Young Kire has been vying for my attention. If you're still out there reading, I apologize for the huge delay in updates, but I promise I'll finish what I started.

Chapter 32

It took me under two hours to create what I considered the greatest achievement in my young life. I had penned a piece of music that satisfied my very soul, notes so perfectly strung together that every single person on the streets of Paris would stand in the pouring rain to listen to me play. Stray cats would even pause in the midst of their mousing to enjoy my violin concerto.

Madeline busied herself by tidying up my apartments while I worked on my music, humming to herself as she folded clothing I had set out to dry. She then organized the dry goods in the alcove that served as my pantry, and stacked the smaller empty crates to her liking.

She moved gracefully around my modest home, the skirt she had found, heavily weighed down by beads and embellishments, floated around her with each twirl and clacked together when she came to a sudden stop.

"You are living music," I commented.

"Indeed. I may take this with me," Madeline said over her shoulder as she placed the last of my shirts into the chest of drawers and straightened various items on top. She looked over the bottle of cologne, a straight razor, and soap for shaving and placed them neatly side by side, then moved a couple of figurines I had found in storage and decided to display for my own enjoyment. Given that I had never been gifted a single item, I coveted what others had discarded and took great pride in the little painted woman and man despite them being mismatched.

"The skirt is yours," I said as I looked over my shoulder and watched her spin around.

"You weren't planning on wearing it?" she teased.

"I think I am a bit too tall for that one." I sat up straighter and instantly felt my back ache from sitting in the same position for far too long while my fingers were painfully stiff from writing nonstop.

"How is your music coming along?" she asked when she saw me grimace.

"Finished," I said proudly. Indeed, I felt a sense of pride I had experienced perhaps only one other time in my life while I stood beside my uncle and played for a small crowd in a tavern. The sensation was welcomed, and as I allowed the ink to dry on the last page, I stood and proudly looked over my first masterpiece.

Before Madeline could respond, a clap of thunder boomed across the lake and we both cringed. It was the type of sound that I felt down into my bones and prickled the hairs on my arms. Given our distance from the outside world, I wondered if lightning had struck the building itself.

Wide-eyed, Madeline placed her hand over her heart. "Goodness," she said under her breath. "The storm is threatening to crumble the foundation of the Opera House."

A moment later there was a tremendous splash of water across the lake, hidden by the lightless shore on the opposite side.

"Oh, I bet the streets have standing water," Madeline said under her breath. She frowned when she spoke, and I felt my heart sink.

"It could clear later," I said hopefully. "After dark."

"That is possible," she answered, although her voice lacked conviction. "Why don't you practice and I'll return in a few hours? Then we will see what the weather is like."

I nodded despite dreading solitude yet again. "What time will you return?" I asked.

"I'll see you at six."

I looked from her to my pocketwatch. Seven hours of being alone.

"Oh!" Madeline snapped her fingers and turned to face me again. For a brief moment, I allowed myself the hope that she would reconsider and stay longer. "Cathedra is expecting a reply from her ghost. Her husband has left the chapel empty-handed yet again and apparently Cathedra is less than amused. I apologize; it completely slipped my mind."

I nodded quite readily, feeling somewhat desperate for a bit of distraction. "I will write to her immediately then."

"Good. I will deliver it to the chapel before your performance."

My heart skipped a beat and I could not keep myself from smiling at her words. My performance. I didn't care that it would be cold and raining on the streets of Paris or that perhaps my audience would consist of Madeline and a handful of carriage horses. I wanted to play for anyone willing to listen. I craved to be heard.

With a graceful wave of her hand, Madeline disappeared and I wandered toward my armchair with a bottle of ink, a pen, and a handful of blank papers in order to write the perfect correspondence to Cathedra di Carlo.

Thunder rumbled again, followed by another cascade of water on the other side of the lake that sounded as if two dozen buckets were emptied at once. I stared out into the black abyss for a long moment and listened to the storm and flood waters. My fists clenched and chest tightened as the weather seemed to worsen.

