Erik

It is evening, and an hour before supper. I watch and listen as she dismisses herself from the small gathering of girls in the dorms.

"Where are you going, Christine?" calls Meg, standing as if to go with her.

Christine turns to face her, her loose curls falling over her shoulders. "I am going to…see the Maestro."

"Oh," says Meg, and she resumes her spot with the little ballet rats. "He's a persnickety old loon."

"Who, Monsieur Reyer?" enquires another little girl, and Meg nods furiously, drawing them in with one of her imaginative and tasteless rounds of gossip about his "false eye," which is utter nonsense. The man has false teeth, and a funny moustache, but his eyes are in remarkable shape for his age.

I know this, because he has often seen me and then pretended that he saw nothing. My dear conductor is a secretive man, who dislikes trouble and attention. It has spared his life countless times, I think.

Christine, in the meantime, slips unnoticed from the room, and it is clear to no one but myself that the Maestro she spoke of seeing is not M Reyer at all. She seems to have a misguided view of honesty—she did not speak a falsehood, but her intentions were to mislead nonetheless. The girl does not understand that honesty and deception are absolutes, and therefore it is frivolous to concern herself over such notions.

She will learn.

I swiftly move through the corridors, and I am already behind the mirror when she enters her dressing room. She closes the door behind her and steps into the middle of the floor, smoothes the faint wrinkles from her skirt, and then makes her way back to the door and locks it.

I draw the violin out of my cloak and stretch my fingers.

She turns slowly, and her eyes wander the room. "All right," she says softly to herself. "All right."

I wait.

"I'm here, Angel," she says quietly. She is afraid that I might not be real.

"I have been waiting," I reply.

Her face brightens at the sound of my voice, but just as quickly it falls. "Oh, I'm sorry…don't be angry, I came as soon as Meg got distracted!"

That, for a strange reason, fills me with laughter. How very reminiscent of my own dealings with Meg's mother! "I was waiting only for a moment," I return quickly. "You did not keep me long." No, that is still the wrong thing to say, as I have unintentionally admitted that she did keep me waiting. To recover from my error and put her at ease, I quickly begin to sing:

"Child of mine, I'm here to teach you

"Sing for me now, Christine."

She pauses, unsure. "What would you like me to sing?"

This will be her first lesson. "Sing whatever you need to say," I direct her. "Whatever thoughts are in your mind, I want to hear them in song. Whatever you want to tell me—if I address you in song, you will reply in the same manner. You needn't try to rhyme it."

Understanding filling her gaze, Christine nods. She resumes her position in the middle of the floor, and takes a deep breath, her hands at her sides, her shoulders back. And then, without another word, she begins.

"Angel of Music, here, I'm waiting

"I'll obey your commands

"Angel, I'll listen to your singing

"Help me sing like Lotte."

My mouth widens in a grin. She did try, at least. I realise I will be training both her voice and her ability to conjure on-the-spot lyrics, tastefully. Until then, I will keep to the same tune, and from there I will let her teach me new ones, and she will learn familiarity with the melodies I introduce.

"Christine, mon ange, you have pleased me

"Angels respond to your cry

"Open your mind to my teachings

"Let your soul reply!"

And Christine:

"Angel of Music, I am ready

"Hear as I sing with you!

"Calling to me, your voice is lovely

"I'll always be listening!"

"That was marvellous," I tell her, continuing to play.

Christine grins again. "You called me Angel!"

"I did," I agree, curious at her reaction.

"Just like Father always called me!"

I still my hand, and the music stops.

"Father said that the Angel of Music called Lotte his Angel too…but surely you know that. Why do you do that, when clearly it is you who are the Angel?"

"Well," I say, humoured, priding myself that I have yet done another thing correctly. "That is because I help my students sing like Angels." A stupid answer, I know, but Christine is immensely satisfied with it.

