I could never remember having ever been more relaxed. I was floating on a hazy, warm cloud, a very soft cloud, incidentally, and I had little to no desire to wake up. School was so far from my mind that it never occurred to me that I was too relaxed to have been sleeping for only seven hours. I felt like I was just in that in-between place that came after a fourteen-hour nap. I arched my back and stretched my arms up behind my head and nestled into the soft pillows that cushioned me. Whatever had happened, it was a good thing. No one was going to fault a second-semester senior for skipping a day of classes towards the end of June.

I was settling back in for another sleep when strange noises began to intrude on my brain. Traffic noises. It was like sleeping in New York again, with the constant little beeps of the horns and the screeches of brakes. Raoul's road was not this noisy, right?

I had been in sheltered suburbia for too long. The noise was starting to irritate me, so I thought that I would close the door to my room, and maybe that would muffle some of the sound before it got to me. That resolution took a while to carry out, since I felt that each of my eyelids were fifty-pound sandbags, and my head was ten times heavier at least. I rolled my arms out to the side, expecting them to drop off the edge of the bed, and when they didn't, and touched only more expanses of satin sheets, I felt my first twinge of worry.

Doubt welled up in my chest, and now I felt my eyes clench shut out of fear, not exhaustion. My breath started to come faster, and I scolded myself for trying so hard to scare me. To prove to myself that there was nothing wrong, I forced my eyes open.

I closed them almost immediately.

I must be dreaming, I chanted to myself. There is no way that this can be real.

I gave my leg a good hard pinch, and opened my eyes again.

I bolted out of dreamland and into harsh reality so fast that I was on my feet before I was aware that I was moving. I smashed my hip against a beautiful little end table, I was so oblivious. As I stared around the cozy little room, all I could think of was how much trouble I was in.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!

I thought my heart was going to stop beating. This was not where I had gone to sleep. As a matter of fact, I corrected myself, going towards the window, this was not even the same continent where I had gone to sleep.

There were locks on the doors to the balcony, but even so, I could still see where I was. And there was only one Eiffel Tower in the world. I was in Paris.

All right. Well, how have I gotten to Paris?

I severely doubted that Raoul had taken me on an impromptu vacation. So…how many possibilities did that leave?

I couldn't think. I could scarcely breathe. I sat back down on the bed, suddenly suspicious of everything around me, and drew my legs up to my chest. I wasn't even in the same clothes I had been wearing. I had been in my comfy blue-and-gold star pants and my high school t-shirt. Apparently, that hadn't been good enough. I was now dressed in an absolutely decadent silk sheath that shimmered around my frame like ice water. As before, I was not wearing a bra. Okay. That was troubling. While I would have felt more nervous had someone actually provided me with a bra, I was still terrified of the fact that someone had seen me without one.

Clothes. I needed clothes. I don't care who you were, or how brave you happened to be, you did not meet a kidnapper without them.

I was still terribly afraid of moving, lest that should call unwanted attention to myself, but there was no other option. I had to take the risk.

I stepped back down onto the plush rug that felt like it had been woven with silk in it, and moved towards the pair of imposing dressers that overlooked the edge of my bed from the far wall. Pulling open drawer after drawer, I was confronted with a beautiful selection of trousers, folded to razor perfection, cashmere sweaters and more casual shirts, and finally…lingerie.

I decided, for the sake of my sanity, to avoid thinking about how everything that had been supplied for me was the perfect size for me.

I picked a cashmere shirt set in cranberry and a pair of black trousers, with the underwear to match. I wanted to look…well…as confident as it was possible to feel.

Now, I was faced with an option. If I really wanted to look confident, I was really going to have to find some toiletries. I knew that my hair was standing on end by this point, and my breath was definitely less than fresh. I also, embarrassingly enough, really had to pee. I wondered if my kidnapper had seen to the fact that I was going to have to tend to bodily needs.

