A/N: Sorry this is overdue. I hope y'all like this chapter b/c it finally has Erik in it! Yay! I love writing about him. Anyway, please review- I love reviews, they make my day a happy one. Thanks.

EmailyGirl: Yes, I did get Claire's name from Timeline. Congrats! You're the first one to put that together! Lol. I wanna see 'Dear Frankie' too! It's gonna make me cry, cuz I can relate- just like it made poor Gerry cry when he read the script!

Kamille: I'll try to find the SD with Crawford, my grandparents probably have it. Lol. Do you have an account here? I'd like to read anything you've written. I'm glad you like my story.

Marie Erickson: OMG! I did that just the other day with someone else's fic. I was just reading it thinking how familiar it was, and then I realized I'd already read it. Thanks for your advice again, I really appreciate it.

Chapter Six: Le Rouge Fevriar

A man dressed all in black, with only a white dress shirt beneath his ebony coat, sat still as one of the many looming gargoyles that glared menacingly down from their pillars, half stuck in a lake of water behind him. A red velvet covered stool stood beneath him on four thick brown legs.

Before him was a mirror, and in that mirror, a diminished reflection; that never saw any smiles or cheer. His prominent green eyes, olive in hue, skimmed across his face in the mirror.

He turned his head slightly and with his left hand combed back his slicked a strand of his obsidian hair back behind his ear. It must be perfect. His face wasn't, so surely everything else must be. It glistened, luminescent in the dim candlelight that floated in the air all around him.

His most prominent feature was an ivory colored mask plastered tightly to the skin of his face, hiding distorted features behind it. He turned his head again, this time pale, naked flesh was presented to the silent, accusing eyes of the mirror.

His hair on that side was superb, he thought. Nothing more needed to be done with it. It was perfectly slicked back, radiant with cleanliness. It impressed even him, but then again, tonight was a special event to him, and he wanted to look his best. Though, some may think it pointless that he presented an immaculate appearance when he planned on not being seen by anyone.

Beside the mirror, laying flat on his the boudoir, were two familiar items: a golden mask made of delicate porcelain, much like his, and a small silver hand mirror. They lay side by side, motionless.

He turned a full face back to the mirror. It was when he was carefully slipping his black gloves over his hands that he heard a feminine voice call to him from behind. "It has started."

Erik looked at the golden-haired woman's reflection in the mirror and turned around to face her. She stood erect, back straight and face void of any emotion. She looked directly at him, not once flinching at the sight of the deathly pale mask that hung on the right side of his face, the bottom brushing slightly against the top of his upper lip and encircling his right eye.

"Thank you, Madame Giry," he said, sounding not at all appreciative, but rash and cold. "And how is the opera?" Before he left her any time to reply, he started again with bitter harshness in his tone. "Is it worth my audience, or would I be bored with its definite lackluster? Should I even waste this good clear night in the stuffy halls of my theatre, or should I spend them down here, alone?"

Madame Giry lowered her eyes. "It is worth your audience," she promised, simply.

"Good," Erik slipped the last warm glove over his left hand with a tight pull from his right. "I shall be at my usual place in Box Seat Five, as I've instructed," he reminded her. "At half past seven. I'm not quite all together yet."

"I'll leave you to your business, Monsieur," Mme. Giry nodded curtly and turned on her heel.

"Madame?" Erik asked, back half to her, his broad shoulders tilting at a slant. He shifted the weight of his feet and his posture straightened and lengthened. "The opera you say, is worth my acknowledgment, as I had wanted to be reported. How are the performers this night? Little Arielle and Armand?"

Madame Giry stood tall again, facing him with calm azure eyes that had seen far too much tender pain. Her hair was pulled tightly in a bun in the back of her head and she wore a long black gown, quite simplistic, and ethereal all the same; it mirrored her personality well. "We've the finest in all Paris, perhaps even France," she acknowledged. "They are doing quite well so far. Monsieur Armand…"

"And the diva?" Erik interrupted.

"She is no Carlotta."

Erik gave the slightest hint of a smile. "No one is quite like Carlotta," he said honestly, but it was not a compliment. "God may have graced me with one thing in this living hell, and that is that there is but one Carlotta in the world."

"There surely are more Carlotta's," Mme. Giry corrected him, speaking boldly.

Erik nodded sadistically in agreement, still with the hint of a smile carved out of his lips. "But God has graced me not to know them." He then took a strange turn in the subject matter. "There may be more than one of everyone; everyone except Erik."

Madame Giry shifted her stance, her placid eyes drifting over the man's withered face. "No, Erik; you are unique." She said it calmly, not as any form of insult, but as the harsh cruel reality that was drowning the man in his own self loathing, and had been seen the day he was old enough realize this was true. Erik was unique.

Erik scoffed, turning his back to her, and repeating that one word twice over in a sarcastic tone. He was laughing at himself. "Unique?" he nearly screamed it in rage and self pity through a muffled chuckle.

