Sorry for the absence of an update…I would have updated sooner, but my arm has been in a splint. Now I'm free! Free! Free! And to celebrate, I present to you a new chapter, fairly long….

PS- Thank you Elizabeth! I'm an art idiot, my apologies

MARIE PERRAULT

Erik swept through the street as though the cobblestones were hot coals. His head had receded increasingly farther into his cloak as we progressed, and his felt hat was pulled low over his eyes. If you weren't looking for it, the glint of his white mask was nearly invisible between his collar and the brim of his hat. Yet, for all his awkward posture, he moved like a cat. He was an ageless shadow in the crowd of people on the street, and several times I was sure I had lost him. I followed, rather, the Persian gentleman, Nadir, who seemed to have grown adroit at following him, and hardly missed a beat. I hardly took my eyes off his astrakhan cap for the entire short journey through the Paris streets.

We arrived at a building, rather old and quaint. I remembered Erik's fetish with architecture, and recognized his selection as a manifestation of it. He would have never given money to one of the squat, grey, new buildings that now lined the city streets.

No one spoke as we tramped up the stairs, and I found myself becoming acutely aware of the creak every one of our footfalls produced. I twisted my fingers in my shawl, opened my mouth to say something irrelevant and trivial, and then remained silent. One only spoke around Erik when there was something to be said. After all the years since the last time I'd seen him, he had retained the same imposingness, the same nonchalant manner, the same biting sarcasm. Only, there was a difference. He was somehow more subdued, quieter, and less ready to storm about in a fit of passionate rage. Where he would have been hot years ago, now he remained cold. His sarcasm was ice rather than fire. He seemed to be less cynical, and instead more exhausted with the world. He gave out an air of being resigned; to his appearance, to his fate. It was as though he had finally found a way to fit into his own skin. These changes were as difficult to explain as they were to describe, but I had decided either his relationship with the mother of his child, the birth of the child herself, or both, were the catalysts.

We reached a landing, and Erik stopped, reaching into the depths of his cloak and producing a key from his vest pocket. He unlocked the door before us, and led me in, pulling me after him without actually touching me. I felt myself the prisoner of some strange magnetism, and shuddered. He handed me the key, still refraining from even the slightest brushing of fingers. I could hardly believe those careful hands had lovingly held a baby less than an hour earlier.

"This is the flat that I have rented for you," he said, his voice echoing ominously off the walls. The apartment was actually quite nice, spacious enough for one, and fully furnished. "I trust you will make yourself comfortable here. I would be much obliged if you would meet Nadir in front of the opera at 9:00 every morning. He will show you to my home." Here Erik's eyes flashed in his friend's direction. Seconds before, they were cold and impassive, but the look he gave the Persian was almost….playful. I began to wonder, yet again, if perhaps I was in over my head. Erik, now standing straight at his full height, mask completely visible, continued, "Your help is very much appreciated….I presume it is still Mademoiselle?" I nodded my consent on this point. "Farewell. I shall see you in the morning." He and the Persian left.

I sat down, almost stunned by the mornings events. It had turned out that Erik made his living by assuming the role of the phantom of the opera he lived beneath; exploiting the superstition associated with the business to blackmail and torment the management into providing him with a monthly salary. Though this was hardly out of character for the masked devil, it was still more that I had bargained for. I felt had traveled farther to get from the grand staircase of the opera house to the front door of the phantom's lair than I had to get from my home outside Rouen to Paris. I could hardly imagine making such a terrible descent every morning for the rest of my life. And suppose I was caught? The perpetrator of the infamous chandelier incident was a sought-after criminal. What price would I pay for fraternizing with this madman?

Besides, once I was across that icy bridge, I would find that I had skidded into the monster's underground cave, the normalcy of which made it extremely sinister, and that I was locked there all day, alone with this demon child, that had inherited quite a bit more from her father than his eyes. I massaged my temples. What on earth could I do? I needed a place to live: I had no money to pay for the upkeep of my mother's house; it had all gone into the treatment for her disease. It seemed I had no choice, which somehow made things easier. I steeled myself, and made the inevitable decision to discover a bravery that had only surfaced once, years ago, when a little boy's mother would not keep him from breaking a mirror with his desperate fists.

I arrived at the opera the next morning, as I had promised. The Persian was waiting for me. Groggy and unkempt as the first time I had encountered him, he led me nonchalantly through the cold labyrinth beneath the opera. This time, I allowed myself to look around. It was like a palace out of a twisted fairy tale, its gloomy scenery ever-changing. "Whoever built a maze like this?" I remarked.

"Erik," the Persian replied, matter-of-factly. I knew he was telling the truth. I felt a womanish curiosity compelling me. I could not help but wonder about Erik's life in the past years, his mysterious hauntings, his inexplicable consort, his involvement in the construction of this building. The Persian had mentioned that they had met in his home country, where Erik was a right hand to the Shah. He had led a life of great intrigue- I yearned for the tale like an avid reader yearns for the next page of a book.

