Just as the boat slipped out of sight, he thought he saw Christine turn one last time to see him crumple to the floor. He sat staring at his hands, the mob sounding louder than it had moments before. Let them come, they would end it all and he would be without the pain. Without the solitude.

He could still taste her. His lips were swollen with what had saved her. How could he go through with it all after this gift she had given him? Never before had anyone showed him affection. His mother never held him, made him where the mask. Giry had helped him escape the circus, but had never gone to see him after that, only related his messages to the opera managers.

The sounds of the mob died off. They weren't going to be coming. He would live alone once more. Slowly turning, still kneeling on the floor, he saw it. A sash from Christine's Don Juan costume. He picked it up reverently and smelled it. Carefully, gently, he folded it and stood. A box on his desk became its new home, closed tightly to keep the scent of her on it as long as possible. He slowly then went to his bed and collapsed. If anyone came, he would be there to die. If no one did, he would wake to find if anyone planned on fixing the chandelier.

One Year Later

The strings burned beneath her fingers, but she didn't stop. Sawing away with the bow, notes flew out of the soundbox and into the bare theatre. She stood alone on the stage, the orchestra in the pit in front. The music was fast, her flying with some cellos playing rhythmic chords below. She finished her cadence and the orchestra began to play in full. Opening her eyes. She saw how large and grand the hall really was. She breathed in quickly and looked down at the conductor. This wasn't right. Something wasn't right.

"Maestro, I'm sorry, excuse me." He looked up and cut off the rest of the players. "Why am I on the stage alone? Every other concert I've ever done, especially a concerto concert, had the orchestra on stage with me in front. This is an odd set up. Its also difficult for me to follow the cellos in that section."

"Mademoiselle, I am sorry, but the managers demanded the set-up."

"Yes, we did!" Two men in suits came rushing in from the stage wings where, she now saw, several dozen were clustered.

"Sirs, I'm sorry, but this set-up is all wrong! Can't we do a traditional set with me next to the maestro?"

"Well," blustered the larger man, "We feel that this set is better for our target audience, as they are typically used to Opera, with a lone figure to focus on."

"Yes," cut in the other man, "We feel that putting everyone on the stage would be crowded and would look chaotic."

"Fine," the woman sighed, "but I need a break, my fingers are blistering and that wouldn't be good for tomorrow." Everyone agreed and she walked offstage. These people were obviously used to dealing with an overly demanding diva, as in any other rehearsal she would have been reminded of her contract to attend all rehearsals in their entirety. At 24, Cassandra had been touring Europe for 3 years. She knew the way the stage should be set and these men questioning her made her question whether they really knew who she was.

In her dressing room, she wrapped her fingers in medical tape and began gingerly wiping at her violin with a cloth. It was beautifully crafted, made by the Cremonese master Girolamo Amati. She had played a Stradivari once and marveled that she favored the Amati, especially with the publicity the Strads would get. All the same, she loved her Amati and cared for it scrupulously.

Placing the violin delicately in its silk lined case, she turned to look in the mirror. Her hair was falling out of its tight bun, but that was to be expected after the train, car, and the immediate rehearsal. Thankfully, the plan was to stay in Paris for several weeks, maybe even a few months, before moving on. The Paris Opera House was the first and, currently, only booked show for the time being.

It seemed odd that an Opera House would want to host a violin concert, but, from what she could gather, they were taking a break from Opera after a string of nasty incidents. The house's chandelier had fallen the year before and it had taken time to repair the structure and restore it properly. Then came the rumors of what had caused the disaster, some sort of ghost. There were those that swore he was a man that lived beneath the theatre. Cassandra, upon hearing these, had shook her head with a small smile. These stories were often invented in the arts to start scandal or develop intrigue, thus boosting ticket sales. However, the managers she had so far encountered seemed incapable of such a plot, and there was the chandelier.

