"I know not what you value, Monsieur. But whatever I own - which I must admit is not much - is yours. This book is the most valuable thing I own... worth about three hundred francs, first edition. And I'm sure, if we find it, my sword as well will be worth something…"

She paused, searching for words. Pride seemed to choke her.

"I owe you my life; I am in your debt."

There was silence for a moment.

"No," the Phantom replied at length. "You owe me nothing. Call this my attempt to redeem the harm I caused you on our first encounter."

She had almost forgotten about their duel in the theater, but the memory surged in her mind's eye. It clashed uncomfortably with the man before her now, though the glowing, ominous, common thread of his mask remained. Yet she found she could not fear him. Respect him, feel unnerved by him perhaps, but not fear him.

There was silence for a few moments, but Manon felt unable to let the matter rest

"I still feel obliged, Monsieur; accept this book, my sword-"

"I don't need it. And what good is a talented swordsman without her sword?"

Despite his lack of expression his voice held a teasing note. Manon couldn't help but feel a small swelling of pride fill her chest.

"Well. The book, then." She held it out to him.

After the briefest hesitation, the Phantom accepted it. Manon stared as his fingers caressing the worn bindings absently, curious at this tenderness.

He seemed not to notice her attention. "I will accept the book, but only to borrow. Diderot was a gifted and insightful philosopher on the arts. When I finish shortly, I will return it to you."

"But, Monsieur, you should keep it," she hesitated, looking at uncertainly at her fingers.

"I, well, have no use for it, you see. I cannot read."

The Phantom stared at her with an incredulous frown. She winced as she could almost see the conclusions racing through his mind, sure he was considering the incongruent fact that despite her rough manner, her speech was still elegant enough to suggest a bourgeois upbringing.

"So there is no point in me keeping it" she elaborated, hoping he would stop staring at her.

Once again there was silence.

Oh, God, what am I doing here?

The Phantom's voice suddenly cut the air.

"Why were they after you?"

"Thievery, I stole bread," she said immediately, keeping her posture relaxed.

His quiet scoff spoke volumes.

"Certainly, the police do not pursue a woman so assiduously for mere thievery."

"Thievery is all I am guilty of monsieur, I assure you." she lied, gathering enough courage to look him in the eye.

Liar, jeered a voice in her mind. Murderer.

He let out a low growl. They're still prancing about?

Displeasure flared as the Phantom glanced over the plaza and saw the officers still pacing. He had been observing these policiers as they prowled around for a good part of the evening. From the cold shadows of Opera House roof he watched as they carried on interrogating passers by, shoving a piece of paper onto their faces.

He had not seen so many Parisian police officers right on the streets outside the opera before. No need to guess why they were here.

Manon Moreau was guilty of something far more wicked than thievery.

The twilight was fading quickly. It took only minutes for the shadows of night to steal into every hollow of Paris. Yet even in the increasing cold, the policiers continued to lurk. Would they stay all night, or retreat home in the cold small hours of the night? He would continue to watch for a time.

The Phantom's thoughts wandered inexorably back to Moreau. Her health was beginning to improve. The wound was healing, and though she was still pale, some color had returned to her cheeks.

He couldn't explain the satisfaction he felt that she was healing under his care. It seemed that a preference for silence was all they had in common. They couldn't help but exchange a few words here and there, but neither were forthcoming in the least. Silence most often reigned.

He returned to Moreau's room.

To his surprise, he found her standing up, arm against the wall to support her, slowly making her across the room. She was still in her shift, and her feet were bare on the cold wooden floor. Her hair was tousled, and her face was still pale, but her eyes were bright and merry.

When she caught sight of him emerging from the shadows, the merriment fled and her expression became defensive. The Phantom stepped closer and she backed up against the wall. Moreau glanced down as if expected a reprimand.

He obliged, his tone cold. "You are not fit walk, mademoiselle."

"I'm walking, aren't I?"

"But soon you will find yourself in the same position as before. On the floor."

"I assure you, I will be fine. I believe that if I can just find my clothing I can be on my way."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, and once I am dressed, I only need for you to direct me out of the opera house… if we are still in the opera house?"

"Yes, we are still in the opera house."

"Wonderful."

"I am sure the officers who are currently lurking outside will be most eager to see you."

"What?"

The Phantom maintained a look of too-bland innocence.

"They have been outside all day, questioning all passersby, searching for someone. I do believe they have set up for the night, as well."

Moreau, now clearly distressed, slumped against the wall. It seemed that she would have slid all the way to the floor if he had not caught her by the arm and directed her back to the bed.

As she settled back into bed, avoiding his eye, her shift slipped ever so slightly from her shoulder. The Phantom would have looked away, but he was fixated by the soft curve her shoulder. Smooth pale skin covered her neck and shoulders, luminous in the candlelight. His reluctant gaze traveled across her neck, to her collarbones, then farther down to the soft curves of her breasts … he forced himself to look away, desperate for the sense of growing desire to be gone, halfheartedly not wanting it so subside.

But the ache did not last long. Moreau drew the shift back up and over her shoulder, still not looking at him.

The Phantom settled his eyes on her face.

"It is you who they are looking for, is it not, mademoiselle?" he asked plainly.

She did not answer.

"I will find out sooner or later," he continued quietly. He seated himself on the chair beside the bed.

"And when you do, I will find myself cast upon on the streets again!" Moreau snapped, beginning to rise again, "So I might as well leave now."

He reached out swiftly and held her wrist. She drew back instinctively, but his grip was firm. He felt his fingers travel to her palm and then clasp her hand.

"As long as you wish," he said, his voice deep and sincere, "You may stay. No one will find you." His eyes were steady behind his mask, revealing nothing.

Manon looked at him incredulously.

"Why are you being so kind to me, monsieur?"

"Perhaps because I am a fugitive myself."