Disclaimer: I own little if nothing in this chapter, except one or two ideas which shall be revealed.

Before we get this chapter started, I feel I should say something, if only to reassure all you poor little Erik lovers out there that are hanging on my every word, frantically comparing Phantom with Corpse Bride, most specifically the endings, putting two and two together, and officially declaring a state of emergency. Also, I happen to be fond of my pretty little white neck (so elegant, like a slender block of finest marble – yeah, right) since I bruise very easily I don't want someone to add a lasso to it as an unwanted accessory. You Erik phans are such little tykes! (And slightly scary, no offence meant whatsoever.) So, to alleviate your various fears about how my story is going to end:

Erik is not going to melt into butterflies, or moths, or rats, or any other sort of living creature that goes around in groups that can disperse prettily that you can think of. And yes, that goes for dead creatures as well.

Hah! I put my tongue out cheekily at all you Punjab lasso toting Erik phans. Or not, because I like my tongue and don't want to have it yanked out by a well-cast cat gut. Apart from anything else, ooowww.

So, enjoy more Carlotta stuff. And fluff. And dare I say – self-revelation?

I dared.

…It bears a sickening resemblance to the description one human writer made of Heaven; "the regions where there is only life and therefore all that is not music is silence."

The Screwtape Letters: Letters from a senior to a junior devil by C.S. Lewis

If music be the food of love

The silent halls were filled with echoes, as Carlotta made her way throughout the quiet mansion. She found herself concentrating on the constant sound of shoe striking floor, shoe striking floor, over and over again, whether the aforesaid floor was made of wood or occasionally of stone. The echo carried more when it was of stone, since in such circumstances the rooms were notably larger than when the floor was crafted out of whatever expensive wood the de Chagny family had seen fit to purchase.

She wondered why she was noticing this now, when she had been walking to the music room every day for the last few weeks at roughly this time in the morning, perhaps a little earlier, without noticing anything of the sort, or caring whether she made a noise or not. She reasoned that it was probably because it was the first time the household had been this full, the rooms full of exhausted guests, sleeping in after the extravagance of the night before, or preparing to sleep in after actually getting back to their rooms. Certainly creeping along to her chamber with Raoul in order to attempt to fix his hair had been an adventure she could well have done without, considering that there were still drunken ball guests being helped to their own rooms by obliging servants. Even a week ago they could have avoided anyone seeing them by ducking into any room to escape detection, confident of it being empty; today they had had to be exceptionally quick on their feet, casting glances up and down a corridor before they had hurried along it, and retreating if they heard so much as a footstep coming in their direction, from any angle. It had been a relief when they had finally made it to her room, and could breathe in relief when they turned the key in the lock.

She could not help looking down at her fingers, mostly hidden by the bundle of sheet music she held tightly in her arms. Really, this was more than she could get through in a whole morning, but the solid, familiar weight of her old friends comforted her. Here, held safe in her embrace, were some of her most prized music sheets, the pieces which she had grown up playing and practicing until she knew them as she knew her own soul; brought all the way from Spain, since she was truly unable to leave them behind, and carried in her personal luggage all the way from the boat which had first brought her to France. Here were three caprices for piano by Juan Crisóstomo Arriaga, the 'Spanish Mozart' whom she had always idolised, wishing fervently that she was as much a prodigy as he had been. There were pieces by Mozart and by Beethoven, there was music by Bach for the harpsichord and the organ, which she treasured even though she knew she would probably never gain access to the latter instrument. She treasured all her precious manuscripts, each spurring her on to new heights, and most of all she treasured what lay hidden within them.

For now, though, they simply served to hide her dye stained fingers. After Raoul had left, his hair satisfactorily dyed to escape comment and his scalp burning from the hot water she had used to rid the skin of his head from the dye, she had turned her attention to her own fingers, scrubbing and scrubbing with hot water until she gave it up in defeat. The dye stuck to the tips of her fingers like a curse, a curse that could not be shucked off but remained.

That's stupid, she thought crossly, as she made her way along the corridor nearing the music room. We didn't do anything wrong. Why should we? We got Christine back. We did what we had to do. Raoul's hair turned white, but we've solved that. We did what we had to do. That's all.

