Well, here is chapter one, such as it is. I will make an effort to stay as close to the character as I can, but golly gee, he is a complicated boy to put on paper! So I probably won't be writing a Perfect Phantom. Still, I think the story will be enjoyable, and I hope people are reading it. Considering this is the first "real" chapter, I am going to ask for reviews! At least pop me a line that says, "I'm reading it". You don't have to be fancy, just click the button and type something!

Antoinette sat on her bed, holding the rose, and the note. She kept reading it for some reason, as if she thought she could get some sort of hidden meaning from the single word. The only thought that sat in her mind long enough for her to dwell on it was "Why?"

Why did he do this? What does he want?

A thousand horror stories had flown through her mind. Did he want to kill her? If he felt she had betrayed him, she knew his twisted mind would justify the act. Still…the note wasn't his style, if her death was indeed what he was after. Was he going to force her to give up Raoul and Christine's location, so he could terrorize them once more?

No. She gave a bitter laugh. He would already know. Probably knew before she did.

Meg had made it sound as if he truly had vanished, made some sort of decision to withdraw from the world. Clearly, that was not the case. She looked again at the paper.

Tonight

Four hours later, the sun had set, and Antoinette was growing tense and nervous as she stared out the parlor window, into the night. The house was silent. Directly after being handed the letter, she had sent her daughter down to the inn where another Ballet girl was staying, after making her promise not to say a word. Meg hadn't wanted to go, and, if she were truthful with herself, Antoinette hadn't wanted her to go either. To be alone, with such a man…

No, he was not, in the flesh, the monster his reputation had turned him into. He was a mortal man…physically. His mind was not that of any other she had ever known, however. Both in intellect and reason. It was as odd—as powerful—as his voice, but much more dangerous.

"Madame Giry." She gasped, rising from her chair abruptly, putting enough force into the action for the piece of furniture to tilt off balance. She grabbed it before it crashed to the floor, searching for a figure hidden in the shadows. She had lit many, many, many candles. But they could not shine into the darkest nooks and crannies, and if there was a spot of shadow, he could find it, and hide in it. He had shaped his life with his abilities as a magician, making the Opera House magnificent with his creations. Even in her small house, he could use illusion to confuse her. For that reason, she ceased straining her eyes, and instead lowered her gaze to the candle on the table beside her.

"You received my letter." It was a statement, not a question, and so she did not bother to answer.

"I find myself in a strange position. My…home…is no longer accessible. And I won't be welcome anywhere else. There is no place I would call my home, now, even presented with the prospect."

She heard the faint note of agony in the last sentence, and her breath caught. But he didn't succumb to the emotion, and his next sentence came out in the same smooth, deep, polished tone he had started with.

"At first…the catacombs, their darkness, seemed a tolerable place for me. However, I find that I hold a distaste for the constant filthiness. Therefore, I took the only option that seemed plausible."

He paused, and Antoinette imagined a small wrinkle forming between his brows, as he thought out his next words. The pause lingered, and she felt her own face shift into a frown. What on earth could put him at such a loss for words? She almost wondered if he had left. She listened for his breathing, but heard nothing. Taking the candle in her hand, she stepped forward, pushing the flame into the shadows around her. She turned around, looking behind her, but nothing was there but the shut window. And his voice had come from inside the house. She turned around, and cried out.

He was barely two feet away, his face covered by the gruesome mask he had worn at the Masquerade. He didn't move, only stared at her, his blue eyes vivid behind the black cloth that surrounded them.

Antoinette inhaled, and, unable to stand the silent scrutiny, asked breathlessly, "And what option…was that?" Why was he here? And why, just now, when she should be terrified, was she hit with a brief, almost overwhelming feeling of…was it relief? Something similar, but not exactly. It was gone in an instant, leaving her no time to analyze.

"I must stay with you." He said it simply, the certainty in his tone belying the effort that speaking the words had clearly taken.

She stared at him, her eyes wide with shock. Then she frowned as she struggled to regain her composure. Her own personal mask, as it were. The mask of the authoritive, stern, solemn ballet mistress. It was a façade that had kept her safe in the Opera House. Nothing could penetrate it, except the raw feeling she always felt whenever he was near. So, it was with great difficulty that she forced her face and voice into the cool, unbothered expression.

"That is…" Ridiculous, she wanted to say. But the partially-hidden fire in his gaze warned to her watch her words. "…going to be difficult to arrange." She finished instead. "This is a small house, Meg and I take up the only two rooms available."

A laugh escaped him, harsh and scraping on her ears. She flinched.

"The attic will suffice. I went over it earlier. The boxes Meg moved in earlier made it a bit crowded, but it will still work. I have taken the liberty of arranging things to my liking."

It irked her that she could not see his expression behind the mask. Now, his eyes told her close to nothing, and his voice even less. She was not overly-bothered by the fact that he knew what they had done that day. Now that she knew he had taken an interest in her—or more appropriately, her home—it came with the territory—Phantom—that he also knew their every move. Still, a chill ran down her back. The familiar one that had been with her close to every moment at the Opera House.

She tried to take back the conversation. Take back her own house, for the sake of God.

"The…attic…I suppose I have very little choice in the matter. If it were only myself in this house, I would not find a problem with it. But Meg…she is very curious. And you are not tolerant of curiosity where your privacy is concerned." She made herself hold his gaze. This time, he glanced away, the corners of his mouth drooping down. After a silence of five seconds—five seconds of Antoinette holding her breath and fighting the shivers in her body—he looked back.

"I will not harm your daughter…in any circumstance. Though please do advise her to tread with caution when entering my attic."

His attic? It was his already?

"And give your word that you will not…take an interest in her." She knew it was stupid, even as she said it, but she could not help herself. For a heartbeat he remained absolutely still, then his fists clinched, and he clenched his teeth together. When he spoke, it was in a growl filled with anger, pain, and trembling restraint.

"An interest, Madame? What sort of interest are you suggesting I take? If you think that for a moment your plain, empty daughter could raise in me an interest of the romantic or carnal nature…" His voice trailed off, and he inhaled shakily. "The one person who was ever able to do that is gone. She will never come back, and so you need not fear, Madame Giry. I am eternally empty of such things now."

As empty as his voice. The music that had always run through his words was gone. Instead it was cold. As close to average as she suspected it could get. She cleared her throat, which had tightened, cutting off her air supply as he had spoken.

"Well, then I have no ob"—She broke off with a hiss as she felt something burning land on her hand. Reflexively, she jerked it back, then watched in dismay as more molten wax began to drip towards her hand. Before it reached skin, however, another hand, covered in a black glove, reached over her own, and removed the candle from her grasp.

He blew it out, and change in light momentarily blinded her. When her vision cleared, he was gone.