A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! :) And now...

Chapter V

It had been exactly two weeks since the bitter catastrophe of the Don Juan.

Erik waited for the shadows of evening to cloak the city before striking out from the Daroga's home in search of Madame Giry. An article in Le Petit Journal stated that the dormitories of the Opera House were being used for temporary lodging, but he did not find his aide or anyone else within the scorched, white walls. From a former conversation, he recalled Madame's mention of apartment housing within the vicinity and her possibility of taking a room at one in the future.

It took him less than a quarter hour to track down the humble edifice, and less time to approach the main door. He spotted Meg Giry ahead on the stairwell and followed at a distance until she entered through another door, its wood peeling in places.

"Meg?" he heard Madame Giry's voice from inside. "Have you had any luck?"

"I looked everywhere I can think to look. I even returned to the dormitories to look there, but she has well and truly disappeared."

Locked doors never presented an issue for the once-court magician and former trapdoor lover, this barrier so thin he could hear their voices through the insufficient paneling. And though they had not yet had time to turn the key to constitute any need for his lockpicks, neither did he once adapt to the social custom of knocking to announce his presence at any given time in the Opera House. Though on occasion he would give a short rap of his knuckle to Madame's office door before immediately crossing over the threshold.

A sense of urgency precluded this being one of those times.

He put a gloved hand to the latch and silently swung the door open, thus entering into the grave discussion.

"Christine is missing?"

His clipped words, full of dread, had both women whirl around in shock. Meg registered horror when she looked upon his masked face, while Madame's features showcased a mixture of relief and ire.

"Y-You're the Phantom," Meg breathed, "of the Opera."

"Are you mad?" Madame scolded softly in tandem. "Anyone could have seen you arrive, Monsieur." She moved past Erik, briefly popping her head out the door and looking both ways. "Come in, quickly, before you're noticed."

"Maman?" Meg stared at her, gawking in disbelief.

"You are well aware that I have been his aide for years, Meg. Do not act so surprised." As she spoke, she swiftly closed the door and threw the bolt into place. On so flimsy a door, he doubted the bar would matter. He certainly could dispense with its presence in a matter of minutes.

"But after all that's happened…" Meg regarded the misplaced Phantom warily, as if he might swoop down suddenly and bite her. "All that he has done..."

Erik never held aught against the little dancer, showing courtesy not to target or frighten her, since she was Christine's friend and Madame Giry's daughter. But he had neither the time nor the patience for trite discussion of old issues which could never be altered.

"Christine." With a deep note of authority, he brought the flurried discussion to a fine point. "She is missing?"

The two women shared a nervous look.

"I came home yesterday to find her gone," Madame admitted wearily and glanced at her daughter. "Meg, bring all of the letters."

"Mine too?" she asked with clear reluctance.

"Oui, yours as well."

With a suspicious look at Erik, then back to her mother, Meg trundled off to the back of the flat, disappearing behind a curtain that acted as a wall.

"Why would she leave your home?" Erik insisted before his aide could speak. He clenched his hand into an anxious fist at his side. "How could you allow this to happen?"

"I hardly allowed it, monsieur. She slipped out into the night, while we lay sleeping."

"For what purpose would she do such an impetuous and foolish thing?" He spoke aloud, more for his benefit than hers. He paced a few steps, then back again, brimming with nervous energy. "She must have gone to seek out the boy."

"Given what I have seen between them of late, that is doubtful, Monsieur."

He brought his attention sharply back to her. "What do you mean? Cease to speak in riddles - what did you see?"

Madame Giry stepped closer, lifting her chin to look at him, her manner intent. "Tell me you have no plans to go after her. Tell me you will leave that poor girl alone, after all of what's happened."

He huffed an annoyed breath. "It might interest you to know that Christine sought me out, not the other way around."

Her eyes widened. "I had no idea – why would she do that?"

"It is immaterial at this time. All that matters is Christine's safety. Now tell me, before I lose what patience I have left - why the blazes is she not with that boy?"

