The next few weeks swept by Melodie like a whirlwind. She and Erik spent their days at the Skylon, working closely with the conductor and the orchestra during the rehearsals. It pleased her to see everyone treating Erik with utmost respect. While he never spoke of his feelings on the matter, she knew it must mean a great deal to him. He no longer had to shut himself in and hide from the world.

When he had the opportunity, Henry sometimes joined them, sitting quietly on the sidelines and watching the proceedings with keen interest. He had not seen Erik in some time and their initial greeting was fraught with polite tension. However, by the third week, they seemed to have reached some understanding and regained a degree of their former ease with each other.

The morning of the concert was ushered in with a grey, cold dreariness that was typical for November, but an unexpected burst of sunshine arrived at her doorstep in the form of a wrapped parcel. Nestled inside the box beneath a layer of tissue paper was her buttery yellow gown. Erik had kindly made arrangements to have it freshly washed for her. Only after gathering it up did she notice the dress looked different. Just to be certain, she laid it atop her bed and ran her palms over the silky surface. Her hands told her what her eyes were unsure of – Erik had somehow managed to alter the dress. It was now a sleeker style, with some ruffles remaining on the neckline and hem but otherwise, a more mature reincarnation. After trying it on, she found herself even more delighted by the comfortable fit. It had previously been much too tight around the chest, making it rather difficult to breathe. She was touched by the thoughtfulness of the gift, of course, but it also made her aware of the imbalance in the scales; he had showered her with so many generosities and she had given nothing in return.

That reflection troubled her now as they sat in the carriage, on their way to the theatre. They had not spoken since leaving town, apparently lost in their own separate thoughts. Nudging more closely to his side, she tilted her head against his shoulder.

His voice rumbled from above. "Are you cold?"

"No. Thank you again for the gown."

"And again, it was my pleasure." Several beats of silence passed before he spoke again. "Something is bothering you. What is it?"

His perceptiveness almost made her blush. While she wished to deny it, it would have been useless to do so. "You'll think it foolish, I know, yet I can't help feeling ashamed. You've given me so much and I've done nothing for you."

"Nothing?"

The single word was coloured with incredulity as her chin was grasped between his fingers. Erik brought his head down until his face filled her vision, his gaze boring into hers. "You've given me the opportunity to write music again and collaborating with you has been…" He paused, searching for just the right phrase. "It's been like a dream. A beautiful dream. And what of your love and acceptance of a man who never thought he'd find those things in any human being, let alone a warm and wonderful woman? These are gifts that were once beyond my comprehension, but you have made them a reality for me. It's far from 'nothing', ma chère. It's everything."

An enormous lump swelled in her throat, making speech impossible. The constriction across her chest could not be blamed on her corset or dress – she was physically ballooned by love and happiness, leaving herself wondering if it was possible to literally burst with emotion. Twisting around, half-tangled by her cloak, she pressed her face to his chest and embraced him, lulled by the steady beat of his heart.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Henry made the rounds backstage, chatting with some of the young orchestra members. The air vibrated with excitement as they bustled about, tuning their instruments. Sounds of human voices intermingled with their musical counterparts, creating a unique, dissonant symphony.

One of the managers, James Wallace, caught his eye as he maneuvered through the crowd. Though it was a chilly night, the press of bodies in the confines of the hallways created a heated stuffiness. Wallace patted at his brow with a handkerchief, his ruddy skin glistening with a sheen of perspiration.

"Henry, I'm very glad you could come," the rotund man stated.

Henry shook his hand, saying, "I wouldn't miss it."

"Unfortunately, I have some rather embarrassing news to extend. There's been some kind of miscalculation with tickets and Craig is at the box office right now trying to sort out this mess, but it seems we've oversold the seats. The bottom line is that you currently don't have one, so we were thinking of setting you up on a comfortable chair off to the side. I'm so sorry. I hope that's not overly objectionable."