There was also talk that the managers were looking to sell the theatre. They had even suggested Cassandra buy it. She did own a small opera house in the outskirts of London, but it had managers she had hired and the most she got from it was the opportunity to perform whenever she wanted and enough money to keep her in nice shoes. The Paris Opera House was another matter altogether. She had the funds to buy it, yes, but the upkeep, managers, and with these rumors…

She decided she had kept the rehearsal stalled long enough and went to join the rest of the musicians. Before she left, she turned to pick up her violin and caught a glance in the mirror. She could have sworn she had seen a masked face in the reflection.

Cassandra avoided her dressing room for the next few weeks of performances and rehearsals, which was no easy task. She had a room in the dorms of the Opera House, down the same hall where the ballerinas slept. She kept all of her things there, but at every rehearsal and practice had to go through the bowels of the theatre to get any privacy. Finally, after one particularly difficult performance, she allowed herself back into her dressing room.

It was just as she had left it, everything in its place. She was scared to look in the mirror and instead avoided it. She sat in the chair of her vanity and began taking off her makeup. It was several shades darker than her actual skin color and taking it off made her cringe. Her skin was almost translucent and made her feel sick to look.

Her mother had been Greek, her father British. Her skin should have had the dark timbre of her mother, but it was instead the color of fine paper. She began taking down her hair next. It was long, running down past her hips. Her mother had never allowed her to cut her hair, and one could tell by looking at its length.

After she had properly stored her violin, she ventured to turn to the mirror. Its reflection was as it should have been, except she still felt anxious, her heart pumping as though she had been running. She stared a moment more before turning.

"The second movement is still too slow." For a moment, she stood there, praing she had been imagining the voice. "And your tone in the Vivace could use some work." Her heart beat madly and she thought she might cry. Turning back to the mirror, she could see him. Inside the mirror. With his mask.

She walked towards the mirror, staring at him, and reached out to touch the plate of glass. It moved. He watched efforts as she first pushed it forwards, then tried to slide it before finally figuring it out. He stood there in the passage behind her mirror. She immediately felt calmer, at least confident he was a real living being rather than some peculiar spirit that liked to give musical critique. He seemed pleased she had figured the mirror out on her own.

"So you're the phantom, I presume?" she asked in her cocky way that came on when she was nervous.

"I am," was all he replied. His voice was low and almost seemed to rumble.

"Do you play," she asked curiously, indicating her violin case.

"On occasion," he replied.

"Would you like to play a duet?" She really didn't know what she was doing. She was in a state where she was frightened, yes, but very VERY intrigued by this man that had come out of her mirror.

"No," he replied, turning to leave.

"Will you come back?" Cassandra asked in a friendly voice.

"Perhaps."

"I will see you soon, then." He stalked away after that and Cassandra replaced the glass.

Over the next week she saw him almost every night. He was very short in all of his words and seemed to prefer talking through the mirror to face to face encounters. Every night she asked him if he would like to play duets, every night he would say no.

After being at the Opera house for almost 2 weeks, it was decided that they would continue featuring Cassandra, only she would play afternoon matinees before the Opera. They were going to be putting on La Traviata. Cassandra also offered to perform in the chorus, but had instead been asked to play in the pit. She declined this and instead took to lurking in the wings and rigging during the show.

It was two days into this show when Cassandra came upon the Phantom backstage.

"Would you still like to play duets?" he asked softly. She nodded dumbly and he followed as she went to retrieve her violin in her dressing room. They went through the mirror and followed the corridor. He walked a few steps ahead of her and glanced back every few feet to see if she was still there.

They then got into a boat, and ended up in a kind of den in the water. She looked around curiously as he followed her. There were spaces where it seemed as though something had once sat there and now was gone, and wall space that was abruptly bare. Papers lay in wadded balls in a pile next to a bookshelf, looking like failed attempts to draw.

The Phantom had a produced a violin sometime and brought it up to tune it.

"I forgot my music," Cassandra admitted. Without a word, the Phantom turned to produce a music stand with handwritten music on it. He brought up his violin and waited for her to do the same.

