Over the next week or so, Erik visited Miss DuBois no less than twice a day. Usually he came once at noon and then once late in the evening, though if Adelyn found herself in her room more frequently, then so did he visit accordingly. It was not long before Erik found himself infatuated with her childish happiness and her delight in his ethereal voice. She never addressed him as master, or sir, or any other title, but rather, she became fond of calling him "friend". Erik did not object, though he would not have minded so much telling her his name, had she inquired. Adelyn was under no illusions about who he was, and thus, there was no need for games about any "angel of music". Of course, there were certain details she was not aware of, but she was fully aware that he was a man. A strange man, perhaps, but a man nonetheless.

There were several things Erik learned about Adelyn, too. She was born of a wealthy merchant family, and had been promised to Drew by her parents since she was twelve years old. He also learned that, despite her initial success in the Third Corridor, her voice was terribly strained and weak on any note beyond high G, and he also found that her voice, though surprisingly mature and trained for someone who had left such a soft life, was completely improperly placed. Almost every time they trained, he would have to stop in the middle of whatever aria she was singing to hound her to bring her sound out of the back of her throat and into the resonators in her face.

During one particularly frustrating session together, Adelyn had already cracked the mirror by tossing her shoe across the room in anger before Erik finally agreed that they should at least stop before either of them became too heated.

"I'll never get it right," sighed Adelyn sadly, staring at the crack the broken mirror made in her face.

"You will, child," said Erik, smiling in spite of his irritation.

There was a short silence when Erik suddenly spoke again. "How old are you, Miss DuBois?"

"That's a most improper question, Friend," giggled Adelyn, her eyes glowing mischievously.

"Then I apologize."

"You needn't," she replied quickly. "I'm almost 16 now."

Erik's breath stopped short in his chest. 16? Dear God! He had thought she was at least 21. True, she was very likely the most immature woman he had ever met, but her face, body, and voice were all too mature to belong to a 16-year-old. Never did he mean that she looked old-Dear God, the sweet thing was like a freshly budded rose-but she did carry herself with a slightly heavy, burdened air of an older woman. He had always thought that her childish antics were the silliness that even some similarly afflicted octogenarian women carried around with them.

"Does it surprise you?" She laughed gaily. "People often tell me I look a bit older than is proper for my age. But I'm hardly a child, am I?"

"Indeed," murmured Erik. "You are not more than a child."

"I hope you don't look upon me less for it," she said, suddenly very serious. "My mother always thought I was unnaturally smart for a woman."

"As if intelligence proved your maturity?" he sneered, unable to withhold his contempt for her little girl ideas.

Adelyn blushed embarrassedly, but her voice was strong and indignant. "You, sir, are no gentleman to make a mockery of a young girl."

He fell silent. She had never addressed him so formally.

"Perhaps you should go," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I am very tired."

Surely she was not crying? If the situation were not already so sensitive, Erik might have laughed. He gently hoisted himself higher up one of the rafters that overlooked her room and peered through one of the cracks in the plaster. Indeed, she looked prepared to weep. If she did cry, Erik would have no control over his body. He would want to crawl into her room and hold her close to his chest with his cold hands. This he could not have. Were he any other man, he could, but no…! He mustn't… He mustn't… His body quaked with desire. It was not so much sexual longing as it was the longing to wipe away someone's tears. No one had ever wiped away his tears, and no one had ever allowed him to close enough to touch his or her eyes. No one… except Christine.

"I shall go," he choked desperately. He could not stay here another moment longer. If he did, he was afraid he would not be able to repress his own urges.

"Wait!" screeched Adelyn unexpectedly. "Please, Friend, I meant no offense! I didn't mean- I am so sorry--" She burst into tears-not the obnoxious, attention-seeking tears she had shed for Drew, but true, tender, and heart wrenching tears.

"Adelyn!" he gasped, forgetting his usual display of propriety. He clutched at the collar of his shirt, his heart aching with desire. "Why do you cry so?"

"Oh!" she breathed, her chest heaving heavily. "My mother always says that-I am rather-hysterical-but I-I am so afraid that I may-"

She fell silent at the sound of a loud bang! outside her door. For a few moments, the air hung heavy with suspense. But peace was not to prevail. The horrifyingly loud banging continued-bang, bang, bang, bang! Adelyn's tear-filled eyes quickly dried and widened with fear.

