Miseour Fantome had stayed awake and alert all night, watching for signs of humanity around him, lest he be caught by a certain angry mob. He felt a sickening sense of anger that the well feared Opera Ghost was now nothing more than a piece of game to be tracked and killed. And all because of one flaw, his one hamartia. Well, maybe not his hamartia, he had a few of those, temper included. But nonetheless his face had been and would always remain the scourge of his life. Since the moment he was born it had earned him his mother's hatred, the world's hatred, and now even Christine's. Sighing, he pushed all thoughts of Christine to the back of his mind. She was probably in her comfy new home eating her morning meal with the lovely Viscount and he didn't wish to think of them together.

The sun was well into the sky by now, a great shining orb hanging in the blue depths, and a weak stream of light filtered through the trees quietly, casting soft shadows around every surface. The man watched as the girl with the raven hair began to stir. In his time he had read many a romance novel where a lady had woken after perhaps fainting and her eyes had fluttered open before she asked in a high, quiet, even timid voice what had happened. This was not one of those occasions. Instead, the dark skinned girl's eyes shot open with a jolt and she sat up in a rush, letting out a surprisingly low cry as she did so, making the man's brow furrow in almost surprise, though not much surprised him anymore.

Letting out a string of none too lady like profanity, Nina clutched her right side, the wound there seeming to burn and then ache. Catching attention of the man before her, she grew silent and looked about around her, before assaulting him with a glare. She took in the appearance of the man in front of her, though her throbbing side requested she lay back down and maybe sleep a little bit more.

He looked disheveled, with lilac circles under his eyes as if he hadn't slept quite as much as he should have lately, and his face seemed just a little odd. False almost.

"What happened to that man?" She croaked in that same low voice she had cried out in, and she cleared her throat. Being a man with a voice that had often been described as unearthly, he was very sensitive to another's, feeling that it was even more important than their face. And to him, it was a more important factor than a person's face.

"What man?" Asked Miseour Phantom as Nina analyzed his face with ever narrowing blue eyes. He took note of her eyes, for they were unusually colored, dark almost to the point of violet, with grey circling her pupils. They were strange eyes, and that was something coming from the man who's eyes shone like an animals in the dark.

"The one in the white mask. The. . . the. . . god dammit that Opera Ghost?" When he heard this, the man almost began to laugh uncontrollably, also noting the strange blend of an English and Spanish accent behind her words. So she had heard of the Opera Ghost, had she? He had almost forgotten he had changed masks in the night, it felt so similar to his normal one. He now wore the flesh colored invention that molded to his skin, making his face appear almost normal, if not a little off. The one he had spent weeks making as a surprise for Christine. Damn, there it was again. He was sure he would never be able to get Christine out of his mind. She was too. . . glorious. Something to be heard and seen, but not touched.

Silently the man lifted the corner of the delicate material along his jaw line to expose the marred, uneven skin there that led asperous paths over his face, just barely so that the girl could glimpse a sight of his deformity. Before, he would never have willingly done this, but seeing as he had lost everything, he now had no character to pertain. Waiting for some sort of reaction from the girl, he was astounded when she only nodded. There were few people in the world who hadn't had some sort of negative reaction to his face, most of those only including they who had a profit in mind.

Looking down Nina saw she was no longer in the taffeta dress she had hastily thrown back on the night before, but instead a men's white dress shirt that trailed down almost to her knees.

"You undressed me?" She said quietly, dangerously outraged, her dark eyebrows curling into a scowl. Men were all the same, she scoffed to herself. They would do anything for a glimpse of flesh.

"You shouldn't move around too much. You might rip a stitch." The man said, equally as quiet, in an almost detached voice, and she saw his legs were splayed out on the forest floor, his arms being used as supports behind him in a very relaxed gesture, something that she might call arrogant if it were not for the tone of his voice. He was dressed in very formal attire to be walking about in the wilderness, a black frock coat and trousers and equally as black shoes, with a white shirt and cravat all arranged perfectly. Even his dark hair was combed back precisely, all parts of him accounting to perfection. Looking closely she could see had a strange skin tone, almost jaundice, like he had been ill lately.

Feeling underneath the dress shirt and her cotton shift, neatly stitched thread stretched down her side in a short line and she sighed with a bit of pent up relief. Growing up in poverty she had always been wary of men, rape being exceedingly common among the poor, and now was no difference. But still she was still wary of this strange man, this mad man. For despite his seemingly normal behavior his eyes still hinted at a trace of insanity and that was definitely a reason to be wary. She had had enough of mad men in her life.

"You helped me then? Did this?" She gestured to her stomach and he nodded. Assuming an ungrateful attitude, she sighed frustratedly and ran a hand through her hair, flinching at the now unfamiliar feeling of knots and tangles. "I owe you then I suppose. Tell me, man, what is your name?"

