Chapter Twenty-Three

The Tragedy

The white, herby aroma of 'Edwardian Bouquet' breezed around me when I pushed open Meg Giry's door, allowing me a brief moment of levity as I identified it; then it was back to the lousy old earth again with its miseries, including the current task at hand. I went the costume rack, put the bathing costume on it, and hung it up. There. It was all squared away, tucked in with its other colorful compatriots. She had some very nice dresses, that Meg, and was always getting new ones. People never really knew, but she liked to sew. A lot of those dresses were her own creation.

Maybe if I asked nicely, she would help me alter mine to accommodate a pregnant belly. A nursing robe would come in handy, too. Humans' senses were weak, but animals like Charles were rarely wrong.

Black, mascara-streaked tears keep sliding into my collar. As flippantly sarcastic as I tried to be, it just wouldn't numb the pain. He was leaving. This was it. The man I loved was leaving. I would never see him anymore. I dropped onto Meg's side couch and wept bitterly.

I did not stop until I looked up into the mirror, which to my shock was smashed, all in pieces on the floor. I sat up. A whole host of puffy-eyed Ariels in all different sizes, skewed and twisted, stared back at me, in stark contrast to the pasted snippets of Mary Pickford and Polaire, and while I was yet looking one slipped off the back frame and broke, mingling with the remnants of a hair tonic bottle. Indignation overpowered my grief. Why, who would do something like this? Surely not Meg herself!

Wiping my eyes, I pulled myself together as best as I could and headed into the hall. Someone had to be aware of this.

"You…insolent!" I heard Madame Giry's guttural French voice hissing. "That you dare to…!"

Gregory interrupted sternly. "Give it a rest!"

"It was necessary, you know," Daddy mumbled in apology. "Very important."

A door down the hall clattered open, and in they went. Before it shut again, I heard Mr. Y yell something, to which Madame Giry came back with equal force. What in the world was going on? At any rate, I knew I had to inform them of my discovery.

The voices became more distinct as I grew closer.

"Do you think…" Here I opened the door, amplifying Madame Giry's voice… "I don't know who he is?"

"Sir!" I piped up, and every face in the room turned swiftly to me. From where I was standing, I could see Christine Daae between Madame Giry and Mr. Y, as though trying to break up a fight, and Daddy standing with Gregory to the left. It seemed that I was interrupting something troubling; perhaps my discovery could wait.

But Mr. Y cocked his eyebrow expectantly. "Miss Fleck?"

"I just passed Meg's dressing room, sir," I reported, uncomfortably aware that everyone was staring at me, "And her mirror is all smashed to pieces."

The effect on the room was astonishing; Madame Giry brought her hand to her face, Mr. Y looked at Christine, and a general air of foreboding, quite unlike the usual indignation that accompanies vandalism, filled the air.

Bewildered, I went over to Daddy, who hugged me and tidied up my cheeks with a hanky. Gregory gave me a little pat.

"What happened, Daddy?" I whispered.

"God," moaned Madame Giry, paling, "I left her so destroyed. Who knows what she was thinking."

Mr. Y frowned. "What do you mean?"

"The performance, the child, everything!" She seemed to shrink in her fear; all at once we were looking at a shadow of Madame Giry's hauteur. "All these years of toil, Mr. Y, to know that all we achieved would shortly become Christine's and the child's! All she ever wanted was for you to see her, just once!"

"Giry!"

"Not once in ten years! You went to see Aggie-Ann, and Genevieve, even this man's wife's funeral, but never Meg!"

"Madame Giry," cried Christine. "What are you saying?"

The woman looked out the door, clasping her hands. "She likely has the boy! Why, I don't know, but she can't be thinking straight…"

"We've got to find them, and fast!" Mr. Y hurried to the closet and fished out some flashlights. "Take these, everyone, and hurry! Trio, you search the perimeter. The rest of us will go through the streets!"

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There's not a single worse time to get lost in Coney Island than closing day at nightfall. The place is mobbed, loud, and everyone ends up looking the same in the smoke and lights. It was into this impossible mix that myself, Gregory, and Daddy went running, flashlights in hand, already despairing of ever finding poor little Gustave. It was a gargantuan task.

