—A/N—

I know a lot of this has been from Henri's viewpoint lately, but I promise that's going to change soon! A lot of it just makes more sense, when seen outside of Erik's mind. I promise the next chapter will be chock-full of Erik-ness.

—

Updated chapter. I added in some details, and some dialogue, that will hopefully make things clearer, and deepen some of the relationships.

Visitors

Henri's insistence that I act more like a normal person was, though I complained often, appreciated. Not only was the act proof of his feelings towards me—that he was, indeed, a friend and not just an employee; and, that he did indeed wish for my life to be happier—but also I benefited from it. As much as I disliked the light, I found that I enjoyed being amongst the other servants of the household, despite dreading any actual conversation with them—the idea of treating them like servants somehow appalled me. I do think that they came to like me, in some way, because they were always kind, and never again did I hear Henri complaining of the circulation of odd rumors.

My excursions with César grew in number, though always we refined it to the grey, early morning light. Henri was not always able to accompany us on his bay, but César soon learned to enjoy solitary rides as well, and his—and my—health and fitness improved rapidly. And, though it shocked me to see it, I soon began to see a bit of coloring on my skin.

That Henri had nearly read these memoirs frightened me. I did not wish for him to see the troubled thoughts of my mind, and neither did I wish for him to know the whole and terrible truth of my days at the opera-house. I tried very hard, after that day, to keep them firmly under lock whenever I was not writing them. Still, I have my suspicions that he saw more of them than I would ever know.

-O.G.

"Sir?"

Henri glanced up from his documents, one hand rubbing his eyes wearily. He had been working on Erik's accounts for nearly an hour... He glanced down at his wristwatch, and nearly cried out. Not an hour, but nine! Trembling hands placed the papers in their drawer at his desk, and he stood.

The servant gave a slight bow—they treated him, he had found, with nearly as much respect as they gave to Erik himself—and then straightened, his eyes cast downward in shame. "I am afraid, sir, that there are people here. I tried to turn them away, but they would not have it. They insisted upon seeing you, and the Master."

Henri frowned. They knew no one in this country—at least, not intimately. Henri was, of course, familiar with several of the businessmen that he dealt with on a day-to-day basis, but none of them had ever shown any interest in being more than business partners. "Who is it, that is calling?" he asked, as he moved around the desk and towards the door.

"A woman, two girls, and a gentleman. The gentleman claims to be an associate of yours. He says the woman is his great-aunt, one girl her daughter, and the other a relation who lives with the family."

Henri sighed; that had been more information than he cared to know, and yet had been sorely lacking in one particular piece of knowledge: a name. "Thank you," he said, before moving out to the foyer.

"Ah, Henri!" cried the gentleman, moving towards him with raised hands. "So lovely to see you!"

He was an older man, and Henri admitted that he looked somewhat familiar, but Henri was rather sure that everyone would look both familiar and strange, in this particular mind-haze that he found himself in. As the man moved closer and grasped his hand to shake it, his name occurred to Henri, who immediately broke into a grin.

"Ah, Lord Pembroke! What a truly extraordinary surprise!"

The old man chuckled, and then stepped aside to introduce the three women. The eldest was above Pembroke's age, nearly too old to be traveling in such circles as were found in Africa. She was introduced as Mrs. Lyle. The elder of the two girls was a Miss Mary Lyle, who looked to be somewhere in the range of seven and twenty. Henri found it odd, that she was still single at such an age, but of course said nothing. She was an attractive woman, though getting on in years; her skin was fair, as was her hair, and her eyes were a lovely milky-blue.

The third girl, he was then told, was an orphaned relative, who they had taken on merely in good graces. Henri was not sure that it was so good, if you spoke about it, but—again, of course—said nothing. She was only nearing sixteen years, at the most, and looked the part of a young lady just coming into bloom. Her skin was tanned crisply; obviously, she spent time out-of-doors, and he had only just assumed as much when he was told rather archly that she spent more time with Lord Pembroke, hunting, than she did with the women. She had dark hair, and dark eyes to match; for a brief, unsettling moment, an image of Christine flashed through Henri's mind. She did not look near dainty enough, however, for the image to last, and Henri relaxed—some.

"The Master is in the stables, currently; shall I take you to the parlor, and see to some refreshments? And then, I shall see about bringing him within."