Wallace had rushed through the entire speech in almost one breath and now looked close to fainting, blotting at his forehead again. Taking pity on the man, Henry responded with graciousness. "I think the aisles might be too narrow for that. I wouldn't want to pose a danger to the patrons. Why don't I sit on stage in one of the wings? I'll still be able to see and hear perfectly well."

The manager seemed visibly relieved, his hunched shoulders relaxing. "Are you quite sure? I do feel badly about this."

Henry assured him that the arrangement was fine and after another apology, Wallace went on his way to deal with other matters. Within minutes, Henry was approached again, this time by a beaming Melodie. At her side, as he always seemed to be as of late, was Erik. He appeared elegant and imposing as usual, though oddly ill at ease. His mouth set in a grim line, his eyes darted about as if in search of someone and he excused himself for a moment.

Henry had been so occupied with studying Erik, he hadn't heard Melodie's inquiry. "Sorry, what did you ask?"

"I wanted to speak with the maestro once more. Have you seen him?"

"No, I haven't."

Finally taking the time to truly look at her, Henry observed that she was positively glowing; a healthy flush adorned her cheeks and her eyes sparkled with vivacity. Although it shamed him to feel it, his stomach knotted, making him grimace briefly. In all the years that he'd had Melodie to himself, she had seemed content. Only now did he realize that something had been missing, as if he had been the one too blind to see. She had never exuded such vibrancy, such utter joy for life – not until Erik had entered her world. Despite his serious misgivings about Erik's past, he had to grudgingly admit that the man's treatment of Melodie had been nothing but honourable. "I've never seen you look so happy," he commented.

She nodded, hesitated, and then stepped closer to him. "I have something to confess to you. You were right all along. I'm in love with Erik. It's just taken me a long time to realize it. I know you don't approve of him but I hope that one day, you'll understand."

Sighing, Henry kissed her cheek. "I understand, more than you know. Whom we fall in love with is not a choice."

"He's a good man. When you come to know him better, you'll learn to see him as I do. I'm sure of it."

They talked for a few minutes more until Erik reappeared. Melodie began to remove her cloak and asked, "Henry, would you mind locating the maestro for me?"

"Certainly."

Erik interjected before Henry had a chance to move. "Before you do so, if I might have a word with you in private."

Melodie quirked an eyebrow, looking mildly surprised by the request, but she didn't question it. "You two go on, then. I'll wait here."

Filled with his own curiosity, Henry weaved his way past the throng to find a more secluded area. It was dimly lit here, casting a shadow over the left side of Erik's face. In contrast, his white mask seemed to magically hover in place, one bright green eye staring from within.

"I believe I can guess your concern," Henry stated.

"Oh?"

"You're worried that David might cause trouble again. I've already spoken with both Mr. Wallace and Mr. Rosenberg. They've warned the staff not to admit him."

Within the singular gleaming orb, Henry could read the flare of disgust. Next to Melodie, Erik had the most expressive eyes that Henry had ever seen.

"If Wentworth wants to find a way in, I'm sure he'll manage," Erik growled. His tone softened with his next words. "However, for once, he's not the focus of my thoughts this evening. It's Melodie. I need to ask something of you and I'm afraid you won't be pleased."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The scene at the entrance of the theatre was one of chaotic uproar. Patrons crowded around the box office window, demanding to be let in. Dressed in an array of colourful silks and taffetas, their jewels glinting with pinpoints of light, the ladies stood to one side, chattering amongst themselves. Their gentleman companions, in a sea of black dresscoats, argued with the rattled staff, their voices gaining volume as each second ticked by.

David took in the commotion with some measure of amusement, trying to remain obscure in its midst. He could see Craig Rosenberg from behind the glass, gesticulating frantically to one harried-looking young man who appeared to want nothing more than to crawl beneath his chair. Since Rosenberg would no doubt recognize him from the last event at the theatre, David hoped to remain out of his view.

