Author's note: Today is my 23rd birthday. And do you know what kind of presents I like best from my readers? Yes, reviews! So you know what you've got to do.

Chapter Forty-Seven

September 10th 1892: Erik

We started our training the next morning, right after the boy had got his breakfast. I had only drunk a cup of tea, which had been enough to put some life into me. All night long I had been busy composing. It had been more difficult than usual because I hadn't been able to use the organ. I had barely noticed the hours go by, so that I had been rather surprised when looking up and realising that it had already been seven o'clock.

Now I was a little tired, but it was a small price for having worked on such a good idea. During the dress rehearsal it had occurred to me that watching an opera shouldn't have been such an unpleasant experience for a child. Wasn't it possible to find a story that was appealing for people of all ages? The idea had set me thinking, and although I only had produced a few melodies yet, I was very content. This was a project that would occupy my mind at night, holding back the memories.

Yet first I'd be busy with the project that occupied my days: Philippe's education. At the moment we were standing in front of a room in a remote corner of the building. I had chosen it carefully, knowing that we wouldn't be disturbed here. Today's first lesson would take a little time, and I wasn't willing to stop every other minute because some stagehands walked by.

"One of the secrets of being a good Opera ghost is getting into every room," I told my pupil, who was listening attentively. "In order to… well, change a few things on Signora Marchesi's costume I had to get into her dressing room. How do you think I managed to do that?" "Some of the rooms have hidden entrances only you know of," he replied instantly. I nodded in approval. Yesterday I had shown him the door to the managers' office as well as the trick mirror in the room I had used to give Christine lessons in so many years ago. We hadn't got to her old dressing room yet, though. I'd show him the large mirror in there later.

Still I wasn't completely content with his answer. "You're right, but I don't have secret doors in each and every room. So there has to be another possibility, one that I can use for all the doors, not only here at the opera." I said, pulling a thin piece of metal out of my pocket. I inserted it into the lock of the door, and after just a few moments it was open. Philippe stared at me incredulously. "This is amazing," he breathed. "How did you do that?"

We practiced for more than an hour. Patiently I showed him the right way of doing it countless times. Slowly he began to understand how a lock worked and what he had to do to open it. His motions were clumsy at first, yet they grew better with every attempt. Small beads of sweat were forming on his forehead, but he insisted on trying it again… and again… and yet another time. Finally I heard the faint sound that announced victory. And indeed the door was open.

The boy turned around to look at me, smiling all over his face. I knew the feeling of triumph only too well. It had been just the same for me when I had managed to do this trick for the first time. The only difference was that I had had no teacher, nobody to share the exhilarating joy of being able to do something others couldn't with. I had been alone. Watching Philippe, my little pupil, I couldn't help returning the smile.

"And what is in the room?" he asked, peering into the darkness. "Old costumes and broken pieces of scenery," I answered. He looked rather disappointed; it was clear that he had expected something more exciting. "It's far more interesting than you think," I told him, walking up to him and illuminating the room with my lantern. At once bright colours could be seen everywhere, yellow, red and blue in the corner where the costumes were kept, and deep green and brown coming from the pieces of scenery.

This room always had a strangely inspiring effect on me, and it seemed to be like that for Philippe as well. He walked around slowly, lifting an old cloth here and squeezing behind a wardrobe to see what was on the other side there. "Many things are not the way they appear at first sight," I remarked. "That's why one should try to find out more… But be careful over there!" I added as he was about to push aside a wooden beam. "Believe me, you don't want that on your foot. And pay attention to splinters! You can pull the sleeves of your shirt over your hands. Or wait…"

I rummaged under my cloak for a few moments, then pulled out a pair of small leather gloves. "Put those on," I advised him, giving them to him. "They'll protect your hands." He did what I told him, smiling as he realised they fitted perfectly. "Thank you, Uncle Erik," he said happily, continuing his exploration of the room immediately. I watched him, glad that I had bought the gloves a few weeks ago. They were very useful.