"Oh, certainly," said Mrs. Lyle, as she bustled along at his side as he led them to the parlor. It was a small room, bearing a few comfortable chairs and love-seats, and a small piano. Henri had not had the piano placed there; the family that had resided here, prior to Erik's arrival, had apparently entertained guests in this little room.

"Excuse me," said Henri, after they had settled in, "and I shall attend to things." He smiled, and exited the room. Conveniently, the kitchen was in the same direction as the back way to the stables; he moved through quickly, snapping at a lounging maid to bring their guests tea and biscuits, before continuing on to the stables.

"Jim," he called, when he saw the man bent over a horse; he realized too late that the man was shoeing. Before he could be reproached for interrupting, he called out, "Never mind!" and continued on to César's stall. He found Erik there, just finishing grooming César; Erik had, since taking an interest in riding, begun to demand that the white horse was kept immaculate—and, when he had heard grooms complaining about the impossibility of keeping a white horse clean, had begun to attend to the matter himself.

Henri leaned over the stall door, and watched the man move for a moment. He had stripped of all but a white cotton shirt, his riding breeches, and his boots, and was sweating profusely as he dropped one of his brushes into the grooming box. Henri noted, with some amusement, that the box was not kept nearly as immaculate as the horse for which it was employed.

"Erik?" he said softly.

Despite the quiet tone, the man jerked his head around, surprise written all over his features. Henri got the feeling that Erik was not used to being surprised, and wondered just what Erik had been so absorbed in.

"We've visitors, in the house," Henri said easily, trying to appear as if he had not noticed the surprise.

Erik nodded, and lifted the grooming box. "I know; I heard them, when their horses were brought in."

"They rode?"

"Two of them did—I assume there are two men, accompanying those two fussing women? They were in a buggy, and throwing a fit about the way Jim hauled their mares down to the other end of the stable."

"Ah." Henri stepped aside, as Erik moved into the aisle and down to the tack room, and set the box away.

"I assume they're in the parlor?"

Henri nodded, but cast a dark look at Erik's attire. "You'll need to change..."

Erik waved a hand at him. "I know, I know—I did not intend to see them like this."

Henri nodded again. "Good. I'll go and occupy them, while you change."

Erik made a grunt of acknowledgement, and headed towards the back door with Henri. He paused in the kitchen, to steal a freshly-baked pastry from Cook; Henri continued onward, shaking his head and grinning. The man could be surprisingly playful, when the mood struck him.

As he neared the parlor, his spirits fell. What he heard, he almost dared not believe. Someone was playing the piano, a pitiful rendition of some aria or another. But that was not what disturbed him.

He could hear Lord Pembroke making comments to Miss Lyle, about the music, but that was not what disturbed him either.

What disturbed him was the sound of painfully beautiful song, floating down the hall, in a voice beautiful enough to be Christine Daaé's—or, it was, according to the imagination of a Mister Henri Goodings, who had nothing but imagination to go on, having never actually heard Christine sing. He had frozen in his step, but now he rushed forward to the door, throwing it open and stumbling within. Hands waving, he near-yelled, "Stop! Stop! Hush!"

The music and song ceased, as all four of them looked at him with dumbfounded amazement. And then, his heart stopped, for their gazes swept past him and to the door, and both Mrs. and Miss Lyle gasped, and Lord Pembroke uttered a quiet, "Good Heavens..."

Henri did not have to turn around to know what they were looking at, and regardless, he nearly leapt out of his own skin when the soft purr of a voice reached his ears.

"Now, Henri," it crooned, wicked in its deceiving calm, "it is not very kind, to put a stop to such truly beautiful music."

"Oh, thank you," burst Mrs. Lyle, the tremble in her voice giving away her fear, "it is by—"

"I spoke neither of you, nor the music you played," Erik stated with an alarmingly neutral voice. "I spoke, rather, of your daughter's voice..."

Henri was rather afraid he was going to faint.

"Oh, she is not my daughter, sir," said Mrs. Lyle, with something of a note of absurdity, as if she felt it should have been very plain that the girl was no relation of her own. Henri realized, rather suddenly, that they had never introduced the girl by name.

"I do not think you should be so quick to denounce her," Erik said, as he moved forward into the room. Henri still had not gotten up the nerve to turn and look at him, but he could feel his presence like a dark, electricity-charged cloud; he had no question as to his exact location in the parlor.

Erik came into his peripheral view, and then continued forward to lift the girl's hand and press a light kiss to her knuckles. "My dear, you have a truly beautiful voice. Wherever did you learn?"