And from there I lead Christine through a few practise scales, and all lingering doubt slips from my awareness as her talent and her unwavering trust in me—in me—brighten the atmosphere, and my dark soul. I smile as I roll her voice through my fingers, all the while knowing that I have undertaken a very large and very permanent endeavour. I am still amazed that such a realisation does not repel me, and even more amazed that is satisfies me. In fact, I did not feel such tremendous satisfaction even after scaring Willem di Renaldi from the Opera. Only when I am composing am I at this much rest with myself. Thinking of this, my new purpose, and anticipating how it will prove to Madeleine my worth, I cannot remember a single time in my past that the Opera Ghost has been pleased to such a great extent.

…

Madame Giry

I fingered the letter, numb in my apprehension. I'd read the words dozens of times already. Enclosed is the full coverage for Christine's tuition. He had signed it with a flourish, and a P.T.O. with his promise to confer to me her auspices, out of his own pocket, for every month of her ballet lessons at the academy.

Perhaps…perhaps he had only known how much of a struggle it was for me to provide Christine's tutelage, and taken pity on me, or on the girl.

Pity. What a thought! I scowled.

His self-centeredness had spurred me to scold him often throughout his young life. His shame at my scolding once stayed his selfishness, if only temporarily, until he grew to understand his brilliance and to respect me less and find his independence within the Opera's walls. It was this knowledge of his character paired with his generous payment of Miss Daae's tuition that unnerved me. It was not pity—it was surely a desperate ploy to feign pity and prove to me that he did, indeed, have the compassion I once tried to draw from him. Then, I thought it would be as natural as drawing poison from a snake—but while poison was common for a snake, compassion never did course through Erik's veins.

He wanted me back. It was possible he thought that pretending to be the man I wanted him to be would bring me to him…perhaps that was what moved him to do such a thing. But why not my daughter—why Christine?

I closed my eyes, settling into the divan, seeking comfort. It annoyed me to no end that he never left my thoughts, and that I was always so suspicious of his intentions—the pest. But I had every reason in the world to be. He prided himself on his detachment and mystery, and his ability to keep me under his hand at all times. He always had.

"I've found a name!"

The boy, however, was nowhere to be seen.

I shut the cellar doors over my head and continued down the steps. A sole candle was struck, and it provided enough light for the entire room. His mattress was still rolled across the damp floor, and his blanket was folded neatly over it. A basket of half-eaten fruit sat beneath the candle, with pale, rose-coloured parchment, a withered quill pen, and a bottle of ink.

I approached the parchment, my eyebrows lowered over my eyes, and lifted it. It was music. I could not sight-read, so I hadn't any idea what it sounded like…but it was certainly a complex piece, as the notes were stacked in thick chords and some were scattered about wide scales and collided at every measure with dots and rests.

"Do you like it?"

I nearly jumped from my skin, and surveyed the room. I could not see him, but that didn't mean he wasn't there. "Where are you?"

"Here," he said, a grin evident in his voice.

The sound came from behind the rotting shelf. I folded my arms. "What are you doing behind there?"

"Come and see," he replied.

I followed his voice and peeked behind the shelf.

Nothing.

"Where are you?" I repeated, spinning about.

Far across the room, into the spot where I had been standing, he lowered himself. I gaped at him, and then to the ceiling from where he'd been hiding. Where had he been hiding? All I could see were the thick wooden planks!

"I can throw my voice," he beamed proudly. "I was above you the whole time."

I cocked my head and walked toward him. "How did you do that?"

He shrugged, and dropped to his cot. "Do you like my music?"

"I can't read it," I admitted.

Now it was his turn to gape. His eyes were wide beneath the beaded lady's mask we'd found in the costume department. "What do you mean, you can't read it?"

I held out my hands helplessly. "I am a dancer, not a musician…nor a singer."

He shook his head, smirking happily. "I suppose I shall have to teach you."

"To sing?"

He shrugged. "If you'd like. I was referring to reading music." His eyes brightened before his smile did. "I could teach you to sing, in fact."

I blushed. "You couldn't teach me to sing even if you wanted to." To think—him, a ten year old boy, teaching myself, a mature adult, anything! He would remember his place, and I would make sure of it.

The boy set the music down. "I could try."

