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The panel in the wall was swiftly dealt with and slid soundlessly inwards. Erik, with the singer's delicate hand on his wrist, guided her through the entrance carefully. He hardly dared breath for fear she would vanish – the compliment he had given her had been literal, for certainly she was a vision conjured up by his tortured mind. The red dress suited her ivory skin and raven hair perfectly: she looked as one who had stepped from a golden garden of the gods, some immortal who was visiting earth for amusement or pleasure.

But then, Christine had looked to him like a goddess as well at one point. And it mattered not how they looked, because no one would ever be able to see past how he did. He hardened his heart and mind, refusing to play the fool again, determined merely to enjoy her for her voice and the teaching opportunity tonight would afford him. She need be nothing else to him – could not be. Would not be, anyway, for she was afraid of him and had not even seen past his mask yet.

She was silent beside him, gliding like a crimson specter, her wide eyes glancing over the tunnel arching before them. Her breath came a bit quickly, a testament to her anxiety. "Do not worry," he heard himself saying, inwardly scolding himself for surrendering to the need to reassure her. "I am here – nothing occurs in my domain without my consent."

She nodded wordlessly, her eyes seeking for his. He allowed her to catch his gaze, momentarily softening his expression. She seemed comforted by whatever she found there and turned away. He cleared his throat gruffly.

The path fell away before them, becoming an open expanse of stone. Water lapped insistently at its bank, and on the surface of the water a boat floated. Silvia halted when the Phantom bid her to, studying the great domed area before her. She had heard of the lake beneath the Opera, but had not dreamed of anything like this. Though dark, she could make out the hulking shape of what she thought was a house across the black water. Was this his home? Where he had lived, alone, for so long? How had he come to this place?

Sympathy stole into her heart to see the house he had made for himself in the depths of the earth. "Do you ever see the sun?" She asked in spite of herself.

He stilled, although with his back to her she could not judge his reaction. "Men do not suffer me aboveground, little one. It is rare that I go out." He spoke somewhat lightly, as if the opinion of society meant little to him. And maybe it truly did. But Silvia frowned, her opinions of the man at war with eachother. He was a killer of men, but he had not always been. What was it about the Phantom that made him shun society, and made society shun him in return? Was the face behind the mask as horrible as she had heard in whispers? "Monster!" the scene-shifters and choristers and ballerinas assured eachother, but none of them had ever truly seen.

"Take my hand, child, and step onto the boat. You will not fall," he promised her, extending his hand. She grasped his arm and lifted her feet one after the other over the rim of the boat, holding her skirts away from the water that splashed along the bank.

He pushed off from the dock with graceful ease, poling the vessel across the lake. Although he was silent, it was not the usual cold, unapproachable silence. Brave in the armor of her red dress, Silvia tried to initiate a conversation. "How long have you lived here beneath the Opera?"

The Phantom glanced over his shoulder at her, his expression one of faint amusement. He would humor her whim to talk it seemed, at least for a little while. "Many long years. It is a place of hiding. It is also home."

"Hiding from society?"

"Now, yes. In the beginning I was trying to avoid the eyes of the government of Persia, though. Nadir knew of my existence, but for his son's sake would never tell. Even so, the price on my head would have been enough to convince even my dear mother to report my whereabouts."

Silvia's mind was awhirl, but even amidst the thoughts she detected the note of bitterness when he spoke of his mother. "The government of Persia?" She asked, thoroughly confused.

"The sultana had been…fond of me, I suppose you could say. She leaned on me for a great deal of advice, so much so that eventually I knew too much. And while she liked to think of me as one of her pets, she knew as well as I did that I would – and could – leave when I pleased. Rather than risk my running to a rival government with state secrets, she ordered my death."

Her indrawn breath was loud in the echoing cavern. "She would not seek you so far as here, would she?"

"It does not please the sultana to lose. She would, and did. And even though it was long ago, I would not be entirely surprised to find one of her agents at my throat tomorrow."

He did not sound bitter, only annoyed as if the sultana and her ilk were naught but mosquitoes buzzing in his way. Silvia did not doubt for a moment that he could overcome whatever the lady sent after him. He was not a mere murderer of defenseless men – he was a warrior, clever and sly and cruel.

