There was a light supper waiting for me, a dish of good bread and chicken waiting for me when I finished putting away my clothing. After supper, we sat together in Erik's library, a grotto-like alcove off of the study.

"Shall I read to you?" he said, after seeing me to a chair.

I had hoped that he would sing to me again, but I nodded. To hear his voice was wonderful, even if he just wanted to read aloud to me.

To be honest, I quickly forgot just what he was reading to me. I do not know whether it was a story or a poem or some work of history. All I could hear was his voice itself, a haunting, magnificent voice that seemed almost tangible in the candlelight.

From time to time, I looked across the room at him. From where I sat, I could not see his face, only the cold white of the mask.

I wondered about him, about his sad life. What would he have been without the deformity? Was his tortured face the price he had to pay for his brilliant mind?

If there had been no mask, he would not have passed his days in the cellars of an Opera House, never become a living ghost, an angel of music. He might have never loved Christine, only to lose her. He might have been happy.

Finally, he laid the book aside.

"It's late, Marguerite, you ought to go to sleep. I wouldn't want you to be late for practice in the morning."

I rose reluctantly. I did not look forward to practice or the company of the ballet tarts and chorus, to my normal life.

Erik did not rise. He ran his fingers aimlessly over the worn leather binding of his book. He seemed to be deep in thought.

As I passed his chair, I noticed that, beneath his open shirt collar, he wore a gold chain. Suspended from the chain was a diamond ring.

It must have be Christine's ring, I thought sadly.

Once in the bedroom, I drew the black lace curtain down and stepped behind an old, carved screen to undress. Once I had changed, I peeked out from behind the curtain. Erik had left the library and was walking slowly along the lake's edge. He had removed the mask, though from where I stood, I could not see his deformity clearly.

"Good night, Erik," I called to him.

"Good night, Marguerite," he answered without turning.

The next several weeks were almost identical. I rose early and, after rolls and coffee, Erik would escort me to the theatre above. I passed my days in the theatre as I always had. Tired after hours of stretching and dancing and singing, I returned with Erik to his home. In the evenings, he would read to me.

An understudy had been given my role in Berengaria after Maman died, but a new production of Les Cascades was planned. That would keep everyone busy. I was offered a very good role as one of the water nymphs. They had been pleased with my role as Zadira.

The new role was very good, but I felt little enthusiasm in securing it.

It was now over a month after Maman's funeral. I was surprised at how easily I had gone from life with her in our high, cramped apartment, to life with Erik in his underground world.

That evening, Erik laid aside the books and told me of his stay in Persia. I knew he had spent some years away from the Opera House, that he had gone as far as Russia and India, that he had traveled with Gypsies.

I could tell, as he spoke of the Persian court, that there were parts of the story that he did not wish to speak of. Grim things that he did not want to relive. I did not question him about these things. These memories were his own and it was up to him to share them or keep silent.

When I retired for the evening, I found I was not sleepy. Vivid images from Erik's tales shone in my mind. I got out of bed and glanced around the edge of the curtain. The rest of the house was in darkness. I lit a lamp and sat down at the mahogany writing desk that stood against one wall of my bedroom. There was a supply of good paper in one of the desk's many compartments. It was writing paper, but I'd little opportunity to use it. I took a pencil and began to draw.

When I was done, I laid the picture on the desk and looked at it. I had drawn a garden, one of the Persian gardens of Erik's tale. I drew it as he described it. There was the fountain in the center, the roses beyond counting, the delicate stone arches. All were there. And so was he. In the corner, there stood a man, tall and dark-haired. He wore European clothes beneath an embroidered robe. He stood in the shadows, only a hint of a mask visible.

Tired at last, I extinguished the lamp and settled into bed.

I awoke to hear Erik's voice just beyond the curtain, reprimanding me. It seems I had overslept and, if I did not hurry, I would miss practice.

I rushed to dress. As I hastily raised the curtain, the picture fluttered from my desk. I did not see where it fell.

By the time Erik brought me back from practice, I had forgotten the sketch completely. I went up to the bedroom to change out of my white practice clothes and into the plain black dress I usually wore to supper.

When I came down to the study, Erik was at his desk. My picture lay in front of him.

He rose and handed it to me.

"This is yours, I assume. I found it on the steps near your room."

"I...I didn't mean for you to see it."

He examined it for a minute.

"Why not? It's good."

"Good? Oh, no, it's nothing. I meant nothing by it. I just couldn't sleep."

"Did you ever take drawing lessons?"

I shook my head. Before I entered the Opera's ballet school, while Maman was still a dancer, I had spend a few years at a nearby convent school. One of the nuns sometimes let me scribble a bit on spare pieces of paper, nothing more.

"The roses, the fountain. Just as I told you. But why am I there?"

"It was your story, Erik. You belonged there. You aren't angry?"

He sighed deeply and laid the picture in my hands.

"No, Marguerite, I am not."

The following evening, I was very tired and out of sorts when I returned from practice. Sorelli resented having to act as ballet mistress - she though it diminished her status with the Opera Populaire and she took it out on everyone by working us to death. As I walked down to the lake with Erik, I was silent and I ached all over.

I decided I would go to bed early. I was simply exhausted.

I changed into my nightgown and didn't even bother to brush my hair as usual. With a weary sigh, I stretched out on the bed. A minute later, I sat up again and lit the lamp. I realized that I had seen a parcel lying on the writing desk. I got the package and sat on the edge of the bed as I opened it.

Inside I found drawing paper, pencils, and a set of watercolor paints and brushes. Even I could tell that they were very high quality and very expensive.

I ducked through the curtain and hurried down to the library. Erik was sitting there. His mask lay on the floor. He reached for the mask when he heard me enter, but he could not pick it up without exposing his face to me. He raised his hand to cover the deformed side as best he could.

"What do you want, Marguerite?"

"Only to say thank you, Erik."

"Oh, you mean the paper and paint. You're welcome," he shrugged, "I thought you might enjoy them."