Gently, very gently, Erik pushed back the covers and lifted Adrian slowly into his arms, stopping completely when she groaned in her sleep. But she didn't awaken, and her carried her out of his house.

The boat rocked gently as Erik placed her inside. Looking at her, it was hard to believe she was this delicate. Even sleep did little to soften her features. He could probably snap her arm in half without too much effort-not that I would dare try while she was conscious-, but no one could ever guess that just by looking.

The boat pushed off with a single jab of the staff. After that, the only sound was water sloshing against the sides, the only thing to see the small sphere of light created by the lantern.

Oblivious to the world, Adrian slumbered in the front of the boat, the lantern hollowing her face with shadows.

It was impossible to tell exactly how large the cavern was with such a small light. He was only able to find his way across through years of practice. It wasn't at all threatening to him now, even though the darkness covered every surface untouched by light. Another man might feel as if some giant beast was looming in the darkness of the lake, ready to grab him at a moment's notice. A year ago, that would have been partially true, but the siren was Erik's own trick, and so, the shadows were no threat to him. Darkness was home.

Adrian stirred, turning in her sleep as if making a feeble attempt to fight the depressant he had laced her food with earlier.

He thought back to when he had drugged her. What did she suspect? The look on her face…but how could she know? She took the food anyway. Would she have done that if she thought I was trying to drug her? Taking food from a stranger while not in a state of starvation requires a measure of trust…or stupidity. Did I betray her trust?

The feeling was still nagging him as the boat touched the opposite shore. He had to admit, if he had had a choice, he would have abandoned such a measure. But, as it was, knocking her out was the best course of action.

Picking her up easily, he began the long climb back to the world above.

Over the years, the stairs had become less and less of a problem. Climbing them was easier after doing it over a thousand times. He had never attempted going up with extra human luggage though…

After almost a half an hour, his muscles were beginning to burn from the strain. As light as she was, any burden was hard to carry for that long in those conditions. And still he climbed, up an up and up into the inner workings of the Opera House, carefully counting the floors he passed.

Of course her room is almost the top floor. This would be far too easy if it wasn't. He looked down at her, supremely envious that she had someone to carry her and he didn't.

That last day had been a very strange one. He had been stuck between wanting to spend every one of those last hours with her, and distancing himself in fear that she would discover even a fraction of what was on his mind. He had decided not to play any music, unsure of what it would reveal to her (and himself). When the day had begun, he had promised himself that letting her go, while not easy, would not be too hard. He was unsure enough of his own credibility to stay holed up in his library until mealtimes, reading his dullest textbooks in order to bridle his thoughts.

Every time he came into the room with a meal, she watched him like a wolf watches a hunter, wary and suspicious, waiting for the sound of gunshot. He would have given all the money he possessed to know her thoughts. Not that she wouldn't give them up without a fight.

His footsteps echoed through the empty stone halls so loudly, he feared she would awaken. Why was it that every sound became many times exaggerated while one was trying not to make too much noise? She did stir in her sleep a few times, but other than that, the drug worked perfectly.

Finally, he reached her room. Sliding the mirror aside, he put her in bed. He then sat down, regaining his what little strength he had lost.

So far, so good. Pulling out the gloves, he slid them easily onto her hands, and tied a small note to her finger. Perfection. And they fit flawlessly on her hand, as he had known they would.

Stepping behind the mirror, he wrapped his cloak about him and settled down to wait. While he had never been a patient man, there were some things that required the rather annoying virtue, and he had the capacity to sit there till she awoke. The drug would wear off an hour or so before dawn. It was twelve at night. He had quite a while to wait.

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She was trapped in yards of grey, gauzy fabric with no way out, no matter how she tried to turn. For hours, the dream persisted in the same monotonous fashion, with no variation at all. As time went by, she seemed to be winning the battle against the grey, but very, very slowly. After many hours of painfully slow, weak struggles, she felt the haze lift little by little, until it became…

Her room. Her real room, not a borrowed one in a stranger's house.

Sitting up groggily, she tried to remember how she had gotten there. Had she run away? No, she would remember if she had. He must have brought her here, exactly as he had promised.

Food. He had given her something to eat, and then…

Damn it, he drugged me!

Biting her lip to control her anger, she took deep breaths, trying to calm the pulsing heat in her veins. He had drugged her, and she had begun to feel as if she might possibly trust him if she had more time to know him.

Once more, she had managed to be wrong.

That was when she noticed the gloves.