Gravel crunched as the boat slid onto the bank of the opposite shore. Sharp rocks thrust upwards through the water, standing like sentinels around the home of the Phantom. Silvia waited until he had stepped from the boat before allowing him to assist her. Her skirts were heavy and full and difficult to manage, and in her slippers it was difficult to gain a solid foothold on the rocky ground. She clutched his arm tightly as she stepped carefully from the boat to the shore, gasping an "Oh!" of surprise when her foot slid backwards and propelled her into him.

She found herself against his chest, locked in arms that steadied her as she righted herself. "Oh," she breathed, embarassed. "I am truly sorry." Glancing upwards, she found his face very close to hers, the porcelain mask dim beside the glittering eyes beneath.

"Have a care – it is difficult ground here." He did not release her, but he loosened his hold so that she could move again. Maneuvering her so that she was by his side, he glanced at her. "May I?" he asked, and when she only nodded dumbly he slid his arm about her waist. It remained there, burning through the fabric of her bodice, for the entire walk to the house.

An insidious thought flittered into her head, a temptation to stumble again and feel his arms around her, surprising every notion she had of herself. She jerked her chin downwards, staring at the ground to prevent her flaming cheeks from showing. He had been warm, solid, protective, and every nerve in her body was now afire.

His hands fell away from her when they reached the entrance to his home and he eased the heavy door open and ushered her inside. With a snick he shut out the rest of the world and drew her deeper into his abode. She took in her surroundings with amazement, awed by the beauty of the furnishings even while she wondered how long it had taken him to aquire everything. The thick carpets, the carved mahogany furniture, the marble statues of graces and muses. Paintings in gilt frames hung on the walls and trinkets of every shape and size added color to the mantles and shelves.

He led her through the rooms, allowing her time to admire and answering her questions. Only one door was closed, and she did not ask about it nor did he volunteer any information. She reasoned that it was his bedroom, and she cared to see it as much as he cared to show it.

"The organ room, where you will sing for me," he announced gravely, bowing her into the final room of the house. The walls swept upwards into a domed ceiling, and an immense organ dominated the room. The pipes were gold and glinted softly in the light; the keys were ivory, the rest of the instrument black. A crimson chair sat before it, and a matching couch faced it as if he entertained audiences often.

The Phantom seated her courteously before taking the chair before the grand organ. To see him sitting there about to play for her, Silvia no longer felt so much as if she had to obey him out of fear. She was intrigued. Her mind was not in another place – it was in this room with him, waiting to be entertained as if she were any guest in the home of a gracious host. It suddenly did not seem so hard a task to unbend a little, to stifle her fear and become familiar with him.

But his anger, his callousness, she reminded herself sternly. Would she be putting herself in harm's way if she sought to further their acquaintance? Could he respond as a friend to a friend?

Certainly she would be putting herself in harm's way if she broke things off entirely.

That, at least, she knew for certain. So where, then, to proceed from here?

He set his fingers to the keys and began to play, and she forgot to think. The music he drew from the instrument was beautiful, soul-cleansing. Tears crept to the corners of her eyes and down her cheeks and her breath caught in her throat when finally he finished.

She leaned forward, her hands clasped at her breast, bound to him by the music. He turned to see her reaction and was caught off-guard by what he found there: passion. Her wet cheeks were more of a compliment than any flowery words could be. When she lifted her hand to him he caught it immediately, enclosing it in his gently. "Oh, Christine."

Silvia started, the entrancement that had ensnared her gone. Quickly she withdrew her hand from his, her mind a strange whirl of emotions: discomfiture, jealousy, and confusion at her jealousy. "My name is Silvia," she murmured quietly, striving to keep all traces of envy out of her voice.

"I know," he said, nodding. "I know. I apologize." He did not say anything more, and she let the silence stretch. His apology, while genuine enough, had not been very reassuring and Silvia was startled to find herself hurt.

