Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Phantom of the Opera. Only original stuff is mine.

AN: Wow, I can't believe how many people like this story! You guys rock! Thanks for all of the wonderful reviews; they help to keep my muses happy! Enjoy the chapter!

Chapter 8: The Home Beside the Lake:

Early morning saw the Craven family bustling about the Opera House, which was already in a state of chaos. Bad enough that they had a performance in less than two weeks to be ready for, but now they had to help the managers' sisters in their departure at an ungodly hour! Servants scrambled to lug heavy trunks down stairs and hoist them into the back of the waiting carriages. Meanwhile, the cook, who was always up before dawn, served a fairly adequate breakfast to the departing guests while the other staff members hurried to make sure that nothing was forgotten.

In all of the hustle and bustle, no one missed Mademoiselle Aria Craven until the guests were almost handed into their carriages. The young cousins wished to say 'goodbye' to their doting Aria, but Roland Craven merely shook his head, claiming that it was early and that Aria had been exhausted the night before.

"You will see her again soon, my dears," he said with a laugh at their pouting faces. "I'm sure you will all be back within a few months, and have plenty to talk about then. For now, it's time to go."

Despite their children's protests, both of their mothers agreed. As all of the departing company climbed into their carriages, everyone promised to exchange letters, send telegraphs, and to make sure that family members came up with a better plan for their next or first trips to France. When dawn came, the females were on their way to the train station, where their bags were already arriving.

As they waved goodbye to their sisters, it should be noted that Roland and Gregory Craven, managers/owners of the Opera Populaire, were far more worried than they appeared. Roland Craven knew that his daughter dearly loved to sleep late, but she would never do so while family members were leaving. If there was one thing that Aria took seriously in life, it was playing the role of hostess to its fullest; she would never miss saying goodbye to departing family!

Concerned that she was ill in some way, Roland headed upstairs to his daughter's room, knocking gently on the door to be sure that he didn't disturb her. Remembering that there was another door inside the suite that led to the bedroom, Roland opened the front entry door and quietly crept to the bedroom door, knocking on it in the hopes that Aria would call out an answer. When none came, he cracked open the door and peered inside. What he saw nearly made his heart stop.

There stood her bed, completely made and looking as though it had not been slept in.

Panicking, Roland Craven spun on his heels and began searching the room for some sign of struggle. A quick glance told that no fight had occurred, but there were two envelopes sitting on the vanity. One was written in a hand and red ink he knew all too well; facing him was the red wax seal in the form of a skull, one that always seemed to mock the letter's receiver. The Ghost had been here, and had he taken Aria! Furious, Roland snapped up the note and tore it open, his eyes hurriedly scanning the message.

Gentlemen,

I have now sent you numerous messages concerning my monthly salary, and you have disobeyed me. As previously stated, if the funds were not paid in due time, then it was intended that I take something of value to you both. In the stead of the twenty thousand francs that was to be given, I have taken a creature that, in my own personal opinion, is worth at least that amount. Tonight, a precious jewel now belongs to me in the form of Monsieur Roland Craven's greatest treasure: his daughter, Aria.

Have no fear, gentlemen, for the lovely mademoiselle is to be my distinguished guest until such times that I grow weary of her presence. For now, I expect the opening night of 'The Magic Flute' to go on as planned; after all, there is still the salary that you will owe me for next month to consider! You will simply have to explain to the public that the dear lady has been called home to England on an important matter. What that matter is, I care not, so long as it prevents fools from asking questions.

Since I already have this month's funds in the shape of Mademoiselle Craven, I will not be interfering in the success of the performance. However, I will be watching it from one of my accustomed spots in the Populaire, and will be critiquing your efforts in making my Opera House glow once more. I have faith that you will attract the attention of a patron after that night, and will follow future instructions on how to run my Opera House to the letter from this day onwards.

I remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant,

O.G.

P.S.: To ease your minds, I have included a message from dear Aria with this note.

Inhaling sharply, Roland picked up the next message and read through it. It was short, but it was in Aria's handwriting. The letters were smooth and elegant, though a tad shaky, meaning that she had been relatively calm and unharmed while writing it.

Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, Roland read what his beloved child had to say.

