I awoke the next morning to the smell of lake water, roses, and French pastries. It was then that I remembered my kidnapping last night.

Poor Marisa, poor Cadence, Madeline, Meg, Christine, Madame Giry…

Well, not exactly Madame Giry. She'd know where I was, maybe even demand my release. But would the Phantom listen to her? Would the Phantom listen to anyone?

I considered staying in the Phantom's room. Tentatively, I parted the curtains and stepped outside.

The Phantom was sitting at his organ. He noticed that I entered by tensing, but did not turn.

"Hello…" I murmured.

Finally, the Phantom turned to face me.

"Hello," he returned. "May I ask of your name?"

"M-my name?" I stuttered, caught by surprise with his request.

"Yes," he chuckled.

"Paige," I said softly.

"Paige…" I loved the way he said my name. What was wrong with me?

"People always tease me about it," I said. "Like I'm a piece of paper or something. A Paige of paper, that was my nickname for a while. And the fact that I love to read doesn't help. 'Paige of a book', they call me these days."

The Phantom laughed. "You know how to read?" he asked.

Crap. I forgot that girls don't go to school in this time period! "My father taught me," I explained. "He was always telling me stories, and finally said that I needed to be able to read them myself." The last part was true, I started preschool early so I could read myself.

The Phantom nodded, seeming to understand. "That's not very common around here," he said. "And, don't worry. The name, 'Paige of a book' doesn't seem to fit you."

I looked away and blushed. If Marisa could've seen me, she'd say I was insane for being affected by his words.

"Are you hungry?" he asked. "There's some pastries left in the kitchen."

I smiled. "Yes, thank you." I walked in the direction of the kitchen, leaving the Phantom to his suspicions about girls who read.

The pastries were delicious- strawberry, my favorite. After breakfast, I settled for listening to the Phantom's music.

"You know my name," I said as he finished playing a song from Don Juan Triumphant for me. "But I don't know yours."

He looked at me in shock. "My name?"

"Yes," I said with a laugh.

"Well, I haven't told anyone," he said. "Not even Christine. But you're an exception." He smiled, not even listening to his strange words. What happened to being angry at me for ruining his chance with Christine?

"My name is Erik," he said, and he seemed proud of it.

"Erik…" I tested the name.

Erik smiled.

"I thought you'd still be mad at me," I said suddenly.

Erik was caught by surprise. "What?"

"I said I thought you'd still be mad at me," I said.

"Oh," he said softly. "I'm sorry about last night. My temper…"

"I know," I said. He gave me an odd look. "Well, I at least know how you feel. I can get that way, too."

"You're probably not as bad as me," he muttered. "I thrash out in anger, murder in rage. I'm a monster."

I placed a hand on his shoulder comfortingly.

"Never say that," I said sternly. "You are not a monster. You are a human being, and having a temper has nothing to do with Greek mythology."

Again, he gave me an odd look.

"The Ancient Greeks? All those monsters, satyrs, Cyclops, all those things. You're not one of them."

He laughed, which was my intention of bringing up Greek mythology. The atmosphere was getting a bit tense.

"Then I guess I'm a new kind of monster," he said to himself.

"What part of 'Never say that' don't you understand?" I asked. He smiled.

"There's no point in denying the truth. That will get you nowhere."

"There's no truth to saying you're a monster."

"Yes there is."

"I don't believe you."

"It's not just my temper you should be afraid of," he chuckled darkly.

"Oh, great," I muttered. "The face behind the mask. Please. I've heard about it, and I don't believe a word anyone says. Especially if it comes from Joseph Buquet's mouth. It's just not realistic, what people say."

"It's not what they say that matters," he agreed, adding, "but what you see."

"Stop it, just stop!" I exclaimed, throwing my hands in the air and standing up for emphasis. "Okay, I barely know you, yet I know everything about you, including the fact that you're not a monster!"

"I'm not a monster, am I?" he questioned, standing up as well.

"No, you're not," I said defiantly.

"Prove it," he spat.

Crap. I released his temper.

"Prove it," he repeated, with more venom. "Unless, of course, you can't, which is perfectly understandable."

"You write beautiful music," I started. "You taught Christine to sing so beautifully that the owners of the opera had the guts to replace Carlotta with her. You haven't killed me. You're. Not. A. Monster."

With that, I ripped off his mask.