"Who is it?" she cried loudly.

"Open the door, Adelyn sweetheart, it is only your dear fiancé!"

"Oh, God spare me, it's Drew. He's drunk as a dog," she moaned, her hand clasping over her little red mouth. She allowed her hand to drop from her mouth to her heart, which was beating like a bird's. In the manner which was customary of Miss Adelyn DuBois, she squared her shoulders and threw open the door. "Drew, you drunken thing! Go home!"

"Is that any way to treat your lurvley future husband? Come here, darling, and give me a kiss," he laughed, his breath spreading over her face like a noxious gas.

"Take your hands off me, you drunken fool!" she snarled, grabbing his wrists and tossing his arms back to his sides. "Now go back to bed."

"I'll go to bed, all right." He grinned lazily. "And I shall go with you!"

Adelyn backed away in horror. Surely he was not so drunk as that?

"If you do not get out at this very moment, I shall scream!" exclaimed Adelyn shrilly.

"Hush your sweet mouth and just kiss me," he slurred. He grabbed her round the waist and tossed her to the bed, stumbling after her.

"Drew, please! You don't know what you're doing," she gasped, turning her face into the covers as he leaned down to kiss her lips.

But he paid her no heed. He grabbed her roughly by the ears and pulled her face towards him, kissing her hard on the lips, then the neck, and then down to her bosom. Adelyn writhed under his touch like a trapped bird.

"Drew! Please! Please!" she screamed, her shrieks becoming increasingly more elevated.

"You'll wake the whole place, sweetheart," he growled, looking into her terrified, white face.

"Oh! Please! Help! Help! Friend!"

But "Friend" was several steps ahead of her. He had already crept through a small passageway into her room he had taken the care to build several weeks after her arrival at the opera house. Not since Christine had left had he felt such a murderous rage inside him. This man-this creature-had dared touch his protégé, his child, his Adelyn! She was quite everything-his pupil, his daughter, and his… dared he say it? His lover. Of course, he knew, she would never have him, but he would have her-He would have her, if only in his own dreams!

Erik seemingly burst through the wall, not taking care to close the concealed door behind him. He was going to kill, and he was going to kill properly-and this time, he was going to kill someone who truly and deeply deserved it! Raising the Punjab lasson high over his head, he swung it swiftly over Drew's skull, pulling it tightly around the drunken man's neck. The other end, he secured it to Adelyn's bedpost, so that in a mere matter of seconds, Drew was hanging by his neck, his eyes bulging, his arms flailing vainly, and his breath rasping.

"Oh!" screamed Adelyn, falling from the bed to the floor. "Oh! Dear God! Have mercy!" Her eyes traveled upwards and rested on the Phantom where he stood in all his murderous glory.

"Worry not, my child," he said silkily, offering her his hand. "He will trouble you know more."

"Who are you?" she screamed, her face suddenly flushing with blood. "Who are you? I do not know you!"

"I am your friend! I am your teacher! Do you not know your own teacher?" He knelt to the floor, bending towards her concernedly.

"No!" she shrieked. "No! My friend would never-My God! Cut him down! Cut him loose, damn you, cut him loose!"

When he did not move, she got to her feet, and, with all the strength a woman in distress can muster, shoved him with all her might. Caught unawares, Erik went reeling backwards, smacking the back of his skull on her wardrobe. Adelyn, on the other hand, had climbed onto her dresser, and, pulling a pathetically small pair of sewing scissors from her drawer, began to saw at the rope which was slowly killing her fiancé.

"Oh God!" she screamed as she worked. "Oh God, have mercy, have mercy!"

Erik rose to his feet, too awestruck to be angry. Tears were rolling down her face as she worked, and yet she continued to pull at the rope, desperate to cut him down. The man did not deserve to live. But Adelyn did not deserve to be in such distress, either. With the agility of a cat, he withdrew a miraculously sharp knife and reached upwards with it, slicing at the Punjab lasso. Drew fell to the floor facedown and did not move.

For a few moments, neither of them spoke. Adelyn was breathing unnaturally heavy, but was calm. Or so she seemed, until she toppled over and fainted.

"Adelyn!" murmured Erik, pressing his cold hand to her forehead. Even with his cold touch, he could tell that she was like ice.

"Come, my child," he whispered, hoisting her into his arms like an infant. "You wanted to see me, and now you shall!"