There had been two particularly violent storms I recalled while imprisoned by the gypsies, both of which I spent hunkered down beneath a wagon with tarps that provided limited protection from the rain and wind. The mud beneath the tarp flap where I sat had been cold and uncomfortable, and for the first time I longed for the iron cage within the tents where at least I would have been dry. On both occasions I had heard the rest of the gypsies warm and safe in their tents where they enjoyed meals and each other's company. Even the horses and dogs had been provided with better protection than I had been given, and with the howling winds and claps of thunder drowning out the rest of the world, I had trembled and sobbed in misery and fear of being drowned or struck by lightning.

Goose flesh rose along my arms as I thought of those days, which now seemed strangely distant now that I was within my own home. Absently I reached for a blanket and draped it over my shoulders and arranged it down to my ankles. The weight and warmth soothed me, and I sat back, staring out into nothingness as I listened to the storm and felt the constant flow of air against my face.

I would never be forced to sit beneath a wagon in the storm again, nor would I long for an iron cage. If I stood outside in the rain, it would be my own volition to do such. No one could harm me here, in my lakeside apartments beneath the Opera House. No one could chain me to a wagon wheel, beat and starve me for months, and force me into providing crude entertainment for their own financial gain.

I tilted my head back and steadied my erratic breathing. My fear of the storm outside slowly faded as I focused on my comfort. I did not care if the wind and rain threatened the foundation of the buildings outside; I would play my violin on the streets of Paris. I would do it because I had a place to return to, a place I had made to my own liking.

But first I needed to write a letter to Cathedra. I mulled the words over in my head, starting with my salutation.

The Incomparable Cathedra…

Everyone called her by that title. I wanted to set her apart from the rest-and set myself apart from others as well in the most flattering fashion.

My Goddess of Song…

I penned each letter with careful precision and sat watching the ink dry. Once the four words were written at the top of the page, I smiled to myself. Flattering and perhaps a bit flirtatious, I expected she would be quite taken aback by my greeting. I imagined her blushing a deep red, the color clinging to her face, neck and chest. She would fan herself and giggle at such bold flattery.

My Goddess…

Two words and I claimed her as my own beautiful songbird. The very thought made my heart race. What a scandalous note I had penned and I was only at the salutation.

For a long moment I sat and read my words over and over again, imagining Madeline's reaction when she caught wind of what my note contained. Most assuredly the content would spread like a brushfire through the theater, fueled and most likely embellished by the ballet girls and gossiping seamstresses. Before the end of the night there would be talk of the infamous ghost attempting to seduce the theater's recently retired soprano.

I chewed on my lower lip. In a note I was masterful, in person I feared I would be every bit a boy of thirteen with his tongue in knots. Whatever I wished to convey to the sopano, I needed to say in writing.

My Goddess of Heavenly Song,

I count the hours until we have the opportunity to speak again and your magnificent voice fills the chapel. A moment of your precious time is truly a gift of the utmost importance, but I fear my tongue will prove worthless when we are able to engage in conversation, such is your power over me. Your presence on and off the stage leaves me in a state of awe, so I must ask now for your forgiveness if I cannot find the words to truly express your magnificence.

Humbly Yours,

The Opera Ghost

The tip of the pen dangled above the last words as I considered signing my given name, but truthfully I enjoyed a bit of mystery. The ghost did not need a name, I decided. It was better that the first violin and the first cello whispered that the enigmatic Opera Ghost praised Cathedra di Carlo rather than a stranger by the name of Erik wrote a note and left it in the chapel.

The boy known as Erik could die for all I care, I cynically said to myself. That sniveling, weak child despised by his parents and exploited by strangers had perished long ago, left beside a fresh grave. The Opera Ghost had risen in his place, dark and foreboding to the rest of the world save for the few who had the opportunity to know him and see that he was not some terrible creature, but someone who simply wanted to be treated with kindness; a lamb on the inside, a wolf to the world.