She raised her hands slowly in front of her face, the pearly red of a cloudy sunrise streaming into the window. Black kid of exquisite quality lined with cream-colored silk. They fit her perfectly, snug to ward off cold, but loose enough to allow movement. A note was tied to her thumb.

Mlle. Cartier,

It's cold outside. I hope these will do for protection.

Erik

Tearing the paper off of its slender thread, she inspected every bit of it, searching for something else, anything else. So, he does have a name. A first name, anyway. It was a bit strange to see her own made up surname followed by such an informal address. The message itself was exactly as she would have expected: short, unfeeling and to the point. So, he knew about the gloves she had needed. The pair he had given her was very well made indeed. Every stitch was even and tight, the silk lining unpuckered, the kid smooth and almost skin-like to the touch. Alright, he was a skillful craftsman. Or, more likely, he knew a great deal about quality goods.

Peeling them off, she looked at the gloves, her brows furrowed in thought. Should I take these? They must certainly have cost a great deal. But how would I give them back? And why did he give me these anyway?

He gave me these…

Suddenly, all cynical thoughts vanished. He had not given them to her for his personal gain, not to curry favor or lead her into a trap. It was simply a gift, because he knew how much she needed something to protect her hands. As for drugging her…while she could not condone it, she had to admit that he must have had his reasons. Secrecy was the most probable one. Besides, he was a gentleman in every way, and not just because he dressed like one and carried a title like Sir Charles. He acted like one, always addressing her in that courteous voice. Her mind drifted back to the day he had taken her hand to keep from falling. Yes, he-Erik, now-was a real gentleman.

What's happened to you? A week out of the sun and you get soft in the head. Sliding the gloves onto her hands again (the room was rather cold after her absence) she flexed her long fingers. A gift... it had been a long time since she'd had one of those. A long, long time, far away from the Opera Populaire and Erik.

Rubbing the kid against her skin, she mulled over every aspect of her week in Erik's home. She had been warm, fed and well treated, with books to read and music to listen to. Isobel would skin me alive if she knew.

But Isobel didn't know. And that was the pivotal point of her decision.

Tugging on the gloves smartly, she placed them on her bedside table, ready for the next day, and climbed back into bed. She had work in the morning, and she was not one to show up late for lack of sleep.

Unbeknownst to her, Erik stood up stiffly and strode towards his home.

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Waking from her deep, deep, deep sleep, Deborah DeFleurette stretched and yawned. She hated getting up early, but how else was one to prepare for one's day?

Mlle. Cartier helped her into the chiffon thing Deborah called a dressing gown, pulled out her easy chair and poured her a glass of water. Drinking this, she stood up and pointed lazily to her corset.

As the laces tightened, she felt as if something was amiss, though she couldn't put her finger on it. They tightened still more, and the feeling that all was not right increased. At the final tug, it came rushing back to her, and she fled to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

Adrian Cartier is dead! I killed her myself!

Pacing about in a state of deep distress, she ran over all possibilities.

Maybe she caught on to something and survived. YES! That has to be it. I never saw her hit the ground. Either that or I only imagined that I pushed her out of the window. But what is she doing here now?

Taking a long drink of water, she focused her thoughts.

Adrian Cartier is not dead. She knows I tried to kill her (unless I only imagined that) but she's come back anyway. Perhaps she can't get another job. Or maybe the fall addled her brains. Not that they weren't already rattled. She's always been a queer one.

Her mind continued in this way for at least five minutes until she decided to ask Adrian Cartier about it.

Opening the door, she immediately faced her maid, who was standing close to the door.

"Yes, Mademoiselle?"

Pushing her thick hair behind an ear, Deborah quickly gathered herself.

"Mlle. Cartier, where have you been?"

The woman looked almost confused, and then her face became a stone slab once more.

"I was sick, Mademoiselle. I'm sorry I was unable to notify you."

Deborah nodded sagely. So that was what she was saying.

Perhaps she was gone and I did imagine I killed her. It was rather early, so maybe I dreamed it…

There was nothing for it. She would have to kill her again. But not before finding another maid. The last week had been rough without someone to lace her corset, mend her clothes, fix her hair, polish her shoe buckles, brush her cat, straighten her rooms, organize her cosmetics, carry her shopping bags, go on errands and a thousand other little things.

She would have to find a slow working poison that could not be traced and would be mistaken for some illness. And if that didn't work…well, she'd just have to get a little creative.

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My dear readers,

I am going away for the summer, to a place with no computer. I'm very sorry, but please do not expect another update till the end of the summer. Thanks for being understanding (unless you aren't, because in that case, I don't thank you and YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!)

Sincerely,

T.H.