Rose felt sick as she watched him descend the sweeping staircase. In the half-shadows, he appeared to be preternaturally tall, a bloody figure dressed in red with the mask of black death over his face. The very air around him seemed to push people away from his orbit.

What was he doing? What was he thinking? And, why oh why didn't Christine run?

In her makeshift costume hastily borrowed from the opera wardrobe, Rose shivered at his measured, heavy step – it was as if he sought to affirm just how real he was with such firm footfalls. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Raoul slink off, but her head was pounding too hard to reason through the possibilities of what he might be thinking of doing.

The sneer in his voice chilled Rose as she listened to him announce the completion of his opera. In the semi-darkness, Rose strained to find the face of Madame Giry. But it was impossible to discern anyone's identity behind the dim glittering of sequined and beaded masks.

"Do something, do something, do something!"

Over and over, the mantra throbbed in her head. She had to help Christine. But her nimble dancer's feet that had been so lively and light just a moment before seemed glued to the spot.

She gasped along with everyone else when he viciously pulled the chain from around Christine's neck, and the look of pain in the girl's sweet doe eyes was almost more than Rose could bear.

However, when he disappeared in a puff of smoke into the hole in the floor, Rose didn't scream. She knew the secrets of too many magic tricks to be frightened witless by smoke, capes and confetti.

Finally, as the lights went up again, she caught sight of Meg Giry rushing towards Christine and hastened that way herself.

"Raoul! Oh Raoul!" Christine cried softly, staring at the starburst pattern in the floor.

"What do you mean?" Rose asked urgently.

"Raoul jumped into that hole after the phantom!" Meg explained, wrapping her arms around the shaking Christine.

Rose frowned, she must have missed that. But, she was filled with a sense of tension, as if she alone saw a moment that balanced on the knife's edge. She had to do something. She simply had no other choice.

"Stay by her side and don't leave her, Meg," Rose whispered. "If I am not back by morning…tell your mother."

Meg stared at Rose, her expression that of someone overwhelmed by too much mystery and too much shock. Rose offered her a quick, crooked smile, then took off at a run back towards the backstage entrance to the empty auditorium.


As she ran, Rose cursed the jolting bounce of the white feathery wings on the back of her costume. But the cherub wings from Christine's aria in Hannibal were all she could get her hands on before the ball. She entered the silent auditorium and climbed up on the stage. Dimly, the ruckus of the chorus and crew party reached her. But she paid no heed to it. Instead, she kicked off the delicate silver dance shoes she had borrowed from the costume department, gathered up her filmy silver skirts and charged up the narrow, squeaking staircase to the domed ceiling.

Without losing a beat, Rose went through the two doors into the passage where she had run into him months ago. It was completely dark, and she had forgotten to bring a candle. But she was too far along to think about going back.

Her reasoning was that he must have been using this passage to retreat back to wherever he hid within the opera house. If she followed it, she would find him. Why she wanted to find him, and what exactly she was going to say when she did were still a mystery.

However, given how long it seemed she wended her way through narrow corridors and down rickety stairs, it appeared she'd have plenty of time to figure it all out.

Rose lost track of the minutes, keeping time only by the anxious pounding of her heart. Her feet grew cold and sore from the rough stone floors she now silently felt her way along. She was sure that she was underground at this point. The air had changed from simply musty to heavy and damp.

Her hair clung to her forehead in damp little curling tendrils, and she felt her fingers begin to ache as the cold seeped into them as well. But she pressed on, driven by a near-frantic need to stop whatever chain of events she instinctively felt was now beginning to rapidly play out.

Her rapidly dwindling hope was renewed by the sight of the lake. It was as Christine had described it – emerald green with a faint mist swirling on it. But to her amazement, Rose found that she had taken a path that did not require that she navigate its waters. She had emerged from the labyrinth on a small ledge high above the lake. The path lead downwards and seemed to disappear into a dark corner of rock – but Rose felt sure that somehow, it emerged into his lair – the lair she could see light spilling from on the other side of the portcullis.

Eagerly, she hurried down the path and found that if she slid herself sideways, she could just pass between the rocks. And then, she found herself inside his…home?

