A/N: Thanks for the lovely reviews. Glad to know I haven't lost all of you. Also, Mucho Importante! I did a little editing and took out chapter 13 or 14, and tacked a part of one chapter to a previous one. So, just to be clear, there is no encounter scene with Erik and Christine, anymore. Erik never took her, and she never saw him. Not yet…That is all.

Maggie

It was much later. The performance was over and had gone without incident. What preoccupied my thoughts now was the masked apparition. Would he come tonight? Was this all just a hoax or better yet, a dream, and he wouldn't come at all? I kept busy, checking the flies, cleaning up, trying to forget. But there wasn't much left to do, and so he continued to haunt my mind. I trudged exhaustedly through the corridors, wanting nothing more than to crash face-down on the pitiful-excuse-of-a-bed in my personal dorm closet in the cellar. My hopes were dashed however, when I saw the piece of paper on the bed. I opened it to reveal a short, blunt message in red scrawl.

Meet at third cellar entrance at 10:30. Come alone.

Don't be late.

-O.G.

"Opera Ghost." I murmured. A name I was now quite familiar with, after being clued in by the other stagehands. "So, it's to be tonight, is it?"

I had no idea what the time was, but I must've been early, because I didn't see him there. Of course, it was so pitch dark I couldn't see anything beyond the third cellar entrance, which is probably why I nearly blew out my boot laces when I was startled by a voice from behind.

"I told you not to be late."

Gasping, I twisted around, instinctively preparing my body for defense against an attack. And there he was…the masked peril, ghost extraordinaire, shrouded in black.

"You said 10:30."

"It's five minutes past."

"So sorry," I muttered. "How does one earn forgiveness from a ghost?"

His silent glare answered my question. "Don't let it happen again."

His tone was brusque, unattached and seemingly in a hurry to get this over with.

"Well, are you going to stand there, gaping or are you going to give me some sort of useful information?"

I immediately caught myself staring, which made him fidgety and uncomfortable. He sighed in annoyance, and began pacing slowly, back and forth. I managed to find my voice and thought back to the conversation between Christine and I earlier that day. I wasn't quite sure where to start.

"Well…she likes…pretty…things." I stammered. He halted abruptly.

"Pretty Things?" He spat. "A young woman liking pretty things…how illuminating."

Biting my lip at the stupid mistake, I tried again. "Look, she likes lacey things, and—and hair ribbons!"

His resumed pacing had grown more agitated. I urgently pressed on.

"And there was a locket--"

My stomach turned back flips as he flew at me so fast, my street-wise instincts had no chance, and I was in a fierce lock, arm twisted mercilessly up behind my back before I knew what happened.

"A l—locket," I gasped in pain, "with photographs of her mother and father."

"Ribbons and lace, a locket she wears constantly around her neck. Wouldn't you agree these were mere trifles I might've already known?!"

I struggled ferociously to break free, he was just too strong.

"It would've…helped…if you'd told me what…you already knew!" And regaining some street-fighting sense, I in-stepped as hard as I could on his foot.

Growling in pain, he threw me roughly down on the ground.

"Damn you! You'll regret that."

"At least now I know ghosts feel pain!"

He looked ready to strike again, but withheld and composed himself. I groped for a wall to pull myself up.

"I suppose it would've been sufficient to make you aware of what I consider 'useful' information." He grunted.

"Would've been smart is what it would've been."

I earned another threatening glare from those yellow demon eyes.

"For such a small woman you've got a rather large mouth."

"Irish." I panted heavily, both hands on my knees as my breathing returned to normal.

Composing himself into a fearless, all-powerful being once more, he addressed me in a stern but controlled tone.

"You have greatly disappointed me, Mademoiselle. But I sense very strong character in you. I'll give you one last chance."

Confusion as well as relief washed over me as I accepted the fact I wouldn't have to fight the man who, a moment ago, wanted to end my life, and very well could have.

"Maybe I should ask what exactly I'm supposed to be looking for?"

"Everything besides the obvious. The little things that any other mere acquaintance could perceive about her are of little importance to me."

I nodded. "Fine, I'll try."

"No, you'll do it or fail. There is no try."

If there was one thing—amongst many—that I hated, it was being pressured into something I was unsure of. I didn't do so well under pressure. Before I had the chance to respond he turned away, his cape faintly swishing with the movement.