"This is completely ridiculous," huffed an elderly man. He slapped on his hat and took the arm of the woman beside him. "Let's go, Victoria."

The woman refused to budge, standing her ground, her wrinkled face pinched with disappointment. "But I want to see him," she whined. "I've heard he's mysteriously dashing and handsome with that mask."

"Oh, for God's sakes!"

David couldn't help rolling his eyes and he watched the other man do the same. Feeling a jab in the arm, he glanced over to see Ramsey chuckling under his breath.

"Are you sure about this plan, David? You'll be breaking the hearts of women across the whole theatre. Do you want that on your conscience?"

Ignoring his friend, he looked down to consult his pocket watch and instead, found a pair of tickets thrust into his view. He lifted his head to find the exasperated man before him with tickets in hand. "Here," he said curtly, practically shoving them into David's palm. "Perhaps they'll be useful to you."

"But I already have a…"

"Take them anyway. We're done here. Victoria!" he barked, marching away. With a rustle of her skirts, she had no choice but to follow with hurried steps.

A moment later, the central door to the theatre opened and Rosenberg emerged, holding up both arms for attention. "Ladies and gentlemen, please accept my profuse apology for the delay. If you could please check your tickets carefully. In the upper right hand corner, you'll find a small box with a number inscribed. If it is anything other than a 'zero' or a 'one', we cannot admit you this evening. We will, however, allow you to exchange your ticket for any other showing this season. Those with the numbers of 'zero' or 'one', please come forward. We will open all the doors now."

As if on cue, the surrounding doors were flung open and most people clamoured forth while others turned away, muttering and shaking their heads. Rosenberg practically disappeared from view, engulfed by the crowd.

"Looks like we're out of luck," Ramsey said, inspecting his ticket. "Unless…"

His voice trailed off as David held up his newly acquired tickets, sporting a clearly marked number in the corner.

David grinned.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Arm in arm, Erik walked along the plush carpet and led Melodie to their seats in the front row. His gaze flickered over the heads of the audience as they whispered in hushed tones, the occasional laughter ringing out. He could feel an almost tangible sense of anticipation. Erik assisted Melodie first, then draped his cloak along the back of his seat before sitting down.

As if aware of what he was doing, she asked, "Wouldn't you be more comfortable with your cloak backstage?"

He had not told her of the lasso tucked inside. "It's very dear to me, custom-made by the finest tailors in Paris. I would rather keep it close. I'm more concerned with where Henry is seated. He should be here with us."

Melodie waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. "He doesn't mind. He says it reminds him of when we used to sit in the rafters, except he doesn't have to worry about the height. He liked the privacy of it, but not the distance to the floor below."

The start of the performance had already been delayed and the patrons were getting restless. At last, the members of the orchestra and the conductor filed onto the stage to a round of polite applause. First on the programme was a short, lyrical piece by Saint-Saëns. After that, the violin soloist emerged to perform the concerto.

Erik shifted in his seat, his eyes narrowing as he regarded the young man. He was interesting to look at – tall and gangly, with crookedly imperfect features. Most curious of all were his eyes, a pale icy blue and hair that was so blonde, it was almost white. Unfortunately, Erik found his musical sensibility to be less than desirable. His technique was proficient but he lacked the sensitivity to fully bring all of the rich romanticism of the concerto to life. If the managers had permitted it, Erik would have played the piece himself. Since that hadn't been an option, he had no choice but to endure what would no doubt be a lacklustre performance.

Feeling a pressure on his arm, Erik glanced down at Melodie.

"Promise me you'll just try to enjoy this and not be overly critical," she whispered.

She was well aware of his opinion on the violinist. With a grumble, he said, "I'll try."

He leaned back, settling more deeply into the chair. Whether it was the performance or other thoughts that occupied his mind, he found himself distracted until about midway through. Finally forcing himself to pay attention, he noted Melodie's head resting against his shoulder. Her eyes were closed and a peaceful smile graced her lips. If one didn't know better, she seemed to be asleep. He knew she was awake and simply enjoying the music. Closing his own eyes, he exhaled a breath and relaxed, attempting to do the same. By the last movement, he was able to ignore his analytical side and take pleasure in the notes that he and Melodie had created.

