Word of Benoit's death spread rapidly throughout the Opera Populaire. Of course, not all of the stories were true. Several very ridiculous rumors sprang up around the true story, but I ignored them as best I could. The latest, and most ridiculous, was that my fiancé had heard I was at Opera Populaire and he had come here to offer himself as my abonné, but the opera ghost was secretly my sponsor already and he killed Benoit in jealous anger. I thought about squelching the ludicrous story by informing everyone that I actually came from more money than Benoit, but I was sure giving them that information would only lead to new, and more damning, lies. The truth was condemning enough. And they did not need to know it. Better that they made up extraordinary tales.

Wisely, I had shared the truth with Meg and Christine immediately. They did not believe the rumors and Meg did her best to set straight anyone she overheard sharing falsehoods.

Christine on the other hand, seemed extremely agitated by my account. She was quiet throughout my story, staring at nothing in particular; remaining quiet whenever it was mentioned. It was weeks before she brought the subject up on her own.

We were sitting alone on my bed one evening, talking about the upcoming masquerade ball when there was a pause in the conversation. In the lull, Christine whispered, "Were you frightened of him?"

Surprised, I looked at her. "Of whom?"

"The Phantom. Did he frighten you when you saw him?" A grimace from her reminded me of what she had told the vicomte on the rooftop so many nights ago. That she thought the phantom hideous. Deformed and barely human. It was funny how my memory of him was altogether different. The nights that he murdered, Buquet and then Benoit, he had certainly been terrifying. But that face in the candlelit labyrinth corridor…

I'd not seen anyone more handsome. Smiling softly at her, I told Christine, "I was more frightened of the man who was trying to kill me."

Christine looked dubious.

I took a deep breath. "I have to tell you something, Christine."

She raised her eyebrows before furrowing them at my seriousness. "What is it, Lina?"

Closing my eyes, I steeled myself. "I…" I opened my eyes and met her gaze, "…have seen him before."

Christine's eyes grew wide and her voice trembled as she asked, "What?"

"The night that you went missing," I explained, "I went searching for you and I found him."

Seeing her horrified expression I quickly added, "But he did not hurt me!" A minor lie. Although there had been no lasting damage, I remembered well the sting of his lasso. "He gave me a message for the managers and I promised to deliver it for him."

Not wanting to embarrass her by admitting I was witness to her and Vicomte de Chagny's rooftop confessions, I refrained from telling her about meeting him on the rooftop.

She all but jumped forward to grab my hand, and held it tightly as she asked, "Where did you see him?"

The intensity that suddenly radiated from her set my own nerves on edge as I remembered that first meeting with the Phantom. My hesitancy seemed to be all the answer she needed, for before I could tell her, she guessed.

"You've seen the lake." Her fear mixed with awe as she asked, "Did you see the boat? The organ?"

I did not remember seeing any boat, though I had no doubt there had been one. "He was playing the organ," I said slowly. "I suppose… I was frightened, at first, but then he didn't hurt me and… Oh, Christine, his singing! His music! Have you heard it? I don't think he is as terrible as everybody says. I do not think you need to fear him so much."

Christine gave me a look that told me she thought I was the confused one. "He is not what you think, Lina. He —"

Right then, Meg burst into the room, panting from what had obviously been a hurried stairway ascent, and waving an envelope in the air. She was clearly excited.

"Lina! Christine! Look what I've found!" Grinning from ear to ear, she dashed across the room, dodging a few pieces of discarded clothing laying on the floor.

"It's Giselle's letter!" she continued breathlessly. "I found it in the rubbish bin."

Christine and I exchanged a glance before I reached up to take the letter from Meg's outstretched hand. Meg looked pleased with herself, but her smile dropped when I did not return the expression. "I didn't read it. If it is about you, then I felt you should read it first."

After all this time Giselle had finally thrown the letter away. I did not know how to react. And I did not know how Meg had come to guess that the letter was about me, but I assumed she had used the same clues I did; both Giselle and Madame looking at me upon reading its contents and Giselle's avoidance of me. Now that the letter was in my hand I was afraid to open it. I stared at the red skull who gave me an empty stare of its own. With a shaky hand, I removed the letter from the envelope and read it to myself.

Christine and Meg watched me intently, Christine's gaze occasionally flicking to that horrid red seal.

I finished reading it. Then took a breath and read it again. Unbelief swept through me and I closed my eyes, clasping the letter to my chest.

"What is it, Lina? What does it say?" Meg asked quietly.

Equally quiet Christine said, "It's from him." As if that were an answer to Meg's question.

Opening my eyes, I held the letter out to read it aloud and found, to my surprise, that I was still shaking. I hesitated. Clearing my throat, I glanced at my friends before I continued.

"'Dear Miss Comtois,'" I began, "'I hope you can forgive me for the atrocious trick I played on you. The rats in your bed may seem an extreme measure, but you must understand that in order for the opera to function as a whole, all its players must live in harmony one with another. Do not disrupt my vision for a perfect company again. I run this opera house and you would do well to remember it.' It's signed 'Yours truly, O.G.'"

