Yuku free message boards

Erik Who?
Kelsismom

A/N: The content becomes lighter from this point on. I am taking liberties with just about everything and hope you enjoy. I would love to hear what you think, please leave feedback in the feedback thread.

Chapter 2- What's in a Name?

The olive-skinned man stared at his masked friend for a long while, watching as he hungrily devoured the sandwich before him. Devoid of any manners, Erik took the last quarter of his sandwich and unceremoniously stuffed it into his mouth.

"There," Erik said, his mouth full as he spoke. "Will you tell me now?"

"I'm not sure that is such a wise idea."

Frustrated, Erik resisted the urge to take his so-called friend by the throat. "You said that if I ate my food, you would tell me who I am."

"You need your strength, Erik. I can't very well carry you over my shoulder out of this labyrinth. We need to get you to a doctor."

"Why won't you tell me who I am?" he demanded like a petulant child, pounding his fist on the table with each word.

Nadir eyed the empty plate in front of him and grasped it. "Why?" he asked calmly. "Your memory may very well come back without any help from me." He casually turned from his frustrated friend, and headed toward the kitchen.

Erik sprang from the chair, but a sudden head rush dropped him back into his seat.

"What if it doesn't?"

"Well, then maybe you are getting a second chance," Nadir told him, bringing a plate of fruit and setting it onto the table before him.

"Second chance? For what?"

"Erik, listen to me…you were not the most popular person…"

"Popular is a relative term, my friend." Why did it feel so natural to call him that? What one person may find popular, another may find…unpopular."

Nodding, Nadir sat across from Erik and handed him a shiny red apple off the plate. "What I meant was that you were not well-liked."

Erik took the offering from his friend, admiring the sparkling redness of the fruit after automatically polishing it on his shirt. So shiny was the apple that he could just make out the reflection of the white color of his mask.

"Because of my mask," Erik concluded.

Nadir thought it best not to confirm nor deny it. "I am your friend, Erik. Please trust that I have only your best interests at heart."

He didn't reply as he proceeded to take a large bite of the apple.

"Now, please let's hurry. There's no time to waste."

Puzzled, Erik walked through his domain, his deep blue eyes catching the details of all the furnishings, all the possessions. He observed a puppet theater, a stage for tiny costumed humans: one man, two women, rather one woman dressed as a man. Very odd.

His friend rushed about, throwing clothes into a large suitcase, mumbling to himself. Erik found himself drawn to a grand piano, his fingers caressing the glossy keys, as though they'd been calling out to him like a long lost friend. His eyes turned to a handwritten sheet of music on the stand.

"I play," he remarked aloud, running his fingers up and down the keyboard, the rich notes filling his soul, and played the first few bars of the song.

"Let us not waste time, Erik! Need I remind you, that you are a wanted man?!"

"Right." Maybe Nadir was right. Maybe he did not really want to know after all. He flipped curiously through the stack of music. There had to be more…somewhere, he was sure of it. He stood and lifted the piano bench lid, finding several booklets of sheet music by all the most famous composers, then to his surprise found thick wads of money spread underneath. Surprised, he looked around to be sure he was not being watched by his olive-skinned friend, and proceeded to help himself to a few of the cash bundles, stowing them into the pockets of his suit.

His sharp blue eyes moved onward, his feet carrying him from one antique to the next, Erik searched his brain for any clues. He found a music box with a monkey wearing a gold-lined red vest, shiny gold cymbals in its hands, sitting upon a chest. Indeed, he sensed that this piece was precious to him, but he had no idea why. For just a moment, he considered taking it with them, but out of the corner of his eye, long shiny brown hair caught his attention. Up against the wall of the cavern, he was drawn to a life-sized doll. The top of her head extended to the height of his shoulders. Dressed in a beaded bridal gown, the mannequin's hair fell in long, glorious tresses just below the breasts. And the face; Erik was astounded by the detail. Her skin was pale against the auburn shade of her hair, and those large incredible eyes were the most remarkable shade of brown. High cheekbones were graced with just a touch of pink, and the lips were colored ruby red. Unable to resist, Erik removed the doll from its stand, and carried it to the threshold, careful to lift the train so as not to let it drag on the stone floor.

"What are you doing?" Nadir asked, truly wondering if his friend had gone mad. "We can't take that. We still have to row across the lake…" He stopped as he noticed Erik gingerly bringing the mannequin to the boat.

"Leave the doll, Erik."

