Okay, you all officially blew me away with your responses last chapter! I have never gotten that many. Ever. So I take it as yet another birthday gift and one that I value very, very much. So thank you thank you! But I'll stop gushing because I know I gave you all a very mean snippet so I'll be quiet and just say...

Onward!

X

With trembling hands Christine grabbed the heavy flashlight she kept for emergencies. It was not unusual for the power to go out in her building, especially during storms in the wintertime, and she always felt just a little safer with how it could almost be mistaken for a club if she held it a certain way.

But tonight she wanted the light, forcing herself to move toward the persistent tapping, the strong beam centered on the darkness beyond the window.

Only for her gaze to meet two eyes peering back at her, a face pressed against the glass.

She expected to see a burglar, a man with a malicious smirk as he waited to jump into her apartment and cause all manner of harm, but instead she was met with a baleful look and pink mouth as a young cat begged entrance into her home.

Belatedly she realized it had begun to rain, a low rumble in the sky a reminder that the weather could and would turn at any moment this time of year.

And without any thought to consequence Christine hurried to the window, wondering why it chose her window to stalk.

It was just a little thing, although Christine thought it looked big enough to be away from its mother. She didn't know much about animals, but as the creature willingly went into her hands and immediately released a pleased purr as she rubbed away what rain had managed to settle in its silky black fur, Christine was grateful it had come to her.

She had no idea how it had gotten trapped upon her fire escape, but as she peered at the golden eyes tinged with green, she was glad of it.

"Hello, little friend. Are you looking for a home?"

It released a squeaky meow in response, pressing softly padded feet against her arm before nuzzling the hand that still stroked its coat, this time merely for the pleasure of doing so rather than an attempt at drying her new acquaintance.

Perhaps it was her loneliness that made her want to keep it. She did not have the money for a pet, could barely feed herself some months, but as she sat down in her threadbare chair and the kitten began kneading on the soft flesh of her thigh, she wanted nothing more than to claim the little thing as hers.

She could have peanut butter sandwiches without the joy of blueberry preserves. When the trial was over maybe she could see about a second job, the extra money going solely to providing a comfortable and welcoming place.

And maybe then the empty corners of her apartment would begin to fill with things for her new friend, and so too would her heart begin to mend at no longer being quite so alone.

"Would you like to stay with me? I'll do my best to care for you… I promise I will."

The kitten meowed again, this time a persistent noise that did not quiet even as she spoke to it. The small body was awfully thin, its bones easily discernible beneath the plush fur.

"Are you hungry? I don't have anything for you…"

It mewled again, butting its head against her chest before looking up at her with mournful eyes.

And as her heart melted she resolved herself to making whatever sacrifices were necessary to care for this tiny creature. It needed her, and she could not possibly say no.

"I don't have anything for you here so I'll have to go to the store again." She cringed as she thought about how much food would possibly cost, but knew that it would be worth it. It had to be.

She felt dreadful leaving it alone in her apartment, its tummy too empty for it to sleep even in the circle of blankets she provided on her chair. But still, at least it would be safe and she would hurry, and then maybe they would sleep well.

Together.

Before she left however she did offer a shallow bowl full of water which did peak the kitten's interest—though it seemed more interested in dunking its paw in the cool liquid rather than drinking it.

With it sufficiently distracted she grabbed her coat and slipped through her front door, hopeful that she would be back before the kitten grew overly upset.

There was not much in her apartment that she cared about. Her furniture was sparse and second-hand, so if it decided that it made a finer scratching post than a sleeping nest she would not overly mind.

Most of the possessions she and her papa had shared before he died had disappeared. When social services had arrived she was told to pack a few things, the rest would be taken care of, although she had never seen what happened to any of it. Perhaps someone had informed her, but she had been so frightened and overwhelmed that likely she simply did not remember.

Maybe it was waiting in storage, gathering dust and hoping that someday she might come to rescue it from its forgotten state.

She had taken some clothes, shoes, and scrapbook of her favorite memories with her parents, and most especially the quilt her mother had brought from Sweden so many years ago. For as long as she could remember it had lain across the foot of her bed, and no matter how scared she was while living in the group home or trying to scratch out some semblance of a life in the intimidating city, she had her quilt for company.

And yet no matter how glad she was to still have some remembrance of home and family, it had never been enough.

The market was much quieter, the rain driving many people indoors. Christine was soaked through and she couldn't help but sniffle, the cold seeping through her coat and reminding her to keep her visit short—her nightgown and a cup of tea sounding all the more appealing.

Especially if she now would have a friend to share it with.

