VI. Long ago

Huddling into a corner, his arms wrapped around his knees tightly, he tried to make no sound. Where was he? What kind of place had the girl ushered him into? The building had been huge, huge and impressive, and she had called it the Opera House, whatever this might mean, but the dark stone room he was sitting in looked more like a chapel. Not that he had seen many chapels yet, but he had been inside one a few times, and they had looked pretty similar, except that there usually were burning candles. In this room, there was a black metal rack for candles, but there were no lit candles at all, and the floor was dusty, as if nobody had been in here for a long time – which meant that he would not be found, but still he would have liked to see a candle-flame. He liked the warm, soft light of candles.

Slowly his pounding heartbeat calmed and returned to normal. He was quite alone in the gentle gloom, and nobody would come looking for him here. Releasing his firm hold on his knees, he stretched out his legs, while rubbing his upper arms. Sitting crouched for too long was uncomfortable, although it was some protection against kicks, yet it was chilly in here, almost colder than outside. No, probably he was imagining things, it was certainly colder where he had just come from. Yet all the same, he felt cold.

And his hands felt rough on his upper arms. Lowering them and turning his palms upwards, he squinted at them critically. They were dirty, of course, as usual, but there was something else about them too, this time: All over his palms, sticking to his skin, in places stinging it, were small, rough fibres, coming from a rough rope… the rope he had just killed a man with.

Starting to brush them off, he rested the back of his head against the wall, closing his eyes. He had killed him. He had killed him at last. Feeling his limbs tremble with excitement, he relived those seconds in his mind, those glorious seconds when he had at last had his revenge. It all had been over in a moment, and he had hardly thought while doing it, just thrown the noose around his loathed owner's neck and yanked the rope tight, and immediately the massive body had gone limp, and the head had fallen forward heavily, with a sound oddly like a branch snapping. He must have broken the man's neck. Strange, it had seemed so simple, and it all had been over so quickly. That foul gypsy had died so easily.

And then, when he had let the noose glide from his hands, the sudden fear clenching his stomach, the panic. What now? What would they do to him now? And only then had he seen the girl, a slender, fair-haired girl, a few years older than he was probably, and their eyes had met… and she had come and opened his cage for him, without disgust, without fear, something written on her features he had never seen on any human looking upon him before. What had it been? Sympathy? Pity? It had made the painful knot in his stomach unclench, and he had followed her trustingly as she had taken his hand to lead him away, towards freedom.

She had actually taken his hand.

He shivered again, hugging himself tightly. His only piece of clothing, apart from the mask, of course, that hateful sack pulled over his head, was a ragged pair of trousers. If the girl came back, he might ask her for a spare shirt… No, he couldn't; she had already done enough for him, more than enough. He couldn't ask anything more of her. On the contrary, he owed her his freedom, and probably his life. He would have to find a way to repay her.

There were footsteps coming from outside, down the stairs leading further into the building! At once he was on his feet, picking up his small monkey doll and hugging it to his chest. Apart from his sparse clothing, this little monkey was his only possession, and he would not part with it. His eyes were darting from side to side, searching for a way of escape. No, there was no hiding place; the only way open to him was to flee back outside… But he was reluctant to do so. He wanted to stay. This place was a strange place, and in a way an eerie place, but he wanted to stay where he was. The gentle darkness of this chapel made him feel at home.

"Are you there?" a whisper came from outside, and then the girl slipped into the room, making relief flood him. "It's alright, it's just me."

Letting his arms sink to his sides, he took a few reluctant steps towards her, the flagstones smooth and cool under his bare feet, then stopped. He did not want to scare her. "Thank you", he murmured huskily, his voice trembling, tears suddenly burning in his eyes. "Thank you for everything. How can I ever repay you?"

"There is no need", the girl answered earnestly, her grey eyes once again meeting his, making him feel warm inside. "If I had left you with those monsters, I could not have lived with myself."

Those monsters. She had called the gypsies monsters. Was not he the one who was the monster? He had always been the one.

The girl regarded him hesitantly, probably wondering why he hid behind that mask. "I'm Claire", she said at last. "And what is your name?"

He shrugged and shook his head. "I don't have a name, and I can't remember ever having one. Not a real name, I mean." But that lack of a name had never mattered to the gypsies, they had made up plenty for him.

"How old are you?"

He cast his gaze down to his dirty feet. "I don't know."

