A/N: I hope you all are enjoying, and please, please, please remember to review! I love to hear from all of you, but know I don't expect them before I post some more. Though, I will be honest and say reviews do speed me along because they let me know someone else is reading and enjoying!

Taking on the more "magical" Erik bit.

Again, I am so very sorry about the wait on this one. I've got two other fictions beside this going, and it's hard to keep up with them! This is a short one for now, to tide you over until later.

Chapter 17- A Close Call

Constance sighed heavily to herself, setting the oil lamp down on top of the small upright piano upon the stage they had used today for auditions. It had been an incredibly long day, from all of the singing she had heard ranging from downright atrocious to exceedingly beautiful, and finally to her dealings with Erik. She had been so mad at him for snooping, but after a short length of time, she found she was not that angry about it. Of course she was still angry that he had turned her words around, and used it against her, to try to one-up here in his little game of wits, but what he had read was not that horrible. She was actually almost happy that he read the parts about Christine. Perhaps it would make him start to think about Christine in a new light, or conversely make him see the obviousness of Christine's continued admiration and even love for him, while she remained married to Raoul. Make him yearn for the thing he most certainly could not have now…

Then there had been the whole incident with Philippe that day. She had hated how he just walked into the room as though he owned the place, or at least was Patron again, and owned her with the way he had meant to kiss her. Constance could not help but scold herself for inviting it upon herself on the previous day when the Chagnys first arrived. He expected to be able to act like that now…

But she still did not understand why he was acting in such a way in public. The Chagnys never, ever acted so frivolously in public. It was a mystery, and one that gave her an even larger headache than the one created by everything else.

At least a few good things had happened during the day, and that was being able to cast Christine as soprano and finding the marvelous talent that was Gabriel de la Vega.

Constance sat down on the piano bench, adjusting her skirts, and looked out into the darkened auditorium. They really did need a chandelier, but the chandelier makers were still in the process of designing one for them. She would just have to make do until then. Turning around to face the piano, she adjusted her skirts again, touching the ivory keys in no particular order, delighting in the high tinkling filtering through the auditorium. She played around a bit, hitting each of the white and black keys in succession to each other from the lowest note to the highest. Then, in her completely horrid technique and rhythm, she began to punch away at the keys, creating something that could have resembled music, though she was sure it was not recognizable as Beethoven.

How she wished she could play… just to be able to relive her happier times with William.

She stopped her tinkering, and shut the key cover, resting her elbows on it and her head in her hands. Hearing a quiet scamper across the stage, she glanced up quickly, finding one of the feral cats that ran wild about the Opera and took care of their mice extermination. The gray feline chased the mouse behind something he could not reach, and turned back to her, deciding to give up the chase. Its large green eyes met hers briefly, the eyes glowing oddly in the light of her lamp, before arching its back and scurrying away as though something had scared it.

Constance turned her head again, looking at the lamp light closely, realizing then that two other green eyes were standing behind the piano and peering down at her. She grasped for her chest, and jumped slightly, her brain finally working out the shape and the look of malcontent on the person's face. "Damn you."

"As always, dear Madame, a pleasure to see you," he said quietly, almost in a jest.

"I suppose you came for your money," she said.

Erik afforded her a slight, devious smirk, patting his overcoat. "I have it already, Madame."

She would have fought him about that, but she just did not have it in her after this long day, "How did you get it?"

"I have my ways," he replied quietly.

"Very well," she said, yawning slightly and turned her gaze away from him, hoping he would understand her motions as wishing to see him gone. But he did not move, and his eyes remained on her, cutting into her with his icy stare, as though he were trying to get a better understanding of her. She at least hoped he could not read minds, for all his other seemingly magical abilities were enough to try to comprehend, and she wanted at least one thing secret to herself.

After a bit longer, he cleared his throat, "Can you not play? Or were you doing that horrid rendition of Beethoven on purpose to draw me from my home?"

Constance glared at him, "No, I cannot play."

"Don't all society girls have some talent in the arts?" he questioned jeeringly.