"This is madness," groaned Daddy. "There's got to be at least ten thousand people in this park! How are ever supposed to find them?"

Gregory scanned the crowd, equally grim. "I think the best approach is this: if you were stealing a kid, where would you take him? Obviously not anywhere easy to find."

Together we ran through the crowd, going into the abandoned attractions and shining lights into alleys. We checked the stands. We called into tents. We ran ourselves ragged, feeling more useless as time wore on, as if to mock our miserable little search. Poor Gustave! My poetry buddy! Mr. Y's son! We just had to find him!

After a search in a restaurant alley yielded nothing but a pile of garbage, my resolve began to disintegrate.

"We'll never find him," I blubbered, all overemotional. "Never…"

Daddy rubbed my back, but he didn't look confident either. "We can't give up, Baby. Not yet. Come on, we haven't gone near the oceanfront."

"The oceanfront." Gregory got on his toes and tried to make it out. "You're right; we haven't. Boy, out of all the places to take a kid, I hope it wasn't there!"

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We stumbled down the sand-covered steps of the boardwalk, leaving the noise of the park behind. Seagulls screamed overhead. Ahead, the long, dark arms of the pier stretched out into the retreating Atlantic as though trying to call it back. As we hit the sand, there was something indescribable about the air. I have never forgotten it. It was as though we were running through thin ice.

Something about the atmosphere made me whisper. "The bathing machines are very secluded. We should check there!"

But just ahead, we made out the figures of Mr. Y, Christine, and Madame Giry. Not far from them was Meg, and (thank heaven!) little Gustave. They were down by the pier. We headed their way, passing the bathing machines and going under the pier, around the thick beams that supported it. Once close, we got behind one of them and surveyed the situation.

The first thing I noticed was Meg's red Christmas scarf, the very one she'd received from Mr. Y, and then the figure of Meg herself came into focus. There she stood, hair loose and straggled over her shoulders, eyes wild, lips trembling, and in her grip was pale little Gustave. In her other outstretched arm was Mr. Y's gun. Her finger was clenched over the trigger.

Daddy pulled me behind him and backed farther behind the pier leg.

"Stay back, Ariel," he whispered slowly.

Mr. Y, Christine, and Madame Giry were standing some distance away, clearly being held at bay. Holding up a non-threatening hand, Mr. Y took a step forward, but Meg would have none of it. She jerked the gun and screamed something. Christine reached uselessly towards Gustave, who began to cry. I trembled. The poor kid!

"Jesus Christ, Alf," whispered Gregory desperately. "What the hell is she going to do?"

Daddy eyes never left the scene. "If she wanted the boy dead, she'd have shot him by now. She wants something."

Once more, Mr. Y endeavored to approach Meg, and still she would not relent, not even when her mother approached her, arms outstretched. This was starting to look bad.

"If I had a gun…" Gregory moaned.

"No!" Daddy's whisper was as hard as steel. "Not at this range, with the boy that close. Mr. Y's handling it right. Just talk her out of it, concentrate on getting that weapon away from her…"

Suddenly Meg released Gustave, who went running into his mother's arms, but she wasn't through with the gun yet. It seemed she had a story to tell, and she was bent on making sure everyone listened carefully.

Mr. Y stepped forward. This time he did not back down when Meg shook the gun. There he stood, the barrel of that awful weapon inches from his chest, and Meg's hand was trembling, unstable, ready to pull the trigger and fire at any moment…

"Oh!" My heart pounded with horror. "Oh, she'll hurt Mr. Y, Daddy!"

He grabbed me. "Be quiet, Ariel!" he hissed.

But all I saw was Mr. Y, inches away from disaster, and without thinking I lurched forward, out from behind the pier leg, into plain sight. "Mr. Y…!"

Daddy's hand clamped over my mouth; in one swift motion I was hidden again, immobilized in his arm. His voice was terrible. "Open your mouth again and I'll slap you."