For a moment, she stood, frozen, watching him as he paced back and forth before some sort of chaotic desk area. Still wearing the black mask of his costume, he savagely pulled off his coat and flung it angrily aside. He loosened his cravat, throwing it to the ground with equal force. One hand seemed to be closed in a fist, but Rose thought she saw the telltale sparkle of a golden chain.

And then, as if he sensed her presence, he looked up. There was a moment of utter astonishment on his part, mixed with disbelief. It was as if he was trying to decide if it truly was an angel come down to him, or if it was the very devil herself.

What little was visible of his face suddenly twisted in an angry, fearful sneer, and he started to cross his domain in quick, broad, athletic strides.

Suddenly fearing for her life, Rose took a quick step forward, her hands extended out in front of her in a conciliatory gesture. She got as far as "Wait!" when she saw the suddenly horrified expression on his face.

It was all so fast, Rose wasn't quite sure what had happened. In the blink of an eye, the only thing she knew was that there was a rope around her neck that was quickly choking the life out of her. She was only vaguely aware of rushing bootsteps.

"Survive!" Instinct rose up and asserted itself. She reached up and wrapped her hand around the rope from which she dangled. Then, using all her strength, she pulled herself up so that the rope around her neck loosened a fraction, enough for her to get a gasp of air into her lungs.

She wasn't sure how long she could hold herself up like that, but suddenly, he was at her side. There was a metallic flash before her eyes, and then it was all over.

The rope fell slackly around her neck as she collapsed into his arms, choking, shaking and clawing at the noose. Deftly, he pocketed the small silver knife, removed the noose and tossed it aside. Then, he roughly pulled her to her feet and grabbed her by the shoulders.

"What do you think you are doing?" he said in a terrible voice, shaking her hard until her head bobbled back and forth.

"Stop it!" Rose choked out, clutching at her pounding head with her hands. "Shaking me isn't going to undo anything, now is it?"

He stopped shaking her, more out of sheer surprise at her response than anything. He had expected her to be angry. He had thought she'd be fearful. Fear and anger were his bosom companions, and he knew well how to play them like some fine instrument.

But she didn't seem frightened or angry. Irritated, yes. And he was forced to admit that he had very little idea how to intimidate someone who was only irritated.

Rose glared at him and shook her head.

"What do you think you're doing?" she said crisply, trying to push her fear deeper within her.

He stared at her as she reprimanded him with the same words he had used on her.

"Visitors," he said, letting his voice grow cold and slick with that word, "are not welcome here."

"No!" Rose drawled sarcastically, leaning back against the cave wall. "And here I thought we'd sit and have some tea!"

This was decidedly…irritating, he realized. He was reminded all over again why he hated her. Like him, she wasn't easy to scare. And like him, she used her wits to fight. Damn her!

"What do you want?" he asked coldly, making one last attempt at intimidation by coming to stand directly in front of her, towering over her slight form, his shadow making a somber stain on the silver of her angel costume.

"I want you to come to your bloody senses," Rose said, her voice hoarse from the damage done to her throat by the rope. "This won't work, you know. The opera. It'll only drive her further away. And maybe she was never yours to begin wi-"

Her words were cut off again by the rush of his rage as he grabbed her and swung her hard as if to fling her off the narrow ledge and send her flying into the rocky lagoon. Only her death grip on his shirt kept him from tossing her away.

With a suppressed roar, he threw her to the ground and put his face right up to hers.

"You," he spat, his eyes narrowed, "know nothing!"

"No, it's you who knows nothing!" Rose retorted, refusing to be intimidated by the proximity of his masked face. Her temper flared, and she paid him back with his own game, sitting up and putting her face up against his, forcing him to back up or suffer the intimacy.

Rose scrambled to her feet as he rose to his in a quick, fluid motion.

"Get out," he snarled, feeling like if he wasn't so tired, he would have cheerfully finished the job of the Punjab Lasso. He turned and began to walk back down the path. He was just exhausted. He wanted to take off his mask and climb into bed, praying for either sleep or death to come and take him.

"I will not," Rose replied calmly.

He spun on his heel and looked up at her. For a brief moment, he felt his heart flutter as he beheld the bedraggled angel with burning eyes. Then, he closed his own eyes and turned away, feeling defeated and deflated.

If she was one of God's angels, then he knew for certain that he belonged in hell.