2. ----"You're the," her mouth hung open at the sight. "Phantom of the Opera? Yes, at your service,"

he finished with a bow. "Now your service is to leave," he turned away from her.

"People said—"

"Yes, I know what people said, and say. 'The Phantom is a monster! He's hideous!' Well now

according to them I am dead. A dead monster," his voice was bitter.

"No," she corrected. The sincerity of what she said stopped him.

"What?" he faced her with skepticism.

"You look like an angel," she said.

"Yes. With the soul of a damned," he turned to leave again.

"I doubt that. You saved me."

Why wouldn't this girl leave! He was aggravated. "Are you a younger sibling or an only

child? You sure know how to annoy someone. No wonder you're out on the streets."

"How did you know that?"

"It doesn't take sitting with you in your hovel dinning on a crust of bread while rats chew at my cloak

to figure that out," he mocked with a grin.

"What happened all there—" she started to cough a horrible cough. She placed a hand on her chest but the coughing

kept coming. She felt the world grow dark and felt herself fall.

--The Phantom quickly strode to her side, catching her. He heard the sound of the men still on

there search for the waif and hurried down to his lair. Walking down the stone tunnels he heard the

men talking at the entrance. "I'm not going down there! What if that Phantom is still down there?"

He smiled to himself.

At least his spirit would keep those he wanted at bay. Gently placing her in

the boat he pushed off, taking them to his home. Turning into a lit passage, he took time to look

over the girl. She was young, that was obvious, but her face held the lines of someone about twice

her age. She must have a hard life, he thought. She was beautiful, all things aside. The marks

barely were noticed at first glance.

She had long brown hair, and when he was talking to her he noticed her grey eyes. Like clouds before a storm, dark, but

with some light still holding. She was thin, that was obvious. The rags she dressed in hung loosely around her shoulders,

and hid any sign of her having hips. Docking at his own man made island in the lake, he lifted her into his arms

and placed her in his bed. She was still breathing heavily; he put his head to her chest. There was

a rasping, rumbling sound. Pneumonia. He sighed. He brought over a candle stand to provide

some sort of heat, and covered her with the black velvet blanket to keep the chill from getting to

her. He brushed a strand of hair from her face and stopped. This happened before. He cursed the

memory.

Christine Daa'e…How could he forget? Tried as he might, he would never forget what

she did to him. Left him alone when he needed company the most; left him in the dark when he

needed light. He shook away the memory. Things were different now. He learned to be lonely, and

he was doing quite fine according to him.

He went through one of the long broken mirrors, up a flight of stairs to the opera chapel. Pushing the stained glass

window open a crack, he whistled. A black raven called back and flew to his out stretched arm. He wrapped a red ribbon

around it's leg and sent it off.

--Sitting at his desk, he flicked at the singed corners of his self composed, Don Juan. Christine…

He slammed his fist onto the cover.

"Damn," he sat for a few more moments before getting up and pacing. Why now! He thought. For a long time now he

hadn't thought once of her, now this girl comes back and brings back everything he fought so hard to forget. Misery,

passion. Hell! Feeling! He looked back to check on the girl, when he heard someone coming down the steps. He heard

the voice say the secret word.

"Masquerade,"

"Hide your face so the world can never find you," he answered back.

"Madame Giry," he smiled, embracing his long time friend, and only friend.

"What is it that you want?" she asked. "I need a few solutions for pneumonia. I know peppermint oil can help open the

breathing passages, but after that, you're on your own," he smiled.

"I know what to get," she turned to leave.

"How's Meg?" he inquired. "She's good. She's engaged now, you know? He's a very nice man."

"Really? Who is he?"

"He's a trade marketer,"

"What's his name?" he could tell that she was avoiding the point.

"He's a close friend to someone you know. Well, knew," she didn't look directly at him. "Raoul," he knew. She gave a

short nod, then turned up the stairs.

--The smell of peppermint aroused her senses, waking her. She opened her eyes, still a bit

groggy, and saw the Phantom sitting beside her, dapping the oil on her chest and throat.

"Rest. You need to heal," he dabbed more ointment on the rag.

"What happened?" she asked, rubbing her eyes.

Times like this made her seem like a child, but dabbing the oils on her throat and chest he had revealed proved her no

child. Her shirt was open in a most un-lady like manor, but she had no say in the matter if she wanted to heal and fast.

"You're so convenient," she smiled up at him.

"You save me and now you happen to have these oils on hand."

"I had to send for these,"

"Who do you have to call upon—"

"Must you always remind me that I am alone?" he stopped rubbing on the oils and glared at her.

"I'm sorry, it's just that," she was about to prove him right.

She winced at that and proceeded with caution. "I'm just curious, that's all. You can't blame me. You're a legendary icon,

but surrounded by street talk and tall tales. It would be nice to hear some facts true from the mouth of the

Phantom."

"Well for starters," he continued his work. "'Phantom' isn't my name, it's my title. My real

name is Erik," he thought about how his own name sounded so strange to him and that he hadn't

even reveled such to Christine.

"It's nice to meet you Erik," she held out her hand, "I'm Gwendolyn."

"An English name I see," he stated, returning the introduction. "Yes, my mother was English. She was vacationing in

France when she met my father and decided to stay. He left her one day for no apparent reason. I guess he was sick of

her," she furrowed her brows at the memory.

"Love is a foolish thing," Erik stated, putting the lid on the vile.

"Yet I still hope it exists," she looked at Erik, then gestured in an 'oh-well' manner.

"I gave up on love a long time ago," he got up and put his workings away.

"Yes, I figured as much. Christine..."

"Don't ever mention that name to me," his cool blue eyes flashed like daggers.

"I'm sorry…I know how that can be—"

"No, you don't,"

"I'm just trying to—"

"Find out more about the 'infamous Phantom'. Yes I know. But maybe you can stop being so

nosey and go back to sleep. You're lucky I didn't kill you like I usually do with all those who come

into my opera house. Now rest, you need to heal." He knew his words stung by the look she gave

him before she turned her back and pretended to sleep.

"Listen, I'm sorry. It's just that…This isn't a situation I'm used to dealing with," she didn't answer. He knew she was still

awake. He grimaced at what he did. He did tend to frighten those he cared for, in more ways than one, off.

No more.

He vowed that from that moment on that he would do his best to be pleasant to be around. He walked

back over to the bed to apologize but found that she really had fallen asleep, but he found stilled

tears on her cheek. He gently wiped one off, and covered her back up. Pulling on the rope beside

it, a curtain fell to keep the light out. She looked like an angel…