I didn't dare speak, but my tears dripped onto his hand before he finally removed it. Meg was crying too. She lowered the gun a bit, and Mr. Y walked cautiously over, arms outstretched as though he were toying with the idea of touching her.

"That's right," whispered Gregory. "He's doing it. Keep talking, Mr. Y."

He did. Now he was doing most of the talking, and Meg, as though ashamed, bowed her head and listened, letting the gun go limp at her side. Mr. Y gestured towards Christine and gave a good-natured sort of shrug.

Meg lifted her head, her anger suddenly renewed.

Her words were as clear as a bell. "Christine!" she cried furiously, swinging the arm with the gun. "Always Chris—"

BANG!

A flash of light, a shriek, and the gunshot shattered the air. I screamed. Daddy quickly shoved me onto the sand and covered me with his body. Gregory threw himself down as well, swearing and sputtering.

"No!" cried Daddy.

I could see the bottom of Christine's skirt, saw her knees give way, and she crumpled to the ground, half supported by Madame Giry, blood spreading across her blouse…

Meg dropped the gun and backed away, shaking her head wildly. "No, no! Christine!" she wailed. "I didn't mean to! Christine!"

"Mama!" Gustave's cry rang out. "Mama!"

"Giry!" screamed Mr. Y, pulling Christine into his lap and hastily pressing the folds of his jacket against her chest, the color draining rapidly from his face. "Get help! Go! Now!"

Meg looked as though she would resist, but Madame Giry grabbed her by the arm and dragged her away, and off they went, stumbling across the sand, as Mr. Y and Gustave tried vainly to help Christine. She was failing rapidly; her eyes were dim, her breaths were labored, and the horrible pallor of death was beginning to freeze her lips, which suddenly bubbled with even more blood.

Terror robbed the Master of everything that made him recognizable. Suddenly I was not seeing Mr. Y, the musical genius and entrepreneurial giant, but Erik, a freak like me, no more dangerous than any of the rest of us, a man whose reason to carry on was bleeding to death on his jacket.

"Mama!" Gustave continued to cry, feebly shaking her arm. "Ne meurs pas!"

Daddy and Gregory groaned as one. A sob shook in my throat. I knew in my heart that that it was all over. Help just couldn't be summoned in time, and even if it could it wouldn't help in the slightest. Unable to help, unable to speak, unable to do anything, we just knelt there in the sand like three wooden Indians, watching the most appalling thing we'd ever seen.

Christine reached out to touch Gustave's wet little cheeks, and despite a brief protest from Mr. Y, she pointed to him and weakly confessed, "Votre vrei papa."

His real father.

She tried to take his hands, but the poor child leapt to his feet, looking from his dying mother to his true father in mingled horror and grief. He would not hear any more, no, not even when she tried to reach for him again. He turned on heel and ran crying from them, coming towards the pier.

"Gustave!" I cried, and when he noticed me he ran over and fell sobbing into my arms, pressing his face into my shoulder. Daddy put his arms around both of us. Gregory just sat, frozen, as though unseeing. Just over Gustave's head, I could still see Christine dying, and as I looked up, Mr. Y and I briefly met eyes.

"Je veux mon papa!" Gustave cried into my collar, as though I could make it come true. "Papa! Papa!"

When Mama died, at least I had Daddy. This child had nothing but betrayal, no familiar home to return to, nothing to soothe the pain.

"I…want my papa to come back." Gustave wept on. "He should know…Mama's hurt…"

At that moment, I saw Christine reach for Mr. Y, weakly extending her arms. He let go of the blood-soaked jacket. He seemed to realize at last that his efforts were fruitless, and for the first time in the whole ten years I'd known him, his mouth trembled. A single tear that held all the sadness of the world slid down his good cheek.

He wrapped his arms around Christine and kissed her one last time, lingering until her grip loosened, lingering even after they'd dropped limply to the sand, lingering until it was useless to do so anymore, when all that was left of Christine Daae was a body frozen in death, the greatest voice of our time silenced. He put his head down on her chest and wept, a sight that destroyed me. His cries were the cries of a broken animal that had only briefly known a world beyond the bars of a cage. The illusion disintegrated, entirely and forever. Mr. Y was a man. He was not even truly Mr. Y.

