"Erik, are you quite mad?" André demanded hotly of me the following day. "If you take your son out, how the hell do you expect to feed him, clothe him, keep him out of sight?"

I smiled grimly from behind my mask. "That's what my 'pension' is for, m'sieu." I knew he was angry simply because without a 'ghost', the declining popularity of the Opera would only drain further.

"Your…" His eyes narrowed. "Ah, right. Your fee for 'ghostly services'. You've not been doing much of that lately," he suggested, glancing towards the stack of what I knew were the Opera's ledger books.

"If you dock my pay, m'sieu, I shall see to it that my lost money is made up for in your lost reputation." I let silky menace creep into my calm voice and André stiffened indignantly.

"I said nothing of the sort!"

"You did not have to," I replied dryly. "Ghosts can read body language as well as perform more prosaic things – say, tumbling a chandelier." I rose casually to my feet, smirking at the anger suffusing his features. "Now, if you would, please find me suitable lodging close to the Opera for the next three weeks or so."

"That will require you to go out," he warned. "Landlords enjoy their tenants to pay them in person."

"I will take care of that. Oh, and while I'm 'on vacation', do find a new tenor. Ricardo has gone quite deaf, you know."

André winced. "I had heard he wasn't performing quite up to pitch." He flushed at his pun, then paled at my growling chuckle. "I'll see what I can do."

"Do it, André," I suggested pleasantly. "For if you do not, I shall do it – and leave you to pick up what's left." I delighted in his shudder, chuckled again just to see him pale, and vanished through one of the many trapdoors I had engineered when I had helped build this place nearly thirty years before. I had seen three managements, a score of ballet girls and a smattering of divas (only one had every been worth half the meaning of the title) come and go over the years, but never had any of them figured out my magician's trickery.

I was well aware that trickery was all there was to my ghostly character, and if asked, I would shrug and simply remark that I must be the most well-paid charlatan in Paris.

I reached the secret door to my home, slipping in and following the darkened passageway to the lake, poling across it in silence. Listening for any sound of my son, any indication that he had shaken off the lethargy that his illness had wrapped him in, I was quite surprised when I turned and beheld him standing there, one hand pressed in a deceptively casual manner against the lintel.

I had not heard him move!

Perhaps fifty-nine years is quite an age to be reckoned with, but I knew that it was only my heart which gave me trouble from time to time, not my hearing.

So how in God's name had he done that?

He smiled at me then, that charming, beautiful smile of pure mischievous deviltry, a smile that had never failed to weaken any cold feelings of displeasure I may ever have had towards him. "Did I frighten you, Father?"

Impertinent little snip! His thoughts, so clearly audible it was as if he were using his true voice, held even the exact note of suppressed delight and gentle smug teasing.

"No," I responded flatly, crossing my arms. "What are you doing up?"

For a single heart-breaking moment, he reminded me of Christine, whom I had mourned for weeks after seeing the announcement of her marriage to that disgusting little drunkard Raoul Du Chagney. The announcement had been in an English newspaper I had picked up by chance while haunting the wet streets of Paris one long ago night.

I'd had my fourth seizure of the heart that night and had it not been for my own odd sense of duty and love towards my son, I knew I would have thrown myself from the roof of the Opera.

But even now, as I gaze at his hurt features with mock severity to hide my inner agony, even now I know why I did not die on the Parisian streets that night.

It was because of my son.

His features had changed to a subtle reminder of his mother now; sullen resentment burned beneath his haunting eyes at my dismissal of his attempt to guide some levity into my life. Reaching out, I touched his unscarred cheek gently, inwardly flinching at the electric heat I felt smouldering beneath his skin. His penetrating eyes, oddly unclouded by the fever I knew was sapping his strength, met mine searchingly for a moment and found not condemnation and anger within them, but tenderness and love.

He relaxed slowly, the mischief returning to his features, though with notably less strength. His usually pale features had become pallid, almost translucent with some inner strain, and I made my decision in stone in that moment.

I would take him from here.

Perhaps even for good.

