Author's Note: To My Lovely Reviewers: Thank you! No, the comments on my 'lack of proof-reading' does not get me down. It's the nature of Writing and my minor humiliation of 'how on Earth did I miss that?!'

DarlingPhantom: I'm glad you liked! I did some digging for that tid-bit.
QtKittee: I love making characters complex and getting into their heads. Wait 'til we get to Raoul's, that will be a new take on him that I have yet to see elsewhere of 'Why'. :-)

Tonight, we Delve into Erik and Girys - Enjoy!

Il Muto

For what it was worth, Christine seeing his face under his terms went as well as anyone could hope. Her reaction was not overtly negative. For as uncomfortable as the revelation made them, with her fear and horror apparent, there was no loathing. The lack of hate alone confirmed her kind soul that he missed the first time. Was it even possible to love that Goddess more than he did?

The lesson allowed them to slip into routine and comfort of habit as he tuned her instrument in his usual exacting detail. They both gave in to the music, letting it relieve the tension and nervousness that had grown between them. Music was always a reliable elixir to the woes of reality. It created a fantasy as easily as the written word. A new world where little else mattered. Just glorious notes that could be woven into anything one wanted.

When the lesson ended and the night ensured, the opera house fully belonged to Erik. Few wandered its magnificent corridors after midnight. It allowed him to move freely without concern for any other soul running across him. Those who remained after hours to manage pests were easy to avoid as they followed their routine.

Carlotta, her friends in the chorus, and many of the principal performers made a poor choice in spreading false rumors about Christine's integrity. Each one of them would suffer the consequences of such tales. It would only take a few drops into a decanter or mouth spray to execute his plan. Since he already knew the managers were less than receptive to notes, the simpler task was to sway matters into his favor by creative machinations.

The resulting bouts of nausea coursed through the Palais Garnier like a wave breaking through seawalls. Management had but two choices before them: cancel the performance and refund the house in hopes all would be normal come tomorrow, or trust the small army of understudies to carry the opening of Il Muto to grand success. The understudies prevailed.

As L'Chantseur, Erik stood in the wings with Christine in the minutes leading to curtain, clad as a gentleman of the opera and not quite its Ghost. An ivory-colored vest made of silk replaced the black one he favored. The mask matched the new vest in color as its decoration was decoupaged sheet music – cheap scores he had gathered over the years. Black paint rimmed around the eye holes, each with a tail starting at the outer corners. The tail extending from the corner of the left eye ran up to the forehead, the other mirrored it, though the tail fell down the right cheek. Incorporating the minim notes into the décor of his mask was a treat. Erik did find a particular humor in his selection of the notes for his silent joke, considering the minim's slang name.

"Half-notes?" she grinned with raised brows.

"I did consider semibreves until I pondered, 'What fun would there be in that?' Regardless, I doubt even Monsieur Reyer would recognize them." The whole-note counterpart of the minim would merely act more as eyeliner than actual musical implication. "Then there was of course the intent to distract you for your nerves, which appears to be working."

"A bit," she admitted.

Erik held up a glass of water for her. There was not a chance he would risk anyone else offering her refreshment after the stunt he pulled overnight. They were still struggling to scrub the stains from Carlotta's carpet in her oversized dressing room. "You will be splendid."

Christine sipped the water but her eyes were a bit downcast.

"If you remember all that I have taught you, nothing will hinder you tonight."

"If I forget?" she asked when she lowered the glass.

Wordlessly taking it from her, Erik offered the simplest lesson, "Then do not think. Close your eyes and let the music carry you through. All you need is already there inside your mind."

"Christine!" beckoned the stage manager.

What Erik could perceive as nervousness did not leave her eyes. In response, he floated his finger beneath her chin to lift it higher. "Sing for me."

Christine kept her chin up, squared her shoulders, and took in a deep breath before giving him a nod.

"Christine!" called the imbecile again.

When Christine turned to go to her mark, Erik shot the man a look of warning, making the stage manager swallow hard.

Breaking eye contact after assuring that his message was 'delivered,' Erik retreated to a spot where he could remain for the duration. There was little chance that blocking would change. It was by one of the largest and heaviest curtains that Erik kept to his back as an improvement to his sense of security. Though his full attention was on Christine, he remained aware of the movements of others around him. Christine validated his presence and privacy in her contract, so his company with her would go unquestioned. As helpful as it was, it was not enough to curb the looks of distrust and distaste they gave him. Nor did it quell whatever was whispered under their breaths when they thought he was not looking.

It mattered nothing to him. He was there and not tucked in shadows to watch her very first performance, unhindered. A welcome change from haunting a cellar to just hear her sweet voice.

