The candle flickered, and Erik cursed loudly. "Can I do nothing in this place?" Grabbing the libretto he was working on, he stalked into the only room where the candles would not flicker and slammed the book down on the desk. In the corner, piles of red fabric were awaiting his needle. He would need to start on that soon if he wished to have it done in time for the Masquerade. Only two months left before his triumphant return. Had it truly been four months since he had last made himself known to the inhabitants of the opera?

He sat in the chair, rubbing his closed eyes. The feel of the right side of his face exposed to the open air taunted him, but the mask was too much to bear in this dark solitude. He may have allowed the opera house to think he had gone, but his rounds had continued. He knew every move, every word, every thought. He had to, to ensure that his plan went properly. And everything depended on that. After the masquerade, it would only be a matter of time until Christine would be his!

That little rat of a boy was deceiving her, giving her all the things that money could buy, trying to win her heart by such superficial beauty. When she heard his voice again, she would remember what beauty really was. And she would return to her angel.

Sighing, he turned to look at the open book before him. He moved to sweep aside the books that cluttered the desk now, the result of several days' worth of scouring his library for inspiration for a costume. He had, after all that time, had to design one himself, as none of the designs pleased him. "For all the knowledge here, nothing! Philosophy, science, religion, art! Nothing!" He glared down at the book of artists and scowled. It was this wretched book that had started his problems.

It was this book that had incited him to teach Cecily to read. To read, and then write, and then math and Russian. Russian, which had been so useful to her in her new courtship. The very thought soured his mouth, and he resisted the urge to spit. She had been all around the opera house with that blonde boy for months, smiling giddily and granting far too many kisses for a dignified woman. But after all, she was a heartless beast, a whore, not a woman after all.

But even she had secrets. For all the long talks she had with the Russian prat, she never once spoke a word of her meetings with Sophie. The word fell from her lips only in the privacy of her own room, and once with Mme. Giry. Most often it spilled from her pen. He smiled coldly. She had even stopped writing in that horrible Persian. His smile became a sneer as he remembered that it was instead Russian now.

Realizing he could not work on his opera in this state, he threw the book of art to the floor and took up his needle. Red death could consume his mind. Turn his thoughts away from the sweet torment of his angel of music, the wretchedness of his own state, and the cruelty of Cecily.

"Strange," he thought aloud, "how she had not even attempted to beseech me to change my mind." Making the first stitch into the prepared fabric, he laughed coldly. "Silly, silly Erik! She hasn't even the time to think of you, much less devise your plans! Far too concerned with her pretty little life to be thinking of ugly Erik!" His eyes narrowed. "Well, she too will get what comes to her. So many opportunities… But first, finish your plans. Then nothing else will matter. Christine will be mine."

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A/N: Sorry for the incredible shortness, but another is nearly finished. Erik has been rather upset with me of late, and to appease the Phantom, this is what he gets. For those of you considering writing pieces of Erik's history, beware: he does not leave you alone once you have commenced. He haunted my footsteps the entire week I had off. I swear I saw him watching me from the corner while I was working on the house. So, my dear Phantom, here is your chapter. And don't worry, you're triumphant return is at hand.