A/N: Oh my God! Christmas break = more writing time.

"She could not participate in great love, she could only report it."

-Nightwood

It took ages to hunt down Madame Giry and convince her to open box five. I tried to get in on the sly but she made a point of keeping it locked.

"What business do you have in box five?" The old dame asked warily. A strange question.

"My business," I snapped before immediately feeling guilty. I suppose I was still a little sore with her for her insulting remarks pertaining to Joseph's misfortune. "Official business, Madame Giry," I softened my tone.

Suspicion wrinkled the woman's face but she let me in and didn't ask anymore. Once she shut the door, I pulled out a small envelope I had tucked in my shirt. There was no addressee on the front—simply blank. The letter itself—brief and to the point. No fancy imager or honeyed words. Preparations for the next opera were underway and auditions would be held the following day. It was my hope that Christine would turn up by then. There was a short shelf just inside the box's entrance, and I set the envelope on it, propping it up so Erik wouldn't miss it. Now, I just had to wait until midnight—the time I asked him to meet me in the letter.

I shut myself away in the privacy of my room with a light snack to keep me company. Hours crawled by in which I lay sprawled on the bed, picturing just what all I was going to say to Erik. I'd keep my head that was for sure. Whatever that man might do to whip my temper out of control, I would most definitely not loose my cool. Letting those thoughts drift in and out, bobbing like ducks in a pond, I allowed myself to fall asleep where I dreamt of snow in multiple places—Ireland, Russia, the rooftops of Paris…and one memory of England when Jo and I were there on holiday—not planned, of course. There was Jo, looking for trouble, and I as usual, looking for him.

It was in Devonshire around the Christmas season. Jo had found work on a farm belonging to a man, his wife, and three daughters. During the day, he tended to the animals, built, repaired, harvested, chopped wood, shoed horses…and flirted with the farmer's eldest daughter. At night, he went into town and blew his earnings at ale houses, card games and brothels; flirt with any woman between sixteen and thirty, available or not; start fights with bartenders, and all but paint the town red. I had just arrived in Devonshire and didn't have to look far—he was being escorted out of the first tavern I checked.

His very first words to me—"Why lass, if I weren't seein' double in the first place, I'd say you bear an uncanny resemblance to my baby sister back in Ireland."

"Don't be a *gobshite, Joseph."

"Maggie! Why, it is you!" A crooked grin broke out on his face. "What the devil brings you to jolly ole England?"

"A change of scenery."

"A change of scenery?" His voice rose to falsetto—that happened occasionally when he was inebriated. "What scenery? Nothin' but green. Green Ireland, green Scotland, green England. They should've combined all three and declared us the largest garden party in the world! Change of scenery…the only change is that the bloody Brits hate us only a wee bit less than they do Americans."

"Shut up! You're going to wake up half of Devonshire, you drunken lout."

"I should hope so!" He shouted. "That's what they get for pickin' a fight with the croppy boys!"

He raised his syrupy eyes towards the rooftops and I took hold of his arm and guided him home (which took awhile, as he'd forgotten the exact direction of his lodgings), listening to his prattle the whole way.

"I'm Irish and I'm proud…and I'll beat anybody else's ass who isn't all wound up about being Irish…Did ya walk here, Maggie?"

"Of course I did." I replied sarcastically.

"Whyyy?"

"For sport, Jo. I decided I could use the exercise."

He crumpled, laughing—a noise something akin to a horse—before straightening back up. "We are but fortune's sport, Magpie. And she does not play fair."

"Stow it, you lanky lookin' lout. You're tanked and not makin' a lick of sense."

The rest of the dream blurred into a translucent slush before my eyes cracked open to peer at my watch—a quarter to midnight. Not bothering to throw my hair up under the customary cap, I rushed down to the third cellar entrance where I'd told Erik in the letter to meet me.