Mme. Giry looked upon the man's turned back with scorn. When would Erik learn? Never, she answered herself. "Come tonight, Erik," she said softly. "I've saved Box Seat Five for your use."

"I assure you Madame Giry," Erik promised her. "That I will be there."

Claire heaved a deep sigh as the opera entranced its lively audience. Her ribs ached in the tight corset that choked her waist of free room. Monsieur Andre sat next to her in a crimson cushioned armchair, one much like her own.

Her skin grew damp in the aching heat. True, it was winter, and February, no doubt, but that meant little when you were an upper-class woman in the mid 1800s. Claire wore many layers of undergarments beneath the suffocating jaws of her corset, and long flowing train of her dress which, of course, passed far below her ankles. A pair of soft white gloves covered her arms nearly to her shoulders.

Her waist length auburn locks were bound loosely in a beautiful French roll. She normally would have wished to wear her hair down, though it was frowned upon by her father, but on this night, it was God's heavenly gift that she wore it up, allowing her neck to cool slightly.

She briskly fanned herself, and then placed her light fan by her side. Her posture was straight, and her neck craned light and tall. She wore a sapphire gown with smooth and elegant lines, and a deep curved neckline.

A short necklace laced with black gems accessorized her outstretched neck, and she wore black velvet gloves upon her hands. The February night air had forced her to dress warmly, perhaps too warmly for her liking.

It was nearing the middle of the first act. Arielle was on stage, belting her beautiful music. Chorus Master Gabriel had trained the young woman's vocals well, but everyone watching the opera knew well that, though girl was talented enough for the role, she was no match to the famed La Carlotta, and many wondered why this Arielle woman had taken the diva's once secure place on stage.

As Arielle's part in the song came to a close, Armand, another young talent trained by Monsieur Gabriel raised his voice in song. His character, Fredric serenaded his love, Amelia, played by Arielle. His voice was quite lovely, Claire thought, but nothing too astounding; nothing she hadn't heard before.

"I feel myself surrender

Each time I see your face

I am staggered by your beauty, your song, and your grace.

And I feel my heart is turning

Falling into place

I can't hide, now I'm here

In my confession"

Arielle then sang:

"I have been wrong, about you,

Thought I was strong without you

For so long, nothing could move me

So long, nothing could change me…"

Then both voices melted splendidly in a duet:

"Now I feel myself surrender

Each time I see your face

I am captured by your beauty, your song, and your grace

And I feel my heart is turning

Falling into place

I can't hide now, I'm here

In my confession…"

Claire mouthed the words along with the song- the song she had so longed to sing that night, but she knew she never could. It felt as if her heart was rotting away in her breast; she felt useless in all her being. All she had ever been since her mother's death was a mere stage hand, a helper to those more fortunate than herself. Even her father, her once modest and humble father now discouraged her from mingling too often with the opera performers. They were of "lower class".

Claire tried her best to keep from feeling jealous of her friends, but she couldn't help her tortured feelings. She was extremely glad for Arielle that night, but she couldn't help but wish they had switched places for once. It would please her just to be onstage, to dance or even acquire a small, mute role, but her father, she thought, would always deny her of those simple pleasures.

As the song ended, all actors moved off stage, preparing for the next scene. There was a moment of silence. Claire leaned to the left, into her father's ear. ""Box Seat Five appears to be empty," she acknowledged aloud, wondering what her father might have to say about this, remembering that it was the seat the Phantom had asked for.

Andre scowled. "It was supposed to be a full house tonight," he whispered back. "All seats have been rented!" he didn't understand why someone would pay so much for such a spectacular seat in the Opera House, and then not use it.

Claire seemed to have read her father's mind. "Perhaps whoever rented it became ill," she offered, not once believing it herself.

"This is all that Madame Giry's doing," Andre said. "I feel it in my bones. She's the one person who urged me to keep that seat available for that Opera Ghost!" he whispered rather loudly this time.

Claire couldn't help but glance quickly at Box Seat Five. Well, she meant to glance quickly, but her head did not move back to its former position. She sat, staring across the room, eyes open widely.

What she had just seen caused the flesh on her arms to crawl, her muscles to tense, and her blood to run cold with fear. The crimson curtains meant for privacy that were strung behind the box seat billowed as if they'd been moved by a strong breath of wind. But what wind? There surely was no draft in the theatre. That one curtain was all that stirred. Claire swallowed hard.

She tore her eyes from the site as the curtains relaxed and drooped still, and calm. What frightened her more was the cold voice that kept playing over and over in her mind. He's here, it told her. He's there, in Box Five.

Her imagination ran wild as it always had. She believed now. It couldn't have been the wind. No; someone was there. An usher? No; a Phantom!

Ok, I gave you Erik, now please review!