I met Erik in the entrance, he showed me to Etoile, I took care of her while Erik disappeared to an unknown task for some hours, and left when he returned. This cycle continued, day after day, rather unremarkably. My fears were misplaced, it seemed. The real interest lied in the hours between Erik's departure and return.

Etoile rarely slept. She could walk jerkily, and speak with a limited vocabulary. Her hands were in everything. There were many substances and objects I could not identify scattered throughout the house, and I had to watch the child like a hawk. Her look of delight when she apprehended one of these things in spite of me sent shivers down my spine. I feared her like one fears a spider. She was small and harmless, yet never ceased to instill a certain terror in me. The more she came to rely on her own two feet, the less Erik held her, and the less Erik held her, the less she wanted to be touched in general. If I gently held her hand to lead her toward or away from something, she would scream bloody murder, and jerk away, often bolting and disappearing for the rest of the hour before I discovered the site of her retreat. Her favourite word was "no," and she used it often.

One day, she had disappeared yet again, and I reluctantly came to the end of my general search route. Almost trembling, I laid my hand on the door to the bedroom- if it could be called that. It resembled, more closely, a funeral parlour. The walls were black, and a border that was really a large musical staff with the notes of a requiem sullenly scrawled across it ran about the perimeter of the entire room. A large pipe organ took up nearly an entire wall. Etoile's cradle sat in the corner. However, the most frightening aspect of the room was where Erik slept, which happened to be inside a large black coffin. I averted my gaze from it as I opened the door, and walked slowly across the room. I found Etoile sitting upright in the cradle, examining something on the wall. I squinted through the lenses of my thick spectacles, and gasped when I realized that Etoile had stepped back to examine her work: a crude pencil doodle of a small girl with feathered wings, drawn right on the wall. The silver of the lead against the dark wall flashed in the light as I drew nearer.

"Etoile!" I scolded, horrified. "When your father gets home! Oh…Oh sweet Jesus!"

"Pretty," insisted Etoile, gesturing toward her mural with the end of the pencil she had managed to get a hold of.

"Yes, yes, it is pretty," I admitted, nearly on the verge of hysterics, "But it belongs on paper, Etoile. Not on the walls!"

"Pretty, pretty, pretty!" Etoile insisted.

"Oh dear," I breathed, swiftly picking up Etoile and apprehending the pencil in question. "What am I goring to tell your father? You must never, ever do this again, Etoile. Never!"

"Why? Why no?" Etoile whined, kicking to be let down, but I held fast.

"You are coming to help me in the kitchen, where I can watch you, and you are staying there until your father gets home, whether you like it or not!" I said, not knowing what else to do. I tried to get Etoile to help me with the bread dough, but she seemed far more interested with unwinding a bit of string she had discovered on the floor into tiny fibres. I gave up, and left her to her business, stopping her every once in a while as she tried to make a move toward the door. When my back was turned, she started to eat the string.

I allowed her to run to Erik when he got home, and he ran a hand through her delicate baby hair as his soul greeting. "Hello my little demon," he said affectionately as she gained her balance using his pant leg. Laughing softly, he took her hand and led her back toward the kitchen where I waited, taking my nerves out on the bread dough.

"How was she today?" he asked, casually, routinely.

"Actually…" I replied. Unable to choke out the rest of the sentence, I gestured for him to follow me. His eyes were concerned as I led him into the bedroom. Wordlessly, I pointed out the silver scrawl on the walls.

I waited, nervously, eyes half shut in anticipation. Then, something strange happened. Erik began to laugh, softly and coldly at first, but crescendoing into a more normal, warm tone. I felt a tangible wave of warmth go over me. "It appears I have a regular Da Vinci living in my home," he choked. Still cracking up, he retrieved Etoile, leading her back into the room by her hand, lips in a twisted grin. "I'll strike a bargain with you, Etoile. This wall," he gestured, "is yours, completely, as long as you stay away from the rest of the walls in the house. How does that sound?"

Etoile grinned, and clapped once joyfully. "Yes!" she said. It was the first time I had heard the word from her mouth. "Mine. Mine, mine, mine!"

Erik nodded, patting her gently on the back. He rarely made skin to skin contact with her, or anyone for that matter. "Yours. Just try not to give Madomoiselle Perrault anymore frights," He said. "Such privileges may be revoked, if the need arises."

"No, never!" said Etoile joyfully, barrelling from the room. Erik shook my hand cordially. His flesh was cool and dry. "Thank you, that shall be all. I will see you in the morning."

Anther incident that was burned into my mind occurred several days later. Etoile had taken a matchbook from the mantle, and hidden it somewhere in the house. I was on a desperate quest to find it before the entire opera burned down. I was ready for the smell of the smoke any second. Etoile danced in and out of my path, taunting me. "Where? Where? Where?" she chanted. "Where is the fire stick? You won't know!" She dashed out of the room again. I heard a drawer open and close in the next room over, and entered the bedroom. Etoile had already exited by the time I arrived, but the drawer she had attempted to hide the matches in was too heavy for her, and left slightly ajar. I pulled it open, and sure enough, there they were. I was about to shut the drawer when something caught my attention. A box, small, square and plain, wrapped in a delicate lady's handkerchief. The name "Christine" was embroidered on it. Pocketing the matches, I slowly drew out the box, careful not to disturb any other contents of the drawer.