Dearest Papa,

The Ghost has allowed me to compose this short message in an effort to sooth both you and Uncle Gregory, and to keep you from worrying. I assure you that I am unharmed, though more than a little frightened at what has happened. Apparently, I am to stay with the Ghost as a hostage in his home until he feels sure that you will both obey all of his wishes concerning his demands. At present, he still expects the money that is owed him, and wants it quickly. Please, do everything he asks when it concerns the welfare of his beloved Opera House! It is the only way for me to return to you sooner.

I love you both and hope to see you soon.

Love,

Aria

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Roland clutched both notes in his hand and ran to find his brother. Something had to be done to find Aria, and hopefully Gregory would be a bit more clear-headed in order to think of a plan that could be carried out with no harm to his beloved daughter.
After composing the letter to Papa, I was allowed to explore the confines of the Ghost's cavern. It was actually quite a bit larger than I thought it would be, and so I had a great deal to occupy myself with as I tried not to think about my father and uncle. Hopefully, exploring the cave would prevent me from thinking about what they would likely be doing and feeling just now, especially after receiving both my note and the Ghost's.

In the back of my mind, I tried to think of the Ghost/Phantom as Erik, until I realized that he was of both personalities: one was Erik the man, and the other was the Phantom persona that he donned to 'haunt' the Populaire. It was quite fascinating to reflect on…while I was trying not to be frightened of that same man who currently holding me prisoner, of course.

At the present time, it was Erik and not the Ghost showing through. He had delivered my note over an hour ago, and was currently seated before his organ, composing a new opera or song. His fingers danced over a few notes, and when he reached one particular note or another, the fingers would stop. They would then hover over the ivory keys for a moment, as though he were contemplating that particular section. An instant later, those hovering fingers were snatching up a quill up in order to write the series of notes down before he forgot them.

For a short while, this was amusing, but I soon became bored, and that was a terrible thing to happen. I am a curious person by nature, as I'm sure most people are, and so when I had nothing to amuse myself with, I let my eyes wander, my mind following close behind. My eyes drifted towards a particular hallway that I had seen him walk through earlier, and I felt the urge to see where it lead. Of course, not wanting to be rude to the person who had me at his mercy, I tried to cough in order to get his attention. Startled, Erik whirled around on his bench, apparently having forgotten I was there.

"What is it?" he snapped, glaring at me from behind his mask.

"I'm sorry, monsieur," I said, giving him a polite nod. "But I was wondering if I could explore your home, if only for a little while." I then gave him a small, genuine smile. "It looks fascinating."

For a moment, he eyed me as though trying to see if I were lying to him. "Very well," he said, turning back towards his music. "You may explore my house. Just be sure not to touch anything!"

Since one of my mother's favorite rules for me was 'look, but don't touch,' I had no problem with this command. "Thank you, Monsieur," I softly replied while walking towards that hallway.

"My name is Erik," he said, not looking up from his work. "You may call me by that name."

Having nothing to say to this, I merely walked away, my eyes focused on the door closest to my left. After pushing the door open, I found, to my surprise and utter embarrassment, that I had stumbled upon Erik's bedroom! I knew it to be his from the amount of men's clothing scattered around the room, some of which I was sure needed a good wash. Also, I saw various half-masks, all of which had been put on mannequin heads along a table at the rear of the room. Some masks covered just the right side of the face, while others covered the top half, all of them sure to cover whatever marked Erik's handsome features.

'The poor man,' I thought, my eyes slowly scanning the room. 'He has such a beautiful face, and yet, when only a small portion of it is flawed, all the world turns against him.'

In the center of the room was a large mahogany bed covered in dark blue sheets. Several wardrobes and dressers lined the walls, and at the foot of the bed was a wooden chest. Not wanting to disturb Erik's privacy, I quietly backed out of the room and shut the door. Leaving that room behind, I moved on to the next one, which was a rather large workroom.

Actually, it was a series of workrooms, all of which had amazing and beautiful masterpieces that were crafted by a caring and passionate hand. I saw tables with music boxes, sculptures, paintings, models, and carvings, all in various stages of completion; I even spotted a table with tiny pieces of jewelry ready to be made. One particular table looked interesting, and to my inexperienced eye, it appeared to be an inventing table. Blueprints for numerous devices were scattered around this bench, and while I longed to pick up something just to see what it was, I remembered that I wasn't to touch anything.