Satisfied with my correspondence, I placed the paper in an envelope, sealed it with a glob of wax and a stamp I had found from Daae's personal collection of a fox. Unfortunately, given the intricate details of the stamp itself and how messy the wax was when I pressed the stamp into it, the end result looked nothing like a fox and more like a shapeless mass with a bushy tail. The stamp, however, did not matter. Cathedra di Carlo would forget all about the crude fox when she opened the letter and read my flattering note to her. With any luck, one note would send the theater into an absolute frenzy.

Of course, once I finished penning my note I realized there were still many hours left before Madeline returned. The storm still raged on and by the sound of it, more rain gushed down like a waterfall.

Curiosity and boredom got the best of me, and I lit every candle within my dining and parlor room area, stripped down, took a running leap into the water and flopped into the lake. Breath held, I swam underwater and surfaced an impressive distance from the shore.

Time was at my disposal, and I swam as fast as I could, imagining a group of sirens at my heels, attempting to seduce me into their grasp. I hummed to myself, thinking of how the siren song would through the cavern in a sweet, seductive harmony no man could resist. They had claimed many before me, but little did the sirens know, I was a master of song. I would seduce them with the promise of music they had never heard before, and rather than drag me down to depths and my own watery grave, they would thank me for the gift of melody and ask if I would play for them again. How could any man resist such a plea?

With my head full of siren melodies, I pulled myself up on the opposite side of the lake and sat in blinding darkness for a few minutes attempting to discern precisely where the water poured down, but it still sounded distant and I had no desire to stumble along naked and without light. Thunder rumbled, which I assumed was accompanied by lightning, but I saw nothing from where I sat in the depths of the Opera House.

Disappointed and shivering, I slithered back into the water, which now felt much warmer to my chilled flesh. I lazily swam toward my well-lit apartments, dipping my head under the surface and bobbing through the bursts of warmer water seeping through the fissures beneath my weightless body.

Halfway across the lake, however, with no light source and no clothing, the splash of an unseen fish to my left sent my imagination racing, and all thoughts of sirens were replaced with the fear of a fish skimming past my bare flesh, an utterly repulsive thought. I shuddered at the notion of scales and fins touching me and ran out of the water dripping wet and out of breath.

I toweled myself dry and browsed through my ever-growing and impressive collection of personal items until I found a heavy robe and thick, wool stockings. I eyed the set of keys I'd taken from Bouquet and attempted to convince myself to continue practicing for my performance while I dressed myself with appropriately warm attire.

Restlessness thrummed through my veins and I felt my heart pound against my ribcage. I cupped the iron keys in my hand and considered donning my winter clothes and wandering the streets.

It wouldn't be dark for several hours as it was the middle of the afternoon, I reminded myself. There was a good chance I would not see the same boy I'd seen previously, and even if I did happen upon him, I had reservations about approaching him when he could see the mask.

"And then what will you do?" I mumbled as I wrapped myself in my new wool cloak and settled into the welcomed warmth.

It was my beloved uncle's voice in my head that prompted the question.

"I will show him kindness," I told myself. Perhaps we could share a meal from one of the many cafes or the little market with the various tents set up in the street. We could stand in silence and watch the performers, or speak in lowered voices and describe what we liked about the simple shows.

Perhaps we would see each other weekly, our encounters turning into friendship over time where he would look for me in a crowd or I would search the alleyways for him.

Why would he desire to be your friend?

My father's angry, slurred words sputtered through my thoughts unbidden.

"Because…" I swallowed, determined to discover a reason for friendship. "I will make certain he is fed and has warm clothing."

You purchase his friendship. No one would give it to you freely.

The voice inside my head was not real, I knew, and yet I let it torment me all the same, a self-inflicted wound that tightened my throat and made my lip quiver.

"No," I whispered to myself. I shoved the heavy set of keys into my cloak pocket and strided swiftly up the first flight of stairs, the steps illuminated by the lantern swinging at my side.

We would be friends because he enjoyed my company and we had similar interests. He would want to take a meal with me so that we could discuss music and the theater or the performers on the street.

I reached the door exiting into the alley and braced myself for the burst of cold air I felt seeping in through the frame. The wind rattled the handle and howled like some screeching beast giving a warning, but I ignored the sound and squared my shoulders.