So why do I feel so terrible?

It was probably because she was so tired. When was the last time she had slept? Cecile had woken her up extremely early yesterday morning…she hadn't slept in over a day, a day and a half! No wonder she felt exhausted!

But…was this feeling exhaustion? Was exhaustion the same as feeling as if she had swallowed something bitter, that had coated her throat and traveled down to her stomach, lodging there? It was not a nice feeling, but it did give her some semblance of strength, powering her to move onwards, and taking away the ability for sleep to come. Exhaustion made you want to sleep; it didn't take that self-same sleep away from you, as far as she knew.

Well, some music would soon sort that out! She would play and play until she became tired, even if that took all day and her fingers and hands ached! Maybe if she worked them really hard, the dye would come off. It was worth hoping for.

Finally, at long last, she came to the door of the music room, and unlocked it with the key she had been given by Comte Phillipe the Elder, when it became obvious how much time she would wish to spend in the chamber; pushing it open with her free hand, holding the bundle of papers to her with the other, and stepping forwards into the shadows of the room.

It was dark in the room, since the heavy velvet drapes were drawn across the windows and blocking out the sunlight to protect the instruments, but that was no obstacle to her, since she had memorised the layout of the room long ago, while becoming familiar with its contents. Fifteen steps forward into the room and she was able to place her bundle of papers on top of the covered piano; seven steps to the left and she found the drape and pulled it back, letting the weak winter sun spill into the room, more and more as she opened more of the curtains along the room, until finally the sun shone in at every window. That was good; she had been walking along in half darkness for much of her way there – it was still too early for the servants to light many of the lamps in the rest of the house.

She sighed in happiness as she walked back to the grand piano, placed her music on a special little table beside the bench, and began to pull the heavy cover off the instrument. She loved this room. It was her favourite chamber in the whole mansion. The person who had designed the place had evidently shared her love for music and appreciation of an attractive place in which to arrange musical instruments, and so had created a glorious setting for both instrument and performer. Carrying the theme of nature even further than had been done so in some of the other rooms, when first stepping into the music room you could easily believe that the floor was made from green turf, the walls from the trunks of living trees, and the ceiling from a canopy of branches – until you looked closer, and saw that they were all just clever effects worked with stone and wood and plaster. In Carlotta's opinion this didn't detract from the beauty of the room at all. She enjoyed playing while being speckled with light from the many narrow windows, looking like gaps between the trees for the sunlight to stream into this sizeable copse, even if it managed to look normal from the outside of the building. She loved walking across the floor and imagining she was walking through a woodland glade, even if the effect was slightly spoiled by the sound of her feet upon stone – the designer obviously hadn't been able to do everything when fulfilling the demands made of him. And she felt happier playing to an audience of trees rather than to humans. Trees, she felt, were far better than people in some ways. She really missed the trees back in Spain. Sometimes her family would go to the orange groves further south in the country, and collect oranges, or rather wait for them to fall off the trees, since they were so ripe. There would be competitions between the sisters to see who could gather the most fruits in a small space of time. Oddly, despite the competitiveness of the two older daughters, it was usually Katherine who managed to obtain the most, holding them proudly in her pinafore like a hunter bringing home a lion's head.

No matter now, no matter. She hadn't come here to remember, she had come here to play. She climbed onto the dais the piano was stationed on, which looked more like a grassy mound, but elegantly so, and sat down at the stool, looking down at the ivory keys. Set against their whiteness, it was even more obvious how darkened her finger tips had become. She winced, and at once set off into multitudes of scales, determinedly warming up, and warming up further. She allowed herself to sink into the familiarity of the exercises, bringing that tiniest little bit of her childhood into this large, mostly empty room, cool despite its beauty, set in this ravishing, slightly decadent mansion.

Finally she felt she had warmed herself up enough; but she didn't feel like practicing anything ordinary today. However, what she had in mind was usually kept for the very early morning, when there were little if no people around. Now the servants were up and about, tending to their duties, and might well hear her…

…but then again, this room was far out of the way of the business of the household. Everyone knew not to disturb her; this was an acknowledged time for her and her alone. All the guests were still asleep, and would probably sleep into the noon. Even if the servants heard, they wouldn't think anything of it.

