A/N: Well, here's my first phic...kindly refrain from murdering me, I'm doing the best I can. This phic is rated M because of what it promises to become, but don't get your hopes up for an E/OW. Please read and review, and tell me what you think so I can work on my writing.

The Lady Red Death ,

Kaos was feeling very stupid, among other things. Those other things included dry, hot, sweaty, frightened...
She had walked into the ghost's torture chamber.
She should have known better. Madame Giry had warned her against meddling with the ghost, and the young man from Iran, whom everyone called the Persian, had told her as much as well.
Why hadn't she listened? Kaos had never been known for sense; in fact, she had a reputation for plunging into things without first thinking them over. And, naturally, her curiosity only fed by the warnings, she had gone exploring.
Well, she had found the ghost. Not him, directly, but his torture chamber. And she knew that she was probably going to die.
"I'm sorry, truly, I am," Kaos cried to nothing in particular. "It's only woman's curiosity, and it's natural; should I die for it? Oh, I don't want to die, I'm not yet seventeen, and I only came down because of what my cousin Meg told me of you. Oh, I don't want to die, I don't want to die; I haven't seen an opera at the met yet..." Her voice faded, and rose again in a weak song.
"Under the greenwood tree...who loves to lie with me...and tune his merry note...his merry note...unto the sweet bird's throat..."

She abandoned that song as her mind began to fade in the heat. "Manca sollecita piu dell'usato, ancorche s'agiti, conlieve fiato, face che palpita presso almorir, face che palpita presso almorir," Kaos sang into the light of the mirrors and the trees. The trees were beginning to confuse her. There were so many of them, yet they provided no shade from the merciless sun. When she went to touch one, all that she could feel was a wall of white-hot glass, burning into her palms. There were also many of her, many Kaos's staring at her when she stared at them.

And the heat. The heat was nearly unbearable, but only because it was uncomfortable. For once in her life, Kaos thanked God for the fact that her thyroid was a little bit off, affecting her ability to feel temperature properly, and letting her survive the heat. She knew, however, that eventually, she'd dry up like a prune. She laughed. That was a funny thought. She didn't even like prunes, but she was going to become one. Maybe even a raisin. She didn't like those either.

"I'd rather be a dried cranberry," she sang, slowly losing her sanity. Kaos twiddled her thumbs, looked upwards, sang every lesson from Vaccai that she knew. When she ran out of technique exercises, she began with showtunes, starting with songs from obscure shows like No, No Nanette. She'd seen that play before.

She was a rather peculiar little bird, Erik thought. Her French was almost flawless, with the faintest hint of an Italian accent. She sung in Italian without any accent other than itself, and therefore gave the impression of one born in Italy, who had been speaking and singing the beautiful language for a very long time. When singing in English, though, she carried a hint of a British accent.
Such a peculiar little nightingale.
He was very much tempted to leave her in there and wait for her to kill herself. It was, after all, the easy way out, and he wouldn't have to deal with her beyond dumping the corpse.
However, she had mentioned that Meg was her cousin...and there was only one Meg in the opera house, and that was Mame Giry's girl. Killing the woman's niece would most likely mean that there would be a lack of a messenger for a while, and he enjoyed having his own personal Hermes.
Finally, he decided. Rather than just killing the poor, inquisitive little bird, he would wait till she simply lost consciousness.

A/N: Under the Greenwood Tree belongs to Shakespeare (upon whose work the lyrics are based) and whoever composed it. I'm too lazy to check. The Diatonic Scale exercise belongs to Niccolai Vaccai (God rest his soul) and whoever currently sells it in exercise books. And No, No Nanette belongs to Vincent Youmans. Tell me if you've seen the show!