It is a sincere pleasure for me to present the following story. It is a story of Erik Kire, but I didn't write it. Stine, a member of my bulletin board and a loyal minion to Erik, wrote this really, really great vignette about Erik well before he knew Julia.

Please please please leave feedback for Stine! She did an excellent job capturing Erik's personality.

Stine, I want to say thanks for allowing me to post this story with my stories. It's an honor to have a fic based off my version of Erik. Thanks! Gabrina

On a First Name Basis

The grandfather clock chimed. Through a haze of pain and exhaustion I counted the chimes. One, two, three… Was it three in the afternoon already? Four… Time was passing quickly today. Five… I tossed back the towel that covered my head and almost knocked over the washbasin of steaming water as I stood up.

I had told Madame Giry that I would pick up my parcel of goods at five this afternoon and I wasn't dressed yet. I hadn't even washed or shaved, having felt miserable throughout the whole day. My throat was scratchy and dry, there was an awful tightness in my neck and across my back, and a cold stiffness had set permanently into my bones. My head felt as if it would explode at any moment. The whole afternoon I had spent leaning over the steaming washbasin, trying to ease the pressure in my sinuses. Worst of all, a nagging cough had started to plague me. It would be unsafe to prowl around the opera since I couldn't be as quiet as I used to, and I didn't feel like climbing the endless stairs to the surface, but I didn't have any choice. I had run out of supplies already. Besides, I had given my word to the old crone and I hadn't seen her face in over a week. So I carried the basin to the washstand and readied the soap, brush and razor, uncovered the mirror and forced myself to stare into it.

Almost an hour later found me leaning against a wall in one of the tunnels of the first floor, trying to catch my breath. The climb up the stairs had left me winded. My legs were shaky. I had been forced to stop and lean on the wall when the tunnel had started swaying dangerously. I blamed it on the coughing fit that had delayed my ascent in the third cellar. Well, I guess not having eaten much in the last few days had also had a part in it. I took steadying, deep breaths until my knees stopped trembling. Then I headed for Madame's rooms.

I stopped right outside her mirror. I pulled out my handkerchief, took off the mask and wiped my forehead. Despite the freezing temperature of the tunnels, I was sweating. I took a couple of minutes to set the mask in place and straighten the hairpiece. Madame Giry was sitting in her armchair, knitting. She was waiting for me. Usually, on Friday evenings she went to the dancer's rooms after I picked up my goods. I raised my one eyebrow in amusement. It was good to know I didn't have to resort to blackmail or threats to ensure her waiting for me… I tugged at my sleeves and opened the mirror.

Madame Giry rose from her chair, and dropped her knitting. She gaped like a fish outside water.

"I believe we had an appointment at five, Madame?" I asked.

She stared at me and I set my jaw. I stared back, grimly. She had, until then, avoided looking at me directly for long. She reddened, and her eyes darted down to the tangle of yarn and knitting needles at her feet.

"I… I didn't think you would be coming, Monsieur."

"I'm quite late, yes."

That was the closest I would come to apologizing. Damn her if she expected something more. I was not accountable to her.

She looked up, straight into my eyes, her eyebrows drawn.

"It's… Today is Saturday, Monsieur," she replied.

"What?" I blurted.

"Saturday. Today is Saturday."

I drew in a deep breath. I couldn't believe it. Although I lived in the shadows and rarely saw the light of day, I prided myself on keeping perfect count of the time. I always knew the precise date and checked my watches regularly. I coughed in the back of my hand and cleared my throat.

"Well, Madame…" I started.

I watched her pick up her knitting and put it on the service table. She grimaced as she straightened up. She had to be tired from a long day of badgering ballet rats, I thought.

She took a step forward.

"Are you alright, Monsieur? You seem a bit flustered."

"Where are my things?"

She made a vague gesture towards the armoire standing in the corner of the room, but didn't make the slightest attempt at retrieving them. Instead, she just watched me more closely. I couldn't hold her gaze and busied myself retrieving my wallet. I wasn't going to exhaust much of her time. I would leave the amount of money necessary for the expenses of the next month, gather my things and leave.

When I looked up again, her hand was close to my face. I flinched.

"What the hell are you doing?" I snapped.

She lowered her hand, but didn't step away. She was too close to my liking. I stepped back and rammed my back against the commode.

"I was only going to feel your forehead. You seem to be running a fever, Monsieur."

"I'm perfectly fine. Give me my goods!" I spat.