She made her decision, and reaching down carefully slid a sizable sheaf of papers from the middle of the mound of sheet music. She smiled softly as she read the words she had written much earlier on the top sheet: 'The Two Sisters'.

Carlotta Gudicelli had a secret. It wasn't any ordinary secret, like Rocío's stupid crushes on various boys. It was a secret she had had for a while, now, ever since one of her French relatives, she had forgotten which, had taken her to the opera in Paris to see Faust. The Spanish girl had instantly dropped the sulking fit she had been preparing, and had stared in wonder and delight as Mephistopheles had made his bargain with Faust, as the drinking soldiers had sung out their choruses with gusto, as Marguerite had admired the jewels given to her and as Faust was finally dragged off to Hell, where he belonged. When the curtain call came, her applause had been among the loudest. Such was her enthusiasm she had had to be taken back two nights later, this time to see The Marriage of Figaro. Even if she had had to follow the words on the program she had been given, this did not detract from her appreciation of the performance one bit.

Most of all she had admired the sopranos, and the beauty of their voices, and the pitch of the notes they could hit. In her heart she longed to be set among the great singers of the opera, but realistically she knew that this could never be. She had no illusions about the condition of her voice. While her fingers had a gift, her vocal chords most certainly did not so, and years of singing lessons had only served to make her voice ordinary. No, she would never be a star on the stage.

But that didn't mean that she could not harbor other grand designs concerning the stage. And here was the result of it – her secret. This opera would be nothing like the zarzuelas of her homeland, adequate enough in her own country but nothing compared to the operas of France, of Italy and Austria! Every time she worked upon it thrills of excitement would rush through her, as she considered how best to compose the next piece of music for her idea of the tragic story of two sisters, shut up in a chamber of the Alhambra, the gorgeous Moorish palace in the city of Granada, and slowly wasting away from sorrow at seeing various couples in love outside their chamber, and knowing that they themselves would never find that selfsame love. When she had visited the palace with her family, Rocío had predictably 'swooned' at the relative sadness of the supposed legend related to them by their guide, but she had been more intrigued than touched. Was it truly possible to waste away from the lack of a mate, she had wondered. Did a person need love to survive? She doubted it, but it made for a good story as far as she was concerned, even if it was based on nothing more than a fanciful myth. Wasn't everything, in the end?

She searched through the sheets to the piece she was working on at the moment, an aria for the younger of the two sisters, who still retained some form of hope that one day the situation would change, and therefore still had some positive passion in her. Unlike her elder sister whose main song, Carlotta had already decided, would probably be 'Mi ventana hace señas, pero el exterior de mundo me había abandonado(My window beckons, but the world outside had abandoned me)', the younger of the two would boldly and beautifully sing 'Soy joven, soy hermoso, pero estoy en cadenas(I am young, I am beautiful, and yet I am in chains),' although as time would pass she might well sink into the lethargy which had claimed her older sibling. Still, she might be generous, and allow them to escape from their prison – but this was most likely going to be a tragedy, so probably not.

Let me see, now…She tapped the paper with a thoughtful finger, then tapped her lips with her other hand. A soaring violin primarily, perhaps, to accompany the young princess, underlined by the theme of the lute that would permeate much of the music in this work, emphasizing the Moorish world of the dream-like palace the story was set in. Or perhaps a viola? No, a violin would be perfect for the sweet voiced soprano that must surely play this beautiful, innocent maiden.

She allowed herself a hidden smile. Ever since she had first heard Christine sing, the night that she had arrived, she had known that here was the inspiration she needed for her main heroine. She had dreamed that Christine might be the one to stand upon the stage and sing out the lines that been had written and composed for her, her beauty astonishing all and sundry, and her voice carrying away the souls of all who heard her…but she knew that that could never be. For one thing, she seriously doubted she would ever show this to anyone, let alone try to get it performed – it was mostly to show that she could do something, and who would fund the work of an unknown Spanish girl? For another, Christine would be married three days from now, and any prospect of her making a career in music would be over; and in any case, she knew that Christine sang nowhere near as well as she might be able to, even though her voice was exceptionally pleasing to hear.

