The dankness of the tunnel did not bother me to begin with, until I had made turns down several hallways. The sleeveless black leotard that I wore proved completely ineffectual against the damp. The water that had dripped incessantly on my head and shoulders for the first portion of tunnel had soaked into my hair and clothes and I began to feel chilled.

When I came to a place where there was a split in the passageway, I chose to take the left tunnel. My plan was that I would take only left turns so that on the way back (if I even came this way) I would only need to make right turns in order to find the way out. It did not take long for me to figure out that this would be an almost worthless plan. There had been several places in which I had been forced to take a right, because it had been so absolutely dark to the left that I could not tell if there was indeed another tunnel that way or if it was only a wall. I did not fancy a broken nose, stubbed and scraped fingers, or worse, so I opted for the more visible path, though it was barely so.

Counting how many different tunnels I had crept through was not something that occurred to me to do, so I did not know how many of the tunnels ran straight and how many spiraled down, but there were plenty. I wondered how deep I was. And then I tried very hard not to think about how deep I was.

It was dark here in the bowels of the earth, so much darker than I could have ever dreamed possible. All light was swallowed up by the infinite darkness. Yet stubbornly, perhaps foolishly, I continued to fumble my way along, running my hands along the wall to guide me. If I left it, I would surely injure myself.

I sniffed as the cool air made my nose run, pausing at another branch in the tunnel, that was more felt than seen. I groaned.

Now I realized that the danger of the secret passage Madame Giry spoke of may have been as simple as getting lost. This passage had already split in a few places and although I had thought I would be able to find my way back, that confidence was beginning to wane.

A very pale light seemed to come from the tunnel on the left so I followed it. Running my hand along the cool stone wall to help myself along, I immediately felt where the stone stopped and dirt began.

"Oh!" I pulled my hand away at the unexpected change in texture. Sighing in annoyance at the jumpy nature I was in, I stretched my hand back out to touch the wall, to confirm the stone was gone. The flat stone of the wall was definitely gone. This was dirt and natural formation stone - hard packed earth, deep beneath the opera house. In the darkness I raised my eyebrows. There were rumors amongst the opera crew that there was an underground lake directly under the Opera Populaire. Part of me wondered if this tunnel would lead me right into it. Right into a watery grave.

I brushed off the notion. While it might certainly lead me to water I wasn't likely to fall in at the ridiculously slow pace in which I was moving. I would be warned before blatantly stepping into a hole; I would feel the edge of a drop-off with my foot, because I tested every step carefully.

And I had come this far. There really was no point in turning back until I found where this passage went. But with the falling away of the stone wall, I questioned whether this was an actual passage at all, but a false one.

My eyes began to tear up. Did I just completely waste my time? It was going to take forever to get back out the way I came and the dark and the loneliness were beginning to gnaw to me. I wished Meg had come with me. I wished I had been intelligent enough to ask her to come. Or at least intelligent enough to bring a candle. What was I thinking?!

Because no one was around to hear, I went ahead a cried. I got myself under control again soon, however, as I needed to concentrate on where I was walking.

The tunnel was sloping down and curving ever so slightly to the left. Finally, I saw a faint light. Golden light. Candlelight! At last!

Thinking myself at the end of the secret passage, I picked up my pace. I stopped abruptly. I could hear something. I stood very still for but a moment before realizing it was the sound of water. This made me creep forward at a cautious pace. The tunnel evened out, but there was water lapping lazily at the ground as it disappeared beneath the murky surface.

But beyond the end of the tunnel, which I could see now a few metres ahead, was the unmistakeable flicker of candlelight. Quite a lot of candles, it seemed, judging from the brightness.

Suddenly, there was a voice. Singing quietly. Not timid, merely singing to himself.

I was startled. Someone was down here! Was Christine here too? Was this the man who had stolen her away last night? I stood for more than a few minutes debating about what to do. Did I just turn around and go back up the dark, lonely tunnel? Or did I go out there and risk this stranger's wrath at finding what might be his secret hideout? I closed my eyes and once again pictured the vicomte's face. Those keen eyes telling me silently that this situation needed to be resolved. That I needed to protect my friend. Then I decided…

I had to see.

Had to know.

I had to know who was singing and who could possibly stand to be down here in the bowels of the opera house. I had to know what was out there at the end of this tunnel. Had to know what I had come so far in the darkness to find.