Henri glanced at Lord Pembroke, who was giving him the "Who is this man?" look. Henri nodded, and Pembroke's mouth dropped open for the slightest moment, as he came to realize that it was, indeed, the Master of the house.

The girl seemed lost for words for a moment; her mouth gaped as she looked at the man—mostly, at the mask. Mrs. Lyle poked her in the hip, and she stumbled into speech. "Nowhere, M-monsieur," she said quietly; apparently, she had grasped more easily that the dirty, sweaty man before her was the Master, and had recalled the knowledge that he was French. Henry could have kissed her; she said "Monsieur" almost more perfectly than the French themselves did.

Erik's solitary brow arched; Henri could not see it—he did not need to see it. "Nowhere, Mademoiselle? I find that difficult to believe."

Mrs. Lyle began to speak; Erik cut her off with a single look, and then returned his gaze to the girl, expecting an explanation. "M-my mother... She sang to me, when I was small. That is the closest to a formal training that I have ever received."

Erik looked at her for a moment, before realizing he still clutched her hand, and releasing it. He turned that hard gaze on Mrs. Lyle again. She squirmed beneath it, but did not take his hint; Henri lunged to the rescue.

"Mrs. Lyle, why do you not come and sit with me, and perhaps the Master will play a little for us? He is quite talented."

She looked at him for a moment, before understanding, and leaping from the piano bench as if it had burned her. She moved to quickly sit down in a chair; Henri tremulously took the one beside her, trying his best to keep his lips from moving with the silent prayers he was so earnestly making.

Erik seated himself elegantly, and allowed his fingers to hover over the keys. "Do you know.. the Jewel Song, from Faust?"

As the girl nodded her head eagerly, Henri's heart sank. He had heard the rumors in enough detail to know why Erik asked for that song—and to fear it.

Erik played, and the girl sang—she sang beautifully, it was without question, though Henri could see from the slowly increasing slope in Erik's shoulders that he was disappointed. Henri was relieved by that, however; if Erik had been pleased, it would have been a bad sign indeed.

When the girl was very nearly finished, Erik delved into some other song—presumably from Faust, though Henri did not know it well enough to have any true knowledge—and, without waiting for the girl to develop some sense of where he was, he began singing.

Henri had never truly heard him sing before; he had heard it a little, when Erik sang to Christine, but that had been muffled, and Erik had been more summoning her than singing to her. But now... Now, he understood why she had risen and followed him, despite having known who he was. Now he understood how the pitiful, disfigured man could have lured a woman down into the basements of an opera house; now, he understood everything. That voice was too angelic to be believable; it was as if a truly celestial being had swept down upon them, and graced them with its music. As he progressed through the song, Henri recognized it for the one that was sung by Faust to Marguerite, in one of the ending scenes—he thought.

Pain. The voice inspired pain, so resounding and complete that it was impossible to escape—and yet, hidden within, was some kind of elation. The high notes sent his spirit soaring towards the glory of heaven, while the low notes had him plummeting blindly and helplessly into the pits of hell, and the middle notes he coasted upon like a boat on smooth seas. It was, in a word, perfect.

When it ended, Henri felt lost. His senses groped blindly for something, anything, to anchor themselves to, and found Mrs. Lyle's hand gripped around his arm so firmly he felt the bone would shatter. He looked at her dumbly; she was sobbing. Her daughter, also, had covered her face, and was weeping rather loudly. The girl, however, stood looking at Erik with the same misty-eyed look Henri imagined Christine had turned on him; it was a quiet hunger, a failure to grasp what kind of glory could have come from such a man, mixed with an element of hypnosis. Tears graced her face as well, but there was something sophisticated, something superior about them that none of the others in the room could have grasped.

When finally Lord Pembroke's face was sought out, even his eyes were found to be glistening. One hand was pressed against his chest, and he looked as if he were trying very hard not to cry out.

Henri was not at all surprised to find that his own cheeks were wet with tears.

Erik stood, breaking the spell of the moment, and drifting towards the door. He paused there, and turned his head so that the bleak mask was faced towards the people in the parlor. His eyes were focused, most especially, on the girl. "You should stay," he told her, voice none the worse for wear, after such a song. "You, and your relatives. I would be honored, to teach you to sing."

And then, he left.

Pembroke leaned forward, looking at Henri with shock. "That is your Master?"

Henri nodded. "Monsieur Erik is truly.. a unique individual."

