Madame Giry stayed with me, guiding me along, which I was grateful for because my head had suddenly become too heavy and my mind was cloudy. It wasn't until we reached Madame Giry's sitting room that my surroundings penetrated the haze in my head and I realized where we were. But I did not question her. As I sank down onto her chaise, she threw a blanket around my shoulders. She did not stop with one blanket, piling blanket after blanket on me and I closed my eyes, relishing the comfort. With a rustle of black fabric I knew she sat in the leather armchair across from me. Her gaze was almost tangible; I knew she was watching me.

Slowly I opened my eyes and met her gaze. For the second time, my actions had put her at a loss for words. Last time I had an apology to set loose to break the silence. This time I felt I was the one who deserved an apology. Although, perhaps, Madame Giry was not the one who should give it.

When Madame Giry finally did speak, it was not to deliver an apology nor any reprimand. Her gentle voice asked, "Are you all right, Jacqueline?"

Numbly, I nodded.

Opening my mouth to tell her he had been going to kill me, the words lodged in my throat. Merely the thought of that atrocious word brought an unexpected cry from me. An unearthly wail of unbelief and horror turning into uncontrollable bawling.

In an instant, Madame Giry was at my side with an arm wrapped protectively around my shoulders. She said soothing things, but just as my pleas for mercy had gone unheard by my assailants, so did her consolation fall on deaf ears. She got up to fetch me a handkerchief and, after offering it to me, sat in her armchair again.

The torrent of tears stopped eventually and I was able to speak.

"I didn't believe he was real. I didn't want to believe. But it's hard to deny when I'm staring straight into his eyes." My voice was thick and wet, hitching on my breathing as it tried to return to normal.

Madame Giry just stared at me, wide-eyed and worried.

"I was afraid," I continued, "when I was in the catacombs. I found his lair and I… I heard his music. So beautiful. I had to know where it came from. And I saw. But so did he. He came at me with a rope…" Closing my eyes, I swallowed. A tear rolled down my cheek, but this time I was in control. I shook my head, shaking the memory away.

"I would have died if I hadn't put my hands up. But tonight — I was more afraid. More terrified than when the rope was around my neck, because I knew what he could do. What he would do. And because," I gulped, "he was so angry!"

Quietly I added, "I know what that kind of anger can do."

Madame Giry gave me an understanding nod.

"Why is he here, Madame Giry?" I begged her to tell me. She sucked in a sharp breath.

"He is here because he has no where else to go," she said. While her answer was evasive to the details I wanted, I sensed it was not a lie.

"That makes two of us," I replied bitterly, turning my head away from her.

"Jacqueline," she said, drawing my attention back to her. "I hope that now you will be satisfied with the way we operate here. The Opera Ghost gets what he wishes and in return, we are left alone. Do not go looking for him. Stay out of his way and you will be… fine."

She sounded as though she may have been trying to convince herself of these facts, as much as trying to convince me. By this point, I was in no mood to interrogate her and she was anxious to return to the other girls who were no doubt also upset by Monsieur Buquet's death.

I took my leave of her company and she whisked herself away to help with whatever was going on with the opera now. Purposelessly, I ambled though hallways, staying clear of the people who were still working. Abstractly, I wondered what became of the production, but my thinking focused on the Phantom.

It was obvious to me now that Madame Giry and the Phantom knew each other. I did not know how and maybe it wasn't even important, but if anyone was going to have answers about who he really was and why he lived the way he did, it would be her. When Madame Giry had thrown open the door on the rooftop, I had looked away from the Phantom, but for a split second I saw his face again before he ran away. In his features I did not see the loathing of a stranger, but the pained expression of the avoidance of a friend. He had not wanted to talk to her and that was why he left.

As for what went on between the Phantom and Christine, I still could not connect. I gave you my music, made your song take wing, he had said, but what did he mean by that? His song left me with the impression that he felt Christine owed him her love. Christine, obviously, did not feel the same. Whatever made him think such things?

You will curse the day you did not do

All that the Phantom asked of you!

Thinking about the threat he made sent chills through me. If he meant to do something to Christine he would have to work hard to achieve it. I felt myself harden inside. He had spared my life, but only barely. The first time, in his lair, had only been because he saw use for me, as a carrier pigeon. Benoit had done the same; used me to increase his standing in society. I would not let myself or anyone else be used like that again, no matter what the consequences.