Never mind…

She considered, then picked up the pen she had brought with her, dipped it into the ink well she had hidden under the piano covers a few visits ago, and scribbled:

Marjahna: He venido de edad, y siento las punzadas de desear en mi corazón y en mi cabeza. El mundo de la luz del sol dice en voz alta a mí; Duelo para encontrar una juventud de oro mis el propios. Soy joven, y soy hermoso; mi belleza chamusca los espejos, ellos grita hacia fuera para la relevación. Debo aprender sobre amor y maneras amorosas, sino que por el contrario me sostienen en cadenas de la piedra, en una prisión hermosa de la luz manchada. ¡Mayo el quién me atrapó aquí se maldiga!

She thought 'maldiga' was a bit strong, but decided to leave it in for the moment; she could always cross it out later, if such was her desire. Now, to set up a tempo for it. She tapped the pen on the side of the piano – carefully, of course, she didn't want to damage the beautiful instrument – searching for the right rhythm to set the words to.

"What are you doing, signorina?"

Dio! She dropped the pen in her shock, and swivelled around on her seat, to find the harlequin from last night, dressed in far more ordinary clothes than before, well cut and fashionable, seated comfortably with one ankle upon the other knee, in what appeared to be a grassy hollow but what was in reality a well disguised chair; gazing at her with evident enjoyment.

"Qué usted está haciendo aquí?" she spat quickly, before realising that he would be less than likely to understand her, and switched instead to French. "I mean, what are you doing here?"

The harlequin raised a dark eyebrow, as he sat forward. "Well, signorina, I asked one of the servants where I might find a certain signorina giovane who had slipped from my clutches at the ball last night; and what did one of them say but that you often practise your music in this very room, and I came along and opened the door to find you practising, and since you had not noticed me I made myself comfortable and waited for you to do so." He sat back again, and smiled.

Carlotta stared at him, open mouthed. His French was actually quite good, better than she had suspected from last night, but then they hadn't spent much time talking. She felt her cheeks flushing stupidly, and furiously turned away, pulling a lock of her hair forward to hide it.

"That really wasn't necessary," she ground out, though some extremely deep part of her was more than slightly flattered at his attention. "You'll distract me. Please, leave."

She half hoped to hear him get up and move to the door, half hoped he wouldn't and would stay, perhaps so that he could make some more comments, before she really got annoyed and ordered him away in righteous irritation. At the moment, she didn't really have any justification for her attitude.

Her odder half rejoiced when she realised that he was staying seated where he was, and a sneaking glance revealed he was now leaning forward, his chin resting on his hand, his cherubic lips turned up in a smile; but the half of her which was more prominent grew more annoyed, as she played some irritable though fluent chords.

Just ignore him…it was odd that all of her mind agreed with that! So she did ignore him, examining her music again, until his voice rang out once more. "What are you doing?"

"Writing," she said shortly, without looking up, and scribbled down something else just to prove her point. It was a nonsensical word that she didn't understand, but he didn't need to know that.

She wasn't prepared for his reaction. She was resolutely not looking at him, but she heard him get up off his seat, and his feet walk across the floor, his footsteps echoing across the stone. He did not say a word, either to excuse himself or to bid her farewell.

Good. He's leaving, she thought firmly. Now she could get on with her work in peace.

But…she began to panic, silently. Perhaps he was offended by her manner? She didn't care about that personally, but supposing that he should tell someone that she was working on something important? What if he gave away her secret? She had to work harder than ever not to look around, or to shout out as he…

He was standing right behind her. While she had been worrying herself sick, he had come right up behind her, and he was looking over her shoulder, at what she was writing. That… She forced herself not to react. That was what he wanted. Instead, she simply took the sheet off the stand, and pulled it down onto her lap, hunching over it, as if to correct something.

Oh, please do react…

She was rewarded by the sound of him leaning down and around her. She guessed that he had gone down on one knee beside her. She felt the brush of his fingers, unintentionally – probably - against the back of her skirts, as he grasped the bench to support himself, before bending further, to see just what was in her lap. He was entirely too close; she could feel his breath disturbing strands of her hair. This was such a breach of conduct! But a thrilling breach, she had to admit.