"We have to bring the doll," he insisted.

Nadir shook his head. "Absolutely not. I have no such room in my…" he paused as he watched his friend's eyes fall obsessively over the doll's fine features.

"You don't understand," Erik replied, his voice just above a whisper. "There's something about her." His arms embraced her as though she were a living, breathing person. "We have a connection. Besides, just look at her- she's exquisite."

"It's a doll, Erik."

He pressed his cheek up against the cool plastic of her cheek. Slowly, he pulled away from the doll, a sudden look of horror on his face, he held the mannequin at arm's length. "Oh God, Nadir."

Nadir winced at his friend's sudden change of expression, dreading Erik's recollection. "What is it?"

"You would tell me the truth, wouldn't you?"

"Without revealing too much about your past, yes, of course."

All the color had left Erik's face, and his heart began to pound wildly. "Am I…am I…" he stammered, dreading the answer that Nadir might give. How could he possibly give voice to such a question, he wondered. "Am I a pervert?"

Suppressing a laugh, Nadir tried to keep a straight face. I could really have fun with this. But, as luck would have it, his conscience got the better of him. "No, Erik, you are most certainly not a pervert." His blackish-brown eyes turned upward thoughtfully. " I don't think."

It seemed a long trek out of the catacombs as Erik and Nadir found their way methodically from the lair. Finally, they reached a secret exit from the Paris Opera House. The dark sky revealed that there was little time before sunrise, and right on cue, a taxi was quick to retrieve them.

Erik stayed silent as his friend carefully explained his plan. So long as his injuries were not serious he would stay with Nadir in his flat just outside the city.

"And," he told Erik with eyes as serious as death, "you will not under any circumstances return to the Opera house or set foot on the streets of Paris."

Reluctantly the masked man agreed. What choice, for now, did a man without a memory have?

"There's also the issue of your surname to be considered," Nadir told him.

"Surname? What is my surname?"

"I am not going to discuss it, Erik. Besides, for now the doctor will require that sort of information, and we must give you one that cannot be tracked by the police."

"Very well then. Do you have pen and paper?"

Nadir looked at his friend curiously. "Why?" he asked, pulling a pen from his jacket pocket, and an old business receipt from his wallet.

"Because," Erik replied, accepting the items from Nadir. "It's not enough just to think of a name. It also has to look acceptable in writing."

Nadir rolled his eyes at his friend's eccentricity.

"Now then," Erik began, tapping the end of the pen thoughtfully against his left cheek. "Should it be a French name?"

"Like Rousseau. Erik Rousseau?" Nadir suggested.

"Or Fournier…"

"How about …Dubois…Erik Dubois…"

Erik put pen to paper, quickly scribbling the two names together, but shook his head. "Maybe not…"

"Petit. Erik Petit."

The masked man turned to his friend. "Are you joking?" he asked, his tone full of disdain, and lips curved into a frown. He turned back to his paper. "How about Michel?"

Nadir let out a snort. "Michel, from Hebrew, for who is like God?"

"Alright, maybe not. I was born in England, was I not?" His eyes opened wide at the realization. "I was born in England, Nadir!" he stated happily.

Reserved, Nadir commented with feigned happiness, "Yes, brilliant, do you recall anything else?"

Furrowing his brows, Erik searched his mind again, and another frown fell over his lips. "No."

"Well then, let us begin with English surnames. Smith…Erik Smith."

"Too common."

"Williams," Nadir suggested.

Erik scribbled the name onto the paper but then shook his head once more. "No…maybe…"

"King?"

"Erik King? Again, are you joking?"

Nadir sighed, as he was beginning to tire of this activity. "Campbell, Barnes, Morgan, Harrison, Turner…for the love of Allah, just choose one, Erik."

"None of those are right for me, Nadir. One doesn't just pick a name out of a hat and adopt it as their own. It has to sound right, look right, feel…" A fresh name hit Erik like a bolt of lightning, stopping his words in their tracks. "I think, my friend, I have found myself a name." He took a breath and scribbled it onto the paper.

With a raised eyebrow, Nadir scooted towards his friend and read the name with a smile. "It's good, Erik. Very dignified. And just in time," he told him, pointing to the office the cab was pulling alongside. "We're here."

