She walked through the halls of the opera house, looking at the decorations, seeing the details…. The managers were busy trying to decide which opera to show next, which meant some time with no rehearsals, and thus an empty opera house-save for the ballet girls who lived in the dormitories.

It was nice to walk alone, seeing Erik's work without a distraction. She had seen it many times over the years, but there was still something about it that caused her to sigh in amazement.

She stiffened, bumping into someone else as she rounded a corner. "I am so sorry!"

"No need to-" He blinked. "Adellade? What are you doing here?"

"I could ask the same of you, Nadir." She put her hands on her hips. "Last I checked: you weren't working here."

"I was...checking in...with one of my sources. Helps to keep an eye on Erik. Old habits die hard, as you well know."

"And does this 'source' of yours have a fondness for lipstick?" she pointed out.

He blushed and wiped his hand over his mouth. "What are you doing here, anyways? It's a nice day out, and you're wandering the opera house."

"I always like to look at the detailing." She shrugged. "No matter how many times I see it, there's something new that I didn't notice before."

"Well, then how about I escort you to a little cafe I know near here? My treat."

"If you want me to tell you about Erik, you don't have to bribe me, Nadir." She smiled and took his arm.

"Ah, this is more two old friends chatting over a drink." He led her out and into the streets. "If he knew that I ever wanted you to spy on him…. Well, he might as well just about decide to kill me for it. He still thinks that I am the same man I was in Persia."

"Aren't you, though? 'Old habits die hard', remember?"

"And I still have a death threat if I ever dared to lay a hand on you," he muttered. "Speaking of which: if you would ever prefer to present a suitor to someone other than Erik, I would happily oblige."

"I don't have any suitors, Nadir."

"At your age? You should! Or is it his goal to keep you unmarried for the rest of your life?"

"Haven't you seen him?" she joked. "Every time a man tries to talk with me, he's there with his punjab lasso in hand, threatening to hang him! I can hardly go anywhere nowadays!"

"And he would fight off your suitors," he reminded. "Each and every one. I pity the man who wishes to court Adellade Matthews."

She sighed. "Nadir?"

"Yes?"

"You know every person in Paris, correct?"

"Just about. The work involves such a thing, you know. Need to stay informed on everyone-why do you ask?"

"There was a woman at the gala they had a few weeks ago. Madeline Destler, and I was wondering if…."

"I shall tell you what I know as soon as I've found her," he promised.

"Could you do something else as well? Could you not mention to Erik that I asked you to do this? Please?"

"You want me to keep this secret?"

"Yes. Please, Nadir? It's important."

"I will do my best. But he will learn of this sooner or later-you know that as well as I do."

"I'd rather have it be later," she muttered as they entered the cafe.

She re-entered the opera house, walking toward the stage to return to the lair. Adellade paused, hearing a small noise. She followed her ears, coming to Christine's dormitory. She knocked and footsteps sounded, followed by Christine opening the door. She looked at her friend, seeing the redness to her eyes….

"Are you alright?" she asked. "I heard you crying, so…."

"It-it was nothing," she sniffed. "I'm sorry to have worried you."

"Christine. Tell me." She walked into the room and sat on the bed.

"My-my tutor-" She swallowed. "Well, my father-when he was dying-he told me that-that he would send me the Angel of Music when he was in heaven. You know of the Angel of Music?"

She nodded. "It was my favorite story. My brother would tell it to me all the time when we were younger."

"Well, I came here-and the Angel of Music-he came to me. He-he's been tutoring me. Well, today he-he told me that-that I could meet him. So-so I did-and-and-the opera ghost! He's my Angel of Music! I-I thought it would be alright at first-but-but that mask he wore-I-I couldn't help but-but try to take it off-and when I did-oh, Adellade! The face! It was hardly a face! I was so afraid! So frightened! He-he was so horrid! Adellade, I-I can't even begin to describe it! And how he reacted! It was horrible! He was so upset and angry-I thought he might try to kill me! Adellade, I-"

She watched as her friend started crying again, throwing her arms around her for comfort. Adellade swallowed, uncertain of what to say. She knew Erik's face. She knew the horror it could cause-the reason he kept the mask on…. Oh, she had grown used to the way he looked over the years. It still frightened people-had been the last thing the Shah demanded the prisoners see before they died-the reason the gypsies called him the "Devil's Child"... The reason why, even now, he never put up any mirrors around the lair, why he still covered his face, why his stories had him as the devil…. And now here Christine was-another person frightened of the way Erik looked. She didn't know what to say. Didn't know what to tell her-how to even begin to comfort her.