If he wanted to flout decorum, then so would she. Abruptly, she turned her head, and as she had expected found herself looking almost directly into his. He was very close – she had let him get too close. She could see a few wispy hairs on his upper lip, as well as the surprise in her eyes.

She smiled, sweetly – and then hissed sharply, mimicking a cat as she had done once or twice to scare Rocío; right in his face as well! To her delight he fell backwards, almost scrabbling to get out of the way; he fell off the dais and landed hard on the floor with "Oof!" as his protest. She could not help the giggle that arose as she looked down at him, sprawled on the floor beneath her, staring up at her in complete astonishment.

"If I may say so, sir, it serves you right," she said calmly. "Now, if you do not mind, I would have you-"

Oh, no.

She had suddenly noticed the absence of paper between her fingers, and looked down to see that her lap was empty of any sheet music whatsoever; looking up again in horror she saw a faint smile of triumph cross the young man's face, as he held up the beginning of her aria between his dark fingers.

"Give that back at once! It's mine!" At once she stood up and reached out quickly for it, but too quickly for he her had skirted out of her reach and stood up, holding the paper out of her reach. Why, you…She jumped off the dais and lunged out again, but again he danced out of her reach. Curses, he was actually enjoying this! His smile widened each time an attempt failed, and he jumped backwards, ever backwards, making for the door.

Don't you dare!

"Give…it…back!" she hissed again, trying to catch hold of his arm so she could hold him still and snatch back her lyrics. This corset impeded her movement too much; how she hated it! "If you don't, you are no gentleman!"

"True, perhaps, but then very few ladies hiss in people's faces, and spit in their faces as well, signorina," the harlequin replied, wiping his face for effect.

Oh, dear. I had better not let that get about. If the Comte knew that I spat in the face of one of his guests, even if I didn't mean to…

"Fine, then. Keep it," she said shortly, abruptly ceasing her attack, much as it galled her. "Take it and leave me alone."

He looked surprised. "You would give it up just like that?"

"It is no great loss," she said, deceptively blithely. "I can always write others. Besides, it isn't as if you could read it, anyway."

It was intensely enjoyable, after all her discomfort and irritation, to see his smiling face crease into a frown. Obviously he had been expecting more of a challenge from her. Serves you right. I won't waste my time with you. She was turning away when he spoke again; "Signorina, let us make a deal. If you tell me what you have written here, then I will give this piece of paper back to you."

"And why should I do that?"

"Because it is a great loss to you," was his answer. "Because it galls you to have to relinquish your possessions. Because you are very protective of this…this aria, I believe it is. Because your pride has been wounded, and here is a chance to heal it."

He was right. Why did he have to be right? She pretended to consider, but really he had made her mind up for her. "Very well," she muttered, walking forwards and coming around to the side of him, looking down at the words she had written not five minutes before, translating them in her head even as she looked at them. Placing a finger under them and moving it along for his benefit, she spoke:

"I have come of age, and I feel the pangs of longing in my heart and in my head. The world of sun light calls out to me; I ache to find a golden youth of my own. I am young, and I am beautiful; my beauty scorches the mirrors, they cry out for relief. I should be learning about love and amorous ways, but instead I am held in chains of stone, in a beautiful prison of speckled light. May the one who trapped me here be cursed!"

She hadn't believed the words were particularly suggestive when she had written them, but by the time she had finished speaking she was blushing again. She pulled the paper out of his unresisting fingers, and walked quietly back to the piano.

I feel like such a fool. I can't do this. It's all stupid anyway. She savagely stuffed the aria back onto the stand, and sat down again, heavily.

Just, go away.

"Signorina Gudicelli?"

"Yes?" she replied listlessly, without looking around at first; but a step towards her did make her turn around. Her harlequin was slowly coming closer, some of his brashness gone, and looking much the better for it.

"My name is Ubaldo Piangi. I am sorry I did not introduce myself to you earlier. Would you please play some of your work for me?"

Carlotta suddenly felt exhausted, as if she had come to the end of a very long flight of stairs, but more exhilarated than she had done for a long while, as she turned back to the keys and replied primly, "We shall see."

