A/N: I have a beta. Now that everything has been sorted out, a great big round of applause for Sannikex! Enjoy…

Sixty Percent

Meg returned some vague amount of time later (there is no sense of time when the world is utterly dark except for the magical candles) with her shopping. I had been organizing papers, and Papa had stayed asleep.

"Where is the pantry?" she asked.

"Through the door on the right, then the second from the left." The island had an open space in the middle with the organ and piano, and off this space opened three doors—his bedroom (seldom used), the storerooms, and his office. And there was one room in the—house—I was forbidden to enter. It was the leftmost door in the storeroom, and it had a magical lock. When I had tried to open it when I was seven and been shot halfway across the room, Papa had told me quite clearly that that room was for him and him alone; yet he had only ever gone in it once. I had heard gears and hissing, but nothing more.

But, back to the present. Meg went into the storeroom and put away some of her groceries, and I followed with some more. We put the firewood in Papa's room, the only one with a fireplace. After everything was put away we made dinner, and ate in silence. The silence underground sort of calls to its own. After dinner, Meg went back up. I caught her glance longingly at Papa before going up. What was between them? And why hadn't Meg—or possibly Papa—told me? I shook it off and went to sleep in the boat as I had for twelve years. Despite everything, it was nice to be home again.

♫

Erik

I woke up tired, dreadfully thirsty, starving, and sore; and, wonder of wonders, in my bed. What on earth had I been doing? I went down the list. Composing? There had been an organ, yes, but no paper. No. Spying? There had been some of that, I remembered, but that was a long time ago. No. Swimming? No. I wouldn't be so thirsty. I rubbed my eyes—the mask was gone. Where was it? Christine! She had been at the opera! Suddenly it all came back. She had been at the opera, to see me. I had gotten Adele a promotion, then played for…a long time. How long?

The mask was on the bed table with a plate, a cup and a note. The note said in Adele's handwriting: Papa, I'm sleeping. If you need anything, wake me up, but YOU MUST EAT! Adele was here, then. I blushed. Why had I been so stupid? She was supposed to be at the opera house, but here she was taking care of me. I drank the water and ate the bread and strawberries she had put out. Where had she gotten strawberries? I never kept them. I hadn't even had any since I left the gypsy camp. Why was my room so clean, and why was there a wood fire in the fireplace? I got out of bed and went hunting for all the papers that had gone missing from my floor. They were in neat little stacks in the atrium. I chuckled. Adele was a treasure. I picked up the pile of my latest and set to finishing it.

Adele woke up an hour or so later and checked my room before coming out, looking alarmed, and trying the office.

"You scared me," she scolded.

"I'm sorry, dear. Thank you."

"Do you feel all right?"

"Tired, hungry, but it'll go away. Where did you get the strawberries?"

"Meg went shopping." She came and sat on the arm of my chair and read over my shoulder as I wrote. This habit of hers has made me compare her to some sort of very friendly parrot.

"Meg was here?"

"She was here. You know, Papa, she likes you very much."

"Does she?" Adele nodded. "What do you mean by that?"

She looked away and shrugged. "I could mean lots of things, I guess, but I'm not sure which. Why don't you ask her?"

"Because that isn't the way I do things. Thank you for sorting out my papers."

"It was a matter of survival, Papa," she said teasingly. "The dust was terrible, and I was afraid I'd trip on them. You weren't this disorganized when I was living here."

"I know. I've degenerated—I'm sorry. Your room isn't the neatest either, though."

She stuck her tongue out. "You know, sometimes I wish there weren't so many secret passages here." She coughed—it was a disturbing sound.

"How long have you been coughing like that?" I asked, putting down my pen.

"Oh, a week or two—since it started raining every day."

"Hmm. How long did you convince les Messieurs to let you off?"

"A week, starting…yesterday…I think. Is today tomorrow?"

We talked pointlessly for hours. I had missed her, though wee had been living in the same house. The same house, two different worlds. It was wonderful to have her back. I do hear the music of the night, but it is distinctly quieter when Adele is not home. I got more done that happy week than the past month.

At one point Adele asked me, "How much of your time do you spend composing?"

"Math problem, Adele. Have some paper." She sighed and took a piece. "On a good day, consider a day twenty-four hours even though we can't really tell, I can get in twenty-two hours. On a normal day, call it closer to fifteen. On a bad day, five or less. Get an average, and tell me the percentage per month."

After a few minutes, she had an answer. "On average, sixty percent."

I did it. "Yes, I suppose you're right with what I gave you. Seems like more." I returned to the paper to fill my quota. Only sixty percent?

A/N: COMING SOON: TB makes its appearance in the Opera Populaire. Wait a minute, it already did. Forget it. I am hopeful that further chapters will be somewhat longer. Things are going to start happening soon. Dun dun dun.