Erik

It was mercy. I am capable of mercy.

The smoke that spins from the tip of the orange flame now twirls between my fingers, and breaks apart in the cool air above it.

Then, it wasn't only mercy. Perhaps I am not capable of a completely selfless act. Gustave's death served more than one purpose that night.

It began as selfish. I was impatient. Madame had been gone for far too long. She is very careful to burn her letters after she has read them, but surely she knows I always find them before they ever cross her hands. It is simple, really; I effortlessly remove the seal without breaking it, and when I am through, I re-seal it with two drops of hot wax of the same colour. It is impossible to tell that the envelope's secret has been revealed to prying eyes, but Madame knows that things are not always as they seem.

This letter came two weeks prior. I remember the last time she received a letter of this particular seal—it was seven years before, and it brought news of the death of an old ballet friend, who had left a widower and a little girl. Christine. The name was of no consequence to me then, as Madame Giry made no allusions to her. But this most recent letter heralded the widower's nearing death, and the need for guardianship, as Daae did not want little Christine to suffer an orphanage.

My dear, typical Madame. You always want to be the heroine.

There was Henri, and then there was me. Both charges have failed her; Henri is dead, and I am untouchable. Madeleine loves her Meg, but Meg is different. Meg needed no rescuing, as I did, as Henri did, and as Christine now does.

Little does my beloved know that Christine is not hers to rescue at all.

They were selfish motives that spurred me first. Madame had been gone for far too long—nearly a week and a half, and I was restless. I had memorised the content of her letter and knew her whereabouts, and as a rare occasion I left my opera house to pursue her. For a full day I concealed myself in Daae's house, learning all I could of his condition and of Madame Giry's intentions. The doctor gave him a week; I knew that was far too great a period for me to be absent, and I could not tolerate another day without my Madeleine's presence. Only her presence, of course. We never speak. Our only correspondence is composed of my letters, and her meaningful gazes up into the dark rafters, since she returned to me. But now, M Armande Giry is dead. And as much as my pretence hints that I can be no more indifferent to her, we both know the truth, and the truth is otherwise.

I knew that the world would not suffer for lack of a week of Gustave's life, and I could end it quickly—relieve him of his pain—and have Madame Giry back in my Opera the next evening, and the little girl with her. Of course, the half of me that opposes such dealings would not let me be at peace with myself, and thus my attentions focused on the child. Somewhere deep within me there is compassion for her, and the doctor's diagnosis assured that in the days before his death he would forget her entirely. I remember clearly the agony of a parent who looks at you in such a way, a single look which makes your heart pause in pain. My mother often pretended to have no recognition of me, and would say, "Who are you? You are not my child. Leave me alone, you do not belong to me. You are not mine."

Perhaps those words are what began to kill me. I knew then that I could not let Christine experience the same from her father, her father who loved her because she was beautiful, as surely she was. I would end his life before he could start to forget, and thus end her prolonged agony. It did not occur to me then that she would have wanted every last minute she could have with him, as I suppose I realise now, but at the time such reasoning pleased both halves of my soul and I was free to make Gustave die, by my own means.

It was not entirely selfish, then. It was mercy, as well.

"Seven years old, and not a relation in the world," the loutish curtain-master Buquet said to the chorus girls. "The great Daae didn't remarry after his wife died, to a pity. Madame Giry never was one to turn a cold shoulder, despite that wicked exterior."

I still have not seen Christine's face. Her head was deeply buried within her father's coverlet when I could finally see them, and she was in his room during my whole stay at the Daae residence. I await her appearance now. What is the bloody time, besides? I glance at the clock. An hour past midnight. Where is my Madeleine? I've been waiting up for her since before dawn, sitting here unmoving in the rafters above the dorms. I want to see her age-tainted beauty once more before shutting myself away again, indeed, but more than that, I want to see the face of the child she'll be bringing with her. Perhaps she will look like her father. Perhaps I will never forget his face.

For years I have watched Meg grow into a lovely little girl, and I have both wished she was my own, and loathed her for being his, Armande's. But Christine will be different. Before taking Monsieur Daae's last breath from him, I had my mind made. Christine will not be Gustave's; she will not be Madeleine's. She will be mine. She will not belong to Madame Giry—how I hate referring to her as such. She will belong only to the Opera, and everything within the Opera is mine. If I am ever to win Madame back, it will be through this child. My child.

Madeleine has never trusted me. I will make her see.

Footsteps resonate down the hallway. A great door creaks. I sit alert and diminish the candle, closely watching as Madeleine walks through, with two little girls at her side; one, the blonde, petite Meg, and the other the brunette Christine, slightly older than she. I watch her intently. She does look like her father. She is his very image, his very face. She has the definite angles of his face, though rounded by the softness of childhood. The circles of her eyes—his eyes—survey her surroundings with cautious wonder. Her chestnut curls (those I recognize) are tied behind her neck, but one has fallen loose, and is swept into her eyes with every step. I smile at the thought of her growing into a stunning young woman, but I know my pride is premature. I haven't yet even properly met the child, much less claimed her for my own.