There were three doors that opened into my room. I tried the one to the right of my bed first and found it locked. I assumed that that was the way out. Keeping that firmly in mind, I opened the one to the front of my bed, in between the two dressers. It led to a walk-in closet that held skirts, suits, and more things that ordinarily, I would have only been too happy to look at and explore. Now, I just found it chilling that everything that I'd ever longed for was in that room. There was a door to the far end of that closet, but I wanted to examine the last door in my bedroom first.

Eureka! A bathroom!

I was so anxious to make use of it that I forgot to even check for security cameras. Oh, well. If there were cameras, what could I do other than break them? And that was sure to get someone's attention.

At this point, even thought it quite went against my normal vocabulary, I decided to borrow from Meg's and say, fuck it.

I showered, towel-dried my hair, brushed my teeth, and dressed. I noticed that I had not been supplied with a razor. Apparently, someone did not want to give me the chance to use the blade. Probably a good idea, because at this moment, I felt as though I could definitely use it against the first person who walked through the door. There was also almost nothing that I could use to harm myself. Unless I wanted to slit my wrists with a light fixture or something, there were no painkillers or sleeping pills anywhere in the bathroom. No quick way to end anything. I shivered.

Well, at this point I was about as ready as I could possibly be. But the bathroom was so large, so friendly and safe, that I really did not want to go outside again. I shuddered, thinking of what could lie on the other side of that door. I took a firm grip on myself, and pushed open the door.

Apparently, breakfast lay on the other side. Someone had been in and out of the room, and he had left an absolutely delicious-smelling breakfast. It was a French-style breakfast; there was coffee with a little pot of cream, slices of baguettes with strawberry jelly to go on top, as well as toast. My stomach rumbled, and I wondered how long I had been sleeping. It definitely took a while to get over the Atlantic, didn't it?

I might have been more suspicious of the food that had been left for me, but with the carelessness that had accompanied me in the bathroom, I was smearing strawberry over a slice of bread and adding cream to the coffee without a second's hesitation. I was nervous, but I was almost certain that death did not lie in my immediate future. As a matter of fact, I did not think, so long as I was careful, that I needed to worry about it at all. No one could have brought me here, supplied me with all of these things, and bothered to feed me, with the intention of murdering me in the near future. That left, I thought with a shudder, several other possibilities as to my fate, but death was not one of them.

Right now, as a matter of fact, I felt like a very pampered mistress. I wondered if that was what someone had had in mind. I snorted. They had no idea who they were dealing with then. That would never be my fate.

I finished my coffee, and two slices of bread, but a roiling feeling in my stomach, born partially from worry and probably from whatever they had used to drug me with, prevented me from eating more. I abandoned the tray in the bedroom and went back to the closet, wanting to examine the room on the other side of the door.

When it creaked open, I stopped myself from gasping in delight. It was the corner room of the apartment, and it was at the top floor of the building, so the windows on two sides of the room made me feel as if I were floating in midair above the panorama of Paris. Such an incredible view!

And the room was something that I had only been able to dream of. It was partially the library that I'd always wanted to have, as well as the ideal workroom. A beautiful mahogany desk (I didn't even want to think of how expensive it was) contained writing paper, leather-bound journals, and very beautiful ball-point pens. Now, that might not seem like anything to anybody except me, but to me, it was a wet dream. I felt a rush of gratitude for whomever had supplied this for me, before smacking myself over the head and shutting the drawers of the desk with a little too much enthusiasm.

Shaking my head, I went over to the glass-fronted shelves—another dream of mine—and examined the collection of books. My favorite titles were all there, etched in the leather covers in gold. I unlocked one of the doors, as the keys had been placed beneath them, where I was sure to see them, and pulled out my favorite book of all time, Pride and Prejudice. The weight of the volume was regal, almost, and the pages were thick paper. I had never held such a beautiful book in my life. I shivered and put it back, locking the shelf firmly.

I was back to being terrified. Each one of these books were books that I had read and loved. There was no way that someone could have picked these out for me without having significant knowledge of what I had read and loved. For example, if someone knew that I loved Charles Dickens, he would have included David Copperfield in the library. But it was not there. And why? Because I didn't like it. I owned it, but I didn't love it.

