A/N: Just a quick side note here- I actually did my research for this first part, and I'm happy to announce that it does, in fact, make sense. William Wordsworth, the author of the poem I use, was born in England in 1770, dying in 1850, the same year the movie takes place. The poem portrayed here is called "The Solitary Reaper."

…Sorry, just wanted to brag about my commitment to this story. Carry on, and cheerio!

I don't know how to take this,
I don't see why he moves me.
He's a man; he's just a man…

I Don't Know How to Love Him, Andrew Lloyd Webber's Jesus Christ Superstar

IN MY MIND, IN MY SOUL

"No nightingale did ever chant more welcome notes to weary bands…" Christine's lips moved along with the words, her eyes trailing languidly over the lines from the book that lay flaccidly upon her lap as she sat on the ledge beside her window. She had found the novel buried in her suitcase, tucked away amongst her garments, nestled beneath her diary. A book of poetry by William Wordsworth…a volume Erik had given her so many years ago… She shook her head. Two…it had been but two years ago…

"A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard in the springtime from the cuckoo bird." The rain drilled a constant rhythm into her head, pounding endlessly at her senses, slowly beating her into submission. Gradually, the whole of her body began to throb dully in harmony to the relentless pulsing, the rushing of blood against her eardrums, the thumping of her heartbeat. She put a shaking hand to her temples, squeezing her eyes shut.

"I listened, motionless and still; And as I mounted up the hill, the music in my heart I bore…" The air seemed to have become lodged in her throat; she took a few heaving, breathy gasps. Her tongue glided over her lips again and again, bringing moisture back to her mouth. Christine brought her knees to her chest, hugging her body tightly as the book slid slowly to the ledge beside her. Glancing down at it, her gaze passed over the last line.

"The music in my heart I bore, long after it was heard no more." She glared at the novel beside her, her eyes sharp and fiery. Her hands tightened their grip on her arms, and she turned to look out the window. Rain dribbled like tears down the frail sheet of glass, and she watched as the drops seemed to pursue each other in a race to reach the bottom, sliding effortlessly across the pane. There was nothing to be seen past the window; the darkness allowed only her reflection to be visible. Staring into her own eyes, she pressed her fingers to the glass. The eyes were not the same…they were darker, hollow…empty.

With a low cry of frustration, she took the book up in her hand and threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a dull thud, a few loose pages scattering about the floor. Christine turned back to the window, but she watched the volume out of the corner of a narrowed eye. It simply sat, silent and unmoving…taunting her. Sighing, she buried her face in her hands. She had not packed that book…she had made a special effort not to even look at it since…

Since…

He was alive. He was alive, not rotting away in a cellar or a forgotten alley… Christine shuddered, hugging her body tightly. She could still see his eyes…every fleck of golden dust that shimmered in his irises. And his voice, beckoning, pleading, sobbing, still echoed in the back of her thoughts, haunting her more vividly than the countless dreams that plagued her night after night. God help her, she could still taste him on her lips…

No.

Christine shook her head, mentally cursing herself. With a little difficulty, she filled her mind with images of her husband…visions of their wedding and his perfect smile as he watched her approach the altar…memories of their first night together, nestled safely in the warmth of her beloved, her one true beloved… Her eyes closed as she felt his arms encircle her, and she leaned her head back onto his bare chest… She gazed up at him, his eyes filled with all the love one man could hold, his mask gleaming in the moonlight-

She sat up quickly, brushing off his unseen presence. Her shoulders trembled slightly, her breath quick and heavy, and she wiped her hand across her sweating brow. The memories were a thousand times clearer than they had been even a few days ago, now that she knew… They kept playing and replaying, over and over, before her eyes, taunting her.

Crushing her hands against her ears, she tried in vain to silence the velvet purr of his voice, his murmuring whisper in her ear. God, what was he doing to her? What was he doing?

Christine snorted cynically. She knew what he was doing…he was doing whores. She closed her eyes to block out the sickening images that bombarded her thoughts, and she tried to fight down the bile that was slowly rising in her throat. It didn't work. Clutching the bedside tightly with her hands, she doubled over and gagged on the air that had caught in her throat. And still she saw him, thrashing about in the sheets with a moaning, screeching little bitch of a girl. She hated them! She hated them all for…for…

For doing their jobs…jobs that Erik had requested. She wrapped herself in a blanket that sat at the edge of her bed, settling down onto the cold wooden floor, clutching her knees to her chest. He hired them; he paid them to rob him of everything…his beauty, his passion, his dark, ethereal majesty… Everything about him that made her love him…

Christine flinched as the thought crossed her mind. She didn't love him…she didn't love him… She had her wonderful, perfect, selfless husband waiting for her at home. Erik could do what he wanted…it was the least she could do, to leave his memory in peace, after that night…

Frowning to herself, Christine reached towards the book that lay in a heap on the floor beside her. Flipping through the pages, she found the poem she had been reading before.

