Author's Note: I still do not own Phantom of the Opera. I only own Kayla and any original plot.

27

Kayla could not believe what she was hearing, a common enough occurrence in this universe. "What?" she said warily. "What kind of proposition are we talking here?"

"I am speaking of a… alliance, of sorts," the ghost stated delicately. "I have seen your artwork; that much you surely know."

"Yeah, cause you stole it," Kayla countered.

"You left it behind," he corrected irately. "But no matter; the person at fault is not of consequence in this particular situation. All of my time is consumed by composing, and your artwork is sufficient enough that I propose that you will create the illustrations for the set book of my opera."

Kyla blinked. And stared at the column. And blinked once more. "What? Me? Draw for your set book? Make artwork for Don Juan?" She paused. She tugged nervously on the tail of her blonde, streaked French braid. "What?" she repeated incredulously.

"As I said, I am not yet finished composing my opera," the Phantom clarified impatiently. "Your drawings will be adequate to create my set book."

"There is no way," Kayla glared. "For your masterpiece nothing would be good enough except complete perfection. Unless you're testing me or… Aw! You have faith in my abilities!" she cooed, merely letting her internal fangirl rise victoriously to the surface as she teased the Opera Ghost.

The tension in the room increased dramatically. "You will create the set book according to my exact instructions," his voice bit out from near the door. "I will get the final say in all matters and none shall be any the wiser that it was you who created it and not me."

"But you still think I could draw perfectly enough for your set book!" Kayla squealed. She clapped her hands under her chin in an only slightly mocking imitation of an overeager schoolgirl. "Aren't you just the sweetest little spectre ever!"

"If you ever call me that again," the Phantom warned in her ear after a substantially long and apprehensive silence. "I will do everything in my power to make sure that you wish you were never born."

"Ah, but no, you cannot!" Kayla cheered, dancing triumphantly around the room. "You need me! You've played your hand, Phantom! I win the poker game! Whooo!" She boogied around the room for a moment or two more before she stopped, wandered to the corner, and poked the column where she thought the Opera Ghost was hidden with her index finger. "I know you're in there, do I get to see you face to face now? I already know what you look like, Gerar… I mean, Phantom."

"I will leave paper and supplies for you, if you need them," the Phantom offered from the edge of the box, evading the question.

"Oh yeah, I'll need them," Kayla agreed wholeheartedly. "I've only got one set of pencils, and I might need graphite, and I have the tiniest little set of watercolours you've ever seen in your life, and I would use tubes of paint if you had them. Or acrylic. Oh wait, its 1870, no acrylic; that's not till 1934. Dammit. And I don't really use oil. Shoot. How about coloured pencil? Oh shoot, nope, art-grade coloured pencils don't make an appearance until 1900's, dammit." And it was then she realized that as far as art went, she was a total city girl. "Conte sticks! 1795!" she shrieked excitedly. "Conte! And graphite sticks! And ink! And watercolour! I can work with that!" She poked the column again. "Do you have that stuff?"

"Possibly," the Opera Ghost admitted confusedly.

"Whooo!" Kayla cheered again. She hugged the column in her excitement and then jumped hurriedly back, painfully aware that she had no idea if the column could open or not. Better to be cautious than not.

"I will give you the actual book pages once I have approved your drafts." His voice was quieter, gentler now. "I will leave the supplies behind the ironwork of the window in the chapel, I trust you know of it. It opens, though not many people know of it, and there is a sill behind it. I will hide your tools underneath. Madame Giry will get the key to you, or she will leave it under Monsieur Giry's candle."

"Wait," Kayla cried out impulsively when he stopped, sensing that he was going to leave.

"Yes, Mademoiselle Abbots?" His voice was tired. He was not sleeping well, probably. Kayla knew she'd be walking up walls and pacing the floor if she had just been cheated on, which the Phantom practically had. She felt a surge of sympathy.

"Can we start over?" she suggested. "We didn't exactly start this conversation on good terms." She curtsied, holding out invisible skirts to the side as she dipped down and bent her head. "Je m'appelle Kayla. Kayla Abbots."

"A pleasure," the ghost said stiffly.

"And now you," Kayla prompted, rising from the curtsey slightly awkwardly. This whole time-period-accurate manners was harder than it looked.

"You already know my name, don't you? I see no reason to repeat it."

"Yes, well, if we are to be partners in crime, I want to hear you say it. I'm actually going to make you meet me face to face at some point; I can't do all the work without any personal input," Kayla pointed out. "Come on, please?" she pleaded. "I'm not gonna rip off your mask, I just want to know your name. Please?"

There was a taut moment of quiet. "Erik Destler," he said rigidly.

Kayla grinned. "Well then, Mr. Destler," she beamed. "We've got to start somewhere. I'll be in the chapel tomorrow morning if you want to talk. Or just pop out of a wall, I'm not picky." She jumped forward and hugged the column again. "I'm going to bed, 'night!" Without waiting for a reply, she scurried out of the room. Once in the hall, she leaned her head against the wall and swore. That was stressful. Very stressful. The most stressful thing she'd ever done. She'd be able to defend a future Master's thesis no problem now. She peeked at the time on her phone. It was almost midnight. She had to be awake again in less than eight hours.

Yawning widely, she walked back down the hall as the gaslights slowly dimmed. Her bed was calling.

Erik stood in the column, strained and overwhelmed. His name. When had been the last time he had said his name? Out loud? Or when had he even thought of it, for that matter? Kayla knew it; that was obvious. But she had made him say it. He did not know the reason. He supposed she would call him Monsieur Destler now. Or maybe even Erik; she did not seem to make any differentiations between first and last names. But she was the kind of girl who might ask permission before calling him by his first name.

And she had hugged the column. What was the reason for that? Would she have hugged him if he had been standing there instead? Erik had the strangest feeling that she would.

Her enthusiasm was encouraging. If she truly loved art, she would not fail him. He turned and walked into the passageway. She did not care if he was the Opera Ghost. He had no word to describe her but kind. And she did not belong in this world. She had no reason to betray him, unlike… No. He still could not dwell on her. As he descended into the underground, his lips curled beneath the porcelain mask.

Kayla Abbots would not fail him.

Author's Note: Officially the fastest chapter I have ever written! This one's a lot shorter than the last one, but I promised you all another chapter and another chapter I shall give you! After this chapter we are entering Elysian Peace! Completely uncharted territory, people! Therefore I welcome any suggestions you guys may have about events or interactions you'd like to see. Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, followed, and favourited, and to Kodami-offline for the guest review.

Thanks for all the support, guys. Love you all!

Tierney