A short chapter, almost a continuation of the previous one, but when I put them together, I thought it was too long, so there you are…Please, review! I have ideas galore for the next chapter…but somehow the ideas never get the initiative to come out of my fingers onto a keyboard(and therefore a computer screen, which then leads to being posted here) without knowing that others are reading them!

Meg was a lovely seamstress—though she absolutely loathed the work. Still, she was more than capable of applying the lace to her dress, and upon returning home, she immediately set about the task.

Antoinette was in the kitchen, preparing their dinner. And listening for noises in the attic. She heard nothing…but then, that didn't really mean anything, did it? She was also having something of a dilemma about dinner itself, as a matter of fact. Should she prepare something for her…guest?

Better safe than sorry, with him…

She put an extra helping of chicken on the stove. Chicken and rice for dinner. She'd bought the chicken on the way home. She'd had to pluck it herself—Though thank the heavens the stall-keeper she had purchased it from had actually killed the thing. She wasn't squeamish, but after everything at the Opera House…she tried to avoid death of any kind—and feathers were stuck onto her gown and in her hair. She began plucking them off as the food cooked, blowing them out the window.

She was in the process of extricating a particularly stubborn piece of down from her hair when she heard Meg shriek. A wave of cold fear washed through her chest, and she ran towards Meg's room, her heart in her throat. She stopped abruptly in the hallway, staring for a moment.

Meg, holding the blue dress tightly to her chest, was staring at the Phantom, who had apparently just come out of Antoinette's room, right as Meg was coming out of hers. Now they both were frozen, the Phantom from surprise, Meg from alarm.

Antoinette cleared her throat, and the Phantom turned his head to her, though Meg kept staring at him. Antoinette cleared her throat again, more loudly, and finally her daughter turned to her.

"What is going on here?" She asked, using her Ballet Mistress tone. As always, it made her feel less nervous than she was.

"I was retrieving my property." The Phantom said coolly, gesturing to the white half-mask on his face.

Antoinette sighed, letting some of the tension drain from her body.

What on earth should I say?

I wonder what he's going to do now…

Nothing, probably.

Or something devastating

I suppose that's somewhat likely

Really, you should say something. They're both staring at you.

The smell of cooking chicken hit her nose. It was probably going to burn in a minute.

"Would you like to join us for dinner?"

Both of them stared at her like she was mad.

Needless to say, everything was very awkward at first. Nobody said anything, and everybody frowned at their plates.

After several agonizing minutes where the only sounds were forks scraping against plates, Meg spoke up, "I finished the dress, mother. It looks wonderful, you can hardly tell it's the same."

Antoinette forced a smile, "That's good." Her throat felt terribly tight.

Now that she had started, Meg seemed to have no such problem.

"It will be perfect to wear at"— She choked to a halt, suddenly realizing what she was about to say, then finished with, "Any dances in town, any parties. It's as pretty as any of the dresses other women have."

Antoinette tried to force herself to breathe. Meg's blunder had rendered her immobile, and she was struggling to keep up this bizarre, half-normal appearance of any regular dinner.

Meg, both sensing her mother's problem, and made slightly loose-tongued from her own nervousness, continued to babble.

"I do wish we had had the money to buy that brindley velvet for you, mother. Madame Babin was right, the red would have looked absolutely stunning on you."

That comment made Antoinette smile.

"I am long past the age to be considered stunning, Meg. I'll leave that for you." No matter how much her heart thought otherwise. Nobody ever really needed pretty clothes, anything.

"You look extremely lovely for a woman of your age!" Meg said firmly.

Antoinette's smile grew. How complimentary her daughter was.

After that, there was another long pause. Antoinette glanced at the Phantom, who, she found, was watching her. She jumped slightly when their eyes connected, and turned back to her plate.

"Do you like chicken?" Meg was looking at the Phantom expectantly.

He turned and looked at her, his face as expressionless as Antoinette had ever seen it. That didn't seem to cow Meg however.

"I like it, I find it easier to eat than some other meats. If you don't cook it right, things like beef and pork can become terribly tough. Plus, they are so much more expensive. Really, they're hardly worth the hassle."

Antoinette watched in amazement as the corner of the Phantom's mouth jerked, just very slightly. It was hardly noticeable but…was he amused?

"Meg," She said quietly, a very subtle warning in her voice.

Meg glanced at her and opened her mouth, but before she could speak, a deep, quiet voice spoke.

"I find I'm not much for anything, at the moment. But chicken works as well as anything."

Antoinette was absolutely speechless.

Meg wasn't.

"Yes, really it does, and because it's so easy to cook, it's something even I can prepare. I'm a terrible cook, you know. But mother's actually quite good at it. She can take almost anything and turn it into a dinner that's easy to eat."

"She could always do that," The comment seemed oddly impulsive, and immediately after he said it, he stood up and turned away.

"Thank you for the dinner." He spoke with his back to them, as if he wished to hide his face.

With that comment, he walked away, into the shadows of the hallway, and then up to the attic. The attic door closed with a slam that shook the plates on the table.

Antoinette was left feeling breathless and stunned. His comment had brought up memories of carrying picnic baskets down beneath the Opera House as a young girl. Memories of speaking with the odd, troubled, emotional young boy named Erik.

Memories she thought the Phantom had forgotten.

Agggghhh. Creating a dialogue for semi-psychotic, emotional, broken-hearted ex-murderer and Opera Ghost is EXTREMELY HARD. Sorry if it sucked, I can honestly say I tried!

Even if it sucked…Review, please?