She shook her head in weariness. "I wish I could tell you, Monsieur, but I simply do not know. She would have little to do with the Vicomte after the fire, refusing to see him, even to speak with him. When he insisted on a meeting, he left shortly afterward upset. I think she blamed him as well for all of what transpired that night. In that regard, she was not amiss."

The lines around her mouth faded as her expression softened. "I have seen and heard his determination to capture you. I know he trapped you, using Christine as bait. I saw the armed soldiers in position all throughout the theatre, and though I am angry with you for striking out in such a manner that can never be rectified, causing such great loss and panic, I cannot blame you for defending yourself against those men. I know they would have killed you on the Vicomte's order."

Erik dropped his fingertips away from touching the mask in a customary protective gesture. Tolerance was a rare offering extended to him, and he wasn't sure how to accept it.

"You are the only one, perhaps, to understand my reasons." His voice came low and deep. "I never intended to maim or destroy, only to escape."

"And the chandelier?" she asked grimly.

"A diversion - so I could do so."

"With Christine." He gave no reply and she sighed heavily. "In the many years since I saved you at the traveling circus, I have made the attempt to understand, however difficult it has been. With that said, you should never have seized her from the stage and taken her with you. Did you truly think the Vicomte and his men would not give chase?"

His visible eyebrow lifted wryly. "Perhaps I spoke too soon of understanding."

She clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth in a thoroughly scolding manner. "In light of all that has occurred, tell me, do you disagree?"

He curtailed his annoyance with her for speaking to him as to a child. She and only she had ever been what amounted to a mother to both himself and Christine, though Madame had been little more than a girl when she helped him escape imprisonment from a cage. He owed her what respect he could muster, the practice of decorum foreign to him, any knowledge of its use having been scraped up through eavesdropping behind theatre walls. Never had he been taught as other children at their father's knee; never had he known a mother's encouraging embrace.

Erik shook his head grimly. "You will be pleased to learn that I made it clear to her that our association is finished."

She regarded him with a sympathetic but knowing look that chafed what little pride he could claim.

"If that is true, Maestro, why are you here now? Am I to believe that you only intended to visit me?"

Damn her meddlesome ways!

He ignored the long, level stare she gave, turning his eyes past her and hoping for the swift return of Meg and the mysterious letters. A sardonic tongue long part of his reclusive nature, the girl's surliness was preferable to this inquisition.

"I am relieved you did not perish," Madame said after a time.

His lips twisted in a half smirk. "It takes more than a bumbling boy and his ragtag army of foot soldiers to catch a Phantom." His years as an assassin had trained him well, with how to evade the enemy and gain access to their plans.

She sighed. "And what will you do now?"

"Find Christine." He spoke as if the answer should be obvious.

"Perhaps it would be more prudent to hire a detective."

"Leave such a crucial task to a stranger who doesn't know her as I do?" he scoffed. "Not likely."

By her frown, his answer did not please her. "And what will you do should you find her?" she insisted.

The suspicion in her tone abraded his senses. "Oh, I will find her."

She winced at his firm pronouncement. "To what end, Maestro?"

"I wish only to ensure that she's safe," he repeated in clipped words. "I will not harm Christine. I will not seize her, nor will I force my attentions upon her. Never again."

She nodded, at last satisfied, though her eyes shrewdly assessed him as if to seek beneath the mask and into his mind to ascertain that he spoke the truth.

"Where will you stay with all of Paris out to capture you? Surely not in that hovel beneath the earth you call home."

"The mob's overzealous renovations have made that impossible." He grimaced when he recalled the miserable state of his subterranean dwelling. "I will not be returning there."

She seemed to consider. "If you need a place to hide until you decide what to do, you may stay here. It isn't much, but you can sleep on the sofa."

"Isn't much" was too kind. The striped wallpaper was stained and peeling, in areas revealing cracks in the rotting planked walls and holes large enough for mice to hide. There was no hearth, only a stovepipe contraption in the corner that emitted little heat, not that he wasn't accustomed to frosty air or small rodents. But this pathetic excuse for a habitat was confined enough for two people.

"Thank you for your offer, but no. I have a place."