That worked. She took a couple of steps back and turned toward the armoire. I considered taking out my handkerchief to wipe my face again. A new sheen of sweat was cooling on my skin and my hands were trembling. Madame cast a look at me over her shoulder.

"Wouldn't you like to sit for a while, Monsieur? I have freshly brewed tea. Perhaps you would care for a cup?"

"I want my goods," I snapped.

She sighed and shook her head. I squinted at her as she opened the door of the armoire and retrieved a parcel. The room had turned darker. I wondered if the gas in the Opera was running low, causing the lights to dim. Madame turned around, said something, but I didn't catch her words. The sound was strangely muffled, as if we had fallen into the underground lake and I was listening to her voice through the icy waters.

The next thing I was aware of was Madame Giry's voice calling me. I was lying on the floor and she was hovering over me. She was so close I could distinguish the pattern of thin lines on her forehead. I startled and sat up, backing away from her. The world darkened again and I tilted to the side, but before I tipped over there was a firm pair of hands on my shoulders, supporting me and easing me down to the floor.

"There, Monsieur. You shouldn't try to sit up yet."

I turned my head to find Madame Giry hovering over me again.

"What…?"

"You just fainted, Monsieur."

I batted her hands away.

"Let me be," I grumbled.

I rose on one of my elbows and took a deep breath. I decided to sit up, while I kept a watchful eye on Madame. She had backed away and was crouching a few feet from me, frowning. The lines on her forehead had deepened, making her seem several years older. I flushed with embarrassment at my display of weakness. I was not supposed to faint like a spoiled diva or a ballet rat. I was not weak.

"Where are my things?" I muttered as I stood up, using the commode as support. But before I could straighten, my knees gave way. The uncovered part of my face hit against Madame's shoulder, who had stepped forward and caught me under the arms. She wiggled herself under my right armpit and before I could protest, her left arm was encircling my waist and she was leading me, dragging me actually, to her armchair. She dropped me into the armchair and knelt by my knees. I felt her cool fingers against the side of my neck and winced, but couldn't lean away, as I was against the back of the chair.

"You are burning up, Monsieur. When was the last time you ate?"

She was staring at me with a strange expression. She was so close, and yet she didn't seem afraid or repulsed. I looked into her eyes, mesmerized.

"Yesterday… The day before yesterday," I corrected myself.

She rose with a grunt and glared down at me disapprovingly.

"No wonder you fainted, Monsieur. You are staying there and having a cup of tea while I go and fetch you something to eat."

I dared not contradict her. She served me a cup from the tea pot and added three spoonfuls of sugar. She handed the cup to me. I took it with an unsteady hand and looked at the contents.

"Drink it," she ordered.

I took a sip and cast a glance at my parcel, which was still lying on the floor, while she made her way to the door. I would drink her tea and disappear before she returned. Although I paid handsomely for her services, I still didn't trust her not to turn me in. I was a constant annoyance in her life, and she surely would like to get rid of me.

She turned around right before she opened the door.

"You will not leave, Monsieur, will you? You know you are safe here. A warm meal would do you good."

I almost gasped. It was as if she had read my thoughts. After a moment, I nodded.

"Alright, then," she said. She opened the door a crack and slid out of the room.

I calculated how long it would take her to find one of the stagehands. It would take her at least five minutes to reach backstage and five more to come back. Perhaps it would take her longer to find a sober man. It was Saturday evening, after all. I took out my pocket watch and put it on the armchair, where I could see it. I finished my tea, and set the cup on the side table. I still had seven minutes to get out of Madame's room. I leaned back in the armchair and closed my eyes briefly.

Rough hands grabbed me by the shirtfront, yanked me to my feet and dragged me out of the cellar. They dropped me onto the hard stone floor of the kitchen while sharp, hurtful words hit me.

"Pig, swine! You stink! Ugh! What a mess you have made of yourself, you devil!"

I knew what was coming. I knew the same hands that were stripping me of my clothes would drag me to the yard and hold me under a freezing stream of water while I was slashed to stay in place. I was terrified. Knowing what was to come didn't make it any easier to bear. But frankly I didn't fear the icy water, nor the pain. What terrified me the most was the humiliation, the nakedness. I grabbed my mask and, though I knew it wouldn't do any good, I begged.

"No, mother, please, don't take it off. Please, I'll be good, I promise. I'll be quiet, mother. I won't escape again. I'll wash myself, mother. Don't take the mask off. I don't want to see the monster, mother, please..."

