Author's notes: Thank you Chibi Binasu-Chan and Allegratree for the reviews. Allegratree: Point taken. I'm happy to know you've enjoyed it so far. And thanks for including it in your favourite stories!

To other readers: Please, write a couple of lines. I am really interested in knowing what you think about the story so far.


Nadir darted a glance towards Erik across the table. Erik was meticulously stripping the fish on his plate with elegant movements, worthy of a surgeon. But what had struck Nadir's notice weren't Erik's table manners. There was a certain glow to his eyes, the trace of a smile on his lips. . . He almost seemed. . . cheerful. Nadir blinked when he applied the adjective to his friend. It had been so seldom he'd experienced Erik's debonair that he had trouble connecting the two.

"I'm sure I'm a wonderful subject for study, but maybe you could stop staring Daroga, and pass me the sauce?"

Despite the light tone, Erik's words held a trace of irritation, and Nadir's eyes darted away. He should know better than to goggle at Erik, who had always been extremely uncomfortable with people looking at him. A lifetime of being stared at could do that to a man. Besides. . . Nadir tried to steady the hand which held the sauce boat when a chill ran down his spine, remembering the few allusions Erik had made about the time he'd spent with the travelling fair.

They had been so veiled, so subtle, that it had taken Nadir a long time and a trip to one of those monstrous displays called freak shows to understand the implications of Erik's words. For the thousandth time, Nadir wondered how the French could call themselves a civilized nation if they allowed people to be caged and displayed like animals. The men that ran those shows were certainly not better than the cruellest slave traders Nadir had met back in Persia.

"I said thank you, Daroga. Could you release the sauce? Unless you want it all for yourself."

Erik could hardly contain his amusement. Only then Nadir noticed he'd been grasping one of the ends of the sauce boat while Erik held the other. He released his grip and avoided Erik's penetrating gaze. He clearly saw how amusement blended with a certain concern in Erik's eyes, and Nadir couldn't help wondering whether Erik had been finding that same concern in his eyes in the past months. He must have hated it. Nadir cleared his throat to hide his embarrassment.

"I'm sorry, my friend. I'm a bit tired this evening."

He prayed to Allah Erik wouldn't detect the lie in his words and sighed inwardly when he saw his friend nod lightly and serve a generous amount of sauce over his vegetables.

"You, on the other hand, seem to be in high spirits," he ventured, already anticipating the sarcastic remark that would follow.

He was astonished when Erik looked up and raised his visible eyebrow.

"Do I?" he wondered. "Well, maybe I am."

There was a short pause, in which Erik seemed to be contemplating whether or not to voice his thoughts aloud.

"Don't you find it ridiculous Daroga, that spring should, after all these years, still lighten one's mood?"

Nadir considered Erik's words briefly.

"Well, I suppose it must come as a surprise after the years you spent. . . indoors."

Erik was more amused than annoyed at Nadir's crass understatement of his life under the Opéra.

"Indoors," he repeated, just to make the Persian flinch.

He smiled to himself when he got the desired effect, and had a bite of fish.

Actually, he was pleased the Daroga hadn't even hinted at the source of his light mood. His little furtive audience had been assiduously coming to hear him play every morning, and had been dutifully emptying the glass of milk and plate of cake or pastries he left for her at his doorstep.

He hadn't tried to meet her since the first glimpse he'd had of her in the servant's staircase. He didn't want to scare her. But he'd spied her from his bedroom window when she went out to the courtyard. She'd been happily chatting to herself these days, and that same afternoon Erik had caught her humming one of the tunes he'd played earlier in the morning. He found it utterly absurd that he should be delighted by that, but he couldn't help himself.


Erik struck a false note when he heard the shouts coming from the main foyer of the building. His hands froze over the keys. The roars diminished in intensity and then rose again, this time coming from the back of the apartment. The witch was standing at the bottom of the service stairs. The next cry sounded closer. Erik's heart sank. She was climbing the service stairs. Until then, the little girl had been safe while she remained at his doorstep. Without further thought, Erik silently hurried down the hall. He unbolted the door and opened it. He met a pair of terrified brown eyes. The child was rooted to the spot, like a trapped deer waiting for the final kill. Erik stood to one side and beckoned her.

"Come in, child."

She stiffened, staring at the mask, and Erik was stabbed by a sharp pain. He crouched down, to be level with her eyes.

"Come, Gracie," he urged her, uttering her name for the first time. "Come in. It is safe here."

She looked inside, hesitant.

"Gracie! Where are you, you stupid brat?"

The bellowing was coming closer. The little girl darted into the apartment.

With swift movements, Erik gathered the glass and the plate, scattered the few crumbs that were on the doorstep and closed the door quietly. He turned around to face the child, who stood frozen, wide eyed, her back against the wall of the kitchen. He put a finger to his lips while the heavy steps approached the third floor.

They stared at each other while the steps got closer and went away, towards the top of the building. They stood motionless until they heard them coming down, pass in front of the door and fade away.

Only then did Erik take a deep breath, realizing he'd been holding it. The little girl mimicked his gesture, relaxing a bit, but she tensed again when he moved forward. Her eyes, once again fixed on his mask, were frightened and pleading at the same time. With graceful movements, the result of years of practice, Erik skirted her and disappeared into the kitchen, where he left the plate and the glass. When he appeared again at the kitchen door he crouched down, in an attempt to make his size less threatening. He was careful to keep a good distance between them. He smiled, trying to soothe her. He prayed the expression was not too distorted by his misshapen lips.

"My name is Erik."

She didn't utter a word.

"And you are Gracie, aren't you?"

For a long time, she stared at him and, at last, answered with the slightest nod.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Mademoiselle Gracie," Erik said in the most welcoming tone he could muster.

He bowed his head briefly and extended his hand.

She studied it, full of doubt, and he mentally slapped himself. He should know better than to offer bodily contact. She would now be repulsed, his attempts at easing the strain ruined. He bit his lower lip hard, trying not to show the bitterness that crept inside him. And then, just as he was staring at the floorboards in dismay, a small sticky hand grabbed his and gave it a squeeze. Her eyes were grave as she pumped his arm up and down, released his hand and stepped back. Erik gave her what he hoped was a radiant smile.

"Would you like to see the piano?" he asked quietly.

She frowned in confusion.

"The instrument I play? Do you want to listen to me play?"

Her nod was immediate.

"All right. Come then. It is in the dining room," he explained, as he rose to his feet avoiding any brusque movements. He skirted her again and went down the hall.

He grinned to himself as he heard the pattering of her feet behind him.