The words Madeline spoke refused to register. I could still quite clearly hear Cathedra's voice in my thoughts, both high and sweet and low and seductive. I swore I still felt her hand resting on my forearm, fingers splayed against my sleeve.

Indeed I had allowed myself to imagine much more transpiring between us once we were alone in her home. The bedroom would loan itself to a more intimate exchange, one where she would beckon me closer.

I had imagined myself seated at her bedside, her fingers entwined with mine between songs, how she would tell me I reminded her of someone else, someone who had once been dear to her. She would lean in closer, giving me no choice but to…

"Erik–"

Madeline's voice snapped me out of my daydream. "She invited me to her home to play for her. In her bedroom. Alone," I said as if the words spoken aloud would come true if I said them aloud.

Madeline narrowed her eyes. "Her husband sent a notice to the theater not thirty minutes ago. I wanted to tell you immediately and spare you the heartache of hearing rumors."

I lifted my chin. "I appreciate your concern, but you are mistaken."

Madeline remained level-headed. "Why don't we sit together?" she suggested. "I brought you a croissant, fresh from the bakery. It's the kind with chocolate inside. Your favorite."

"I must finish the music I am writing for Cathedra," I said, turning from her and the treat she held out to me. I had to focus, to place all of my attention on the task at hand before I unraveled. Already the first thread of grief had been tugged loose.

"May I hear what you've written?" Madeline asked.

I barely considered her request. Unbidden anger sparked through me and I whirled around. "I have not seen you in days and yet you wish to hear what I've been writing? Quite frankly it is meant for someone dear to me and that person is…"

I caught myself before I said something truly regrettable and drew in a sharp breath.

Madeline's jaw dropped. She gawked at me as though the individual that stood before her was a different person–or not a person at all. "I am quite sorry to hear that you feel this way."

Instantly I regretted speaking to Madeline in such a cruel manner. She had been good to me, kind and compassionate in ways so few had treated me. I bowed my head and glanced at my violin on the table, determined to play for Cathedra as previously discussed. I would convince myself that whatever Madeline had heard was simply a rumor, one cast out by someone with nefarious intentions.

"Would you mind playing something else?" Madeline asked. "I've missed our time together. Truly."

"If-if you would care to listen," I stammered. My stomach tightened. I felt the tug of the dominant, dangerous role I wished to play with Cathedra's assistance and the anxious, uncertain person I had always been, warring within me. I had to see Cathedra again, to learn from the diva how to become The Phantom and assume my rightful place within the theater. But equally I felt the need to reciprocate the kindness Madeline showed me. I could not possibly do both.

"Of course I would care to hear you play," Madeline said. "I will always desire to hear your music, my talented friend."

She waited for me to meet her eye and smiled fondly at me. Her expression was safe and welcomed, a familiar grin of encouragement.

"What did the note from her husband say?" I questioned as I took up my violin and ran my thumb along the pegs.

Madeline took her usual seat and smoothed her skirts. She offered a sympathetic frown and carefully answered. "It said that she passed peacefully in her sleep, surrounded by her loved ones."

My throat tightened, my eyes stinging with unshed tears. "Was Guillermo at her side?"

Madeline's eyes narrowed. "I beg your pardon? Is that her dog?"

"No, her dog is named Maurice. Guillermo is the man she wished to have married long ago," I replied. "Her brother-in-law."

Madeline studied me for a moment. "She must have confided in you."

"She did," I admitted. "She trusted me and I trusted her."

"I am glad you were able to see her one more time."

"It wasn't supposed to be the final time," I said, my voice cracking with emotion.

I closed my eyes and saw my uncle's lifeless body in the rain, the bloodless tone of his flesh that was forever to be associated with death. It was difficult to imagine vibrant Cathedra with her lips tinted red and her cheeks dusted with pink, sallow and still. Nothing about the look of death was peaceful to me; it was unnatural and shocking.

I thought of what I wished I had said to my uncle as well as Cathedra, how I regretted the brevity of time spent with each of them.

"I am so very sorry to be the bearer of such terrible news," Madeline said gently.

Numbness crept over me. "Why did this happen?" I absently questioned as I stared at the music laid out on the table, the piece I had specifically written for Cathedra. I had no idea what she might like to hear, but I hoped the lively concerto would send a spark through her, one that would bind her to me in a way that would entwine us forever.

"She was not well," Madeline said. "The illness progressed faster than anyone could have guessed."

"Yes, but…"

Madeline patiently waited for me to finish my thought.

"I loved her. And now she is gone."