He was just Erik, alone.

"She's dead," Daddy mumbled hoarsely.

Gustave slowly turned to look upon the terrible scene, and when he did the innocence just vanished, died, like a flame extinguished, reduced to a mere whisper of smoke.

"Mama," he whimpered, and he bowed his little head.

I touched his shoulder, and just then, in that moment, Mama's ring suddenly seemed alive, warm, as though it wanted to grab my attention. The revelation sprung into my heart. It was as clear as any mortal voice. With one bittersweet rush, I felt the presence of Mama, comforting and gently telling me what I must do. I closed my eyes and accepted it.

"Gustave," I said.

He turned and looked at me through swollen eyes.

My heart only trembled for a moment, and then I slipped Mama's ring off my finger. He looked at it, and then at me.

"She's gone, but not forever," I told him. "She'll always be with you in spirit to guide you along, until you finally get to be with her again. She'll watch over you and your papa."

"But…" Gustave looked back at where Mr. Y sat, devastated, weeping on Christine. "But how can he be my…?"

"It's hard to take all at once, but Mr. Y loves your mama. I've known him for ten years, ever since I was your age. He's loved her and missed her all that time. This place, Phantasma, everything he ever did, it was all because he loved her so much." I took his hands. "And he loves you too, even if he shows it strangely. Love's not always beautiful."

A glimmer of light shone in Gustave's eyes. "That's what Mama said," he murmured. "Love is something you know in your heart, not your eyes…"

"That's true."

His eyelids drooped, a tempest of emotions and principles visibly fighting it out inside him, numbed by the magnitude of this tragedy.

"It's not wrong to feel bad about being lied to all these years, you know," I continued, sensing his guilt, "And it's going to be very sad for a long time. My mama's been gone for two years, and sometimes I'm still sad about it all over again. But Mr. Y will be feeling just as bad, right alongside you. He needs you."

"But I'm just…little."

"Mr. Y was once little too." I lifted my eyes to see him, where he was still slumped over Christine, and my throat swelled. "I don't think he's ever felt anything but little, ever since he was born."

At this, Gustave turned and looked at his father, sympathy softening his childish features, although there was still a shiver of fear that seemed to be holding him back.

I knew what I had to do. "I've always had this ring to remind me of my Mama's love," I said, looking at it, letting its every detail be engraved into my memory. "It always helped me remember that if we just keep the faith and keep going, we'll all be fine someday." I pressed it into his hand. "I hope it will help you remember, from now on."

His shocked eyes darted from the ring to me. For a minute he couldn't speak. "But…but Miss Raven," he eventually protested, "This is yours…"

"And now it's yours. Don't worry, dear. I'll be all right without it, I promise. It served its purpose, see? It was there for me when I needed it, all throughout these years, when I had trouble pulling through, but now it's behind me." The truth of my own words brought a lump to my throat. "I'm okay now."

Gustave put the ring on his finger, as awed by it as I had been the very first time I'd seen it, but he still looked at me once more. "You're sure?"

I nodded, too overcome to speak anymore.

The child rose to his feet, and after a moment of contemplation, he slowly headed toward where Mr. Y sat with Christine's body, which was now covered by his jacket.

Daddy pulled me into his arms. When he hugged me, I could feel the tremble in his old scratchy throat.

"Baby," he quavered. "Are you really…?"

All I could do was nod, watching the scene before me through my tears.

It took some time for Mr. Y to become aware of Gustave at his side, but when he did he turned away in despair, shrinking as though he might strike him, but the child didn't give in. Gently, he reached for the mask. Again, Mr. Y resisted, shaking his head, but Gustave still would not let him go. A moment of silence and inaction, and then, all at once, Mr. Y turned around and bowed his head, meek, hurt, ready to take whatever came.