"And what do you do? I mean, normally?"

"What…" He did not quite understand. "What do you mean?"

"I'm in the ballet, for example. A dancer", she added, guessing his ignorance. "And you?"

"I'm an exhibit." His tone was so harsh and bitter that the girl took a step backwards. Had he scared her? "I've never done anything else", he continued, trying to make his voice softer. "Except the occasional work for them."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

The girl smiled, and he decided that he truly would not leave. This girl had actually smiled at him. Smiled at him! Nobody would ever do that.

"Why do you wear this… thing?" she asked, pointing to his mask.

"Because I'm a monster." His voice sounded hoarse in his own ears.

"I don't believe that."

"But I am", he insisted. "I'm the ugliest creature alive."

"Is this what the gypsies said?" she asked gently.

"Yes. Pretty much."

"I don't believe them", she said stubbornly. "Will you not take it off?"

He shook his head violently. No, never! She would scream and run from him, or else send him away! "It's better if I don't", he whispered.

"You can trust me", she said gently. "Don't be afraid. There is no need to hide from me."

You can trust me. Could he believe his ears? No, this was just a dream, just one of those desperate, feverish dreams. There was nobody he could trust, nobody in the world.

"No-one should be forced to hide his face like this", she continued, approaching him. He backed away until he stood pressed against the wall, but she kept coming. "Why should I take a gypsy's word as for what you look like?" And then she was very close, only at an arm's length from him. "Show me", she said quietly.

If he could have dug a hole through the wall with his shoulder blades, he would surely have done so, but he was trapped, and she was already reaching out to pull his mask away. Watching her hand coming closer, frozen with dread, he made a soft, whimpering sound in his throat, his fist tight around the monkey. "Quiet", she whispered soothingly. "Quiet…" He wanted to run, to fight, but he stood transfixed, unable to move. Already his mask was slipping away, cool air touching his skin… He pressed his eyes shut as hard as he could, not wanting to see the grimace of dread upon her face. Clenching his teeth, he waited for her to scream, to hit him, to shout at him, to run away, just to do anything. Why was she so silent?

And then he felt a finger on his marred cheek, gently tracing his scars. "Poor boy", she said softly. "This must have hurt."

"I don't remember", he murmured. Should he dare to open his eyes?

"How did it happen?"

"I don't know. I must have been very small." There was so much he did not know, so much for which he had no answer.

"They were lying", the girl said firmly, her palm now resting on his cheek. "You are not a monster. You're only scarred. Badly scarred, maybe. But never a monster. Only to have had a terrible accident in your early childhood does not make you a son of the devil."

Opening his eyes slowly, he stared at her, unbelieving. She was not repulsed. She was not afraid. She did not think he was a monster.

"Why did they call you the Devil's Child?" There was anger in her voice, but not at him. Not at him. "They had no right to do so! Absolutely no right! What have you ever done to them? They're the monsters, but not you!"

He cleared his throat hesitantly. To tell her about this was unwise, yet he longed so much to trust someone at last, and to be able to speak about it, that he could not stop himself. "Sometimes when I look at people… when I look them in the eyes, I mean… things happen."

Lowering her hand, she frowned again. "Things? What things?"

"I don't know. Just… strange things. They start to feel all funny. Sometimes they act like… like they're in a daze, or something. I really don't understand. It's not my fault. But they think I do something… with my eyes."

"That's just what they say", the girl said, firmly, yet warmly. "Maybe they had a bad conscience about the way they treated you, and I assume they are superstitious. Don't believe all the things they told you about yourself."

He nodded gratefully, but his mouth was dry. Maybe the gypsies were superstitious, but all the same, there was something he could do by looking at them. He had no idea what it was, and it didn't work every time, but there was… something. He knew there was.

She was still looking at him, pity in her eyes. She had a pretty face, he noticed, smooth and even. With his scarred features, he felt ashamed to stand in front of her. "Can I have my mask back?" he muttered, staring at his feet hard. "It's just… I feel better when I'm wearing it." And at the same time, he wished he would never have to wear it again.

She handed it over without protest, and he quickly covered his face once more. "Thank you", he said again. "For all you've done."