"I trust we will not have to go through a similar confrontation again?" He called out before disappearing into the third cellar's black void.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

This time I devised a fool-proof plan. I would take both Christine and Meg out for a night on the town, just us girls. Or rather, two girls and one feminine-impaired, cross-dresser, as my brother would put it. When I finally tracked them down and invited them out, Meg was all for it. Christine was not.

"But it's quite late, and we still have one performance left tomorrow. We'll need to save all the energy we have for it."

Despite her protests, Meg and I begged and pleaded enough for her to give in.

"Very well. I'll go if…"

Uh-oh. Conditions. The last thing I wanted was conditions. I wasn't going to make a game out of this. Although technically, I think I would be considered hypocritical, as I was already in a game, a game of deceit with Christine Daae. A game to learn her darkest desires for a purpose, for a person unknown to me. Meg and I practically held our breath waiting for her to finish.

"…If you go as Maggie instead of Sidney."

I looked to Meg only to see the dawn of a mischievious smile on her face.

"You want to trot that by me again?"

"Awe, come on, Maggie," Meg took hold of my arm. "Why not take a night off from this little façade?"

"Because I can't! What if someone should recognize me?"

"We could make you unrecognizable!" Christine exclaimed.

There was an eager gleam in her eye I didn't much care for. At this point, I grasped for any way out.

"But I make a lousy lady, really I do! Something my mum and Joseph never let me forget."

As soon as his name slipped, I turned gravely silent. Christine attempted to change the subject.

"We'll help you."

"Wouldn't it be better to have me along as a male escort?"

"Hmm, Good point. She's right, it would." Meg agreed.

"No," Christine continued firmly, "I think it's high time for you to come out of your shell."

I broke away from my position between them.

"My shell is just fine thank you."

"Then I'm not going."

Blast this complex woman! I knew I needed to obtain information for my next stand-off with the pessimistic gentlemen ghost. I knew the only way to do that was to have a little alone time with Christine. If this was the dirty pool I had to put up with to get that information, so be it. I didn't like it, but so be it.

I sighed, throwing up my hands in surrender. "But I don't have anything to wear!"

Once again, they closed in, one on either side me, firmly grasping my arms. And the rambling was relentless.

"You can borrow one of my dresses!"

"Or mine!"

"We're all quite petite, it shouldn't be too difficult to find something."

They babbled on and on, describing every dress, every corset, every shoe…each and every detail of my divine punishment. Yes, that's how I saw it; my punishment. I was now their victim being dragged to her impending doom of primping and panache. I had spent most of my life fighting this off, and now it had come to claim me. I'll bet Joseph was rolling in his grave…with laughter.

Sometime later…

My sanity, not to mention my dignity, was gone. Lost somewhere above, perhaps in whatever matter of bird was sitting atop of my head. I tried not to lose my control as well, while the fussing fingers of the two girls primped and pulled at every conceivable inch of me. I could see out the corner of my eye that the room was an absolute mess. Gowns, undergarments, shoes and accessories were flung everywhere and looked something like an artist's palate, every inch covered in a variety of colors. Hearing Meg's sigh of relief gave me hope that the torture was over.

"Well, what do you think?"

Christine stood back to examine, leaving me to begrudgingly face the mirror. She glanced at Meg, biting her lip.

"Do you think we might've gone a bit…overboard?"

I nearly wanted to cry. Or throw up. I could hardly pick myself apart from the room! They had me clad in the latest spring fashion (though it was still only December), with a low cut, fitted bodice in petunia pink with pink ribbons and white lace, and a matching full, pink skirt. This get-up was adorned with a jacket and feathered boa in robin's egg blue. Two ostrich feathers stood a good six inches above my head in two different shades of pink. I wore pink gloves and last but not least, pink dress shoes. I was the pink of perfection. The makeup…I don't even want to remember it.

"I'm a prisoner of pastels." I moaned.

"Oh come, it's not that bad." Meg reassured, though not convincingly.

"I match the room!"

"She does look regrettably like a can-can dancer." Christine concurred.

"Alright! So I got a little carried away." Meg admitted.

"This is so hopeless. All that work to get me looking this feminine really says something, doesn't it."

"Maggie, stop that. You're really quite attractive." Christine defended. "Let's try again."

"Oh blast it, Christine, is it really worth it?"

"Well it won't be if you keep up with language like that."

I huffed in displeasure as they attacked my figure for a second round. I'm not sure how much more time had passed, but I was fairly certain the night had wasted away and it would be too late to go anywhere, and this would've all been for nothing.