Within minutes of the curtains parting, Christine began to relax after a motion from him clenching a fist over his diaphragm and lifting it toward his chin. She took the silent instruction and a deep breath and sang just as he taught her.

My Christine… Erik thought with a smile.

The scenes and the acts began to flow effortlessly with every note of music, purity of voices, and every graceful pirouette. With all his machinations, Meg Giry was elevated to the female soloist, and Christine of course became the lead soprano. But they were not the only beneficiaries. The fresh dramatic tenor from London, Murphy, was still rather young to play the Count as written, but he was the last one standing that had the range for baritone notes. Erik also took an interest in the slight over-dramaticism in which Murphy played one of the fops, balancing the humor of the comedy well.

By the middle of the third Act, Erik glanced back at Madame Giry in acknowledgment as she slid up to his right side.

"You taught her well," Annette commented quietly. "Few can even touch her quality of sound."

"I merely polished and tuned what she already possessed."

"And pushed her to greatness."

Erik said nothing further, even as Meg eventually joined them. How he felt about either Giry was painfully mixed, as was separating them from the women they were at present to what they became in New York. The differences were comparable to the halves of his face. Night and day. They were not yet corrupted by greed and need. Nevertheless, the sting of their betrayal wounded him deeply, but what they had done for him after Don Juan Triumphant was not forgotten either.

Not just him, they scarred his son by ripping away the boy's mother from him. Unintended or not mattered nothing to Erik.

Closing his eyes, Erik summoned an image of Gustave's excited face as they ventured through the wonders of Phantasma. That was all that would remain of that innocent boy. Any son he and Christine may have one day would not be Gustave. Everything had already changed beyond recognition, effectively erasing him.

But Erik would keep that memory of the face and music of the son he barely knew. All of this was for him, and his mother. A better life with a properly loving husband and father, if he did not find a way to destroy everything he built over the last week. Trials were coming. They would come as early as tonight, with the Vicomte with Firmin and Andre in their box and a chandelier that would not crash into the audience by Erik's hand.

De Chagny will come. Suitors will come. That jealous monster within was bound to try to make an appearance too.

The secret of Gustave and the future would rest on him alone. No one else could know.

Tears leaked out in the pang of grief that punched his gut, hard.

Not now. He had to focus. Erik had to be the actor in his own life to keep the secret safe. For everyone's happiness, except de Chagny's. But Erik did not give a damn about that boy.

"You performed your solo well, Little Giry," Erik managed to compliment in carefully chosen words.

The blonde girl looked up at him with the bright smile Erik had come to miss over the years, so innocent and curious. Too curious.

Both Girys knew he was the Phantom he paid them well for the roles they played. Annette passed his notes and messages along to management while Meg was essentially his hype girl. There was a reason that anytime the Phantom played his hand, Meg was first to blame him. She fanned the flame of myth with ease.

"Thank you," she grinned her reply.

"Curious how so many understudies were needed tonight," Annette observed knowingly.

"Understudies tend to possess enough talent to surpass principals who have become complacent in their tenure. When proving grounds are presented, it is wise to make the most of such opportunity," Erik answered vaguely as he craned his head just enough to glimpse out at the audience. "Whoever may complain tonight has no appreciation for the arts."

By the performance's end, the gratifying thunder of applause filled the house in appreciation of what they witnessed while the cast assembled and gave their bows at curtain calls. Flowers were thrown at the feet of Christine, Meg, Murphy, and others. The Managers gave Christine pink roses that were, undoubtedly, meant for Carlotta. No matter, Erik's celebratory gift would certainly offset the garishness of her least favorite color.

"Ahead of the throng," he murmured to Annette who gave a nod. From there, Erik retreated from the wings before the crowd could begin to congregate backstage.

Erik was never one to tolerate crowds. He found them more claustrophobic than being confined to a dingy little cell or a cage on display. It was only the masses of humanity that made him unnerved when he was among large groups of them. Not that it deterred him from doing whatever needed to be done, but it was not an experience he ever enjoyed. Even in New York and Phantasma, he only tolerated his functions outside the aerie, which he kept to a minimum, dictating most of his wishes through the Girys, Mr. Squelch, Miss Fleck, and Dr. Gangle, just to avoid the crowds.

At the thought of the trio, Erik made a mental note to seek them out after everything else was sorted and fates decided.

Weaving through the crowd, largely those under the Garnier's payroll, Erik quickly made his way to the narrow corridor that ran backstage which was painted a ghastly shade of gray-green. With a careful glance up and down the hallway, Erik slipped into the doorway leading down into the bowels of the opera. It took time to make his way to the passage leading to the old Communard Road to which Christine's dressing room was attached.

