A/N: I am not the owner of the Phantom of the Opera. You all should know this by now. ; P

So here is a shorter installment. One of the better ones in my opinion. Yours? I look forward to reviews and thanks to Lonemutant for answering the Mary Sue question for me.

"My God, Katerina, these are wonderful!"

Her brother was looking at the paintings she had brought into his shop that morning.

Four of them, and Icarus was among them.

Thomas grinned, "Whatever is inspiring you I suggest you keep it close at hand. Did someone pose for this?"

Her brother gestured to a larger painting.

She had finished it late last night. It wasn't a darker piece like most of her paintings. It was of a man in his study, papers and models strewn about. He had his back to the viewer; although he was turning as if he had heard someone come through the door. His face was in distinct profile and one would have to look very, very carefully to see the thin white line that was the beginning of a mask that covered the part of his face the viewer did not see.

Katerina shook her head, "Not really, but the face is someone I've seen before."

"It's incredibly lifelike; I'd say the best piece out of all of them. It makes you wonder about the man," Thomas leaned closer, "There seems to be a little bit of everything on his desk. Drawings, the ships model, all kinds of writings, the sword off in the corner, and is that a sheet of music?"

Katerina nodded, "I like my men well rounded."

Her brother laughed, "Katerina, men with that many talents do not exist, you must prepare your heart for that fact."

Katerina nodded as if to resign herself to that fate.

If only you knew, dear brother.

Thomas nodded and then sat up, "Ah, I found out more about that opera ghost for you."

Katerina felt herself light up, "Really?"

"Common gossip from Jean Raul down the lane, apparently he terrorized the theater for almost a year. He murdered two people. One of them was Orlando Piangi, the leading tenor of the opera house."

Katerina blinked in shock, "You're serious?"

"Apparently he did it all for the love of the Daae woman. He apparently haunted the opera for years with people paying him little mind."

"The house and he got along."

Thomas nodded, "After she rejected him and became engaged to the Vicomte his behavior grew more erratic, more dangerous. They said that he had gone mad. That was when the murders occurred."

Katerina nodded, "I heard of that, and when the chandelier fell and burned the theater."

"It was the phantom that loosed the chandelier. To provide cover for his escape with the soprano, but it was she who escaped him in the confusion."

"So she got away," Katerina could see it in her mind, the beautiful singer who won the heart of a lonely ghost.

"Do you think he was a madman, like they say?"

Thomas shrugged and placed her painting behind the counter, "Who knows? If he had been living in the theater for so long without incident why would he start committing murders then? For the woman? For passion? You would have to ask the phantom."

"He wouldn't answer," Katerina muttered.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing, I was just thinking to myself out loud."

Thomas gestured to the paintings, "Are you going to leave these here?"

Katerina grinned playfully, "You cannot sell them my brother."

"I wouldn't, but perhaps I could keep the Icarus?"

Katerina swallowed but then slowly nodded, "You may, but I am taking the Monsieur back with me."

Her brother smiled, amused, "Is that what it is called?"

"That is what I call it," Katerina said throwing a sheet over the painting.

"Be careful," her brother called as she left.

"I shall try," she said stepping back out into the streets of Paris with her burden, "So help me Christ, I shall try."

He had been sitting on the edge of the bed when she had left, taking some of her paintings with her, wrapped in a sheet. She had told him that she would be gone all morning and perhaps the afternoon. He stood and tested his legs once more. He felt a little weaker than usual but other than that, fine. He swiftly gathered his cloak.

He needed time, he needed to think.

He made his way swiftly through the wreckage of the stage and down the corridor on stage right. The corridor ended in a blank wall that he rapped twice in the upper left corner and the hidden door swung open.

A calmness came over him as he made his way down familiar passages and stairs. Nearly a week in bed had taken its toll. He was stiff and sore, but he moved quickly as his muscles loosened. He took the long way around since he couldn't remember exactly which side of the underground lake he had left the gondola. He barely remembered the few days before he had awoken in Katerina's care. He growled,

"Katerina, little souris, little artiste, caretaker of wounded animals."