His name? He hadn't a name. He hadn't had a name in years. He had simply gone by Opera Ghost, Phantom, Maestro, or even, he frowned, Angel. Drumming his fingers and playing some never ending melody in his mind, he took a long look at the girl and told her that his name was simply Erik.

"Fine then, simply Erik," She dramatized and he felt a pinch of annoyance, the girl meanwhile grabbing her bag and taking out a light, yellow dress with white lace around the neckline. "I wouldn't mind if you would turn around for a moment, Erik."

She motioned for him to turn and he stood obediently and faced his back towards the girl, only pausing to contemplate the unfamiliar feeling of someone using his given name. He had no qualms of course with refusing her request; she was no bumbling manager thinking he was an artist straight from the junk business, and it occurred to him that she had not introduced herself yet and that it was probably the proper thing to do to ask her, though he waited until she told him she had finished and he could face her again.

His eyes wandered over the sight of her in the yellow dress. She was very different from Christine, something he hadn't noticed before. Her hips and chest were broader and her stomach was not quite as thin, perhaps from the lack of a corset, and her bust was much more pronounced, and he had to clear his throat before speaking. "You must tell me now, what is your name, Madame?" He felt peculiar saying it, immature almost, but he wanted to know. She was a strange girl and he rarely forgot strange people and it would definitely bother him not knowing her name.

"Ward," She said flatly, and taking a seat on her suitcase and conjuring an ebony comb, she began to bereave her hair of all entanglements, whilst continuing. "Saturnina. But people usually just call me Nina."

"Then Madame Saturnina, I bid you adieu." And with that, Erik turned again, black leather suitcase in hand, and began to stride away at a steady pace before the girl coughed a small ahem. Would this woman leave him alone? He wanted quiet, and solitude. It was what he had been used to for the last twenty years, hidden deep in his house on the lake.

"Where are you going?" Asked the girl, narrowing her eyes familiarly against the sunlight, almost as if they were in pain.

"England." He said, stopping but not turning around.

"England?" She asked in a voice as clear as a bell, making him catch a breath suddenly, holding it captive in his lungs. He had heard a voice once nearly ten years ago in the same manner and it had enraptured him so completely he felt it even now in the air around him.

And now, turning around and folding his arms, he answered her, a scowl upon his flesh masked face. "Yes. England." He was dreading something, he was sure of it. This girl wanted something from him.

"Why England?" She was still sitting down and the yellow dress lifted up a bit around her ankles and he couldn't help but suppress a sigh. Christine had had a dress like that. It was really more of something to wear while on an outing, where walking may be heavily required, but he had still loved it.

"I have business to attend to before my demise." He had hoped to scare the girl with such manly talk but she only cocked her head to one side in a manner much like a cat's and folded her arms.

"Excuse me, are you ill?"

Frustratedly, he shook his head. He was anxious to leave, anxious to be on his way to England and he wouldn't be held up by some little girl in a yellow dress.

"Your life is a gift, you know. A gift from God. It's a sin to throw away that gift. I've seen people give anything they have for a mere moments more escape from death." She said all this quickly, though the tone of her voice flared angrily, and her face said serious as she tilted her head downwards, in a commanding sense, like a mother scolding her child. She was wicked, this one. If not mad. But who was he to judge the mad?

"My life is no gift, thank you." Said Erik, sharply. Who was she to lecture him? She was barely even more than a child, and a disrespectful one at that, and for a moment he was reminded of all the bratty ballet corps. He had despised them so, but only ever for their ever flowing stupidity, for they were fine in all other concepts, even acceptable dancers, but he remembered one occasion when one of them had asked another what a continent was. The very question had made him shudder. But at first glance he could tell that this girl, this Saturnina, or whatever the hell her name was, was definitely not as dumb as the average ballerina, however uneducated her vocabulary implied. No, her gait suggested knowledge, perhaps even wisdom.

"Ah, but then England. I am off to England too." She grinned and he didn't like her grin. For a moment it almost seemed to frighten him but he buried the feeling down and told himself he was being ridiculous. A murderer being frightened of a movement of the face? Completely idiotic. "Let us go to England together," She continued excitedly. "It is easier to travel in a pair, don't you think?" Her grin turned into a knowing smile and she leaned forward and rested her chin on her hand. "And less to stand out." She added slyly.

A brief image of himself meeting Christine and that damn fop again with another woman at his side seemed to send a rush of sinful contentment to his head. He imagined their faces of utter astonishment and he had to smother a smirk before it surfaced and he coughed. But more importantly, he told himself, he didn't want to travel with anyone. Especially with such a dainty, flowery, and complanitory creature as a woman. She would no doubt need frequent stops and at night would whine about frightening noises in the dark. But, Erik sighed, as she had pointed out, the police would not be looking for a man and woman traveling together and it would add an extra security precaution, even if he was already heavily disguised. She would be a good asset if confronted about his strange appearance.

Sighing again, he held out his hand, and helped Nina to her feet.

"Together then."