Raoul took the children back to the hotel after lunch, so that Christine and Meg could have some time alone. They took a trip to Coney Island, rode the carousel, treated themselves to ice cream, then took the boat back and made it to Christine's hotel long after the young mother's usual bedtime.

Still, Christine did not feel the least bit put out by the late hour; she and her friend were giggling like young ballet girls again. Their cheeks were bright red as they took turns cracking up the other. They stumbled in between bursts of laughter, so that they looked and sounded almost drunk.

They reached the hotel's entrance. Their laughter winded down as they smiled reluctantly at each other, knowing they must part for the night. "Sweet Meg, thank you for such a wonderful day."

"My pleasure, Christine! Lord, but it's wonderful to see you." A melancholy gleam entered her eyes. "Although I must say that even if it weren't you, I'd be delighted to see a living reminder of Paris again." She sighed. "I do get homesick, sometimes."

Christine swallowed a sly grin. "Hm. We shall see about that."

Meg turned serious. "Christine…I…I'm sure by that look you're giving you're planning some sort of visit from me in return, but…well…I can't explain it, but…it's not that simple…."

Christine patted her friend's mouth with one gloved hand, hushing her. "Raoul and I know more than you think, Meg. Now let's say not a word more about it."

At Meg's puzzled look, Christine hurried on to say, "But you! You've plied me with so many questions about myself, I barely had time to ask you anything about your own life here, aside from your career! Tell me now quickly, before I have to go inside."

Meg shrugged. "Not really much to tell outside my career and the school! Those are my life now."

Christine raised an eyebrow. "No suitor?"

Meg laughed. "Goodness, no! Who has the time for that?"

"Plenty of girls," Christine returned. "Even famous ones with big careers like you."

Meg merely laughed again, shaking her head.

A more knowing look came into Christine's dark eyes. "So there's no one?"

Meg's smile froze on her face.

"Meg?"

Meg cleared her throat. "Why…what makes you ask like that?"

Christine was silent. Meg couldn't read her soft expression. In a quiet voice, Christine finally asked, "And how is Erik?"

Meg's heart skipped a beat. She'd assumed that when Christine finally broached the subject of her former tutor, it would be through less direct means, through tentative implications instead. Meg was unprepared for such straightforwardness.

However, she met the task. "He's well. More than well, actually." Her eyes sparkled as she suddenly spoke hurriedly, ecstatically. "Oh, Christine! He's absolutely flourished here! You know he's made a mask to make him look like anyone? I hate it, I think it makes him look so unlike himself, but he's used it to great effect here! He's a consultant to the managers at the opera house, and also helps Mother handle my appointments. He's practically my agent now that Mother's so busy with the ballet at the Met." She wore a dreamy smile. "For the first time, I think he's truly come into his own."

She flushed scarlet, and Christine believed it was because of what she'd unknowingly revealed in her stream of praise.

Meg's next words came out in a more forced, cheerful tone. "But I could stand here babbling all night, and you need to get yourself to bed." Her face brightened expectantly. "I'll see you tomorrow? At the show?"

Christine squeezed her shoulder affectionately. "You couldn't stop me."

The friends embraced one more time. "Good night, Meg."

"Good night, Christine."

Erik watched from behind the hotel's pillar near the entrance as Meg disappeared inside the taxi carriage. Christine stood silent and thoughtful as the carriage took off. She stared peacefully into the night sky. Her form was highlighted by the fluorescent moonlight. She was in this moment, on this busy New York street, a distracted goddess of the night – like the first time he saw her.

As if he were a detached observer in his own body, he heard himself rasp, "Christine."

She whipped around, and her eyes were the dark bright pools of a doe's.

They faced each other for the first time since he told her he loved her, as she handed him the ring with tears running down her face, those years ago.

He still wore the ring on his finger. It gleamed silver in the moonlight.

Except for her wide eyes, her face for an endless moment was still, immobile; then, like a warm breeze crossing the night sky, she smiled gently. She reached out her hand.

"My angel. I've been expecting you."

His heart pounded as he took her hand in his slowly. Tears stung his eyes.

She shivered as the moonlight caught his pale blue eye behind his mask – he wore the usual one, from before, so as not to alarm her. His mask always reminded her of a half-moon, never more so than now in the dead of night. He was much the same, but…healthier, somehow. More alive. Although she could not be sure from where he still stood mostly concealed in shadow, she thought there was more color to the white cheek untouched by the mask.

He was still elegant. He still possessed the inhuman grace of a sleek panther. He was still unlike anyone she had ever seen.

