Disclaimer: Don't own PotO… just Adrien and Isabella…

Chapter VII – The Phantom of the Opera

Erik strode forward and Isabella backed away. She flinched at his cool touch (even through his leather gloves), but he gently caressed the material, removing it from her arms. His eyes blazed with unshed tears, but he hid them as he replaced the dress on its rack.

"I'm sorry, mon chère," he said, turning to face her. "But this rack is completely off-limits." He swept off down the rows and returned a moment later with a slightly faded emerald gown. "You may, however, use this during the extent of your stay."

Isabella took it from him. She had never seen anything so beautiful in her life. She fingered the pearls around the neckline, the rich embroidery of the sleeves, and the dark, velvety texture. Glancing up to say thank you, she realized she hadn't heard him leave. She looked at Adrien, slightly annoyed.

"Why does he always leave right before I can say anything?" she asked. "That's his way," Adrien explained simply. "In a part of his mind, he still enjoys the fact that his cape allows him to sweep in and out of places undetected, like…"

He cut himself off. He had nearly told her Erik's secret, and if Erik knew that she knew what he was, Adrien would have been dead before he hit the floor. But now, Isabella was watching him eagerly.

"Like what?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. "Never mind," he said brusquely. "Erik would kill me if he found out I'd told you…" He wandered down the racks, muttering to himself, "Très stupide, très, très stupide…"

Isabella followed him. "So… does that mean he's… I mean, is he really the…"

Adrien spun around. "I'm not saying anything. Go ask Erik what you think he is."

She was surprised at his brusque manner. "Alright… Alright, fine. I will."

She turned to leave and stopped dead. He glanced up, and she gave him an apologetic look. "But first, help me find the way back."

Isabella and Adrien finally returned from their clothing excursion and Isabella stood rooted to the spot, trying to get her bearings of the place. Adrien had brought her back a different way, so they didn't end up where they'd started from. Strains of piano chords reached their ears as they wandered through the rooms, and Isabella took off in search of Erik.

She found him ((where else?)) at the piano, playing a bit of Mozart with furious intensity. She listened for a moment, then moved around in front to get his attention. He stopped playing abruptly. "I didn't hear you return," he said, surprised. "Well, it's no wonder," she eyed the piano. "You were playing a little too loud to be hearing anything over it."

He raised an eyebrow. "Surely you didn't interrupt me to simply say that I play too loudly?"

"No," she admitted. "Erik, I really don't know how to ask this, but…" She took a deep breath and prayed that he wouldn't explode.

"Vous étés le Fantôme ?" she asked in timid French. Erik's eyes widened, and his mouth opened slightly. He didn't answer right away.

"Oui," he said finally. "How did you know?" Isabella edged closer to him. "I heard the stories when I reached France's border, and then you retold almost the exact same ones. The Phantom wore a mask, and on the night of the… disaster, he vanished. Since I'd heard them before, I thought you were just another storyteller, one who really admired Christine."

Erik stared moodily at the sheet music in front of him. Without a glance at Isabella, he swept the pages to the floor and sat with his hands over his face. Isabella backed toward the door, fully intending to leave Erik to his thoughts when he sat up straighter and she saw his fingers on the keys.

She froze in the doorway as he began playing the four measures of an introduction. His rich, seasoned tenor filled the room, and she floated into a world of complete, careless bliss. The melody was that of a hypnotic, haunting lullaby:

Nighttime sharpens,

Heightens each sensation

Darkness stirs

And wakes imagination

Silently the senses

Abandon their defenses

His hands moved as gracefully across the keys as a dancer on the stage.

Slowly, gently,

Night unfurls its splendor

Grasp it, sense it,

Tremulous and tender

Turn your face away

From the garish light of day

Turn your thoughts away

From cold, unfeeling light

And listen to the music of the night

Isabella was contemplating singing a few harmony notes when one hand covered her mouth and another gently tugged at her own.

French: Tres stupide very/really stupid (like you couldn't have guessed)

Vous etes le Fantome? Are you the Phantom? (Duh)

These are pretty basic in terms of translations for me, but then again I'm in French III this year. Enjoy and review!