Disclaimer: Don't own it. Too tired to argue.

I would pretend to be the knight that was pictured, and Holiday was the faithful dog curled up at his feet. Lindsey would be the wife he'd left behind. It always dissolved into giggles no matter how solemn the start. Lindsey would tell the dead knight that a wife had to move on, that she couldn't be trapped for the rest of her life by a man who was frozen in time. I would act stormy and mad, but it never lasted. Eventually she would describe her new lover: the fat butcher who gave her prime cuts of meat, the agile blacksmith who made her hooks. "You are dead, knight," she would say. "Time to move on."

The Lovely Bones, by Alice Sebold.

It is time

Renée allowed her maid to place the last few curved pins into her hair, holding her elaborate, exotic bun in place. She couldn't recall having a hairstyle like this since her days on the stage of the Paris opera. With her hair pulled away from her face and framing it in a different manner from usual, it almost seemed to give it a different shape; in some ways younger.

"Is there anything else you wish, Madame?"

"Yes; fetch me my fan, and my mask."

As Antoinette hurried away to another table, Renée stood, the stiff silk rustling around her and over her skin. It felt so light, and yet so warm. Truly, she had never worn anything like this, not even when she was younger. She stood and looked at herself in the mirror, and it seemed that the dress was fitted not upon the frame of a mother approaching middle age, but a pert, slim-waisted, lissom young maiden…even if that maiden's face was slightly etched with lines.

She wondered, secretly, if any real geisha would be surprised at her. Probably.

"Your fan and your mask, Madame." Antoinette held the first object out to her. She accepted it gratefully, slipping the cord on the large fan around her wrist, but keeping a tight hold upon it.

As she turned for her to fasten the mask onto her face, she found herself looking at the picture of Georges, which she had placed next to the mirror. She took it wherever she went – how could anyone expect her not to? His image was a constant reminder of the love that had blossomed between them, leading them to defy social decorum, and he to risk being ostracized, and she to give up her whole career, in their desire to be together.

And now Georges beloved face seemed to be staring at her accusingly, as another face was slipped on and fastened over her own.

I am only going to dance, she told him silently, as she subtly raised her fingers to her lips, pretending to make sure her mask was on straight, but really to blow him the most miniscule of kisses. Just to dance.

But a tiny part of her mind, the part that had caused the blood to rise to her cheeks when she thought of Comte Philip the Younger, the part that still delighted in others admiring her, whispered, How can I let myself be trapped by a man frozen in time?

"I hope you have a wonderful evening, Madame," Antoinette twittered, as she drew back.

Renée smiled more for her husband than for anyone else, as she turned to the door. "Oh, I'm sure that I will."

Cecile was terrified.

The warm feeling in her stomach was gone, to be replaced with sickness. She felt as if she might bring all that honey right back up. This was stupid! Why had she agreed to it?

But it was too late to escape. She was caught between Meg and Carlotta, as they ushered her down the staircases and halls, with hands on her arms that might look steadying, but she knew were there to prevent her from running back to the room and locking herself in, so that no one could get at her.

Then again, she'd probably trip up on the skirts of the dress.

"Almost there," Meg muttered on her left.

"Now, remember," Carlotta hissed on her right, "try not to talk too much. If you want, we will get you excused later. But you must be seen to be there, understand?"

Cecile tried to reply, but her throat seemed to have seized up, so she simply nodded and nodded, until she felt the sharp pinch of Carlotta's fingers on her arm and stopped.

"Don't worry, Cecile," Meg whispered. "It's not really forever…not long at all."

Or at least, that was what she guessed she said. It really did rather sound like It's only forever…

She gulped, but she didn't dare lag behind – she didn't want Carlotta to pinch her again! That girl seemed to have fingers like pincers!

She could hear a noise growing greater; a noise of chattering and echoing, and faint music that grew louder with each step towards the source. As the three girls skimmed over the floor towards the door that led into the main hall that in its turn led into the ballroom, Cecile thought she really might be sick.