I needed to warn Christine. I needed to tell the vicomte. Surely he could do more than I.

My pace increased as I realized they needed to be told immediately. I would tell Meg to keep an eye on Christine, too. Maybe I would even warn the managers and Madame Giry that the Phantom was planning something against Christine and possibly the vicomte. The Phantom would regret having used me, regret threatening my friends. Perhaps even regret sparing my life.

As I thought on it my stride slackened and I came to a stop. Tonight he had spared my life for a second time. For no apparent reason whatsoever. Memory of his fingertips caressing my scar sent a hot blush racing to my face… No, there was a reason. There had to be. Seeing the scar triggered something in him.

First making sure I was alone, I carefully pulled up the fabric over my left arm that served as a sleeve and observed the flesh beneath. A row of angry pink circles stared back at me. The day I received the first one was the day I learned not to scream. Screaming would only earn me more Benoit had said. I had been mortified at the welt the burning fire poker had left, but had quickly come to the notion that I must not tell anyone about what he had done to me. Oh, the lies I had told myself! He had done this deliberately, yet I told myself that it was an accident; that he did not mean to hurt me so badly. That he was teaching me a valuable lesson I should learn from.

I learned a lesson all right. I learned that some people are cruel and heartless without good cause. That sometimes good intentions cannot be a match for evil motives. And that there is always someone who loves you, even when you don't feel there is.

My grandfather pulled me through when I was at my lowest and he always believed there was a way out of my situation although, at the time, neither of us knew what it could be. There was a period, after he passed, when I was alone. But then I met Madame Giry. She showed me a love of sorts, taking pity on me, asking me to come live in the opera house, and then taking care of me when no one else would.

But who did the Phantom have to show love to him? Madame Giry? Certainly they knew each other, but she seemed more frightened of him than she ought, if they were friends. Christine was frightened of him, too, saying he was deformed. The mask covered that deformity no doubt. For the first time, I felt a stroke of pity for him. He had to wear a face mask, directly identifying him as an outcast; my dress was my mask.

Frowning, I lowered my sleeve back down over the burn scars. Luckily for me, the design of the costume had hidden the majority of my scars. I had nearly panicked when I saw the dress I was to wear, and how revealing it was. For once I was thankful that Benoit had been so careful where he chose to put the scars.

Continuing my walk, I heard jabbering from up ahead that could only have been a group of ballerinas. Around a corner I saw them. Huddled against the hallway wall was Giselle and her clique. Willing myself to be invisible, I tried sneaking past them, but failed. Even witnessing the death of Monsieur Buquet did not curb their crude attitudes.

"Oh, look who we have here, girls," Giselle said when she caught sight of me. The other two heads swiveled in my direction.

"Not surprising," one of them muttered rather loudly.

It was bait, I knew it, and yet I let myself be hooked anyway. "What do you mean?"

"Well, everyone knows how you've bewitched Madame Giry into thinking you are her daughter. So it's not surprising to find you coming from the direction of her room."

Utterly perplexed I could only stare at her. The girl's wicked little smile spread, making her sharp features stand out.

"Oh, don't look so surprised Jacqueline," Giselle sneered. "Always following her around, trying to get on her good side—"

"Befriending her real daughter," interjected the third girl, a tall blonde.

"Meg befriended me," I replied hotly, "because, as I remember, nobody else would. Because you were all frightened that I was a witch." Apparently even if they still thought this, they were not afraid anymore. Briefly, I wished I was a witch. If I'd had the power, I would have turned them all into toads in a heartbeat. But then if I'd had the power, I would have turned Benoit into a toad first, ending my problems and therefore eliminating the need to be here now.

"We were not frightened," said the sharp featured girl. Eloise, her name was. "But who would want to be associated with a pariah?"

My temper was rising. "Not pariah enough to be tossed out of the theatre. I must be talented in some way, because Madame Giry has seen fit to keep me here."

Giselle glanced at her companions with a half-hidden smile and leaned in closer to me to emphasize her words as she spat them into my face.

"The only reason Madame Giry lets you stay is because she likes having a pet around. And dogs aren't allowed in the theatre." The other girls broke into laughter.

I wanted my sharp tongue to cut her — deeply — but for a change it failed me completely. Instead, she had cut me to the quick and there was no balm for this wound. I knew it was a lie, but a sliver of my low self-esteem wondered if it were true.