But for now, I quickly lent him my arm and seated him on the old organ stool before weakness took what dignity he had reserved along with his failing strength. "Take deep breaths, Erik, it's all right." I gently pushed his head down and counted to ten slowly, my eyes closed in horror at the heat flaring beneath his skin. At eight counts, he pushed my hands away, and I was glad to feel that there was less weakness in his hands today. But each breath was still an agony, and the cold, damp air in this place would only send him more swiftly down the path to whatever there was after this life.

"Are you all right?" I asked softly at long last. He nodded with the slow caution of one that is not quite that his head is indeed still well attached to his neck and cleared his throat as softly as he could. I watched him for long moments, then spoke gently. "I need you to gather some things, beloved. Anything precious you feel you may want."

His eyes flashed to mine, and without a word, asked why.

"I've taken a place above ground to use until you're feeling better," I replied, feeling my own heart speed up in response to the growing horror in his eyes.

"Father, no, I can't…" His thought was barely audible in my mind and I could feel his brain whirling with confusion. "I can't go up there, out there, not like this!" In trembling desperation, he pointed to his masked face.

"Erik, I survived above ground for most of my life, you know that. A few weeks, to rid your lungs of the infection..."

"You survived in a cage!" His thoughts seethed with fury and I recoiled at the memory. Whatever had possessed me to tell him that story?

"There are no illiterate gypsies in Paris of 1901," I returned smoothly. "You will be safe with me. I shall not let anyone hurt you."

He seemed to calm, but in point of fact, he was mystified. "You will be there? You are not making me go up there alone?"

I laughed gently, only now realizing the true cause of his panic. "Of course I will, you silly boy. Do you think I'd let you out into the world alone? You'd have the city on its knees within a week!"

He smiled at that and I relaxed slowly. This would work. "Come, we only have a few hours until nightfall."

We worked slowly together over the next few hours, with me forcing him to take periodic rests that he, in turn, grumbled at. We said little to each other until I called the cats to me. One, a descendant of my beloved Ayesha, was Erik's pride and joy, his beautiful, feline, Siamese darling.

The other, whom I much preferred, as Leysha brought back too many memories of the days when my only friend was indeed her ancestress; the other cat was Erik's only source of discontent with me. He and the kitten were constantly at war with each other. The unnamed little kitten, a cast-off of André's (his cat was forever dropping young) constantly found new ways to irritate my son – seeming to wait until he had just reached a thunderous climax in a new composition to walk all over the organ keys and gnaw on his fingers, or wait until he had fallen exhaustedly into his bed after a long bout of insomnia to chew industriously on his toes. The worst he had ever done, this kitten, which had almost gotten him killed, was to bat a full bottle of ink over freshly written scores of my son's.

If my son was feeling at all charitable, he'd occasionally pet the animal, but most of the time, would simply dispense with something so simply, and lock him in my room instead. Of course, the poor crafty thing would then yowl so piteously at my door that I would be forced to let him out and the row would start all over again.

"Leave that one here!" He complained. "There are mice enough and water! If I am to be convalescing at least let me do it in peace. Better still, you take him and leave Leysha and I here."

I awarded him a flat, unfriendly glare and the kitten smugly curled itself in my arms.

At long last, we had gathered together what little Erik felt he would need to make this transition easier for him and we moved through the dank underground passages leading to the door on the Rue Scribe. He had never come here for any reason and I caught him glancing around in silent awe at the new sights.

But when I opened the heavy door for him, my other hand carrying the cats in their baskets, he froze and shrank back, one hand pressed to his chest as he fought for breath.

Dear God, have I cursed him with my heart's ailments as well as my scars? No, no, it was only panic causing this pressure, not any lasting condition. I breathed a little easier. "Erik, hush, you're all right. You're fine, you will be fine. Come along now." I picked up the cat's carrying basket and moved out into the softly-falling darkness, looking back over my shoulder. He still lay against the wall, face pressed gently against the cold stone, his breath heaving from him in congested, ragged coughs.

With my heart wrenching in my chest, I went back towards him, my free hand clenching at my side not in exasperation but in fury at the fates that had caused him to have to fear the outside world like this. "Come along Erik."

Slowly, with the ease of years of practice, my voice slipped hypnotically through the barrier of his panic. For tense moments, I watched as he resisted furiously then nearly capered with triumph as he rose stiffly to his feet.