Carefully, I shuffled one toe into the water, hoping it wouldn't completely ruin my slippers. They had already been soaked through by all the water from that first tunnel and were worn down enough by the long journey through the tunnels. But if they ended up covered in mud, I could say good-bye to them and prepare myself for Madame Giry's wrath. I moved as slowly as I possibly could so that I would not make a sound. My soft, unstarched, tulle skirt floated up around me like a pale-pink water lily. Unlike the senior dancers, I did not wear the stiff tutus. I did not mind.

A murky wave hit me just right and made a strange sloshing sound and I froze. The singing stopped too. I held my breath, waiting for the song to continue. I waited so long I thought I might faint, but eventually I heard the voice again. Only for a minute, then it stopped again. The water was freezing and my teeth were starting to chatter, so I knew I had to move. Sneaking forward once again, I had to cover my mouth and nearly bite my tongue to keep from gasping at the sight before me.

The tunnel I had followed opened up into an underground cavern in which there was an underground lake, but that was not the most impressive part. The most impressive sight was that the cavern had been transformed into a living space of sorts. There were massive candelabras, tables and chairs, desks, papers littering the entirety of it... and an organ.

And a man.

A man in dark pants and a white collared shirt was sitting at the organ. He hadn't noticed me and remained seated before the great instrument, shuffling papers. Sheet music, I realized.

Then he began to play. A tune so beautiful and yet so haunting, that I wanted it to go on forever as much as I wanted it to stop. It made me want to cry, both in heartache and joy. I had never heard such astounding music. If this organ music was accompanied by a full orchestra…

Suddenly, it stopped. I blinked at him from my hiding place, almost angry that he had yanked me so abruptly from my emotional reverie.

Squinting, I saw that he was writing on the music sheets. He wrote for a few minutes then continued playing what sounded like the next segment of music. Understanding dawned on me then. He was composing the music he played! My jaw hung open as I stared at this man's back.

Questions - so many questions! - swirled through my head, with no thought of whom to go to that might answer them except this man himself. It did not matter at all to me then that I was freezing, standing thigh-deep in a murky underground lake. All I wanted was to hear more. Hear more of this music surely written by an angel.

But what kind of angel lives underground?

Setting some papers aside, he turned his head and I saw that he wore a mask.

Oh heaven…

It couldn't be. I nearly choked on the gasp I swallowed. Thankfully, my panic weighed me to the spot and I did not move; did not make a sound.

There were no such things as phantoms. Especially phantoms that played music. Every story - every horrid, deceitful, untrue story that Josef Buquet told me, filled my mind. And especially the fact that the Phantom of the Opera wore a mask to cover his grotesque deformation.

It couldn't be.

Believing that those stories were true would only open me up to be continually frightened by Monsieur Buquet like the other ballerinas were; like Meg. Open me up to be afraid of the dark. Afraid of every strange thing that happened that I had always dismissed as coincidence. No, no this man could not be the Phantom of the Opera.

He looked so… normal. He was just a man! Although, Monsieur Buquet had never said that the Phantom glowed or appeared translucent.

I stood grappling with my emotions and beliefs and feeling quite certain now that no matter who this man was, I had made a mistake. I should never have come here. It was a mistake. I only needed to get back to the tunnels.

I'll never know just what I did to draw his attention, but I did. His head snapped up and he searched only a second before he found me.

Then I did gasp. He moved much quicker than I thought any human should be able to. Perhaps it was just my foolish legs were scared so stiff that I couldn't move at my normal speed. But he came at me, practically snarling like a vicious animal, and yelling something at me. My mind was too paralyzed by fear to comprehend his words. It wasn't too paralyzed to notice that he was not old and that he appeared to be in a good physical condition; slender and strong. As he came toward me, he moved his hands swiftly, but not swift enough. I saw what he carried.

The lasso.

Whether by instinct, Madame Giry's advice, or sheer luck, I threw my hands up. My hands were at face level when he tightened the lasso. He was strong - as strong as Benoit, or stronger. My hair was thick, but not thick enough to stop the rope from biting viciously into the back of my neck. Holding my hands up had prevented the lasso from tightening around my throat, but it still cut into my wrists when he tightened it - still nearly choked me. Surprise registered in his expression when he saw my hands impeding this strangulation.

