"Psst."

Adele halts her trek down the hallway from the stage to her office at the back of the opera house. Tilting her head to assure herself she actually heard the sound. "Who is there?'

The familiar Astrakhan hat peeking out from behind one of the Hannibal flats announces the whisperer better than any verbal response could.

"M. Khan? What are you doing backstage?" she says, "I swear the security people are becoming more and more lax in allowing the public into private areas."

"I apologize, Madame, and ask your tolerance." The man known to most of the company as the Persian answers, steps out from his hiding place.

"Well, at least you are not shouting at me and calling me Madame in the most derogatory way," she grumbles.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing," she says, fingering the keys on her chatelaine.

"Nothing does not bring about such anger and unhappiness in a lovely person like yourself," he responds. "Surely no one has been insulting you."

Adele raises an eyebrow, smiling slightly. "Since you are a loyal patron in the best sense of the word, attending our performances for the artistry and not the artists, I will not assume you are being so kind simply because you want something from me."

"Ah, Madame, I am afraid I do wish some information, but I am of the belief that kindness reaps more rewards than harsh treatment or insults," he laughs. "That I do admire you – knowing full well the current managers have no more knowledge about theater than the last one, and someone is responsible for the fine performances we have been honored to watch."

The man's tone and determined effort to be engaging finds her laughing outright. "You must have been a salesman of some sort in your home country."

"Alas, no. I was a sheriff and servant to the Shah in a beautiful part of Persia called Mazandaran."

"So in questioning criminals, you were cordial?"

"When called for. Oftentimes, one does not wish the suspect to know you believe him to be a criminal," he says. "In other instances, I did have different methods of persuasion. The skill comes in determining which method to employ."

"Come, we can discuss your business better in my office," she says, returning to her original intention. "These curtains and scrims offer too many hiding places for listeners, as you yourself just proved. I assume you wish to discuss something you do not wish the world to know – or at least members of our company."

"You are most kind," he says, bowing slightly before following her from the stage to the red carpeting lining the long hallway – the demarcation between fantasy and reality.

Once offstage the actors, singers, and dancers retire to the dressing rooms to remove their costumes and make-up and deal with the reality of their world off stage. With the exception of the Primas and the Dance Master, the others with their lower salaries or simple daily pay go home to struggle with rent and having enough to eat.

For herself, Adele finds the carpet to be a constant reminder of her good fortune to be both talented as a dancer and even more talented as a negotiator and manager. Whereas her charges and others in the company prefer the stage, she finds comfort in returning each day to the small, but convenient space to recover from the day's work and to relax from the sometimes distasteful demands of her job. A cup of hot tea and a finger or two of brandy dull both the physical and emotional aches and pains.

Why did she deliver that message from the Vicomte? Hard as she tries, the question repeats over and over in her mind. Fingering the note in the pocket of one of her ever present black dresses, she hopes the Persian's visit does not take up too much time.

Christine's continued absence is a cause of concern and she both hopes and fears the note will reveal what He – she is never quite certain what to call him – has to say about that situation. There is not a doubt in her mind where Christine is. The deeper question dogging her is how the girl is faring.

Any illusion of peace was shattered last night. Lessons with the girl kept him suitably occupied and less inclined to play tricks. Christine herself blossomed under his tutelage. All was well and the rehearsals for the new opera were untainted by falling scrims or trap doors opening at inappropriate times.

Odd to think of him as being happy, but if the potential for happiness was within him, Christine was the vehicle for that to happen. She should have known any sort of threat to that situation would set him off. Too many months of calm lulled her into forgetting the havoc he could wreak. This silence held an air of foreboding.

Finding the appropriate key, she unlocks and opens the heavy wooden door for both of them and adjusts the flame on the gas wall lamp to illuminate the simple, yet, elegantly appointed room. A small mahogany desk holds a ledger, pen and ink and a vase with a spray of spring flowers.

Motioning M. Khan take a seat on a small settee upholstered in a deep green velvet, she moves behind her desk to sit in the wooden swivel chair and lights the oil lamp on the desk. "So," she says, "what do you believe I can help you with?"