It was much brighter out than I had expected and I pulled my hood down nearly to my chin as I stepped into a rather deep puddle and barely managed to right myself. Immediately I shivered at the sensation of cold rain like needles on my exposed wrists and paused, unsure I wished to roam the streets in such unfavorable conditions.

Find the boy or return to the dark, I told myself. Those were my only two options. I preferred the discomfort of a rainy evening to the thought of sitting alone beneath the opera house and trudged forward, willing myself to replace my father's cynical words with sweet music, which proved difficult as I found myself in the midst of a crowd hurrying in different directions.

This weather is simply awful.

Make haste, Honore, unless you want to drown out here.

The biggest fools in Paris are out today. We should be back at home where it's dry.

Miserable weather we're having today.

Their unpleasant thoughts mimicked my own terrible narrative, and yet I refused to turn around and disappear into the depths again. For the most part I was warm enough and the cloak would keep me dry for some time as the rain was steady but not hard enough to soak through.

I lifted my chin and looked ahead, water dripping down from my hood like a beaded veil across my vision. The sky was overcast across the city and thunder rumbled, startling me and everyone in close proximity. A woman tugging a small girl behind her collided into my shoulder without apology and kept walking, muttering that they were almost home. I watched them trot past me, the little girl barely able to keep up with her mother's stride as she walked with her fingers stuffed in her mouth.

I made no attempt to quicken my pace despite the threat of another storm as I had no particular destination in mind and no one expecting me for two hours yet. The thought was somehow freeing as I was at liberty to do as I pleased.

Aimlessly I wandered, noting the various shops I passed and the names of the streets for reference even though I was certain I could easily find my way back to the theater. Beggars huddled in groups at the mouths of alleys, some wrapped in blankets as they muttered to people briskly walking past, their gazes trained straight ahead. I scanned the street beggars one by one, looking for the boy I had seen previously, but the only dirty-faced children I saw were tucked behind adults or crouched together beneath tarps and none of them looked familiar.

Had it not been for Madeline, I would have been one of the dozens of children standing with a desperate hand extended for coins. I'd escaped the traveling fair with nothing but tattered trousers and a stained, filthy shirt stiff from my own perspiration and absolutely no means of providing for myself. Given my horrendous appearance, I doubted the other undesirable denizens of the alleyways would have welcomed me into the circles and I most likely would have been driven out. Everything about me had been repulsive and yet Madeline had still taken care of me for months now.

I should have shown my appreciation more often, I told myself. I should have thanked her profusely and groveled at her feet each time she offered to spend a moment of her time with me.

Perhaps I should have written to her as well and expressed all I wished to say to her, every word that seemed quite impossible to say aloud when we were face-to-face. I was embarrassed to admit how much I depended on her, how I looked forward to her company like a dog awaiting its master's return.

The opera house came into view as I rounded the corner and splashed across the street. I inclined my head and saw the gray stone of Apollo and his angels high above, lyre in his outstretched arms. Lightning split through the sky, bright veins across the dark sky, followed by a sudden downpour of rain that sent the people around me scattering for cover.

I bowed my head, taking the cue from the weather to return home to my little lair where I had work to do. Given the new storm, I doubted I would be able to play as I much desired to do, but I would gladly settle for giving Madeline a private performance if she was willing to listen. There would be other opportunities to play for a crowd and to find the boy again. For the moment, I simply hoped he was hunkered down out of the rain.

"What are you doing out here? You'll catch a cold in this weather," I heard a familiar female voice say from behind me.

My heart stuttered and I whirled around, realizing I stood in front of Cathedra's apartments across from the opera house. My lips parted, eyes wide as I scanned my surroundings and saw her on the steps of her flat with an umbrella shielding her from the rain.

"Senora," I started to say, but she didn't hear me as I was too far away and her attention was directed elsewhere.

"Worry about yourself," said another woman, her tone cold as ice.

Cathedra scoffed at the other woman's words. "I advise you to tread carefully," she ordered. "You are not officially the new soprano yet, Carlotta."