Thank you to my new reviewers! You people are so darn cool!

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Deborah DeFleurette looked out of her window to witness her rival's defeat, giggling ecstatically. What a run of luck! She had thought that poison would be the only way to dispose of Adrian Cartier, but poison was messy, and not always fatal. Besides, the lady's maid never seemed to eat, so how would she slip the poison to her? Then, that morning, Mlle. Cartier had leaned out the window, making herself a perfect target to push out. Who would suspect the diva of murder? They would probably assume that the girl had committed suicide, and add one more unhallowed grave to the ground.

Suddenly, the thought of broken bones poking through twisted flesh became extremely unappealing, and Deborah turned away from the window.

Deborah hated Adrian Cartier. She hated her thin, lithe form, her glossy golden hair, her high cheekbones, but most of all, she hated the woman's eyes. One blue, the other green. It just wasn't natural! Those eyes brought back memories…horrible memories. It was as if her maid knew about Janette and the little bird, about the real reason Marie left school, about Sister Maria and the three dead rats. They made her feel guilty. Just like her Uncle.

Uncle Gaston DeFleurette was a parson. He was a shrewd man, who sent his sister's only child to a convent school. Since he was a good friend with the Mother Superior, Father DeFleurette knew all of his niece's doings. Every time little Deborah came home for the holidays, he would accost her for her actions, and then he would sit back in his chair and stare at her, his thick, white, bushy eyebrows set into a deep frown. No matter how many times she tried to look repentant, flutter her long lashes and stick out her lower lip, he kept staring at her, until the little pangs of regret that came from being caught grew to true agony, and she began to cry. At that point, her uncle would send her away and let nurse take care of her. Nurse was much kinder, and petted the "little angel", gave her sweets and toys, and told her wonderful stories. That was how she had come to singing. At night, nurse would pick out a tune on the toy piano next to the window, and Deborah would belt out the song. She learned Italian that way, as well as English and Latin. But as much as she learned, and as much as she was petted and adored, Deborah remained a spoiled little brat. She never grew up. She refused to grow up, and no one could ever make her!

When she turned twenty-two, and her tantrums had turned to devilish plots of revenge, her uncle came into her room in a boiling rage. Taking her by the hair, he had pulled her into his study.

Ink, paper, pens and books littered the floors, and the paintings on the walls were slashed and stained. But worst of all, the white marble bust of Aunt Antonia (long dead) lay smashed on the floor in a million pieces.

"You think you could get away with this, you little demon? You think you're clever? Bah! You're just like your mother, a spoiled brat who made those who crossed her suffer! She should have named you Delilah! Such a sweet face, but such a devilish mind! If you were my daughter, I would flay you within an inch of your life!"

The seething tirade went on, until Deborah was truly frightened that her uncle would do some act of violence. That morning, he had taken away her allowance when he had received word that she had spent the entire thing on dresses and makeup. Furious, she had demolished his study in a tantrum. Never had she dreamed that her misbehavior would invoke such rage. Her uncle was purple in the face, nearly foaming at the mouth.

Finally, the man of God seemed to calm himself.

"Deborah, you have gotten out of my hands. You commit misdeeds with no regard for any but yourself. You are selfish, cruel, vicious, and from what I've heard from Mother Superior, a lady of little virtue."

The miscreant blushed with annoyance. How had the interfering old hen found out about Luke?

"Since your mother's death and your father's disappearance, I have tried to treat you like my own. It seems as if I have failed. I wish to God that things could have been different, but I see that my error goes beyond an old man's folly. I have no choice but to disinherit you."

Deborah went to her knees and begged very prettily. She wept and moaned and pleaded and promised in an attempt to change his mind. Where would she go? How would she live? What would she do? But the old man was immovable, and pulled her roughly to her feet.

"I won't have this, you hear me? I have an acquaintance by the name of M. Andre. He owns the Opera Populaire. I know you can sing, so I can procure a position as diva for you. I will give you money enough to live, but you are no relative of mine, so do not hound me for more before I die. By then, I hope you will be in a position to marry, although I pity the poor fellow, whoever he will be. My property will become yours upon the date of my death. Now leave an old man in peace."

That day, she had moved from her uncle's house. The next, she had met Sir Charles in the Fleur de Belle; a small inn outside of Paris. He was tall, handsome and clever (at least to her eyes), and swept her off her feet in a way that Luke never could. Their affair had lasted longer than the days she spent in the inn, and she had thought he was the man she would marry. At least till Mlle. Cartier came along.

It had taken her a while to realize that her lover's attentions were elsewhere, but once she did, it was plain as day. No one, especially this vampire of a girl, would ever get the better of her. And now she was dead, and she would never have to worry about her again!

With a smile on her face, Mlle. DeFleurette closed the window, and set about powdering her nose, unaware that Adrian Cartier had never reached the ground.