At thirteen years of age, I was quite smitten with the soprano. I wanted to be tangled in her arms, to feel the fullness of her womanly form pressed to me. It was a thought I found both appealing and alarming as I knew nothing of women or what I truly desired, but I knew I felt a great, unfulfilled urge and that she was at the center of my desires.

"She was kind to you," Madeline replied.

"No," I said sharply. "No, it was more than kindness."

Kindness was motherly and benign. Kind was how Madeline had treated me from the moment we had first met. Cathedra was none of those things. She was passionate and flirtatious, a wild force that appealed to me in a way that was primal and unsated.

"I'm not sure I understand," Madeline said.

"Of course you wouldn't," I said harshly.

I didn't understand either, which frustrated me. I wished to give Cathedra what she desired, the intimacy she said she would miss when she was no longer of the world. I could give her what no one else could, I was certain of that.

"Erik, you've no need to be upset."

"You would not understand how a woman could feel toward me. How I could be desirable."

Madeline eyed me in silence briefly, which only added to my anger. "Senora di Carlo should not have felt any particular way toward you, particularly desire," she said, her tone far more even and sensible than I cared to hear.

"Why?" I demanded.

"Because–"

"Because I am a monster? Is that why? Because no woman would desire someone as disgusting and vile as me?"

"No, Erik, it is because you are still a child and she is an adult woman who is married," Madeline said firmly.

"She did not see me as a child."

"Yes, I am beginning to understand that. Quite frankly I do not find it appropriate that she invited you into her bedroom alone."

"You would not understand."

"I understand completely."

Her words enraged me. I started to speak, but she abruptly stood and lifted her chin, silencing me once we were eye-to-eye. Her gentle, matronly disposition became quite firm and I dared not interrupt, finding myself more intrigued by the change in her demeanor than annoyed.

"Five years ago one of the patrons asked me to sit with him during a special performance," Madeline said. Her voice quivered ever so slightly and I felt the hairs on my arms raise. "He was a very handsome man with a neatly trimmed beard and a quick smile. He wore the most intoxicating cologne and I was honored to sit beside him, not only because I found him attractive, but because his invitation made the other girls jealous.

"He met me before the performance and bought me flowers and coffee from the little cafe around the corner and told me I was beautiful and that he loved the way I tossed my head back when I laughed. I'd never felt so flattered in my life and I didn't care that there was a significant age difference; I liked the way he treated me. Until we were seated in the theater and the lights were dimmed.

"He spent the whole first act attempting to slide his hand beneath my skirts. Every time I swatted him away, he made another attempt until it felt as though I spent the whole time in silent combat. At intermission, I went to the dressing room and he followed me."

I stared unblinking at her, my heart racing with dread and blood boiling.

"He told me how I left him enamored, how he had never felt this way about any woman before and how he wished to see me unclothed as he already fantasized about me and wanted to know if he was correct with the shape of my body. He said that I was cruel for denying him. He couldn't help himself, not with what I did to him."

"Did he–"

Madeline looked away and swallowed. "Comtess de Chagny came backstage looking for her misplaced shawl and told me to come with her once she understood what he was trying to do. It was the only way I was able to escape before…before he was able to..."

I stood quietly with my eyes averted, my insides churning with anger on her behalf. My heart pounded imagining Madeline, my sweet and patient friend, treated in such a manner by a so-called gentleman well before we had met. She would have been thirteen years of age, same as I was, preyed upon by a patron.

"You are angry," Madeline observed.

"Enraged," I admitted.

"Why?"

"Because…because…" I stammered.

"You are angry because you know what he did was wrong and that I should not have been placed in that position. You care for me, just as I care for you, and you would never want anything to happen to me, just as I would not want anything to happen to you."

Her words made me shiver. The only words my own mother had ever spoken to me were nonsensical, muttered phrases, often in a language I didn't understand, or curses telling me to stay away from her because I was a frightful demon.

How I had longed to hear my mother say that she cared for me, that she wanted me. I hadn't seen her in a year and a half and I still wished to speak with her, to see if she would say that she missed me and grieved my absence. I needed to believe that she would be relieved to see I had returned to her no worse for wear, that she would realize I was not a demon. I was her son.

"When you brought me down here," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Why were you not afraid of me after what this man attempted?"

Madeline turned her head to the side and looked me over. "Should I have been afraid of you?"

I immediately shook my head. I had never wanted anyone to fear me. I had longed for friendship and acceptance for as long as I could recall"I was relieved you were not afraid of me."

