Author's notes: Well, here's chapter five of this story. I really wouldn't mind getting some reviews, if only to say you have liked it so far. . . I know it has been a little slow in the start and that the summary is perhaps not the most exciting, but. . . I feel miserable with so little response! (SNIF)

I would also like to know how you make fanfic net accept double spacing. I would like to put a little bit more "air" between the chapter subdivision, but have failed miserably. Virtual chocolate cookies to anyone that comes with suggestions...


Erik played absently with the box of matches lying on the mantelpiece. After shaking it a little and weighing it in his hand, he left it back in place. He trailed the edge of the shade of one of the gas lamps with his fingertips and then checked them. Not a single trace of soot. Darius was doing a remarkable good job. Erik would have to discuss with Nadir about giving him some kind of bonus, though Erik had no idea about how much money he still had. The Daroga had coaxed out of him the hiding place of the gold and jewels from his compensation from the Shah and the francs from his salary as the Opera Ghost while he'd been ill and had been acting as his administrator ever since. Not that it angered him, really. Things had mattered so little ever since Christine. . . Erik closed his eyes tightly against the pain, shook his head to drive away the thought. Anyway, Darius was handling the workload of two households and he should be rewarded for it.

Erik's hand wandered on over the mantelpiece and bumped into the box containing the tuning instruments. He opened and closed the lid while he wondered how it had ended up there again. Since he had tuned the piano, he had all but forgotten about its existence. Maybe Darius thought it was a fine decoration for the otherwise barren mantelpiece.

Having finished his recognition of the objects over the fireplace, Erik wandered to the window. The branches of the tree on the sidewalk were covered with new shoots. Erik wondered at the light shade of green, how it gently filtered the rays of the warming sun. Spring had eventually arrived and he had to admit that it lifted his spirits somewhat. He'd lived so long underneath the Paris Opera, oblivious of the change of seasons, that the simple renewal of life taking place in front of him seemed something of a miracle.

The change in the weather had also affected him. The nagging cough, the after effect of the illness in his lungs, had all but disappeared. His wounds didn't hurt as much now, and his limp had diminished considerably. Of course, he knew all that was not the result of the renewal of nature, but of regular meals, rest and daily exercise, but he couldn't help the feeling that he was, in a way, connected to the world again. Erik smiled in self mockery. His brain had to be going rancid to conceive such nonsense.

Slowly, he wandered to the glass door. He caught sight of the piano and wondered whether it was still tuned. Of course it was tuned, he scolded himself. It had been less than a month since he'd done it, and he'd gone through the work with an obsessive care.

He opened the door and wandered into what he'd begun to consider the music room, though no music had ever been played in there. His sight rested on the two cases on the table by the window. A knot tightened in his stomach. Not long ago, in one of his wanderings through the apartment, his curiosity had driven him to open them.

One held a fine violin. The other one, the remains of his music scores. He had gone through them: the opening of Don Juan Triumphant, a sonata, a quartet he'd never finished, fragments of a symphony. The pages had been carefully smoothened and glued together. Some of them had burnt edges. Erik guessed that whatever was not in the case had been reduced to ashes or ripped beyond repair. Darius and Nadir had gathered the salvageable remnants from the floor of his lair and had put them together. He had imagined what a task it had been for two men who couldn't read any music, to find the matching pieces, to put together what was left of his music. Wonderingly, he had leafed through the remains of his works until he had come across the songs he'd written for Christine. That had been too much, and he'd closed the case. He hadn't dared open it since then.

Erik's eyes turned from the table and fell upon the cover of the piano. He opened it, and touched one of the keys. The instrument emitted a perfect sound. A single piece, he thought. He would play a simple song to make sure it was still tuned. He sat on the bench.


Erik sipped the remnants of his breakfast tea and stood up. He had sent Darius away in what he hoped would be a long errand. He wanted to play a little bit, and he didn't want to have any witnesses. He had barely endured Nadir's gloating the day his friend had come an hour earlier than what he used to and caught him practicing scales on the piano. The next days, Nadir's self satisfied grin had kept Erik on edge. The Daroga seemed to think that getting him back to play was some kind of redemption. Erik snorted. If he only knew. . .

Practicing scales and playing tunes on the piano helped him to stretch the muscles on his left shoulder and to retain the dexterity of his hands. It also served well as a means to pass the time, but he was far from renewing his bond with music. He didn't dare to play anything by his favourite composers, much less to play anything he had himself composed. He feared the feelings the music stirred.

For such a long time had music been the only way to give voice to everything that laid dormant within him, everything that could not be expressed through words barely because there was no one there to listen. And then. . . then he had met Christine, and he had dared to hope. . . to dream. . .

Erik opened the piano with a slam. He chose a popular gigue, a fast dance in triple time. It wasn't a challenging piece by any means, but it was tricky enough to engage his attention and drive the hurtful thoughts away.


He was about to start another light piece when he heard the tell tale creak on the back door. Somebody was leaning on it. Erik frowned. It had been happening repeatedly in the past days. Whenever he played the piano, he'd hear, sooner or later, the faint creak of the hinges, if not when his listener arrived, then when he left, after Erik stopped playing. Whoever it was, he liked his music for he stayed there as long as Erik played.

Erik considered rushing out to the hall, opening the door and scaring whoever it was out of his socks but, once again, decided against it. The Phantom of the Opera was still a wanted man and he would fare better if his face, his mask, were not seen at all. He sighed. Despite the size of the apartment, larger than Nadir's at the Rue de Rivoli, he had started to feel trapped. All the years he'd spent underneath the Opéra Populaire had done nothing to quell his fear for closed places. In the Opéra there had been kilometres of halls and passages, and whenever he had wanted a breath of fresh air he'd been able to climb to the roof and tower above the city.

He started playing a bal-musette, one of those popular songs that were being played and danced in the cafés. And then he got an idea. He played a couple of pieces, making long pauses between them. He finished the last one and rose from the piano. He tiptoed down the hall. He reached the back door and waited. After a while, the door gave way, the hinges creaked. His audience had stopped leaning against it, and would be descending the stairs. Quietly, he unbolted the door and opened it a crack. He peeked outside, being careful to keep the masked side of his face hidden. He caught sight of a tousled auburn head right before the concierge's daughter disappeared down the service stairs. Erik smiled to himself as he closed the door. So this was his furtive listener.

The next morning, right before he started playing, he left a glass of milk and a plate with a piece of cake outside the back door. He would play, and when his guest had left, he would pick up the glass and plate. Nobody else would notice. The maids on the apartment above his went out on errands earlier in the morning and the concierge had never ventured above the second floor of the building.