Chapter 4- Recovery Time

He was young, probably five years younger than Erik, incredibly good-looking, and cocky as all hell. As the doctor arrogantly droned on about the specifics of the procedure, Erik was tempted to walk out of there, and indeed might have had the young Parisian not been one of France's top reconstructive surgeons. At first he couldn't help but feel a pinch of envy of the doctor's obvious handsome features, which only strengthened his desire to go through with the procedure.

He explained at length to the amnesiac that the damaged tissue on the right side of his face was in fact a congenital deformity, which for some reason provided Erik some relief, confirming what he had already suspected. He had not been the victim of some horrible accident, but had been born with this defect.

"So, in short, Mr. Windsor, the good news is that I'm reasonably sure that I can successfully reconstruct the right side of your face, but the bad news is that the procedure is quite costly." His green eyes avoided Erik's as he scanned the file before him. "I see here that you have no insurance, but we accept checks, major credit cards..."

Erik did not care for the smug look on the overpaid doctor's face, and would have gladly wiped it away with his fist. Instead, he patted the wad of bills inside his coat pocket. His hard-earned composer money would definitely cover the expense. Another flash of recall hit him, and he remembered there was even more money stashed away in a hidden safe inside his lair, although he had more than he needed with him. "Is cash acceptable?"

The night before the surgery

Nadir stopped at the door to the guest room to say goodnight and found his friend sitting before the mirror wistfully, unmasked, running his fingers gently along the rough ridges of the right side of his face.

"You don't have to go through with it."

Erik was unemotional, and his eyes stayed steadily on his own reflection. "I do, Nadir. Do you remember how everyone stared at my mask when we went shopping?"

With a frown, Nadir had to disagree. "I think what they were staring at were those awful Hawaiian shirts you were trying on."

"It was the mask, Nadir," he insisted, "and I hated it. I wanted to crawl into a hole…or worse…" He paused and turned to his friend. "Although I have no memory of it, I know that this face has brought me much misery." His gaze fell back to the mirror. "So if there is a way to correct this hideousness, I'm ready to do it. I want to look normal. I want the chance to live a normal life. Is that too much to ask?"

"Of course not. You deserve happiness, Erik."

Nodding slowly, Erik stood up and headed toward his bed. "Good night, my friend."

"Good night, Erik. Get some sleep. You have a big day tomorrow."

He collected his patience, and taking a deep breath, Nadir poked his head into Erik's room, to find his irritable friend sitting up in bed with arms folded. "What is it now, Erik?"

"I'm hungry."

"But, you just had soup an hour ago," Nadir retorted.

"It was soup, Nadir, and not even very good soup."

Nadir's mouth dropped. "Well, excuse me if my cooking doesn't suit your palate, Erik. You are more than welcome to fix something for yourself!"

Dramatically Erik let himself fall back into a lying position, draping the back of his hand over his partially bandaged forehead. "I caaaan't. My head huurts," he whined. "Sooo…weak."

Rolling his eyes, he acquiesced. "What is it you are hungry for?"

Erik's deep blue eyes lit up, and he rose to a seating position. "Do you have any grapes and cheese?"

With a sigh, he replied, "I'll go check the refrigerator."

Five minutes later he returned with an attractive spread of fresh green grapes, with small cubes of cheese, and a row of crackers. He set the tray down in front of his insufferable patient, and Erik smiled up at him gratefully.

"Thank you, Daroga." Erik's eyes grew wide upon speaking that name. "Daroga! You were… a sheriff… in Iran!"

Nadir's face lit up at the recollection. "You remember me?"

"No," Erik told him blankly. "I only remember that I call you daroga."

"Oh." Slightly disappointed, Nadir turned to leave Erik with his food when the sound of a serious note in Erik's voice stopped him.

"Nadir?"

Turning to face him, he observed the solemn look on Erik's face. "We've been through a lot together, I know…and even though I cannot recall, I appreciate everything you are doing for me."

A warm smile curved at Nadir's lips. Erik was the closest thing he had to a son. He'd lost his own son, Reza nearly a decade ago, and Erik had helped to ease the young boy's pain. Now having Erik there with him in his flat, even though it was mostly annoying, there was some comfort in it. "That's what friends do, Erik. Now, eat," he told him, turning back toward the door.

A smile of mischief played at Erik's lips. "Nadir?"

This time he didn't bother to turn around. "Yes, Erik?"

"Will you feed them to me?"

Without answering, the olive-skinned man narrowed his eyes in anger, exiting the guest room, and slammed the door as he left.

"It's a relief to see you not scratching."