"I tried to dance and I tripped over my feet. I tried to paint, but my flower looked like a horrid discolored spot on the canvas. And when they introduced to me to music, I loved it, but could I play it? No," she said quietly. "My rhythm and coordination are terrible."

He was silent for a bit, listening to her with the same jeering expression, but it softened slightly.

She sighed, "So they put a pen in my hand a piece of paper beneath. That is my art."

"You are rather forthcoming with your conversation this evening," he said.

"What is the point to hiding it?" she asked. "If you wanted to find out this information, you could have."

"You are learning," he said. "You are not as dense as I took you for."

She glared at him, shaking her head, "You know, you might actually get more done being pleasant with people."

"I've tried being pleasant, Madame, and they do not listen to pleasant," he spoke harshly. "But they do respond to force and anger."

"This Opera is under new management, Erik, and this manager will not respond to continued attacks of character to break one's spirit down enough to give into your wishes," she said resolutely.

He met her eyes, "You are an ass that will not be moved by it's master's whip."

Constance scoffed, "Good sir, you are not my master, nor will you ever be."

"We shall see whom is in control," he said.

She stood up quickly, thoroughly angry now, "I am offering you a friendly countenance. Why can you not accept it?"

He was silent for some time, staring at her, trying to burn her with his cold gaze. His lips twitched, evidence of his anger, and she expected him to say something, but he did not.

"Answer me," she said.

"It cannot be friendly if at any moment you could let my secret slip," he said.

Constance grunted in an unladylike fashion, "I thought you knew by now I have no intention of letting anyone know of your whereabouts. If I did, I would lose the one thing that means anything to me any more."

"I do not know what I should believe about you," he said flatly. "But perhaps we will try this pleasantness and friendliness."

"Are you even capable of it?" she questioned bitterly.

Erik glared.

She sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of her nose, "It would be easier upon us both if we call a truce."

He nodded slightly, "We shall see how this goes."

Constance met his eyes, and thrust her hand out between them, "A truce, then."

Erik looked at her skeptically, as though she were trying to deceive him again, but he accepted her hand, shaking it firmly. "If you do not hold true to your word…"

"Then fire and brimstone shall be thrust down upon me," she said, letting a small smile cross her face.

He sighed heavily and walked around the piano now, sitting down in her vacated seat, slowly making to pull off his gloves. She watched him do this with great interest, finding that there was not much different about his hands than a regular man's hands. Why did he hide them then? Was it just an extension of the security of the mask? He looked up at her, "You were trying to play Moonlight Sonata, weren't you?"

"I was," she replied.

"Why do you know that one?" he questioned, meeting her eyes.

"My husband," she said quietly, looking closely at him. Sometimes she wished she could just reach across and rip his mask from his face. She so wanted to know what was beneath.

He sighed, "I see."

"He toiled greatly, trying to teach me after we married, but I could never learn," she said. "I was more content to sit and listen to him play."

"He knew how to play?" he questioned. "It is odd for a male in society to retain those skills, even if he is taught them at a young age."

"Music and horses," Constance replied, letting a small laugh from her lips. "Those were his loves. I often wondered if I was third upon that list."

Erik was silent for a moment, looking at her. "Is that why you are here, and managing this Opera? Being around the music… does it remind you of him?"

She nodded, feeling the sadness rise up in her body again.

"That is why you will not tell anyone I am here," he said confidently. "Because you would lose this chance to live again through music and the remembrance of your husband, should they know I was here."

"Yes," she said simply.

Erik turned his eyes away from her, "We are similar creatures, you and I."

"As much as it pains you to admit," she said.

"I find it humorous that we both use music to escape from our sadness," he said. "And yet it only brings back painful memories."

"You should be careful, Monsieur, you are bordering upon civility," she said quietly, trying to get herself to quit thinking of this quiet situation and the fact that he was bringing up memories she would rather relive on her own. How could this man go from complete arrogance and coolness, to one now that seemed to be caring and even perhaps, accepting?

