He gave her a ride home. Now why should he do that, I wonder? Of course, I already knew the answer to that. She was a little less innocent than I had imagined. My mouth twisted in a bitter curl as I watched her dance around in her driveway when she thought she was unobserved. My heart wrenched as I saw the beginnings of the way in which I would loose her. This Raoul de Chagny—and I knew who he was now—was going to be trouble for me if their interactions progressed any further. I had no doubts of what I had to do, and that quickly.

Even as certain as I was of her infidelity, my heart had grave misgivings. She had every right to be pleased over the attentions of a handsome young man. As far as I knew—and due to my increasing looks into her journals, I knew quite a bit—she had never had any affections for any boy, and nor had she ever had a relationship. Even when she was curious, something always seemed to get in her way. The only relationship she had been in, she had neglected her boyfriend to the point where he had dumped her out of sheer exasperation. She had expressed no grief, only a sense of freedom over the incident, so I did not count that she had ever been attached. She had every right to feel happy over what was happening to her. Was it not the same feeling that I had had after discovering her? However, she was young. I was certain that with a little…persuasion, she would forget all about this man. I was tremendously persuasive, when I wanted to be.

I left her alone and walked back to my home. What she did was of little interest to me, as I had more things to plan at the moment. First, I might as well take care of the thing that I left hanging loose all those years ago. The bothersome little brother.

Phillippe de Chagny had been, in plain terms, nothing more than a common thief. Unfortunately for the poor Comte, he had stolen from the academic programs in some very unforgiving countries. I worked primarily for Russia, Iran, and Turkey when I lived in Europe, and it was Russia, this time, that paid me to take care of their embarrassing French counterpart, Phillippe. The stupid man had stolen millions from Russia's overseas tutoring programs, and while the government could care less about the education of high school students, there was more than enough humiliation in store for them should the embezzlement be discovered.

Of course, Phillippe was a man high in French society. The name of 'Comte' was more of a nickname than an actual title, but he carried enough weight to make his influence felt like one of the old aristocrats. As such, the man, through no work of his own, was making the Russian government pay through the nose to find an assassin capable of pulling off his execution without any clues leading back to them. I feared nothing, not men and not governments, and it was to me and my exorbitant fee that they finally resorted.

In fact, that job had made it possible for me to retire. 10,000,000 dollars (I do not deal in the flimsy euro) will make it possible for anyone to live comfortably, and with the modest savings that I had managed to accrue over the years, the life of assassin was made entirely superfluous. After all, all I wanted was a quiet home far away from the places in which I had made my nefarious fortune, and a secluded spot to compose and think.

The assassination was so simple that I almost felt embarrassed about taking the money. The man put up no struggle, he had no defenses, and his security system was so elementary that I could have gotten past it two decades before. And there was the fact that he was half drunk when I cut his throat. I would have preferred strangulation, as there is less chance of a stray fingerprint and it is cleaner all around, but the Russian government insisted on having the say in the manner of death, and since I was getting my fee, I could have cared less.

Unfortunately, the one thing that marred the total technical perfection of this execution was the little brother who stumbled upon my escape. I had it perfectly planned; a quick jump to the fire escape (de Chagny was staying in his Paris apartment) and from there to my waiting car. The thing I did not bargain on was the younger brother, Raoul, come to make reparations with his older brother. He not only spotted my car, he recorded the license plate number and made me hide on the cold metal of the fire escape until he finally called the police. I had to scrap the car immediately, for, though obviously I did not use my real name in the registration, my face (or lack of one) was so distinctive that I knew the police would be able to track me. The only thing that I could prevent by ditching the car was preventing them from finding out who I was working for. Of course, I was totally unconcerned that the police would find me; the French law officers are remarkably inept, second only to the Russians themselves. And the Russian minister of Education always wondered how I managed to show up in his office without anyone having seen me.