When the burst of applause erupted from all around, Erik's eyes snapped open. Rosenberg, who had been sitting beside Melodie, made his way up the side stairs and stood at centre stage. He introduced the soloist, who took several deep bows.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen," Rosenberg continued, "it gives me great pleasure to welcome the composer himself to the stage, Mr. Michael Blythe."

Fresh applause filled the theatre once more as Erik rose to his feet. Swallowing hard, a strange light-headedness almost overtook him, making him sway slightly off-balance. He reached for Melodie's hand and urged her to stand.

"This is your moment," she protested.

"Our moment," he corrected her. "And you're coming with me."

Leaving her cane, she linked her arm through his and allowed him to lead her onstage to join Rosenberg's side. Erik blinked as he faced the masses, still clapping with thunderous enthusiasm. He remained enveloped in a queer dream-like state. Though he had the urge to pinch himself, he refrained. If this was a dream, he didn't wish to waken.

Movement at the corner of Erik's eye caught his attention and with a sharp stab to the gut, he was plunged back into reality.

David was climbing up the stairs and approaching fast.

Noticing the intruder, Rosenberg hissed out of the side of his mouth, "Excuse me, but I'll have to ask you to leave the stage. Please return to your seat, sir."

Disregarding the manager, David raised his hands and faced the audience. "Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention."

Scowling, Rosenberg's eyebrows shot up as recognition set in. "Wait, I know you…" His words were overridden as David once again asked for quiet.

Melodie's hand tightened around Erik's arm, the grip almost painful. "Is that David?" she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief and anger.

Erik said nothing, holding himself stiffly and grinding his teeth. Perhaps it was a blessing that his lasso was out of reach. No matter how much the patrons enjoyed the concerto, he didn't guess they would empathize with his desire to garrotte Wentworth's elegant neck. Silence descended on the theatre as everyone became aware that something unusual was happening.

David spoke loudly, ensuring his voice could be heard from every corner. "I feel it is my duty to inform you all that this man, Michael Blythe, is running from his past. Do you not wonder what lies behind his mask?" He flung out his arm and pointed downstage. "Many of you know my good friend, Ramsey Farr."

Erik looked to his left, recognizing the man that strode forth from the other end of the stage. Ramsey's gaze met his briefly and then settled back on David, who continued with his speech. "Two years ago, Ramsey was in Paris and attended the Opera Populaire. A man came onstage – a masked man. He had already committed terrible crimes. Kidnapping. Murder. On the stage of the opera house, he was unmasked, revealing a hideously deformed face. Ramsey can attest to it. But before he could be captured, he set fire to the theatre, destroying it completely. Countless people perished, trampled or burned to death. He fled Paris, escaped to London. And that madman, that monster, stands before us now. Michael Blythe."

Unsettled murmurings swept through the audience and David bellowed over top of them in order to be heard. Swinging around, he turned to face Erik. "What have you to say against these charges, Blythe?"

Erik stared at his foe but the capability of speech seemed to have deserted him. He was trapped. And David knew it.

David smirked in his direction. "If you're innocent, you won't object to the removal of your mask."

Though he immediately regretted it, Erik took an involuntary step backwards. Feeling a tug at his arm, he looked down at Melodie, almost having forgotten that she was here. She appeared pale and stricken, biting down on her lower lip. Acting on instinct, Erik thrust her towards Rosenberg, ignoring the fact that the manager was immobilized by shock.

"Take care of her," Erik muttered. He couldn't seem to think, his brain foggy from the swelling tide of despair. If he refused to take off his mask, it would be a damning admission of guilt. His life here would be over.

But he couldn't do it. He couldn't relive that exposure again.

