Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone who has so far read, reviewed, favourited and followed this story. I really appreciate your support!

Now we take up Erik's point of view. For his story, I would like to acknowledge a few sources. The name of his music tutor is taken from Susan Kay's novel 'Phantom', and Fleck (the name, not the character) is from 'Love Never Dies.'

Thanks again for reading, and I hope you enjoy the first part of Erik's story.

Chapter 18: The Singing Gargoyle

Erik

I was born in Paris. My mother was an actress. Quite a successful actress, in her day, although my arrival rather put an end to her career. When I was a child, she worked in the costume department at the old opera house. She would bring home costumes to repair, and I remember being fascinated by this strange clothing which had the power to transform an ordinary person into a prince, or a knight, or even a monster.

I never knew my father. All I know is that every month an envelope would arrive addressed to my mother, and there would be money in it. And my mother would always look very sad when this money arrived, although I did not dare ask her why. Once, when I was about five, I asked her who my father was, and she explained that he was a very great man, an explorer. He was busy travelling the world, which was why he couldn't be at home with us. But one day, she hoped he would come back.

As I got older, my father began to send me gifts, usually toys and books. These gifts would always be accompanied by a note, such as: 'My dear Erik, I hope you're being a good boy. It is important that you read this book because it will tell you about our country's history.' And inside the package there would be this eye-wateringly tedious book about the history of the French aristocracy. This was a subject in which I had no interest whatsoever, but I forced myself to read it, in the hope that through reading it I would somehow get to know my father.

One day, a very different gift arrived. It was a toy theatre, a little model of the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. I'm still not sure why, but I fell in love with that theatre. My mother had a small library of plays from her time on the stage, and I would use these to put on shows in the toy theatre. I performed all the parts, and when I ran out of play scripts I begged my mother to borrow libretti from the Opera House. Fortunately, she had kind friends at the Opera, who agreed to loan her old, unused texts.

Needless to say, I was delighted. I staged the operas in my toy theatre, and sang all the great roles of that time. Because I could not yet read music, I was obliged to make up the melodies as I went along. And I think it was this that planted the idea that I could become a composer.

It was my mother who first taught me to sing. She had a good voice, and I learned a great deal from her. But my voice soon developed beyond her abilities to coach.

My mother was not terribly fond of conversation, although sometimes she would tell me stories about her time at the theatre. Funny stories that made us both laugh. By the way she talked I could tell how much she missed her life on the stage, and once I asked her if she thought she would ever return.

"No," she said sadly. But then she smiled. "But it doesn't matter, because one day you'll be onstage. You'll sing at the Opera and I'll be able to come and watch you."

Even as a child, I knew that my mother's ambition for me was rather unrealistic. On the rare occasions when I left our flat to run errands for her, I was aware of people staring at me. Sometimes, I heard them whispering cruel things as I passed by. When I told my mother about this, she was furious. She said I should not listen to them, that I was not remotely ugly and I did not look like a monster.

But she was unable to look me in the eye, so I knew she was just trying to spare my feelings. And besides, I had seen my reflection enough times to know that I looked different from other people.

However, I rarely let any of this upset me. I had so many things to occupy my mind. My father had learned of my interest in music and the theatre and started sending me music books. Once, he even sent me a violin. For three weeks, my mother was bombarded with complaints from our landlady as I screeched my way through my library of songbooks. But it was too late. My love of music and theatre was all-consuming. And the Opera, being a combination of both these passions, became my ultimate goal.

I began to beg my mother to allow me to accompany her to work, so I could hear the operas in rehearsal. But she would always refuse, saying that the theatre was no place for children. I was hurt at the time, but now I honestly believe she had no choice. Sometimes I wonder if the management even knew she had a child.

I began to explore other avenues which would allow me to achieve a musical education. When I was thirteen years old, I asked my mother if I could be sent to school. My mother said no. She could not afford such a thing. And yet, several weeks later, she asked me to make myself presentable and dress in my best clothes. I was introduced to Professor Guizot, a music tutor usually resident at the Conservatoire, who had been hired to educate me privately.