I knew she would beat me. I knew she would slap my face until the mask fell off and grab my greasy hair and force me to look into the mirror right before she dragged me out to the yard. But I held fast to the mask anyway.

And then the hands that had been stripping me suddenly turned gentle. They caressed my bare back, my shoulders, the backs of my hands. And the words I had imagined, the ones I had dreamt of countless times, poured from my mother's mouth.

"Shhh… Don't worry. I'm not taking the mask off. Calm down, son. Hush now."

I held my breath, staring up at her. The features that had been set into a scowl softened. Her hands were warm, brushing my bare arms in a soothing gesture. I blinked. Surely I was hallucinating. This heavenly bliss would turn into harsh reality soon enough.

But it didn't. My mother lifted a white garment and passed it over my head.

"There," she said. "Let me put this on you. It is warm, and you'll feel much more comfortable."

She helped me to thread my arms through the sleeves and buttoned up the front.

My heart turned to lead. All of this was too good to be true. It had to be a dream. She would disappear and I would find myself alone, on my pallet in the cellar. Greatly daring, because I wasn't allowed to touch her, I reached out for one of her hands. I barely touched her before I stopped, afraid that she would recoil from me.

"Mother?"

She held my hand in hers, gave it a little squeeze and brushed her thumb over my knuckles. I watched, fascinated. I had always imagined a caress would be heavenly, but had never thought the skin of her hands would be so soft, so warm.

A knot formed in my throat and I swallowed.

"Don't leave me, mother. Don't leave just yet…" I whispered.

My voice broke as I cringed, expecting the whack that would follow my terrible dare. I wasn't allowed to ask for anything, much less her company.

"I'm not going anywhere, son."

She caressed my uncovered cheek, wiped away the tears with her fingertips and pressed against my chest gently.

"Lay down, son. You need your rest."

I gave in to the kind pressure. There was a soft mattress under my body, a warm pillow under my head. And I suddenly realized I was exhausted. My eyelids began to droop, but I held on to her hand, fearful she would vanish.

"You're not leaving?"

Once again, her free hand caressed the bare half of my face. Her fingers brushed back my hair in a hypnotizing motion.

"I'm not going anywhere, dear. I'm staying right here with you."

"Promise?" I asked drowsily, as I relaxed under her caresses.

"I promise."

I cradled her hand against my chest, as gently as I could, as I had seen her cradle the porcelain figurine she kept in a crib by her bed. I took a deep breath. Warmth spread from my heart throughout my chest, and I fell asleep.

I was suffocating. My father was holding my head underwater. I knew I had to hold my breath as long as I could, and lift my head as soon as his grip lessened, but I couldn't. I had already breathed in water and I was coughing violently. With all my might I rose up. Instead of my father's violent hands, there was a cool cloth on the left side of my face, a firm hand behind my back holding me upright until the coughing fit subsided and I could breathe again. Then the same hands eased me back onto a soft mound of pillows, so I was not completely lying down and I could breathe easier. It was very dark and I could not make out the features of this person, this heavenly creature, who was touching me with such care and compassion. The person turned, and against the dim light that filtered through a curtained window, I distinguished the skirts, the chignon at the back of her head. Could it really be her?

"Mother?"

The figure turned around and came closer. A cool hand landed on the left side of my face.

"Yes, son?"

I squinted, trying to focus on her features.

"It's so dark in here…" I rasped.

I cleared my throat, trying to avoid another coughing fit. It was so warm and my mouth felt as if full of cotton. Then there was a hand at the back of my head, the brim of a glass against my lips. I had a few sips of water but my throat wouldn't allow it. I choked and coughed. A trickle of water slid down my chin. Immediately, the hands disappeared. I flinched and covered my head with my arms, prepared to block the blows.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" I whimpered.

Gentle but firm hands grabbed my wrists and made me lower my arms.

"Hush son, it's alright. You did nothing wrong. Here, let me…"

She wiped my chin and caressed my uncovered cheek. The mask was warm against my skin and impaired my breathing, but it was still in place, and I was glad for it. My mother would not be caring for me if she saw what kind of horror I was.

Only when she leaned over and turned the light higher did I realize I had unwittingly brought the worst misfortune upon myself. Not having had an ounce of her attention before had been hell, but losing her affection when I had just had but a taste of it would be much, much worse.

