Okay, Chapter Twelve. Nothing special to say except a big thank you to AngelicFlutist! I was afraid that Loralee's character wouldn't be put together well enough, so you just made my day by saying she was well done!

Enjoy this chapter!

-MaskedDreamer

Chapter Twelve: His First Gift

"Excuse me, Monsieur, but how much paper, quills, and ink would you be able to buy with this amount of money?"

The man behind the counter at the music store gapped at the amount of coins Loralee placed in front of him. He fingered through it, suddenly a greedy glint in his eyes.

"This, my dear, can pay for quite some paper. Enough to last a year if you use it sparsely, but for a working man, most likely shorter. About six months."

"Quills and ink?" she questioned. She didn't really care how much but she always had a lust for knowledge even when she promised herself to stay back from it. Enough of those promises had been broken by her on going lust.

"Hmm. . . About the same amount I presume. Would you like me to give them to you?"

"Yes please, and wrapped. Easy to carry."

He nodded enthusiastically, taking the money and putting it safely into his pocket which was instantly weighed down with many a coin. He disappeared into a room behind the counter, and Loralee was left alone in the store.

Rain pounded hard outside which gave her the perfect excuse of wearing her heavy cloak and hood up. It wasn't Erik's cloak, though, but a different one she found in the costume room. Never in her life would she wear Erik's cloak into the rain because the wet would surely ruin the fine materials.

And smell, she thought suddenly. And as much as she would have liked to kill her thoughts right then and there, she had to agree. Never before had she smelt something so mysterious and luxurious.

I wonder if the rest of the Erik smells like the cloak, Loralee suddenly thought, and she groaned, smacking her forehead in an attempt to get the disgusting and disturbing thoughts out of her head.

As she smacked her head repeatedly, she felt something on her head but underneath the cloak shift, and immediately her hand went up to steady the gold wig she was wearing.

To hid her black head in an attempt to hide her identity from anything to do with Hector out in the public, Loralee snuck through the costume department and soon found a reasonable wig with blonde curls and a blue bow tying part of it back. She left one golden curl hanging out from underneath the cloak's hood just so people wouldn't expect her at all to be hiding a mass of black silky hair.

Just as she was daring herself to take off the soaking hood for a few seconds to ease her head of the heavy burden, the man came back out of the room with three large boxes in his hands.

"Here you go."

"Thank you," she said, looking at the boxes he just placed on the table top. As she moved her hand to get them, she felt the money pouch jiggle and a few coins clink together. Then an idea suddenly came with her left over money.

"Excuse, Monsieur, but could you hold the boxes for me while I do some more shopping?" she asked. He nodded his head, at this point agreeing with anything she said because the amount of money she gave him.

"Of course, mademoiselle. I shall hold them for you for however long you'd like."

After a quick thank you to the man, Loralee hurried outside. Looking around through the blur of the rain, she spotted a store Madame Giry once spoke about and how Loralee should pay a visit to it. She hurried over to it and stumbled inside, shaking from the rain which was now penetrating her cloak and bleeding into her dress like cold fingers of ice. A woman soon came to her side.

"Ah, mademoiselle. So brave to be shopping at this time of day. What would you like?"

Looking at the woman, Loralee was surprised to find some one about her age. She had rather short brown curly hair with dark gray eyes. Her face was warm and rather pudgy, showing her slight wealth.

"Uh, yes. Do you by any chance have some pointe shoes?"

The lady laughed.

"Why of course I do! My store has the best ballet equipment in all of Paris. Come on in, I'll show you all the ones of your size. The whole of the Opera Populaire doesn't come here for nothing."

Loralee was suddenly ushered onto a plush chair and the lady was bustling around, looking over boxes and pulling some out of the stacks against the wall.

"What's your name?" the lady asked.

"Beth McLay," she said hesitantly.

"Ah! So you're the new ballet mistress they're all talking about. Oh, don't worry, they've been saying nothing bad about you - no sir-y. They've all been saying good comments. They sayin' you get them ballet rats right to business and shape them better than ever. Oh! I'm forgetting my manners. I'm Rosemary Richmond."

Loralee looked stunned at how she was already well known in Paris even though she'd only been working for a few days and had never been shown to the public. This news made her forget the happily chatting Rosemary until and hand was waved in front of her face.

"Hello?"

Loralee snapped out of her shock and thoughts.

"Oh, sorry, what did you say?"

"I said that you should try on these. They're the basic pair for anybody."

"Oh, thanks."

Loralee tried them on and a few others while chatting gaily to Rosemary. They made quick friends.

"So how long have you been working here?" Loralee asked Rosemary as she wrapped up the plain pink ones she was going to buy. Rosemary was putting away the boxes and paused momentarily when Loralee asked her that question, surprised.

"Well, I don't know. Ever since I was born, I guess. My dad ran a bakery here until he died. I wasn't even six, then. My mom, needin' to get my brother and me money, went ahead and made this into the ballet shop it now is. She knew about the Opera Populaire and how much business she'd get from being so close to it. Her theory is still working today. I'm gettin' more costumers than I can count and it's paying off real nice."

Loralee smiled and gave Rosemary the shoes to put in brown paper. As Rosemary was wrapping it, she looked up at Loralee, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"You wouldn't know George Thompson by any chance, would you?" she asked.

Loralee racked her memory.

"No. . . can't say I do. . . Sorry, no."

