Part of me panicked when I handed over my music. As I watched Mademoiselle Dubois leaf through the parchment, I could not help but smile a bit. The fire of a musician flickered in her eyes which hungrily consumed the notes inked before her.

Her dedication surprised me greatly. No, she was not particularly dedicated to Monsieur Bernard and his unyielding lectures. Thinking of him made my eyes narrow. That man had the gall to ignore my work and claim the page blank. I watched him attempt to teach Mademoiselle Dubois the basics of the piano and singing. His technique reminded me vaguely of a man who the opera managers had hired to teach the chorus girls.

I chased him away too.

Some days, Mademoiselle Dubois seemed entertained by my tricks. Others, she looked around like a frightened mouse searching for the source of a dangerous rattling.

Late one evening, as the young mistress of the house sat in her room working on various little tasks, I found myself pacing the hallway to the library. My eyes flitted from one painting to the next, needing not by the moon's light to view each piece.

I remembered each one. The weight of the canvas was still fresh in my mind. For nearly a century and a quarter, all I had could feel was the weight of such things. Canvas, parchment, odd tools and wood. Never another person. Whenever I reached out, all I felt was air. It would be maddening if I were not already insane.

My muse had been silent during the duration of Monsieur Dubois's stay, and it had not been rattled into speech by his daughter's arrival. A familiar sense of frustration took my soul. The same would come when music had escaped me.

A peculiar sound floated down the hallway. Its source was none other than Mademoiselle Dubois's room, and so I followed it. The late hour should have had the young woman asleep, but as I stepped through the door, I found her in nothing but a pair of shorts and a loose shirt. Her hair was pulled into a sloppy ponytail, hairs falling out and brushing her nose.

She was solely consumed with her computer – laptop, she had called it before – while those little speakers were crammed in her ears. The words that came from her mouth were not English, nor anything based in Latin from my knowledge. It was beautiful regardless of its language. Her jaw moved without much command, a second thought to her.

The morning was when I formally met her tutor. Monsieur Dubois certainly had some nerve to bring in Warren Bernard without consulting me. I observed the small man as he walked in circles raving about some slight she had caused him, sitting on a nearby stack of books. The moment that caught my attention was when she flinched.

Monsieur Bernard had raised his hand to the sky. Mademoiselle immediately shrunk back, not enough to silence her tutor but enough for me to rise to my feet. I followed the midget as he stormed off to the theater – my theater, dammit – with the young woman close behind. Her head was slung low, eyes focused at the tips of her shoes.

He forced the silent girl to the front of the stage before stalking towards the piano. A piano that he soon found to be out of tune. It brought me great pleasure to interrupt him in little ways. Soon those were not enough. My tricks had to become more violent because they had to capture his attention and let her slip away.

The only reason I did not kill Monsieur Bernard was because Mademoiselle Dubois begged me not to. She had written a quick message to me, and would often look around wide eyed if she perceived something was amiss. Little Giry had that same panicked look in her eye when she and…when she and the other chorus girls danced on my stage.

Soon my pastime was staying near the young Aminta-Rose Dubois. It was not something that interrupted my life. The last time I had slept or eaten anything was in 1870. Even the little treat that she and her father had made was given to the dogs on the street. They appreciated it more than a phantom.

The bell tolled, crying out that the first hour of the day had passed, and yet Mademoiselle Dubois and I sat in the library. She was typing and clicking away at her laptop, and I was watching the city glow through a narrow window hidden away by the bookshelves.

My heart shuddered as I heard the music. My music. The very substance that had fueled my mortal life. I turned to watch as her eyes were lit once more with a musician's passion. Her laptop was producing the melody, each note with lifeless singularity, each blending together to create a beautiful but dead sound. Her eyes scanned every line, watched each measure as it passed.

And then she sang.

It was not like my angel's. To be honest, she did not sound very different than when I trapped her in my theater. Her voice was still raw, soft, and utterly enticing. The part of me that had been drawn to my first student drew me to this girl. I slipped closer to her, unencumbered by objects strewn about the room.

Her eyes sealed themselves, obedient to the music's demands. She turned herself to face me. I knew she did not know what she was doing. Neither was I. Instinct drove me to reach out to her hand.

I could touch her.