'I shall have to ask Erik what he is working on and how it works,' I thought as I carefully wove my way amongst the pieces of artwork. 'He truly is brilliant to be able to make all of these things!'

The fascinating thing about these workrooms was that you could easily see one workroom from another, all of which were connected with stone archways. It was through one of the archways that I could see a different, completely separate work area, one that was connected to the cavern by the lake. From where I was, I could hear Erik composing his opera, and since I didn't want to risk breaking something he was working on, I quickly slipped out of the work areas and back to the hallway to continue my explorations.

Across the hall from the workrooms was a place that could easily become my favorite hideaway while I was here: the library. It should not have surprised me that Erik was a lover of books, especially since he was so gifted in creating art. Any artist would have to exercise his mind while he was not working, so a large room filled floor-to-ceiling with books was to be expected. I found literary writings from nearly all of the famous authors of today, as well as numerous classic Greek, Roman, Italian, and Asian writers, most of which I had never heard of. On one side of the room was a fireplace with two chairs standing before it, each with two tall oil lamps that could be lit for cozy reading at any time.

My fingers joyfully caressed each book spine, my eyes eagerly drifting over the titles. The topic of each book was different, and the subjects included science, philosophy, astronomy, and fiction. Even my father didn't have so many books, and he was considered the scholar of the family! Despite my being held as a prisoner, my opinion of Erik was rising considerably with each hint of his intelligence.

'If he's as brilliant as I think he is, perhaps I will be able to persuade him to release me.' I sighed and turned to leave the room. 'The least I could hope for is a reasonable genius!'

After leaving the library, I discovered another door that appeared to be locked. When I turned the knob, it would not open, but when I gave a firm push, it gave way. Perhaps it had not been locked properly, or even locked at all, but when I saw what was inside of the tiny room, I thought that perhaps it should have been more secured than it already was.

There in the center of the room was a replica of a lovely young woman clad in a white dress, a woman that I could only guess to be Christine Daae. If the reproduction of the woman was exact, then she was very tall and slender, almost willowy in height and weight. A wig of brown curls sat atop the head, and wide, innocent eyes stared out at whoever stood before it. I could not tell what color the eyes were, but they seemed to be a bit dazed; if the eyes were an exact likeness of Christine, then the girl must have been innocent and naïve to the point of foolishness.

'Perhaps she still thinks babies are brought to women by the stork!' I smothered a giggle at the thought. 'Well, she certainly looks like a young woman in body, but her eyes tell of a child's soul. No wonder she was terrified of what had happened to her here at the Opera House!'

After I had read about the fire, I had fantasized about it in my deepest, darkest imagination. At night, I dreamed what it would have been like growing up here, in the magic and wonder of the Opera Populaire and underneath the gaze of the mysterious Opera Ghost. Just the thought of a tall, dark, handsome man of the shadows falling in love with me sent the most wonderful thrill up my spine. While reading the most current news about Mademoiselle Daae and her fiancé (now husband), Raoul de Chagny, I had come to think that the young soprano was rather foolish to have chosen the Count.

'However, if she truly was as innocent and naïve as she appears through this likeness, then perhaps the Count was a better choice,' I pondered as my eyes drifted around the room, looking at the numerous portraits and dried roses scattered about the walls. 'I do not think that she would have been able to survive down here for very long. She appears almost fragile, not only in body, but also in mind and spirit; no doubt that she would have faded and died here, feeling terrified for her life.'

No, Christine Daae was not the sort to dwell in darkness, and she had been right to leave. However, the least she could have done was simply tell Erik that she did not love him, not drag herself and everyone around her into that terrible scene! Oh, well, that was life, I suppose. I could easily see why he had fallen in love with her, though why he was still in love with her was something I could not understand. So, deciding to let things be, I left the shrine and made sure to secure the door behind me.

As I made my way back to the main cavern, I realized that I was famished. My eyes caught sight of a clock standing upon one of the tables and I instantly blinked in surprise. It was almost time for lunch! Goodness, how long had I been wandering through those rooms? It certainly didn't feel like very long. Well, my stomach declared that it was time to eat, and from the sound of organ music coming from the other room, Erik would not take an interruption very kindly.

Shaking my head, I made my way to the only other room I had yet to investigate: the kitchen. Opening random cupboards and drawers, I found the place remarkably well-kept and well-stocked in everything from bread to silverware. After I had examined every bit of food in the pantry, I began to think of something for the both of us to eat.