"They were itchy…and they made me feel like Frankenstein."

"Frankenstein?" Nadir laughed, reaching for his wallet from the kitchen counter. "Don't flatter yourself!"

Erik held up the hand mirror to his face, observing the slightly swollen, bruised features, comparing one side of his face to the other. "Oh, it's not pretty to look at now, Nadir. But, just give me time. After the swelling has gone down completely, and the flesh has returned to a normal color…"

"Then you might look presentable," Nadir joked, observing his scruffy, discolored face.

Smiling, Erik replied. "Maybe even better than that."

"Right," Nadir agreed, moving toward the door. "Don't burn the flat down while I'm gone."

"Do you have to go?" Erik whined.

"We are in need of some groceries, Erik, and you are better off here. You aren't exactly pretty to look at just yet."

Erik hung his head. He understood the truth of Nadir's words, but still didn't like the idea of being left behind. "But, I'm sooooo booooored."

Nadir rolled his eyes. "Nonsense, Erik. Pick up a book…"

"But, I've read them all," he countered.

"Then turn on the television for Allah's sake!"

"But, Nadir, you know I detest the telly."

A frustrated sigh escaped Nadir, and his eyes bulged out angrily. "Turn on the computer, surf the web, play solitaire, compose, do something, anything!" He did not wait for Erik's response and quickly exited the flat. Having him there for nearly two weeks had drained every ounce of patience and understanding from his soul. He needed a break, even if it meant peforming the detested job of running out for groceries. After Erik was fully recovered, which he hoped would be very soon, Nadir would return to his job as a private investigator.

Erik exhaled an angry breath, and resisted the urge to take the lovely antique vase on Nadir's dining room table and throw it swiftly at the door. He roamed the flat aimlessly, pondering his options. Turn on the computer and surf the web. Erik hadn't had a clue on where to begin. Compose. Without his piano, what good would that do? Nadir had left a deck of cards on the kitchen counter Solitaire…bo-ring. He wandered out to the living room and eyed the detestable large screen television that occupied the better part of one wall. Television- it pollutes the mind. He'd always told Nadir as much, and when his friend had turned it on, he'd made a point of it to leave the room, so as not to subject himself to the mindless content of the ridiculously sized device. Erik turned away from it, openly rejecting it, as though it had feelings.

1 Hour Later

Erik barely heard Nadir walk in as his eyes stayed fastened to the large screen. Fascinated, he watched as the newscaster reported the weather.

"Erik? I could use a hand." Struggling with three bags of groceries, he was pleasantly surprised that his friend had taken an interest in the TV at last.

Erik gave Nadir the hand and told him to shush.

Setting the bags on the counter, Nadir ignored the rude gesture. "I need some help, Erik, with the groceries."

Hesitantly, Erik walked away from the living room, his eyes still glancing back toward the hypnotic screen. He made his way to the front door and retrieved the three other filled paper bags that were on the ground. After bundling them in his arms, he met Nadir in the kitchen.

Nadir took out the vegetables and placed them in a drawer in the refrigerator. "So you made peace with the television."

"I had no idea!" Quickly, Erik unloaded item after item from each bag. "It's been showing story after story of rape, murder, kidnappings. Just before the weather," he paused and looked to Nadir with wide eyes. "Did you know they report the weather?"

Unimpressed, Nadir took two cans from Erik's hands. "It's the news, Erik."

"It's all terrible news, Nadir. Not just here and in Paris, but all around the world. Did you know that they were showing a high speed car pursuit?" he asked, his voice full of excitement.

Nadir turned to the grocery bags. "It's life, Erik, and despite how they make it look, it isn't all bad."

Leaning against the counter, he shook his head in wonder. "There's a whole world out there that I've been hiding from for years."

Nodding, Nadir straightened out the dairy products on the shelf in the refrigerator to make some room. "This is true, my friend."

"Not anymore," he vowed. "Once I'm healed, Erik Windsor is not going to hole up in a cave any longer. No, I am going to go outdoors, talk to people, Nadir, I am going to live!"

"Yes, of course, Erik, but you will be careful with whom you speak, and about what you speak. You are still a wanted man…which reminds me, I have to reach Antoinette. I am sure she is wondering about you by now."

"Who is Antoinette?"

"Madame Giry is quite possibly the only other friend that you have. She has sacrificed much to protect you, and she deserves to know what has happened."

Erik searched his mind, but could not recall the name. "Of course," he said absently, his eyes straying again towards the television.

