After carrying me back to his home, Erik placed me gently in my bed, and brought me something to eat. He used only the bare minimum of words, leaving me once more with the uncomfortable feeling of being alone even in his company. As I lay in the darkness, I could hear him pacing back and forth, stopping every few moments to sit at his organ, playing a few notes, then getting to his feet once more. I wished that I had the courage to ask him what he was thinking, but the look in his eyes always stopped me, and I feared that any questions I might ask would bring back some past hurt of his.

In any case, my own emotions were tangled enough, without attempting to untangle his. Prominent in my thoughts was the dead body lying abandoned in the hallway. I was sorry I had killed him, I didn't want to be a murderer. But then, it was done in self-defense, he would have killed me. But if I didn't feel remorse than I must be some kind of monster. But I can't be entirely sorry, because I didn't want to die at his hands. But he was only a hired man, the real culprit was still alive. So was I really only sorry that I had killed Leon's lackey instead of Leon himself? It was a dizzying chain of thought that left me exhausted, but too alert for sleep.

I had always thought of myself as a moral, virtuous sort of person, but now I had killed someone, and instead of being sorry that I had killed him, I was sorry that I hadn't killed someone else as well. I had to speak to someone, to ask for help in sorting out what I was feeling. I didn't much fancy the idea of disturbing Erik when he was in such an odd mood, but my loneliness was threatening to overtake the sanity I had left, and my experience with him in the hallway had whetted my appetite for human interaction rather than satiating it.

I quietly rose from the bed, and wrapped the velvet blanket around my shoulders like some oversized royal cape, and walked over to where Erik sat staring at his organ.

She had seen his face and didn't run. She didn't scream. She didn't cry. She didn't even visibly flinch. But somehow, it would have been easier if she had. Easier if he could have predicted her reaction, and categorized her with every other woman who had ever looked on him with eyes full of terror. Easier because then he could have hated her. Then he could have scorned her, and chased her from the opera house. Then he wouldn't have to see the pity in her eyes, the compassion that a dark voice inside of him said he didn't deserve.

But she had just looked at him, and come closer to him, and given him back his mask with an air of calm that shook him more than fear ever had. She had let him touch her, trusted him, and even smiled at him. She had accepted his face, taken his deformity in stride, and moved on. If only he could do the same.

His actions in the hallway, touching her, carrying her, had been a test. She was fine when he was not near her, but he wanted to know how she would react when he touched her. Still, she didn't recoil, didn't push him away. She even reached for him voluntarily, wrapping her arms around his neck like a child. Once again, he felt the perverse desire to frighten her, to try to prove to her that her trust was misplaced. At the same time, he wanted to justify himself to her, to explain why he lived such a solitary life. Now he was glad to be alone with his thoughts, but strangely sorry as well. Something about her presence was soothing to his broken soul, and he wished that he had the courage to tell her so.

He was so involved in trying to ease his thoughts by turning them to music that he did not hear her approach until she was beside him.

She didn't say anything in response to the questions in his eyes, just stood there for a moment, before wrapping the blanket tighter around her thin shoulders and sinking to the floor beside him, and resting her weight against the organ bench, placed her head on one arm. He had stopped playing, but when she looked at him expectantly, he cast around his memory for something to play, and without really thinking, began to play the gypsy tune he had heard her humming earlier.

He began to lose himself in the music, when he heard her give a gentle sigh. Glancing down, he sawtears gleaming on the exposed side of her face, running down her scarred cheek. He stopped playing, realizing the effect that the song was having on her. She had a trance-like expression on her face, and she was silently mouthing the words of the song. She continued to move her lips even after he stopped playing, until she realized that he was staring at her intently. She lifted her head and looked up at him.

"You play that song beautifully. I've only ever heard it on the guitar."

Her voice was so quiet he could barely hear her, and her shoulders were shaking beneath the thickness of the blanket. He wondered if he ought to take the opportunity to ask her about his suspicions about her past, but she spoke again before he could say anything.

"Have you ever killed a man?"

He hadn't been expecting that, but the pained look in her eyes told him that she wasn't looking for a reason to accuse him. She didn't wait for a reply, just looked at the flash of guilt that crossed his face, and continued to talk.

"The man in the hallway..I meant to kill him; it wasn't even an accident." She looked so guilty, he instinctively reached out to place a hand on her shoulder.

"He would have killed us both. You only did what you had to do." An unwanted memory sprang to his mind, the memory of his first kill. The roughness of the rope in his hands, and the feeling of satisfaction and relief when it was done. The only time he had ever taken a life justly, the only murder that didn't haunt his conscience.

"I know..I just..." She trailed off, shaking her head. When she started again, she stared directly into his eyes, looking for understanding. "I never thought that I could enjoy taking a life. But I did. In some twisted way, I did. And now I am only sorry that I did not have the opportunity to kill the man who sent him here." She looked frightened by the intensity of her anger and her emotions. He imagined she must never have had cause to feel such hate, and did not know what to do with it now that she felt it. He wanted to tell her not to worry, but didn't know what to say. Luckily, she didn't require a response, and laid her head back down on the bench, her ragged hair falling softly in her face. They stayed like that for a long time, both of them silent, taking comfort in each others' presences, until Erik could tell that she had drifted off to sleep. He picked her up and carried her gently to her room.