Tears drowned my vision before I could even think about not crying and I turned away from the laughing group of girls. I planned to walk away calmly, but I failed. My pace was too quick.

The other girls saw it as running away and their evil laughter doubled. Then I did run. Like some terrible nightmare, I ran through darkened hallways with watery tear-blinded vision and the echoes of their cackling haunting me in the distance.

Unbeknownst to Jacqueline and the ballerinas in the hallway, he was listening. He had fled the terrace with the intent to head straight to his lair. However, the unforeseen encounter on the rooftop with Miss Devoreaux had left him rattled and he found himself taking a different route, pausing often to clear his mind of the seething anger writhing within.

Madame Giry said that Jacqueline had been hurt as well, which he thought he had understood. Seeing that scar on her back alerted him to the fact that he did not fully comprehend what she meant. His deformity, no matter how unnatural it appeared, was something natural in its own right. It was something he had been born with — cursed with. Miss Devoreaux's scars, on the other hand, were inflicted. She was a beautiful young woman and to think that someone would mar that beauty intentionally was unfathomable. The big scar had drawn most of his attention, but he had noticed smaller ones that crisscrossed the skin low on her shoulder. They too were mostly hidden by her dress. He only wondered how long it would take before whoever did it would start working on her face.

Unwarranted anger surged and a want of vengeance surfaced. If ever he met the one who did it… well, that person should pray that day would never come.

Creeping through secret passages, he had heard the voices. When he recognized Jacqueline's voice, he stopped to listen. She sounded upset. Concentrating harder on the conversation, he was able to pick out the muffled words.

"…who would want to be associated with a pariah?" a snobby voice asked.

Closing his eyes, he took a calming breath before his anger got the better of him.

"Not pariah enough to be tossed out of the theatre," came Jacqueline's strong retort. "I must be talented in some way, because Madame Giry has seen fit to keep me here."

"The only reason Madame Giry lets you stay is because she likes having a pet around. And dogs aren't allowed in the theatre."

In the hideous laughter that followed and the thudding of footsteps, he knew Jacqueline had run. Narrowing his eyes, he changed his mind yet again. Keeping silent, he continued on down the passage.

He waited in a familiar corridor for only a few minutes before Madame Giry came past. To her credit she did not try to scream when he grabbed her, putting a gloved hand over her mouth. Realizing it was him, she spun around to look at him as he released her. The look she gave him implied she would have preferred a different method to get her attention. It did not effect him. He had something important to tell her.

"Does she still require a sponsor?" he asked without explanation.

The abruptness of the question had Madame Giry floundering for an answer. She did not know who he meant at first, but understood just before he spoke again.

"Jacqueline Devoreaux," he stated.

Madame Giry was nodding emphatically. "Yes, yes she does."

"Not any longer."

Madame Giry's breath caught as she sought the meaning of his statement.

"I will sponsor her. Anonymously." He stressed the last word, suddenly distrusting her loyalty. He wondered how much she had told Miss Devoreaux about him.

Her breath came out in a huge sigh of relief. He knew she was happy for Jacqueline, but he felt the smile on her face was ridiculously out of proportion. Did it really please her that much?

At a sound nearby, the two glanced down the hallway. Wordlessly, he turned to leave.

"Merci," Madame Giry whispered to his retreating back.

He did not respond. He could not. He was not sure how he felt about choosing to sponsor a ballerina. It was a rash decision, made in a moment of outrage. He hoped he would not be sorry he did it. A ballerina with a voice, he reminded himself. Training her was still an impossible issue, but now he considered it.

The corner of his mouth quirked up as he thought of the ballerinas who had verbally assaulted his new charge. They would regret it. He felt beholden to punish them for tormenting someone already scarred. Though he would not admit it to himself, he now felt a perverse sense of ownership; he would pay for the ballerina's lessons, she would do as he bade, and when she was attacked he would defend her. For whether either one of them liked it or not, he was now the sponsor of Miss Jacqueline Devoreaux.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

A/N: Yay! Lina now has a sponsor! I think the more correct term may be 'subscriber', but for now I'll keep using sponsor so as not to confuse anyone with a sudden change of terms. Anywho, some of you readers should be happy that Lina finally has a secure position in the opera house! :) But do you think she'll be able to figure out who it is? And if she does, do you think she will be happy about it? Tell me your thoughts! I'd love to hear from you!