In hindsight, I reflected as I walked, I should just have jumped down and killed him as well. I was often tempted, after the operation, to go back and take care of the loose end. My research had told me that Raoul and Phillippe had been alienated for quite some time, through mutual disagreement. However, Raoul was also of the sort of men who would never forget either or slight to their families or a wrongful death. I could not fear the man himself—the Chagnys were basically harmless—but I could fear his motivation.

The only reason that he continued to draw breath was that, at that point in my professional career, I was very tired of murder. As my gift to the world, Raoul could keep his life. I was too tired, and quite frankly too disgusted, to murder somebody else. I was off to America, and I had already selected the town. Could it be that I'd committed my last murder a bare three years ago? But it was. Time passed so quickly and so slowly. I sighed. These musings could wait until later.

Right now, even though I was angry with her, I had to continue my work on her operas. After all, I could hardly stay angry with her for long. It was the idiotic de Chagny boy that I had to worry about, but soon I would take care of him, and I would not have to mind anymore. As a matter of fact, as I had already made myself familiar with his schedule, I could move on him as quickly as tonight. Still, haste did make waste, as Christine had pointed out to me. There was time still.

Ah, her operas! Could I ever say enough about them? Where would I begin? Would I start with the interminable joy each time I read her lyrics? Would I commence instead with the feeling, the thought, the artistry that had gone into each of these careful little plots? Or would I instead address the music that flowed to my mind as I read and studied each character?

Perhaps a little of each.

I started with her one completed opera, The Wicked Life, and found a one-act opera in six scenes. She was scrupulous in labeling when she had begun and when she had finished for the day. Each of her operas had been started less than a month ago—this one, she wrote, she had finished in six days. She began each of her operas with a plot summary of the whole, and then a breakdown into each scene. She described what the setting looked like, and stage directions abounded (it was obvious that she was more adept at playwriting than opera composing) but that was all to my benefit. Since I could not yet discuss the direction she would like to go with her opera, all of her notes made it simple for me to understand.

Her opera took place in a prison cell, where a prisoner, who has refused to be present at his own trial waits for the guilty or not guilty verdict. He knows that a guilty would mean his death. He does not plan to make any appeals. This information was conducted to the audience through a duet between the jailer, who is teasing the man from outside the cell, and the prisoner himself. After this, the man starts an aria, in which he states, in the refrain, that he has led an undeniably wicked life. There were two or three exceptional passages in the aria, but I knew my favorite was at the end, where the man cries,

Guilty is the only verdict that they should send

I would only welcome a timely, merciful end

They cannot imagine all the pain and strife—

I await the rest that comes after the wicked life!

The prisoner then begins to reminisce about the three great crimes that landed him in prison for the final time. He sings behind a screen, in front of which other actors pantomime the actions that he describes. Between each of these memories, there is a brief scene where the guard returns to tell him the tide of the trial. The prisoner responds calmly, and continues to sing.

After the memories are over, Christine wrote, in bold letters,

THREE MINUTES OF SILENCE IN WHICH THE PRISONER DOES NOTHING BUT SIT ON HIS COT.

Putting in an area of blank space was risky, in any theatrical composition. I assume she wanted it there for dramatic effect, and the right actor would pull it off marvelously, but it was risky nonetheless.

After the silence, the guard returns, livid. He tells the prisoner that he has been declared 'not guilty' by the jury, and that his sentence has been reduced to life in prison without parole. The prisoner's lawyer crowds by the door, congratulating him, but the prisoner does nothing but look down at his hands.

"The rest of my life…here? It isn't fair. It isn't…right."

Spoken softly, those words end the opera.

The first time I read her composition, it took me a quiet period of reflection to comprehend what a bold statement she was making with that last declaration. The opera was incredibly admirable, and already my mind was filled with dozens of tunes, each begging to be placed into the opera. It took me another day of thought to even begin to compose themes and duets. I wanted the whole piece to move like a wave, with the grand finale to come in the aria before the period of silence. The audience would be expecting the verdict of 'guilty' to come back, as an anticlimax. But they would be shocked and horrified by the 'not guilty', and that was exactly what Christine wanted. The bottom would drop out of the opera, but there would be no swelling of the music, and no resolution. The pointlessness of it amused me.