This perplexed me; after all, if my mother did not have the money to send me to school, then how could she possibly afford a private tutor?

Eventually, the truth dawned. It had to be my father. My father had sent my mother money so she could afford to pay for my education.

Professor Guizot proved to be an excellent teacher. He was flawlessly polite, never commenting upon my face, and incredibly knowledgeable about music. In fact, even to this day I have rarely met his equal as a musician. He had Hector Chalumeau's talent combined with Monsieur Reyer's dogged commitment. Under his supervision, I learned how to read music. My singing voice developed beyond my wildest expectations. He was impressed with my ability on the violin, and he even had a pianoforte brought to our apartment – funded by my father, I suspect – to give me another instrument on which to compose.

The Professor was only a young man, not yet out of his twenties, and yet he seemed impossibly mature and sophisticated to me. I soon realised that I wanted what he had. I wanted to audition for the Conservatoire, and study there, and compose music. I even dared to hope that I would one day be able to sing at the Opera, which was my ultimate dream. The Professor was delighted by my enthusiasm, and agreed to support my application to study voice and composition.

And then January arrived. That terrible January of my fifteenth year, when there was no envelope.

My mother was, in many respects, a strong and practical woman. She did not panic. She said that the envelope might have become lost in the post. There would be another one next month, and together with her small salary from the Opera, we had enough money to live on in the meantime.

February. Still no envelope. March and April went by, with no word or money from my father.

One morning in April, my mother put on her best dress and left the house. Some instinct made me follow her. She had barely spoken to me in days and was clearly not herself. I suppose I sensed that something was wrong, and I wanted to be sure that she was safe. Paris was still recovering from the horrors of the war and the Commune, and some of the streets were still unsafe.

But I need not have feared, at least not on that score. I followed my mother to the Faubourg Saint-Germain. I had read that this was the most affluent area of Paris, long the favourite haunt of the French nobility. As I followed my mother between the rows of fine buildings, I wondered whom she could possibly know in this district.

She stopped at the door of a very grand house, and lifted the doorknocker. I dived around the side of the house and watched as someone came to the door. There was a brief discussion that I could not quite hear, and then my mother disappeared inside. I waited. Half an hour later, my mother came out. She walked down the front steps with her head held high, but I could see that she was crying.

I ran ahead of her, back to our home, where I could wait and pretend that I had never been out. When she arrived, I left my room to greet her, and saw that she was still weeping.

"Are you all right, mother?" I asked, as innocently as I could.

"I've just had some very bad news. Your father is dead, Erik." She pressed a kiss to my forehead. "I'm very sorry."

Of course, I wasn't sure what to think. It was hard to grieve for someone I had never met, and yet I still felt that I had lost something irreplaceable. And my mother's news did not seem to fit with her visit to the house. Did it belong to my father's relatives? And if so, why did my mother have to seek them out?

"Did he die exploring?" I asked carefully.

"Your father was an aristocrat. We met at the theatre. But it was impossible for us to stay together. His family would never have allowed it." She paused and looked at me sadly. "I am so sorry."

And then I understood. My father was not an explorer, and he had never been married to my mother. The house had belonged to my father, or perhaps his relatives, and they had turned my mother away. Perhaps they did not even know of my existence.

Many years later, I returned to the Faubourg Saint-Germain and sought out my father's house. But it was empty. The windows were boarded up.

My poor mother. I think she honestly loved my father, and hoped he would come back to her someday. And who knows? Perhaps he wanted to. Never, ever get yourself mixed up with the aristocracy, Christine. In my experience, it always ends badly. I have seen the same scenario play out many times. Sometimes, I watch Sorelli with Count Philippe and I want to shout out a warning.

"Your father provided for you as far as he was able, " my mother said, wiping her tears. "We'll be all right."

And yet, over the following months little comforts started to disappear from our home. My mother sold what little jewellery she had and worked every hour she could at the Opera.