Yet there was the matter of Erik's own reaction. The way he had been upset over Christine seeing him without his mask. She had seen him before-had caught a glimpse of the anger…. It was enough to frighten anyone who dared to become his target-whether intentional or not….

She walked into the lair, eyeing the room before her. Erik was nowhere to be found, which she thought odd as he hardly ever left. She made her way over to his room, seeing the normally locked door slightly open. She peered through the crack, seeing the dark space, the shattered remains of what looked to be a chair.

She opened the door further, casting light on the room. She entered, searching for any sign of him. She ran her fingers along the edge of the casket, seeing the shelves of old Persian drugs and poisons he had somehow found. Most of the furniture was badly damaged from a long time ago. The shelves were covered with a thick layer of dust, the books having been hardly touched.

Her foot stepped on something and she knelt to pick it up, seeing the pages of scribbled music-the result of his mind composing faster than he could write. She eyed it, seeing the complicated strings of notes, the chords piled on top of each other…. It didn't resemble anything he had composed before. She turned to the beginning, reading the title. Don Juan Triumphant.

A shadow fell over her as he reached down and took the music from her hands. "That piece is one that should never be read by anyone. Especially you, Adellade." Erik walked over to the casket and set the music within. "Now, the matter at hand: why are you here?"

"I came back and I didn't see you." She stood. "The door was opened, and I had thought that you were inside."

"One of the traps required my attention," he explained, moving so she left the room, as he closed the door behind them. "Did you have a pleasant time with the Daroga?"

"It was nice." She looked at him, seeing the stiff way he held himself, as if silently restraining his movements-the same way he held himself when he was upset. "I would've been here sooner, but I ran into Christine, and she-well, she mentioned something about the Angel of Music, and it reminded me of how much I used to love that story."

"You requested it so often, I seemed to find myself surprised when you wanted something else," he remarked.

"It-it just made me miss when you would tell it to me."

He sighed and eyed her. "There are children who are able to play wondrous melodies from the time they are very young. It is said that the Angel of Music visits them in the cradle and sings to them-teaches them how to play music. If they are very good, then they will grow to become prodigies. If not, then the Angel will leave them. If they are evil or wicked, then he will cast them aside-those are the children who never learn music in their entire lifetime."

"And how does the Angel of Music decide on whom to teach?"

"Ah, he does so by going about the children, seeing which ones he believes will make the best musicians, of course!"

"Do you think the Angel of Music ever taught you?"

"No." He shook his head. "I only hear the music he plays and then write it down for everyone else to hear. There is a difference, mind you. And why would he dare to teach me? Such a face…."

She gently touched him. "I think you were taught more than you realize. You were never evil. Not truly."

"If I was ever sent an angel, then they bestowed upon her the name of Adellade Destler." He gently kissed her head. "And that is all I require of any angel."

"Why don't you ever play the music? The one that's hidden away in your room?"

"It is not finished yet. It would be foolish of me to allow anyone to listen to an unfinished piece. Here, why don't I play you something else instead?"

He sat alone in his room, leaning up against the casket, turning through the pages of the music, seeing that they were in order….

Something had compelled him earlier that day to allow her to come into the lair. Something-he couldn't figure what it was-but something had compelled him. Ah, but she had sang to him-had sang for him. What music she had sung! And then there was the way she had looked there, singing.

He had seen Adellade so many times, had memorized the way she looked. He had seen her grow from a small child into-though he hated to admit it-a woman. He had seen her in as little fabric as possible in Persia, yet nothing had drawn his curiosity the way Christine had. He had looked at Christine as if he could never get enough…. He had stood, reaching out toward her, touching her, almost exploring the way she felt…. He had been around many women before, but none had captivated him as much as she had.

Had that been desire? Desire for the love and affection of a woman? He loved Adellade, yet that was different than what he wanted with Christine. With Adellade, he wanted her safe, he wanted her protected…. She was his family, was still a child who needed protection in his eyes. She was his to keep safe. And then there was Christine…. He wanted her-to be all she wanted-to have her be waiting for him. He wanted to have her so that no other man could have her the way he did.

