It was the sound of a heartbeat that awakened me. I was still in Erik's arms, my face nestled on his chest. The undamaged side of his face rested against my hair.

Maman, I thought, would be livid if she knew I where I was, snuggled in a man's embrace. Even though we lived in the often lax world of the Opera House, she did her best to protect me. She hoped I would find a wealthy, titled husband among the Opera's patrons, but she vehemently discouraged the attentions of idle fops and men like M. LeCreuse. I was her little Meg.

But Maman was dead. That's why I was here, sheltered in the arms of a man whose past was a mystery, a man forced to hide his face from the world, a man whose need for love had driven him to madness, to murder. Poor Maman would never know.

That thought saddened me, but I did not cry again. I let myself sink back into sleep.

When I awoke again, I was not on the settee, but on the bed. A black lace curtain divided the "room" from his study. Through that fine black veil, I could see him at his desk, dressed in a wine-colored velvet robe, leaning over some work.

Quietly, I stepped through the curtain and went down the stone steps to the study. I saw him in profile at that moment, the deformed side his face was not visible. I caught my breath at how beautiful he was. His mask lay on the desk and it suddenly seemed so cruel. The contrast between the two halves of his face, one so handsome...you could even say angelic, the other so hideous it looked almost demonic.

He heard my approach and quickly slipped the mask onto his face. He said nothing, but resumed his work. I saw that he was repairing his violin. He seemed absorbed in the task and I did not feel it would be right to interrupt him.

I looked around the room at the broken mirrors...so many of them in this place. Only one was not shattered, a tiny round mirror on the bookshelf. He must have overlooked that one. Or spared it on purpose. I peered at it. It was hard to see much, but I realized I was a mess. My hair was mussed, long strands had worked loose from my heavy braid, my eyes were swollen from crying, my cheeks streaked with the salt of so many tears. Glancing down, I saw my dress was rumpled, too.

I felt rather ashamed of my appearance, though it could not be helped.

Next to the mirror was a small clock, a pretty enameled thing. It was working; it read half past six.

Morning or night, I wondered. There was no way to tell how long I had slept, how long I had been there in Erik's home.

"It's morning, Marguerite," he said without looking up from the violin. "There are coffee and brioche on the table by the settee."

I was glad of it. I sat down and took a roll, remembering the morning that I had brought him a similar meal.

"Thank you, Erik."

He still did not look up, but I could have sworn I saw him smile.

As I ate my roll and sipped the coffee, I looked around the room again. So many books. And hundreds of pages of music, much of it written in his hand which I remembered from the original score of Don Juan Triumphant. I took in everything, the velvet hangings which seemed to be old stage curtains. Many of the furnishings also seemed to be cast off from the theatre above. Except for the beautiful organ. I wondered if he had built it himself.

When my glance came back toward the study, I saw that he had laid aside the violin. He rose and came down the steps toward the settee. Leaning down, he lightly touched me salt-streaked face.

"Are you going to be all right, Marguerite?"

The grief and fear of the previous morning came back. I was afraid the emotions would overtake me again.

"I don't know, Erik. I don't know. I am so afraid."

He drew a chair up before me.

"What are you afraid of? Tell me, let me help you."

"I can't explain it," I said, pathetically, " I am so just so frightened."

"Look at me, Marguerite."

I met his compelling eyes. I had looked after him when he was ill, I spent two nights sleeping close to him. I trusted him.

"I don't know what to do without Maman. It was only the two of us, always. I was her only child, she was my world. We had no family, no friends, only the Opera. And now she is gone. What will happen to me?"

"What do you want to happen, little one?"

I shook my head.

"I don't know. I just can't think. My mind, my feelings...everything is so twisted about. Maman saw to everything. She wanted me to be a lady someday. In the meantime, I had only to think of my dancing."

I felt so foolish and helpless. Was I the same young woman who danced boldly across the Opera stage, entwined with a Persian shawl? Was that only a few nights ago? Was I the same girl who ignored her fears to learn the fates of Christine and her lover?

Erik said nothing, but he got up and walked away. No doubt he thought me a whining, stupid child.

He returned with a damp cloth.

"Here, wipe away your tears."

After I had cleaned my face, he helped me to my feet.

"Marguerite Giry, I want to help you. I would have died here if it were not for you. I wanted to, you know. And now I am in your debt. You are the first person to show me compassion. Compassion, Marguerite, not pity. Your mother is dead, but you cannot let you own life stand still at that moment.

He led me down to the edge of the lake and brought his boat to the steps.

"Marguerite, this place has been, at times, my prison. It's been my hell, but there are times when it had been my heaven...my refuge, the only place where I have found...what some would call peace, I suppose. Let it be your refuge, too. Stay here as long as you want, as long as you need to."

Could he have read my mind? As I watched him guide to boat to the edge, I had dreaded leaving this place, dreaded the thought of going back to the tiny, drab apartment I had shared with Maman in the upper stories of the theater.