In one fluid tug, Gustave pulled off both the mask and the wig, exposing the gruesome deformity and the sallow scalp of straggling hair. He looked upon it, not with a scream, not with a tremble, but with compassion. Still, Mr. Y did not move. Perhaps he didn't dare to believe it.

"Don't worry, Papa," said Gustave softly.

At this, Mr. Y's eyes lifted in disbelief, but before he could even respond, Gustave tossed his arms around him. He froze. The concept of a hug was obviously stunning to him, but slowly, gently, he enfolded his son in his arms, and then he embraced him tightly. My sad heart had cause to sing. Mr. Y had found love at long last.

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I have no desire to describe the hour or so that followed in detail, so the description will be brief. Out we came from under the pier. Until the police arrived, we comforted Mr. Y and Gustave, a task far easier said than done; the former was utterly inconsolable, and stalwartly refused to let go of his son. He was so numb that he did not seem to even hear us. We used our jackets to cover poor Christine.

At length, we learned the horrible truth behind Meg's actions, as well as the source of Phantasma's funding: she had been sleeping with the investors, buying time for bills and permits with her own body, and the whole concept of our City of Wonders became a horror to me. It had been made possible by a girl surrendering control over her own sexuality. She had done it only for him, all those years, and he had never known. It was remarkable that I even had a heart left; it had been broken so many times.

After Christine's body was taken away, we followed Mr. Y and Gustave to the Ayrie, offering our help, but we could go no further than the door.

Gustave disappeared inside, leaving us with the still unmasked Mr. Y. Which side of his face looked worse was hard to distinguish. One side was disfigured, the other was as dead as any corpse.

"Is there anything we can do for you, sir?" Daddy asked solemnly.

The man shook his head, utterly defeated, a shadow of the genius who had conceived Phantasma. "No," came his lifeless reply.

It felt like a moment to pat his back, or say goodnight, but we all just stood there in silence, looking at each other, hearts heavy.

He leaned against the doorframe, a strange sleepiness seeming to seize him. "Look at you three," he said, as if to himself. "Ten years pass, and you've come so far. I daresay…you don't need me."

We didn't know what to say.

"You could…kill me right now, if you wanted…" A chilling note of desperation entered his voice. "And take this all from me…take it away…"

Daddy grabbed his shoulders. "You can't entertain thoughts like that, sir," he growled sympathetically. "You've got to keep it together for Gustave. Do you understand?"

Mr. Y didn't seem to feel Daddy's hands on him. He gave a slow sort of nod.

"You must promise me that you won't do anything drastic, sir. Remember the boy. He needs you. Do you promise?"

It took a while, but Mr. Y's head slowly bobbed up and down.

"The first night is always the worst." Daddy's face and voice softened with pity. "But it does get better with time. It does. Tonight, you must go straight to bed and take it quietly."

It was the first time Daddy ever ordered Mr. Y to do anything, and it was also the first time Mr. Y obeyed. In he went like a blank-faced automaton, off to do just what he was told.

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Our fellow freaks, interrupted from their party by the news, practically mobbed us the moment we emerged from the Ayrie, wringing hands and demanding details, but Daddy only gave them the bare bones.

"A woman's been killed," he snapped bluntly. "It was awful. What more do you people want? A dissertation? I've had all I can take tonight. Leave me alone."

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All three of us went back to Fleck Manor, where Daddy hastened to make tea for us. Home at last, sitting among the dusty ancestors, all the realities came crashing back, invading my numb mind with flaring headlines. Christine is dead. Gustave is Mr. Y's son. You're likely having a baby. Gregory is leaving tonight.

Speaking of Gregory, he hadn't said anything, from the time Christine was shot to this moment. Looking over at him, I realized with a pang that he had not even changed his expression all that much. He looked empty, frozen, but something was brewing behind those eyes, something I couldn't quite make out.

I touched his hand. A small gesture indeed, but its effect was surprisingly disproportionate; a crack seemed to fracture his face of stone, and when he placed his hand on top of mine he softened and shed a tear.