The pet aisle was a daunting experience. Rows of food that spouted all sorts of promises only made her further confused, completely unsure about what the kitten would prefer. Did they care about flavors? Chicken or seafood? Wet or dry?

And would it need a cat box?

An older woman with her basket heavy laden with all sorts of cans must have seen her frantic expression because she approached with a chuckle.

"Need some help?"

Christine nodded gratefully, her relief outweighing any embarrassment she might have felt at her ineptitude.

"New addition? Usually if you get them from a shelter they give you instructions on proper care."

Christine gave a little half-shrug. "It showed up at my window tonight and I'm afraid I've never had a pet. But it's crying and I figure it must be hungry."

The woman smiled warmly, a hint of pride in her expression. "It's good of you to take him in then. You'd be surprised how many people leave these animals out to fend for themselves. If you're good to him then he'll love you more than anything… and you'll never regret it."

Christine sighed wistfully. While there might be coworkers that cared about her, that was not all the same as being loved.

She had not been loved by someone since her papa died.

And now that she realized it, she practically ached to experience it again.

"That sounds wonderful, but I don't think it'll love me until I feed it," Christine gestured helplessly at the wall of supplies. "I don't have a lot of money, but if you can show me what to buy I'd be very grateful."

The lady laughed again, a low, full sound as she probed for answers about age and weight so she could better direct Christine as to what she should buy.

Before long her basket was filled to the woman's satisfaction, and she moved to walk with Christine to the checkout. But in talking with her about how to properly care for her new pet, Christine realized something important and with a blush she stopped her.

"How… do I… I mean, it's just a baby but…" She took a steadying breath and forced herself to blurt out her question. "How do I know if it's a boy or a girl?"

To her credit the older lady tried to hide her ever widening smile, but eventually she was chuckling openly.

"Well aren't you just the sweetest thing!" She never stopped releasing the occasional snigger even as she explained the differences to look for.

Christine never stopped blushing.

Her basket was full of food and smaller supplies but the woman had offered her cart to house the pail of cat litter and plastic bin that would make up her new friend's facilities, so together they unloaded their items onto the belt.

But when Christine moved to place the divider between their two orders, the elderly woman waved her away. "I'll pay for it, my dear. This will at least get you started and if your little fellow needs any doctoring you'll need your money for that."

Christine hadn't considered what it might cost to go to a vet, and she prayed that her companion would be of a healthy sort.

Because already she knew that she would rather empty her savings to help it rather than let it suffer.

"Really, that's very kind but you've helped enough and…"

The checker hesitated but the woman prompted him to continue tallying the items before directing the bagger to separate the bags. "I've taken in many animals myself over the years when they've come a'callin', so really this is quite the bargain."

Christine opened her mouth to protest once more but the woman turned to her, her expression stern. "You have to learn to accept some help now and again, dear. We don't make it in this world by ourselves."

Chastened, Christine relented and replied sincerely, "Thank you. Truly. I wouldn't have known the first thing about what to do."

The woman smiled as she tucked away her receipt into her wallet and pushed her own cart of items out toward the door. "There's always time to learn things, whether it's how to take care of a cat or how to accept some help when offered. Good luck, my dear!" And before Christine could situate all her supplies so she could carry them home, the woman had walked away.

"You gonna be able to get all that, miss?"

Christine smiled ruefully at the heavy tub of litter and the cat box that the bagger had piled all of the rest of the items into. "I suppose I'll have to."

Her arm ached by the time she made it back to her apartment, and the hard edge of plastic that she balanced on her hip had cut in through the layers of her coat and protested greatly to the treatment. But still, everything she needed had made it home with her and as she carefully opened her front door in case her little friend tried to bolt through, she was instead met with the sight of it curled up on her mother's quilt, its already small body looking impossibly tiny in the tight ball it had made itself.

As she closed the door and the bags rustled it lifted its head, especially interested when she opened a can of food and plopped a small amount into a dish. There was absolutely nothing appealing about the brown mush, and to Christine the smell was rather revolting. But before she could even turn to offer it, the kitten had reached up with its two front paws and clawed at her wet pant leg, mewling all the while.

She laughed at its enthusiasm and placed the dish onto the floor, pleased as it lapped greedily at the food she'd provided.

With it properly occupied with dinner she covertly scratched the length of its back, its tail raising on instinct as she tried to determine its sex.

And she tried not to feel ridiculous and perverted as she did so.

It certainly was not a girl, but it lacked the dangly bits that the woman had described of a boy, so clearly at some point he had been found by someone and fixed.