"I'll show you the way to the cellars now", she suggested. "You can hide there a few hours, until nightfall. Then, when everybody is asleep, I'll come for you and take you upstairs, shall I? I'm afraid I can't truly accommodate you, but at least I've got a place on the rug to offer, and a spare blanket. And tomorrow we'll see what we can do about you. You'll need something proper to wear, and if you want to stay, we'll have to find some shelter for you, somewhere down in the cellars, probably. The lowest level is partially flooded, and nobody ever goes there. It would make a perfect hideout. But we'll think about that later on, shall we?" Smiling, she held out a hand for him. "Come with me."

Taking it, he followed her trustingly, once again muttering his thanks.

He was led into the mist, into the rolling, boiling clouds of mist… and then he opened his eyes. Again he was lying on the ground, his shirt soaked with his own sweat, and again Créon was standing over him, his one bright, empty eye freezing him to a statue, holding him enthralled. And then the oceans of mist closed again as he fell, fell back in time, back through long, long years…

"Stop picking your nose", Claire said. "It makes me nervous."

He grinned at her broadly. "Be glad I'm not picking yours", he declared.

She sighed and rolled her eyes at him, then sat down across from him, her eyes immediately drawn to what he had spread out on the table between them, and widening as she realized what it was. "That's… that's… how did you get it?"

"Nicked it after yesterday's rehearsal", he answered smugly. No need to boast; she knew just as well as he how difficult that was. "Just writing it all down by listening and memorizing was getting boring. All the stuff struck out, and the passages left blank and stuff – oh, you can probably imagine. This way, it's really easy. I just copy out the missing passages, and the score will be back in the pit by tomorrow morning, and no harm done."

"Are you quite sure?" Claire asked doubtfully. "This sounds risky to me. What if anyone did notice it went missing overnight?"

He shrugged. "Why bother? After all, this place is haunted, isn't it?"

"Yes, and people are pretty superstitious, but you really shouldn't haunt it so obviously. What do you need the score for, anyway?"

"I told you", he replied patiently. "I'm making a copy for myself, and doing it by listening to rehearsals is much more complicated." Yes indeed, especially when he was hiding in one of the boxes on the grand tier while the auditorium was not lit – after all, he needed a bit of lighting when he wanted to write, yet the sheen of even one single candle might be easily seen, and he had not yet managed to acquire a shuttered lantern. So finally he had ended up with listening and memorizing and then jutting down what he remembered when he returned to his deepest cellars.

Claire still looked doubtful, but she did not press the matter any further, and he was glad she didn't. Instead, she picked up one of the sheets covered in black ink. "So this is what you've copied out?"

"No, this is what I wrote down from my memory. See all the blotches? I was in a bit of a hurry, you see, because I feared I might forget something if I took a lot of time with it." He shoved another page over at her. "That one's copied. Much cleaner, isn't it?"

Frowning, Claire took it from him, holding the two pages up into the candlelight next to each other and examining them thoroughly. The frown did not leave her face. At last, she handed the pages back. "You don't mean to say", she asked incredulously, "that you came down here, after listening to a rehearsal, with the entire score for that scene stuck in your mind, and just wrote it down? The part of every singer, and every instrument?"

"Why, of course! What else do you expect? That I climbed into the pit to ask the musicians if they would kindly let me get a glimpse of what they're playing?"

"The part of every instrument?"

"Oh well, I had a few notes wrong in the viola", he admitted. "And I made a bit of a blunder with the second oboe. But the whole rest was correct."

"I can't believe it", Claire stated flatly.

"Oh, come on! It's not as if I've heard it only that one time. That's half into the second week they're working on it with full orchestra."

"Yes, and I've heard from one of the second violinists that he hardly knows his part yet."

"That would be because he's an old sloth. But you should hear part of the first violinists during the overture. They're just not fast enough yet."

"How do you know?" Claire demanded. "It's not as if you could play the violin!"

"Of course I can!" he protested.

"You can't!"

"I can!"

"You never learned it!"

"I taught myself!"

"Nobody can teach himself to play the violin!"

"But I can!"

"You're lying!"

"I'm not!" he retorted hotly. Hadn't he taught himself to read notes before her very eyes, the first time he had watched a rehearsal, hidden away in a box and with only a score before him for orientation? After a few minutes, he had already been singing along softly, and amusing himself by watching Claire's jaw slowly descend as far as it would go.

Claire stuck out her tongue at him, then assumed an annoying little sing-song voice. "Liar! Liar! Back of your pants on fire!"