Daddy brought over the tea tray and slapped him on the back, shaking his head in stoic compassion. "Of all the times for something like this to happen, it happens now," he growled gently. "Just before you leave. I'm real sorry, just real sorry. Here, take some tea; you'll feel better soon."

"I'm not leaving."

My heart jumped. Daddy frowned. "Not leaving? But you said…"

Gregory closed his eyes and tightened his grip on my hand, letting another tear fall. "Well, I changed… my mind," he said with great difficulty. "I'm staying."

An overjoyed sob choked in my throat. We met eyes lovingly for a moment, and then the resolute agreement was mutually made.

"Al," he continued, "I have not been honest with you."

"Haven't been honest?"

I braced myself for whatever the outcome of the confession would be.

"Sometimes it takes something like this to wake a man up," Gregory said, looking past us and out the window, the moonlight illuminating the misery in his eyes. "It takes something like danger, death, a tragedy like this. It takes this whole Mr. Y and Christine disaster to make you see."

Daddy sat beside him, his tattoos slack with confusion, but he was concerned nevertheless. "I don't understand."

"I have seen what I do not want to be, what I never want to cause. Mr. Y made a child and ran for it, and look at him now. Has he really lived these past ten years? Has he ever had pride in anything he has ever done? If he could go back in time, wouldn't he have stayed?" He swallowed deeply. "I do not want to turn around in ten years, only to find that I have become Mr. Y. This can't go on any longer."

At this point, Daddy had clearly put the pieces together; you could see the shock flashing in his eyes, but he was struggling greatly not to jump straight to conclusions.

Gregory felt it and cut to the chase. "Alf, it wasn't any old slob of the street that took Ariel to bed. It was me."

There was dead silence as his words sunk in. Daddy clenched his fists as he regarded Gregory with an intense blend of outrage and grief, as though his first instinct to destroy the man was just barely being restrained by his many years of friendship.

When he at last was able to speak again, his voice was as dark as the lowest notes on an organ. "And you were going to leave, and I would never have known."

Gregory bowed his head.

"Daddy," I pleaded. "Please, don't be upset with him…"

He started rising. "I have every right in this world to be-"

"It was my choice, every bit as much as his." Restraining his hands, I looked into his face and insisted, "I'm capable of making my own decisions, Daddy, and I'm half to blame!"

"I want to do right by her, Alf, I do!" Gregory told him. "You've got every right to be mad, just as you've said, but please let me take responsibility for this."

Daddy released my hands and stormed off a distance. "Let you?" he yelled. "It's no longer a matter of letting you! I have no choice! It's either I send you flying and be forced to lie to everyone, or I have Ariel get married to someone I used to trust. It's a shame either way!"

The bite of those last words was like a whip. Gregory flinched, blinked miserably, and sat down, thoroughly silenced. Even Daddy seemed to feel that his words were too harsh, but he did not admit it. Rather, he tightened his jaw and stalked off into the bedroom, communicating his displeasure with a bang of the door.

Never before had an agreement to a marriage produced so little joy.

"So," Gregory quavered, looking at the floor, his Italian accent thickening. "I take it that 'e is allowing me, then, even if he no trust me anymore."

I hustled over to him, taking him in my arms. "He's angry, dear. That's all. In a little while, surely he'll be better."

"I 'ope so."

"And, dear, I'm just…" I choked up; I couldn't help it. "I'm just so glad that we're going to be married."

His ragged breath whispered across my shoulder. "I am too, mia moglie poco. I so glad. For de past two days, I no sleep, I am feeling so bad about it all…"

"Hush. It's all right now, dear."

But telling Gregory to hush is like telling a creek to stop flowing. It's a futile endeavor.

"And I so sad," he moaned on. "Because I love you, an' I can no imagine never seeing you again-"

My other choices exhausted, I kissed him, which hushed him up at once, and for a good while we remained on each other's lips and got tears all over each other. We would not be like Mr. Y and Christine. We were going to stay together and face whatever came as husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. De Rossi. It would all be okay somehow.

"I love you, Gregory dear."

