A/N: I got this idea in my head the last time I saw the film. In both the original novel, and in the musical, I find myself continually intrigued by Erik's essential innocence. I don't mean innocence in a sexual sense, though that does play an important role. I mean to say that he has an innocence in contrast to more worldly characters, such as the Comte Philippe in the novel, or Raoul in the musical. Even in the most recent film (I enjoyed it, despite some flaws... ), despite his great sensuality, there is an unsullied quality that the Phantom exhibits. He is all emotions, raw and powerful. He does not cloak his feelings as some do, but wears his heart on his sleeve, and he pays for it.

I chose the name of the story from one of my favorite lullabies. I have vague memories of having been sung to when I was little, and this sweet old Welsh melody is, along with Wynken, Blynken and Nod, a staple of childhood.

K.S.

Sleep, My Child, And Peace Attend Thee

The little girl knelt at the rack of prayer candles. She lit one little candle with an almost exaggerated care. She closed her eyes and began to recite her pater noster. The light from the candle gilded her chestnut hair, and through the stained glass of the chapelle window, it seemed as though she were crowned with a halo of light.

The man behind the window listened intently as the child finished her prayer and then began to sing an old folk tune. He nodded. The same routine, every evening. Such a sweet little voice. Such a lost little child! He knew what it was to be lost, and alone, and frightened. And so, he pitied this girl-child. And, for reasons he could not explain, even to himself, he wanted to help her. But he had not been prepared for the figure just beyond the glass to burst into unhappy tears.

"Please, Papa," the forlorn little creature whispered, "Please, send the Angel. You promised me, Papa. The Angel of Music, to look after me." She whimpered the word 'angel' over and over, till she fell asleep, exhausted in her grief.

The man paused, as if unsure what to do. She wanted an Angel of Music. That her voice was a wonderful instrument, and would, with age and experience, become something great, was a foregone conclusion in his mind. But for him to teach this child, to give her the direction she needed, gave him pause. He would consult the one person in the Opera whose opinion he could seek without fear.

But first, the child could not very well sleep on that cold stone floor. And so, abandoning his watching place, he stepped out from behind the angel window. He was a tall young man, only just twenty. He had filled out in the eleven years since he had found sanctuary here, and had grown out of his gangliness. The formal attire and rich cloak only made him seem more powerful. Yet his touch was gentle as he lifted the little girl from the floor. She leaned into him, snuggling into the sudden warmth. But she did not wake. He breathed a sigh of relief. He had a feeling that if she had awoken, and seen the mask; she'd have gone into hysterics. And that, he could have done without.

She stirred a moment, and opened her eyes. "Angel?" She inquired sleepily, her eyes unfocused.

"Hush," He said, and began to croon softly to her, a song he had heard long before.

"Sleep my child and peace attend thee,
All through the night
Guardian angels God will send thee,
All through the night
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping
Hill and vale in slumber sleeping,
I my loving vigil keeping
All through the night."

The child sighed and smiled as she snuggled closer to him, "You really are the Angel of Music." She was fully asleep when he laid her down in her bed in the ballet dormitory. He smiled and settled the blanket over her. She thought him an angel! This child was special indeed. He decided to go directly to Madame Giry. There was no time to be lost. The little girl with the voice of a lark would become the resident diva of the Opera Populaire before she was twenty, if he had any say in the matter. And, making certain the mask was quite secure, he smiled. He did have a say in the matter: He was, after all, the Phantom of the Opera.

"Madame Giry," The voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, but she knew the speaker.

"Yes?" He had grown into an intimidating man. This was the first time in many months he had actually spoken to her, preferring to use notes edged in black.

"The little girl. The one who is always in the chapel, what is her name?"
"Christine Daae. She is to train with the ballet."

"Daae? The violinist..." he trailed off.

"His daughter. She prays for his soul. Christine loved her father very much."

"Like Gilda and Rigoletto?"

Madame Giry smiled sadly. Poor boy, what he knew of love was gleaned from operas. "Yes. But her father has died, and she remains."

The shadow paused, as if unsure of himself, "She has a beautiful voice, and it will become stronger as she grows. I... I want to teach her, Madame Giry. In ten years, she'll be the most amazing lyric soprano in the Opera. And by the time she is twenty-five, fully grown into her voice, the world."

"Why are you doing this? She is a grieving child."

"Perhaps that is the reason. Madame Giry," his tone became subtly wheedling, as it often had when he was a child and had wanted her to bring him candles, or paper to write on. "What harm could come of it. She is, after all, a little girl."

"Teach her then. But be gentle with her, Erik. She's had much heartache for one so young. "

"Maybe she will do me good as well. I am, I think, too much alone." His voice had softened. Perhaps he had found a kindred spirit.

"Erik..." Giry was alarmed by this. He was already a master plotter, and if he should take the girl from the ballet...

He changed again, teasing again, "In any case, Madame; you should better watch your charges. La petite Daae cried herself to sleep in the chapel, and were it not for my good graces, she would be there still. And stone floors can be quite cold, Madame Giry." His cat-eyes, sometimes gray, sometimes green, darkened at the thought of cold stone floors.

"You..."
"I scooped her up and carried her directly to the dormitory, then I came to you. I have no interest in ballet rats, Madame. You forget, I am the Opera Ghost, not that revolting stagehand, Buquet." He frowned. "Something ought to be done about him. I would not let your girls, of any age, roam about the Opera with him abroad."

"I will remember that. You'd best go. Daylight comes early in the summer."

"And I am a creature of darkness."

"We make our own light, Erik. " Giry put her hand to his face, unconcealed by the mask, "You remember that."

Hopefully, Chapter Two will come soon. Enjoy.

Warmest regards,

K.S.