"Well, I don't see how a man such as he has managed to stay unwed!" declared Miss Lyle. Elizabeth cleared her throat softly to attempt hushing her relative, but the sound was drowned out by the laughter of Mrs. Lyle.

It was arranged that Mrs. Lyle, her daughter, and the girl—whose name was discovered to be a Miss Elizabeth Bryan—would move in for an untold amount of time, so that Elizabeth could tutor with Erik. They would not, in all probability, have agreed to the arrangement, except that Mrs. Lyle—according to Lord Pembroke—had hit a dry spot in her finances, and had been fearing she would not be able to afford much of anything for the girl. When she received not only an offer for Elizabeth to be tutored in song, but also in every other branch of academics, she was thrilled.

For, not only would she be educated more fully, but she would be living with a man who appeared to have absolutely no end to his money.

Elizabeth turned out to be a wonderful companion, for Erik. He also discovered in her a riding partner that was much more enthusiastic, and much more available, than was Henri—who was more than a little miffed, to find that the bay courser he was so fond of had been handed to Elizabeth, for her own use. And he could not but envy the girl for succeeding where he had nearly failed; with her as incentive, Erik had become very social, and had even begun to have as much sun on his visible skin as did any other healthy, active man. He had admitted to Henri that he felt much younger these days, which was a shock to Henri, for what had once been a solitary few silver threads at his temples had become nearly streaks, and the wrinkles on his face had become more pronounced. This had forced Henri to realize he was aging, and Henri had only managed to get over this epiphany, when Erik had confessed the renewed vigor of youth.

When they were not singing, he would retreat with her up to his floor—which was viewed as a terribly scandalous act, by Mrs. Lyle and her daughter, but of course they did not have the nerve to speak to him about it, and truly, neither did Henri. (They were comforted by half-truths of Henri often being with the two, acting as something of a chaperone, though in truth Erik expelled him from the floor as often as he allowed him to stay.) Within that library, they studied any great number of things; Erik professed that Elizabeth had made great improvements in her figures—which, he claimed, she had previously been sorely lacking in—as well as having developed a greater understanding for language and its use.

While not tutoring her, he would sit in silence and watch her draw—for, he had learned, she loved to draw, and thus had he immediately had Henri purchase for her an entire set of paper, pencils, and charcoal sticks—or would have her read to him. The presence of a woman was highly enjoyed by Erik, especially a woman who did not scorn him or turn him aside from her. She was, actually, very kind to him; she treated him as she would treat any other man, and often much better, even, than that.

It was after one of these evenings spent on his floor that Henri's promise of unquestioned privacy was broken. The women had been on the plantation for nearly a month, and Henri had quite nearly had enough of seeing Elizabeth only at meals, and on the rare occasion that they were in the parlor at the same time that Henri passed it—for, after all, Elizabeth saw only the library, of Erik's floor; he would not take her into his Opera room, as he referred to it.

Henri withdrew the key to Erik's floor, and quietly inserted and turned the lock. He eased the door open, and began to creep up the stairs. He could hear Elizabeth's lofty voice floating through the room, as she read some poem or another. She was struggling with the irregular flow of it, and every now and then, Erik would interject to correct her pronunciation, or her emphasis.

Henri crested the stairs, and glared down at the two. Erik was splayed comfortably in the chair behind his desk, and Elizabeth was perched primly upon the edge of the loveseat that Henri so adored. He tried to assure himself this was not just blind jealousy, and moved down the staircase on the right.

Angry yellow eyes rose to meet his advancing form, and a hand politely cut off Elizabeth's flow of words.

"May I have a moment alone with the Master, Miss Bryan?" Henri asked of her, after granting her a tiny bow. He tried to keep in mind that this was not her fault, though his own jealousy at being so distanced from Erik, of late, influenced his opinion of her greatly.

"Of course, Henri," she said kindly; she placed a strip of black silk in the book, shut it, and set it on the coffee table in front of her. She stood, curtsied, and moved to take her leave.

"Wait, Elizabeth," Erik said firmly. She froze, and turned curious eyes on him.

"Erik, I think it is best if we have this discussion in private," Henri said through gritted teeth.

"I am sure it is nothing that Elizabeth cannot hear," Erik replied, his tone dangerously tranquil.

"Do you care for her to hear about Christine!"

There was a long pause, in which Henri began to fear that he would be murdered, before Erik gave a slight nod in Elizabeth's direction. "I shall come and find you, when we are finished," he told her; she curtsied again, and left.