"Nah, it's okay. I was just wondering."

"Why?" Loralee asked.

"Well, I'd just thought you'd know him, being the ballet mistress and all. He's a mighty fine dancer and works at the Opera Populaire. He came here the other day to get some shoes, and I must confess, I couldn't help but notice him."

Rosemary giggled and Loralee rolled her eyes.

"I haven't been introduced to teaching the men yet to that's probably why. Tell you what, though," Loralee said, leaning over the counter to get her newly wrapped shoes. "Come on over to visit me sometime and you might get a chance to see him."

Rosemary's eyes widened.

"Are you sure? I mean, they won't mind me disturbing their practice?"

"Of course they won't! I mean, I might, but that's why you come after a practice. Anyway, it wouldn't be bad to see you again."

"I'd love to see you again, too!" Rosemary said, delighted.

"You can come over tomorrow at five in the afternoon. I'm starting the boys parts tomorrow."

Rosemary jumped up and down, running around the counter and hugging Loralee tightly.

"Here," Loralee said, laughing as she handed Rosemary the money to buy the shoes.

"Oh, keep it," Rosemary said stubbornly. "You've already given me enough." When Loralee made to argue, Rosemary just turned her around and ushered Loralee to the door, pushing the money back towards Loralee. "I insist!" she said and then pushed her out into the rain after another hug, kiss on the cheek, and yell of thanks.

Loralee was left in the rain for a while, stunned at her new friends enthusiasm before she laughed out loud and hurried back to the music store.

On her way back, though, a store caught her eye and something inside of it she knew a special someone would like. Hurrying inside and checking to see if she had enough money, Loralee bought the gift before going back to the music store and picking up the paper, quills, and ink. Then, after saying goodbye to the man at the store, she hurried back to the Opera House and into her room, locking the door behind her and shrugging off the cloak and wig.

Looking at the clock, Loralee saw there were still five hours until midnight. Sighing she took out her ballet slippers and started to break them in.

It was only at 11:57 when she heard a slight groan from the metal of the mirror sliding away from the frame. She looked up from the dark corner she was drowsing off in and saw Erik slip inside of her room. He went over quietly to her boxes and made to pick them up when Loralee figured out he didn't know she was there.

"Not even going to say hello to the person who owns this room, are we now Erik?" she chuckled.

Erik straightened up and swirled on her, obviously surprised. Soon he regained his normal self.

"You forget, Mademoiselle Donoghue, that I own this whole theater, including your room."

"We both still need to work on our greetings and entrances, though. They've been rather distasteful and not proper the last couple of times."

Erik just growled and bent down, picking up the boxes with unnatural strength. She shivered, realizing those same strong hands had almost crushed her wind pipe once, and she was suddenly grateful to be on Erik's good side. . . or at least she hoped she was.

Just as he was about to leave, Loralee got up, remembering the gift she bought him.

"Oh! Wait!" she said, fishing out the gift from her bag. He turned around and looked at her curiously as she brought out a wrapped parcel. He sighed when he saw it.

"I have no patience for listening to your pointless talk about your newest toy. Now if you excuse-"

"It's for you," Loralee said, holding it out to him as he started to turn towards the mirror hurriedly.

Erik halted mid turn when he heard those three words. They sounded frightenly foreign even though he heard them said around the Opera House many times. The thing was, he wasn't sure if anybody had ever said those words to him freely or on their own will.

But now, here stood a girl, a frightened and beaten girl with a horrible past, offering him a gift freely. There was only one explanation.

"Ha!" he said. "Spare your energy for worthless jokes like this on other people. I have no patience for them, also."

"I'm serious!" she said, stomping her foot on the ground and glaring straight back into his ice cold one. "It's for you, no one else, and it isn't some crazy and horrible joke. It's a real honest to God gift! So take it, damn it! Or I'll put it into your coat pocket by force. I didn't buy it for nothing!"

Loralee was amazed at her heated argument and explanation to Erik, but didn't show it. Instead she kept a stubborn and honest face on, wanting him to trust her. She figured that he probably never got a true gift his entire life, but she didn't think he'd refuse one.

Also, instead of Erik angry as she expected he would be, he looked slightly humored and shocked at her outburst, but he also now looked like a little boy getting a gift from Santa.

"Are. . . Are you sure?" he said, uncertainly, shifting the weight of the boxes in his arms.

Loralee looked him dead on and said, "Positive," his eyes now softening. She held out the parcel to him and he took it hesitantly.

Once he had it, he opened it carefully as if it would explode any second.

"Water colors?" he said, slightly surprised.

"I hope you don't mind. It's a bit lame, but I thought you deserved something."

"How did you know I was an artist?" he asked, eyeing her carefully. Loralee shrugged, putting away the bag the water colors came in for later uses.

"Madame Giry told me once when we were together."

Erik just stared at them for a while, fingering the tin box delicately as if it were the most fragile thing in the world.

"Thank you. . ." he whispered then.

Then, before she could say anything, he produced a rose out of what seemed no where, handed it to her, and slipped back through the mirror.

Loralee smiled at his token of gratitude in her hand. Taking off her clothes behind the dressing screen, she put on her night gown. Getting onto her rickety bed, she slipped underneath the covers, forgetting all about the cold that penetrated them. She fell asleep like that, rose in her hand, and could swear she heard joyous music from an organ float up through the mirror.