"Please!" I pleaded, my strangled cry tiny and frightened, as I tried to speak through the battle I was having with the rope. "Please, I meant no harm!"

His shock wore off quickly and he shouted, "Only came to see the demon that dwells beneath the opera house? Look well, for you have found him!"

I winced. For once, not at the shouting, but at the way he described himself. What kind of person refers to himself as a demon?

"Please, Monsieur," I tried again, tears finally sliding down my cheeks, "I found a passageway by accident! I - I did not think you were real."

He leaned in very close and I could see the fire in his eyes as he growled, "I am, most assuredly, real."

With that, he loosened the pressure on the lasso. And I stood there watching in astonishment as he loosened it more and pulled it over my head, releasing me.

"Come," he commanded, for that was how he spoke - his voice was one that was used to being obeyed. "You must be returned before you are missed."

I felt rather indignant at how I was addressed, as if I was a favorite bauble that had been taken off the shelf and needed replaced before Great-Aunt Flora noticed. Nevertheless, I nodded emphatically.

He grabbed my wrist and pulled me along quickly behind him, pausing only to toss down the lasso and snatch up a lighted torch from a wall sconce. I noted we did not go down the tunnel from which I had come.

My mind was buzzing with thoughts. Mostly trying to come up with something to say to him, but it was as if every thought had fled. All that came were questions. Questions I was too frightened to ask. How had he come to be here? What had happened to his face to make him wear that mask? Why was he all alone?

He hadn't killed me, but I was certain he would change his mind if I started spouting questions like some silly young schoolgirl without the sense or decency to mind her own business.

So our return to the world above was made in silence, the only sounds the wet slap of my ballet slippers against the stone floor, the split-splat of the lake water dripping from my skirt, and the guttering of the torch's flame. Even the man's footfalls were nearly silent. But the verbal silence only meant that my thoughts then turned to the hand that held my wrist firmly. I took note that it was firm, but he was not hurting me and I found that curious. Considering that he had just tried to kill me.

After what seemed a ridiculously short period of time, compared with my trip down to the catacombs, we arrived at a dead end. Another secret entrance, I realized. My eyes grew wide as I considered the implications. I had noticed during our ascent that the surroundings had changed from wide, almost cavernous, underground tunnels to narrow tunnels of stone. But I had not thought about what that meant.

The Phantom set the torch in a bracket far down the wall from the secret entrance, so as not to attract attention. He guided me, still by the wrist, to the door and stopped. Turning to look at me he said, "You will tell your managers that I am very real indeed and that I expect my demands to be met. Tell no one of what you saw or how you came to find me. Do not come here again. Go."

Gaping at him like a fool, I nodded once again, letting out a small sounding, "Yes, Monsieur!"

His pure-white mask only covered half of his face, very unlike the one in Buquet's stories. The light of the torch hardly touched us here, but even in the barely-light I noticed how strikingly handsome the exposed side of his face was.

We stood for a moment like that - him studying my face for trustworthiness and me studying his face just for the sake of looking at it. For a second he looked a little confused, then slightly uncomfortable on top of that and I felt suddenly very foolish. Glad of the darkness, hoping it would hide my wild blush, I turned to the door. He stood still with an intent look upon his face. I wondered why he didn't open the door, then realized he was listening to the theatre outside, making sure it was clear. Obviously it was because, without hesitation, he opened the secret passage.

And I stepped out.

/

I was in the grand foyer, alone, staring at a gilded wall, trying to sort out what had just happened. As soon as the secret door closed behind me I had spun around to see if I could find it again. I could not. The edges of the door were designed so perfectly to blend in with the decorative carvings on the wall, that it was impossible to find them even though I knew they were there. After realizing there was no way in which I could convince anyone that there was a secret passage here, I slumped to the floor leaning my back against the wall that, a moment ago, had been gaping open to spew me out into this hall of gold and marble and mirrors.

The last hours in which I had lived, traversing the treacherous tunnels and finding the man who presumably lived below, seemed nothing more than a strange dream now that I was sitting here alone in the brightness of the foyer, crystal chandeliers blinking curiously in reflected sunlight at me.