The music in my heart I bore, long after it was heard no more.

She was interrupted by a loud banging at her bedroom door.

"I'll pay you fifty francs extra if you play all night, monsieur. We're having a bit of a party here this evening, and I doubt the guests will want to be leaving before midnight." Erik scowled and glanced at the piano in the corner before turning back to Madame. She gave him a wide, gap-toothed grin. "I know you're a bit tired, monsieur…and with good reason. I wouldn't be surprised if half the fucking hotel heard your girl squeal and groan last night…and the bedsprings…" Madame gave a low whistle, and Erik glared at the floor, jaw clenched tightly. "I'm surprised the bed didn't give way." She smirked. "Just goes to show, we only have the best here, monsieur. You can count on that." Wiping her hands on her apron, she winked at him, a leer crossing her lips.

"Double it," he murmured, staring at her intently. The shadows in the room allowed for the cloak to cast his eyes in darkness, and Erik watched, amused, as Madame's gaze narrowed.

"Excuse me?"

"I said, double the price. I'll be playing twice as long as usual, so I'll be expecting twice as much as I normally receive for my services." He crossed his arms beneath his cloak, and for a moment, they stared fiercely at each other, silently daring the other to break the gaze. Madame finally looked down at her hands, picking at some dirt beneath her fingernails.

"Done."

Erik smirked, his chin tilting up in a gesture of arrogant dominance. "I'm glad to see we've come to an agreement, Madame." He made a low, mocking bow and disappeared in the swirl of his cape. Madame looked after, lips pursed, before returning to the kitchen.

Taking his seat on the bench behind the piano, Erik removed a thick bundle of sallow yellow parchment from his silver-lined cloak. Lines of blotted ink were scratched upon the pages, the music bars slanted and chaotic in his hurried scrawl. He sat the papers on the stand before him, peering at his own handwriting carefully. Taking the tip of his right hand glove in his fingers, he pulled the black leather from his skin in a single fluid, sensual movement. He did the same with his left hand, and then he stared thoughtfully at his own naked hands, flexing them with careful grace. His fingers rested on the ivories, and he caressed the keys in warm, gentle silence. The eyes behind the mask seemed to glow in soft candlelight, and in the stillness, music played in the back of his mind.

Erik glanced at the page in front of him. It was an old Persian folk song he had rewritten during his time in the Shah's court. Over the past few years he had found himself coming back to it, making a few additions, amending his work until he could proclaim it perfection. For the moment, he was satisfied.

His eyes drifted to a corner of parchment that stuck out from beneath the bundle. Half the title was visible from its skewed position in the pile, and Erik pursed his lips as he stared at the lines. It was a piece he had deliberately placed at the bottom of his works, meant to be forgotten and yet always in his mind.

The notes had been inscribed in red ink… They might as well have been written in blood.

He closed his eyes and let a deep sigh escape his lips before he began the folksong. And while the early guests of Madame's festivity listened to the dark tunes of a Persian night, Erik heard only the sweet, haunting voice of his Aminta singing softly in his head.

"She won't agree to it… You know she won't… What madness are you up to, Roslin?"

"Hush, you little fool!" Roslin hissed, eyes gleaming thoughtfully. Fantine's lips snapped shut, and she watched the woman who had been like her mentor as she raised her fist to the door. Roslin's gaze softened, and a light smile crossed her face. "You'll ruin the surprise."

She pounded loudly at the door before them, and Fantine glanced over her shoulder. The newer wing of the hotel was still a bit uncomfortable for her; normally, she spent all her time on the other side of the building. Madame never tried to cover up the differences between the areas… This part was for the richer, more eloquent guests; the other was where men were too drunk or too preoccupied to notice the peeling walls and dripping ceilings. Fantine gazed around at the ornate décor, feeling very out of place in her short, revealing attire. "Why isn't she answering?" she whispered to Roslin, eyes wide.

Roslin snorted indignantly, one hand planted firmly on her hip. "Probably fell asleep again, the little wench." Despite her insensitive words, she put on a distant, affectionate smile. "The girl had a nasty shock." Fantine stared up at her questioningly, but without answering her unspoken inquiry, Roslin opened the door and stepped inside Christine's room.

Fantine almost collided into Roslin's back as she followed her in. Roslin stopped in the middle of the doorway, eyebrow raised inquisitively, as she stared at the huddled mass of blanket on the floor. Christine stared back at them, face blank. "Did we catch you at a bad time, mam'selle?" Roslin asked softly, kneeling down beside her and balancing herself on the balls of her feet. She pulled back the blanket and brought Christine to her feet.