I must learn more about her father's Angel of Music. His state was halfway delirious as he promised her such a ridiculous blessing, but it would be a crime to leave her with a memory of her father not only dying and crazy, but a liar as well. She sings, they say. Her father was a remarkable talent. I have heard of him. Not only have I heard of him, but I heard him when he tried to sing to his daughter. His voice was weak and harshened by his affliction, but beneath the mess I found true talent, as I have not recognised in a long, long time. His daughter has his face. Perhaps she will have his voice. If she has a voice anything like little Meg's, I know I can train it. The sole reason I haven't taken Meg is the fear that Madeleine will never forgive me. But if I were to have this little Daae girl, and show Madame what I can make of her…perhaps she will….

I blink these thoughts away. Not now, I tell myself. Later, I will ponder them, after I have found out more about the little girl.

"Where's Papa's Angel?"

Christine has spoken. Her voice is sweet and childlike, her enquiry no doubt confusing Madame. I lean down a bit more to listen.

"Angel, child?" replies Madame Giry in her delicate lilt.

"He said he'd find me," says she.

Madeleine stops them, and takes both of the child's hands. "He said who would find you, Christine?"

"The Herald of Music," I whisper carefully, letting a rare smile soften my features. As the whisper emerges, though, the little girl turns her curly head in my direction, her eyes searching the darkness. I start and fall back into the shadows, my heart pounding. Has she seen me? I was a fool to speak. Phantoms can only preserve their invisibility through their silence. I will reveal myself to Christine in due time; but now, I am only here to listen.

Madame Giry's eyes wander above to the rafters. I watch them keenly, sure I cannot be seen. The confusion her gaze holds makes me grin. Without any doubt, she knows I am here; I am always watching her. But I take pleasure in knowing that she cannot see me. It gives me an unspoken advantage, one I can use whenever I please. She haunts me. It only makes sense that I haunt her back.

"The Angel of Music," says Christine.

Perfect. I graze the stubble along my jaw as I lean forward, and hear a sadness-tinged laugh in Madame's otherwise strict voice. "The Angel of Music in your father's song?"

"Yes," says Christine. "Father knows him, and he made a deal with God, and told me he would send him to me from Heaven."

I savour her words carefully, suppressing a smile. As I listened from my hiding place in Gustave's chamber, my thought was this exactly: It can't really be that easy. I know now that it is, though I still do not know why. God isn't on my side—or is He? You have no reason to be, I silently direct heavenward.

"Christine, you know your Father was having trouble controlling his thoughts." A moment of silence. "He'd told so many wonderful storeys, he became confused as to which ones were real and which were not."

"Oh, no," she returns. "He was always sure of the Angel."

"Well," says Madame Giry after a time, and they continue to walk. "Perhaps this Angel will come straight from Heaven into your dreams, child. And in your dreams, he can sing to you all you'd like."

Does she truly think I cannot hear the caution in her voice? This both amuses and alarms me. She cannot possibly know what thoughts circulate in my twisted mind.

"I want to see the Angel of Music," says Meg.

But the Angel of Music will not visit his lover's illegitimate child, she who was borne from a proper husband. Madeleine, you know I have no want of your daughter. But Christine! Christine's need for music is my licence to give it to her. Erik is restless, and his irritating protests make me weary. My fingers tingle as I make my way into the depths of the opera house, and I let the grin surface in anticipation at my purpose. I have much planning to do.

…

Madame Giry

"You are willing to do this, then?"

I nodded solemnly. "Yes."

"Out of your own pocket?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

Lefevre eyed me, sucking at the insides of his lips thoughtfully. "You are an enigma. Truly an enigma."

I said nothing. He hadn't any idea.

The manager sighed. "Well then. If you have that much faith in the little girl, I suppose your call is a good one. You really can afford this?"

"What would you have me do, Monsieur?" I asked him pointedly.

He shook his head. "You are a better man than I, Madame Giry. I suppose a raise is in order for you. Was that your plan from the beginning?"

I glared at him. "Gustave Daae passed away not two days ago. I did only what I could as the circumstances allowed; I have no other intentions than to bring his child up in a home, with a family."

He chuckled mirthlessly. "It is a paradox, really, that you think she would lead a safer life here, in a haunted Opera, than in a supernaturally-untouched orphanage. Your trust in this Ghost is beyond me."

I let my eyes roll. "The Opera Ghost has no interest in little girls. I do not fear for her safety."

The manager dismissed me, and I left his office pleased that I could at least convince him of such a thing. He was easily manipulated, I supposed. The Phantom's salary was proof of that, at least.

The Opera Ghost has no interest in little girls.

It was true. It was always true. I was the only human he cared for. Besides me, he hated every last one of them…innocent little girls as well. With that, I only told the manager what was so.

I do not fear for her safety.

But that, perhaps, was a lie.