I reached out for the lamp on the nightstand, desperate to go back to the cold embrace of darkness, where my mother did not see me, did not shun me. It was too late, I knew, when I saw her grayish-blue eyes looking at me. I froze, stopped breathing, expecting the blow or the shriek that would follow. And then something astounding happened. The corners of her mouth turned upwards, a delicate pattern of crinkled lines appeared at the corners of her eyes, and I recognized what I had seen in countless faces from afar, when people regarded each other. She was smiling. She was smiling at me. She was seeing me in full light and still she did not recoil from me. She sat on the bed and leaned forward. Her cool fingers felt the side of my neck. She frowned.

"You're still running a fever."

I took in a deep, shuddering breath. A tear slipped from the corner of my eye. She said nothing, but wiped it away with her fingertips.

"Forgive me…" I said in a sob.

She drew even closer, slid her arm across my shoulders encouraging me to lean my head on her shoulder and before I could understand what was happening I found myself being hugged. The warmth of her embrace was my undoing. The floodgates were fully open, and I wept uncontrollably.

"There, dear, it's alright," she said, and she began to rock us back and forth. "You've got nothing to apologize for, son. It's alright."

How long had she held me, telling me it was alright, stroking my head, swaying gently, I didn't know. Gradually, the tears slowed and the sobs quieted, leaving me hiccupping like a small child. My throat was tight and I ached from head to toe. An overwhelming fatigue dragged at my limbs and weighed on my eyelids. I was already half asleep when my mother laid me gently against the mound of pillows. I opened my eyes and started to protest weakly. She laid one of her fingers on my lips and gave me a long, solemn look.

"I will stay here, right beside you, son. Get some sleep."

She arranged the blankets, drew them up to my chest and threaded her fingers through mine. I slowly fell asleep, lulled by the rhythm of her thumb stoking my knuckles, wondering why my mother's features resembled so closely those of Madam Giry.

I was on my left side, partly lying and partly sitting, held up by something soft. My legs were slightly bent, my right arm across my stomach. A blanket draped my whole body up to my shoulder, keeping me warm. Then an unusual, muffled thud alerted me to the fact that I was not alone in the room. I bolted upright, my breathing quickened, my arm raised at the level of my eyes, automatically protecting my head. I blinked in the unusually sharp light, trying to orient myself. I was not in my lair beneath the Opera. Where was I? A shudder ran through my body at the thought of Persia. A sickening feeling set in my stomach. Then there was a swish and a hand on my shoulder. Instinctively, I struck the hand away. I lowered my arm and I saw Madame Giry standing a few feet away, holding her right hand on her left, staring at the floor. Only then did I become aware of the fact that the swish had been caused by her skirts and I had struck her. A wave of shame overwhelmed me. The sickness turned into nausea.

"Ma…madame…" I rasped.

She looked up at me, as if I had struck her again. I looked down and found myself staring at my legs, covered in blankets. I looked at my torso. I was wearing an unfamiliar nightshirt, white and stiff from being starched. From the corner of my eye I surveyed my surroundings. I was in Madame's room, sitting on her bed.

"I see you are feeling better, Monsieur. Let me bring you something to drink."

I blinked in confusion as I looked up at her. A slight smile curved the corners of her mouth. I was struck by the feeling that I had seen her smiling at me before, but it was such a preposterous thought that I dismissed it immediately.

I shook my head slightly in an attempt to clear my head. That was a big mistake. The room spun and I had to lean back on the pillows. Suddenly, Madame was standing by the bed holding a steaming cup in one hand. I wondered at how quickly she had moved.

"You'd better sit up a bit straighter, Monsieur, so you can drink. Shall I help you?"

She was already putting the cup on the nightstand. Instinct filled me with a sense of dread.

"No, I can…" I rasped. My throat was as dry as the sands of the desert.

She waited patiently until I sat up once again and then leaned over behind my back.

"What the hell are you…?" I managed to protest before cough settled in.

She looked at me sternly.

"I'm arranging the pillows. Here," she scoffed handing me the cup.

Her manner was so dignified that I found myself taking the cup. Carefully, I had a sip. The concoction was warm, very sweet. I looked up at her.

"Tea. Sweetened with honey. It will ease the pain in your throat," she clarified.

I took my time finishing the drink. Madame usually bought a rich, thick, aromatic kind of honey. The warmth of the tea was quite soothing.

She gathered the cup from my hands as soon as I had lowered it for the last time. I closed my eyes briefly. I opened them again to find a spoon a few inches from my face.