She studied him in avid curiosity, but he divulged nothing more. Even with her acquaintance of their many years at the opera house, he would keep some of his secrets.

A creak of the floorboards heralded Meg's stilted approach. She awarded him another hostile glance before handing a set of letters to her mother.

Immediately he held his hand out for them. To his irritation, Madame hesitated as if suddenly having doubts, but at last handed them over. The creamy wax seal was broken on the first, and he unfolded the single page. The missive was brief, to the point, the sweeping curl of elegantly-written words thanking Madame Giry for all she'd been to Christine over the years, the gist of the missive stating she must now find her own way and not to worry. Nothing else, save for a closing line that she would somehow make contact once she found herself settled.

Lips compressed in a tight line, he swiftly folded up the missive and moved to the next.

"Maman…" Meg murmured in objection.

He did no more than briefly roll his eyes the girl's way before lifting the broken seal and unfolding the letter.

"It's alright, Meg," her mother reassured.

This letter also gave no pertinent information. He quickly skimmed the foreign phrases of friendship and sisterhood, not truly understanding any of it, but knowing that Christine had a close association with the fair-haired dancer who scowled nervously at him. A short line followed asking forgiveness for leaving without telling anyone, with Christine promising she would contact Meg in the future, stating gratitude for the years they shared in the ballet and as dormitory mates. No more than that.

He folded up the letter and handed it back to young Giry. "My thanks," he said earnestly. He would never have demanded to see the note if he did not feel it significant to gathering information to find Christine.

Meg looked taken aback by his quiet civility and blinked a couple of times as if in a sudden stupor, before she took the letter from his hand.

He started to hand Madame her letter as well, then felt as if he'd been punched in the gut to realize there was a third folded letter, the sticky wax seal having adhered to Madame's farewell missive. No doubt the third note was for that impudent boy.

With a grimace, he turned the parchment over, having no compunction to spy. A thin stiletto of despair stabbed his heart, and he sucked in a sharp, disbelieving breath, barely able to conceive what he read.

On the front, penned in her flowery script, was one word:

Angel

She had written … to him?

Time seemed to stop, then warp and bend, he a marionette to its controlling strings. How long he stood there staring fixedly at the sealed page he had no clue, but the shifting of feet scraping on wood snapped him out of his daze. He wished to flee the tiny, cramped apartment and seek out somewhere private to absorb the treasured contents, but felt unable to move, as if the soles of his shoes were cemented to the floorboards.

No doubt, she wished to bid him a final farewell, to put words into ink this time and state that she never wished to see him again. Especially this wretched face, masked or ummasked, that surely had contributed to her most terrifying nightmares.

His fingers clutched the paper more tightly, causing it to crinkle in his hand. Still he made no move to break the wax seal. Her words were hidden within vellum, safe, but once they rose to the surface, they were certain to chisel yet another path of misery through his cold, stone heart…

Surely, all that he deserved.

"Meg, come along to the kitchenette and help me with the tea. You will stay, Monsieur?"

Madame didn't wait for his agreement, nor did he give it. She swept from the room, Meg following, but not before giving him another mistrustful look he caught from the corner of his eye, which never left the folded sheet.

His fingers lightly tingled even as his pulse pounded furiously with dread.

Expelling a slow, fierce breath, he took the candlestick from the mantle and moved to the short sofa, no longer feeling his legs could support him. Placing the candle on the overturned crate used as an end table, he sank to the edge of the stiff horsehair cushion not designed for comfort.

Hooking a long, trembling finger beneath the flap, he broke the seal.

While both the Girys' notes were composed of no more than a few paragraphs, he sucked in a stunned breath to note that two full pages composed the missive left for him.

I have no idea if or when you will even receive this letter. From the words you last spoke to me, it is unlikely, but I find I cannot leave Paris without first penning my thoughts to paper. Even if you never read this, it is my hope that by writing these words I may at last be able to let go, for I have come to the conclusion that is the only way to move forward with whatever the future holds for me.