"For goodness' sake, smile!" came another hiss from her right. "You're meant to be happy! A girl's always happy when she's going dancing!"

"Are you?" she shot back, without thinking.

There was silence from that quarter for a few moments, before Carlotta said more quietly, "At least try not to look as if you are about to be sick, then, even if you cannot smile."

"Here we are." Meg halted them at the doors. Her blue eyes glanced at them fearfully under her golden mask. "No going back now, understand?"

She felt Carlotta nod behind her. Oh, help. How could she do this? How could she think that she could go down into that ballroom, and dance with the Vicomte? It was madness to think it, madness and impossibility!

Meg placed a hand on the door, and pushed it open. The noise washed over them. Cecile nearly bit her lip in terror.

"We've arrived."

As Renée made her way through in her rustling gold and black silk, she was aware that she was drawing more than one admiring glance – an experience she thought had been long lost – though it was probably just as well the young men couldn't see her face.

But in any case, she had no time for them. She made her way over to one person she recognised in all this throng; even if his head was turned away, she would recognise him anywhere.

He happened to glance her way as she approached, and did not turn his head away again. His mouth opened slightly, as he turned to face her fully. He did look most attractive when he was surprised, she decided, as she stopped a few paces from him.

"Comte Philip." She made a low curtsey such as she had not since her days on the stage, her sleeves sliding delightfully across her skin as she held her skirt out in order to do so. Her muscles only strained slightly.

"You came after all, Madame." He still seemed to be shocked.

"I decided that, if people did talk, there would be far more for them to talk about than a woman in a kimono, Comte. Even if it was a borrowed kimono."

He reached for her hand as his face broke into a smile, and raised it to his lips to kiss.

"Enchanté," he whispered.

"Belle," Erik breathed into her ear, as she stood and stared at herself in one of the many mirrors the lair seemed to contain.

She shook her head, disbelievingly. "You have a strange idea of what is beautiful, Erik." But at the same time, she simply could not tear her eyes away from her reflection. It was…it was…

"A shot to the heart, my dear! But do not say that it is not striking."

A flash of scarlet caught her eye, and she turned to see that he was fastening on his cloak. "And who are you meant to be, then?" she quipped, as well as she could.

"That will emerge in time to come." His sable gloves came away from his throat, and suddenly held something else – something pale. "Here is your mask, Christine. Would you prefer if I put it on for you?"

"No, thank you. I can do it myself." She reached out to take the mask - and still took it from him, even after she saw exactly what it was.

Oh, God, she thought weakly, as she held the large piece of porcelain loosely in her hands. I can't do this. I cannot do this.

A touch from leather cloaked fingers on her chin gently, irresistibly made her head turn to look up at Erik's great height. He was wearing his mask now. It was a strange sort of mask. She couldn't tell whether it was laughing or crying. His yellow eyes were…unreadable.

She sighed. She had to do this. It was the only way she would see Raoul again. And…she did not want those golden eyes to look at her in such a way, again. It tore her heart.

I cannot let myself be frozen in time.

"I will put it on. I will. By myself, Erik. By myself."

He nodded, and drew back, as she drew the mask up to her face, and felt the cold kiss of it over her eyes and her jaw. Her fingers, in their strange gloves, sought to tie the cords at the back; but instead leather brushed over her skin again, as he now stood behind her and draw the cords tight, tying them under her mane of hair.

She looked into the mirror, and she and he stared back, his ace over her shoulder, he in scarlet, she in grey, and both masked.

What a sight! But she was aware that she was certainly not as shocked as she might once have been – not even at the sight of herself.

"Is this a ball, or an All Hallows Eve celebration, Erik?" she murmured.

His voice murmured back, slipping into her ear like wild honey. "On All Hallows Eve, the Dead rise from their graves. So perhaps it is, Christine. Perhaps it is. But then again," he curled his arm through hers and caught her hand in his, "something else will rise tonight as well."

And cut.

Too tired.

Too, too tired to say anything. Work it out. Can't tell you yet.

Big, big chapter coming up next.

Too tired.

Review, please.