"What…?"

"A medicine for your cough, Monsieur. Take it," she said in an imperious tone.

I eyed the thick dark substance suspiciously. I would be damned if I swallowed anything like that. What if she was trying to poison me? I raised my eyes defiantly and pressed my lips together.

She sighed, shook her head. She took the spoonful and swallowed it. I watched dumfounded as she refilled the spoon from a bottle she held in her hand and placed it in front of my mouth again.

"There," she said. "It's not poison, Monsieur. It will do you good."

I opened my mouth. The potion tasted horribly. I swallowed and grimaced.

"See? It wasn't that bad."

I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth. She was aggravating in her fussing.

"Where…? What…?"

The haziness of my surroundings had apparently found its way into my head, and I was unable to utter a whole, coherent question.

"You are ill, Monsieur. You ran a high fever yesterday, but now it has subsided."

Yesterday? How long had I been in her rooms, then?

"You spent the night here, Monsieur. It is Sunday afternoon."

I started at her statement. It took me a moment before I realized I must have spoken my thoughts aloud. A whole night? That was absurd, unthinkable. I wasn't staying a minute longer. I threw the covers to one side and slid my legs out of the bed, only to stop, embarrassed. I was only wearing the nightshirt, and my feet looked ridiculously pale against Madame's carpet.

"Where are my clothes?" I barked, before I had to cover my mouth with my hand to stifle another coughing fit.

My head was pounding when I finally stopped.

"Please, Monsieur," Madame was now standing in front of me, hands up, in an appeasing gesture. "Lie down again for a minute. You are not well yet."

I shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.

"I am leaving," I stated with more confidence than I felt. My head ached and it was difficult to take deep breaths. It had been a long time since I had felt this ill.

"Please rest before you leave. It is a long way down."

I closed my eyes briefly and counted to ten. At last, I nodded.

"Alright," I mumbled, more for her sake than mine. Arguing would have taken more energy than I seemed to possess.

I covered my legs with the blankets and leaned back into the pillows. When the pounding in my head left some space to thought, I realized what she had said.

"How the hell do you know how far it is?"

She smirked.

"The first cellar is occasionally used for storage, Monsieur. You must be living at least two levels below it. It's just a matter of common sense."

It made me uncomfortable that she had an idea, however rough, of the location of my home. I shifted in the bed and licked my dry lips. And then, by the brush of the pillowcase against my scalp, I realized my hairpiece was missing. My breath caught in my throat. A wave of fire rolled over my face, closely followed by white hot anger. I sat up again and looked around the room. The damned thing was not to be seen.

"Where is it? What have you done with it?"

She looked at me with a blank expression on her face.

"It!" I said venomously while I pointed at my head. "Damn you, woman! Isn't your curiosity satisfied already? Haven't you stared enough at the monster?"

Her eyes darted away, toward the commode. On top of it, tossed carelessly, lay the mass of dark hair. Madame stared at it while wringing her hands, obviously disgusted at the prospect of having to touch it. I threw the covers to one side. As if my movement had been some kind of cue, she strode toward the commode, took it, and handed the wig to me, carefully avoiding my gaze. She cast me a quick glance as I snatched the thing from her hands.

"It… It fell off during the night, Monsieur. You were so hot that you seemed… relieved without it."

I sneered. At the sound, she glanced up again. Her eyes were glassy. There were deep dark shadows under them.

"Don't look at me!" I shouted.

She cringed and cast a look at the closed door.

"Turn around." I commanded in a lower voice.

She stood rigid, apparently fascinated by something on the floor.

"I said turn around," I muttered through clenched teeth. At last, she obeyed. I adjusted the hairpiece on my head.

I looked about the room, and finally spotted my clothes, tossed over the back of a chair. I stood up on clumsy legs. Madame turned around and started to protest.

"Monsieur, you should…"

"Shut up! Damn you! Turn around and keep still!"

She turned around again and stood, back straight, in the middle of the room while I slowly got dressed. It was an excruciatingly long process. My hands were oddly clumsy, and it was a big effort to put every garment on. More than once, I was about to lose my balance, but with the help of the steady chair and fueled by anger, I made it.

She had humiliated me. She had stripped me of my dignity while I was helpless. How I hated her. My throat closed and my eyes began to sting, while my temples throbbed painfully.

"Where are my things?" I asked when I had finished lacing my shoes.