Professor Guizot continued to teach me, but I'm convinced that he was not being paid by then. He pressed me to audition for the Conservatoire immediately. He said I might be eligible for a scholarship. However, I knew that my face might prove to be an issue, so I asked my mother to borrow a blank white mask from the Opera wardrobe. It covered my entire face apart from my mouth, allowing me to sing clearly.

It wasn't the worst mask I have ever owned, and yet my mother wept when she gave it to me.

One morning, with the mask carefully in place, I went with Professor Guizot to the Conservatoire, where my audition awaited me.

I think you can guess the rest, Christine. I sang for the selection panel. I played my violin. I showed them my compositions. They gave every sign of being impressed.

And then they asked me to take my mask off.

I wanted to, Christine. I really did. I wanted to gain their acceptance. And yet I found that I couldn't. Some instinct told me that, if I removed the mask, they wouldn't see my talent or my passion. They would only see my face.

So I refused.

The selection panel conferred for several minutes, and then told me that my music was childish and uninspired, and that my voice was underdeveloped. Perhaps I could come back next year, without the mask.

Professor Guizot went into a rage. I had never seen a man so angry. He shouted at his fellow professors, and called them cowardly, gutless fools.

We left together, and I never went back. And neither, I think, did he.

The rejection from the Conservatoire left me despondent. I sold the pianoforte, and the money helped us for a while.

But then the fire happened.

I suppose you've heard about the fire at the old opera house, the Salle Le Peletier, Christine? It was a terrible night. You could see the blaze from my mother's flat. There's a theory that it was started by the gas lamps, which had been such an innovation when they were first installed. The fire raged for seventy -two hours, and when it was finally brought under control, there was no more Opera.

Although I wasn't at the Opera and I didn't see the fire up close, I still have nightmares about it even now. Except in my dreams, it's our Opera, the Garnier, which goes up in flames. And whenever I have this dream, even if it's the middle of the night, I have to leave my apartment and make sure that the Opera is still there, unscathed by fire.

My mother had been working at the Opera the night of the fire, working late, and she had only just escaped before it really took hold. The incident shocked her to the core. Not only had she lost her livelihood, but the place she loved. When she returned home, she was a very different woman.

She refused to leave the house. Refused to seek employment elsewhere. The thought of the same thing happening again terrified her. As time went by and she became yet more reclusive, I knew that I would have to find a way to support us both.

I went out looking for work, but it soon became clear that potential employers were alarmed by my appearance. I was despairing of ever finding a job, until one evening I passed a pavement café, and had an idea.

There was a musician wandering between the tables, playing a violin. Badly. The customers were cringing, and the maître d was starting to look upset. I still had my violin. And I could play with far more skill than this poor fellow.

The following day, my mask securely in place, I took my violin to a busy market square, not far from where the old Opera had once stood, and began to play. Some people stopped to listen and threw coins into my violin case. Some even applauded.

I made a little money that day. Not much, but a start. For a month I moved around that busy square, playing next to market stalls and outside restaurants, anywhere where there was people. I even started to sing, accompanying myself on the violin.

And then, early one evening, the inevitable happened. A man decided to tear my mask off. He was drunk, and he was laughing with a group of friends, and he did it completely without warning. When he saw my face, he turned pale and apologised instantly. His friends had dared him to do it. He had had no idea. He was so very sorry.

I glared at him and tied my mask back in place. But it was too late. Another passer-by had already seen me.

There was a man hanging around a short distance away, apparently drawn by the commotion. As I packed my violin away, shaken by the incident and wanting to leave early, he approached me.

"Excuse me, Monsieur," he said, with a small, polite bow. "I often stop to listen to you and I have been meaning to speak with you for some time. It's clear you have an exceptional talent."

"Thank you," I muttered, closing my violin case. Under normal circumstances the compliment might have pleased me, but tonight I just wanted to go home.

