Enveloped, almost crushed beneath the woolen cloak, Meg scurried down the side streets that led away from the Opera House.

She found the little apartment and pounded on the door.

A thin man with olive skin and green eyes answered her knock.

"Now, now, mademoiselle. You need not break down my door."

He looked her over quickly, seeing the familiar black cape and the red-stained shirt beneath it. He knew at once that her sudden appearance at his door was connected with the Opera Ghost."

"What has he done?"

"He was shot…he asked me to bring you and your servant to help him. Oh, please come quickly! There is so much blood."

Minutes later, Meg was seated in a small, hired carriage with the two men, the mysterious Persian and his servant, Darius.

Darius held a small chest of polished wood on his lap.

"When we reach the Opera House,Mademoiselle Giry, go back to your mother. No doubt she is worried about you."

Meg looked at the Persian with surprise.

"How do you know my name, sir?"

The Persian smiled and she noted that his eyes seemed quite kind despite a rather severe face.

"Come, Mademoiselle, I know a great deal about the Opera House. Probably more than the two bumblers that own it. Not as much as Er…as the Opera Ghost. But enough to recognize you."

But when the carriage came to a stop at that tiny, forlorn door in the Rue Scribe, Meg followed the two men back down into the cellars. Nothing the Persian said would persuade her not to,

She ran ahead of them to his room, praying that it was not too late…that he was still alive, waiting for her return with aid.

He was lying quite still when she reached his side. He had moved little since she left. One pale hand dangled off the edge of the bed and she gently took it, moving it to rest on his chest.

"Monsieur," she said, hearing the Persian and Darius enter behind her, "I have brought your friend. I have brought help."

He opened his eyes slowly and, for a moment, it seemed as if his lips would twist into a wry, bitter smile. All he could manage was a grimace of pain before he spoke.

"Well, Daroga, you've come to watch me die. I half expected you to refuse the invitation."

The Persian took the wooden box from Darius and set it on the carved trunk at the foot of the bed.

"Old friend, do you think I would say no when a distressed girl suddenly appears at my door, begging me to help you?"
As the Persian unlocked the chest, Darius took the single candle and lit others.

Meg felt ashamed, but she found herself turning away from the poor man on the bed. In the light, it was even harder to look at his ravaged face.

-------------

Darius was already removing the saturated bandage from the wound.

"It is not a serious wound and the bleeding has slowed somewhat. It should not be too hard for us to remove the bullet from him."

The Persian had taken a bottle from the chest and dispensed a small about of fluid into a tiny glass. Meg caught a hint of a sweet, herbal scent as he mixed it with drops from another little vial.

"Here, take this…it will help ease the pain when Darius takes the bullet from your shoulder."

The Phantom turned his head weakly from the offered cup.

"No, Daroga. No drugs. You forget…the opium and the Khanum…then the morphine."

"But the pain? Surely, you can't expect Darius to…"

"Pain, old friend," the wounded man hissed through clenched teeth, flinching violently and seizing Meg's wrist as Darius cut away his ruined shirt.

"I learned the meaning of pain this night," he added.

Meg gave a little cry of pain as his cold fingers dug into her arm and he released her quickly. When Darius began to cleanse his shoulder with a sharp-smelling clear liquid, she saw the Phantom's hand twisted into the sheet.

"Daroga…the girl…get her out of here…she shouldn't see this."

"Do you need my help, Monsieur," Meg asked the Persian,. She was unsure how much more she could stand to see, but it seemed wrong to leave his side.

The Persian saw her white face and wide, nervous eyes. He shook his head.

"No, Mademoiselle. Wait outside. Darius and I have too much experience in such matters. We will manage well enough without you."

She didn't want to look back at the man on the bed as she hurried from the room. She knew that, no matter what happen that night, his tortured face and bloody body would haunt her until her own dying day.

She went into the outer chamber and finally set aside the cape, feeling as if the weight of it would crush her petite frame. She slumped down on the throne, suddenly aware of the ache in her feet and the chilly, gloomy air around her.

Only once did she hear a sound from the other room, a single anguished cry.

Christine….

She covered her ears, afraid to hear that scream again. The voice…that voice which had been so captivating, so full of power and beauty in those last moments of Don Juan Triumphant…was now as terrible and distorted as his face.

She curled up in the chair and waited until exhaustion pulled her into sleep.