Sorry for taking so long to update, I've been working on another story of mine, but now I'm back with this one as well. This chapter is mostly flashback, let me know what you think!

Italics= Flashback

Normal= Present.

As Antoinette prepared for bed the memories lingered, seeming to float through the air in such a way that when she turned to light a candle or to pull a sheet, she ran into them, blowing them back to such vivid color that she had to close her eyes and pause until they faded again.

The ballet girls' dormitory wasn't very private, but it was at least fairly spacious. Only the Ballet Mistress got a room to herself. Antoinette was envious, her privacy came second to her desire to succeed in the dance, but it was a close second, though she'd never admit it. Perhaps she would be the Ballet Mistress some day, be in charge of her own girls, teach them to be stars like her Madame was teaching.

Of course, if the other girls or Madame found out she'd helped a murderer escape and was secretly harboring him in the opera house, no doubt her career would be demolished before it could even begin. That hadn't stopped her from doing it, though. He was a boy, perhaps three years younger than her, and Antoinette's current line of thinking was that he must be hungry.

She'd given him a couple extra blankets the night before, once she'd begged off from her friends with the excuse of not feeling well. Then she'd gone back to her own room—because she honestly wasn't feeling well at all—and lay in her bed, hoping sleep free of nightmares would come.

It was between midday practice and the evening performance when Antoinette had finally found the time to slip away. She'd gone to the kitchen while the cook was out on errands. She'd only been brave enough to take a little stale bread and toast it for a few moments near the oven. While it was toasting she wrapped a slab of butter in a clean cloth and stuck it down her bodice. Uncomfortable, but effective. She remembered doing the same thing with cookies she'd "borrowed" from the baker when she was very young.

She wrapped the bread in one of her extra drawers. It would be embarrassing if anyone caught her, but she didn't think people would question her taking her drawers to "the laundry" if they did.

And "they" did. If Antoinette had been asked who she liked the least in the Opera House, Joseph Buquet would have been at the top of her list.

"What ya got there, Annie?" His sneering voice came from behind her right as she was walking down the dormitory hall.

"My name is Antoinette, sir, and you should remember that. It isn't such a hard name, even for those of lower intellect." She spoke as she turned to face him.

He scowled at her, "You shouldn't put on airs, you're just a run-of-the-mill talented ballet baby, like all the others." He was at the age where his voice would pop from high to low and back again, but unfortunately he wasn't self conscious enough for that to keep him quiet.

Antoinette stared at him, feeling the burn of anger from her toes to her fingertips to the tip of her nose. "Well at least I have the talent to go on stage, unlike some people!" She snapped at him. He lunged at her, and Antoinette shrieked and ran down the hallway, hearing his laughter follow her as she went.

She hid around the corner and waited until he went away, then continued her trek. In her first week at the Opera House she'd found the passage into the catacombs below, and she'd kept it her secret, sometimes slipping down there to get away from various things—Buquet, Madame, or anyone who she might have irritated, accidentally or otherwise.

The entrance to the passage was hidden under a run in the storage room connect to the costume and dressing area, and it was empty when Antoinette walked in, holding the bread securely in her arms. She walked down a short passage way, down a steep flight of stairs, and wound carefully through the catacombs until she arrived at the place she'd left the boy the night before. The blankets were there, but he wasn't. Antoinette paused, debating whether to look for him or just leave the bread.

She was setting the bread and butter down on the blankets when she heard a scraping noise behind her. She turned, alarmed, and jumped slightly when she met the gaze of two frightened, angry blue eyes peering through a dirty sack.

The two young people stared at each other a moment, both of them unsure what to say. Finally Antoinette took a breath, "Hello. I thought you'd be hungry, so…" She stepped to the side and waved her hand at the bread sitting on the blankets, then blushed when she realized she was still holding her drawers. She hid them behind her back and stepped a little farther away from the strange boy.

He didn't talk, he just watched her a moment longer before leaping at the bread on the blankets and shoving it into his mouth.

Antoinette watched, horrified, for a moment before murmuring, "It's better if you put some butter on it. It's a little stale, but I toasted it, and if you put some butter on it…" She drifted off, he wasn't listening to her.

Although when he'd first started eating he'd simply put the food to his mouth under the sack, he ate so roughly that it finally slipped off his face, revealing the marks that had made him "The Devil's Child." He was so caught up in eating he didn't notice at first, and Antoinette stared in fascinated horror and compassion.

When he'd eaten all the bread, he glanced at her, and he turned so completely stiff he seemed to be a statue. His face went pale and his mouth opened just a bit. His crumb-covered hands flew to cover his face as he gave a small cry, turning to look for his hood.

The cry cut into Antoinette's heart. "It's behind you," She pointed with one hand—the other still holding her drawers behind her back—at the brown-grey material.

The boy grabbed it and pulled it over his face. He wouldn't look at her anymore. It seemed as if he wanted to run away, yet at the same time was frozen, his knees resting on the blankets.

"I won't hurt you." Antoinette told him. She walked a little bit closer, frightened, but also suddenly very sad. "I didn't' tell anyone what happened. You're safe." She knelt so that her knees also rest on the blankets, and she made herself smile.

"I'm Antoinette…what's your name?"

He stared at her for what must have been an entire minute—a very long time to be stared at by someone—and as the seconds ticked by his posture became less wild until he finally inhaled shakily, and muttered.

"I haven't got one."

Antoinette frowned, "But you must. Everybody's got a name."

He shook his head, "Who wants to name a demon like me?"

Antoinette's expression darkened, "You aren't a demon. And you've got a name. You just don't know what it is yet. So pick one."

He stared at her, silent once more. Antoinette sighed, "Well, if you won't pick one for yourself, I'll pick one for you…how about…Samuel?"

He shook his head.

"Richard?"

He shook his head, more emphatically this time.

"Very well, not Richard then…when I was younger, I had a pet cat named Erin—no, never mind, that sounds too feminine." She paused, thinking.

"Erik." The quiet voice—he really did have a sweet sounding voice, Antoinette noticed—said calmly.

"Erik?" She tilted her head. "That's as good a name as any, and if you like it, that's what's important."

Her first conversation with him. She'd never forget it, and now she wondered if he felt the same. She sighed, it was such a silly thing, and now he was so different. So different. That boy, that Erik, had grown up into such a different thing than the girl she'd been had hoped.

Madame Giry blew out her candles and lay on her bed, letting the memory fade away with the light.