I felt as if someone had looked inside my mind and my soul and had taken all my dreams and put them into this room. I couldn't stay there. I retreated back into the bedroom, which was by far the most neutral of the rooms in regards to my personal preferences, and curled up in one of the cushioned chairs next to the bed. I wondered how long it would be before someone came to speak to me. I wondered how long it would take me to drive myself insane with wondering.

Either way, this situation was intolerable. I stood up, straightened my clothes, finger-combed my hair, checked myself in the mirror, and tried the door to the right of the bed again.

This time, much to my shock, it gave.

I crept out into a long hallway, with doors on either end of it. A little to my right, and curving downwards, was a beautiful wrought-iron spiral staircase. The wooden floor was beautifully polished, and accented with a long runner of beige and brilliant green vines. Dreamily golden sunlight filtered through the windows, catching flecks of dust in the air and illuminating them, making it seem as if gold dust was floating in the air.

There was music coming from downstairs. I would have thought that it was from a recording, considering how absolutely beautiful the technical perfection was.

But the notes…the notes were like nothing I had ever heard. The tune was…so…

How could I describe it? Triumphant? Victorious? Passionate? A mixture of all of them, definitely, but there was a darker undertone that formed a wild current beneath the notes. I grasped the railing at the top of the stairs and sank to my knees, wishing for the strength to go on and yet terrified of what I knew I would find.

Him. It had to be Him. There was no one else I had ever known who could possibly have created something like this.

My breath had practically stopped in my throat. This whole situation was so unreal that I didn't know what to think. I had felt such an odd kind of kinship with this man that I almost couldn't believe that he had kidnapped me. Somewhere, underneath the terror and fear in my mind, I almost felt like I was there of my own free will. That idea was ridiculous, of course, but it hardly changed the way I felt. I wanted to go down to him, to talk with him—I'd wanted to do that before—but everything was different now. He had kidnapped me! Why?

I hit my head against the metal railing, the dull thump an accent to the end of his phrase. What do you mean 'why', you moron! You can't seriously think…

You can't seriously think…

I wanted to go down to him. I wanted to be sure it was him. I wanted to look into his eyes and ask him why.

But I was so scared. Scared still. What could I say? What could he say? What was there to be said, other than 'let me go home'?

My heart stilled again. My home. My father! Was he all right? I had to get into contact with the doctors, to find out if he was okay. What if he had a relapse? What if the worst had happened?

Fear drove me to my feet. I had to see him now, if only to ask if my father was all right. If he knew enough to kidnap me, then he definitely had to know about my father. Maybe there was some way to convince him to let me call the doctors. Maybe if I promised him that I wouldn't try to escape…

I don't think that it is possible for anyone to understand the fear I was feeling. Fear for myself, for my father, for my future…for anyone else who had to come after me. I was afraid! And nothing, no rationalizations were going to make me any more comfortable. It was fear such as I'd never felt before. I had never been so paralyzed. Even as I berated myself for being a coward, I realized that it wasn't really my fault. Nothing could prepare me for this, so I just had to do the best I could.

The iron railing was comfortable and solid. I took the stairs one small step at a time, my bare feet barely making any noise at all. When I reached the floor beneath me, I descended again, the music drawing me on, drawing me down.

Three floors I descended. Finally, the last turn took me down into darkness. All that drew me on was the crazy impulse that his music provided. I was afraid of the basement darkness that lay beneath me, but I had gone too far to retreat now. Funny how escape seemed to mean nothing to me. I didn't even look aside from my course to notice whether or not there was a window I could break. I didn't watch for unlocked doors, or knives, or weapons. I only thought of him. I wanted to see him.

The stairs leading into the basement were wooden, and not polished or finished. A fine film of cobwebs clung to them, and my toes curled up at the thought of what I might be stepping on. They creaked slightly, but the sound was more than swallowed up by the cacophonous noise of the organ.