"I could not help but notice the way that idiot treated you just now," the man continued. "He clearly has no appreciation of your talent. But I do. And as it happens, I run a travelling theatre company where your talent would be greatly appreciated."

I raised my eyebrows beneath the mask. "You'll forgive me if I struggle to believe you, given the circumstances."

"But I'm sorry, I have not introduced myself!" He bowed again. "I am Albert Fleck, actor and impresario, from England. My company have performed all the greats: Shakespeare, you name it. We are in desperate need of a musician of your aptitude." He handed me a square of paper. "Here's my card with my Paris address. Please say you'll think about it. Travelling is a chore, but I would make sure you earned good money, far more than you could ever earn here."

And then he bowed again, and left me to my thoughts.

It was true I was making money from my street performances, but the amount was negligible. My mother had not yet recovered sufficiently to find a job. The end of the month was looming, and I knew we would not have enough money to pay the rent.

Before I had even reached our flat, I had made my decision.

The following morning I packed my bags. Then I visited Professor Guizot and explained my plans to him, and asked him to keep an eye on my mother. He quizzed me about the theatre company…were they reputable? I honestly had no idea, but I assured him that they were. Eventually, although he still appeared suspicious, he agreed to help me.

Thanking him, I returned home and explained to my mother that I had found work as a musician with a travelling theatre company. I said I would visit her as soon as I could, and in the meantime I would send money. She shed a few tears, but did not argue, so I kissed her goodbye and left with my luggage and my violin.

The business card directed me to a rundown area of Paris. A huddle of brightly-coloured tents were pitched in an empty square. There was not a soul to be seen anywhere, and an eerie wind disturbed the tent flaps.

My new employer was staying at an inn in the square. I knocked on the door and asked for Mr Fleck. He appeared a moment later, smiling broadly and shaking me by the hand.

"I am so glad that you could come," he said. "Here, follow me. Let me show you around."

He led me between the nearest tents. A larger tent, almost like a circus big top, loomed in front of us.

"This is our theatre," he said proudly.

Then I saw the painted banner above the door, and suddenly felt very cold.

In large, bright letters, the tented establishment proclaimed itself to be Fleck's Fabulous Freaks: The World's Greatest Museum of Oddities and Wonders.

Fleck pushed aside the tent flap, and I froze, unable to move as I peered reluctantly inside.

The tent was divided into curtained booths. Each booth contained an empty chair. But it was the posters hung between each booth that so disturbed me. Each poster bore the garish, painted caricature of a performer. I saw 'The Living Skeleton', 'The World's Fattest Man,' 'The Wolf-Boy' and 'The Lion-Faced Lady.'

I rounded on my guide. "This isn't a theatre!" I cried. "You lied to me!"

He smiled. "I was merely being discreet. I thought you would understand my meaning."

I gestured towards the posters. "Who are those people?"

His smile was becoming infuriating. "They are my company. Your colleagues and fellow performers. A very talented troop, make no mistake."

"What do you want from me?" My voice sounded very small.

The smile vanished, and he looked at me incredulously. "You're serious, aren't you? You really don't understand?"

I shook my head.

"I want to exhibit you. You're the most interesting specimen I have ever seen."

"I am not a specimen!" I spat. "You led me to believe you were hiring me as a musician."

"I am! I am! That will form the most important part of your act. I'm going to build a stage just for you, with a red velvet curtain, and I'm going to give you the top billing. They'll come to see your face, but they'll stay for your music. Trust me. I'm a music connoisseur. I know what I'm talking about."

"You want me to show my face." My voice sounded flat and expressionless.

"Of course. The act will hinge on the contrast between your face and your music. You'll be a sensation, and we'll both be rich. You'll live respectably, in fine lodgings, and people will come from far and wide to hear your music." He turned to me with a sorrowful expression. "I'm willing to bet that no opera house in the world would give you such a chance. Am I right?"

I thought about the closed, emotionless faces of the Conservatoire selection panel. And I felt myself nod. Fleck was delighted, and ushered me into an empty, rather shabby tent. These, apparently, were my living quarters.