He managed to slip into the room from the mirror and deposit a glass vase of flowers for Christine and back into his secret passage before anyone else could enter. Seconds later, the Girys were ushering Christine into the room with a costumer behind them.

"Oh, Christine!" grinned Meg as she held Christine's hands in their shared excitement. "You were so wonderful! Already you have so many admirers, you will have the other girls so jealous!"

"Thank you, Meg!" Christine replied in equal excitement. "This is all so overwhelming that I hardly know what to do with myself." The costumer ushered Christine behind the dressing screen, unwilling to wait out the girls' glee.

Thankfully, the screen had been moved to an appropriate corner to which Erik would not have to turn his head to grant her privacy. Not that he would have minded the exquisite view… Yes, he might have seen every inch of her in that wonderous night of passion, but he was not a voyeur. As tempting as it was.

"I don't know what I have done without you both being there for me," Christine went on to say. "Getting through that crowd no less!"

The Girys nodded and Annette stepped over to help the costumer with the oversized Countess dress, by neatly setting its various elements aside for an easier collection. "It was no trouble," she said warmly. "Often, over-eager patrons and other attendees forget that you are not obligated to spend your whole evening to greet each and every one of them. It is simply too much to ask of anyone. I am certain your tutor reminded you of this."

Christine blushed a bit as Annette passed a dressing gown over the screen. "He did. Even in my contract, there is an addendum that allows me to make my 'retreat' after a few minutes of platitudes. Messieurs Andre and Firmin would have had me spending most of the evening placating the masses. I would have never considered it an issue otherwise."

"Hmm, new managers and young suitors have a way of always pushing the limits of decency for their own appeasements," Annette sighed.

"I would not have considered it either," added Meg. "Even tonight, I've never had such a crowd descend on me in such a manner. It was almost mind-numbing; I don't know how Sorelli and Carlotta do this almost nightly. It's too much and I feel so…"

"Obligated?" asked Christine.

"Yes! But isn't always though?"

"Some things never change. After a while you will both learn that appeasing smile and how to find some level of assertiveness," Annette spoke in her own former experience as a Prima Ballerina. "It takes time to find that balance of maintaining expectations in appeasement and declaring when you have had your fill."

"Was it easier when Papa was here?" Meg asked of her mother.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," a warm smile crept across the otherwise stern woman's features. "It helped quite a bit to have him around after a performance. He had a way of knowing when I was growing tired and became a welcomed barrier when I needed him."

"How did he manage that?" asked Christine with a brief nod to the customer when the woman finished her task. "Thank you, Isabelle."

"You're welcome, Mademoiselle," spoke a briefly stunned Isabelle, gathering the dress. It was apparent that other performers that Isabelle attended did not give her much acknowledgment.

Annette gave a nod to Isabelle as the girl hurried away, then went on to answer the posed question. "He would come to my side, slip his fingers around my elbow, and gently nudge me away from a crowd. In doing this, he had a rather remarkable way of being at my side but between me and the crowd. I suppose it helped that we had wedding bands, even so, it was an unspoken excuse for me to leave the crowd. Though sometimes, he would need to shoo them off but that was not often."

"Like you do with us," Meg smiled. "You learned it from Papa?"

"Yes, my dear. However, I will admit, he had an easier time of it just by being a man. I have to be rather stern to be effective."

"You mean you have moments when you are not, Maman?"

"Meg," Annette sighed in her exasperation, but her motherly smile remained. "A woman must learn to do what she must to be heard, otherwise, she will never have a voice. Often it may take an icy and stern exterior to achieve. Use it often enough and it becomes second nature. It is not because I want to, but it is necessary in the world in which we live. Especially, when you do not…or no longer have a man at your side. Even then, you better hope you have chosen well for yourself."

"How would you know?" asked Christine as she came out from behind the screen, tying the sash of her dressing gown snugly about her waist.

"Only you can know who would suit you best, my dears," Annette answered as she looked between the two girls. "Though, I have observed that some of the best relationships I have seen, and what I shared with Jules, is when he wants you for you. He should help you grow into who or what you want to be in your life, but you should be doing the same for him as well. You should both become better together than when you are apart. He should make every effort to accommodate you as you will inevitably do for him."

"Is there such a man?" Meg asked wistfully. "Seems like a kind of fairy tale with all the stories I've heard."

"Well, considering the sources of those stories are likely your cohorts, it is no wonder," Annette teased her daughter. "Hardly a wealth of information when they are so easily swooned by the first handsome fellow that approaches them."