"Where the author of this letter is would be a start," Khan says, holding out the fine white envelope with Mme. G scratched on the front, the red wax seal on the back embossed with F d'O to her.

"You dropped this in the hallway."

"This room reminds me of our house in Sweden – what I remember of it," Christine says, as Erik leads her into the sitting room she only saw briefly the night before.

"Does it?"

"Yes." Pushing past him, she walks to the upright piano, running her hand over the highly polished wood. An ormolu clock, similar to the one in her bedroom, is centered on a woven runner of blue and gold, with matching candleholders on each side – all three decorated with cherubic figures. "Except for this," she says, looking back at him, her eyes bright. "We did not have a piano. Pappa would play his violin and Mamma and I would sing along to his playing."

"Your mother sang? You never mentioned that."

"Yes, she had a lovely voice," she enthuses, then laughs lightly. "Pappa could not sing at all…the violin was his voice."

"My mother played. Sang as well. Not like you. The lower register was her strength. Deeper, darker tones – much like her persona," he says, leaning against the door frame watching her. "This piano…all the furnishings came from her house. You might notice she had a fondness for clocks and angels. She would find your belief about me amusing."

"In truth? Somehow from your tone, I think not."

"You are quite correct. In truth, my mother saw me more in lines with the devil, or at minimum cursed by some evil spirit. I find your, shall we say, acceptance of me quite amazing, despite having seen what is beneath this fabric," he says, motioning to the barbe mask.

"We are more than our faces."

"True enough – my mother was quite beautiful – loved to be surrounded by beautiful things. I simply did not fit in with the décor. Once I understood, I left her house." Moving to the tufted sofa, he sits down. "I can only imagine what she might think, were she able to somehow see me here, touching her things."

Christine frowns. "But it was your house as well? As her child…"

"No."

The resolute tone suggests she not pursue the topic, but beyond his cool, even response, she senses a pain there. So much pain in this man. Dealing with a ruined face could not have been easy for him – especially as a child. The brief glimpse she got was not enough to inform her of the true nature of the deformity. Was this something he was born with or an injury from a later time?

The only memory she holds is one side of his face looking like melted flesh. None of which was discernable when he was the Angel of Music. Would she be so welcoming to him had she seen his face before coming to know him. Refusing to acknowledge her own prejudice, she pushes the thought aside. Whatever he says, whatever she saw – his face could not be so terrible. His mother was simply an awful person.

"Did you not live with her?"

"Only as young child."

"How did you come by the furniture then?"

"I saw an advertisement."

Christine sits down on the piano bench and cocks her head.

Biting the inside of his lip, Erik sighs, clears his throat and finally says, "There was a notice about an auction in Rouen…"

"You lived in Rouen? That is not far from Perros…Pappa and I performed there summers."

"Where you met the boy."

Clenching her teeth, she utters a simple, "yes."

Mentioning Perros was a mistake. Why should it disturb him so? Raoul means nothing to her now. The churning of her stomach tells her this is a lie. Of course he means something to her. So many nights of dreaming about the beautiful blond boy who ran into the sea to retrieve her red scarf could not be brushed away so easily. Seeing him again only reminded her of her feelings. Erik is hardly a fool. Why do you think you are down here in this home he has created for himself? What sort of man is he?

"So you lived by the sea?"

"Correct. When I was a child – until I was ten years old."

"But your mother and father still lived in the house."

"My father died before I was born, I never knew him."

"Oh, Erik." How very terrible for him. What would she have done without Pappa? But then, Mamma was gone. How she wished she could reach out to him. Tell him she understood, but his eyes were looking somewhere else. In the past, she supposes.

As if the last exchange did not happen, Erik says, "I saw the advertisement and went to Rouen and bought all the household goods."

"Your mother?"

"Dead – thus the auction."

"I am so sorry."

"Do not be. I am not. She died to me years before," he says, standing up, brushing non-existent dust from his jacket. "Enough of the past, perhaps we can deal with the present. Would you like to learn to play? I can teach you if that is so – that way you can accompany yourself or play for pleasure."