I opened the lid gently, silent though the house was empty save for myself and Etoile. I leafed through the curious objects within. There was a newspaper clipping from the beginning of the year, adorned by a photograph of a lovely, wavy-haired opera singer. The title read, "Christine Daae Triumphs at Gala". I put this aside, and examined the rest. There were more newspaper articles of the same nature, a vial containing a single long strand of wavy hair, a letter written in a lady's script, a ring on a delicate chain, a dead rose pressed between the pages of the operatic score of "Faust". I would have continued, but I heard the sound of the water in the nearby lake being disturbed. Hastily, I put back all the items into the box, but lingered on the first article in spite of my terror. Christine Daae…could this be Erik's woman?

I misjudged the distance of the initial splash, and the sound of the complicated front door lock startled me into a frenzy. I tried to replace everything as quickly as I could, but it was too late: the next thing I new, Erik stood beside me, towering above my kneeling figure.

"What are you doing?" he growled. I felt tears begin to form in my eyes, heat consolidating in my cheeks.

"Etoile…was hiding…a book of matches," I stammered, fumbling in my pocket for them.

With a snarl like an animal, Erik grabbed my wrist and threw me upon the floor. "Never," he shouted, voice full of a menacing thunder, "go through my belongings again. And NEVER speak of the owner of those items. Women die from such curiosity, mademoiselle! Would you like to try me?" He spun around so quickly the hem of his cloak flared out and brushed my fallen form. He stood there for a while, shoulders heaving. I remained where I was, sprawled across the floor, paralysed, silent tears running freely down my face.

Slowly, he turned. "I apologize for my conduct," he said, offering me his hand. I took it, my entire body shaking fearfully at his deadly calm. "That was completely unacceptable. You may go. I expect you have gotten the message." He turned his back to me once more, and I hurried out, not looking back as I scrambled through the open door and into the boat. When I arrived home, I slammed the door behind me, and sank to the floor against it. I knew not what to do. Invoking god I sank sobbing to the floor.

ERIK

Christine had lost no power over me. When I had seen Mademoiselle Perrault going through the box of her things I had buried in a derelict drawer, something within me had simply snapped, the same way it had the night I offered Christine the scorpion or the grasshopper. I was regretful, depression ate at me once more, and I sat on the couch with my masked face buried in my hands. I always wore my mask now. I feared that I would frighten Etoile if she saw me without it. I even slept in it; my last thought before falling asleep was always that sooner or later it would stifle me at night. Normally, this would not have bothered me in the least, but now I had something to live for. I could not leave my child alone, not yet. She still had no magic mask; she was still vulnerable.

I felt trapped once more. Two new managers had arrived that night. I had planned to observe them in the morning. But I had no idea if Mademoiselle Perrault would even return after the way I had treated her. Most of all, I was still at the mercy of that unknowing temptress that had been my angel, even after all my redemption. I was pathetic. How could I expect to raise a child, when I could not even protect myself?

"Papa?" Etoile sat down beside me. She fingered my watch chain gently. "Why are you sad?"

I sighed, shaking my head gently, and rose. "Come with me, Etoile."

I played the organ for her late into the night. We both fell asleep at the keyboard.

I awoke the next morning, surprised to find a tentative Marie Perrault standing over me. "I'm sorry!" she said quickly. "I didn't know that--"

"It's quite alright, Mademoiselle," I cut in. Etoile had somehow remained asleep. I lowered my voice. "Don't wake her; just set her in the cradle. I shall be back late tonight." I donned my cloak and hat and left.

I was astonished. Mademoiselle Perrault may have been a weak little mouse, but this façade hid a courage that astonished me. It would peep out only when she needed it most direly, and quickly be buried again in seconds, but it rivalled that of a gladiator. I could hardly believe that she would return to the home of a madman who had threatened to kill her. This feeling sat in my stomach like a bad bit of food for my entire journey to the managers' office. I was pleased to discover on glancing through the false ventilator that they were both present. As I turned to find a place where I could be comfortable and still observe, I heard something that caused me to stop dead.

"Is everything clear, Basset?" once of them asked.

"Oh, yes," replied another voice.

"Good," said the first, and I heard a shoe hit the floor, and then another hit the wall. The sound of pants slithering down reached my ears. Then a moan.

"Yes, yes! More!"

"Calm down, Ramsden, do you want someone to hear?"

"Let them hear, love. Let them hear." More erotic noises. In spite of myself, I chanced a quick look though the ventilator. My eyebrows shot up so high they were practically above my mask. I turned away, knowing I had seen enough. The perfect blackmail had just presented itself to me, gift-wrapped and on a silver platter. It looked as though I would be home early that night.