With all the strength that two trembling hands can provide, Juliette made her way cautiously up the ladder, her Teacher's voice at her back.

"It isn't much farther, but you mustn't be frightened. The air in the performance hall is much different when it is filled with spectators, mon chanson."

At the reference to her innocent pet-name, Juliette beamed and very nearly lost her hold on the smooth rungs in making the instinctual motion of raising her palms to her face to mask the rosy blush that overtook her countenance at moments such as these. Feeling Erik's hand at her back, however, reminded her quickly of the magnanimity of the situation.

Having studied as a rapt pupil under her solemn Instructor for little over a month, broadening her repertoire and inflating her respect for the mysterious Genius, Erik had declared it high time for Juliette to attend an opera. Though not the first occasion for her having listened in during the performance of some score or another, her teacher seemed to think it of the utmost importance that she glean the sentiments of an observer rather than remaining in the staunch attitude of a performer.

Whenever Erik spoke of her "coming out"—as he did only in moments of intense passion, after the completion of a successful aria or a particularly feeling rendition of a favorite ballad—Juliette could not help but turn from her mentor, silenced by the power that only his voice could command.

"When you make your debut, mon chanson," he was fond of saying, "you will feel the vibration of the applause long before you hear a single 'Bravo!' You will not be like that scad Sorelli, feigning gratitude for her fans. You will know what it is to appreciate true opera, and you will be humbled by their applause."

Distracted by her memories, Juliette stumbled as her feet found they had nowhere else to go. They had reached the top of the passage, and Erik was already somehow at the top of the scaled flight, the strong grip of his right hand fastened about her wrist, the other awaiting her further assent that he might lift her by her waist without any further strenuousness to her being.

Murmuring a muted "thank you", ­­­­Juliette followed in Erik's wake towards the sound of a low drone somewhere up ahead. Lifting her eyes in silent question, he informed her that they were somewhere just beyond the Opera Hall, a mere wall and fathomless yards of velvet draperies separating them from the crème de la crème of Paris. Viscounts, clerics, lawyers… the very idea made her head spin.

When at last she heard Erik's footfalls cease ahead, Juliette awaited the guiding hand that promptly ushered across some hidden portcullis and through the now-unlocked doorway opening into Box Five of the Opera House's grand tier. Often spoken of among the flighty dancers of the Opera's juvenile troupe, Juliette was familiar with its nickname as the "Forbidden Throne". Just for whom it was kept open for she could only imagine, and on recognizing the reference as Erik informed her of their position (as he was want to do when bringing her about novel areas of the theatre), wondered at their being inside it at all.

The dull drone of a few moments hence had suddenly become a thunderous cacophony of voices mingling with the shrill tunings of the orchestra's wind section, the screech of some violin's string being played upon by an inadequately-rosined bow and the almost inaudible tap tap of someone's first drumming lightly at the box door at her back.

The latter being completely unprepared for, it was all Juliette could do to keep from grasping for her Teacher's secure arm. He, however, seemed completely nonplussed as she heard him rise from his seat to approach the door and inquire in soft tones after a foot-stool. The object being procured, he helped her to a comfortable position, she blushing under the surplus of attention and feeling altogether like a debutante before her first ball, nervously fidgeting her hands in her lap until the orchestra took up its opening chords and the audience fell silent in anticipation.

The opera (the latest production of Faust) was unlike anything she could have prepared herself for. Though familiar with the libretto, the experience of having the entire ensemble before her, performing as though for her ears alone, was breathtaking. For once she felt as though her lack of sight was of absolutely no consequence; the very music painted the images she ought to have seen in her mind's eye, and though Erik interrupted her reverie occasionally to comment on the roughness in La Carlotta's crescendo, Juliette would admit to finding no fault in the company's performance.

At the end of the final act, Juliette felt the press of Erik's hand against her own, signaling their need for a hasty departure. As she groped for the door from whence they had entered the box, he stopped her with the sound of his throat being awkwardly cleared. Standing at her side she could sense him exacting a deep bow, imagining it to have been performed with the utmost courtesy, and felt her cheeks flush as the petals of a single rose were set against her unsuspecting palm.

She would attend many other operas with her Teacher over the following months, but none could stand as equal in her mind as the performance of Faust. It was only later that night when she had retired to her room that Juliette realized with devastation that she had misplaced her floral gift, having dropped on the floor of Box Five unwittingly between the initial surprise of its reception and the harried exit from the World of the Patrons and down once more into the familiar catacombs of the Opera House.