When Erik spoke, his words rang clear and strong. "The reason for my mask is my own affair and no one else's. While I'm sure Mr. Farr was a witness to those events at the Opera Populaire, it wasn't me. I'm afraid you're trying to condemn the wrong man."

"Then prove it!" David shouted, as he unsheathed and brandished his sword. Several women screamed and more alarmed outcries echoed about. "Remove your mask or I will do it for you."

Erik tried to use David's own antics against him. "I don't feel the need to prove anything. You're the one waving your sword in a public forum against an unarmed man. Which one of us is acting like a madman?"

David's face was flushed with redness, his features twisted by obvious frustration. With a sudden cry of rage, he sprang forward. Erik braced himself against the impact but was thrown backwards. Orchestra members cried out and scrambled to get out of the way. With each hand blocking David's arms, Erik tried to hold him at bay. They twirled about in a deadly parody of a waltz, crashing against chairs and music stands.

Somehow managing to wrest one hand free, David clawed towards the mask. Erik threw his head back, avoiding the grasp. They spun around again in a clumsy pirouette.

It took several seconds for Erik to register the increased intensity of screaming that seemed to fill the entire theatre. Turning his head, his eyes widened with horror. Hungry golden flames were consuming the red velvet curtain, spreading higher and higher. During their struggle, a gas lamp must have been knocked against the fabric, instantly igniting it.

Even David's grip had slackened as he took in the view. Erik seized the opportunity, backhanding him across the face and sending him reeling. Without glancing behind him, Erik raced forward and grabbed the curtain. He yanked and pulled at it, desperate to bring it down before the flames reached the ceiling. Visions of the smouldering ruins of the Opera Populaire tormented him. He couldn't allow the same tragedy to occur here.

Black smoke billowed outward, sending him into spasms of choked coughing. The radiating heat was incredibly intense and his eyes watered, blurring his vision. Despite his furious efforts, the curtain failed to release its hold. Refusing to be defeated, he increased his tenacious grip, bearing down with all his strength. When he felt a presence at his side, he thought it was his imagination until he turned his head.

It was Ramsey.

The man took hold of the drapery and with their combined efforts, it finally ripped and came tumbling to the floor. Ramsey stomped across it with his feet. Erik used both his feet and his hands to roll the fabric in on itself, trying to smother the flames. Realizing that Erik was having more success, Ramsey stooped to copy the technique.

When the fire was extinguished at last, both men were heaving for breath. Their eyes met yet neither of them said a word, their expressions mutually unreadable. Erik broke the contact first, turning to examine what was left of the stage behind him. Everyone had disappeared, no doubt fleeing to avoid what could have been a catastrophe. The floor was covered with scattered sheets of music and overturned chairs.

Erik heard a groan from the far side of the stage. Heading towards the sound, he found Rosenberg rising to his feet, clutching at a chair for support.

Concern made his voice sharp. "Where's Melodie?" he snapped.

With a remorseful expression, Rosenberg rubbed at his jaw. "I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

"I…I'm sorry. He came at me with the sword. I thought he was going to kill me. He hit me across the face and I must have passed out for a minute. He wouldn't hurt her, would he? I don't understand what's happening. What he said about Paris…is that true?"

Erik turned his back on the manager, afraid that he would strangle the man with his bare hands if he looked upon his face for one moment longer. His fingers curled into fists, clenched so tightly they trembled. Assaulted by a white-hot fury, Erik literally felt ill, his stomach churning. Standing here was a waste of time. He had to get moving and find her.

And when he found Wentworth, he would finish matters once and for all.

A/N: As usual, sorry for the length of time between updates. But never fear, I won't abandon this story. It will be heading to its conclusion soon. In response to one review that stated I was idealizing Erik a little, I'm guilty as charged. I admit it. But hopefully you're enjoying the story anyway. Thank you to my betas and to everyone who has taken the time to leave their reviews. I enjoy them so much – a little too much! Please let me know your thoughts on the chapter. Thanks.