Madeline took her seat again, and I felt as though the tension between us had finally eased. "You should rehearse," she said.

"Rehearse? For what, precisely?"

"Playing this evening," she answered. "In honor of Cathedra di Carlo."

I took up my bow and violin and straightened my spine. A requiem was in order, one for both Cathedra and my uncle.

OoO

Playing music lessened my heartache like nothing else could.

I felt each note reverberate through me as the sound echoed through the cavernous underground lake. The acoustics were perfect, as if nature had carved out this space as my hidden refuge for song.

I played through two solemn melodies and the concerto that was more lively and intended for Cathedra. The concerto wasn't finished, but the first requiem I had carried within my thoughts for the duration of time I had spent imprisoned by the gypsies. The only title I considered was Beloved Uncle. Most nights I fell asleep to the slow, sad melody in my mind, desperately focusing on the music I had composed to drown out the world around me.

"You wrote all three of these?" Madeline asked when I finished the last song.

I nodded and sank into my seat beside her, my heart heavy with despair, but the pain no longer fresh.

"How do you know what to write?" she asked as she pulled off one end of the croissant and handed me the rest.

I took a bite and shrugged. My belly growled with hunger and I knew the pastry would not leave me feeling sated. "I know what it is supposed to sound like. Usually."

"All of it?"

"No, not all of it."

She stared at me, her lips quirking into a curious smile. "Explain the process."

I opened my mouth, but the only sound that came out was a sigh. "I don't know how to explain."

"Well, make your best attempt."

"Have you ever choreographed a dance?" I asked.

"For auditions, yes."

"Explain the process."

Madeline shook her head. "I should have expected that," she said with a laugh before stealing another bite of the croissant. "I don't believe I knew exactly what I was going to do when I signed up to audition, but I had an idea. I would build around that single idea until I had the whole dance, then polish it up here and there. Is that how it is with writing music?"

"It comes to me a little at a time," I said . "Sometimes while I am asleep, other times while I'm rummaging about the crates or bathing in the lake. Sometimes I think of a color or imagine that if the rivers could speak, they would speak in song. Or the trees would tell stories of all of the travelers they've seen over the years and they would say it in melody."

Madeline gave a dreamy sigh. "I do like the idea of the trees speaking."

"Peach trees would have a lot to say."

I'd given the fanciful idea of chattering trees extensive thought and determined that peach trees would babble incessantly like young children romping together while majestic oaks would only speak sage advice.

We chatted a while longer; Madeline offered insight into her life as a dancer while I spoke candidly about my music and the songs I had composed. She marveled at how prolific of a composer I was, particularly because the quality wasn't sacrificed because of the quantity.

"How was the salon?" I asked, regretting that I had denied her invitation. I wondered how it would have been to have a similar conversation in a room filled with musicians who understood the process.

"Hot," she said. "And very loud. We sang at the top of our lungs and dancing carried on until dawn from what I understand. Apparently a few artists from Salon de Vive graced our musicians with their presence and they were quite the crowd."

"You enjoyed yourself?"

"I did, but I left a little before midnight, which is apparently when the real fun started."

"Why did you leave?"

Madeline shrugged. "I wanted a bit of quiet, I suppose." She looked around my lakeside home and smiled to herself. "A more intimate setting without all of the noise. Sometimes I need the stillness and the company of a single friend instead of a group."

I followed her gaze across the dark ripples of water and placed my violin on the table between us. The breeze from the other side of the lake was cool and refreshing, a whisper that ghosted along my cheeks and neck.

I'd never thought of the moments we spent together as intimate, and often I questioned whether Madeline found our visits enjoyable as it seemed I was little more than a burden. But as she sat back, folded her hands in her lap, and simply sat with me, I savored the quiet company, the intimacy of being comfortable in the presence of another.

We had known one another for a mere seven months, but it felt as though Madeline Edwards had been my friend for a lifetime. I felt no shame or crippling anxiety when she was near, no need to ramble incessantly or make apologies for my shortcomings. She asked for nothing in return, although I would have paid a great sum to keep her friendship.

I wanted to tell her how much I appreciated her company, how I loved her as much as I had loved my uncle.

"What's on your mind?" she asked.

Her voice startled me as I hadn't realized I was blatantly staring at her while in the midst of thought. I blinked at her and cleared my throat.

"I…"

Madeline turned her head to the side. "Yes?"

"I'm glad you are here with me," I said. "And that I learned of Cathedra's passing from you and no one else."

