A/N: Okay, I feel like I should explain a few things about my characterisations; it's rather late in the story for that, I know. I was looking up something POTO-related online last night, and I read that Christine had been Catholic in Leroux's book. Yeah, I smacked my head that I'd forgotten that. However, since I had to make her rather not religious for this story to work the way I want it to, it didn't really matter. She would know the Lutheran services because of the weddings she went to with her father, but there wouldn't (at least in this version) be many Lutherans around her in Paris. Mme. Valerius is older and doesn't really go out much; I made her a little bit like my mother, who has rheumatoid arthritis and can't handle repeatedly rising and sitting and rising, so that's how I explain Anne not attending church services (at least not regularly). I made M. Gabriel the chorus-master as well as the ballet-master for the sake of convenience. There's a choreographer who works for M. Gabriel, but I didn't want to muddle the story with more characters.

Umm, let's see, what else might not have made sense that I can explain without it being a spoiler? While I use dashes of ALW POTO, it's just for effect because I like the lyrics. As for Kay . . . well, I only read about half of Phantom, but I'm not really using her for inspiration. Hmm, but maybe a spider scene later? Would you want to see that at some point?

All right, let's get back to the story. This is a few days later . . .

"Erik?" Christine looked up from the plate of spaghetti she was relishing.

"Yes, my dear?" He was going through his correspondence, minor issues that he could easily take care of after supper.

She gulped before continuing. "It - uh, it is nearing the anniversary of my father's death."

At the seriousness of her tone, he set down his letters. "And you would like to do something to commemorate the occasion?"

"Y-yes. I thought . . . that is, if you would like to . . . I should very much like to . . . go to leave flowers at his grave . . . in the cemetery at Perros-Guirec."

"Ah . . ." He mulled the idea over in his head. Certainly, he had the funds to finance such a trip for the three of them, but could the opera survive his absence for the time he'd be away? Surely, this would be more than a few days. And Christine would, of course, wish to see some of her old haunts.

He was already planning the trip, yet he hadn't answered Christine! He smiled at his own folly. "Yes, of course, my dear. I shall take care of everything. I shall speak with Anne in the morning."

She grinned, pleased that he was so amenable to the idea of a trip to the sea, then returned to her pasta. The meatballs were quite good and small enough that she didn't have to cut them into smaller pieces.

But something else weighed on her mind. She worried over how to go about asking him. It simply had to be done, she decided. Either he wasn't, and they would have a good laugh that she had thought he could be, or he was and the charade would be over.

"E-erik?" She bit her lip in that way that told him to prepare himself for what she was going to say. "I . . . that is, the other girls in the corps . . . they tell stories . . . and . . ." She stopped, flustered.

He arched an eyebrow curiously. "Stories? What kind of stories?" He hoped they weren't the unseemly sort of stories that he'd overheard some of the stagehands telling. Bawdy tales like that were not for Christine's pristine ears.

"The . . . You have heard of the Opera Ghost, haven't you? I mean, living underneath the opera house and attending performances . . ."

It had never occurred to her that the very box she'd sat in was the box reserved for the Ghost.

Erik was not a man who was easily left at a loss for words. How could he respond without giving himself away? "I," he cleared his throat, "have heard the tales they tell, yes."

She nodded once. "It's just that . . . when I returned to . . . I didn't hear anything of . . . him. And the ballerinas like to gossip! They told me every little thing that had happened while I was away, but no new stories of the Ghost! And it . . . it seemed . . ." Her mouth continued moving though no words escaped her.

"And you wondered . . ." he prompted.

She found her resolve. "Erik, are you the Phantom of the Opera house?"