Yes, his heart pounded to be near her again, and she shivered. But was it with the obsessive passion of the worshipful tutor behind the mirror, and the mesmerized intrigue of the dutiful pupil?

He looked and looked at her, desperately searching for the answer.

Again, great warmth and fondness filled him.

But….

He looked at her and saw a beloved friend. Not the cherished muse.

He bowed his head and dared pressing her soft gloved hand just barely to his lips. "Forgive me, my Christine. Forgive me."

A tender chuckle. "For what? For before, or for seeking me out now?"

Her laughter stopped as his eyes met hers with sharp, naked emotion. "For not knowing how to feel."

Both ignored the breeze that stirred the trees surrounding the hotel, bringing with it a deepened chill.

Although Christine's smile was gone, there remained on her face that look he'd never seen before until this afternoon. In that look was missing the youthful naivety and the yearning sorrow of days past that had once conquered him, kept him awake during long, lonely nights underground.

What he saw now was a deep contentment she'd never had at the opera house. With him. Her eyes, he knew, would always carry that slight melancholy cast, but now it seemed more a physical attribute than from anything within her.

When he spoke, his liquid tenor was thin and quiet. "Are you happy?"

Her smile returned – more beautiful and glorious than he had ever seen it. "Yes."

It was a straightforward answer, and true.

He bowed his head again. The black brim of his fedora – Christine thought never to see that hat again – shaded his face, give his mask and his skin a faint blue tint in the darkness.

"You are happy," he repeated in a low murmur. She knew he spoke to himself, rolling the idea around in his mind.

He sounded almost perplexed, as if this were one more piece of a puzzle he couldn't begin to piece together.

But Christine, so used to living in her own emotions and so quite able to read them in others – particularly in one who'd once ruled and terrorized and enhanced her life – knew what picture the pieces made.

She knew he wanted to feel one extreme way or the other about her happiness with Raoul, her children, her life: both great despair and anger that she found it not with him, or else the nobler emotion of great serenity, happy that the woman he loved was happy.

Indeed, deep down, he felt pleased and relieved – but not with the self-sacrificial fervor he expected. These were honorable feelings, and just – but for a treasured friend.

Not for someone whom he had once considered the love of his life.

There was a lingering bitterness, but it was directionless, ineffectual.

Christine closed her eyes gently. Oh, but what did she feel, what did she feel….

She opened her eyes and the look she gave him with her warm dark eyes was what he always imagined a loving mother would bestow on a favored child. "You said you don't know how to feel. Well, I can't tell you. I can only tell you what you don't feel: the way you once did for me. And I can tell you something more: Meg is in love with you."

The air grew even colder as another gust of wind brushed past the two figures.

At his sharp intake of breath, she continued. "Oh, no, she didn't tell me in words. But I know that girl like I know my own mind, and I know a woman in love. She has never been sad before, never, not once since I've known her. She is now – but subtly, and it doesn't conquer her, but it's as if she didn't know the reason why."

She turned lightly mischievous. She wagged her finger at him. "So you'd better not hurt her, monsieur."

He shook his head, confounded. She felt a twang, as his helplessness reminded her of the way he stood staring dumbfounded at her in the lair after she kissed him. It was a look of agonized upheaval. Awakening.

"Christine…." He whispered once more.

She closed her eyes again. This was, perhaps, the last time she'd ever hear him say her name. "I've suspected her feeling for you a long time now. But it's only today that I knew, truly knew. I was...jealous, at first. Not in the way you might think. It's as if I'm losing my father all over again, that's all. But...I don't need him anymore. I have a family now, a career. I don't need him and I don't need you."

Despite her firm words, there was no harshness. No rebuke. She was sweet, honest. Loving, in ways he never knew he needed.

But still she raised her head proudly, the moonlight casting a white halo about her brown locks.

When she spoke again, it was with such wisdom and maturity that he realized he did not know her anymore. "So, go. Love Meg or don't love Meg. But go. Live your life free of my ghost forever. For that's all I ever was: a ghost of what you thought you wanted."

He felt an electric shock as her silken gloved hand touched his bare cheek. "Goodbye, sweet Angel."

Through his jumbled confusion of emotion, he still knew one thing clearly: he'd never hear another voice like hers again.

She was gone into the hotel before he had chance to awaken from his stunned haze.

A/N: Yes, I've cribbed the line "I know her like I know my own mind" from Hamilton. What can I say, sister relationships are my kryptonite.