"Alright, I think this is a distinct improvement."

Both Meg and Christine stepped back to survey the damage. I wasn't sure I wanted to see.

"If this is all botched up again, the deal's off, and I go dressed as I always am. Sensibly."

"Trust me this is a great improvement." Christine smiled.

Hesitantly, I turned towards the full-length mirror on the wall, and…was genuinely surprised. It was a simpler gown in jade green, with long sleeves and minimal lace. The bodice was laced with subtle gold ribbon. The cut wasn't terribly low and the white veiled lace stretched from the top of the bodice to mid-neck where it was topped off with a black choker and a brooch. I wore black ladies boots, sensible for the winter weather. My long, curly dark hair, usually stuffed up under a cap, was pulled back halfway, letting the rest flow free. The pounds of whorish makeup had disappeared, leaving only a lighter reddish tint on my lips and very faint rouge on my cheekbones. I daresay, I almost looked…pretty. Christine attempted to coach me in some rules of etiquette, most of which I logged away in the back of my mind. I had more important things to worry about.

I was slightly put off to find that the girls' idea of a night out consisted of a glass of wine and small plate of pastries at a usual table in the Café de L' Opera. Some evenings, members of the company would perform little ditties and excerpts from various operas for their fellow comrades. And while I admit, it was an enjoyable atmosphere with enjoyable company, it wasn't quite the experience I'd had in mind for our nightly exploit. Christine and Meg noticed my apparent dismay, and after assuring them how much I enjoyed the Café de L' Opera, I added that I had hoped to introduce them to another Snug* out of the Opera's safe haven.

It was nearly midnight by the time we left. Three Parisian Princess waltzed down the street, arms linked, looking for a good time. Christine tried to hail a brougham but I stopped her.

"You find some of the best places on foot 'stead of watchin' the world race by from a cab window."

"And by 'best places' I hope you don't mean some dark, foreboding hole-in-the-wall with cheap ale and even cheaper company." Christine pleaded, already preparing for the worst.

"Don't be such a sissy, Christine. It's a perfectly respectable place where we're goin'."

"Watch the slang. It makes you sound uneducated and underprivileged."

God save me, I wouldn't survive the night. After a bit of walking, I steered them through a door into a dimly-lit tavern that gave off an eerie yet warm reddish glow. The stage lads had brought me here a time or two in hopes that the lively, beguiling atmosphere would pull me from my silent reverie. It hadn't, of course, but I was still grateful for the distraction; a place to escape to whenever I needed. In other words, a dark, foreboding hole-in-the-wall had become my refuge…much to Christine and Meg's dismay. The place was called La Vie En Rose. Christine started coughing from the overpowering stench of cheap cigars.

"This is your idea of a perfectly respectable place?"

"I wonder what a hole-in-the-wall would look like." Meg chimed in, taking in her surroundings.

"Oh, come off it, just give it a try. It's something totally out of the norm!"

"It's something, alright," Meg murmured as I led them through the smoky haze to a set of stairs that led to a loft where the smoking was minimal compared to ground floor.

After ordering a round of drinks, I fired away on my mental list of questions. Simple stuff, like where she was from originally, when she came to be employed at the Opera Populaire, how long she'd been singing. And while some of it may have proven to be "useful information," I longed to dig deeper, drive at the emotions and hidden desires, the core of the talented young Swedish girl that no one else knew. But I didn't want Meg to bear witness to my nitpicking interrogation, because it wasn't an interrogation, really. I just didn't want her getting suspicious of me or worse, let her suspicions get to Christine.

Fortunately, after a few rounds, I didn't have to worry about that so much, for Meg was off dancing with the one or two men who had offered, laughing merrily, and spinning along with tune of the tavern's fiddles and pennywhistles.

"Meg seems to be enjoying herself!" I shouted over the music to where Christine was sitting, softly clapping along with the rhythm.

"As always!" she yelled back.

"This isn't really your cup o' tea is it?"

"What?!"

"I said, this isn't really your sort of thing, is it?"

Christine gave a sincere smile. "No! No, it's not! But I'm—,"

She was cut off by the deafening applause and whistles which signaled the end of the jig. We covered our ears a second, smiling, before it quieted down somewhat and Christine tried again. "But I'm glad that I came."

I finished sipping my Guiness. "Really?"