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Erik sat in his winged armchair before the roaring fire of his room. It had been two days and Adrian hadn't even awakened. She slept as deep as if in death, with only the occasional murmur to indicate life.

Except for the day before. He had been playing his music, blind to the world around him, when suddenly, he had looked up on impulse to stare her reflection in the face. Unconsciously, he had directed all of his hopelessness, all of his melancholic agony into her vibrant, jewel-like eyes. He had seen something there, something desperate and needy.

Her mask had fallen away, leaving her defenseless. He had stripped her of the layers of ice that kept her away from all people. A child on her knees in the snow, staring into fairy lights, and knowing the cold would reach her before she met the light. His music had melted her armor into nothing, and she was naked before him, all flaws exposed.

After the first few bars of his song, Erik had lost track of himself, lost track of time. He was back to older times, when his only concern was the newest architectural puzzle and the music he played. In those days, he had needed neither sleep nor food nor drink; music was all this and multitudes more.

He had become his former self; passionate, genius and (he had to admit) slightly egotistical. He had owed nothing to anyone then, and loneliness was but a ripple in the comprehensive ocean of his conscience. He was strong, alone, and unafraid. He had caressed his instruments like a rapturous lover, let them speak to him, and he gave them voice. And then, Christine had come. The most beautiful instrument of all. Kind, gentle and tolerant. But only to those she pitied. And she had pitied him for a time. But then, pity turned to fear, and fear to hatred. But after that, she was gone, and he would never know her last emotion for her angel of music.

He would not tolerate pity. Pity was for those who could not help themselves. He was stronger than that. If anything, her pity had angered him, protected him from her piteous cries and pleading. But she had done the unthinkable. She had pulled his hideous face towards her own and kissed him. Perhaps he would never know what had been running through her mind, but it had shriveled him. He was a corpse, dried to human leather by the elements.

When his song was done, she had collapsed. The physical strain of simply walking from her room to the source of his music had sapped her strength. He had seen the light go out of her eyes like a candle extinguished, like a toy whose internal mechanisms had finally run down, cogs and gears slowing to a stop.

The magic that had coursed through him and transferred itself into his music was put away, but only for a time. It was carefully shelved and stowed away till it was time to unfurl again in bright candlelight.

Filled with concern, he had hoisted Adrian up into his arms and carried her back to bed. Her body was limp like some giant rag doll. It stood to reason; no one could wake early from a laudanum-induced sleep without collapsing quickly afterward. Her head lolled and her arms dangled like a puppet's.

Putting her down gently and tucking her in, Erik had whispered comforting things to her, and she had responded with a light groan. Once again, his voice had penetrated through the thick fog surrounding her brain, and stirred her cognitive functions into movement.

A little voice in Erik's mind whispered, Cheater, and Erik knew the voice was right. He wanted a friend and companion, not a zombie who followed his voice. She would attach herself to him because she chose to, not because she was hypnotized into it. Such a friendship would be more satisfying. Jules was practically his slave, but Nadir was independent of Erik's will, and it was Nadir who was closest to being his friend.

Did Adrian even have friends? He had noticed that though she talked and spent time with Madame Bufont and Monsieur Wagner, she was still apart. When she passed groups of young ballerinas or chorus girls, they sometimes eyed her with interest, but she did not respond. Isobel was the only person he had ever heard her converse freely with, but that seemed only because of the absolute power the faceless queen held over her. In a way, she was lonelier than him. He had known friendship, but it seemed alien to her.

When she awakes, Erik resolved, I must keep emotion from my voice. She must love me for my mind, not my voice.

For she would love him. He would be her dearest friend. It was not a conceited presumption, but a future reality. There was much they shared, and much they might share. He would make her smile. He would make her laugh. He would make her happy.

A sudden noise snared his attention. A thump.

Was she getting out of bed again?

Now soft, padding footsteps.

Adrian appeared at the door to his room. Her eyes were focused on the ground before her, and circles surrounded them. How tired she looked! She might have just crawled out of the grave.

The nightgown he had dressed her in was cut low enough that the scars on her chest peeked out like ivory vines. The long sleeves brushed her knuckles and the skirt reached down to the floor, covering her feet.

Staggering forward, Adrian steadied herself on a bookcase and looked up.

For all the weariness in her movements, her eyes still glittered with ice. Erik felt as if he looked upon an Amazon trapped in a mortal body, who felt frustrated that it would not do as she asked.

Ever the gentleman, Erik decided it was time to intervene. Standing, he approached his guest and offered her his hand. She did not seem to relish the idea of coming into physical contact, but decided that a small encroachment of her personal space would be better than if she fell down and forced him to carry her.

The trip back to the fireplace seemed long and labored, but they managed to make it to his chair, and she sank into it, letting her slight weight sink into the cushioned upholstery.