As she watched the curious exchange between them, Fantine was struck, not for the first time, at Roslin's fickle, impulsive emotions. Only moments before had she called the girl a "little wench," and now she was treating her like her own daughter! Fantine shook her head in bemused disbelief before taking Christine's arm and sitting her down upon the bed.

"What were you doing on the floor, m'dear?" she asked, untangling the mass of brown curls that fell limply to the middle of Christine's back. "You have a perfectly fine bed…"

Roslin gave a low chuckle. "For goodness sake, Fantine, the poor girl's bored! Look at her, being cooped up her for nearly a day…" She snapped her fingers, eyes brightening.

"Roslin, I…"

"Don't interrupt," she scolded, taking Christine's hand in her own. "Madame is throwing a most wonderful party tonight, inviting all our friends from the lower circles of life. Dancing, music…" Her gaze grew soft as she pictured the events about to unfold. "It's been such a long time since I've danced…" The glazed look of her eyes vanished, and she turned back to Christine. "You simply must come, my dear. I won't take no for an answer."

Christine stared at her, eyes wide. "No…" she murmured, shaking her head, her hand at her throat. "No, Roslin, I can't… What if…?" She licked her lips in an attempt to moisten her drying mouth. "The man…the man you spoke of this morning… He could show up, and…"

Roslin waved her hand evasively. "He won't be there. He hasn't been here in ages… I really doubt he'll be coming back at all…" Fantine's gaze flew to Roslin, but she carefully avoided making eye contact. "The last I heard, he was heading off to Portugal, Persia… Something with a p…" She tapped two long, elegant fingers against her lips, pondering thoughtfully, before shrugging carelessly. "I can't remember. All I know is, he won't be there."

Placing her palm at her cheek, Christine gazed between the two. "I don't think so, Roslin. I…I have a bit of a headache." She put a hand to her temple, grimacing in imaginary pain.

Pulling a small vial of golden liquid from her tightly corseted chemise, Roslin placed the glass in Christine's hand and curled her fingers around it. "Take this, then," she offered, glancing at Fantine and smiling faintly. "It will help, trust me. I use it all the time."

Eyes kept cautiously on Roslin, Christine watched the amber fluid swirl about in the glass before unplugging it. Holding it up to her mouth, she took a brief swig. Almost immediately, she began coughing and spluttering, her hand flying to her mouth. Fantine pounded her fist on Christine's back, all the while her eyes shooting daggers at Roslin. After a moment, Christine sat back, patches of red appearing on her cheeks.

"Do you think me naïve enough to never have tried brandy before?" she exploded, glaring at Roslin, who, in turn, shrugged indifferently. "What were you thinking…that you would get me drunk, and then you would take me to your damned party?"

Roslin smiled innocently. "It was worth a try, wasn't it?" Her smile was utterly infuriating.

Fantine sighed. "Why don't you just come for a bit, my dear? What would it hurt? I even have some clothes you could wear so you wouldn't…well, stand out so much in our crowd."

Christine glanced nervously between them, her anger ebbing away with each passing second, replaced instead with growing apprehension. "I couldn't…you're shorter than me, Fantine…your clothes wouldn't fit. And…and…" She was running out of excuses.

Roslin, however, would not fall for the bait. "Perfect! If Fantine is shorter, her dresses will show off your lovely legs." She patted Christine on the knee, who frowned sharply.

"I'm a married woman, mademoiselle. My husband… He would not approve."

Another knock sounded from the outside of Christine's door, and an instant later, Madame walked in, arms folded across her chest. She flashed them all an overly-sweet smile before turning to Christine. "I hope I did not just hear you turning down my invitation to my party, mademoiselle. I would be highly disappointed, perhaps even insulted, if you did not attend." She glanced at Roslin from over Christine's shoulder, eyes glinting.

Christine blushed lightly, gazing at the floor. "No, I didn't turn it down, I simply…"

"Good!" Madame exclaimed, taking Christine suddenly by the arm and pulling her away. "My company has started to arrive, but you still have time to change into one of Fantine's old dresses…God knows she has plenty." Madame escorted a protesting Christine out the door, taking the briefest of moments to look over her shoulder and nod knowingly to Roslin.

Christine's stammers of objection were still perceptible when Fantine turned to Roslin and hissed, "What are you playing at? You know perfectly well he will be here this evening…you just had him last night, for heaven's sake!" She took a deep breath, crossing her arms irritably, before glancing back up at her companion. "Their encounter will be unavoidable…what exactly are you trying to do, Roslin? What can be gained through your meddling?"