Erik waited until he had heard the click of the second-floor door, before pouncing to his feet with a snarl. "How dare you even mention her name?"

"Why are you upset, Erik? Because you do not wish to be reminded of her—or because you know this is dangerously close to being a repetition of the events at the Op—"

"Do not!" he commanded, holding up a hand. "You speak of things about which you know very little."

"I know enough, Erik—you've found another young face with a pretty voice, and you are—"

"Henri," he growled in warning; Henri plowed onward.

"You did it once, and you're doing it again, Erik. I've seen enough to know exactly what is going on here. You lost Christine, and you think you can make up for it by winning over Elizabeth. Just as you imprisoned Christine beneath the opera, so have you confined Elizabeth to this room, as improper as you know it is, and you do God knows what with her, and—"

This time, it was not a voice that cut him off, but a tightening around the throat. He reached up to claw at the thin sliver of rope that had closed itself on his neck, but could not find purchase. His eyes rolled up in his head, as panic overtook him.

He dimly heard footsteps, and then cold fingers pried the lasso from around his neck, and drew it over his head. Henri fell to his knees, gasping, as Erik stood looking down at him with cold, deadly eyes. "Henri, I suggest you go downstairs, and see about supper. I will expect it in my room, promptly at seven." Of the lasso, there was no sign; Henri staggered to his feet, and all but ran up the stairs, and then down them, to spill out into the second-floor hallway. Elizabeth stood not ten feet away, as wide-eyed as ever; Henri did not even take notice of her, as he made his rush to the kitchen—to anywhere, in the name of escaping the monster he had seen looking down at him from behind his Master's face.

"Henri, wait!"

Hands still locked around his neck, eyes still popping out of his skull, he forced himself to halt. A long breath was taken, before slowly he turned to face Elizabeth. He swallowed, hard, and inclined his head to her. "Yes, Miss Bryan?"

She rushed towards him. "What happened? I heard him shouting—I thought he only shouted at me in such a fashion!" It was meant to induce a smile, but the effect was lost on him. Her face went stony. "Dear Henri, what happened?"

He shook his head. "Will you be taking supper downstairs at the table, with your family?"

"Well, I suppose—"

"Very well, then." He turned abruptly, and jogged down the stairs to find Cook.

Erik sagged against his desk, breaths coming in short bursts. As the rage had vanished, so had his will to stay on his feet, and he felt as if the floor were going to slip out from beneath him. He raised a hand to his face, and ripped his mask clear of his face. The tears were sliding down his cheeks mercilessly, and it was all he could do to set the mask down, rather than hurl it across the room in anger.

Of course, he recognized the truth behind Henri's words, and understood how the boy would have come to that conclusion, but in truth he had no interest in seducing Elizabeth into becoming his eternal bride. What Henri—what the world—did not understand, was that it was not just a pretty voice that lured the Opera Ghost to a woman's side; it had been Christine, all of her, every inch of her, every tiny thing that made her uniquely Christine, that he had loved. Her voice had been his downfall, his weakness, and it was true that Elizabeth's startlingly similar voice had been what had inspired him to play with her, and sing for her... but he did not love her, would never love her, would never love any other.

Elizabeth was too brash; and, on a less romantic note, her voice was, while lovely, not nearly as beautiful, as sublime, as Christine's had been. Erik had accepted his loss of Christine, and did not intend to try such a thing again—though, upon having been asked, he truly could not say why he had decided to take Elizabeth under his tutorage.

He was not sure why he had used the Punjab, either. He was not even sure why he kept it with him any longer; always, it had occurred to him to destroy it, and always something had stayed his hand. And now, he had used it against the only friend, the only loyal man, that he had. He wanted to apologize, but he was not sure how—and he knew that, while it may make some difference, their relationship would never be the same again. He would never have full trust—though, from the looks of things, he had never had it to begin with.

"Erik?"

He let out a startled cry, at the sound of Elizabeth's voice, and grappled for the mask. Quickly, it was pressed into place, and quickly, he dashed away tears.

"Erik, what is the matter?" she cried, rushing towards him. "Oh, my dear tutor, you have been weeping!" She seemed genuinely heart-broken, over the epiphany.

Erik turned away from her, and cleared his throat. "No, Elizabeth, I am fine... Perhaps you should go downstairs."

He could hear the pout coming almost before she spoke. "Why? Have I done something wrong?"

