Of Masks And Roses

The Catacombs

Earlier that day Erik had been roaming the rafters, watching the set crew around him and the actors on the stage below. Ever since Christine had become Prima Donna he had been taking extra precautions with everything that had to do with the show. If something was out of place he would see that it would be fixed by the end of the day. He had already written a few notes to Monsieur Reyer, Monsieur Bayard, and Madame Giry. He hadn't written anything to the new managers yet, but nothing drastic enough had yet taken place to permit such a thing. So far he had not yet acquired his salary, but he ignored that little problem for now. Instead Erik had decided to put them to a little test. The only notes they would receive from him would be the one Madame Giry had delivered to them on their first day. He would watch them from afar, and would see if they would follow his instructions. If, by the first showing of Hannibal, they had not done so he would then take a more drastic measure to show that he was not someone that could be ignored.

For now he would remain in the shadows; silent and observing everyone work on Hannibal. And at the moment, he couldn't help but notice the new stagehand. The moment she had entered into his Opera House, though he did not know how or why, she had made quite the impression on him. He had seen her fall from the rafters that day and watched from afar as she made quite the recovery and took up a job as a stagehand, of all things. Earlier he had listened to her conversation with Christine and Meg Giry. She had given some information about herself to them, a few facts here and there, but nothing about her home or where she came from. She still claimed that she couldn't remember such things as that, and he had a funny feeling that she wasn't being very truthful.

But before he could think more upon the matter, the three girls began to talk about him, the mystery girl speaking only good things about him. That greatly confused him. No one had ever spoken well of him or his presence.

'Perhaps she's dim witted,' he thought to himself as he followed her from afar as she began her work, 'She can't possibly be, though. She has been educated. Perhaps she's insane. Likely caused by her fall. Why else would she defend me. No one in their right mind would do that,' He watched silently as she sat on a stool, a small book in hand. She was writing intently in it and seemed lost in her own world. Erik sighed slightly. He knew that feeling all too well. Though he did love coming up to the surface to watch the operas and hear the music, he couldn't help but long to head back into his domain and get lost into his own music.

The two of them were broken out of their reverie as Buquet made his presence known, trying to peek into her business. The girl quickly snapped her book shut, stowing her pencil behind her ear and the book in her pocket as she fired a retort back at the man. The Phantom smirked slightly at her ferocity as he turned away and melted into the darkness, leaving to find someone else to observe.

Later that day he had run into her again. He watched from the shadows as she made her way back to her room; book and pencil in hand. Curiosity got the best of him as he followed her. He knew almost everything about everyone in this Opera House. But this girl continued to remain a mystery to him. He knew nothing about her, and he wanted to find out at least something if he could. He made his way through his tunnels and through a small hole in the wall he observed her in the room. He watched her as she placed her book on the nightstand, but was interrupted when somebody knocked on the door, calling her away.

He eyed the book. Again, curiosity overtook him as he pulled a latch and opened a small door in the wall.

'Perhaps she has written something about herself in it,' he thought to himself. Silent as a mouse he strode over to the table and picked up the book, flipping to the first page.

He almost dropped the thing. He may have despised his face, but even he couldn't deny that he immediately recognized his eyes and mask on the page. They seemed to stare back up at him; looking into his own soul. He hated to admit it, but the drawing of himself was absolutely perfect in every way. He hesitated as he placed a hand over the page, daring to rip it away and crumple it, destroying it forever. But he couldn't bring himself to. Instead, he drifted his fingers softly over the page. Every line, every detail was spot on, and he was astounded at the talent she had. How detailed, how extraordinary, how realistic. They seemed to burst with life. As if he even had a life.