Just then, Daddy made a re-appearance. His face was still tight with unhappiness, but there was regret in his grumble.

"Er, De Rossi? Come in here. I want to speak with you."

In he went, twisting his jacket like the most shamed of all men, and when the door closed again I put my face on the table and prayed. As I did, I felt the eyes of all the framed ancestors looking upon me. The feeling surrounded me like warm air, like electricity, and I felt it beating in my heart, as naturally as lifeblood. They were not condemning; they were coming to strengthen me, and after some time I became aware of Mama's presence, just as I had earlier. I sat in silence, letting her come near me again, and without speaking I asked for her help. For some time I remained in that state, until Daddy's voice caught my attention.

I didn't catch the words. Curious, I snuck to the door to listen.

"…love her so much, Alf. All these years. She's safe with me, I promise."

"I will hold you to that promise, you know," Daddy growled somberly. "It's a lifetime commitment, marriage is."

"You can hold me to it. What I want most of all is your trust back, if you can see your way to it again."

Daddy was silent.

"I'm trustworthy, I promise," Gregory implored. "I can…prove it to you."

There was silence from Daddy again, but it wasn't a skeptical silence. What it was, I don't know.

"You want to prove it?" he finally replied, softly. "Fine. But you will agree to my conditions."

"Yes, yes, of course. Tell them to me."

"I have one condition, actually. But it is very difficult. In fact, it is nearly impossible."

Gregory accepted it with an audible note of anxiety. "Okay. What is it?"

"De Rossi," Daddy's voice was unyielding as he unfolded the condition. "I will require you to love Ariel every bit as much as I do." And then his façade melted into a sentimental snuffle. "Since that can never be, you must promise to try."

"I will," promised Gregory, the relief and joy singing in his voice. "You can count on me, Dad."

Then I heard the mattress squeak, followed by the sound of hearty backslaps, which is apparently what men do in lieu of actually hugging.

"Welcome to the Fleck family, De Rossi," choked Daddy.

"HOORAY!" I cheered through the door.

The slaps stopped abruptly, and when they did I felt at liberty to burst in and run into their arms.

"Air…ee…ull…" gagged Daddy in my grip.

"Oh, Daddy, I'm so happy," I crowed. "And it means so much to me that you'll be happy too. Oh Daddy! Oh, Gregory dear!"

"Ariel!" cried my soon-to-be-husband.

"My children," said Daddy, smiling.

"We'll tell everyone tomorrow." Gregory's smile shoved his cheeks halfway into his eyes. "Ah, to tell everyone in Coney and Brooklyn that I am going to marry Miss Fleck!"

"Mrs. De Rossi!" I corrected, kissing his cheek.

"You mean Signora De Rossi; no more Signorina for you." He took my hand. "And I will be sure to get you a beautiful ring. You deserve the best one, to replace the one you were so nice to give away."

A bittersweet feeling mingled with our bliss, just enough to give us a moment of thoughtful quiet together, there in that bedroom.

"I think the boy will find it a comfort in the days to come," Daddy said, and his eyes met mine. "And perhaps he will pass it on again, when someone else needs it, after he is okay too, just like you. And me."

"You?" That last declaration touched me. "You're okay now too, Daddy?"

There was a peace in his decorated old face that said it all, but he still nodded, as though bidding the grief of the past farewell. "I am."

Out of all the things that had happened that day, perhaps that was what moved me the most, and instead of weeping as we had done before, Mr. Y's Trio huddled together, silent, basking in our renewed love and companionship. We were more than a Trio now. We were a family.

"I'd better get moving," Daddy said, grinning, after a bit, looking towards the bureau, where he had placed the congratulatory cards he had received from Luna Park. "After all, I've got thank-you cards to write."

NOTES FROM AUTHORESS:

And THAT is how I rationalized Gustave's quick acceptance of the Phantom. See? Miss Fleck was offstage, giving him a "Look With Your Heart" spiel that she didn't even get credit for. People these days.

Still more sorrow to come, but when we get to the delightful happy-wappy ending with its twist, it'll all have been worth it. I promise.