"No offspring for you, I suppose. But that's alright; it will just be you and me. How does that sound?"

He merely flicked his tail and continued to sup, paying her no further heed.

And it wasn't until she was tucked into bed that night, her bedfellow making a comfortable nest on the pillow beside her, did she remember the fresh rose and note that had frightened her so badly.

Yet no matter how long she thought about it, she could not decide what was best to do.

"You scared me, you know, when you scratched at the window. I thought you might be someone coming to hurt me."

He didn't appear very remorseful, finally deciding on a spot he found pleasing and lying down with a deep sigh of contentment.

Despite her remaining uncertainty of how to properly handle the gifts that had appeared, for the first time in a long while she felt a sense of belonging—and it was all thanks to the tiny creature beside her.

"Goodnight, Boo. Sleep well."

-X-

"What have you got for us today, Mr. Chagny?"

It had been difficult to leave little Boo behind as she headed to the courthouse that morning, but she reasoned that he could use the rest as his body became accustomed to plenty of food and clean water. He had not seemed particularly interested in rest in the darkened hours of the morning, and she had sacrificed a few pages of scratch paper as she crumpled them into balls and offered them as toys.

Those held his interest while she opened the rest of his toys that she had brought home the night before, colorful mice and plush balls with bright feathers soon littering her floor as the kitten pounced from one to another.

She was pleased to note that he had made use of the cat box during the night, and she wondered if that came from some previous training as a house pet or if cats instinctively chose such places to modestly eliminate waste. She had chosen the most private corner she could, although her studio apartment did not boast many options.

With one more kiss on his fuzzy head she forced herself out the door. Marjorie had claimed this evening's shift as well so she would not be able to work again until Monday. While normally she would have gone to Ewan and begged another shift, this time she was glad of the additional day's respite. She didn't know how Boo would react to be stuck indoors all day when he was used to the freedom of city life, and being gone for a thirteen hour stretch on his very first day did not seem prudent.

Still, she worried over him, hoping he would like the dry food she had left for him and that he wouldn't drown himself in the water dish and that he wouldn't trap himself somewhere and be sad and desperate by the time she returned.

She forced herself to turn her attention to the case however when Mr. Chagny rose and called a Mr. Louis Gabriel to the stand.

He was younger than most of the other witnesses had been, probably in his mid-thirties. His suit did not fit him overly well and he fidgeted often with his tie, but his expression remained grim and possibly even determined as he sat down and swore to speak truthfully.

"Please state your profession for the record, Mr. Gabriel."

He cleared his throat, his voice a low baritone. "I'm the chorus-master at the opera house owned by… well, just Mr. Debienne now."

Mr. Chagny smiled. "And for those of us not well versed in the running of a theatre, what exactly does that entail?"

"I'm involved in selecting members of the chorus, rehearsing with them, and overall conducting."

The defense counsel nodded. "And would you say that you're good at your job?"

Mr. Gabriel sat a bit straighter. "The reviews of our chorus are of the highest standing. I'd like to take a little credit for that."

"But in fact, they aren't always glowing accolades are they? For example, are you familiar with this review in The Gazette from the performance on the thirteenth of March this past year?"

Mr. Chagny handed him a newspaper clipping, and the witness immediately scowled. "I am. That night a new soprano was introduced to the chorus; under much protest from myself, I can assure you."

"And what did The Gazette say about the performance?"

He glanced at the article but from his summation of it he clearly had memorized most of its content already. "They criticized my leadership, stating that I had clearly lost my touch for selecting talent because the new soprano clearly had none."

"But I thought you said that you were in charge of selecting members. Why would you put her in such a prominent role if you did not think her skilled?"

Mr. Sorelli rose. "Your honor, is there a point to all this? It was my understanding that this was a murder trial, not an exposé on the running of a theatre company."

The judge waved his hand for him to sit. "I trust there is a point to this, counselor?"

Mr. Chagny nodded. "Just coming to it, your honor."

"Objection overruled. You may continue."

He turned back to the witness. "The question is the same, Mr. Gabriel."

"I wouldn't have hired her if given a choice. The managers sometimes felt the need to indulge their patrons. If a particularly large donor wanted their son or daughter to get the 'full experience' of the theatre, they would be given a part, no matter their qualifications or talent—or generally the lack thereof. I would do my best to work with them but some, Ashley Wilkinson for example, was beyond my ability to teach."

"And how did you feel about this method of hiring?"

Mr. Gabriel sighed, his frustration evident. "I believe that music is an art, and that what we show the public should be an extension of our appreciation for its beauty. But when I'm not permitted to put forth my best work, it is… beyond exasperating."