Sighing, Erik laid down his quill and paper to stretch his arms. He knew he had been composing for hours, thus purposely avoiding his guest. It was rude of him, of course, but what did a Phantom need with manners? He had no one to teach him how to act, so he would simply act out as he willed.

Rubbing his eyes to bring some life back to him, Erik opened them to a most surprising sight. There on his organ sat a covered tray and a cup which held something that steamed. Curious, he hesitantly reached out and touched the lid with a finger.

'It could be a trick of some kind,' he thought to himself. 'Someone could be playing games with me.'

But the only other person down by the lake with him was his little guest, Aria Craven, and she hardly seemed like the sort to play a horrible prank, particularly not her present captor. Leaning forward, Erik sniffed the area near the tray and inhaled the enticing aroma of some sort of broth. His stomach growled to remind him that breakfast had been ages ago, and before he could stop himself, his hand had lifted the lid.

It was soup, one that was full of cooked vegetables, and sitting beside it on a plate was a chicken sandwich. Someone had taken one of the roasted chickens Madame Giry had brought him and had made it into a delicious-looking sandwich. The cup held hot tea, and beside that was a tiny plate with several sugar cubes, and an even tinier cup held a bit of cream for the tea.

'Aria made me lunch,' Erik thought, not sure if he could believe it or not.

She was a noblewoman, and somehow she had made him a meal! Madame Giry rarely cooked for him, instead bringing him things that had already been cooked so that he could help himself to it. The only times Madame had cooked was when he was extremely ill, and since he was most certainly not ill now, the only logical explanation was that Aria Craven had made him lunch.

Not wanting to insult her, Erik picked up the bowl and the spoon included with it, hesitantly taking a small sip. To his surprise, it was quite good, and he devoured the whole thing in moments. Quickly setting the bowl aside, Erik then picked up the sandwich and savored the taste of the chicken, bread and mustard as it all came together inside his mouth. When that was finished, he happily over-sugared his tea and drank it down, feeling contently full for the first time in his life.

"Well, I'm glad you enjoyed it," teased a female voice from his right.

Turning, Erik saw Aria standing there, still in her nightgown and robe. "I did," he replied. "I do not eat a great deal, and when I do, it isn't much. That was one of the most filling meals I have ever had."

To his pleasure, she blushed. "Well, you have yourself to thank for that," she said with a small smile. "There was a roast chicken in the pantry, and a previously made broth I found on the stove, so I made do with what I had. And your tea selection is quite impressive, for a Frenchman."

Erik found himself chuckling at her words. "From an Englishwoman, I shall take that as a compliment," he stated, bowing his head slightly.

Good God, was he actually joking with this woman? He never joked, nor did he think that he had any sort of humor dwelling within him! What power did this woman, this Aria, have to make him act so unlike his normal self? Pushing the thought aside, Erik looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

"I did not think that the English nobility knew how to cook," he commented.

Again, she blushed. "Well, when I was little, I would often become bored with the lessons my mother would teach me and hide in the kitchen," Aria explained. "The cook kindly hid me until my mother gave up her search for me, then she would drag me out to help her cook. It was supposed to be my payment for her hiding me, but I found that I liked cooking things, which surprised the both of us."

Erik nodded in understanding. "I, too, look for other interests when I become bored," he said. Giving her a closer look, he tilted his head to the side in thought. "You cannot walk around here in your nightdress," he stated. "I will bring you some of your clothing either tonight or tomorrow. It can be a bit cold here by the lake, and it would bode ill with us should you become sick with something."

Without another word, he turned back to his organ and his music.

He had surprised me with his compliments on my food, though I didn't think it was much. I had been taught to make many things, and soup had been one of the first lessons Mrs. Gardener had taught me; I could easily bake, fry, and boil anything, thanks to my kitchen lessons. But to be complimented on mere soup from a man in a mask…that was something no one else could boast about.

'And he offered to bring me clothes,' I thought as I made my way to the library to pass the time. 'He doesn't want me to become ill!'

But was he truly thinking of me, or was he thinking of my being his financial connection to my uncle and father? Only time would tell…

AN: Aw, Erik's a softie…sort of. Please review! Thanks!