"Well, no—"

"Then I don't see why I should be punished, for something that Henri did to you."

He sighed, and gestured towards the book on the table. "Read to me, then." She watched him for a long moment—he could see her considering defiance. He prayed she would not, prayed she would sit down and read to him. And for a moment, he thought she would comply. She moved towards the loveseat, and sat down amongst the rustling of skirts. The book was lifted, and opened to their page... and then shut again. With her eyes wide—oh, so painfully like Christine's—and her lips pursed, she lifted her countenance to look up him again.

"Monsieur Erik?"

He pressed a hand to his forehead as best he could, and looked up at her through his fingers. "What is it, Elizabeth?"

She hesitated, and he prayed she had lost her nerve, for he knew exactly what she wished to ask. And, sure enough, ask it she did: "Who is.. Christine?"

Erik's hand dropped away, to press against his chest; with a pained expression, he shut his eyes, and shook his head. "No one of importance, my dear." There was a pause, before he migrated to stand with his back to her, hands clasped behind him, facing a bookshelf he did not see. "Read to me, please." It was not a request—it was a plea.

Silence followed it, and he felt certain that she would argue with him again. She was a headstrong young woman, as unlike Christine in demeanor as she could possibly have been. Loud, crude, and totally unafraid of voicing opinions. She ignored or argued with him as often as she obeyed him; he was regularly driven to locking himself into his Opera room, to avoid taking out his temper on her. Once there, he relaxed himself in much the same way as he had when driven to madness by Christine: by playing.

After another moment, her voice picked up the narrative where they had left off, and he allowed himself to be immersed in the story. It was not one that he took much interest in; Henri had told him it would be more suitable reading for a woman than were the hunting stories of Africa, though Erik was of the personal opinion that Elizabeth would have preferred them to the society comedy-romances of the British novelists that Henri continued to bring home to them.

She read for several turns of the page, before her voice faltered into silence at the end of a chapter. It was far from their usual stop time, which was what drove him to turn his head and look at her, eyebrow hefted in query.

"Why do you wear that mask?"

He winced, and turned back to the bookshelf. "Lion attacked me. I—"

"Liar."

He rounded on her, one hand rising to point at the door. "Go," he hissed. "Leave me."

Elizabeth stared at him in disbelief for a moment, before coming to her feet, rage written all over her golden-tanned face. "No! I am not some dog, that you can command to come and go as you please! I am a woman, and I will not be so foolishly shoved aside!"

He was a bit taken aback by her anger. He had no experience, with women who did not quiver before his temper. "Go, or I shall have you removed from this household!" he shouted.

"Please, throw us out!" she replied, with equal volume. "Or, better yet, we shall leave! Anything, to be rid of you and your tantrums!" Already, she was gathering up her skirts to leave.

He watched, brows furrowed, fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides. He wanted to argue, not particularly because he wanted her to stay, but because it was seen as a genuine horror to him, that he should be bested by such a young girl.

His silence paid off, however, for very soon had she turned around to fix him with a venomous look. "Aren't you going to try and stop me?" she demanded of him.

"Why should I stop you from doing that which I was intending to make you do?"

She made a sound similar to that of a tea kettle, and closed her fists tightly around the material of her skirts. "You think you are so wise! And yet all you are is a poor, pitiful man who hides behind a mask!"

She was starting forwards, and a dreadful fear started up in his stomach. Quickly, he moved to place the desk between them.

"Come here!" she yelled.

He eyed her warily, and made no move to obey.

In a sudden, nimble action, she had launched herself over the desk and onto him. He staggered backwards, but she caught his shoulders, and held herself to him. "I'm going to see this man once and for all!" Anxious fingers were already groping the edges of the mask, beginning to rip it away.

Hands batted her away, and he started for his bedroom. "Keep away from me!" he demanded. Before she could catch up to him, he locked the door to that wing, and retreated to his bed. The sounds of her fists banging on the door followed him into his bedroom; he ignored it, along with her shouts. He seethed in anger, that he was forced to hide from a woman, in his own house—on his own floor! Still, hide he did, and it was a long time before he was certain she had gone.

When he was quite sure, he turned an angry look to the mirror. He discarded of his mask, tossing it lightly onto the bed, and gave himself a long, steady look—something he had not done in many years. Each and every inch of that horrible flesh was studied, memorized anew.

And after he was quite sure he would not forget again anytime soon, he proceeded to crush the mirror into those one thousand pieces he had previously fantasized about.