Hours of pacing the floor has been useless. The only thing he has achieved is a weariness in his bones. If anything he is more nervous than when he sought peace in the music room. The place he felt the most comfort after venturing out into the world of the living now only adds to his anxiety. The presence of the young woman sleeping only meters from where he stands now staring blankly at the organ is the cause.

Christine fills the room. The thrill he felt when she saw the "stars" encased in the walls set his heart pounding. The admiration of the rugs and curiosity about the library found him thinking perhaps he might be a worthy companion. Foolish meanderings.

Like the sirens living beneath the waters of the lake, the instrument beckons to him. One of the whimsical stories he spread to make anyone wishing to explore the manmade waterway beneath the opera house wary. The city sends their workers down periodically to make certain the passages are in good condition without one being dragged beneath the water by one of the mythical beings. But those workers knew nothing of the little games he likes to play with the managers to keep them in line.

Despite building the piece himself, the size of the house and the difficulty in moving anything in or out was a challenge. The organ is smaller than he might have wished but still fulfills his needs. Except for now. If the sound of his music reached beyond the fifth cellar to the upper levels, it was of no concern to him. Music at odd hours only adds to his mystique.

Yet, he hesitates to sit down at the organ, an act he is certain will ease the burning need to express his feelings. But what if he wakens her? The room is soundproof – no one from above has ever ventured close enough to hear him play…as far as he knows – but he cannot be certain.

When the workmen tend to the lake, he is careful to keep his presence hidden. The years since Charles Garnier gave him leave to build whatever he wished has him confident the man has likely forgotten about both him and the permission. Garnier wanted nothing more than the Palais be credited to him and him alone. His architectural suggestions were welcomed and saved the project – the lake being one consideration and the passages between the walls another. Nevertheless, the architect was only too willing to repay Erik's genius with such a simple request, despite his disclaimers.

"That is all you want," Garnier said. "I am more than happy to give you the credit you deserve...in addition to what you ask."

"I want only to retire to a place where I can live without being hated by my landlords and neighbors because of my face," Erik replied. "In fact, I should not mind if no one remembers me at all."

"But your masks…disguises"

"Only make it worse," he sighed. "The human need to know what they are prohibited from knowing is as old as the Garden of Eden."

"Curiosity killed the cat?"

"At times," Erik replied, his tone cold.

It amuses him to know that crew members refuse to go beyond the third level having seen a strange figure walking through walls. Secret panels installed for him to find refuge if he sees someone on the steps. If anyone happens to find the hidden entries, he will not live to tell the tale. Each passage booby-trapped for that person's speedy demise.

So far, the precautions have not been necessary. Only that busy-body Joseph Buquet, something of a ghost himself, continues to haunt the cellars after catching a glimpse of his face. Skulking down the stairs sans lantern, putting his faith in the torches at the beginning of each landing, the master of the flies caught him off guard. Their eyes met for a brief moment before he was able to duck into one of his hiding places.

The surprise on the face of the bloated fool was both laughable and disconcerting at the same time. That the fool did not fall to his death at that moment was quite miraculous. Now Erik is disposed to be particularly alert as Buquet finds pleasure using his discovery to terrorize the ballet girls. While he himself has no problem with keeping the phantom alive in their minds, his own pranks are mostly harmless, never hurting anyone, just enough to invite caution when seeking him out.

With all his concern about the route to reach the house – his organ being heard once within never occurred to him. Now feeling driven to play, his concern about Christine prevents him from doing so. Surely if he begins playing to calm himself, she will wake up and he is not prepared to deal with that consequence at the moment.

Throughout his life music has been the only means for him cope.

There was a time when he believed he no longer had the capacity to feel. Willed himself to die inside so nothing could touch him – be it love or hate. When he escaped his cage at the fair, he swore he would never be trapped again. Wishful thinking of a boy he would discover. His face only brought about more abuse. As he grew older and stronger, though, he began fighting back, especially after becoming quite skillful with a garrot. The Thugs were good teachers and, as with most things, he was an apt student.