Knowing that the shaking in my hands and legs was not simply from fright, but from the damp clothes that clung to me, I stood up to head to the dormitory, where I would change into a dry outfit. At least, that was where I had thought I wanted to go. But I found myself instead roaming the wide gilded halls and busy back rooms for the managers.

I did not want to admit to myself that the Phantom was real. That I had found his lair and that he had led me up a secret passageway leading into the opera house. But deep down... my heart knew better.

I saw those eyes of his. I sought out the peace and grounding I had found earlier with the vicomte's blue gaze, but it was smothered - smothered by a fiery green gaze that bore straight through me and challenged me. Warned me.

Terrified me.

And so I found myself, despite the chill I felt, despite the embarrassment of my appearance, beckoning to my managers who had been overseeing the assembly of the current stage props.

They both looked aghast at my soggy appearance. Monsieur Firmin's expression turned to one of disgust and I almost worried that he would toss me out of his opera house.

However, it was Monsieur André that spoke first.

"Mademoiselle Devoreaux! W-what happened to you?" he stammered in shock.

I opened my mouth to speak, but what came out was a body-wracking sob. I covered my face with my hands, feeling just as surprised as they looked. Alone in the foyer, I hadn't noticed that I was in such shock. The mix of relief and unbelief I felt at André's words finally broke within me and released the tears I had somehow held back until now.

He murmured some words that were meant to be calming and put a comforting arm around my shoulders. I was too distraught to be bothered much by his touch. However, it seemed to work, as I was instantly able to take a deep breath and regain control of myself.

Lowering my hands, I looked up into the face of Monsieur Firmin. The idea of looking at the man who still had his arm around me seemed awkward, so I kept my eyes on Firmin.

"I have a message for you," I told him. "For the managers."

When I didn't go on, Firmin, trying to conceal his annoyance, waved a hand and asked, "From whom?"

My voice was a whisper. "From the Opera Ghost."

André exchanged a glance with Firmin, who looked truly irritated at my reply, and released me from his hold.

"Mademoiselle - " Monsieur André began, but Firmin interrupted him.

"Mademoiselle Devoreaux, there are no such things as phantoms!" he said, matter-of-factly.

"But there is!" I heard myself saying. Unable to stop myself, I plowed on. "I saw him! He - he said to tell you that he is real. And he is! I've seen him! He expects his demands to be met." The two of them gave one another looks that clearly conveyed the notion that they thought I was crazy. Or worse, in league with him.

"Please," I continued, "you must do as he says. If you don't, I believe he means every word of that letter. Something terrible will happen."

Frowning at me, Firmin gave me an appraising look. "Why are you all wet?"

The question caught me off-guard and I gaped like a fish at him. How could I explain? Tell no one of what you saw or how you came to find me. The Phantom's words kept my tongue still. Part of me screamed that it was necessary to tell them, so this madness could be stopped. Another part of me, was utterly and completely terrified. Again I saw those furious grey-green eyes. I had seen such a look in Benoit's eyes, on more than one occasion, and I was well aware of the punishment that awaited if I disobeyed.

In that instant, a blinding overwhelming fear overtook me and drowned out every other emotion. I knew what would happen if I did not heed the Phantom's warning.

He would kill me.

It was the same fear I felt when I looked into Benoit's aqua-colored eyes. But this was something more, something beyond what I had felt around Benoit. I had learned to listen, learned to know when the attack was likely to come. Here, in the Opera Populaire, I did not have a clue. I had heard how quietly the Phantom walked. The madman could strike from anywhere and I, for a change, would not hear it coming. Who knew how many tunnels ran through the walls of the opera house? And he could creep along them like some giant rat, only quieter. Much, much quieter. Like a...

Like a Phantom.

My breathing was shallow and I knew my eyes were wide as I neared a full-fledged bout of panic. I shook my head rapidly, backing away from them. If they did not believe me and they ran the show as they planned, ignoring the Phantom's orders... Would I be the target of his wrath for having failed to get them to believe me?

"Don't do it," I said hoarsely. "Don't do it, please."

"Everything will be fine, Mademoiselle," André smiled at me. "Nothing can go wrong because there are no such things as ghosts. Perhaps some rest would do you good?"

"A fine idea, indeed," Firmin stated, nodding his approval. "You worry about being in pique condition for the performance and let us worry about all this ghost nonsense. Everything will be taken care of, I can assure you."

