Author's note:

The opera house in this work is not honestly intended to be the real Paris Opera House, though the details of real place definitely inspired those revealed in this chapter. My biggest reason for this being that I have altered quite a few dates. The real Paris Opera House would not have been started—much less completed—in 1857. While I strive to maintain some historical accuracy, I still ask the reader's leniency, as I have bent more than one historical truth to fit the confines of this story.

Much thanks goes to my mom, who played temporary beta for this chapter and the preceding one.

Continuing on…

Despite the nearing evening, a mass of peoples and creatures adorned the streets of Paris. Casually, she looked over them; gentlemen with their top hats and canes, announcing their station with every stride; a poor mother with an infant propped against one hip while the other siblings trailing behind were scolded; the miserable appearance of a prostitute before she disappeared into a darkened alley.

Jaclyn Gardnier turned her eyes away, staring once more at the black velvet interior of the carriage. Leaning back against the seat, her gaze shifted to the gentleman seated across from her. Attractively dressed, the man was shuffling through an assortment of letters, unnoticing the critical stare from beneath the hat brim. She gave a wry smirk. He certainly had been more attentive after last night's party, though drink and beauty never failed to be a heady combination, and one she never failed to use to her advantage.

The advocat glanced up from his papers, reaching a hand to playfully caress her gloved one. Sighing, she allowed him this. The boy was young, handsome…but there were hundreds of such gentlemen in Paris. The only element that set this one apart, and consequently made him all the more similar, was his youthful boldness. He thrilled her, lavishing forbidden touches and words within in the very heart of society.

She had once longed for position. Marrying the brilliant, promising architect guaranteed her such ascension, while the status of authority and the rumored majesty of the opera house had only secured it. Even so, the thrill of winning envy and respect did not maintain the grip on her that it once held. The young advocat offered her a world far away and yet still within the confines of the one she could not live without.

"Shall I be expecting you later?" the young man purred, easing down her silk glove to trace the pale skin with his lips. Jaclyn drew away from his touch, the carriage stopping in front of the large house.

"No, I suspect not." Her voice was cool, biting. She repressed a smirk at her young suitor's dismayed expression.

Pushing open the door, she had barely stepped out of the carriage before a firm hand grasped her arm. "Jaclyn, dear, please…I am sorry I was so preoccupied with these mindless papers..."

She felt his hot breath along her neck.

"You are too daring," she whispered, tilting her head to look back at him, the glimmer in her eyes unmistakable. He smiled.

Erik ran a hand over the smooth banister as he ascended the stairwell, a fragile smile crossing over the normally solemn countenance.

It had been a surprisingly quiet morning, the normal racket of the laborers and artisans at the opera house diminishing as the final details were being completed. The opulent, complex idea once restricted to paper was now a real edifice, a testament to beauty and human ingenuity.

He walked alone now, savoring the quiet, his sharp eyes moving across every detail, like a proud parent elated by their child's triumph. This place was Gardnier's vision, to be sure, but there were many elements—far more than the ignorant visitor would ever know—that were not born of the great architect's hand. The details of the sweeping majesty of the escalier, the staircase leading to the grand foyer, the additions of countless rooms and entryways, the towering backstage and the dizzying tangle of levels and catwalks, the celestial figures that graced that roof…

The opera house was his artistic domain, a portrait of white stone, marble and gilded bronze, all stunning to behold. This place would never be forgotten, even as its creator would be…

He walked through the foyer, opening into the loggia, the double columns flanking the elegant French windows and topped by busts of composers. He eyed the cold marble faces, absently recalling the various melodies of the departed musicians.

Gardnier had been well informed of these additions, most of the work drawn in Erik's own sprawling script. There was hardly a day that passed when the architect did not refer to the masked youth at his side, asking his opinion, or referring a confused engineer or foreman to hear the boy's calm, precise directions. They listened without question, not only for the accurate vision the youth possessed, the authoritative and teaching aura that abounded, the daunting genius that existed behind the impassive mask in those quiet, watching eyes.