An eternity passed between the next notes as I stared at our hands. Her fingers were caught in my clutches, yet all she did was curl them to take hold of my black gloved hand. The gentle grip seemed to radiate enough heat to reach beneath the leather and into my skin. She was so warm.

I expected her to open her eyes in a panic, but those gentle blue irises remained hidden behind dark lashes. Her voice vanished, and I filled the space. Each word I sang relaxed her more and more. A smile formed on her lips.

She looked so at peace. Her head tilted to the side just a bit, as though she was listening to nothing but the music.

My music. My voice.

Her body pressed against mine as I ensnared her. I braced her with my arm, soaking up the warmth that she gave to me. A tear found its way off her lashes and down her cheek, doomed by my hand as I wiped it away with my thumb.

It felt odd, feeling another human being again. The last woman that I had held in my arms…near a century and a quarter ago, the way I held young Aminta-Rose now would have seen us both the targets of gossip. But here, in the secluded library, we were the only two people in existence.

The voice of conscience whispered hateful things in my ear. She will open her eyes and despise you. Just like back then. Nothing has changed. You are still a monster, and this young woman will see it in just a moment. My grip slacked a bit, but not enough to fully release her.

When her eyes opened, it was not in desperation or panic. They did not snap open like a person under hypnosis. A pair of little cracks appeared, slowly growing into two hooded eyes. Being this close to her, I could easily see the flecks of green that pitted themselves around her pupils. Our gazes matched.

She did not look at me with fear, scrutiny, or disgust. The light shone off her eyes and gaze her a look of wonder and curiosity. Her mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. Every movement she made was slow, tranquil. The tolling of bells drew her gaze out to the window, yet the sound did not disturb the small smile and faint blush.

It took all my strength not to falter as I felt her hand slid under my jacket. Her fingers clasped around the cotton of my shirt just below my heart. She stepped closer to me as she laid her head against my chest. I had to wonder if she could hear my heart. Or if I even had a heart beat to hear. Her knees gave out, and if it had not been for my reflexes she would have struck her head on a pile of books. Instead she laid in my arms, nestled against me as her breathing evened out to that of someone asleep.

If Monsieur Dubois comes to inspect any noise, this will be nearly impossible to explain. I thought to myself. Stepping up to the wall, I attempted to walk through it as I had grown accustom to. When that succeeded, I was not sure whether to be glad I still did not have to deal with doors or upset at the fact that this new ability was selective.

I carried the young mistress to her bed, laying her down before finishing the last notes of the song she had transcribed. My hand drew itself across her jaw, filling me with pure delight. If nothing else, I could touch her.

She was less excited about it.

The next morning, she threw open the door to my theater. I asked what was wrong which only seemed to fuel her anger more. She crushed the note in her hands before freezing in position. With speed that could fall behind a lazy pond, she turned her face to look out at the empty seats. I looked, expecting to see her father or Elliana shadowing the doorway.

Mademoiselle Dubois crawled like a dog behind a set of curtains, drew her knees to her chest, pressed her face down into her legs. Her sobs echoed in the theater. I knelt beside her and reached for her hand, but I stopped short of the way.

She was muttering something, too garbled for me to fully understand. It sounded a bit like "I'm sorry."

Despite my calling her name, she remained in her state of desolation. When she finally responded, she turned a bright shade of red before rushing away. I stayed behind a moment.

That was familiar to me. A young dancer back in the Opera. She had failed miserably in front of the ballet and was suspended from the performance. That same pose was how I had found her, down in the first basement behind an elephant.

Her story ended with her on the end of a rope, not of my own doing.

I rushed after Aminta-Rose. She had not returned to the library where her laptop still lay, instead collapsing on her bed. The light revealed her tear streaks to me. I knelt beside the bed and took her hand, exactly how Madame Giry had taken that young dancer's hand.

She did not wake. Her warm breath strike the glove and bled its way down to my hand. I was unaware of her other hand sneaking a grab at my shirt sleeve until it was too late. I was trapped in her grasp, her head burrowed into my palm.

Greeting my readers.

I'm sorry about how long it took to update. It seems that the less work I have to do, the less writing I can get to do.

Thank you everyone who has followed, favorited, and commented on the story. I appreciate the patience that you, my dear readers, have with me.

I remain your obedient servant,

E.V