She looked at me over her shoulder and then turned around. She gave a step forward, hands clenched in front.

"Monsieur you shouldn't…"

"Give. Me. My. Things." I demanded through tight lips, stressing each word.

She bit her lip and gave me a sideways glance. At last, she turned around and went to the armoire, where she started taking things out and piling them on the commode. First, there came my parcel, and then another slightly bigger one, and a brown paper bag, and a smaller item, made out of wool. She started putting them in a sack.

"What the hell…?"

"I bought some things for you, Monsieur," she interrupted me without turning around. "For your illness. Here's a blanket," she said, pointing at the larger parcel.

"I have blankets," I protested.

"An extra one will do no harm. I also got you some oranges. They are very good for colds. And a jar of honey. And your medicine…" she rattled on as she looked around the room, spotted the bottle on the nightstand, made sure the lid was tightly closed and shoved into the bag as well.

I grimaced, massaged my uncovered temple. She was making my headache worse with all her chattering.

"Monsieur?"

I opened my eyes to find her standing a few feet away with a contrite expression. Perhaps she was already regretting taking care of me. Well, I wouldn't bother her any longer. There was nothing I wanted more than to bolt from that room, hurry down the stairs and bury my pathetic self in my bed.

"Do you have any heating in… Where you live? It is very cold in the cellars, and the dampness won't do you any good. Perhaps it would be better if you stayed…"

"I have a stove, thank you," I said with all the finality I could muster.

My anger was still fueling my resolve, but the discomfort and the soreness were strongly competing against it.

She paused. I saw in her eyes that she was mustering the strength to continue. I took a deep breath, put my hat on and stood up. If she kept on prattling I would pass out again. I took the bag, swung it over my shoulder and headed for the mirror. I had almost opened it when a hand on my forearm made me shrink instinctively.

"Monsieur," she breathed, very softly.

She was holding the woolen cloth. She unfolded it. It was a scarf.

"Just let me…"

I froze in place as she stood on her tiptoes and wrapped it around my neck. She gave me a motherly pat on the shoulder when she finished and smoothed out the lapel of my coat. There was a lump in my throat, and my sinuses were threatening to drain. I hurried to open the mirror. I tipped my hat toward the right side of my face and lowered my eyes. Suddenly words failed me, and it seemed improper to leave without bidding her adieu. She had, for some unfathomable reason, taken care of me during the night. Why had she done it was beyond my comprehension, but she deserved something for her trouble. I cast a sideways glance at her before I stepped out of her room. It was an impulse, and a voice inside me said I would regret it later, but she suddenly looked old and forlorn.

"Erik," I muttered and looked at the floor so I wouldn't have to witness her reaction. I was afraid to look her in the eye and see indifference or contempt. "My name is Erik."

And with that I stepped out and pressed the mechanism that closed the mirror.

What at the moment seemed some kind of odd gesture of gratitude towards her, turned out to be a benefit to me. Two weeks later, when I went again to retrieve my goods, I felt a not wholly unpleasant thrill to hear my name on her lips. She asked me how I was doing and told me she had purchased another bottle of medicine. She had also bought me a sweater, so I wouldn't go cold when I wandered around the Opera. I told her and it sounded harsher than I intended, that they had been unnecessary expenses. I cut the conversation short, although as usual, she encouraged me to stay for a while and have a cup of tea. When I got back to my lair and opened the sack, the first thing I found was one of her notes. I opened the envelope.

Erik:

I hope you are feeling better. Remember to take your medicine. Three spoonfuls a day. Keep warm.

Madeline

I think I read the note twenty, thirty times. I certainly memorized the slight slant of the 'E' in my name, the little flourish with which Madeline's hand ended the 'k', the irregular blotch that was the dot over the 'i'. My name. It was my name, on a note addressed to me. It was the first time anyone had written me a letter. A letter to me. Not to the Phantom, or the Opera Ghost, or the Great Magician, or the Trapdoor Lover.

The simple words kept rumbling in my head as I fell asleep that night, wrapped in Madeline's soft blanket: I hope you are feeling better. And even more astounding: Keep warm.

Keep warm.

I hope you are feeling better.

I couldn't comprehend why someone was fretting over me. I recited those words as if they were a mantra the following days. I kept the note in my pocket for over a week. I caressed my name so many times that I almost rubbed it out. I wore Madeline's thick, warm sweater until all the traces of illness had disappeared. By then the sweater smelled, and I had to soak it in warm water for a long time.