Carlotta has probably become one of my favourite characters while writing this; I don't know why, exactly. When I started this story I included her on a whim, because I wanted more links to the original Phantom of the Opera as opposed to Corpse Bride, and I thought Carlotta would be a good one; also I wanted to practise the Spanish I had learnt even after I had finished doing it as a GCSE, and the diva seemed the perfect outlet for that desire. (I gave up not long after that – all the Spanish you see this chapter was done on a translator, so don't blame me if it's bad, blame my computer, though to my admittedly rusty eye – rusty eye, hee hee; I'm so odd! – it looks adequate, though perhaps not perfect for the opera.) Originally she was very much a secondary character, and I wasn't even sure at the beginning if she was going to be clued in on the events surrounding Christine's disappearance, but very quickly she grew on me and as a result I promoted her to a main character – you can tell which characters in this are main ones, I find, judging by how many chapters, or bits of chapters, they get to illustrate their point of view, discounting the massive amounts dedicated to E, C and to a lesser extent R. On second thoughts, I think I do know why she's become a favourite with me. It's such great fun to write from her point of view, because even though she's kind-hearted and capable of great love she is a bit of a snob, and very proud and self-conscious of her own faults at the same time, though trying to deny it; complete with a bit of a temper. Lots of authors say that at least one character in whatever book they're plugging at the time is based on them, like Diana Wynne Jones says Sophie in 'Howl's Moving Castle' is based on her and the feelings she had while recovering from an illness; I think that pretty much fits me and Carlotta, since she reflects my greatest faults, as well as (I hope) my greatest strengths.

It is for this reason that I put in that little excerpt about her hissing like a cat in Piangi's face. Having a boy lurking over your shoulder and practically into you, watching what you do: annoying. Looking around straight into his face, and smiling sweetly: deceiving. Hissing right in the aforesaid face: potentially ostracizing.

The sight of the previously aforesaid face as he stumbles backwards to get away from you? Priceless.

(What am I, a slab of raw meat or what? I'm going to go with or what. And I don't like being sniffed.)

Notes on the music (see, I did research!): No, as far as I know, there isn't an opera called 'The Two Sisters', and you wouldn't find me trying to write the music for it if there was. The lyrics, perhaps, but not the music. I'm a Gilbert, not a Sullivan. Look that up if you don't know what it means, and please, I beg you, check out 'The Mikado'. Who needs 'Madame Butterfly' and her naval chap when you can have Yum-yum and Nanki-Poo? (I swear I'm not making that up, by the way.)

Juan Crisóstomo Arriaga was a Spanish composer, in case you hadn't guessed from the name, and lived from 1806 to 1826, dying aged 19 – you can see where he got the nickname from. He was also a child prodigy and an extremely gifted composer, and - get this – he was born on what would have been Mozart's fiftieth birthday! Oooer! Maybe, if you believe in reincarnation, that would mean something? Then again, maybe not.

Zarzuela is a type of Spanish opera that went through a bit of a revamp after 1868, when the Glorious Revolution took place and the people deposed Queen Isabella II. Before this zarzuela tried to escape from French and Italian cultural influence, which it had been relying on, and develop its own distinctive style; the main difference were there were some spoken scenes, unlike other forms of opera. After 1868 lots of people couldn't afford to go to grand productions, so they were made cheaper to attend, and zarzuelas of different lengths were composed, some lasting only an hour, others lasting up to four hours. I've decided (finally!) that this story is set in round about the late 1860s, or thereabouts, so zarzuelas haven't reached their full potential yet, and as a result Carlotta is more likely to be impressed by the grander French and Italian operas.

Also, the version of Faust that's featured in Phantom of the Opera became a hit in 1862, but wasn't performed at the Grand Opera until 1869, when a ballet scene was added. Let's adapt that, shall we?

'The Hall of the Two Sisters' in the Alhambra in Granada is supposedly named after the aforementioned sisters who wasted away in there, but really it's named after two beautiful white slabs of marble set into the floor. Such a pity, because it's such a good story. Oh well, at least there's that one about the 'Hall of the Abencerrages' where the last king of Granada invited some chieftains to a banquet and killed them, and the water in the fountains there still runs red…

Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress, please! (And I'm sewing again! At last, the piece I've been working on for over two years is DONE! I'm so happy! I think I'm going to cry.)