He wanted to protest, or better yet, to stuff something into her mouth, but this was just too silly. Unable to stifle the mirth suddenly welling up in him, he snorted with laughter. "Made that up yourself?"

Claire giggled. "No, I actually learned it from my youngest ballet colleagues. One of the little boys was calling it after another."

He smirked at her. "Seems you're acting your age, then, just as usual."

"You watch your tongue, or another pillow battle is in order."

"Sounds good", he remarked. Their last pillow battle, only a week ago, had been thoroughly enjoyable, and they had ended up rolling around on the floor laughing.

"I think it's really in order, then. But let us eat something first." She nodded to the basket she had brought along.

"Not a good idea", he answered, grinning. "I always get lazy after being fed. How do you expect me to wield a pillow after stuffing myself with whatever delicious things you've brought?"

"You ought to eat less, then."

"Why? I'm not in the ballet."

Claire giggled. "Good point. But that doesn't mean I'll starve, only because I'm in the ballet."

"But how do you expect to ever be promoted to prima ballerina, when you keep stuffing your face with sausages and chocolates?" He felt his grin broaden; teasing Claire could be so much fun. "You might even lose your post as her substitute if you go on like that."

At once Claire looked crestfallen. "Do you really think I'm too fat?" she asked worriedly.

"No, no, I'm just kidding", he assured her hastily. "You're just perfect. You're pretty, and very graceful. And even slimmer than lots of others." And he knew that for certain, he truly did, although he had better not tell Claire that he had, a few years ago, found a way of watching one of the ballet girls' washing rooms unobserved, and he had done so plenty of times. Whenever Claire was there, he decently shut his eyes and retreated, because it just wouldn't feel right to spy on his friend, but he sometimes enjoyed watching the whole rest of them. Before he had discovered the handy crannies in the wall, he had never seen a naked woman – except a few nude statues, which were barely enough to quench the first curiosity – and he had found the view very… educational. Of course this wasn't enough to satisfy the urges he occasionally felt, but it was the best he could get.

The best someone like him would ever get. No woman in her right mind would ever even think of touching someone as ugly as he was, let alone fall in love with him. Claire was the only person he had ever met who liked him at all, except a few animals, but even Claire would probably run away in disgust if he tried anything with her. Innocently forward as she was, she had given him a few hugs already, but she would never go beyond that. Never. Nobody would.

Reaching out across the table, Claire patted his hand. "Why so gloomy suddenly?"

"I was just thinking."

"Of course. Your Flying Dutchman again?"

"My Flying Dutchman Wagner's Flying Dutchman, I'm afraid."

She smiled, and he wondered if she had even noticed that he had avoided her question. "Oh yes. Imagine it really was yours."

"I doubt I could ever write anything that magnificent."

"Maybe you should try", she suggested. That little tune you wrote for me was very pretty."

"Yes, but that was just a tune. Whereas we're talking of an opera here. And not just some Auber or Meyerbeer, mind you."

"Something like Gounod, then?"

"Much better", he assured her. "I've never heard anything of the like."

"Now how about Mozart?" Claire offered. "Or Beethoven? They must be a match for this German newcomer, aren't they?"

"They're different", he explained. "Another style. I assume you know what I mean; you've heard it for yourself. I mean, just look at it. Look at its form. Mozart sticks with the form, always. And Beethoven doesn't move too far away from it. But Wagner… he doesn't. He simply does as he pleases."

"He sounds a lot different", Claire admitted. "You're right, he certainly does. He sounds… wild."

"Do you by any chance mean passionate?"

"Yes, thanks." Claire smiled. "You're a good one with words."

"Thanks in turn."

"Any part you're aspiring for yet?" she teased him. "Have you yet tried out the Dutchman?"

He gave her a little grin. There was nothing wrong with her knowing about the secret dream he harboured. "Actually I have, but the trouble is… he's a baritone."

"Oh, I see. But there is a tenor, isn't there? During that rehearsal yesterday, we had one on stage, although he didn't get to do much."

He laughed at that. "Yes, of course there is. There are two, to be exact", he explained. "But the Helmsman is a small part really, only in the first act and a little bit in the third. He doesn't get much in the first act, too, but he has that song, you know. Rather catchy." He hummed a bit of the melody, and Claire nodded, recognizing it. "And he is in the chorus for the whole of the third act, I presume. Wouldn't make sense if he wasn't; he's supposed to stick with his sailors."

