A/N: Thanks so much for all the awesome reviews! I am so glad you guys are liking this story! I know it may be a little slow now, but I am a firm believer in character development...so bare with me!

Please R&R!

Eventually, albeit very slowly, I began to slip into the unconsciousness of sleep. Much to my surprise, it was a dreamless slumber, a pleasant relief from the excitement of the day.

It would not last long.

I awoke, somewhat startled, later that night. My forehead was damp in a cold, sticky sweat. I felt tense and greatly solicitous. What had happened? Why did I awake? I strained my vision, scanning through the darkness of my room. There were no dreams, no nightmares that could have awoken me, not any that I recalled offhand, anyway. There had, however, been a voice. Yes! A voice! I could remember all at once drifting off to sleep while some concealed melody had surrounded my mind and my body, filling me with comfort and tranquility.

Uneasy, I tried to shrug off the explanation that was rapidly forming in my mind. Indeed it was a strangely familiar voice, but there was no possibility that it was whom I believed it to be. Attempting to divert my attention to something that was less frightening, I laid my head back down upon the pillow, my palm pressed to my flushed cheeks. I slowly took in breath, letting it fill my constricted chest, letting it ingress my thoughts, clearing them away. It was of no use. My mind snapped back to a scene that had occurred earlier that evening:

Perhaps you should be more cautious next time and not wander the corridors of my Opera House unattended. I cannot be bothered every time you are in need of a savior, Mademoiselle deCapriana.

The harsh words seem to reverberate off the walls of my tiny bedroom. Back and forth they bounced, congesting my head with suspicion. He knew my name! How did He know?

The being that had saved me earlier was no apparition. It was surely a living, breathing, existing thing. It was not a ghost nor some fantasy my mind had conjured up. He was real. He is real. I concluded that the stories about Him had to be real, also. I knew all too well the effects of gossip and how the actual events were often warped into an obscure story, varying from the truth greatly. Was this the case of the Phantom? I mentally began filing through all the information I had learned about Him.

The chandelier did indeed plummet to the crowd in the Opera House that fateful evening, leading to the disappearance of the supposed object of His affection, Christine Daae. Christine Daae. That name seemed oddly familiar. He took her to His home, deep in the subterranean vaults of the Opera House. Her betrothed, Monsieur deChagny, had followed them there, emerging hours later with his beloved. The Opera Ghost never seen nor heard from again. Or so Audric had led me to believe. I had been sitting in the parlor that evening, listening with fervor to the bizarre tale my master had been discussing with his brother. It fascinated me. So intriguing and Romanesque was this story, it was emblazoned in my mind. When Audric had spoken of Him, He was depicted in a rather unappealing light. In fact, Audric absolutely despised this "creature". Being good family friends with the deChagny's, this ghost was dismissed as a sanguineous lunatic that was to be disposed of if ever heard from again.

I managed to find it incredibly romantic, somehow. Of course, I never dared voice my opinion to anyone in the household. So I mused to myself how wonderful it would be to be cherished, adored, by someone that much. The ghost never seemed to be sinister, in my eyes, just misunderstood.

Misunderstood. Was this man really anything to fear? My thoughts ran in circles all night, until I finally managed to fall asleep again. Not knowing that just feet from my sleeping figure there stood a man, watching my chest rise and fall with every breath I took.

The next day, I awoke to pandemonium. Charlotte came bursting into my room at the very early hour's of the morning.

"Alessandra! Wake up!" she shouted, gently shaking my fatigued shoulders. I was weary from my lack of rest, but managed to open my eyes and cast an irritated look in her direction. I immediately noticed the terrified look on her usually bright face. I sat up as quick as my groggy body would allow me to.

"Charlotte, you look a fright! Whatever is the matter?"

"They…they found a body this morning. Near the prop room. It was Pierre, the stagehand. Oh Alessandra, it appears that He has returned!" she cried, throwing her arms up in the air.

"Who has returned? What do you mean, Charlotte? You're frightening me."

"Him! The Phantom of the Opera! Who else could have done such a terrible thing?" she whispered His name, apparently afraid that He would overhear it.

My mind began to run at a frantic pace. This man, this phantom had saved my life last night. I could not just stand there, helpless, letting Him be blamed for cold-blooded murder. Yet I could not exactly tell the truth either. Who would believe that the Opera Ghost had come to my rescue? He had killed that stage hand to save me, and for that, I would always be grateful to Him. I needed an excuse, I needed an explanation.

"Is there any proof that it was Him who, in fact, killed the man?" I said, trying to sound as calm and nonchalant as possible, though inside I was racked with worry. "Perhaps, this was of the man's own doing," I suggested, turning my face away from Charlotte. I was an excellent liar, but I took no chances, I didn't want her to detect any trace of emotion in my eyes.

"I know that you may have a soft spot for Him, Alessandra. But do you honestly think that Pierre would take his own life?"

"Did you know him personally?" I questioned, "Who's to say that he didn't?"

Charlotte moved toward the door, her blonde hair falling softly around her innocent face. Clearly, her youth had not subjected her to the horrors of murder or suicide. Her eyes were far away from here, searching for an answer not I, nor anyone, could give her.

"Why…how could one do such a thing?"

"Charlotte, it's very sad that this has happened, but that does not mean you can go running about blaming someone's misery on the Phantom of the Opera," I said it as softly as possible, not wanting to hurt her. She nodded and turned around to look over my room, her gaze lingering on the mirror. I locked my eyes onto her own, reassuring her. I sighed and took her into a friendly embrace, patting her delicate hand.

"Everything is going to be all right, Charlotte," I smiled, "Now, don't you have an opera to rehearse?"

A small grin spread across her face and she nodded, leaving me to my room, and to my thoughts.