"But they're only temporary," he assured me. "Just you wait. You'll soon be able to afford the finest hotels in France."

He retreated to the inn and left me alone.

Please understand, Christine. I was very young. I was without employment, in a big city, and my mother, my only remaining relative, was relying on me. This man was offering me an income, and a roof, of a sort, over my head. And, although I'm ashamed to admit it now, a part of me - a youthful, still optimistic part – believed his tales of fame and fortune. Apart from anything else, he was giving me the chance to sing and play my violin before a hopefully appreciative audience. Aside from unkind comments on the street and the rejection from the Conservatoire, I had only known acceptance from those closest to me, namely my mother and Professor Guizot. I had not yet seen cruelty in men's eyes.

So I decided to stay.

Fleck was as good as his word. Within the space of two days he built me my very own stage, with red velvet curtains. He even brought me a beautiful costume to wear – an evening suit, as if I was a musician in an opera house orchestra. And he said I could select my own music. Apparently this music connoisseur knew nothing about opera, so he said he trusted my judgement.

All of these were positive signs, so I set to work. I had brought some of my music scores with me, and I spent many hours rehearsing my chosen songs in my tent. Four days after my arrival at the show, I was ready to make my debut.

I waited, trembling, behind the stage curtains as Fleck delivered a speech to the audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen, you're in for a treat! I present to you a gentleman of talent and sophistication. A gentleman with a voice guaranteed to melt the hardest of hearts. But a gentleman so hideous that he has made great men quake with fear. Will you flee from the sight of his face, or stay and marvel at the beauty of his voice? Will beauty overcome ugliness? Ladies and gentlemen, I give you…The Singing Gargoyle!"

I shuddered. I did not like my stage name in the least. But I did not have time to dwell on this, because the curtains slid open, and I found myself exposed and vulnerable upon the stage.

There were gasps. Peering into the sea of faces before me, it seemed that the entire audience had taken a collective step backwards, away from me.

And then someone screamed.

I had never heard anyone scream like that in my life. It was a scream of horror, quickly followed by another. I looked around in panic, trying to locate the danger. Finding nothing, I turned back to the audience, and in their horrified faces, I saw the truth.

I was the danger.

They were screaming at me.

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw faces pale with horror, and mouths wide like ovals.

What was this?

Fleck's voice, booming in my ears: "Hideous, is he not? Well, let me see if I can turn your horror into admiration. Sing!"

I continued to stare at the audience, too frightened to move a muscle, let alone sing.

"Sing!" Fleck's mouth was by my ear, and anger and impatience was building in his voice.

I was silent. Someone in the crowd started to boo.

Then I felt something cold and hard dig into my back, just below my ribcage. And Fleck's ugly voice hissed in my ear: "Sing, damn you."

I opened my mouth and coaxed out the first bars of an operatic aria.

"Louder."

I closed my eyes and raised my voice. The knife – for that was what it was – left my back. And Fleck retreated into the wings.

I sang. Tears ran down my cheeks. And the audience fell silent, and listened.

When I had finished, I heard their mutterings.

"Unnatural. Quite unnatural."

"Disturbing."

"I can't believe such an ugly creature can sing so well."

"It must be a trick. Perhaps he has a tenor from the Opera hidden backstage."

"Well, they are all out of a job at the moment."

Laughter.

But the audience was apparently satisfied with my performance, because before leaving the tent, they showered the stage with coins. I stood in silence, trembling, watching the coins land at my feet – plink, plink, plink - feeling sick, the screams and insults still ringing in my ears.

I had to get out of there. I couldn't stand it. I couldn't believe that my face, something which was simply a part of me, could be the source of such revulsion. And I found myself thinking back to all the people I had encountered in my life, and interpreted their expressions somewhat differently. I saw the sorrow in my mother's eyes, and the guarded pity in Professor Guizot's. In my mind's eye, I saw distaste and disbelief.

Sinking to my knees amongst the coins, I wept.