"I will e-mail her straightaway." He finished setting some eggs into the shelf basket, and when he looked for Erik, he found his friend planted once again in front of the television.

"It looks good, Mr. Windsor. The bruising is almost completely gone, and you are ready to take on the world."

Not the world, Erik thought with an amused grin, not yet…For now, just Paris.

Erik was more than satisfied with the results, and though the surgery had cost an exorbitant amount of his composing money, he felt that it was worth every cent.

Chapter 6- To the Lair

"Why won't you tell me where he is?" Christine demanded. Her delicate hands were balled into fists.

Unaffected, the ballet instructor resumed filing her nails. Before her vanity mirror she sat, her long, light brown hair tucked tightly in a bun. For a woman in her late forties, her face reflected youth. Her graceful movements indicated years of discipline. "Christine, as I have told you already. I know as much as you do. I have neither seen nor heard from him," she told her coolly. Technically this was true, although there had been the e-mail from Nadir. He had given strict instructions not to betray their secret, and Antoinette knew better than to give in to the young woman's curiosity. Setting the nail file down, she stood and placed gentle hands on Christine's shoulders. "Now run along, Christine. Remember you have a costume fitting, and then rehearsal later."

"But…"

Antoinette raised a darkly penciled brow in warning. "That is all, Christine," she told her dismissively, using a tone the nearly twenty-year-old knew was not to be trifled with.

Heaving a sigh, she left the room, shutting the door forcefully behind her. Furious, Christine stood outside of Madame Giry's door. The woman was the closest thing she had to a mother, and it disturbed her to no end that she would not give her any information about Erik. Since Christine had come to the Opera house as a child, she had been treated as though she were a daughter, and being raised with Madame's own Meg, had always felt loved and cared for. Though, the young soprano could not help wondering if Meg really did know more than she was letting on. She doubted somehow that Madame had made her daughter privy to any information. The woman who had loved Christine and raised her knew something; of that she was certain, she felt it in her heart and in her soul. No longer content to sit and wonder about her estranged angel of music, Christine decided to do something about it.

After five weeks of memory loss, the former phantom decided he had wasted enough of his time in front of Nadir's big screen television. He had not shared his feelings of depression with his friend. The disheartening lack of recall of his former life had been too much for his mind to accept. Day after day had passed, and although the flashes came sporadically, they were tiny bits of useless information that offered little comfort. With no other way to occupy his time, Erik had developed an unreasonable addiction to the television…until he experienced that incredible feeling at the bar the night before. It was an uncanny awareness of an emotion larger than life, an amazing perception of a missing piece of himself, right there in that same vicinity. It was for but a split second that he felt it, and now could have kicked himself for leaving the bar with that impetuous brunette. He had gone to bed the night before, unable to sleep, his mind torturing him with that regret. If only he had stayed…

His hair was combed back neatly, the ebony locks now falling to his shoulders. Dressed in black slacks, and a warm charcoal sweater, he was finishing the rest of his coffee, as Nadir greeted him in the kitchen with a surprised expression.

"You're dressed?" Nadir smiled, observing his neatly dressed, clean-shaven friend.

"Of course," Erik responded plainly.

"Are you going out today?" he asked as he pulled a cup from the cabinet and poured himself some coffee.

Erik had no intention of telling Nadir his actual plans for the day, except this one, "I am going to get a haircut."

With a satisfied smile, Nadir could not have felt any prouder, as though Erik were his own son taking his first eager steps into the world. "Wonderful, Erik. I am pleased that you have not decided to continue your life as a couch potato."

"Well," Erik said, clearing his throat. "Don't worry," he said with a smirk. "I'll be back in plenty of time for Jeopardy."

There were times when Erik's jealousy proved too much for the young woman, disallowing her any kind of a life outside the opera house. He commanded complete dedication from her, and promised that with his help and influence she would be the star instead of a chorus girl. Christine had believed him, but at the same time, she had a strong suspicion that not only was Carla's voice breaking into a curious croak that fateful night not a coincidence, but also the many other unfortunate occurrences that had befallen the mean-spirited soprano were probably the result of Erik's machinations.