"Now how about the other? That hunter? We were working on the beginning of the second act, and he was waiting for his cue, so I guess he must be in the second act. At least I know for certain that he's in the third." She sighed. "But I always have to go down for ballet practise while you can stay and listen to the whole rest of it. It's a bit unfair. Anyway, what was his name again? It was a nice name, but I forgot."

"You keep forgetting things", he teased her.

"Yes, especially my text, when I make it into the chorus. Will you tell me now?"

"Alright. The name you're looking for is Erik, and I think I could sing the part."

Smiling, Claire eyed him up and down, at least as far as that was possible with the table still between them. "Oh yes, thank you. Now I remember. And you would make a fine hunter, I think. I can just picture you with a bow over your shoulder." She giggled. "A very suitable Erik. And the name would suit you, too."

"Really?" He laughed. "Then I guess I'll be stuck with it now. When you tell me something suits me, I always end up being stuck with it."

"You're not complaining, I hope?" Claire playfully raised a threatening finger. "And anyway, you haven't come up with a name for yourself yet."

"I have", he objected. "I'm the Opera Ghost."

"A proper name, I mean."

"That's proper enough for my taste."

"But not for mine", she said firmly. "Now be a good boy and pass me that lunch basket… Erik."

Erik… He had not heard that name in a long time. As the mists momentarily cleared, he wondered for how long exactly, but soon they were closing in again. He fought them as good as he could, like one would fight sleep overwhelming him, but they were stronger. They wrapped him up and encompassed him, dulling all sounds around him, extinguishing the fires. There was no point in fighting. Already he was drifting off again, back into his own past. He struggled to shut that strange hand out of his mind, to keep his memories to himself, yet it was useless. The hand was just too strong. All he could do was squirm in its grasp, but he could not get it to loosen its grip. And against those billowing clouds of fog, all resistance was in vain.

He was floating… falling… drifting on a small boat on the oceans of time… enshrouded by the mists of time… enshrouded…

He checked his own reflection in the mirror before he settled down in the manager's chair, one booted foot on the table, the other against its edge, and started flicking through the newspaper lying there. Very well. He was ready.

The manager, however, was not. Entering with his usual hasty, nervous strides, the tall, lean man closed the door behind him, then once again turned to face the room – and jumped.

"Ah, Monsieur Lefevre", he said lazily, as if acknowledging the manager's presence only then. "How fortunate I meet you here, as there are some important matters to discuss."

"The… the… the Ghost!" Lefevre gasped. "How did you come in here? I locked the door. I'm sure I locked the door."

He raised his uncovered eyebrow at him over the top of the newspaper. "Do you really think I use doors?"

Lefevre swallowed. "But you look… solid", he managed.

"I can", the Phantom answered lightly, "if I choose to."

"And you…" The manager took a deep breath, then blurted out. "I saw you at the lavatory."

The Phantom nodded to himself. Exactly what he had expected. This was the reason why he had come here in person, instead of just leaving a letter on the desk for the man to find. After encountering him at the gentlemen's room a few days ago, the man might easily start to suspect something. Not that he would have worried about Lefevre knowing about his presence alone there – after all, every part of the Opera House could be haunted – but the problem was that he had been quite obviously doing up his buttons when Lefevre had entered, and this hinted at a rather human activity he had been busy with a moment earlier. Not what one would expect of a ghost. Definitely not. And therefore, Lefevre needed a little reminder of who he was. "And what, precisely, does this reveal about me?" he asked scornfully. He had to be careful not to seem to be covering up for himself, but he could not appear too untouched by it all, either, or else Lefevre would suspect that he was only pretending. "I readily admit that even I have to take the human form with its disadvantages, along with the advantages." He threw the newspaper down onto the desk, beside his boot heel. "But I have not come for a friendly chat about what form to choose. Let's get to business, Monsieur Lefevre."

As he had intended, the pause made the manager nervous. "What are your interests here?" he asked breathlessly, then hurriedly added, "If I may ask."

