Disclaimer: I am still not under the illusion that I own any parts of The Phantom of the Opera. Rest assured, Andrew Lloyd Webber. Oh, and thanks to my sister for all the help with the French!

I carried her to my flat and lay her in my bed. Ever the gentleman, just as I was to Christine. Nothing will ever come of it. I might sleep on the sofa a hundred nights a year for no reason.

When I awoke I saw her still in my bed, curled up into the smallest ball possible. It's all right, I thought. You're safe. I began to make blintzes for breakfast, waiting for her to awake.

She did, eventually. "Mon dieu," she said. "This isn't my alleyway."

"You sleep in an alleyway?" I asked her.

"Oui, monsieur."

"Pourquoi?"

"I left home," she answered. "The only money I make is from playing my flute on the streets."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"You couldn't know what that life is like, monsieur. To always have people looking at you like you're some pathetic freak, whispering that you should just get a job... and then not even giving any money so maybe I could get off the streets. So there's no way you could really get that..."

"Sure I could," I said. "I was a circus sideshow freak until I was eight." Why did I tell her that? I asked myself inwardly. Nobody except Antoinette has ever known that.

"How could you be a circus freak?" she asked me.

"Don't you see my face?" I asked, looming over her.

"Oui... but you couldn't help that, monsieur."

"Do you really think a bunch of money-crazed Gypsies cared about that?" I snarled. "They were so superstitious anyway, they probably thought I was some sort of demon from hell. They called me the devil's child."

"I'm so sorry," she said. "I could never have taken that."

"You'll never have to," I told her bitterly. "Only the ugly have to know that sort of pain."

She stared at me. "You're not, you know," she said.

"Not what?"

"Really ugly. I mean, one side of your face is perfect, and the other side... it's not repulsive, you know. Monsieur. What's your name, anyway?"

"Erik," I replied. "And you're very flattering, mademoiselle."

"It's the truth," she said. "And the name's Bianca, by the way. Nobody ever calls me 'mademoiselle.'"

I laughed. "You're not Italian, are you?" I asked her. I didn't want to think of my infractions against Carlotta the way I thought of my infractions against Christine, Raoul, and Buquet.

"Francoise," she said. "My mother loved Italy. You don't, I take it?"

"I've known some fairly annoying Italians," I said. Not just Carlotta. Piangi too.

"Ah," she said. "I see, Erik."

"Interesting way you say my name, Bianca. Do you not like it?"

"I don't think that matters. I was just wondering... have you ever killed anyone?"

"Yes," I said. "Two people. A gypsy at the circus. And... someone else."

"A lady?"

I laughed. "Far from it. A lewd, hairy old man."

"Sounds like one of my attackers from last night."

"Almost. But he was French."

"Ah," she said. We sat in silence for a while as she ate. When she finished, I stood up.

"I'll see you out, then," she said.

"Just like that?" she asked. "Whenever I've been 'rescued' before, my rescuer has always wanted something from me."

"I have everything I need," I said. "You have nothing. What could you give me?"

"Well, they usually want my body," she said.

"I'm not one of those men, Bianca. You obviously have no true interest in me, so I will allow you to resume your ordinary life."

"And what if they come back, Erik? My attackers?"

"They're Londoners," I said. "And I've already scared them enough, I think."

"So you're just going to disappear, then? I'll never see the kindest rescuer I've ever had again? Mon dieu, Erik, that seems a bit harsh."

"You want to see me?" I asked as she got up and went to the door.

"Yes," she said. "I will see you."

I shook my head after she had left. As interesting as she was, it would be far too much trouble to befriend her.