"True," conceded Meg with a chuckle. "Even so, still seems a fantasy."

Christine crossed the room and settled at her dressing table where she began pulling pins from the head wrap that contained her mass of hair to support the wig that was now thankfully absent.

Erik watched her with great interest as he listened as closely to Annette's wisdom as Meg and Christine did when she imparted her knowledge to them. Christine was smiling through the remaining idle chatter between them as she looked upon the floral arrangement that he left for her, with a black ribbon tied around the neck of the vase.

"We will let you settle Christine," began Annette in parting words. "We have a few things to attend to ourselves. Though, I do expect you to have an escort should you return late," she bid with a glance towards the large mirror he stood behind.

In truth, Erik did miss this Annette and Meg. How they were before everything; before New York and Coney Island corrupted who they were at their core. This Annette would never become so consumed by greed. Meg was still so bright in a unique innocence of knowing without actual participation in that act as a means to an end. She would have never picked up that gun.

If only he had known what was happening with her then… If he had more clarity of mind to see or rather, care about the warning signs that crept out through the course of the summer. If he had, the incident on the pier would not have happened.

Then he would not be here.

Ten years would have still been wasted.

…Gustave.

It was hard to define the current thoughts regarding his son, and the double-edged sword inherit from this line of thinking. A thought process he could not afford to consider right now, in this moment. Not with Christine here, just a pane of glass away.

When Christine was alone, she leaned forward as she let down those long tresses that cascaded around her in deflated waves of silken chocolate, taking in the sweet floral scents. The gift was a trio of flowers consisting of maroon Nigritella Nigra, blue-violet Blåklockor bellflowers, and a single red rose. Apart from the rose, the colorful blooms were native to Sweden, thus it was hard to locate a florist that had a grower of them near Paris.

"Are these from you?" she asked as she turned towards the massive mirror that he stood behind, rose in hand, the black ribbon tied to its stem. Strange enough, considering he had yet to announce himself.

"Yes," he answered. "Do you like them?"

"Very much! How did you find them?"

"With much effort. I considered having cornflowers added, but when I discovered they were considered a weed…"

"I would not have minded at all, they have such lovely blooms," she turned back to resume taking pins from her hair and brushing those silken ringlets.

"I will remember that for the next one. Unless you have another preference."

"I kind of like having the surprise. I do rather enjoy roses and lilies, though."

"Noted, my dear," he paused a moment to take in her loveliness. "Christine, would you permit me the honor of making you dinner tonight as a celebration for your wonderful performance?"

She stilled at his invitation, pausing the motion of brushing.

Apprehension grew within her pause, and before an answer was voiced, the door to her dressing swung open, and in came that boy in his usual arrogance. "Christine Daaé, where is your red scarf?" he playfully asked, yet it came off as a demand more than a question to Erik's ear.

Already his blood began to boil at the sight of that boy, hands clenching to fists.

Christine was slow to look over to him, the exuberance of last time absent.

"You can't have lost it, after all the trouble I took. I was but fourteen and soaked to the skin."

"Because you ran into the sea to fetch my scarf!" she smiled in delight that the boy remembered.

Erik had half a mind to bash his own skull into the masonry of his hidden corridor. Remember, my love, he did not recognize you last week.

The scene before him unfurled in much the same way, Little Lotte, chocolates, dark stories of the North, but Christine made no mention of the Angel of Music. Whether this was to his benefit, Erik did not yet know. What sliver of hope he did manage to hang on to was the fact that Christine seemed more hesitant, though that may be as a result of her knowing his presence was a mirror away.

"Come! We must go to supper!" Raoul declared.

"I can't— I have other—" Christine began, only to be cut off.

"I shan't keep you out late," he interrupted. "You must change, I will order my carriage. Two minutes, Little Lotte!" He was already out the door.

She sat frozen in place, eyes wide and hands pressed on the tabletop of her vanity.

The pain of his next words seared through his being. It was a gamble, but he had to fight his jealousy to win her. "Christine… if you wish to join him…"

Christine paused with a glance toward the mirror and rose to collect her cloak.

Erik's heart fell.

"I wish… I wish to go with you, Erik," she whispered as she came to stand before the mirror.

Erik was not about to question her reasoning and triggered the mirror. It swung open toward him by a series of pulleys and counterweight making it move smoothly and without a sound. He stepped forward and extended a hand.

Christine's hesitance was clear across her ashen face and wide eyes staring at his bare hand. Then she took it in a burst of confidence and trust, which was when Erik pulled her into his world of night.