course, she could simply go and check on Mademoiselle…just to see that she was all right…

But then, that would be encroaching upon Mademoiselle's privacy; Mademoiselle had expressed the desire not to be disturbed. She could get into trouble for doing just that. She had worked long and hard to become a lady's maid – to earn the right to keep her hands soft and free from dish water - and she wasn't about to give it all up.

But on the other hand, Mademoiselle did sound very upset. And she didn't want to be accused of neglecting her in her time of need.

And it wasn't as if she was going to get any sleep tonight any way.

In fact…

Oh, blast.

Silently cursing herself and shivering, she slipped out from between the covers of her warm bed; feeling for her shawl she wrapped it around her shoulders, pulled her dark plait to rest over one shoulder; then fumbled for the matches and the candle on her bedside table – no oil lamp for her! The first match broke; but the second one flowered into flame; she lit the candle and stood up from her bed in one motion. Then, as quietly as she could, she picked up the candle, its sparse light revealing little of her surroundings, but enough to ensure she didn't trip over anything, and swiftly made her way to the door that adjoined with Mademoiselle's room.

A simple matter of carefully, gently unlocking the door with the key fastened around her wrist – all the doors of Mademoiselle Daaé's room were locked at night, and the window too – though that was not surprising, in this weather – just in case she took up her old habit of sleepwalking, which she had apparently had when she was a child. She made sure the key was fastened firmly around her wrist again before she put her hand on the door handle, twisted it; and the door softly opened.

Even as it did so, she was silently screaming at herself. What on earth am I going to say?

But it was already too late; she could do nothing but step forward into the dark, silent room – very dark, and almost completely silent. Some other person might have suspected that the silence was that of one who slept; but she knew, by instinct, that it was rather that of one who was pretending to be asleep.

"Mademoiselle?" she asked tentatively, shielding the light of her candle with her other hand; the even sparser light barely outlining the bed and its occupant, a few paces away. "Mademoiselle Daaé…are you all right?"

There was no answer from the shape in the bed. She hadn't expected one; and had half hoped that this apparent sign of slumber meant she could scuttle off back to bed, and try to get back to sleep, and wake up in the morning just a maid; not someone trying to comfort and help her mistress.

But she couldn't do that. For one thing, the Mademoiselle could not have cried herself to sleep so very quickly. Something was amiss.

"Mademoiselle?" she tried again, taking a step closer, and then another. "I just…I heard you crying, and I was worried. Is something wrong?"

Again, no answer. Please, please just let her be asleep. But she couldn't just leave now, not after having come in and spoken in such a way. If the Mademoiselle was not willing to talk, she at least had to see if she was asleep.

As quietly as she could, she drew up to the bed. Was she facing this way, or the other side of the bed - or even lying on her front? No; she was certainly facing the other way; that was easy to see, even if she had pulled the covers over her head – strange behaviour, even in this cold weather! - but she didn't need to see her face to check if she slept.

Cecile leant forward ever so slightly, to see if she could hear breathing. The breaths that came from beneath the covers were deep, and fairly even; but there was something…odd about them. As if the one breathing was thinking about breathing in such a way, rather than just doing it naturally in their sleep.

"I'll…I'll just leave you, then," she muttered, as she drew back. But as she did so, for a moment she drew her hand away from the candle; and the full light shone upon she in the bed. She bit her lip, even as she swiftly covered up the light again. Surely that would wake her!

But…

For that single moment, the light had shone upon hair that glinted gold…

As if in a dream, Cecile reached forward again, and grasped the bed covers firmly in her hand, and pulled them away and off the somebody.

And even before she gasped and twisted around, she knew that the occupant of the bed was a quite a different Mademoiselle from the one she had expected.

It's all over, Meg thought, as she stared up into Cecile Jammes' face, filled with confusion. She knew Cecile was sometimes taken to be a bit simple; but even she could not fail to understand the situation; and to act upon it.

Btu as she looked up, tremblingly, into Cecile's face, she saw that the other girl, who was only a little younger than her, did not understand. She did not understand at all.

"Mademoiselle Giry? What are you doing in here? And where is Mademoiselle Daaé?"

She opened her mouth, but could think of nothing to say. What could she say? How could she explain this?

Curse you, Christine! she thought savagely.

"Mademoiselle? Is she in the other room?" Cecile nodded at the doorway at the far side of the room, which lead to her own room.

She considered, and then decided on the truth. It gave her a little sense of satisfaction in disobeying Christine's request, after all the trouble she had put her through; and after all, things couldn't get any worse, could they?

"She is not here at all, Cecile."

"What!" The maid drew swiftly back from the bed, to the door, nearly dropping her candle in her shock. "What do you mean-"

On second thoughts, maybe they could. Swiftly she leapt up and rushed forward and jammed her hand over the other girl's mouth mouth; grasping the candle in her other hand – the last thing they needed was a fire. "Wait, listen to me…"

And then froze, as she heard a noise from outside Cecile's room.

Cecile had frozen as well; their eyes were locked, as they listened fearfully for anything else; fixed in a struggle like two statues.

Another noise came. And another.

Footsteps.

Someone was walking along the corridor outside.

Meg didn't dare to move. She hardly dared to breathe, as she listened to the footsteps slowly make their way along the line of the wall, but a little way away from them. Who would walk along the corridors at this time of night? And why?

And had they heard?

She both wanted and feared the answers to all those questions.

Cecile's dark eyes, lit up by the candle flame, were wide with terror; her wrist trembled under Meg's fingers. Meg wanted to blow out the light, or something, if only not to give any more notice of their wakefulness; not to attract attention; not to bring enquiries and unwanted revelations. But she didn't dare move.

For a heart stopping instant, the footsteps paused, seeming to her right outside the door on the opposite side of the room; but then they moved on, further down the corridor – and then, they were gone. But Meg didn't dare move or speak, until she counted to a hundred. Then, still breathing deeply, she slowly released her hold on Cecile's wrist and mouth.

Cecile too was still cautious, even as she repeated her question in a whisper.

"I don't understand, Mademoiselle Giry. If Mademoiselle Daaé is not here – then where is she?"

So…

Little Daaé was missing from her bed – and from the house. Who knew where? Not Little Giry; that was for certain.

But this might work to an advantage.

A very good advantage indeed.

If it worked.

This was going to be entertaining.

Oooo! More mystery! Sorry for the general shortness and boringness of this chapter. Never mind; both E and C next chapter, I promise!

Read and review for the half Irish seamstress, please!