Dear readers,

Forgive the length of this introduction, but my wonderful reviewers deserve a moment in my (rather small) spotlight. I appreciate the feedback, and to all readers, new ones in particular, an aye or nay is still greatly appreciated. But to those who have so far encouraged me: You are truly wonderful to me!

my-echo: Yes, I do know what it is like to nearly choke to death laughing and eating, and I'm glad that you found it amusing.

musiclover106: Thank you for your reviews, and while I have some ideas myself, I'm always willing to take suggestions on what exactly she will get herself into next.

Pussin boots: You were my first reviewer, and it meant the world. But what exactly did you mean by dumb girl? Just wondering myself.

To my Anonymous reviewers: Thank you for your opinions too. Keep reading!

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When he later emerged from the most secret of places, his temper having cooled considerably, he did not find her in the bedroom. Something like anxiety struck him in the gut. What if she had gone back? He had no hold on her; indeed, he now felt that fear would not be effective with her. She had, after all, seen him kill before she had followed him. And she had mistaken his tending her for, of all things, kindheartedness. He smiled a sort of half-sneer, one end curving up behind his mask. No, he was only kind to young Miss Daae. Now, she was someone he would willingly tend to.

This girl though, he had to be kind to. He needed her allegiance, and if fear would not work, then a rough imitation of compassion would have to do. Cursing under his breath, he set out to find her. As he turned the corner toward the boat, he heard it: the soft vibrato of a plucked string. He rushed toward the instrument room. Perhaps this girl was more trouble than she was worth.

What he found when he entered stopped him cold. In her lap was violin, an old one he had been meaning to repair for years. She was running her hands along the three remaining strings and plucking out a simple tune. It was a folk song he had heard before, but could not identify. The melody somehow horrified his opera-trained ears and calmed his world-weary mind all at once. She hummed. It was not startlingly beautiful; in fact, it was rather plain, but he was still drawn to listen. Words in a tongue he did not understand followed, and foreign syllables spilled out as if begging the unmanned instruments lining the walls to join in. They didn't, but he approached and stood over her. She gasped, the song ending in a dissonant chord that made him wince.

"Get up." She obeyed, cradling the old violin like a child. "What was that?"

"I just wanted to see…so I just…and I saw the fiddle…and it was old…and I thought."

"Stop babbling, girl," he bellowed. Then, his voice soft as satin, "What was the song?"

"I, I don't know. I've never known the name."

"Where did you learn it? To play I mean." His voice was condescending, yet interested.

She stiffened. "My da' taught me."

"He taught you to play it like that?"

"My arms were too short then, so he set it in my lap." Her jaw tightened, a motion imperceptible to those not trained by time to know the small things are the most important. "I grew too slowly. I could never really reach, and then he was gone." She said no more, and though he felt the urge to press, he maintained his silence.

"You play it like a dulcimer. Do you know what that is?" She shook her head, and the role of teacher momentarily overwhelmed him. "It is an instrument from America that has three or four strings that are plucked, like you were doing. They're fairly new, but there is another kind of dulcimer that you strike with hammers. And…" He realized that this time it was he that was babbling. He stopped midsentence and walked to a dusty corner of the room, rummaging through instruments that had sat unplayed for years. He pulled out an hourglass shaped instrument. "This is a mountain dulcimer." She still stared at him, confusion written on her face. For some reason the look frustrated him, and he felt the need to change the subject. "Mademoiselle, what is your name."

"Cecily. Cecily Pencombe." He nodded, and turned to leave the room. "Wait! What is yours?"

He turned back, the flickering shadows casting darkness over the unmasked portion of his face, making it look as though the mask was suspended in the air. He took a deep breath. What should he tell her? Of all the names he had, what would help him most? He could not reveal he was the Opera Ghost now; it would shatter everything he had worked so hard to accomplish. What did that leave him? "My name is Erik."

Before she could respond, he had once again disappeared.