Erik watched her from lidded eyes, unsure how to apologize for so grievous a mistake. It was such a slight thing, a name, but it was part of what made a person themselves – in some cultures it was as important as the soul. He feared he had insulted her, and feared that he was upsetting her more by not explaining further, but he had no idea what to say. Besides, he was taken aback by the injury in her eyes: what did it mean? Was it a matter of pride, or a matter of caring? The difference meant all the world to him, but it was the last thing he could ask.

Clearing his throat, he opted for the tactic that he had often employed when in awkward situations: he nudged the subject in a different direction. "It is your turn, now. Will you sing for me the Jewel Song?"

He could see that she did not want to let the matter rest, but she did not argue. Would I have explained everything, had she asked? He wondered. He placed his fingers on the ivory keys. No, he finally decided. Trusting human beings is too hurtful. She will run from you soon, as they all do. Just enjoy her voice.A heart of ice was ever preferable to a shattered one.

Her skirts rustled as she stood and moved closer to the organ. "I am ready."

He pressed the keys, playing the song from Faust so that she could accompany him. Her voice soared in the domed room, handling the notes and emotions skillfully.

Silvia sang as she never had before, even better than when she had performed on the huge auditorium stage. It was not the room nor the acoustics, but the Phantom's beautiful playing on the organ. His deft fingers struck the notes so they fitted with what she sang perfectly, melded what was merely a song into something more glorious. When the last note died away Silvia sighed wistfully.

"That was beautiful. You sing beautifully," he complimented her, turning. "Silvia."

She offered a smile in return. "You play beautifully. Would that you could be my accompaniment at the true performance. I do not sing half so well on my own."

"That is not true. I only coaxed out skill that was already there. Sing it again, without my playing, and I will teach you." He stood, coming to stand before her, his arms folded in the approximation of a stern teacher.

She cleared her throat nervously but did as he bid, allowing him to stop her where he would and give advice. By the end of the lesson she felt as if she had made more progress than in all the years with the music tutors her parents had hired for her. The Opera Ghost had a brilliant mind for music, and for teaching. With simple instructions he had taught her how to improve the voice she already had, coaxed from her music more beautiful than she knew she was capable of.

He felt immeasurably proud when he finally halted the lesson. She was malleable under his touch; she listened to what he said and allowed herself to be taught. With Christine there had always been a touch of fear involved. With Silvia he was not finding it so. She was able to put aside her concerns and learn.

But she was dangerous. He could see Christine in his mind's eye, remembered well the pain. He had been content before he knew the young Swedish singer, and he had been numb afterwards. He had been rejected his entire life, but Christine's rejection had been the soul-deep kind. There was no doubt that he could not survive another experience of that sort. If he let this continue with Silvia, could he keep it off that path?

The risk is too high, he thought.

"I am grateful that you came to sing for me," he said aloud, taking her hand again. "I will escort you back to your rooms now."

"So soon?" Silvia asked, biting her lip the moment the words left her mouth.

He chuckled, although it was a herculean effort to keep his true reaction of shocked hope out of his voice. "So soon? It is late – time you were in bed and resting your voice."

Silvia allowed him to lead her from his great house and hand her carefully into the boat. They were as silent on the return as they had been on the trip to his home. When they reached the entrance to her room he turned her towards him, smiling down on her.

"Sleep well, little one." He lifted his hands to frame her face and his lips descended – her mind fluttered and she closed her eyes, her heart pounding. He will kiss me! She thought breathlessly.

He pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead and released her. With a nod of his head in farewell, he disappeared back towards his home, leaving Silvia standing speechless on the threshold of her room.

In the morning, another note:

Thank you for your song, Silvia. Your voice is a beautiful thing; use it well. I will come to watch you sing your debut, but will see you no more afterward. Enclosed is a token of gratitude and farewell.

Yours,

Erik

Silvia unwrapped the paper that had accompanied the letter, catching the shining thing that fell from the wrapper in the palm of her hand. It was a necklace, simple and elegant. Suspended from a delicate chain of gold was a garnet cabochon the size of an egg. Its color matched the red dress nearly perfectly.

It was beautiful. A token of gratitude he had said.

And of farewell.