He moved silently through the backstage, the laborers unaware of his presence as he slipped by them, the shadows his faithful cloak. Those few, miserable years on the streets of Paris had served him well, the gift of remaining unseen when needed, the ability to deceive unsuspecting eyes never lost to him.

As the years had progressed, he was no longer the strange, masked boy at Gardnier's side. The whispers were still there—they would always be there, but in place of skepticism was a strange respect. Erik smirked. Yet it was a respect surely born out of fear.

He moved without question, seeing through the dark and the dust, past the sounds of the men and their work, lost in his thoughts. At length, he paused, stopping before an entrance, a pale beam of light from high above illuminating it.

Even after all these years, he had avoided this place and the depths to which it led. Every column and support, every wall…the water that seeped around the cold stone…

He knew and hated that place, once his tomb.

Without a word, he turned, climbing to the higher levels, eager to forget it.

Benoît sat at the piano bench, staring blankly at the keys. His music instructor had come that morning, furious to find that the music he procured for his student was lost…again. Benoît had sat in miserable silence and endured the lecture, keeping his air of indifference even while the teacher stormed out of the house, swearing never to return.

Now, in the silence of the grand house, he waited, eyes forcibly riveted to the ivory and black surface. His only comfort resided in those colorless keys. They responded to his will without question, giving him the voice that he would never possess otherwise. He knew the technicalities of every song presented; he could plunge through the difficult runs, grueling tempos and key changes, and yet no one noticed. No one ever noticed.

Except Erik.

Benoît almost felt ashamed at the small amount of glee he felt as he played, recalling his father's protégé looking on. Music appeared the one endeavor in which Erik was a failure, and yet he knew his masked companion listened, though to what extent, he was not sure. Even so, there were moments of recognizable comprehension and longing in those dark eyes, hidden…

Benoît placed his fingers on the keys, relishing the cold, smooth surface. Over and over, he had witnessed Erik in this room, never touching the piano, but always lingering. There were times when he was certain he saw the smallest movement of the long fingers as he played, mimicking his own.

Slamming the lid shut, he stood, doubt gnawing at him. He heard the familiar sound of a carriage halting outside the house. Moving to the window, Benoît just parted the heavy curtains, his gaze falling upon his mother's tall, beautiful frame as she stepped out of the carriage. Uninterested, he turned away, pausing at the last moment as a movement caught his attention.

His mother's head turned, tilting to glance back at the gentleman behind her. Benoît's eyebrows twisted in confusion. Surely his father had not abandoned the opera house for an outing…

She kissed the stranger passionately. Benoît's hand fell from the curtains and he stumbled back from the window, his stomach in knots. The moment played over and over in his mind, logic and hope pitted against each other. Yet all the while, he knew the truth. Bile threatened to rise in his throat, its loathsome taste hardly equaling that of the disgust that seethed through him. He hated her, but even more, he hated the cursed opera house, the very thing that had kept his father away…

Benoît moved slowly from the room, refusing to acknowledge his mother's pristine form as she stepped into the foyer. The maid curtsied, taking her wrap from her. Jaclyn watched Benoît with a raised brow as he moved wordlessly past them both.

"Are proper manners even beyond you, Benoît?" her cool voice intoned after him.

Benoît paused, slowly turning his eyes upon her, a muscle in his jaw shifting. The silence was deafening between the two, the accusation in his gaze burning. After a moment, Jaclyn turned her eyes away, swallowing, barely registering the quiet footsteps of her son as he went up the stairs.

Tilting her chin up again, the mistress of the house flashed an icy glance at the waiting maid. "And what vexes him?" she asked, languidly pulling off one silken glove at a time.

The maid's eyes remained fixed upon the floor. "I do not know, Madame."

Jaclyn frowned. "Very well. Hurry and prepare me a hot bath."

The maid quickly curtsied again and left her.