Christine would not let herself think on that any longer as she reached the small boat, paddling it across the lake as Erik had done so many times before. The portcullis was open. If the large iron gate had been closed, she may have believed her angel to be inside his lair. Her heart sank. She reached the small shore and secured the boat to its hook. As she stepped out onto the rock shelf, she found the doll that Erik had created in her likeness laying on the cold stone floor. The first time that he had revealed it to her, she was disturbed, but impressed at the same time. After he had expressed that it was a tribute to her, she finally saw past the troublesome gesture of obsession, and accepted it as a piece of art, admiring the fine details that Erik had so painstakingly sculpted into it. The wedding dress had been the latest addition, and as strongly as she felt for him at the time, she found herself more flattered than disturbed by the idea. Now, the doll lay on its back, the arms extended outward, the eyes staring blankly up into the cavern, and its elegant bridal gown hung haphazardly from the mannequin. Abandoned. It was the way Christine felt, and had felt for weeks. Without Erik, she felt lifeless, without spirit, with all the soul of the dummy she now carried in her hands.

Uselessly, she called out to him, her eyes studying his furnishings, his possessions, desperately in search of any clue to his disappearance. She set the mannequin back in its original location next to the long mirror, and tucked its legs safely into the stand, straightening the folds of the dress and brushing out the wrinkles. With the utmost care, her fingers combed at the long tresses, satisfied that should he find the doll again, it would not be laying sadly on the cold, hard ground, but standing, her eyes bright, and awaiting her angel's return. With a heavy sigh, she continued to call out to him, moving through the rooms of his domain, her heart sinking again. He was gone. She picked up his most prized possession, the music box with the lively monkey, with its velvety red vest, and gold cymbals. It was the only thing she had left of him. Tears stung at her eyes as she ran her fingers over the decorative antique. Christine had an awful feeling in the pit of her stomach, uncertain if she would ever see him again.

He would definitely have to question Nadir about that one.

He had already planned it in his head, his arrival at the Opera house. With the natural stealth of a fox, he approached the large building, unseen, his eyes glancing about, making sure he was not being watched as he slipped into the Opera Populaire through the hidden entrance Nadir had used when he brought him out of the labyrinth.

He knew the way instinctively. Like riding a bike, Erik did not have to summon his memories for the direction to his home. He knew every step, every turn, precisely how many steps led to his underground haven.

True to his word, he had gone to the barber as promised, but then proceeded to the place where he might find some answers. The underground tunnels were darker than he had anticipated, but with his cat-like vision, he made his way with little trouble. He paddled the boat carefully across the lake, allowing his instinct to guide him.

To his dismay, he found that upon docking the boat, that the exquisite doll was not where Nadir had hastily insisted Erik leave her. He wondered if the daroga had been correct in assuming that the police had discovered his former home, and perhaps removed the lifelike figure. What else was missing, he wondered. His heart ached at the loss, shaking him to the core that he may never again behold the beauty of its countenance.

Though several weeks had passed, with remarkable clarity Erik was reliving the disturbing lost feeling he had experienced the last time he walked the cavern. Unfortunately, he recalled little else as he stepped through the lair. As though they had a mind of their own, his fingers sought the glossy keys of the piano, and his body took willingly to the bench. His music called to him, and quickly his skillful fingers responded, allowing the harmony to enter his soul, and as he played the piece in its entirety without the assistance of sheet music, his spirit soared. He felt more contentment than he had in weeks…and for just a moment, in his mind, Erik was sure he heard the ethereal vocals of an angel singing in accompaniment. And as quickly as it appeared, it was gone.

With a sigh, he stood up from the grand instrument, and made his way towards the location of the safe, which he recalled to be hidden behind a mirror in his bedroom, stopping several times along the way to examine an object, closing his eyes, summoning a memory, something, anything. Frustrated, he made his way to his bed chamber and approached the safe. Oddly, the combination came to his fingers without any thought. Upon opening the small heavy door, his hand shuffled furiously among the several piles of cash, rifling for any sort of paperwork, birth certificate, and legal documents. Nothing.

Another sigh emerged, and he concluded that for all the money he possessed, he must have been a very successful composer.

Locating a small duffel bag, Erik loaded it with the plentiful piles, and closed the safe, then lingered about the room. Uselessly he wandered, from his closet to his bureau, to his bathroom, praying with every step that God might grant him back his memory. Back in the main room, he brushed his hand against the red velvet draperies, which parted slightly to reveal a revolving mirror, and before looking further, out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of long, shiny auburn hair. His heart leapt for joy as he covered the short distance to his beloved mannequin, finding her standing exactly where she was before he had moved her. As his eyes met the sweet loveliness of her face, he wondered how the doll had made it back into its stand. It was obvious the police had not been there, because everything seemed to be in its place as far as he could recall. Perhaps the Giry woman had been there? Running gentle fingers along the doll's plastic cheek, he froze in place, bitten suddenly with the heavy realization that there was something missing from his lair, something he treasured.