Meg spoke first in the silence that followed my reading. "He has never sent a note to a ballerina before."

Pulling her knees up to her chin, Christine wrapped her arms around them, slowly shaking her head back and forth.

"And it had nothing to do with you after all, Lina." Meg looked at me.

"No, it didn't," I told her.

As she and Christine began conversing about what it could all mean, I stuffed the letter out of sight, back into its envelope, exhaling a sigh of relief. Not at what the letter had said…

…But that they had believed me.

/

I could not sleep. Tossing in bed, I tried to convince myself that I was justified in lying to my friends; had done it to save us all in some way.

I hoped that by hearing the Phantom apologize, Meg and Christine would see his humanity. He was human, after all. And by excluding my name I halted further association with the rat incident. Hid that the rats had in fact been used — heartlessly — for my sake.

Rolling onto my stomach, I slid my hand under the pillow. My fingers met paper and carefully I brought the letter out. In a shaft of cold moonlight I read the unbelievable words again.

Dear Miss Comtois,

Jacqueline Devoreaux is undeserving of the torment you give her. I request that you leave her in peace. Should you choose to ignore this warning, I will be unable to guarantee your safety and, trust me, the rats will seem a minor thing.

Yours truly,

O.G.

Those rats were a warning of what gruesome things the phantom was capable of. They also served as proof that the phantom could both enter and leave the dormitory without being seen or heard. But it had been done for my protection. Strange that the Phantom would guard me... Rubbing my thumb over his signature, an idea came to me. Tugging on my dressing gown, I snatched a candlestick from a nearby bedside table and stole down the stairs, throwing a glance over my shoulder.

As quietly as I could, I crept to the auditorium.

I wasn't sure how I would react to being alone in that room with no light but my single candle. However, determination was all I felt as I climbed the steps up to the stage. This time the curtains were closed, but I pushed through them to stand out front. Making sure the candle was secure in its base, I set it down a safe distance away so I wouldn't trip over it, and turned to face the empty seats.

The darkness was so heavy. Heavy and silent. Before thought of controlling it registered, I felt a song clawing its way up my throat. There was no need to keep it in. No need to fear punishment for allowing my song to escape.

So I let it.

Like a nightingale, I sang to the stillness without apprehension. If I woke someone, I did not care. They would not hurt me like Benoit. And he would never hurt me again. For that reason, I sang all the louder.

When my song was over, I stood listening. There was not a sound apart from my own breathing. Only the dark. Yet I did not feel alone. I had wondered if the Phantom would come if I sang for him. I wanted — needed — to talk to him. I had questions I felt deserved answers and he was the only one that could give them to me. Why should I not try to talk to him? He had not killed me, had in fact saved me, and then threatened someone else on my behalf. My fear of him dwindled.

It was silly to wait for him. He had no good reason to show himself, but I waited nonetheless. It gave me time to think, and as I mulled over everything — every strange happening and statement and glance that I had been witness to here at Opera Populaire, a revelation came. Christine's words from months ago drifted through my mind.

Now as I sing I can sense him

And I know he's here

My exact sentiment. Could it be Christine had been hearing the phantom all along? I was sure I was right. He was the angel who sang to her. Her Angel of Music. Upon first hearing him I, too, had thought he must be an angel, albeit one that lives underground.

Stealing the tune from Christine, I started to sing slowly and quietly to myself.

Christine once spoke of an angel

I never dreamed he'd appear…

Sweeping my gaze over the darkness, my voice became bolder, louder, with each line.

They can still call you a phantom

But I will not fear

Ev'ryone says you're always list'ning

In the darkness hiding

If I only knew how to thank you

You, the unseen savior

Why do you hide in the shadows

Why can't we speak face to face?

Come out and meet me on the stage

Of this famous place

Guardian Angel, silent protector

Step into the light!

Guardian Angel, hide no longer

Secret and strange angel

As the echo of my song faded into the shadows, I tensed, straining to hear if anyone approached, hoping the phantom would make his presence known. The auditorium remained dark and silent.

I let my shoulders sag. I hadn't really expected him to come, but I was disappointed all the same. I turned my back on the silent theatre and saw someone standing beside the curtain. Startled, I gasped and took an involuntary step backwards. In a great show of un-ballerina-like quality, I nearly fell when I tried to stop my backward evasion. The white mask remained where it was.

He would have let me fall. He had not moved a muscle, as if he were made of stone. The thought that maybe he was just a statue flitted through my head and was instantly dismissed. There was no possible way that I would have missed him had he been there a moment ago. He was real and he was watching me. I couldn't see his eyes, but I felt that volatile gaze upon me.

I straightened myself quickly, absentmindedly smoothing out my dress. I had thought of a hundred different things to say to him. My mind raced, trying to settle on one thing to say; the best thing to say. Unfortunately, his sudden appearance, and his appearance in general, flustered me so badly that I seemed to forget how to speak. What I did say was not at all what I had intended, but I was lucky to be able to choke out that one word.

