Author's notes: Thank you Lyd-T and Lady Golowen for the kind words! Some of Erik's traces of character are taken from the book and some from the musical and movie… I thought at the beginning that he resembled more the Phantom from the books but he turned out being a different mélange. I'm really happy to know you are enjoying the story, and hope you are pleased with the development! Roses, comments, critiques and complaints are VERY WELCOME!


Erik watched the saucepan over the furnace intently. He wondered why on earth milk had the annoying habit to warm up so slowly and then, suddenly, when one was distracted, boil and spill over the edge of the pot before one could take it off the fire. The past few afternoons Darius had come to a foul smelling apartment, reeking of burnt milk. The man had looked at Erik with suspicion. His eyes had the same expression he'd watched him with when Erik had demanded that he didn't come in the mornings, and when he had bid him to buy fruitcake and biscuits, but he hadn't made any comments and had complied exactly with Erik's demands. Praised be the proverbial tact of Persians, of which Nadir was not a good example.

Erik lifted the saucepan and poured the milk into a glass. He stirred a spoonful of honey in it. Gracie loved sweet things. Erik smiled at the memory of the fascinated expression on her face the first time he had served her warm milk sweetened with honey. Would she like chocolate as well? He wondered. He would have to order Darius to buy some.

A timid rap at the service door made him look up. Perfect. His little guest had arrived just in time.

Erik went out to the hall and unbolted the door. He stood to one side, flattening himself against the wall. He knew that, despite the fact she seemed to trust him, she needed all the space he could give her to avoid feeling threatened.

"Good morning," he greeted her with what he hoped was a cheerful tone.

His voice had never really ventured into the register in which one expresses friendliness or affability. It had never had the chance to, but this time it apparently made an impression that was jovial enough, for he was graced with a bright smile.

Without further invitation, she made her way into the apartment, heading straight to the music room. Erik locked and bolted the door and retrieved the milk and pastries from the kitchen. She would be, by now, sitting on the high backed chair by the table.

The first morning she'd come into his apartment, he had invited her to sit there and by now it seemed she firmly believed that was her place. She never ventured around the music room. She never touched the piano, though she contemplated it with wonder. She never touched, in fact, anything around her. She just sat there, hands primly folded on her lap, until he came with the milk and pastries. She devoured them in the blink of an eye, and then she listened to him play. When he finished, she would stand up and head to the back door, wait until he had opened it for her and make her way down the stairs. She never thanked him, never spoke to him, but her smiles were always wide and eloquent. And the last three mornings she had waved him good-bye as she disappeared down the stairs.

Erik left the plate and glass in front of her and backed a few steps. She didn't start eating right away. She always waited until he was at a respectable distance. He sat down on the bench, his back towards the piano, and watched her gobble up everything at an astounding pace. It was as if she was afraid the food would be taken from her as soon as she had shown signs of wanting it. Erik cringed. He knew, only too well, what that fear was like. He also knew why she seemed to have such proper manners. They weren't the result of shyness or a formal upbringing. She was afraid, terrified of being punished.

He turned around and opened the piano.

"What would you like to listen to first, little one? A lullaby?"

He had been explaining to her the differences between the kinds of music he played, and though he had never received an answer to his lengthy accounts, he knew she had been paying attention and had understood them. The look in her eyes was always alert when he talked to her. He peeked over his shoulder and saw her nod.

"A lullaby it is, then."

He started playing.

Two lullabies and a polka later, he got an idea. He stopped playing and slid to the side on the bench. He turned around. Gracie was regarding him with a curious look.

"Do you want to play, Gracie?"

Her forehead furrowed.

"Come," he coaxed her, patting the bench. "Sit here. I will teach you how to play, so we can play together."

She eyed him for a moment and then she stood up. Timidly, she approached. She stopped when she was beside the bench. He nodded, beckoning her, and she perched at the very edge. One inch further, and she would tumble down. But Erik knew better than to try to draw her closer. Slowly, he lifted his right hand and played the first compasses of a short tune with his index finger.

"Now you," he indicated her.

Her little right index repeated his movements. She struck the wrong key, and winced.

"It's all right, don't worry. It is like this," he explained. "See? Play it."

She struck the keys, brow furrowed in deep concentration. She got it right this time. Erik nodded.

"Very well. Try it again."

He made her repeat it several times, before playing the next few notes. After half an hour, she had memorized the whole song. And then, he played the accompaniment while she led. He couldn't help striking some funny, dramatic chords at the end. She dissolved in giggles.

"Again?" He asked her.

She nodded vehemently.

Erik waved back with a smile as Gracie went down the stairs. He waited until she was gone before he locked the back door and bolted it. He made his way back to the music room, where he closed the cover of the piano and picked up the glass and the plate.

He would invite her to the sitting room the next day. He would show her the tuning instruments, and explain to her how they had helped him tune the piano. He would open the instrument and make her play the keys so she could see the hammers strike the chords. He would tell her about the pedals, would press them while she looked into the piano and figured out how the mechanism worked. He would take out the stack of paper and drawing instruments from his room so she could draw. He wondered whether she could read. Most probably not, she was too young for that. But he could tell her stories. Surely she would like fairy tales. He knew a heap of them from his time among the gypsies, and many more from his days in Persia. He would draw the characters for her, especially the funny ones. He could already envision some of them: the fat king, the pompous prime minister. She would also like to see the images of the fantastic ones, wouldn't she? Anything to make her giggle like she had today.