Note to all my Readers and Reviewers: Thanks so much for your comments! You categorically rock hardcore.

Something I forgot to mention: I rated this fic T mainly for one upcoming chapter, in which Erik – how shall I say this? – gets his freak on. If you think you'll be offended, I'll post a warning at the start of that chapter. Though it probably won't happen for a while. So stop salivating already.

And now, on with the show…

Chapter 2

"Focus," he reminded Christine, for the third time. "You must feel the sound coming from you, or it will mean nothing." The scale died on her lips as his voice echoed around the room, seeming to come from everywhere at once. In fact he was speaking from a hole in the stone wall, but the acoustics in that part of the building were incredible. The two were alone in a dusty classroom, as alone as they ever got. Lately he had begun to feel the necessary layers of mortar and stone between them as acutely as if they'd been piled on his chest.

"Forgive me," said Christine, craning her neck towards the window, "but I do so want to see." There was a hanging today, somewhere nearby, and since dawn there had been horrible traffic on the street outside. The poor and the nobility alike had turned out to watch the spectacle of death, and it was quite a parade.

"Can't we break for a minute?" She asked. She was tall at thirteen, and her childish squeak of a speaking voice gave no clue as to the beauty that was unleashed when she sang. He began to wish she would sing all the time, or not bother to open her mouth. He bit back his impatience. Were all little girls this silly? His plan for her evolution from timid child into mature and luminous star had not made room for adolescence. She was so wriggly, suddenly. Once or twice she had even dared to speak back to him. It was infuriating, but what could he do? There was never any question of striking her: He wouldn't have had the heart to do so, and was too far away besides. Once he'd almost gnawed his tongue off, to keep himself from getting in a childish shouting match with her. There had been several occasions when he came closer than she would ever know to ruining his supernatural status. Now he just left the scene silently when he felt his temper rise. Being without him for a few days was punishment enough.

There were shouts and some drunken warbling from outside. Christine, her lesson forgotten, went over to kneel on the window seat and press her forehead against the glass. The morning sunlight was yellow as butter. It revealed again how flawless her face was, hair mussed, skin unbroken. His heart melted for her as it always did. Precious thing.

"Who are they hanging?" She asked.

"A murderer," he said, adjusting his sheet music behind the wall. He had heard the servants discussing it. A petty thief, who had stabbed a brigand and his woman in a back alley only two blocks away, just because they had too little money to buy him a night of drinking. He didn't tell Christine this, of course. She was rather impressionable.

Even with the sunlight pouring over her, she shivered. "How terrible," she said, "to hurt someone and not feel bad about it. Can you imagine? Killing someone who had as much right to be there as you?"

Erik's head snapped back painfully. He threw up his hands to defend himself. It was a moment before he realized that no one was attacking him. The carriage had hit a pothole, or possibly a small dog. Or, if they were still in the city, an orphan. Erik smiled without humor. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. He had not slept properly in ages. His fitful dozes were full of dreams that were not really dreams anymore, but memories.

The carriage drew to a stop. He heard the creak of the driver's seat, and then a hesitant knock on his door. Reordering his scarf, he pulled back the window shade. The old man was there. He looked more than a little spooked.

"Excuse me, monsieur, but we've reached an inn. The horses need resting. Is there anything you require?" Erik chose not to reply.

"Just as well, monsieur. We're very near our destination."

"And where is that?" Erik asked – for it had suddenly occurred to him that he didn't know.

"Monsieur?"

"Where are we going?"

The old man was obviously stupefied, but he did a good job of holding it in. "I'm to leave you at St. Clair, monsieur."

"The sea port?"

"Yes. I was told you had a ticket for England. If there is some problem, I can certainly take you-"

"That will be all."

"Merci, monsieur." The man left quickly.

Erik searched his pockets for the wad of papers Madame Giry had given him before he left. There was a little money, a world map, and- nestled right in the middle was a wide ticket which proclaimed him a passenger on the Plutonian, bound for England's eastern coast. He slipped it back in his pocket, sighing. She really had thought of everything.

Despite the driver's reassurances, they did not reach St. Clair until after midnight. Not that Erik minded this – after his subterranean existence, sunlight rather hurt his eyes. He boarded quickly, second class, and immediately locked the door of his little cabin. He wished, above all, to keep a low profile. And he had no desire to let anyone know how easily he got seasick.

The ship was mercifully fast. Scarcely more than a day passed before it came to port in Brittany. As he walked down the gangplank with other weary citizens, face burrowed deep in his hooded cloak, he felt strangely refreshed – as close as he had come to refreshment in a long time, anyway. The last dregs of seasickness evaporated as his feet hit the firm ground. If he had ever been here before, he was far too young to know it. Everything was different, somehow, from the scent of the air to the color of the rats darting to and fro along the quay. The sun would rise soon, and the city would wake – but what manner of people they were, he couldn't be sure. With no destination in mind, Erik set his course inland and began walking, slowly, in the direction of a new life.