The words echoed in the corridors as he pushed back a curtain and entered into his lair. The candles had all burned out but he knew how to find his way in the dark. Soon light filled his lair once again and the cold stones around him began to warm. What on Earth was he going to do with her? Living in his theater like an upstairs tenant. Perhaps he should charge her rent. She had money, she had told him of her brothers and of her situation. She was living in the theater because, as she claimed, it had 'called to her'. He would call the situation idiotic if it weren't for his own circumstances of living. But he had no choice, it wasn't as if he could just rent a loft in the city, write music, and eat supper with the landlord on Tuesdays. She had a choice, she could live among others. Still, she chose to spend all her time painting in an empty theater. He supposed it bothered him. He had no choice although as the years went by the longing to join the world outside had ebbed. If the debacle with Christine had taught him anything it was that he was not wanted by the outside world and he should learn to not want it as well.

He thought of the opera house, of the ballerinas and of Madame Giry. He thought of the productions that had been performed and of the productions that never were to be. It saddened him and served to remind him that it was his entire fault. He had abandoned his first love for a second and when he had been spurned there had been nothing to go back to. He had his music, only to be heard by him and whatever rats had come down the sewers to listen.

Slowly he went and sat at his organ. The last few years had been difficult. Madame Giry must have thought him dead. She had returned and found his lair empty, with the candles all gone. It was how he had intended her to find it. He had used her kindness for years and now he deserved no ones. He would have left it at that, living alone, rummaging for supplies when the time came, a beast hiding from the humans.

His feelings had not wavered. Not until Katerina, not until her soothing voice and her soft hands. What kind of woman takes a monster in like him and not only lives with him but nurses him by her own hand? Her kindness was a conundrum to him. Just as Christine's had been those years ago. She had kissed him to free him. To free him and her from the madness that had claimed him. He could still remember her soft lips and shuddering breath. She had touched him like no one ever had. Madame Giry was the first person that touched him without setting pain upon him, Christine was the first person to touch him as a woman would a man, and Katerina was the first to touch him like an equal. Like a human.

He didn't want to let that go. Not again. He could make a choice. He could stay in his lair; abandon her to her paintings and her ramblings. Perhaps time would pass and she would leave. Leave as all the others did. Still there was the passion that burned in him, the passion that would not be sated by his loneliness, the passion that had threatened to burn him along with his opera house. The passion was what opened the door for madness and now he feared it.

Stay hidden.

Be safe.

Hide your face…

Erik stood, quickly, ignoring the sudden spinning of his head. He stood still until he caught his balance, then he began pacing. He had always thought of himself as a logical man. Until Christine of course, logic had nothing to do with that. She had made logic flee his mind in terror when she sang. Now, what was the logical thing for him to do?

Take a risk? Stay safe? What was safety? What was life without living? He closed his eyes to calm himself. The little mouse did not spurn him. She did not fear him; that he could tell of. Perhaps… Perhaps she would not mind company if it was asked of her. Erik looked at the new mirrors that littered his lair, unbroken things that he had pulled down from the charred theater.

He gingerly flexed his wounded hand; testing for pain and movement. It hurt, but not enough to keep him from the work he wished to do.

He had taken his leave of her.

Katerina slowly went and placed the covered painting in the annex and looked around. There was no trace that he had ever been there, save the pile of books on the vanity table.

Katerina shook her head, what did she expect? That he would stay with her? That after but a week he was hers? Slowly, she sighed and shook her head of silly notions. She was acting like a child. To expect that suddenly they were linked. With what? Paper chains stringing their hearts together? It was nonsense and she should have known. He lived alone, why would he seek company now? She was angry with herself and marched out of the annex. She would have flung herself on the bed had she not seen the mirror.

Questions had been raised about the brick wall in the gilded frame. It was gone now, replaced by a full length mirror that reflected her shocked form. What was this? Had he left it for her? She walked up to it and felt a sudden draft. There was a gap between the mirror and the frame. Taking care she slid her fingers into the gap and the mirror rolled smoothly to the side. It was a door. A corridor, lit with torches lay in front of her. Katerina hesitated. He had left her a path.

Her mind told her not to go. He was a murder. A madman. Thomas had told her so himself. But her heart just laughed gaily. He had never made a move to harm her. He was grumpy and sullen but that was to be expected. He lived life alone. He was also very talented, and very intelligent. Also, when she had shown him her painting, when he had looked upon Icarus, for a second of a second, a time so small it could not be measured. He had smiled.

Steadily she stepped through the mirror and followed the paper chain that had been left for her.

A/N: Souris is French for mouse. FYI.