"But, for now," he continued, lighting the boat's two lanterns, "you must go up. They will be wondering about you. If you vanish...like Christine...it might be dangerous for me. You must go back and get ready for rehearsals."

He helped me step into the boat and tossed one of his cloaks over my shoulders. It was rather chilly on the lake that morning.

When we reached the theatre, I returned the cape to him before I stepped out of the narrow passage into the chapel.

"Erik, I don't want to impose on you. You've been so kind to me, but I don't want to intrude into your world."

"Don't argue with me, Mademoiselle! I rarely incur debts and, when I do, I pay them."

His voice was stern, but he was smiling beneath the mask.

"If you would like, I could go to your rooms and bring your things down while you are rehearsing. I have a few errands to see to first."

He did not wait for an answer. He left me standing there, but I heard him call back to me.

"I will be waiting for you at the mirror."

I went up to the small, dreary rooms Maman and I had lived in all these years. I glanced around them as I brushed and rebraided my hair. I took my white ballet dress and a clean black dress from the armoir. I had always disliked the tiny gray rooms, but I had been content with them. Maman had always told me that one day, when I married, I would have a fine house. Perhaps even a chateau. Maman had great plans for me.

I knew I was not coming back to the apartment again as I hurried off to the dancers' dressing rooms.

Until a new mistress of the ballet could be found, the managers had put Sorelli in charge of our practices. All the girls were quite nice and sympathetic. They tried to make kind remarks about how hard it must be to lose my dear friend, Christine, and then my mother so soon after. Or how sad it was to lose Maman on the morning following my wonderful performance in Beregaria. They wondered where I had been yesterday and told me that M. LeCreuse was seen fleeing from the theatre in terror. It was said he left Paris very quickly. Could it be there was still a ghost in the Opera House, after all, they giggled.

I did not mind their chatter, their attempts to cheer me. Still, I knew that none of their efforts could comfort me the way Erik had when he held me in his arms and sang me to sleep.

"Why, Meg, what are you thinking? You're blushing! Bright and red like Isabelle's new dress!"

Overnight, the name Meg had become foreign to me. I had quickly grown used to hearing Erik calling me Marguerite. I could not explain that...or where I had spent the night...to the other dancers. Some, like Sorelli, were quite worldly. Others were naive little brats.

I simply shrugged and said that practice had simply made me too warm. I could hardly wait to leave.

Sorelli kept us practicing forever it seen. When she dismissed us, I quickly changes into the black dress I'd brought and almost flew down the hallway. At last I slipped through the mirror and he was there. Waiting for me, as he said he would.

Little was said as we walked down toward the lake, but several times, he turned to look at me. He carried only a small lantern and I could not see his expression.

When we had crossed the lake, I found he had indeed brought everything down from the apartment.

"I brought your mother's things, too. I knew you would want to keep them. They are in that trunk in the back."

"Thank you, Erik."

"The bedroom is yours for as long as you stay here. I shall sleep on the settee in here."

I shook my head. It seemed rather selfish of me to take over his home like this.

"No, Erik, I can take the settee..."

"Marguerite, I have slept on stone floors, on the cold, hard ground. I have slept in a palace, in catacombs. And I have slept in...a cage. The settee will be quite comfortable. It won't be the first time I've slept there."

A cage? O, mon Dieu! Poor Erik! I knew Maman had helped him runaway from a fair, but I never thought that...oh, no, that he had been kept in a cage.

I didn't know what to say to him. He put a single finger to his lips and shook his head. There was some things it was best not to speak of, after all.

So I left him and went up to the bedroom to arrange my things. As I went through the box of inexpensive jewelry that Maman wore to Opera balls, I found a small silk pouch. I had never seen it there before. I opened it and found a fine gold chain. A single pearl hung from the chain.

I brought it to the study where Erik was at his desk, sealing a letter with deep red wax.

"Erik, I don't know where this came from. It's not Maman's."

"Of course not, Marguerite. It's yours."

I stared at the lovely necklace. He had put it there where I would find it.

"Erik, you mustn't give me presents like that. It's too expensive..."

"Put it on, Marguerite, it is yours."

I hesitated; Maman was had very strict ideas about men giving jewelry to young women,

Erik rose and took the necklace from my hand. Pushing my braid aside, he fastened the pearl around my neck. Did I imagine that he let his hands linger for a moment.

I remembered Christine saying that, when he had touched her hand, she thought she would die from terror. Why, Christine, why?

He stepped away and gestured toward the bedroom.

"Go and look; there's a mirror there."

Returning to the bedroom, I found the new mirror there, covered with a piece of rose-colored silk. I lifted the silk and saw the pearl shimmering above the tight black bodice of my dress.

Then I remembered something else. The Masked Ball. Erik had been there, in crimson velvet, a skull-like mask covering his face. He had stood there on the marble stairs, looking down at Christine. He saw the Vicomte's engagement rings on a silver chain around her neck. I remember how he had snatched it from her.

"Your chains are still mine," he'd snarled.