She smiled back at me as no one else ever had, particularly when I was without a mask to hide the scars. "Are you ready to perform your music?" she asked.

"I am," I said.

"Then let Paris hear your music."

oOo

My confidence faltered once we reached the top of the stairs and vanished altogether as we made our way down the hall and exited the theater.

"It's cold," I commented, half-hoping Madeline would agree and suggest I play another time when the weather improved.

"That's April for you. Winter has no grace and refuses to allow Spring to take the stage," Madeline said over her shoulder as she darted out of the alley and into a surprisingly large crowd.

What little self-assurance I had ever possessed drained from me. I stood within the shadows, hand tightly gripping my violin case as I considered turning on my heel and returning at once to my home where I was safe and alone, free of ridicule and judgment.

"Erik," Madeline said impatiently as she turned and retrieved me from where I had planted myself. She pulled on my sleeve and tugged me forward and into the crowd. We dodged a dozen people, then a dozen carriages and carts as we splashed through puddles and crossed the street to the opposite corner where the lamps had not yet been lit.

"Here," Madeline announced. "Where everyone will be able to hear you but you're free from being trampled. We can't have France's greatest composer trampled by horses, can we?"

I stood awkwardly on the corner and surveyed the chosen location. From the curb I could see Cathedra's brightly lit residence two hundred meters away. The front door was open and several people walked inside as another person exited, all of them with their heads bowed.

Mourners, I thought. Loved ones of the deceased.

With my lips pursed, I placed my violin case onto the cobblestones and gently lifted the instrument from its snug resting place. Cathedra was not inside her home awaiting visitors, I told myself, she was beside me in spirit, eagerly awaiting my performance. The location had changed, but we would still meet one final time, bound by music.

"Whenever you're ready," Madeline prompted.

I took a deep breath, uncertain if I would ever truly be ready. My fingers felt numb from the bite of cold and my own nerves. After flexing my hand a few times, I placed the violin under my chin and looked around, attempting to find something that would offer a pleasant distraction.

Just as I had during the last show at the traveling fair, I found comfort in Madeline standing before me, the only person whose attention I held. She smiled and nodded, offering me silent encouragement.

"This is called Beloved Uncle," I whispered to myself. "And it is for my Uncle Alak, whom I loved dearly."

Heads turned the moment the bow glided against the strings. I saw people slow their pace and glance over their shoulders as they attempted to find the musician in the shadows.

With trembling hands and a galloping heart, I concentrated on the music and nothing else, demanding perfection from myself. I closed my eyes and envisioned my uncle listening beside Madeline, head bobbing slowly in time with the melody. I imagined him flattered by my dedication and impressed with the music I had composed with him in mind. No one has ever composed a song about me, my dear boy, he would say. It is absolutely perfect, just as I would have expected from you.

I played the final notes and opened my eyes to a startling round of applause from a handful of people who had gathered to listen. There was an older couple, three younger women who looked to be Madeline's age, and a boy with a large brown dog that had a thick rope in its mouth. Six people and a dog—a most impressive audience for my first performance in Paris.

"Play something else," Madeline said as she clapped. The people lingering behind her nodded and murmured in agreement.

"Play something that will get my wife dancing," the older gentleman suggested, earning him a pointed look from his wife, who crossed her arms.

Inwardly I smiled to myself while outwardly I squared my shoulders and took a breath, feeling far more confident than I had since I had stepped out of the theater.

"This one is called Peach Trees, I said. Madeline squeaked in delight. I played the more lively concerto for my second song and the three younger ladies clapped along while the man and his wife danced. Two more people paused to listen from the other side of the street and I noticed a handful of people at the cafe a few storefronts down turned their chairs to face the street and listen. Halfway through, another couple joined the first in dancing together along the wet cobblestones, both of them twirling about much to the enjoyment of everyone else.

Their response pleased me immensely, and after two songs, I wished I had organized a dozen different works to play for the crowd instead of a mere three.

I played the second requiem, the notes on the violin accompanied by the jingle of coins dropped into the open case at my feet, and finished with a simple waltz I'd heard a hundred times when I escaped from the cellar and wandered about. The crowd, recognizing the final song, clapped and sang, although there seemed to be a bit of a discrepancy with some of the lyrics depending on the age of those in attendance.

"Thank you," I said, bowing deeply to the older couple as they went on their way, the woman's smile beaming as she clutched her husband's arm and called him her handsome fool.

"Will you play for us again in the future?" Madeline shouted before the audience made their way into the night.

"I will," I answered loud enough to be met with applause. The dog bounded up to me and pranced around before its young master whistled and he returned to the boy's side.

