Jenna settled against her mysterious savior, and willed herself to relax. 'Why should I? I'm under the Paris Opera House, with a person who by all rights should have died a long time ago. Someone who, if the stories were true had a volatile temper and the ability to kill someone with the mere flick of a wrist.' She thought to herself dejectedly.

'But he never hurt a woman…but who knows how accurate those accounts are? Guess I'll find out'

She hardly felt the jarring steps as Erik carried her to the edge of the lake and set her carefully into a gondola. She wondered how she could have missed it before. She frowned as she racked her brain trying to think if she could have possibly seen the boat before.

Erik saw her face fall, as she saw the gondola then the frown. He chuckled, a bit darkly but a chuckle nonetheless. She looked up at him, embarrassed that he was laughing at her.

"I hide my secrets well Mademoiselle"

She swallowed, nodded and looked out at the murky black water. He poled them across the lake quickly, leaping out gracefully before turning and picking her up out of the boat. They approached a stone wall; she wondered where they were going. He paused and pressed a spot along the seemingly regular stone wall.

A stone slab swung out revealing an ordinary looking oak door. She made a sound of surprise, but quickly closed her mouth and blushed. He carried her into his house; they stood in the small foyer for a moment before he started down a hallway before ducking into a door.

Inside the room, which appeared to be a library was plush and inviting looking. A huge marble and mahogany fireplace stood in the front of the room with a blazing fire lit in it. Along the walls to the sides of the fireplace were bookshelves full of books on every subject it seemed. A large leather sofa sat before the fireplace with a mahogany end stand with a snifter of brandy and an open book. Apparently he had been reading when he heard her cries.

She looked around the room in awe, how could someone keep all this in the cellars of the Opera? How was he not discovered? A thick Persian rug with yellows and greens and blues lay on the polished wood floor. It looked like a room that she would lose herself in with so many books. She looked at the bookshelves trying to read some of the titles, although she wasn't close enough to see their titles from Erik's arms.

He sat her on the sofa carefully, so he didn't jar her ankle. She continued to look around the room, after he had set her down. He disappeared from the room, though she hardly noticed. She was taking in every detail of the library, looking at the books and delighting at the selection he had. There wasn't a subject that wasn't covered in his collection. She stretched herself over the arm of the sofa and pulled a book off the shelf and began to read it.

She heard a rich chuckle come from the doorway, she looked up and smiled embarrassed. "I'm sorry, you have such a great collection here I couldn't help myself."

He set down a cup of tea on the end table "It is perfectly alright Mademoiselle, please enjoy them" he said motioning to the bookcases.

She put the book down and moved over to pick up the tea; she sipped it closing her eyes as she felt the warmth of the liquid spread through her.

"Mmm, thanks" she said after a few more sips. She looked at him for a moment then realized he had been speaking English, not French.

"How did you know I wasn't French?"

"I know all that goes on in this Opera House Mademoiselle"

She took another sip, glancing around again nervously. Erik watched her as she studied his books, and then began looking around aimlessly.

"I will arrange for you to get to a doctor first thing in the morning"

She nodded "Alright, thank you for helping me"

He made a gesture with his hands but remained silent. He studied her, and then saw her scraped hands. He rose and disappeared again, but returned after a few moments with a basket.

"Let me see your hands"

She set her cup down and held out her hands as she was told. He took them in his, though he was still wearing his gloves Jenna noticed. He looked over them before taking out a bottle and took the cork out. He took a rag and wet it, and began to clean her scrapes. Whatever he was using stung, soon Jenna's eyes were filled with tears. She refused to allow herself to cry though. He wrapped her hands with a bandages, she noticed how gentle he was while he was cleaning her cuts.

She doesn't know when he had begun to hum, but she soon found herself getting sleepy. She had so many questions she wanted to ask him, but sleep soon overtook her.

Erik watched her sleep, she was beautiful. He had noticed her the moment she had walked into the opera house. He had been prowling, as he often did when he was bored. He stopped when he saw her, he followed her all through the opera house, but once they descended to the lower levels he went home. Knowing that all he was doing was torturing himself. He sat down to a novel and brandy when he heard her cried echoing across the lake. He at first had been determined to intimidate her and be indifferent. But the moment she looked at him with her bright tear-filled sapphire orbs.

She looked so helpless and beautifully mussed from her fall. He couldn't remain cold and indifferent, not matter how much easier it made things for him. He had gone that long without human contact, so why should he set himself up for rejection now?

She was so like his Christine; he shut his eyes at the pain of the memory the thought of her name brought him. After 120 years he still couldn't steel himself from the pain her name and memory caused him.

Her light brown hair fell across the pillow in waves, ending in perfect curls that he longed to run his fingers through. Her petite frame led him to believe she had been a dancer at some point. She moved with the inherent grace that most dancers seemed to posses.

He forced himself to leave the room, he slunk off to his study and flung himself into a high-backed armchair and stared into the fire, brooding. He fought with himself to not think of Christine, all it did was hurt. He shut his eyes as the memories came, uninvited.

Pitiful creature of darkness…. what kind of life have you known?

He clenched his fists and hunched over, her cruel words from that night still rang in his head like a bell. He rose to his feet and ran his hands through his hair, in frustration. He wanted to forget that nightmarish night from so long ago. But even in death she still drove him to madness. He picked up an ink well from the desk and hurled it to the opposite wall, staring at the spatters of ink for a moment. He grasped the desk and began to breath heavily, raggedly. He shut his eyes and forced the memory out. He stalked out of the study into the adjoing room and flung himself onto the bench at the organ and lost himself in his cursed music.