Then he turned the page, seeing the scribbled notes, the pounding chords.

Christine was still a woman-curious about things she didn't understand. He had forgotten that women could be so curious. Adellade was still curious-but less so about small, trivial things. She could figure it out-could tell what it was on her own...had seen enough to figure it out…. A simple mask wouldn't peak her curiosity-wouldn't compel her to remove it to see the face beneath-not the way it had Christine.

Oh, the horror that had been on her face. The pure horror at seeing him. Then he had reacted, had screamed at her, forced her to look. He had been angry-why couldn't she had left it alone? Why did she have to remove it? Why did she have to look?

It was all he could do to take her back to the dormitory and leave, fleeing to his lair, to the music…. Once it was out, it hadn't been enough, so he had fled still. Going into the tunnels to a place he knew…. A place he could scream and cry and rage all he wanted without hurting anyone. Adellade had been gone, out with the Daroga, and if he had hurt her when she had returned…. He might as well hang himself with his own lasso.

"Why don't you ever play the music? The one that's hidden away in your room?"

HIs fingers rested on the notes. Twenty-eight years. That's how long he had heard Don Juan Triumphant inside his mind. Twenty-eight years.

"It is not finished yet. It would be foolish of me to allow anyone to listen to an unfinished piece."

It wasn't a lie. It wasn't the truth. It was the answer that would best satisfy her. Twenty-eight years he had been working on the music, and he wouldn't stop until the day he laid down in the casket and breathed his last. He would lie there, his hands holding onto the music…. He would be buried with it. No one should hear it. At least not until she joined him at the end of a long, happy life, that is.

I could never play this for you, he thought to where she slept in the other room. Never. You would cry, Adellade. You would weep for your poor Erik. You would cry and you might never stop. How could I dare to be the cause of such tears? You ask anything of me, and I will gladly do it. Anything except play this for you-anything except for that. You would cry, and I would never dare to inflict that grief on you.

He rested his head against the casket's hard surface, eyes closing as he sighed. He had seen her cry before. Had seen her cry from pain. They had hurt her, and he had felt the lashes, the blades, the hands. He had comforted her, had done his best to soothe her tears, to cease those poisonous tears that flowed from her and into his heart. He had once thought himself to never possess such an organ until he had seen her cry…until he had wanted her to stop at once so as to cease the pain such a thing caused in him.

He stood and placed the music back into the casket, seeing the other sheets he had piled up in a corner. Old songs and arias and requiems. He had composed many requiems before. There was one for Madeline Destler, for the Shah of Persia, for the gypsy man who loved to hurt her so…. There was one for Rosina Matthews who had cared for him the way a mother should. There was even one for the Daroga he played to block out how annoying he was at times. There was one for Charles Garnier to be gifted to the man on the day of his death. There was even one for himself, as no other composer could do him justice. Every person who might as well have been important in his life, he had composed a requiem for them….

All except for one that is. He had tried, yet he couldn't bring himself to write the notes. Writing them would mean an admittance of the certainty. He had found himself drifting toward the idea, only to run away from it and into another piece of music. He could never picture her-could never see her there before him. It was always incomplete-always ended with her waking to greet him and comment about the morning's light or the stars at night. No. He couldn't write that one. Not a single composer could do her justice-not in the entire world…. Yet he could never bring himself to compose such a thing. Nor would he be able to allow himself the time. Requiems took time, and he could never live to compose such a thing.

He entered her room, walking over to the bed, reassuring himself that she still slept peacefully-that her mind was at ease with pleasant dreams to entertain her. He often wondered what she dreamed of. Sunny walks? Soft lights on a city? Whatever it was, he did hope it was something to make her happy. She deserved that and so much more.

Erik leaned over her and gently kissed her hair so as to not disturb her. He did love Adellade. He wanted everything for her. He wanted her to worry about nothing, to be forever happy-to have true, genuine happiness. To know the same kindness and affection she had somehow shown him.

My dear, sweet little Adellade. How an angel such as yourself has ever come to love someone such as myself I shall never know. All I shall know is that you have saved Erik time and time again. No…. You deserve so much more than happiness…. So much more….

DoctorPhantom: No...I'm not...about to cry after writing that last section... (sniffs, awkward stares in background)