Roslin's eyes followed the two women's figures as they proceeded down the corridor. Smirking broadly, she turned back to Fantine. "My dear," she began, placing her hand on Fantine's shoulder. "It's been rather dull around here, haven't you noticed?" Her calculating, devious grin widened as she glanced after Christine's slender, retreating back. "I thought it would be rather entertaining to spice things up a bit… Wouldn't you agree?"

The air had become stiflingly heavy with the thick smell of cigar and alcohol. Conversation buzzed in his ears as he strained to become lost in the simple melody that flowed from his fingertips. His jaw clenched dangerously, his palms sweaty, as he started towards the climax of the song. A dull throbbing sensation had begun to swell with his head, but the pounding only increased his anger, which, in turn, created a crescendo in his music…

A figure paused above the piano, and Erik felt her eyes before he looked up. A girl stood there, her hair so black it shined blue in the candlelight as it melted down her back in a wave of darkness. Her eyes were bright green, and they glinted eerily through the shadows.

"Hello," she purred, and almost instantly Erik smelled the cheap wine on her breath. He nodded in acknowledgement, refusing to break his connection with his music. When she did not leave, he glanced up at her questioningly, his fingers still dancing across the keys.

"Yes?" he asked, his voice deep and hypnotic. Her eyes became even more glazed at his words, his spell unintentionally cast. He frowned. "Is there something you need?"

The music played on.

The girl nodded slowly, her gaze locked on him. She murmured her response, but the sound drowned it out. It didn't matter…from the sultry sway of her hips and seductive smirk on her mouth, Erik had an idea as to the concept of her reply. His lips pursed, frustrated, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the noticeable swell of her breasts above her tightly corseted waist.

The combined effects of the wine and his haunting voice had caused her face to relax and soften, her eyes glassing over. She laid a hand on the collar of his coat, and Erik stiffened beneath her touch. This was the absolute last thing he needed at the moment…not now, not after last night… He closed his eyes, concentrating. Erik wanted to send her away, to cast her off to her crowd of whores and pimps, but he found all he could say was a gasping, "Please." The word flew from his mouth in a single breath, and the girl's lips curled into a smile, her gaze darkening. Her fingers worked their way up his neck and into his hair, moving rhythmically against him with a caressing, soothing motion. His hands began to fumble on the piano keys, stiffening as he became more and more distracted…

The song ended abruptly, the silence sudden and powerful, only to be broken by a different melody. Erik peered at the girl from beneath his furrowed brow, watching the music take its toll. Her body became instantly rigid in response to the song he had vowed never to play again, her hand flying from his neck to the hollow of her neck, her fingers making small circles on her skin. Lower lip quivering, she lowered herself down to him with graceful ease.

No…this was not what was supposed to happen. She straddled his left leg, her eyes fixed on Erik's face. No, she was supposed to leave, run to someone else…anyone else… She should clamp her hands over her ears and tremble at the strange, invading sound, not…this…

Her fingers snaked up his leg, and he looked into her eyes. Her face was blank, emotionless, empty… He stood up hastily, and the girl stumbled backwards. There were a few moments of tentative, anxious silence as the people within earshot turned to stare at the enigmatic figure in black. Erik looked around, eyes burning with a golden glow, and conversations began to resume, hesitant at first, before the room was once again filled with the ringing drone of drunken prattle. Chest heaving, he turned back to the girl. She gaped at him, lips trembling, but before Erik could say a word, he was interrupted by Madame.

"What have I told you about playing that kind of music in here?" she hissed, taking him by the sleeve. Erik glared down at her, eyes narrowed. "That…music…it doesn't take well with the public. It…it doesn't appeal." Madame turned to the girl, taking her gently by the wrist. "Go back to the kitchens, Madeleine. I'll be with you shortly."

Madeleine…Madeleine…

"What was your mother's name?"

"…Madeleine…"

Erik shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. The room had begun to take on a rather reddish tone, and he blinked repeatedly. He shook his head once more, then started for the door when someone caught him by the cloak. Whirling around, he saw Madame.

"What are you doing?" she exclaimed, scowling heavily. "You still have four more hours to put in!" He yanked himself away from her grasp and pushed himself through the crowd. There was only one thought on his mind…getting out of there… "You won't be paid a bloody cent if you don't get back here!" Madame shrieked over the noise.

Glancing over his shoulder, he yelled, "I don't want your goddamned money!" Erik pulled his cloak tighter to his body and shoved his way through the hoards of people. He closed his eyes momentarily, squeezing his eyelids shut. He turned back just in time to bump rather hastily into someone. Collecting himself, he glanced down to see a small figure fall to the ground in front of him. She looked up at him with wide, honey brown eyes.

"Ah, monsieur," said a voice beside her. "I see you've met my lovely young companion." Erik heard Roslin's silky words, but he failed to acknowledge them. He could barely manage to breathe…or think…let alone answer. "Allow me to introduce Christine."