"Top or bottom?" she asked, referring to the music.

"Guests always on top," he replied with a slight twinge of a smirk. Cassandra struggled to conceal her blush and laughter at the same time when she began playing. The music started off soft and simple, then abruptly became violent and dark. Her melody soared above the rhythmic sawing of his part. She realized this was her concerto that she had played the first week, only different. Better. The melody was similar, but more technically complicated and the chords were all deeper. It was written to be bigger and deeper than the original piece, though there were only two playing rather than the entire orchestra and soloist. When she was done, her brows were knitted together as she tried to analyze the piece in her head. He was watching her, almost like a student watching a teacher grade his paper. She looked up at him, then back at the music.

"Did you write this?" she asked in awe.

"Yes," he replied simply.

"Its amazing," was all she could muster. She looked into his eyes, one almost hidden by the mask he wore. He stared back until breaking his gaze to walk back to put away his instrument. He then sat down at his desk and began work on something. Cassandra went behind him and looked at what he was working on. It was a technical drawing of a cathedral. Its design was gothic in nature, but it had more circles and curves than one usually sees, including a dome over the sacred chapel. Cassandra turned to look at his profile, him ignoring her. He was handsome with a dark brooding look that fitted him nicely. His shirt was slightly open in the front, a simple French style shirt.

"Why do you wear the mask?" she ask softly, gently. He closed his eyes, his mouth twisting until he looked like he had a bad taste in his mouth. He turned to look at her with this look, and she was almost scared. Almost. But when he looked into her eyes, he didn't see the look of morbid curiosity he expected, but of concern. As though she knew what he must face, what the mask must feel like.

He wanted to tell her, but couldn't. He wanted her to understand, but feared she wouldn't. He suddenly wanted to be alone, but couldn't bring himself to move or break from her gaze. Her eyes started to tear, but why he couldn't understand. His mouth opened enough for him to breathe and she stared at it. Eye contact broken, he looked back down at his work in confusion and wanted to cry himself, but wouldn't, couldn't, bring himself to that humiliation. Looking back up imploringly, he saw her and carefully reached up to remove the mask.

He expected her to look repulsed, maybe scream at the sight as those had in the theatre. She didn't. The tears spilled and she looked on him with compassion. She asked permission with her eyes before reaching out to touch the gruesome scars. She grazed lightly along his hairline, then along his cheekbone.

"I'm so sorry," was all she could whisper. She lay her palm flat against his cheek and held his face like that for a moment. He reached out to touch her face in the same manner, but she jumped back quickly. Hurt, then anger flashed through his eyes. The sour look came back and he jumped up, startling her even more.

"You lie, pretend to be compassionate when you really fear to be touched by such a monster, am I correct?" he raved. Her tears poured down once more and she apologized repeatedly, "I'm so sorry," all that she could muster. He went to grab her and stopped. She had touched him first. She didn't fear him.

"Why did you flee my touch?" he asked softly. She looked up and met his gaze.

"I get burns," she replied haltingly, "on my face mostly, but anywhere." She looked as though she struggled for a way to convey what she was trying to convey. "I'm allergic to the sun," she finally conjured. Slowly, she rolled up the sleeves of her dress to show discolorations in browns, reds, and whites. "If I go outside during the day uncovered, I get burned, sometimes very badly. I tilted my head the wrong way today and my face…" she trailed off. Going to her violin case, she found the soft cloth she used to wipe down her violin. Carefully, gingerly, she wiped at her face so that the dark makeup came off. There was a vague patch where her cheek became her neck that was a bright red contrast to the rest of her pale, ghostly face.

Phantom just stared. He had never met another like him in any way, let alone with marks and boundaries like him. She had to wear a mask of protective clothing and hats to protect her from the light, whereas he had to where the mask to protect him from the people. He reached out and touched her face above the mark. "I'm so sorry," he said quietly.

"What's your name?" Cassandra asked softly.

"Erik."