I didn't know Erik incredibly well, but I knew him well enough to be a firm believer in punctuality. So, why the hell was I still waiting nearly an hour later? Perhaps he didn't get the message. Or maybe he did and that mole rat decided not to show up. Well, I wasn't about to make the trek up to box five nor drag Madame Giry out of bed in the middle of the night. The hike down to the fifth cellar wasn't all that appealing, either. 'That sod has five minutes,' I promised myself.

Ten and a half minutes later, I was in the fifth cellar, standing at the water's edge. The gondola wasn't there. I juggled between calling out or going back to bed, and finally decided on the former.

"Erik?"

Nothing.

"Erik, I know you read the letter!"

Lie.

"Erik, I'm waving a white flag, don't you dare ignore me!"

Everything was so eerily quiet down there, even the lake was still and almost soundless if it weren't for the drip-drip-drip somewhere off in the darkness.

"You've kept me waiting for over an hour. I'm tired and I want to go to bed!"

The mixture of exhaustion and being snubbed was sending me into a foul mood.

"Have it your way, you stubborn-ass! Either you send me a sign that I'm not just shoutin' for my health or so help me, Erik, I'll swim this damn moat and give you a piece of my mind!"

"You don't have the gall."

His voice startled me. I lost my balance and would've toppled into the lake if a cold bony hand hadn't grabbed hold of my wrist, yanking me back.

"Jesus, what is wrong with you? I nearly fell in!"

"Why so distressed? You were going to swim it anyway."

"I was bluffing. If you're over here, where's the gondola?"

"I do have more than one route to the Opera." Dumb question. "So, you want to offer assistance in my relations with Christine, you say? Funny, I recall you screaming so determinedly, "she won't ever love you.""

"That was shameful."

"Or "crawl back to her, you pitiful dog.""

"That too—a low blow. And I'm sorry, Erik."

He was silent, contemplating. "Why the sudden change of mind?"

"I'm a sucker for happy endings." I teased. "Someone in this madhouse ought to have one."

"Odd, I don't necessarily see you as a believer of fairytales."

"Hellooo—Irish…it's in the blood."

"That's a terrible excuse." But he seemed amused.

"So…what do you think?"

"It didn't work out so well the first time if you recall."

"This won't be like the first time."

"How can you be so certain?"

I wasn't. "I just know. Things are somewhat different now. We've done a little growing up, you and I, and I believe we can handle this like adults, don't you?"

His head tilted to the side in consideration. He didn't seem particularly convinced. "Alright."

"Alright?"

"Under certain conditions, that is."

I eyed him suspiciously but heard him out.

"One: Stay out of my things unless I give you permission to touch them. If I catch you snooping around—you're out.

Two: You are not to mess with my plans considering Christine. You don't get involved in my business I won't get involved in yours. You are there merely to serve—guidance—understood?"

I nodded. We'd see how long that lasted.

"Three: You will stop wearing those absurd clothes and don more appropriate attire while you are under my roof." I made to protest but he cut me off. "You're a young woman not a lumberjack. Are we agreed?"

I sighed loudly and mockingly pouted over his last request. "I don't suppose you're open for negotiation?"

"Under normal circumstances—no. But for you—depends."

"No corsets?" I pleaded.

He rolled his eyes, annoyed at discussing women's undergarments. "No corsets."

"Deal."

I stuck out my hand, which he stared at a moment before shaking it. He suggested I collect whatever belongings I needed from my room ad he would wait for me.

"Stay close and don't wander off," he ordered once I returned.

"Christine will be at auditions tomorrow, won't she?"

"What point would there be in training her if I didn't intend for her to audition?"

"Just asking…might want to keep a close eye, though. I'm sure Monsieur de Chagny will be attending." He stopped short and I nearly collided into his back.

"Condition number four: I don't ever want to hear the Vicomte's name mentioned in my house," he commanded sharply. What a sourpuss. He began walking again and I picked my way over rocks and puddles after him.

"Condition five," I stated firmly, "You stop being so bossy."

.