When I sat down to my organ to begin composing, I started quietly, building up the music throughout each of the memories, giving each of them their own themes and steadily rising to a climax right before the news of the 'not guilty' verdict. I was astounded by the force of the final chord…at the very least I was certain that she would like it.

The music cleared my mind and focused my thoughts. I would take care of that loose end, and the sooner the better.

Raoul de Chagny lived only slightly closer to the commercial center of town. It seemed that his Parisian tastes, even though raised in Toulouse, made it impossible for him to live any further from a shopping center. He had rented an expensive condominium, the cookie-cutter style of it probably very offensive to his senses. It bothered me even more—I could never stand anything that vulgar or monotonous—and I thought it only fitting that he should have to make his home there.

The night was quiet and peaceful…there was no reason for anyone to be expecting an attempt on his life, and Raoul de Chagny was no exception. He was reading in his living room, his fair hair and face stunningly illuminated by the lamplight. His frame was completely at ease, draped across a comfortable armchair, and every so often he would toss his head back, unintentionally, and a beautiful wash of gold hair swept from one shoulder to the other.

I hated him, beyond all human reason. I could not let my Christine spend one more moment in his company. Why did he have to look at her? Why did she have to be the one to attract his eye? I understood the attraction, but I could not forgive it. Not for an instant. She was mine, she belonged to me!

I must have made some kind of motion or a noise, or maybe he just had the sense of unease, but in either case, he stood and approached the window, beneath which I crouched, like a hunted animal. He opened the window and leant down on the casing, sighing in the cool night and staring out over my head to the woods that backed his condo. I was in a bad spot, otherwise I might have tried right then. Strangulation, however, is much easier when the murderer is on the high ground. I knew of Raoul's strength, and I did not want to take an unnecessary risk. He would be in the perfect spot for me soon enough, and then there would be no problems. A swish of the lasso and a snap of the perfect neck—what an aria I could compose to that!

After shaking his head and sighing once more, Raoul turned his back to the window, giving me the perfect opportunity to slip around to the bedroom window, which was on the other side of the house. This operation was slightly more dangerous—the condo on this side fronted the road, and I had to make my picking the lock on the window an operation of perfect timing. A driver on the road might not even notice me, but then again, I could land in a lot of trouble.

With a jerk and a slight snap, the window raised slightly on its hinges. I pulled it up and slipped inside, concealing myself inside the large closet. Hidden in the darkness of its recesses, I settled it to wait until Raoul was entirely at my mercy. I did not want to murder him while he was sleeping, but as he turned his back to the closet, it seemed to me perfectly fair to slip the noose over his neck then. After all, fair play has never been something I have ever been known for. He would know that well enough, if not from the dealings I had with his brother (I know that he had done some very thorough investigations about me after his brother's demise) then from his own experience. Of course, by the time he knew everything, it might well be too late for him. Perhaps, if he proved to be enough of a fighter, I might only frighten him this time. I haven't hunted someone for sheer enjoyment in a long time, and I believed that after three years of inactivity I deserved a little fun.

I heard his heavy footsteps in the hallway, and put away the impulse to chuckle. He slid open the far closet door and slipped a robe from its hanger. I peered through the crack I had opened in the door on my side. He tied the robe around his waist and climbed into bed, rolling over onto his left side, facing the window. I would wait another few minutes, till he was just about to drift off, and then…

The minutes passed, and his breathing grew calm and regular. My hand tightened on the knot of the noose as I stepped softly out of the closet. I stared down at him from the edge of his bed, and marveled at the childlike innocence with which he managed to sleep while Death stood only a foot and a half away. I wondered how he would react if he knew that his brother's murderer were in the same town. It might be an interesting situation.