"Why?" I shuddered inwardly at how weak and frightened I sounded.

He cocked his head curiously.

"Why what?" he asked, and his voice sent a shiver through me. It was a pretty broad question, I chided myself.

The bravado I had felt only minutes ago had melted away to a sort of tense curiosity and my voice had lost its strength. This meeting was not at all what I expected it to be. But then I wondered… what had I expected it to be? Clearing my throat as quietly as I could and licking my lips, I responded in barely more than a whisper, "Why did you save me?"

In the dim light of the candle I saw him tense, but he gave no answer. I waited for what felt like forever, but he remained silent. I could feel my temper start to flare as the silence lengthened. He had murdered my fiancé in front of me! Despite the fact that I did not love Benoit, did I not deserve an answer? Opening my mouth a crack I started to form a demand, but it died on my tongue as he finally spoke.

"Because I wanted to."

Blinking at him was all I could do. I was not sure what to make of his answer. Should I now be worried? Perhaps he did love to murder. Maybe he would still kill me, but only after he had messed with my mind so badly that I would be driven insane. My heartbeat quickened.

"Me too." I said it without thought and I'm not sure why I said it. Maybe it was true. Memory of a pewter candlestick surfaced in my mind. Technically, I had tried to kill Benoit although, at the time, I had considered it simply a desperate reaction.

From the way he tilted his head and pulled it back, I knew my reply had taken the Phantom by surprise. Cautiously, as though I might try to hurt him, the Phantom came toward me. "Are you glad then, that I did it?"

I gulped as he stopped, close enough for me to touch him.

"I…" I bowed my head, closing my eyes. A wave of shame swept over me as I realized I was. I was happy that this man before me had taken a life. I was happy that Benoit was no longer around to torture me. And I was absolutely horrified at the elation it brought me. Should I really be so glad that a man had been murdered? Even if he was a sorry excuse for a human being, did he deserve death at the hands of another? Suddenly something that had seemed so right, felt very wrong. If I was so glad to be rid of Benoit was I truly any better than the phantom who had killed him?

He must have been able to read my expression as I opened my eyes to peer at him, because he said harshly, "Do not feel guilty." He added, more softly, "He made his choice."

I responded with a nod.

"And the letter?" I asked. "The one you sent to Giselle. Killing Benoit wasn't the first time you protected me. You are protecting me. Why?"

My heart hammered in my chest at his proximity as he stepped closer, looking shocked. Frowning, he tried to form words, but no complete thought came out. His breathing turned shallow, quickening, and the gleam in his eye was enough to remind me of how dangerously alone we were. But I refused to back away.

Suddenly, he spun around and marched a few steps away. His dark form was barely visible in the meager candlelight, but I thought I saw his shoulders shake and heard the sound of crying. With his back still turned to me he said softly, "Sing for me."

The pain and longing that I heard in those few words helped me ignore the bristling I felt at his demand. Obliging, I started singing the first song that came to me. Eventually, he turned to face me again. Unable to hold that sorrowful stare, my gaze dropped to the candle. After a few seconds the flame guttered and I raised my eyes to where the phantom had been standing.

But he was gone.

He could not stand to be in her presence any longer. He felt it. A stirring deep within that he seemed to feel whenever he was near her. There was some inexplicable bond between them, and it bothered him that it was so.

Standing next to her (she had let him come so close!) it nearly overwhelmed him. There was only one other time he could remember feeling this way and that was with Christine — right before she had removed his mask. The thought of it still angered him.

Jacqueline had never once tried to take his mask off, nor had she even asked him about it. As if it did not matter. As if she did not care. And the way she looked at him… Gazing into those beautiful sapphire eyes almost made him forget his grotesque deformity. Almost made him feel… human.

A flicker of fear remained in her, though. In the first few seconds after recovering from her near-fall, he had seen it. She covered it up quickly enough and it seemed to wear off, but it had been there; it was not imagined. He wished it would vanish completely, because if it did, then maybe…maybe what?

The first time he had met her face-to-face, when she had bumbled into his cavern and he had had to lead her out — she had stared at him; not in horror or disgust, but what he thought was attraction. It had confused him then, but now, when she looked at him it made him feel good; made him feel wanted. He had dismissed her immediately because Christine was meant for him, not Jacqueline.

And yet.

She came to that stage tonight and sang to call him out. On purpose. She wanted him to come. Wanted to talk to him. Not to ridicule his figure, but to ask questions. But never about the mask. Jacqueline had never asked why he wore the mask.

But he had not trained her voice since she was a child. She did not sing with that angelic pitch that Christine did. It was good, yes, but not Christine. He was letting Jacqueline get to his head and he should not do that. It was distracting him from the perfect plan he had thought up. A plan to get Christine to realize that she was in love with him, after all, and not that pompous fop, the vicomte. And nothing — nothing — was going to stand in his way.