Erik slithered through the shadows of the apartment belonging to Mdame Giry, silent as viper. He passed the first door to his left where the length of bedrooms began, it's door cracked open slightly,a soft glow emmiting from inside. He peered in carefully, observing Madame Giry, bent over her desk writing on some document. Her hair was down, it's light mouse-brown shade sparkled with silver streaks of aging. She wore a simple but elegant night shift of black cotton that boasted still finley toned ballerina calves despite her age.

He slipped through the door without making any announcment of his presence, and placed himself upon the bed with the lightest of material shifts. Erik sat, poised and straight,waiting for her to pause in her writings, to look behind herself and jump in surprise. But she didn't. He cocked his head somewhat characteristically like a dog watching something curious.

"Margareite is housed in the third room to your left down the hall, Monsuier," Madame Giry's voice caused him to start himself, but she did not even hesitate in the rythm of her quill scratching.

"Very observitive, Giry," he said in his most cultured tone. The two had only ever conversed in the most appropriate and polite tones; that feel about their communication still hung in the air between them. "I had thought that I could surprise you."

"After years in the opera house, Monsuier," the woman answered, "I have become accostomed to the change in the feel of the air about your presence."

"And what, prey tell," Erik asked smoothly, "would that change be?" Now Madame Giry did stop writing for a moment, stroking her jaw with the tip of her feather-quill, thinking.

"It is a feel of power," she said after some hesitation. "Power..and even your breathing carries a musical rythm, a melodous quality. I came to reconize your breath patterns with sharp ears in a room full of people; it is no surprise that I would hear it in an empty, silent room." Her quill was dipped into ink once again, then started scratching upon the parchment.

"Interesting," Erik said thoughtfully. "I never considered such a vice."

"I would not call it a vice, Monsueir Opera Ghost," Giry said casually as her proper tone allowed. "It is a characteristic that one should highly prize."

"Perhaps," Erik said ore to himself then in reply. He shook his head forcefully. What was he doing wasting his time withmindless chatter about his breathing? He had to visit Margareite as promised and continue in his search for information if, he once again, could not extract any from the girl. He stood without an explaination to his sudden exit and slid out of the door just as silently as he had entered.

Had she said the door on his left or right? Both rooms that sported a golden light from within were the third door down on it's side, one only slighty farther up the hall then the other. Sure that Giry had said Magareite was on the right, Erik opened the door swiftly, soundlessly, closing it as a ghost behind him. He turned, expecting to find Margareite gazing at him with those amazing, steady Oak Eyes. Instead he found hmself looking upon the sleeping form of Meg Giry, her blond hair shining in the candle light. Her lips were slightly parted in calm sleep, releiving Erik enough to allow himself a breath when she did not stir in her sleep at his presence.

Little Meg Giry, Madame Giry's only child. She had been a gosssipy one, to be sure, but it was to be expected on her young age when Erik had paid any special attention her her goings about. She had been entertaining, somewhat humorous in her manner as a child and teenager. Always a bouncy little spite, constanly making those around her smile. She had been quite the dancer, her slim, small body graceful as a swan upon the waters of a lake. She had not had the draw that Christine had, however, and he had found himself only fond of her innocent, bubbly nature. She had grown quite a bit since he had last looked upon her, the sheets about her body fitting her well enough to show her slight curves and bustline had been filled in well with growth. He shook himself mentally, clenching his jaw. Why did he linger through all of this?

He ghosted out of her room to the only other room serving home to another. This time, he found Margareite, but she was not staring at the door expectantly, although it was aparent that she had been at one point, a book held loosley in her hand, her head lolling to one side in relaxed sleep. He strode lightly to the bedside, smiling down upon her sleeping form. He brushed his hand over her thick brown hair, leaning forward to lay a gossomer kiss on her forhead. The girl awoke with a start, her large doe eyes sparking happily at the sight of him, throwing her arms about his neck with a tiny squeal, carelessly tossing the book to the side.

Erik smiled gently, scooping her up and sitting upon the bed himself, cradling her in his arms as she attempted to strangle him in a choke-hold hug. He chuckled when she let go.

"You'd thin you hadn't seen me for a week," he said in a slight whisper.

"It feels like it," Margareite agreed, then her smile faded.
Erik sighed gently, reading her unspoken words.

