Disclaimer: Gaston Leroux and ALW own POTO, not me.
The air was silent, stifling. It filled the old manor with an eerie atmosphere, seemingly deserted. There was no sign of life in the dark rooms, but for a young woman, tip-toeing softly through the oppressive halls.
Lydia walked softly up the stairs, preferring to begin her cleaning job at the top and work her way down to the cellar. She opened a door, hesitant to make noise, and drew in a startled breath. The room was as dim as the others, but in the center stood a grand piano, the likes of which she had never seen. The rich wood and glistening ivory of the instrument were dulled by dust, but a hint of its former glory shone in the elaborately carved bench and the yellowing pages set above the keys. Looking over her shoulder, Lydia saw only the empty hallway. Unable to resist, she approached the piano, hesitantly reaching out a hand. She stroked the silky wood, running a hand along the keys, making marks in the dust. She studied the pages, obviously original music, smiling at the remembered music lessons Georgina had insisted upon. Ensuring once again that no one was behind her, she sat down on the faded velvet of the bench and returned her fingers to the keys. Clumsily at first, and then growing in confidence, she played, becoming absorbed in the music.
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He sat, brooding alone in the room beneath the cellars. This was no change, he had done this even before his escape, but today he was especially morbid, deep within himself and his misery. Erik hoped the girl would finish quickly, the rustlings of her movement and business grated on his nerves, his resentment at her easy, innocent life like bile in his throat. He stared moodily into the shadows, his only company since the Disaster, and waited to be alone once more.
A sound roused him from his trance, the unmistakable sweetness of a piano chord.
Surely the girl wasn't playing his piano? The instrument was his prize, built according to his instruction, hidden away in Great Britain, stored in a house bought solely for that purpose. An outrage! The passion of emotion shocked Erik. He had not felt anything so strongly in this dark cell, a prison of his own construction. He had not used the piano, could not play or compose since that fateful day, why should he begrudge her the instrument? He had no use for it or the music she was playing, his music. He waited for the final notes to be played, but was surprised when the song went on, the chit was improvising on his work! Once more the fire of his anger at her audacity surprised him, cooling to leave only amazement at her skill. She had the equal of his own talent at composing though marred by her unsure navigation of the piano. Curiosity seized him, and he rose, desperate to see, to watch her at work. Enough cautiousness remained to silence his footsteps as he used skills that hadn't been exercised in almost a year. Three flights of stairs later, he edged toward the open door, drawn by the music that still flowed from within. He once more flushed with anger and resentment at her rudeness, her easy existence which inspired her to continue his work, which had been born only of despair and longing. In a reckless move, he stormed into the room and took her by the shoulder, whirling her to face him.
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Lydia was shocked from her reverie, the focused contentment that only music could bring her. A strong hand turned her from the piano, she tried to cringe away, but it held her fast.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," She apologized, her face down, anticipating the blow she always received when she played around anyone other than Georgy.
"Isn't there a job you ought to be doing, miss?" A deep, accented voice queried, layered with anger, shock, and something else she couldn't name.
"Yes, I'm sorry," She repeated, still looking down, "I'll get right to it, I'll-" Her voice trailed off in shock as she raised her head and met her employer's startling golden eyes.