He wasn't supposed to feel anything; not pity, not compassion, nothing! Why had he bothered with that girl? All she would do is cause him pain. She was grateful now, while she was dependent on his goodwill, but if she knew what he was, what he had done, what his face truly looked like...she would hate him. The pain and bitterness that dwelled deep inside of him should have prevented him from helping her, stopped him while he still had a choice. He had pitied her. Why? The world had never bothered to pity him; why should he help someone who would revile him when given the chance?

But perhaps the world had treated her the way it had treated him. She looked so desperate and hunted, she must be an outcast, like him. Perhaps she could understand him, as no one ever had before. Perhaps by helping her, he could redeem himself. He despaired when she fought him as he tried to help her, even knowing that she did not do so consciously. His hopes had lifted when she accepted his hand, then were crushed again when she laughed at him, then raised once more when she thanked him so graciously for his help.

He didn't feel any particular attraction to her, and he certainly did not call his emotions love. Rather, everything about her stirred a deep sense of pity and responsibility. She was not young; the thin lines around her eyes confirmed that, and her face looked as though it had simply grown used to suffering. Her eyes, bright blue against the dark circles beneath them, seemed hardened by life. Even when she smiled at him, she looked sad and haunted. He liked to think that she reminded him of himself, a victim of her circumstances.

What he didn't want to think about, couldn't think about, was that she also could have been his victim, that he was the sort of person who could treat someone the way she had been treated. He knew, though he wouldn't admit to himself, that he possessed the darkness required to break someone, body and soul. He had killed before, once in self-defense, twice for a combination of convenience and pleasure. He would have killed for the emotion he thought was love, if the pleading eyes of his angel hadn't stopped him. But he couldn't think of that, couldn't face that now.

After he left, I unwrapped the bundle, and discovered several bandage, and a black velvet robe. I removed my worn boots, which were several sizes too large and currently had rags stuffed in the toes, then slowly reached up and pulled my tattered shirt over my head. Resting my weight on my uninjured right foot, I stood, and let my breeches drop down to my ankles. I sat back down onto the bed, and sponged myself off, reveling in the feel of cool water and cleanliness. With much difficulty, I bent my head over the wash bowl, and poured the last of the water on my tangled hair. When I was finally done, my skin was completely chilled, but I felt better than I had in weeks. I reached down to inspect my ankle, and gently feeling the bone, discovered with much gratification that it was not broken. I slipped on the robe, and glanced once more around the small room, this time catching a glimpse of myself in the shattered glass of the mirror. I inched my way over to it.

I hardly even recognized myself, so different were my face and body. My hair, chopped short by my prison guards, hung raggedly around my ears, dripping wet. My face had always been thin, but now, in the flickering candlelight, I saw shadows in the hollows of my cheeks, and under my eyes. A jagged scar across my cheekbone stood against the deathly pallor of my skin. I had always considered myself pretty, despite my rapidly advancing age, but now I looked like a wet starved dog.

Slipping the robe off of my shoulders, I inspected the rest of my body. Some of the old bruises had faded, but there were fresh ones along my arms, down my ribs, and on my neck. One faint red line from a guard's knife ran down the length of my collarbone, and a fresher one that miraculously had not become infected cut across my stomach. The gash on my temple, from being knocked onto a cobblestone street, was already bandaged, but I could make out swelling underneath the gauze that Erik must have wrapped it in. I didn't have the courage to turn around and look at the scars that I knew must crisscross my back from numerous beatings, so I pulled the robe back on, and contemplated my situation as I bandaged my sprained ankle.

Erik. It seemed like a normal enough name, even if the man who bore it lived in a cave and wore a mask. I wondered what he was hiding. It hardly seemed like a man, with as handsome a face as the revealed half of his, could be hiding something terrible on the other side. But if it wasn't something terrible, then why would he be living here?

I began studying the bookshelf for some clue as to his identity, and only found more to confuse me. Some of the titles were in French, but there were many others in German, English, and other foreign languages that I could not identify. Of the ones I could read, the subjects included science, art, architecture, music, even magic tricks. They all appeared much worn and used, and when I pulled out one of the many manuscripts pertaining to music, I saw notes scribbled in the margins. Whoever Erik was, he certainly had a broad education.

My perusal of his books was interrupted by the sound of his feet coming up the stone steps. I heard him hesitate before turning the corner, as if unsure of his right to enter.

"May I come in?" He called, his voice low and his words strangely comforting, reassuring me that even in a cave, civility existed.

"Of course."

He lifted the curtain and stood before me, holding out a chemise, blouse, and skirt.

"Wherever did you find these?"

I doubted that he kept them lying around for the sake of female visitors who happened to have need of them.

"The costume department of the opera house was not harmed in the fire, and I have found the costumes are very well preserved."

Well, that was a novel way of dressing oneself.

Once he left, I pulled on the clothing, basking in the feel of clean cloth against my skin. The skirt was a bit large, but I was not in a position to complain. I found he had also left a comb on the table near the wash bin, so I brushed what little was left of my hair, and tied it back from my face with a small piece of cotton torn from one of the bandages.

Now that I once again felt more or less human, I was ready to face my masked rescuer.