Mr. Chagny nodded in sympathy. "Did you try to explain this to the managers?"

"I did! They just reminded me that they were the ones supplying my paycheck. And since most of the money that provided for my salary as well as the rest of operations at the theatre came from those patrons, I should be grateful to be able to contribute my services wherever needed!"

"So they basically dismissed your concerns."

"Yes, even when reviews like this one," he waved the newspaper clipping with a look of disgust, "could ruin the theatre's reputation."

Mr. Chagny went to his desk and picked up a piece of paper and held it in his hands. "What did you do then, Mr. Gabriel?"

The man took a deep breath. Christine couldn't quite make out his expression. While he seemed embarrassed about whatever it was he was going to confess, he also appeared rather resolute as well.

"For years there have been rumors about a ghost in the theatre. My predecessor warned me when I was still in training that I shouldn't take any of it too seriously, that it was just a marketing tactic. But still, things would… happen and the managers would start making changes. Changes for the better."

He fiddled with his tie again. "A rumor had started that Mr. Poligny and Mr. Debienne were receiving letters, notes about how the opera house could be run better. And I… I was so frustrated that they wouldn't listen! So I… I wrote one."

Mr. Chagny walked closer and handed him what appeared to be a photocopy of the letter. "Can you identify for the court that this is the letter you gave the managers?"

Mr. Gabriel nodded. "It is."

"And what did you say you would do if they did not listen?"

He cringed. "I said that if they insisted on allowing a soprano to screech about on stage, I would give them a real reason to scream." He cast a sheepish look at the jury. "Not very clever, I know."

Mr. Chagny grinned slightly. "And did you have any intention of following through with that threat? Of making them 'scream'?"

He shook his head resolutely. "Not at all. I'm not a violent person I just… I wanted them to stop sacrificing our work for the sake of pleasing donors."

"What was the outcome of your letter writing?"

"They dismissed Ms. Wilkinson. The reviews got better." He sighed, his face serious. "I'm not proud of what I did, but I just wanted them to listen. I can't speak for any of the other writers, but I can obviously understand the impulse. If they won't listen to you, even when you're in an important position in the company, sometimes you're willing to go to extremes for them to heed your advice."

Mr. Chagny glanced at the judge. "Nothing further, your honor."

The judge motioned for Mr. Sorelli to begin, and he did so with a smirk already plastered on his face. "Mr. Gabriel, as you just stated, you cannot speak to the motives of the other letter writers. Can you say with absolute certainty that the man who wrote the letter just before Mr. Poligny's death did not in fact mean to do him harm if he was not given the money he requested?"

"No, of course not."

"And you claim that things usually got better for the theatre after the letters were received, yet some of them demand monetary contributions. Does that sound like an altruistic measure for the sole benefit of the theatre?"

Mr. Gabriel shifted uncomfortably. "No, but we don't make very much…"

"I have no further questions, your honor. This witness clearly has little to contribute to the actual facts of this case."

The judge frowned. "Careful, counselor. Mr. Chagny, would you care to redirect?"

"Just one question, your honor." He stood and faced the witness. "Why did you agree to testify today? You've confessed to extortion yourself, and yet you willingly offered testimony. Why?"

"It was the right thing to do. I have no idea if that man killed Mr. Poligny, but I couldn't have everyone thinking that all the letters were his—that there was no other explanation for their existence beyond malicious intent. I didn't want to hurt anyone; I just wanted our productions to be the best they could be." He gave a little sigh and a shrug. "I just wanted to be able to take pride in my work."

"Thank you, Mr. Gabriel, for your honesty. The defense rests, your honor."

The judge visibly brightened at this. "Very good, then nice and early Monday morning we will convene for closing arguments and the jury will receive their instructions before deliberation. Court is in recess until then."

Christine was anxious to get home to Boo but she couldn't help stealing one last glance at Erik as she passed. She wasn't expecting him to be looking at her as he had seemed to avoid her gaze ever since Mrs. Poligny's testimony, but today he was staring at her almost expectantly.

She gave him her customary smile, but today he did not return it, just continuing to stare as if waiting for… something.

And for the first time, it made her feel nervous.

Sooo... one of you actually guessed that it would be a cat, so congratulations to Addmein for knowing my weakness for the small and fuzzy :) What do you think of the woman offering to pay for Boo's supplies? Anything suspicious there? And speaking of Boo... do you think he was rightfully named?

And it looks like at least one other person has confessed to being a letter writer... Does this makes you think that Erik is not guilty of the extortion charge as well?

I'd love to hear your thoughts!