"I didn't discover anythng," he said solomly.He paused, wishng he could clear his throat, but didn't for fear of waking Meg across the hall. "Margareite...try..try for me..try for Christine." Margareite's eyes now swam with tears that threatened to spill over. "Please...Margareie, I'm here. Those bastards won't touch you again. I swear to you...just please try, for Christine's sake." He averted his eyes, unable to look at Margareite, knowing he was asking something of her that was close to impossible. He hated pushing her; it made him sick of the stomach, but he had to try, for Christine.

Margareite watched as his eyes averted, her own vision blurred with unshed tears. She bit her lip, mustering all the courage and strength she had. She had tried ths so many times, and so many times she had failed. What made him think she could force her voice now? She bit her lip harder, almost peircing the skin as she forced her mind to form a planned sentence. Taking a deep breath, she gathered herself for a scream, knowing hat nothing but a whipser was likey to escape, if that. She skrewed her eyes shut and attempted to shout for all she was worth; her ears raored with a soundless pounding, her blood pumping visciously in her veins.

She opened her eyes, looking at Erik, begging him to tell her she had excerted some useful bit of information. He looked at her blankly, sarrow biting at her from his eyes. Nothing.
How was it that these males' rules of silence followed her even now? They bit down on her togune like a gag bit on a horse, ripping up the cheek when pulled on harshly, forcing the horse submisssion. She bit down cruely on her lip again, tears leeking down her cheeks as she buried her head in Erik's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she whispered hoasrly, relaxing into his fathering grasp. In less then a moment, he felt her even, deep breathing beneath his fingers; she had fallen asleep.

He held her gently, sighing. She had tried; it was the best the girl could do. It was a mental block, ofcourse. She had been raised-abused- her entire life to be silent in the presence of the men. That was not a easily broken law. Closing his eyes, Erik laid his head upon hr own lightly, stroking her hair. Best set out in the early morning, before light, escape to his lair below the destroyed opera house, catch some sleep, then set out again in the evening. Night was far too short; day too long, too harsh for him-

Margareite's door opend slowly, a slight hand pushing it open. Erik's heart pounded heavily; it was not Madame Giry, she would not inturupt his visit with Margareite. It was little Meg Giry. He stiffened, unsure of what to do. Margareite's deep, stressed sleep caused her to be oblivious of the intruder; no matter how quickly he moved, Erik would never escape Meg's sight.

"Margareite?" Meg's voice was smooth, gentle. "Why were you crying?" She rounded the door, stopping coldly in her tracks at the sight of Erik.

Her breath caught at the sight of him, pearl white mask covering the right side of his face, his eyes sharp with wariness like a stray animal trapped by humans, fearful, but threatening.He clutched Margareite to him somewhat protectivley agaisnt his perfectly tailored suit. He was a large man, six feet tall atleast, surly taller, his sturdy frame almost menecing, but deceitfully gentle in the way he held the girl in his arms.

She was frozen in place, her heart racing. So this was the Opera Ghost; The Phantom of the Opera. This was the one that so many had feared and told stories about. This was the one that had inspired nightmares...and day dreams. She had always been slightly jelous of Christine, of her adventures. OF the secret Angel, the Opera Ghost that had stolen her away for love. She had spent many a lonly night holding the mask she had secreted away from his lair the night of the fire, hiding it beneath her pillow, stroking it's smooth serface. She wondered, momentairly, if the mask he wore now had the same texture...

She slapped herself mentally, shaking herself out of her stupor. The Phantom man now before her was stiff with uncertainty, drawn as far into the head of the bed as he could without disturbing the child.

"Mon-monsueir Phantom," she stuttered clumsily. "I...I...have something for you." The Opera Ghost's clear blue eys shifted uncomfortably at thesewords. "Ehm...just...just wait here one moment." Meg scurried out of the room in a flash, diving to her bed and pulling out the mask from beneath the stark white pillow. Perhaps if she showed that she had kept the mask...wht? What would it show him? That she fantasized about him? Still, something compelled her to return it to him. She flung around the door with a racing heart only to find Margareite sound asleep beneath the covers of the bed, a single rose with a white ribbon tied to it next to her on the the pillow.

The Phantom was gone.