"I should like that very much."

"If you are to live here I want you to be comfortable. Come," he says, waving her to follow him, he moves to a doorway next to the sitting room. "This is the kitchen. I shall do my best to keep it stocked with the foods you like. Make me a list of what is needed."

"I can shop. I know the shops…"

"No." The sharp tone again, but there is no pain this time. The amber eyes are hard. No passageway to a discussion is open to her.

Nodding her head slowly, she says, "Then I shall need a pencil and some paper."

Turning away, he leads her from the kitchen to a desk. "You will find what you need here."

"Thank you…should I make the list now?"

"If you wish…or we could have a lesson."

"I think a lesson would be nice." With the barbe mask, she can see only his eyes, but she can sense a smile in them. The hardened glare is gone. Music will always be their bond, she must remember that…if she is going to live here. Ignoring the shudder, chilling her spine, she returns to the piano and opens the fallboard. "Now what?"

Standing behind her, he takes her hands, placing them on the keys, then covers them with his own.

The sensation of his touch brings a rush of heat through her body. How can this be? The hands themselves are cold, covered with deep scars – another mystery to unravel. His fingers so long her own can hardly be seen beneath them. Gently he puts pressure on her little finger, middle finger and thumb of both hands. His face so close, she feels his breath against the curls framing her face.

"This is the C Major chord." Then, moving their middle fingers from E to E flat, he says. "Now you have C Minor. You have now officially made music with a piano."

"Only with your help." Still warm from his initial touch, the thrill of actually creating something on the piano finds her face flushed bright pink. "Thank you."

"My pleasure, my dear," he says, standing back. "You will learn the chords with both hands. However, they will generally be played with the left and melodies with the right. I shall prepare some fingering exercises for you. Standing over you is not the best method for teaching."

"No, I suppose not, but I enjoyed the experience nonetheless," she says. "I felt as though I could play anything with you guiding me. You truly are my Angel of Music."

"May you always believe that," he murmurs as he closes the fallboard. "Now, perhaps you should prepare your grocery list. Before the markets close."

"Of course," she says, accepting his hand to rise from the bench. "Is there anything you would like?"

Eriks shakes his head, then raises a finger. "Berries, if they are in season, I lose track."

"Berries sound lovely. What kind?"

"Any sort," he says. "I find them easy to eat and quite enjoyable in flavor."

Sitting down at the desk, she pulls out a sheet of stationary and writes: Berries of any sort. Raspberries if possible.

"Anything else?"

"No, my dear, whatever you please."

Pressing the pencil against her lips, pondering her wants for a moment before writing item after item coming to mind on the plain white paper. Finally leaning back in the chair, she sighs and holds out her list to Erik.

Eyebrow quirked, a small smile on his face. "You are certain this is everything?"

"Is it not enough?"

"I suppose it is, I just wanted to be certain," he says. "I shall just add two more items."

"Oh?"

"Fish for Isis."

"Oh!" Christine laughs. "We most certainly cannot forget Isis"

"Indeed…she would never let us forget it. The other would be some yarn and needles, you did promise me a tea cozy."

"I did, did I not? That would be most kind of you."

Folding the list, he add a note of his own, inserting both pieces of paper into an envelope, scribbles something on the front and applies his wax seal. "I shall return shortly."

"You are going to the market?"

"No," he says, "I shall only be gone for a moment, perhaps you might find a book to entertain yourself with until I return."

Before she can reply, he is gone. Walking over to the bookcase, she finds a tome bound in black, gold letters embossed on the cover say HOLY BIBLE. What could be more perfect? When she opens the front flap, some papers fall onto the floor. Certificate of Marr…Cert of Bapt…Last Will…other notes in a fine handwriting.

Unsure of what to do – these are personal items, but…he did say to read a book. Ignoring the voice in the back of her mind, suggesting this was not likely something he would want, she gathers up the scattered documents. What is the harm? A quick look, return them to the Bible…he need never know.