Erik took a smaller chair from the corner and set it next to, but not within close proximity of Adrian's seat.

She seemed to compose herself, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes for a moment.

"Monsieur."

Her voice was soft and heavy, like smoke.

"Please…what is wrong with me?"

Erik was pleased she had neither asked who he was or where they were. Maybe she guessed the answers, or maybe she suspected she would not get a satisfactory one from him.

"You had a…nasty fall. Your ribs are bruised, your ankle broken and you have been unconscious for the past three days or so."

She turned to stare at him, a brief flash of astonishment skidding across her eyes.

"Three days…"

Erik studied his companion curiously. She had turned away from him and stared blank-eyed into the fire. Why hadn't he noticed how stunningly beautiful her hair was? Of course he had admired its golden sheen, but here in the firelight it resembled liquid sun. Now it was out of its braid and around her shoulders, framing her entire body like an illuminating halo on a holy card. The effect was striking, and she somehow resembled a Roman goddess, golden and immortal.

Her fingertips rested lightly on her lips, a position he had seen her take whenever she was thinking. If someone watched her just in passing, they would never be able to comprehend the subtle signs of her moods. It was all in her hands. When she was tired, they hung limp at her sides and moved as if filled with lead. When angry, they trembled and flexed and sometimes clenched. When sad, she rested them in her lap or clasped them before her. This last behavior he had only seen once or twice.

The first time, she had been on her way back from work. A group of girls was passing, talking among themselves. The center of attention was one Anastasia, whose mother was the new ballet mistress. A capable woman, but not as good as Madame Giry, who had left the year before. The sparkling blonde was chattering about a boy.

"Oh, he's so handsome when he laughs, and he says that I'm funny, so he laughs all the time when we're together."

"What about when you're kissing?" Giggles.

"Oh, we do too much kissing to think about laughing or not!"

The others exploded in laughs of their own and continued down the hall.

And Adrian had stood there, looking after them, her face unreadable, but her hands spoke volumes.

Erik's reverie was broken by Adrian's voice.

"When will I be well?"

"I suppose within the next few days. When I see that you are well enough to walk about more freely, I shall return you to your room."

So far, he had kept his voice quite ordinary, barring the usual entrancing quality from it. Was it his imagination, or did she seem slightly disappointed?

"I suppose you are hungry?"

With that, she turned her head sharply, her eyes unexpectedly ravenous, and nodded. It was the first thing she had done that showed any energy.

"Wait here. Breakfast shall be ready shortly."

He turned his back on her and strode towards his kitchen. Unless he was mistaken, she needed the food desperately. Her ribs poked out from her skin and she had aquired an unhealthy pallor.

Erik returned to her with a tray laden with delicious food. There was bacon, sausage, fruit-filled crepes, an orange, a glass of water and a steaming mug of hot chocolate.

Adrian's eyes betrayed nothing, but her hands gripped the chair as if it was about to propel her into the roof.

Erik set the tray on a small table and pulled it closer to her.

The second it reached her, she grabbed a fork and proceeded to eat at the speed of light. Sausage and bacon were gone within seconds, and the crepe was almost half finished when he said gently, " Calm down, child. I'm not about to take it from you."

In her own way, she seemed slightly abashed, and slowed to a civilized pace.

Why was she starving? She was certainly thin enough not to need it. Was her job getting in the way of her meals? Erik gave a mental frown, but kept his face impassive. Maybe after she knew him better, he would get her to eat more.

Finally, the meal was done.

"Monsieur, would you be so kind as to show me to my room?"

If she was ashamed to ask a complete stranger for help, she was too tired to care. Wordlessly, Erik offered a hand and she stood with its help.

When they had reached the door, she let go and barely whispered, "Thank you Monsieur, for your kindness." And then her eyes met his.

Erik had the odd sensation that she was filing through his thoughts, analyzing each one and then carefully putting it back. Her eyes were searching and puzzled. Briefly, they lingered upon his mask, but soon came back to his eyes. Then, so quickly he could have imagined it, fear shot across her eyes. Her brow furrowed momentarily, then straightened.

Abruptly, she turned and entered her room, closing the door with fierce finality.

Erik stood there astonished. Afraid? She was afraid? But of what? Did she suddenly recognize him as the phantom of the opera? Or was it something else?

Walking back to his chair, Erik sank into it with a deep sigh. If she was afraid of him, their relationship was over before it began. He knew very well that his personal aura was one of fear, and he had used that to his advantage in earlier years. But Adrian Cartier had never struck him as one easily frightened. But she was afraid…

No! Don't think like that. Christine was afraid of you at first too, and you became close before the end.

Erik glared into the fire. It was a temporary setback. That was all. Just an extra mile he would have to go to gain her trust.

Things would be better when she woke up. He would speak to her, take care of her, maybe even read to her to relieve the boredom of being bedridden.

This was one fight he would not lose.