She nodded. "I don't get out of the theatre much," she took a sip of her own drink. "To tell you the truth, I don't go anywhere at all."

"Why ever not?" I picked at the French bread we'd ordered, hoping that at last, we were getting somewhere.

"Well, at first there was no reason to. Before Papa died, we lived with a widow, Madame Valerius. I still continue to stay with her from time to time, but lately…" she drifted off, staring over the loft's edge, at what I don't know.

"But lately?" I urged on. She shook her head, as if to shake away some distant thought.

"Lately, things have been—different. Strange. Enough so, that I ought to stay away from the Opera, but I just—can't."

I contemplated what to say next. "Listen, Christine. I know we aren't exactly friends…" She looked up at me.

"Oh? Then what are we?"

I was at a loss for words. I never gave it much thought; never suspected she would consider us to be that close-knit after knowing each other for so little time.

"I thought we were."

"Really? I never had many close mates, so I guess I wouldn't know what determines whether we are or not."

"Well, I'll admit perhaps we're not good friends, not close. But I'd say we're off to a fine start."

"Well, uh—thanks."

After an awkward silence, she bit her lip, looking at the table cloth. She seemed to pondering something.

"Listen, Maggie…" she whispered, loud enough to hear over the low chatter of nearby patrons. I leaned in. "Can I tell you something?" I nodded. "But you must swear to me you won't tell another soul?"

"Sure, I swear it."

"Well…" she let out a small shaky laugh. "I don't know why I'm telling you this—it's a bit funny, but—you seem like the kind of person one can easily trust.

"I get that a lot."

She gazed over the edge again and I followed her eyes, which were trained on Meg. Meg was at the bar, laughing at something her dance partner had said, flirting like a fool. Feeling assured her companion wouldn't be joining us anytime soon, Christine relaxed slightly.

"Do you remember when I first mentioned the Angel of Music?" I nodded, thinking back to that day and how nervous she had seemed.

"I can't quite explain it…but it feels like something's stirring in the Opera's atmosphere. It feels restless. My Angel has been rather strange lately as well. He's been more—protective, you could say."

Taking a steady sip of my pint I responded, "How so?"

"He's been coaching my voice for nearly three months, now. Throughout that time, he's been strict, firm, but compassionate, understanding. He became more than my teacher, he was my guardian; someone I could confide in, spill my troubles to at the end of the day. A friend—up until now."

Now, I know everyone is entitled to their belief, be it fact, myth, religion, what have you. Hell, being from an originally pagan country, we had some sort of fable or faerie-tale for ever rock and river that came our way. I was used to hearing them. But this was past old childhood delusions. It was unsettling how serious Christine had become in her faith to the story of the Angel of Music, and it rattled my nerves. Still, I continued to play along with her little daydream.

"What do you mean "up until now"?"

She sighed. "Do you remember the Comte de Chagney?"

Racking my brain, I vaguely recalled a tall well-dressed man, middle-aged, constantly at the side of prima ballerina, La Sorelli, after every performance. I nodded.

"I don't know if you've noticed, but on occasion, his younger brother attends the Opera. The Vicomte Raoul de Chagney."

"Can't say I can put a face to the name."

"Raoul and I used to play together when we were young, at Perros. Anyway, after my rather embarrassing collapse on the night of the gala, we were reunited. I awoke to him kneeling over me in my dressing room. In my daze, I asked who he was, whereupon, he claimed to be the little boy who saved my scarf from the raging sea in Perros."

I laughed. "Odd. What did you say?"

"I pretended not to know what he was talking about. I didn't mean to appear cruel, but I sensed my angel was near, and he can be quite jealous. He once told me that if I let myself be distracted by worldly things, and loved another man, he would leave me. I couldn't bear that! My angel means everything to me. He's the closest connection I have with my father, the closest thing to heaven. Without him, my life would return to the empty void it once was."

By now, Christine's fingers were clenched tightly around her glass, knuckles whitening, staring intently at the liquid contents before hesitantly meeting my eye.

"But I don't want to lose Raoul either. He was my dearest friend. Some might've even called us childhood sweethearts. I just don't know how to juggle the two."

I took a long swig of my Guiness before replying. "Alright, say I buy all this gab about the angel for a second—"

"You don't believe me." I felt a twinge of guilt and sympathy at seeing the resigned, defeated look on her face. "No," she cut me off before I could explain myself, "I can understand how mad I must sound. A musical angel sent by my dead father to give me voice lessons, controlling my social life…"

"Well, what do you expect, Christine? A supernatural being—a voice no one else sees or hears apart from you."