"No," I said. "I am a dancer." I had already said it, but I could think of nothing else. It had been eight days since the Gypsy circus—a day for every year apart in our ages. Eight days of discovering my attachment to the boy without a name. At last, it would change. "I have found a name for you."

He crossed his legs on the cot. "I will probably hate it."

"No you won't," I scolded playfully, sitting next to him. "Remember it was your idea in the first place."

"Then let's have it," he grinned.

I took his hands. "Bertram."

His bright green eyes widened beneath a glare of disgust.

I laughed happily. "I am only teasing you. I think you look like an Erik." I held my breath. It was Henri's middle name—but I did not want to tell him so.

In all my life, I never saw such a look of shock. "How did you know that?"

I dropped his hands, a bit perplexed at his sudden reaction. "How did I—"

"How did you know my name?"

I shook my head insistently, dizzying myself even more. "I didn't…I didn't know your…you told me you hadn't one!"

The boy looked down, shame flooding his features. "I lied."

A long moment of silence passed before I dared speak. "Why?"

He lifted his shoulders in a helpless shrug. "I hate my name. I hate the name my mother gave me, because I hate her."

I moved a little closer to him. "She named you Erik?"

The child nodded.

I didn't know what to say. It was more than coincidence, I was sure of it…but would an act of God bring such unhappy memories to him? I resolved myself immediately. "I can choose a different name."

"No," he said, so quickly that again my head spun. "No. It is my name. I can't escape it, as I have seen so clearly today." He shrugged once more. "I was meant to be Erik, as much as I hate him."

"Are you—"

"Yes."

"—certain?"

"I am certain." He smiled a little, a complete change from the brooding soul that flashed before me only a moment before. He bounded from the cot, catching my hand and taking me up with him. I steadied myself, and focused my eyes on his smiling features. "At any rate, the name is much more pleasing to the ear than Bertram, and therefore I accept."

I grinned through my concern. "Come now, Erik. To the auditorium. I want to hear you play your music."

I thought of those days, those years, when he was mine to cherish, to talk to, to play with…when I was innocent, as he never was. We had been children. He was too young and lost, and I was too willing to protect. We were drawn to each other like ambrosia and nectar to the lips of the gods, and at the time it seemed that nothing could sever our bond.

I remembered how he used to ask me to sit next to him as he composed, or how I would beseech him to braid my long hair, and the sound of our mingled laughter as we raced across the rafters at midnight. How ignorant I was when I thought his hands were washed of blood, his soul purified of murder…when I thought Lombardi was the only victim there ever was at the mercy of my sweet Erik. I was ignorant because I believed I knew him, and I believed it was safe that he knew everything about me.

I was, perhaps, the greatest fool in the world, for such a folly. But his eyes were playful then, and his music was tragic, and my soul ached to hold his broken pieces until he was whole again.

I had not feared him then as I did now. Not even when he first adopted his role as the Phantom—a role he would later try to escape, but never could. Even then, I had played along, as if it were a game; I supposed it did start out as one. But when had things changed? We had years of peace, or at least years of contentment…years of friendship, until Fate dealt her hand against us. How fitting, that Eros with his mighty bow might strike one and ignore the other!

It was when I understood that his heart beat for me that I drew back from his silent pleads. It was my withdrawal—my rejection, and his denial of it—that caused him to draw back from his humanity. It had all been such a gradual change: as my words became guarded and my actions stiff, his eyes grew dark and his spirit dangerous. When did it happen that I hesitated before laughing at his jokes? When did it transpire that I jumped at the feel of his hand on my shoulder?

When was the first time he looked at me with longing?

There were some days that I knew. There were others I would not let myself think of it. I could hardly remember that we were once close, whereas now it was unnatural for a word to be spoken between us. He was not the little boy I brought to the opera house. I was no longer the young lady who rescued him. And yet, for all the changes wrought with time, however different we had become, there was a ghost of that unbreakable bond we shared as children, and it would not allow us to leave one another forever.

That was why I returned, after Armande passed. Because as much as I did not know the man who once gripped my soul with his love, his unrelenting fingers had never released me in the first place. And I still did not know how to handle it.

My indecisiveness would be the death of me, I was sure.