Slowly and elegantly, the Phantom rose to his feet and approached him, in a kind of lazy saunter that seemed to have a very intimidating effect on people. Lefevre backed away until he positively shrunk into the wall, but the Phantom stopped only when his partially masked face was a mere span from the manager's. "Have you ever heard that there are men who were in life so evil that Hell spat them back out?" he asked softly. "There is nothing I have to fear, and I would not hesitate to send you there to carry my fondest regards, especially when my orders are not obeyed. And do not bore me with stupid questions, or you may find yourself on your way downwards even sooner than expected." His eyes held Lefevre's gaze, and he could feel the man's fear. "You can't be too eager to get there soon, now can you?" he continued gently, yet without allowing his expression to soften. "Not with the kind of life you lead. Drinking, gambling, pretty women… Yes, I know all about you", he said as Lefevre's eyes widened with dread. "You expect you still have some time until your afterlife begins, do you? Time to repent, to seek absolution for your sins… But accidents can always happen, Monsieur Lefevre. Anywhere, anytime." He let his lips shift into a cruel smile. "What will you do when you suddenly have to face your judge? What will you say? For whose aid will you plead, when the day comes?"

Lefevre was trembling, and it seemed that only the wall at his back prevented him from keeling over. The Phantom regarded him scornfully. This one was much too easy to manipulate. "And now, Monsieur Lefevre", he said pleasantly, "we will discuss the matter of my salary."

The fog returned and thinned, while some of the last words spoken still swirled through his mind, dancing in the clouds. When the day comes… what will you say… for whose aid will you plead… plead… plead… when the day comes… Unbidden, they translated themselves into Latin in his head, into the words of the requiem mass: Quid sum miser tunc dicturus… quem patronum rogaturus…

The mists were drifting, boiling, the current carrying him upwards, towards a sky that was cold and empty. Around him, everything was spinning, turning; he was resting beneath an axis which was a patch of empty sky… empty sky…

Créon was standing above him, holding his gaze. How could one single eye hold two? He did not know. And, oh, what a terrible eye…

The voice filled his consciousness with ice as he plunged back into the wide field of mist, grasping around him for a hold uselessly. "Show me your heart…"

And then there was pain, so much pain, as if his heart were ripped from his chest. He wanted to scream, but swallowed fog, fog which slid down his throat like ice, rendering him mute and helpless. Something struck him, swift and hard, and at once everything was revolving around a point of light, a point of light at the bottom of a well… he was falling… falling… closer… the point of light was taking shape… closer… the mists were receding… ever closer… the light was there… the light…

The light of a single candle flickered in the darkness, casting odd shadows onto the face of a small, thin girl, her little face, framed by dark curls, strangely pale in the dim light. Her small hands folded and on her knees in the dust, she was praying fervently, tears drawing glittering lines down her cheeks. "You promised you would send him to me. Please, tell him to come." Even her voice had something small about it, like a scared little bird's.

Standing in the entrance to the chapel and watching her half from the side unobserved, leaning against the doorframe with one shoulder, he wondered where he had seen this child before. She belonged to the ballet school, no doubt. All the little children here belonged to the ballet school – with a few exceptions, but those were very few. Usually he paid them no attention at all, except Claire's little girl maybe, little Meg, who he kept an eye on sometimes, yet without letting her see him, but this one… He knew this one. He was sure he did.

"You promised me."

But who the hell was she? Not that he really cared, but… Oh, damn, he really had better things to do than to wonder about some snivelling little snotrag, even if that one came down to the chapel to pray, something no-one else did.

"I know you can hear me now."

Oh, how very moving. Thrusting his thumbs behind his belt, he wrinkled his nose at so much naivety. He might just give the little puppet a good scare and be on his way, and maybe, if it still bothered him later on, he could ask Claire who the girl was.

Claire. Of course. Why hadn't it occurred to him earlier? Claire had mentioned a little orphan girl she was to pick up in the countryside, and this morning she had returned, and she had said… Yes, of course. Now he remembered.

He might still give her a scare. Just a slight one.

Still kneeling before the metal rack with the one single candle on it, the girl gave a little sob.

Claire had mentioned that she had lost her father. Poor thing. He knew what it was like, being all alone in the world. Hadn't he once crouched in a corner in this very room, alone and frightened, before Claire had come for him?

"Please, please, send me the Angel of Music."

Happy child, still believing in angels. He doubted that he had ever done so. Now what was her name again? Claire had certainly used it a few times when telling him about the whole thing… Oh yes, he remembered. "Christine…", he called gently, making his voice come from everywhere and nowhere, just out of the air above her head.

Her small form stiffened as she listened. Wasn't she going to at least squeal? "Are you the Angel of Music?"