He gave a small sound of disgust, and turned back toward the piano, poising his hands over the ivory keys. Slowly, his long fingers moved over them, barely brushing each one as though he never needed to push on the keys to make the sound come. But he was playing this piece expertly, and from memory, and she was utterly amazed by it. Why was he playing this now? For her? As a sign that he would try to be friendly?

She doubted it.

But there was that possibility.

Before she knew what was happening, though, he grabbed his gloves and disappeared into the shadows. She looked at the piano bench, completely bewildered by what had just happened. That was until she heard the loud, unforgiving creak to the large auditorium doors. Constance glanced quickly toward the doors, watching the figure descend to the stage, finding that it was a well-dressed Philippe. He smiled at her, "Do not stop playing because of me. It was quite lovely."

Constance searched for someway to respond to that, but she could find none.

"Why are you here?" she questioned.

"Olivier said I should come for you," he replied, walking around the stage. "You must come home earlier than you have the past few evenings. We are having a celebration for Christine."

Constance pursed her lips together, "You are attending a party for Christine Daaé?"

"I must, to show support for my brother," he said. "He has asked me to be Marguerite's godfather. Christine was not happy with it. I suppose I should try to see a better side of her."

"As though loving your brother was not enough," Constance replied sarcastically, sitting down on the piano bench again.

He afforded her a terse glance, and said, "When did you learn to play the piano? You could do nothing of the sort when I knew you."

"I…" she began. He was backing her into a corner again.

"Especially with such feeling as I just heard," he said.

Constance looked at him, "I suppose I picked up some rhythm somewhere."

Philippe gazed down upon her, as though he were trying to read her thoughts. She could plainly see it in his eyes that he did not believe her. She had been so horrible as a young girl and woman, before leaving with William, Philippe knew well enough her capabilities. And with the magic that Erik had played the small bit of the song, from a life of living music and nothing but music, she knew Philippe could see through this guise.

"Please, play for me," he said.

"Philippe…" she began, "I really should not."

He raised a challenging brow and motioned to the keys, "Please."

Constance took a deep breath, and looked down at the piano. What was she going to do? Lifting her fingers over them, she decided she would fumble quickly and say it was because someone was standing over her, watching. That would work. Would it not?

"Why are you so worried if you can play it?" he questioned.

She took another breath, and pressed down on the first key that she knew well enough. Then came the second key, at the correct time and without a fumble. The third. Then the fourth… the twentieth… fortieth. All in time, and with as much passion as Erik had played.

She noticed something, though. It was not her moving her hands. Well, it was her fingers hitting the keys, but it did not feel like herself within her body. It was a strange feeling, like something was in her mind, controlling her movements, bending her to its will. Constance felt powerless against it, trying to pull her fingers from the keys to end it. She had to stop it somehow. The feeling was too intense, and something she was not prepared to handle.

She was a puppet on a puppet-master's strings and nothing more.

Finally, she was released from the firm grasp, and she felt air fill back into her lungs, her chest heaving slightly, from what she did not know. She was not physically exerted at all.

Constance struggled for her voice, but looked up at Philippe. He sighed defeatedly, "I shall be outside when you are ready."

He disappeared quickly enough, almost as though he were angry that he had not been able to call her on her lie. She looked around, bewildered, trying to understand what had just happened. Turning back to the keys, she tried to repeat what she had just done, but after the third note, she cringed as her fingers fumbled mercilessly and she could not continue.

What had come over her?

She stood from the seat, and stepped away from piano, still trying to recover from her daze. Glancing around the dark stage area again, she caught the outline of the darkly-dressed man, a serious look upon his white mask-clad face, before he turned on his heel and vanished back into the shadows. It could not have been him, could it? He was not able to control minds. He would have been able to do that already. Right?

Had it been him?

A shiver went up her spine, and she let out a long breath, the afterglow of that experience then dissipating quickly.

However much she was offended that he had used whatever seeming power he had on her, she was glad that he had, because Philippe would have ousted her without hesitation.

"Thank you, Erik," she whispered into the darkness.

And somewhere she could imagine him smile… if he could smile at all.