"For the record, I've never seen him, either."

"Well, that confession just made this so much more convincing."

"You know, I don't have to sit here and be judged by you. I can't help it whether you believe me or not."

"In all normality, you have to admit this is all a bit far-fetched!"

"Normality?" She questioned. "You, yourself, challenge normality in every way possible. Your dress, your language, your way of thinking…completely out of the norm! You don't know the meaning of the word."

She stood up, reaching for her cloak. Dammit! I was no good when it came to idle chatter. I had to keep her from leaving, otherwise she maybe never take me into her confidence again, as well as avoid me at all future opera events.

"Wait, Christine—I—I'm sorry." She didn't look at me, but paused. I sighed. "I didn't mean to sound so insensitive. Come on, this is me, Tomboy Maggie. I never do say the right thing." I smiled apologetically, and trying to suppress a small one, she rolled her eyes heavenward.

"All right." We sat in silence a few minutes, watching Meg engage in another dance.

"Does Meg know?"

Christine shook her head. "Only that I believed my father had sent me an angel as he promised. She refused to believe it. She's been fretting needlessly about my behavior for the past month. But I suppose I give her just cause. I just didn't want her to know how afraid I was—how afraid I still am."

At that moment, Meg collapsed into her seat beside us, flushed and breathless. "Having a good time?" I asked.

She nodded enthusiastically. "The best! Lord if Mama ever found out about this…"

"She won't unless you blabber about it." Christine playfully pushed her.

"And the fun's not over yet."

Christine cocked an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"You think this is the only entertainment they have to offer?"

Almost as if on cue, a roar of applause, multiple hoots and whistles erupted from the tavern. All eyes turned to the piano in the corner of the main floor, and the woman beside it, her scantily-clad form glittering in the spotlight. She began singing an old French song in a low, enticing tone, honey-gold eyes staring straight ahead. Christine put her hand over her mouth.

"Oh, no. No, we are not staying another minute, come on Meg."

"Would you relax?" I whispered, noticing the occupants at the table nearby were staring at us.

"How could you be so brazen as to drag Meg and I to a brothel?!"

"It's not a brothel, for God-sake, Christine, I wouldn't do that."

"Oh, then what do you call that?"

She gestured to the woman who had started making her way around the tables, her chocolate-brown curls gleaming in the light. She sat on one table, leaning towards a gruff man. The sleeve of her red low-cut bodice, slipping down her shoulder, red taffeta skirt hiked up to reveal her shapely legs.

"That is Edel St. Claire. She's the star attraction for La Vie En Rose."

"She's a—a Jezebel!" Meg claimed (as loud as she possibly could).

"…Of the tavern, and nothing more. She's no whore!"

"Then I suppose she's a boon companion of yours?" Christine added with a note of obvious disapproval.

"No! Not necessarily. We've chatted some, yes. Trust me, there's more to her than meets the eye. She's a good egg."

I wished I could introduce them to Edel to prove my point, that she was just as much a lady, just as human as any of us. But Edel was yet another egg in the basket that knew me only as Sidney, and I wanted to keep it that way. The less that knew, the better. The act was over, and more applause, even louder than the first bout, echoed throughout the house.

Christine softly clapped as well. "I'll admit she has a rather pleasant voice."

"She does seem to possess a certain air of dignity and decorum apart from other—women in her line of work." Meg finished, lamely.

"She's not a whore!" I insisted.

It was getting later, the crowds were winding down. After enjoying the last round of drinks, our conversation became light and more relaxed. Christine told me more about her childhood and Raoul (whether I wanted to hear it or not), Meg lazily propped her head up on her hand, drifting in and out of a catnap. She excused herself, looking for a place to relieve herself from the numerous beverages of the evening.

"You swear not to repeat anything I've told you?" Christine reminded me for the umpteenth time that night, referring to her bizarre angel case.

"Yeah, Yeah. I told ya I wouldn't."

She gave a short laugh, twirling her glass on the table's polished surface. "I supposed it doesn't really matter. Perhaps it is all in my head," she frowned, "Perhaps I believed in it so much my imagination finally complied." She sighed. "Perhaps I've finally lost my mind; sold it to that Opera house the very day I came." She downed her drink.

"Cheers." I saluted mine.