"If I find something nice, can I take it with me?" he wanted to know. His voice sounded muffled because he was just examining a pile of dusty old costumes. "Of course you can," I replied. "Nobody needs these things anymore. Sometimes the stagehands fetch a little wood to repair a new piece of scenery, but apart from that the door remains locked most of the time…at least for most people. By the way, I got many things for building Orpheus here."

We left the room a little while later, carrying several pieces of wood and a bright blue cloth. Philippe had told me he wasn't sure what to do with it, but I had encouraged him to take the things anyway. I wanted him to play with them, to get a feeling for the different materials. It was essential for the process of building something to understand what it consisted of first.

"What else are we going to do today?" Philippe asked as we made our way back to the cellars. "We'll stay at home and study," I answered. "You still need a lot of practice in both reading and writing." He threw me a pleading glance. "I'd rather look at all the other rooms up here," he muttered. I gave a slight sigh. It was not as if I didn't understand him. After this morning's events such simple activities had to appear very dull. "I know it's not very exiting, but you need those skills," I explained. "Everybody does. Have I ever mentioned the notes I write to the managers?" He shook his head, and I started telling him some stories. After a few minutes he was giggling. The sound was music to my ears.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………

Even though we had really spent the rest of the day studying, Philippe hadn't grown bored. It was all a matter of the right exercises. As soon as he had realised that the words he had copied formed a note to Signora Marchesi, he had become much more interested in them. I had explained the difficult ones to him, and when he had read the note out to me in the end, he hadn't even stumbled over ´your insolent behaviour´ or ´apologise immediately´. I had been very proud of my pupil.

Now it was ten o'clock and perfectly quiet in the house. I had sent the boy to bed two hours ago, knowing that it was the time when he always went to bed. Yesterday it had been much later, of course, but in general I wanted to keep things they way he was used to them. Besides, he needed his sleep. It had been a long and exhausting day.

I was sitting in my favourite armchair in the living room and let the day pass in review. In my hands I held a sheet of paper and a pen, and occasionally I wrote down a few words. I made a plan of what I had already taught Philippe and what I'd do in the following days. He was a most promising pupil, curious and eager to learn. I'd have never believed possible that it could be so wonderful to pass on my knowledge. Still I had to be careful not to demand too much of him. He was, after all, a child.

A faint sound pulled me out of my thoughts. I looked up from my notes and listened intently. A few moments passed in silence, then I heard it again. It sounded like… a groaning. At once I jumped to my feet and hurried to the room that had once belonged to Christine and was Philippe's now, for that was where the noise had come from. My mind was racing, so was my heart. Maybe the boy had fallen out of the bed and hurt himself. Or he was feeling sick.

Yet entering the room I realised that none of it was true. He was lying in bed, but he was thrashing around wildly, muttering: "No, Maman… don't go… please… Maman…". I sat down on the bed quickly and took his little hand, which was hot and sweaty. "It's all right, Philippe," I said soothingly. "I'm here…" Slowly he calmed down. His breathing grew less fast, and finally he lay still and opened his eyes.

"Uncle Erik?" he murmured, looking at me with a sleepy gaze. "I had a bad dream. Maman was there… and then she simply left…" "Your mother is fine," I assured him. "Your father is with her. You'll see her in a few days' time. There's nothing to worry about. Go back to sleep." I wanted to stand up, but he held onto my hand. "Maman always stays with me when I had a bad dream," he told me, his big blue eyes almost hypnotising me. And how could I have resisted that pout?

I settled down again, and Philippe closed his eyes, pressing my cold hand against his hot cheek. "Good night, Uncle Erik," he muttered. "Good night, Philippe," I gave back. Listening to his breathing becoming deep and even, I knew he had fallen asleep again. Still I didn't leave. I thought about his nightmare and the many nights I had spent alone as a child. This would never happen to my boy. I'd always be there for him. Always.