The basement was cavernous, and it was so palely lit—there were only three or four candles at the end of the room—that I could not see the edges of the room itself. It felt as if a great darkness, ethereal and unreal, were stretching out into eternity and erasing my being into nothing. This sense was so overwhelming that when I reached the base of the stairs, I wanted to cling to them and never let go. They, with their continuing illumination from above, were the only lifelines that I had. But I saw his illuminated figure at the edge of the room, and without another thought, I moved away from the stairs and continued on the inexorable path towards him.

He had wanted me to find him this way. I knew it. He left the door unlocked, and he beckoned me towards him with his music. Him. Erik. What was it, I wondered, that I found so compelling? There had been a chance for me to escape. But not now. Not now, when I was so close to him.

He didn't notice me. Why should he? When he was so involved with the beauty, and horror, of his music? I was afraid of it, I truly was, but at the same time, I was confident enough to move to his right, so that I could look at his face.

Again, I was confronted with that blank. It was black this time, not white, and it matched his black sweater and trousers. He also wore black gloves, and that jolted my memory. I'd forgotten that before, I had never seen his hands.

The only thing I'd seen were his perfectly formed, beautifully mobile lips. I'd thought quite a bit about those lips, about what they could do, and even more about what I'd wanted them to do. The reason his kidnapping me had surprised me this much was because…because I might have gone with him, if he'd asked me to.

That realization brought a gasp from me, one that he didn't notice. His eyes were firmly shut, and though the music was quiet now, his fingers were moving faster than ever. I knelt down by the side of his chair and just watched the way the leather-clad fingers evoked such a beautiful melody from the instrument.

I felt tears prick at my eyes. I was so confused, just…so unbelievably confused. I was afraid, exhilarated, tired, and fairly certain that I couldn't feel any more or I would go mad. I let my head rest on the edge of his chair, my hair brushing up against his leg, and it was only then that he noticed me. The music slowed, moved to a gentler melody yet, without a pause, but I knew that he was looking down at me. His music twined around me, moving me almost like a marionette on strings, and I looked up at him.

His eyes. I would never forget them. They alone could have made me forsake my life to follow him in slavish obedience. They looked at me, and saw through me, and in doing so, saw every aspect of my being. I had seen them in humor, in anger, in fear, and in…in lust.

But now…they were sad. Achingly sad. So sad that I felt the tears spring from my eyes in response to his grief. I felt with amazement the tracks of wet rolling down my face. He looked with amazement upon them.

"Why?"

The question was out. It might have come from either one of us, but I believe that it fell from my lips first. It might have meant anything, and indeed I wasn't sure what I was asking. But there were so many questions to be answered, it didn't really matter which one came first.

He stared down at me, his gaze soft and caressing. His fingers ceased to move over the instrument, and I almost sobbed at the loss of the divine sound. But then his gloved hands moved over me. He stroked my hair, and as I let my head hang towards the ground, he touched my chin and brought my eyes to his.

He whispered, the sound music enough to make up for the loss of the playing, "Because I love you."

The words hit me square in the chest like a ton of bricks. I knew it, I had known it, but…to hear them said…by such a man…it was unbelievable. I knew from Meg's experiences, that even if a man felt that way about a woman, he never admitted to it. His candor touched me in a way that I had never felt before that and tears flowed freely from my eyes. I lay my head against his knee and I sobbed.

He sighed. "Christine." He whispered again, his skillful hands touching my hair, "Oh, Christine."

His voice eased my pain, and I stopped crying, though I made no move to wipe the tears from my face. His eyes held nothing but pity for me. But then they strengthened, as did his voice.

"Christine," he said, the tone in his voice snapping me to attention. "We are going to the Opera tonight. You should be getting dressed."

I wondered why I had not thought of that before. Of course I should be getting ready.

"Go upstairs now, Christine, and do not leave your room until I tell you to do so."

It was only after that I had come back upstairs that I realized what exactly he had done to me. Anger rushed through my being, and I felt my face flush with it. That would not happen again. I had to remember what a dangerous enemy I was now facing. I couldn't afford to fall under his spell. Down there, in the darkness, I had felt as if I were drowning, with him as my only lifeline. However, the reality was…

…he could hold my head under the water and I wouldn't rise to fight off my certain death.

I had to remember what I was dealing with.