A/N: My day got turned upside down all of the sudden and I almost forgot to post. So here we are, late but not forgotten. As we come nearer to the end of our story (still a few chapters to go, though!), I want to especially thank all the reviewers who have commented so far, whether on every chapter or just one off. You always brighten my day!

Chapter 20

When Émilie asked if she could stay longer at her ballet lessons, Erik only hmmphed and sneered about ballet rats and people leaving. But he did remove all the traps along her path so she could come and go as she pleased. He didn't talk to her when the work was finished. At these times, Émilie wanted to run after him and wrap her arms about his neck and kiss his hair as he used to do for her when she was sad. She would suggest they go race in the park and then come back so he could read to her. But he didn't like to have her touch him, so she stayed silent and turned to music instead.

She played everything she could. Usually it was whatever the ballet was dancing to. Sometimes Meg brought her music from the opera library and she played this as well, singing when lyrics were given and she felt proficient in the language. Whenever she sang, Meg and her mother stopped whatever they were doing to listen as if hypnotized.

And sometimes, when she was very confidant, she would try playing off the sheets she had stolen from Erik's room. The pianist had been wrong. They were not impossible. But they were very, very hard. Usually Émilie could only manage four bars before sweeping it from the stand in disgust, enraged at herself for not playing Erik's music as well as the other operas. She did not understand that it was the music of a far advanced composer who had felt more sorrow and more sharp joy than Émilie could ever hope to, having inherited her mother's charm and beautiful face rather than being doomed merely to look upon it.

It became misery itself to be home. Not because of Erik's eternal ill temper and distance. She was well used to his moods and their changeability. Certainly he had never before been quite so sad for quite so long – actually this consistency was altogether new and different, but Émilie doubted it would last. She must only wait it out. And she could. Despite all Erik's exasperated exclamations of "you impatient brat!" she knew she had a great deal of patience. She loved Erik, after all.

No, she began to loathe the darkness, the silence, the lack of inspiration. Books had satisfied her curiosity for the world above. Music only fed it. Six years of pleasant memories in a basement did not give her anything to draw on. How could she feel without seeing and living? Here there was only sadness. Not a sweet and aching sadness though, of the type in the operas she played, or even a sadness of crippling despair. Those had been here once, she knew, but no longer. Now it was a hopeless, endless sadness. The air was musty and cold and stifling with it. Even when she hummed a cheerful melody, the sound was desolate in the silence of her room.

That did not stop her though. Sad music was better than none at all and it was habit now. In fact, she never would have known that she sang even without thinking if she hadn't done so in front of Erik. She had been focused on a math problem when Erik was suddenly beside her, hand beneath her chin to raise her head, demanding, "Are you singing?"

"Yes, papa," she said, trying to turn her face away so he could not see her. He never looked upon her face anymore, and it made her uncomfortable to have so intense a gaze now.

"Where did you learn to sing? Who taught you?"

"At ballet," said Émilie, which wasn't technically a lie.

Erik stalked off into a corner. Though he was not shouting yet, he pulled at his hair and straightened his mask. "Maybe," he murmured, "maybe Erik shouldn't let Émilie go to dance with the Giry woman anymore. Who knows what else she might learn. Yes, perhaps that-"

"No, papa, please. I must dance. I won't sing anymore-"

"Silent, girl. There is no talk of singing in Erik's house."

"Why not?"

"It is not allowed!" Erik bellowed.

For the first time in her life, she found the cold yellow eyes frightening as they came nearer. When she jumped out of her chair to back away, however, the man only grew angrier.

"There is no music in this house. Do you understand?"

Émilie nodded.

He'd had a hand out, reaching for her curls, but at her affirmation, he let it fall and followed it, landing on his knees on the floor. When he next spoke, his beautiful voice broke in the middle of the words. "There is no music in Erik's house," he repeated. The masked face turned to look up at her. The gold eyes sparkled now. "Émilie must promise Erik that she will not sing."

She swallowed and whispered, "I promise."

He turned away again.

When Émilie tried to leave for ballet the next morning, she found the secret door could not be opened and Erik was locked in his study. She tried everything, even lying on the floor, screaming and beating her fists against the wood, but Erik, like the door, was apparently unmoved.