They led me away, toward the dormitory stairs, with Monsieur André telling me that he would send Madame Giry up to me.

Feeling numb, I only nodded and quickened my pace to prove I could walk on my own and did not need their help. As I walked away, I looked back over my shoulder. Messieurs Firmin and André were talking quietly to each other, making small gesticulations, and I got the feeling that they thought I had made everything up, as a cruel trick.

The feeling of being looked upon as a liar made my cheeks flush hot in embarrassment and indignity.

This was not a joke. The Phantom was real. He was real! I had met him face to face and he had spared me. This time. But the owners did not believe me at all. They thought it was all some game made up to frighten them. Just yesterday, if I had overheard that conversation instead of being a part of it, I would have agreed with them. I knew differently now. Now, I was truly afraid. I thought of their words to me, that everything would go just fine because there was no such thing as ghosts.

But now I knew better, for I had seen him with my own eyes.

I did not wait for André to find Madame Giry. Instead of going to the dormitory to change, I sought her out on my own, to tell her what I had just relayed to the managers. I was certain that she would believe me.

He was in a foul mood. He had not been - he had been in a euphoric place where the music was flowing like water through his veins, the very essence of his life moving him to write a glorious symphony. But then. She had appeared and everything had stopped. His whole magical world, come to an earth-shattering standstill by that Jacqueline Devoreaux.

It did not take him long to react however, with every fiber of his being crying, Intruder! Intruder! There were no ballerinas that he had deemed strong enough to brave the dark hidden tunnels of the opera house. Not one. He had never worried about being found out by a dancer. But that young woman had braved not only the dark, but the cold and the wet. Foolish, impossible woman! What was she thinking? Why?

How? How?! How had she gotten all the way to his sanctum? Incredible!

He had had every intention of killing her - strangling every secret she had learned from her lips, so they could never be told to another. Throwing that lasso around her neck had been so easy, yet she still lived. He would never admit it, but he had been beyond surprised when she had thrown her hands up to protect herself, snagging the rope with her delicate wrists. How had she known? How?!

Madame Giry. It had to be. Ever since she had met the young Jacqueline she had been positively bothersome. It was possible that Madame Giry had helped the woman to find her way down here... Possible, but not likely. Giry herself had never been this far down. She was not so stupid to tempt him, tempt fate. She was aware of all the traps that awaited anyone unlucky enough to find themselves lost in his catacombs. So was that it then? The girl had just been lucky? She was very lucky indeed; he had not killed her, though he should have, though he had wanted to. But he had heard her sing and although Christine was better, he definitely recognized the beauty of her voice. For that reason, he had spared her. He could not bring himself to destroy something that reminded him so much of Christine. Could not bring himself to destroy such a beautiful gift.

But now she knew about him. Knew about his lair. Had caught him unaware, utterly vulnerable. At least he had been wearing his mask. A small mercy.

His temper exploded as he returned to his chamber. He went straight for the nearest object - a heavy brass candlestick - and, picking it up, hurled it across the room with a yell of frustration. A composer's bust, already chipped, was the next target. With a loud grunt and a violent sweep of his arm, the bust was knocked from its perch atop a mahogany table and crashed to the floor, shattering. The sound of it wreaking echoed throughout the lair. He stood, panting, staring distractedly at the shards of the bust.

At last deciding that his frantic destruction was doing no good, he calmed himself. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath in, expelling it in a heavy sigh through his nose. He needed to figure out what to do about her. Would she try to come back down? He didn't think so. Would she deliver his message? From the expression she had given him, he thought she would. Would the owners listen to her? Undoubtedly not. They appeared to be imbeciles, seeing only Carlotta as their key singer.

Shaking his head, he pushed all thoughts of the curious dancer aside. He would deal with her in time. He had spared her hoping that her terror would keep her silent for now. He was not worried about her interference. The most important objective now was to show to the new managers how serious he was about Christine replacing Carlotta.

That was going to be amusing.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

A/N: Hello lovelies! An apology to all my readers who have been very patiently waiting (or maybe you just gave up on me? !) for this chapter! Well, it is finally here. Hopefully I can keep the ball rolling now that I am back in the groove. Please, DO comment and let me know how you feel about this chapter; I only ask that you be fair. :)

And yes, it was another long one...