What? Not what he had intended! "What makes you think so?" He was smiling wickedly to himself; this girl expected to meet an angel, but he would introduce her to the Opera Ghost!

"Because my father promised to send him to me." Hell consume itself, why wasn't she afraid of a voice coming from nowhere? "He told me all about him. He lives behind the moon, he said, and he is the most beautiful of them all, so beautiful that none can endure to look upon his face."

Despite himself, he almost laughed out loud. Yes indeed, he was so beautiful that she would scream when he showed his face! What complete nonsense! He felt inclined to kick her for saying something so stupid to him.

"Are you the Angel of Music?" she insisted.

"Maybe I am." He did not know why he said it. Was it just that he wanted to tease the silly little thing, or did he feel sorry for her, so alone in the darkness?

There was a moment's silence, in which the girl looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully, as if she could see him this way, or hear his voice better. "Are you still there?" she finally asked.

"Yes."

"Don't go", she pleaded softly.

"I won't." Why would she not look around the room to find the source of the disembodied voice speaking to her? She was far too trusting.

"Has my father sent you?"

"I came of my own accord."

"Why?" she breathed.

"Because I saw you were alone."

"Will you come again for me?"

"If you want me to." It was cruel, playing with her like that. She was just a child; she would trust him blindly.

"Are you somewhere close?" she asked wonderingly.

He smiled to himself in the shadows. "Closer than you think."

It seemed to be what she wanted to hear, for her little face at once lit up with joy. So small she was, so fragile, ready to crumble at the first wind, yet the happiness she displayed would not be shattered. She truly believed in her Angel, he thought… even if her Angel did not.

"My father said you would guide my steps."

"I can certainly do that." He could, yes. But he did not exactly intend to. What should he burden himself with a child for?

"And sing to me in my sleep at night."

"If you are a good girl." What was he doing there? Surely he would not go and sing a silly little child lullabies?

"I will be", she promised eagerly. "Angel?"

"Yes?" Nobody had ever called him that. Surely she could not believe that… Well, of course she could. He had practically told her that he was an angel, and she was not going to question it.

She would do his bidding, it occurred to him. She would be his creature. He had her in his hand.

"What is your voice like? I mean, when you sing?"

He wanted to tell her that it depended on his mood, but surely an angel would not be afflicted by changing moods. "What do you expect it to be like?" he asked back instead.

"I think you're a tenor", the little girl said.

Now this was getting amusing. "Really? What makes you think so?"

"Because… I don't know. I just think you are."

"I see." Just as she thought that he was beautiful – only that this time she was right.

"Are you?"

"Yes." When he was younger, he had longed to have a voice deep as from the grave, but he had found that he was quite content with what he had. At least in this area. And he could still sound as if speaking from the grave, if he wanted to.

But not for this girl. He would not scare her with such tricks. Not when she trusted him blindly. He might make her his tool and put her to a use in some way, yet she would have his protection for her services, even before she started to be useful. She would have her Angel.

It seemed that he had a soft spot for little children after all. Especially if they were as sad and lonely as he had once been.

Maybe this innocent child would even be able to cheer him up, to ease his solitude a little bit.

He would see about this. "I will come for you tonight", he said, ready to retreat into the shadows.

"Are you going already?" She sounded disappointed.

"I have business to attend to." Which consisted of raiding the cantina mainly, but there were some things he better kept to himself.

"And you promise you will come back?"

For a moment he was tempted to step into the room behind her and let her see him, but he quickly decided against it. How was she to believe any longer that he was an angel if she saw his masked face?

Beautiful beyond enduring…

"I promise", he answered. "When you're asleep." There was a way of entering dreams, he had discovered, when sitting at the edge of Claire's bed while she was asleep one night. And there was a way of changing them. That night after her husband had died, when she had fallen asleep in his arms, he had suddenly realized that he could manipulate her dreams to a certain extent. Yet he had practised this skill no further until now. Maybe the time had come when he would.

"Angel?"

"Yes?"

"Will you come again after tonight?"

"If you are a good girl", he repeated, then added, "If you do as I tell you."

"If I'm a very good girl", she asked hopefully, "will you teach me to sing like an angel?"

"Maybe. If you can be taught."

"I will do my best", she promised.

"Good." He turned to go, smiling to himself. "I will be there tonight, Christine."

Christine… Christine… Caught in the mists of time, and with no chance of escape, he still called her name, over and over again.

Christine… Christine… Christine…