It was long after dark before she heard the carriage ease to a stop, followed by the recognizable traipse of her husband dimly echoing along the cobblestone path.

Jaclyn walked slowly down the stairs, watching as her husband entered the house. She took a step toward him, the smile painted on her face leveling as she observed the faint dust coating his waistcoat and trousers.

"Ah, Jaclyn! Good evening!" He climbed up a step, placing a chaste kiss on her cheek. She raised her hands to keep the dusty clothes away from her.

"You are in an uncommonly good mood, my dear," she said, tilting her head away. Aubert grinned, the deep circles under his eyes almost unnoticeable. "Indeed. Erik commented…"

He spun his head around, grinning anew as the apprentice walked into the foyer from outside, gracefully shrugging off the double-breasted frock coat. He glanced up at his name, giving a polite bow in Jaclyn's direction.

"Madame," he said, the tone even and soft to the ear.

Aubert raised an arm for her. "As I was saying, Erik commented on how well the last stages of the construction of going. By the end of the year it will be complete."

She gave him a weak smile. "That is pleasing news," she said vacantly, her eyes drifting back to the apprentice.

Taking her husband's proffered arm, she raised her chin up a degree. "You will join us in the sitting room, won't you?" she asked. The youth gave another polite nod. "Certainly, but after a change of clothes. If you will excuse me..."

Erik moved past them. Jaclyn's eyes narrowed as they moved over his lean form, watching his measured, smooth strides. The apprentice could not have been much older than her own son, though his striking appearance betrayed him. He towered over Benoît, in every way lacking the clumsy, ill-proportioned body of males his age. If he was plagued by the trials of youth, he hid it well.

Then again, she thought, following her husband into the elegant room, it was not difficult to hide when one wore a mask…

"Mere months within completion! Can you believe it, Jaclyn?"

She gave him a tight smile, absently smoothing out her flowing velvet skirts. "It will be a great reward for your years of hard work, Aubert. Though the rumored opulence will prove meaningless if the singers are stage are of poor caliber."

Aubert took another sip of his wine, his knuckles whitening with his grip on the glass.

Erik leaned forward a degree, his gaze steady upon Jaclyn. "I have little doubt that Paris would allow any less than the finest upon her stage."

She gave a delicate shrug. "Perhaps."

Aubert lowered his drink, gesturing toward Erik. "He's right, you know."

Jaclyn raised an eyebrow at the apprentice. "Well, isn't that always the case?"

Erik's eyes darkened, yet he made no other moment at her provoking comment. Jaclyn continued.

"Already, I hear talk of a great Spanish singer arriving in Paris—La Carlotta Castello. No doubt she will bring triumph to the stage, if she is willing to sing for us."

"On the contrary, I have heard her voice can be quite grating, though thus far I have been denied the pleasure of hearing it," Erik commented, his voice a shade lower than before.

Jaclyn smirked. "And what would you know of fine music?"

He glared at her, firm restraint visible across his features. "Enough to enjoy the opera, Madame," he replied at length.

"Given your background, I am rather surprised."

Aubert's set his glass down loudly. "Jaclyn, please! Can we not be civil?"

She smiled at her husband. "It was merely an observation. Architect or no, one cannot appreciate the opera without a passion or familiarity with its art. He would feel ill at place there."

Erik tilted his head a fraction. "An astute comment, Madame, but hardly true in my situation. I hold a great respect for art in all its forms."

"Even so," she continued, "I cannot expect that you would feel comfortable among the most prominent Parisians. After all, the opera is intended for the enjoyment of the noble." She watched the deep hazel eyes burn with irritation, and yet he made no move.

Aubert took a large sip of wine.

The corner of Erik's mouth pulled upwards a degree as he regarded Jaclyn. "I can assure you, Madame, that I will make my best effort to enjoy the opera despite its company."

"And how might you do that, Erik?" she inquired, her tone poisonous.

He paused, his expression amused. "From my box seat."