"You are both brave and a fool," the jemadar said to him as he loosened the wire around Erik's neck.

Falling to his knees. Erik clutched his throat, unable to restrain himself from vomiting, he tried desperately to keep the bile contained. The efforts were useless. A combination of adrenaline and pure fear overpowered his will, however strong it was. The bitter contents of his stomach spewed from his mouth onto the dirt. "You did not kill me," he gasped through the retching. "Why?"

"You interest me."

"Will you teach me?"

"To kill?"

"To injure."

"Sometimes killing cannot be avoided."

"I will do my best."

The older man only laughed as he offered his hand, helping Erik to his feet. "At some point you may wish to kill."

"It is not a matter of wishing – that is always present. I simply do not want to carry that burden with me."

The inner death followed soon after taking the lives of others. The Thugee leader was right, sometimes killing could not be avoided. Usually because of the robbery victim fighting too hard, essentially bringing about his own end. Hardening his heart was self-protection. That and avoiding sleep. Sleep only brought recollections of his own abuse and now his acts against others.

Only when he began to play the violin he brought with him from the carnival, did he find himself able to hope. Music kept the nightmares at bay…and him alive. Had he been talentless, he supposes he would have died young. Death by starvation likely once leaving his mother's house. Who would take on a child with half a face after for a normal job? While he did have his music and he also had the skills of his father…to draw and build – a legacy even not knowing the man. The truth, however, was he knew nothing of the world.

So, here he is now, at home…his home wrought from the knowledge of a lifetime and he is unable to allow himself to play for fear of waking the young woman he kidnapped tonight from her dressing room above. Keeping her here, in loving circumstances, certainly, but without her approval.

"Whatever were you thinking? Angel of Music, indeed."

The drug calls him and he cannot resist. Play he must. Too many nights…years living with memories of a life alone. The music will ease the pain. The music will calm the anticipation of what is to come. The music will give him some peace.

But, to his chagrin the music does not come.

After resting his fingers on the keys and finding the peddles with his feet, he freezes. The instrument is completely foreign to him. Even as a child, he was able to simply sit down at the old upright in his mother's sitting room and repeat what he heard or invent his own melodies. When he came upon his first violin, a beat-up, ill-used fiddle tossed at him by the owner of the carnival, he restrung the instrument and created the melodies that served to keep him alive and fed.

Perhaps if he played the homely little upright. The piano is in his present sitting room; he considers the organ itself might be the issue, The sheer weight of the sound heavier than he might be able to bear. If he plays what he really feels, he may go mad. But he has no desire to lift himself from the bench to leave his sanctuary. This is where his music lives, not in an imitation of his childhood home with all the attendant memories.

"What are you playing?"

"Music," he answered. "I thought the sound was pretty, like the birds singing outside."

"I told you to practice the music I gave you."

"I do, Maman, I just wanted to make something of my own."

"Well, stop or you shall not play at all," she replied, closing the fallboard.

So many nights he played until exhausted. His opera consuming the hours when building this house or relaxing as he supposed most people do with studying or merely reading for pleasure. Sitting on the catwalks providing a certain amount of amusement, watching rehearsals and the people below interact relieves the solitude of this place. The pranks came later, keeping the managers in line took up a fraction of time, but were necessary to ensure his income. However much he may resent those who live above ground for their rejection of him – he knows life without any human interaction would be unbearable.

Instinctively, he realizes Christine saved his life with her misunderstanding of who he is. She has become his instrument. Don Juan Triumphant pales in comparison to the beauty of the young soprano's essence. How can an inanimate object, however, well-made or perfectly tuned compare to a human voice?

Their music tonight, for the life she infused into her aria was his as much as hers, was it not? Did he take it from her? No. What were her words?

"Tonight, I gave you my soul, and I am dead."

Not dead, my dear one, alive. Tonight, you were fully alive, and I was there with you.

Weariness finally overtakes him, putting an end to the worry, replacing the stress with a need for sleep. Resting his folded arms on the keyboard, he removes his mask and lays down his head. "Just a short nap and all will be well."

.