What I will never forget is the first time an Angel sang to me, when I was frightened and lonely in the chapel. I was miserable with grief, but your song stilled my tears. I knew you were not my Papa, despite what others believed I thought, but for so many of our years together, you filled the empty place left inside of me. Your song filled my dreams through many troubled nights. I could never forget your voice or your eyes as they looked so deeply into mine, reaching into my soul. The compositions of your songs were both passionate and beautiful. These things, I will never forget.

What I wish I could forget is how I was again deceived, this time bringing no one happiness, only overall misery. I wish I would not have been so easily persuaded, to agree to a plot that brought harm and disaster to everyone involved, but most expressly, how heartbroken I am that I turned on you, my genius teacher, the only one to ever believe in me so strongly and give me such wonderful guidance and encouragement. I have become a great disappointment to you, and for that I am truly sorry.

Moisture pricked the back of his eyes and he blinked furiously, shuffling to the next page.

I never wished to betray you. I only wanted the hatred and accidents to cease, and I was convinced through others that your capture was the only way to make that happen. Once I saw you walk onstage, everything inside told me that I'd made a terrible mistake. But it was too late to go back. I tore your mask away, hoping you would escape and hide from those soldiers hired to catch you, and for no other reason. I never wished to cause you more grief or humiliation, or anger you in any way.

I fail to understand why you believe you must kill and create mass destruction, and it is that part of you that makes me want to run from your presence, not your face as you have always believed. I tried to tell you that night, and it seemed for a brief time you understood, but then the Vicomte arrived, and all explanations were lost as tensions ran even higher and you became so violent. It is these horrors that I hope one day to forget, but I don't believe there are enough days and nights that time could string together to make that possible.

I know you think me no more than a vain and selfish child, and perhaps you are not mistaken. For all the pain I have caused you, I am truly sorry. I tried to tell you all of this that same night when I again came to see you, but we were both too upset to see reason, and I could barely make sense with what I did say.

I wish for you nothing but happiness. You deserve that, despite all of what's happened. I still don't understand much of the past; perhaps I never will. However, I will always be grateful to you for taking a small girl under your wing and giving her voice flight.

This, I will never forget. Always, I will remember my Angel.

Please, if ever you think of me, think of me fondly -

~ Christine

Two splashes of dried moisture christened her final farewell. He ran a gentle fingertip along the faded spots of vellum then lifted his head to stare distantly at the peeling wall, that same token of despair slipping wetly against his cheeks.

xXx

Madame Giry hurried to replace the kettle on the stove and opened the small door to stoke the low flame. Behind her, Meg fidgeted near the table in a flurry of suppressed frustration.

"Why did you invite him to stay?" she asked, none too softly.

Her mother began to spoon tea leaves into three cups. "Break the crumpet into bits and put them on a plate. Pity we have only the one remaining."

Meg groaned in protest. "You would give him what little of our food is left too? Why are we not seeking out the authorities – why are you not instructing me to leave here and alert the gendarmes?"

"Meg, enough. He will hear you."

Meg darted a cautious look toward the door then back toward her mother.

With paper-thin walls and their unexpected guest in the next room, neither wanted the ex-Opera Ghost to hear what they had to say.

"Then you do wish me to go for help?"

"What I wish is for your silence, daughter, along with your understanding."

"Understanding!" Meg spat quietly. "How can you ask such a thing – he murdered Piangi and others! He destroyed our livelihood and our home. I work in a dirty, cheap bistro now because of him. Why should we treat him as a favored guest?"

Madame shook her head impatiently. "Meg, how many times have I told you not to speak of that which you think you know. It isn't always the entire story. I have taught you that prudent silence is often the wisest course. Do not be so critical of what you fail to understand."

Meg blinked in disbelief, tearing into the crumpet as if it were the source of all her woes. "I cannot believe I'm hearing this – that you are again defending him, regardless that you once worked for him. Christine's constant defense comes as no surprise, nor did her insistence to go back to his cave. He was her teacher and supposed angel. But you -" Instantly Meg stopped her mini tirade as if just aware of what she said. She darted a glance to her mother, then dropped it to the pulverized crumpet, now resembling no more than a plate of crumbs.