The crowd dispersed, leaving only Madeline left. I handed her the coins, which she counted while I returned the violin to the case.

"You were wonderful," she said.

"I was nervous," I replied.

"It didn't show. You played perfectly."

"I believe I made a mistake with the chord in the second song right after the first movement–"

"You were wonderful and you should be very proud of yourself," Madeline said firmly. "And you earned twelve francs for your performance."

I didn't care about the money; I cared that people had stopped to listen, that at the tender age of thirteen, I was heard at last in a way I found fulfilling. I was not laughed at by a paying crowd in a stuffy tent. Not pelted with refuse after being humiliated and clubbed. Not spit on, or called names, or grabbed by the hair by cruel strangers who wished to intimidate me.

I had been applauded and appreciated in a way I didn't think was possible. I had a handful of people clap along to my music and dance in the street. I had people willing to linger for a good twenty minutes to hear my original music, melodies that had resided within my mind.

And the experience, meager as it was, lifted me to heights I had never imagined on a cold spring evening in the middle of April.

"Wait here," Madeline said. She squeezed my shoulder as I crouched down and secured the latches of the violin case.

"Where are you going?" I asked before she turned on her heel.

"A reward is in order," she answered.

"Wait!" I stood, trotting after her. "Take this," I said, handing her all of the coins and banknotes I had earned.

"That is yours to keep," she argued.

I shook my head. "It is equally yours for encouraging me. Please, I would very much like to do something for you."

At last she curtseyed. "You are too kind."

Once she ran toward a stall selling roasted nuts, I tugged at my sleeves and shifted my weight, barely able to believe that moments earlier I had played my own music.

"Yes!" I overheard Madeline say. "He is my friend. Isn't he wonderful?"

"I am a composer and musician," I whispered, hoping my uncle was aware of my accomplishment. He had to be near me still, I told myself, keeping a watchful eye over me.

Commotion from across the street garnered my attention as a woman walked out of Cathedra's home wailing inconsolably. She paused several steps from the entrance and wandered around the yard as though caught in a daze before she dramatically fell to her knees and threw her hands in the air.

"Cousin!" she shouted, and I realized it was Carlotta, the woman slated to take Cathedra's place as principal soprano. "My dearest cousin! May your memory and song forever be in the hearts of all!"

The shrill quality of her voice raised the hairs on my arms and my breath hitched. I doubted the sincerity of her words, but her weeping drew the attention of people passing by, who stopped to view the performance.

"Cathedra di Carlo, beloved adopted daughter of Paris!" Carlotta continued to wail. "May you rest in peace!"

The street traffic turned stagnant, but the murmur of voices sounded like a hive of bees.

"She has succumbed to her illness?" I heard someone ask.

"Surely not," another person said. "Why, I saw her just the other day retrieving the post."

"Oh, what a shame," a woman muttered with a shake of her head.

"May God receive her," another woman shouted as she paused on the street and made the sign of the cross.

"Beloved Cathedra," a man added. "There will never be another like her."

I bowed my head respectfully, wondering what the Incomparable Cathedra would have thought of such a raucous display at her passing. I imagined her rolling her eyes at her cousin as it seemed Carlotta was not fond of the long-time diva.

The front entrance to the theater opened and the manager as well as several other individuals stood at the top of the steps. I glanced from them to Madeline, who had paused across the street from where I stood. She motioned me toward her and I trotted to her side.

"What are they doing?" I asked.
"I'm not certain, but I would assume that the theater wanted to officially announce Cathedra's passing before Carlotta made it public. Last I heard they had intended to host a ceremony in her honor tomorrow morning for the public."

"I suppose that has been moved to tonight."

Madeline exhaled. "They must be furious with Carlotta."

We watched as the theater manager rushed down the stairs and swiftly made his way across the street where he approached Carlotta, who had climbed to her feet and appeared far less shaken by her cousin's death than she had originally seemed. Their conversation, which I couldn't hear, was brief but animated before the manager stormed across the street, hands flailing once he reached the conductor and a few other people I didn't recognize.

"We should go," Madeline suggested, handing me a paper bag of roasted nuts. "The other performers will undoubtedly be out here soon to lay roses and light candles."

With a nod I trudged behind Madeline, who made her way around the building toward the stables rather than the performer entrance.

I took one last look at the brightly lit home bustling with those who had come to pay their respects to the soprano. Cathedra di Carlo's career for the Opera Populaire had officially ended and my reign as The Phantom was about to begin.