News of Cecily's illness spread quickly through the Populaire's staff, and everyone hoped the disease wouldn't travel with the same speed. Several days into her fever, she was moved into the infirmary where she could be under constant watch. Erik watched all this from his world behind the walls, wishing for once he could go out and comfort her like any normal friend.

Mentally berating himself for letting so much time slip away, Erik paced the hidden tunnels endlessly for several days. The day after Cecily was moved, Erik could no longer fight the urge to slip into her room, simply to be reminded of happier days. Cecily's fever had not broken, and each day brought a diminished hope for recovery.

Entering the room, he locked the door silently, the candelabra burning on the mantle more than enough light for this creature of darkness. Everything was in its order, as it always was in Cecily's world. Her bed laid carefully made, a sign that she had been absent for some time. Cecily never made her bed. She was of the opinion that she was the only supposed to be in her room, and that she was only going to mess it up several hours later.

Stacks of books lined the shelves and much of the floor. Books on every subject, from science to history to language to music, bore marks of good use, with several sporting torn pieces of paper as book marks where she had found interesting passages. Notebooks on her desk were filled with practiced mathematics and Russian.

It was the notebooks that Erik took a moment to study. She had poured herself into these journals, and Erik thought that perhaps he could sense her through them. He flipped through the pages, completely oblivious to the invasion of privacy he was committing. A series of painfully familiar words stopped his scanning.

Page after page was filled with these words that Cecily should not have known, but somehow did. Poor grammar made it somewhat difficult to understand in points, but it was still blatantly Persian.

Where she had ever gotten the time or resources to so thoroughly learn the language was beyond him. True, she probably couldn't pronounce it, but that was inconsequential. What had possessed her to write so much in a language she had little knowledge of and less use for?

I sometimes wonder, she had penned, why I work so hard at something no one will ever see. That none of my work is worth it. But then I think of Don Juan, and I know that sometimes even works of genius may never see the light of day. I truly hope Erik has this opera performed. It would prove interesting to say the least.

And of course, when I think of Don Juan, thoughts of Erik soon follow. I have not seen him in so long… I do not blame him for not coming back, though. My words were biting and cruel. My poor Erik! I wonder if we will ever mend, if I can ever show him these words, penned for him. I suppose in some way they are penned for him. I could write in French or Russian, but Persian is the only language that Erik ever has spoken of with emotion. Something happened in Persia that he will not speak of, and this is my own way of coming close to it.

Christine and Erik spend more and more long nights together then ever, and I see the toll it is taking on the both of them. Mme. Giry will interfere soon if Erik doesn't let Christine sleep. Perhaps he would leave her more often if he spoke to me, but perhaps I will never know. I miss him terribly.

Putting down the notebook, Erik noticed his hands were shaking again. She had missed him, had learned something for him, cared about him. He was blown away by these new revelations. Had he turned one more page, however, he would have found these words.

I fear I love him. I am only too happy to drown in this sea, but the sea will never welcome me. I am not worthy of him, but I love him. Oh, Erik.

If he would have read that, it may have changed everything.