Thank you to MarilynKC, peanutpup, lindaweng, Phantomgirl24, SloaneDestler, Child of Dreams, His Midnight Music, Mominator124, and Pip and CO for the lovely reviews!

For those of you who read Something Immortal, here is the return of a character you might recognize from that story and from Kay's work itself.

Enjoy!

Chapter 9

Erik

A ballet girl was missing.

Normally, truly, this wouldn't concern me much. I had more important matters to worry about than women running off with secret lovers, never to be seen again.

But now, there was Christine.

The moment I heard the eavesdropped whispers of backstage technicians, that a ballerina had disappeared, the first thing I'd done was ensure Christine's presence. And when I found her there on the stage, listening to Madame Giry's instruction, I breathed easy.

The letters continued as normal. After I'd dropped my name to her, she'd become insistent on finding out anything she could about me. Where did I live? How did I hide? Where, exactly, did I sit in Box Five if no one had ever seen me in the seat before?

So many questions! Such a curious mouse, investigating the housecat. It was, for lack of a better word, amusing. And a bit surprising - for all she knew, I could be a right danger to her!

Of course, I never revealed anything. Simply my name was quite enough. So far, she hadn't seemed to spill that information, as no talk of "Erik" was abound. She was keeping it to herself, even as she had potential gossip to share. Titillating gossip, too - personal letters with the Phantom of the Opera? Or, if not, then the man posing as the ghost? But no. Nothing. Not a solitary word.

Interesting.

I was, I admit, a bit of an engineer. Nothing wild. Nothing extraordinary. But I dabbled.

One of my simpler projects had been my doorbell.

Oh, no - I suppose I couldn't call it that. It wasn't actually at the door to my underground house. No, it was a length of rope that ran along the ceiling of the lake's large underground cave, starting at the bottom of the stairs and ending at a bell attached to my house. It was only ever rung once a week, and for a very specific reason.

Just as it was rung now.

I stood from the piano bench, put down the pen, and put on my coat and hat. The lake was chilly, always chilly, and it wasn't as though I produced very much body heat. I picked up a lantern, locked the door to the house (a formality), and attached the lantern to the gondola before embarking on my little journey to the other side of the water.

I saw him.

Jules Bernard, my personal assistant. Paid quite well to do my shopping. Paid well, too, to keep the details of his work and employer a tight secret.

Red haired and with the look of a man who couldn't hold his own in even the mildest skirmishes, he bowed his head low to me upon my docking the boat.

"Sir," he said. "I have purchased all that you requested."

"Indeed," I said, coming closer. There, in his hand, was a small basket of groceries. In the other, a carefully folded tailor-made suit. All of my clothes had to be custom tailored - I was far too tall and thin to fit in anything less.

I took the items from him, paid him handsomely, and watched him turn and go back up to Paris, to his family. It was in times like these, watching this man return to the surface, that I was reminded: it mattered little how much I demanded from the managers, it mattered little how much money I acquired, how much control or knowledge or talent I had.

Jules, for the very fact of his wife and children and utter normalcy, would always be richer than me.

Dearest Erik,

I know that I irk you with my constant questions of who you are, or who you could be. Where you live.

But I must divulge something to you, and you must keep it a secret.

I am lonely.

I miss my father terribly, and I find that I cannot connect with any of the other girls. I have Meg, and I have Madame, but outside of them - I have no one. If they were to disappear, if I were to lose them, then no one would notice I was gone. No one would care.

Please understand that I mean no ill intent in trying to learn of your true nature.

I think what I want is a friend. Someone who understands me.

I feel, even from the short amount I have spoken to you, that perhaps you do understand me.

Do you?

Warm regards,

Christine D.

P.S. I hope that Isabelle girl is all right. Have you heard? She is missing.

I read it a dozen times or more.

I'd folded all of her other letters and placed them back into their envelopes. But this one-

I kept it open on my desk. I read those lines time and time again.

I am lonely.

…perhaps you do understand me.

Do you?

I didn't write back right away. I didn't have the words. I'd never, in all my life, had anyone implore me for company. For friendship. Companionship. Understanding.

I'd tried, in my early life, to earn those things from others - but it was rarely to any avail.

So to have her ask me-

I was beside myself with shock.

Instead, I merely rose to the surface, to the Opera. I watched the rehearsal. I looked at her face, looking for the hidden hurt and pain.

I was shocked again when I found it. Found the barely hidden bags under her eyes, the veiled tiredness in her features, the distance in her eyes. All masked behind performative smiles.

And as I gazed at her from my hiding places, I felt a stirring of something.

Something inconvenient.