In fact, while the idea of killing Raoul like this was very satisfying in its own way, I realized that it did not have much artistry to it, especially when given the past history we had had. Surely it was not enough to just kill him, when I could frustrate him and anger him, make him despair and then kill him? The possibilities of the ways I could make him suffer made my head spin.

So, I took the first step. I rigged up my noose to dangle right above his perfect neck, and calmly sat down at his bedside table and wrote a little note. Nothing fancy, just simple, and to the point. Simplicity is more elegant, sometimes, and in murder I was very fond of this particular method of torture. In fact, what I wrote to him was very good for his health.

If you would care to keep yourself in good health, monsieur, keep yourself away from your student, Christine.

I would have made myself more vague, but since Raoul and I already had an acquaintance of sorts, I knew he would not involve the police, doubting, as he already did, their competence in matters concerning me. I could afford to be specific. I only hoped that for his safety, he would obey my instructions.

However, I knew Raoul de Chagny. He would never do as I said, just because it was I who said it. I would be highly gratified when he did that. I was in sore need of entertainment.

I signed my note with my customary rose symbol (for which I had become feared throughout a good part of the underground in Europe and most of the Middle East) and left it hanging in the crux of the noose. The dramatic effect was quite stunning. I was pleased with myself over the artistry of the work, glad that I had decided to postpone his demise. It was much better this way.

I quickly swept the apartment with my customary care and attention, making certain that I had left no clues behind. Raoul might not involve the police in his investigation, but he was not an idiot either. I feared him more than the officers of the law, simply because he was stubbornly persistent, and might stumble upon me through sheer dumb luck. I had left nothing, and, watching the road first to make certain that no one would see me, I slid out of the window and locked it again.

My car started up silently, and I drove away from his home. It was, by this point, only about 11:30. But I had stayed longer than I had intended too. Minutes had stretched, unnoticed, into hours. Still, there was time. Perhaps she would still be awake.

The lights in the other houses on the road were dark, but her living room light was still on, and I saw Christine, sitting near the little table in that room, typing away. I parked the car in the bend of the road just beyond her house, the vehicle fading away into the eternal darkness of the night, and crept closer to the window. The night was warm, and her window was open. I heard music drifting out through the window, and I recognized the tune. Si. Mi chiamano Mimi. It was an aria from La Boheme. I leaned forward, catching the soprano's impassioned tone, listening to her shy and modest declarations in the song. Christine's head was bobbing in time with the beat; she was always a dancer.

I sat beneath her window for what seemed like an eternity. I could picture her sitting there, peacefully unaware of the man burning in torment outside her walls, just listening and writing her dreams. The CD must have been a recording of arias, for I heard sections from Tosca, Madame Butterfly, and some others, before she finally stopped the recording.

It was torture, the sweetest kind of torture that I could ever imagine, when she came to shut the window. She lingered there for a moment, gazing out into space, and I held my breath, not even daring to look up. I wanted to, I craved another sight of her face, but I could not bring myself to do it.

She sighed then, as if she had been expecting to see someone and was now disappointed, and she shut the window, bringing oceans of separation between us again. Pain welled up in my chest. I wanted there to be no dividers between us, no walls, no barriers.

The lights flicked out above my head, and I heard the faint echoes of her footsteps going up the creaking stairway. The light in her bedroom came on, faintly, for about three minutes, and then it too went out. I was alone in the darkness. She, like Juliet on her balcony, was so high above me that she was unreachable. For now, of course. Everything would change with time.

I walked slowly back to my car, with every moment wishing that I could run back to her and bring her with me. These mad thoughts I suppressed, telling myself to be patient. I had much to do in the next few days. I needed to be sure that that idiotic boy obeyed my orders, and if he did not, I needed to give him a more tangible reminder of my significant abilities. While doing that, I might also reveal myself to Christine again. She was thinking of me, which was excellent, but without seeing me sometimes, she might forget.

Yes, there was plenty to do. I enjoyed the activity so much, after my long period of quietness and solitude. They always said it was good to have a hobby.