"Meg- what are you saying?" Madame turned from grabbing a cup from the shelf and set it onto the saucer with a rapid clink. "Christine went back there? When?" Erik had told her they'd spoken, but she didn't realize the girl had taken the perilous trek to his home to do so.

Meg bore the look of a remorseful traitor. "It was only that one night, the night of the fire," she amended hastily. "I caught her when she tried to sneak back in."

So, Christine had braved any stragglers of the violent mob to go through with her impulsive visit. Madame shook her head at such foolishness.

"Why did you not tell me this sooner?"

"She asked me not to. She didn't want to upset you had you known she had gone there alone." Surprised realization flickered in Meg's eyes. "You don't think…?"

"Where else, Meg? I doubt she had a substantial amount to take a train, much less secure a place to live, and his lair would provide the hideout needed. If she went there once, alone, she might do so again."

Meg's brows furrowed pensively. "No, I don't think she would. He told her to go – she said that he wanted nothing more to do with her. He even left her standing there, stating he was never coming back and that it was no longer his home."

"Did he?" Madame cast a curious glance toward the door that separated them from their guest.

Things were beginning to fall into place that prior to this evening made scant logic. Had the characteristically reserved Erik shared all of this with his friend, Nadir Khan? If so, the letter she received from the Maestro's acquaintance days ago made more sense. She had not then decided if she would continue to aid in such deceit, but Christine's disappearance changed everything. If Erik with his genius skills could find the headstrong girl, who had never been alone for long or needed to fend for herself a day in her life, so much the better.

"Judging on what you told me, it is doubtful she would have gone underground," Madame at last agreed. She certainly wouldn't risk Erik's ire after he'd thrown her out once. At least she hoped Christine had the sense to stay away from there.

"A good thing too," Meg all but whispered. "She certainly doesn't need to get involved with the likes of him again. I hope she told him in that letter to leave her alone for good."

Madame sighed, resigned that her daughter was determined to hold a grudge.

"There is much you don't understand, Meg, that isn't my place to tell you. However, do realize that the Maestro wasn't entirely at fault for the devastation that lay waste to the opera house. The Vicomte stirred the managers' ire, with his tenacity to catch a ghost. Let's not forget that."

"As if I ever would. The Vicomte was perhaps the only one who sought to do what was right and rid our theatre of an extortionist. Even Christine made the attempt to do what was necessary at the end by aiding in the Phantom's capture."

"A ruse she came to regret, and do not tell me otherwise. I know she spoke with you about it on more than one occasion."

Meg gave a disgruntled little huff. "I only wish I knew what she'd written in that letter! I mean, he read ours; isn't it only fair to request the same?"

"Meg, enough," Madame said in mild rebuke, sometimes feeling as if she was dealing with a ten-year old child and not a daughter of sixteen.

Meg's lower lip stuck out in a pout. "I wish you would have broken the seal like I suggested then resealed it after we read it. Do you really think that if Christine told him where she was going he would share that information with us?"

Madame could only hope he would award her the same courtesy, but in truth, she had no clue. Erik must know that she had directed the Vicomte in how to find them, adding her own form of betrayal, though at the time she could only think to ensure Christine's safety from the vicious mob. The Opera Ghost, she felt sure would be capable of evading his enemies, and he had not proved her wrong.

The kettle began its shrill whistle to announce the water was heated through, and the Girys' hushed discussion was put on hold. They hurried to finish placing the tea things on a tray, Meg setting the unappealing plate of crumbs aside, and both women stepped back into the small parlor….

…to find it empty.

Madame set the tray down on the table and rushed to the front door, opening it to peer both ways but finding no sign of their escaped guest.

"Maman…?"

The tremor in her daughter's voice, of befuddlement and disbelief, brought Madame's head sharply around.

Meg stared with stunned surprise at the appearance of an envelope she had plucked from the overturned crate...and fanned out the numerous thousand-franc banknotes stuffed within, so her mother could see.

It appeared that much more than their lost salary had been replaced, and Madame sank to the sofa, speechless with shock.

A/N: The Phantom strikes again! Muahaha! ;-)