"Christine," Meg called out, knocking forcefully on the door.

Christine turned with a start, having lost all track of time. She moved quickly to the door, and opened it to reveal the blond ballerina looking at her questioningly. "Hello, Meg."

"What are you doing? Lunch is over and rehearsal is beginning in five minutes." Meg's sparkly blue eyes set on her friend with disapproval. "Mama will have a fit if you show up dressed like that."

Dejected, Christine glanced down to the baby blue sweat outfit she was wearing. "What's wrong with this?"

Meg forged forward, hastily digging into Christine's bureau drawer, and pulled out a black leotard and tights. "That," she began with a frown, pointing to her friend's ensemble, "is not appropriate attire for dance," she informed her in a tone that sounded very much like her mother's. "And Christine, c'mon, the sweatshirt?"

Hugging her sweatshirt tightly against her skin, Christine's mouth fell open. "What?! What's wrong with it?"

The petite blond rolled her eyes, and stuffed the dance gear into Christine's arms. "Nothing, if you are a tourist. I mean, hello, it has the Eiffel Tower on it!"

"I like the Eiffel Tower," Christine said in a small voice. The truth was that Erik had given her that particular piece of clothing, as a joke. And now, besides the music box, it was her only comfort.

"We're going to be late. Hurry," Meg told her, hurriedly, practically undressing the young woman who was her sister in all but name.

Tying the long, curly locks into a ponytail, Meg barely waited for Christine to finish putting on her other shoe. "Let's go!"

"Okay," she responded, complacent. Allowing Meg to pull her by hand from the room, Christine wondered why she even bothered. All she wanted to do was hole up in her room, and lay in her bed. What was the point of going to rehearsal to sing and dance? Erik wasn't there to see her dance or to hear her sing.

Her angel wasn't there.

Erik arrived at the two-way mirror, his gaze curiously meeting the bedroom furnishings on the other side.

He had had that feeling again, his heart tingled with that giddy sensation, and willingly he allowed his gut to guide him to this odd sort of glass before him. After peering in at every angle, observing the room to be empty, he opened the mirror and stepped through. Inspecting the décor, he decided it was a woman's room, with its frilly bed covering, floral wallpaper, and vanity. With surprise he found the very item he had been missing- his treasured music box…another mystery. Why was it here? Whose room was this? Searching around for clues, his eyes found another surprise: a sweatshirt that matched his own, in a pleasing baby blue. As he lifted the garment to his nostrils, he breathed in the faint jasmine scent, letting it fill his lungs like a breath of fresh air. That heavenly fragrance…so familiar…

It was all very puzzling to Erik, and what was worse was that the remarkable tingly feeling had disappeared once again like a puff of smoke. He had come to the Opera house for answers, but left only with more questions. Realizing that many hours had passed, Erik departed from his former home once again, hoping to arrive back before Nadir to avoid an interrogation.

In the back seat of a taxi once again, his mind spun with all the new input of the day, and he felt a gnawing ache nipping at the back of his head. His fingers rubbed the site of the injury, and though the bump was gone, and the laceration healed, his memory was still very much jumbled.

To his relief, he arrived back at Nadir's flat before his olive-skinned friend, and with arms full, he fussed with the door and entered. He took great care in placing his belongings into his room, and closed it up. Kicking off his shoes, he fell into the sofa, and flipped on the television, and amazingly at that moment, he saw a flash of the Italian brunette, along with many colorful costumed dancers and singers; a commercial for the production at the Opera Populaire. Though he had not been fond of Carla's vocals, his heart longed to attend the opera. Nadir, he knew, would never allow it, and would be furious if he found out about Erik's little journey today.

His head still ached, and his stomach growled. Erik made his way to the kitchen, and poured himself some water, reached the headache pills, and was popping two into his mouth when Nadir entered.

"Hello, Erik," he said with a smile, setting his briefcase and newspaper down on the kitchen table. In fact, he had been worried all day about his friend, thinking that Erik might have tried to return to the Opera house, and was half-anticipating a phone call from the Paris police. With relief, he eyed Erik's haircut approvingly. "You got your hair cut."

The ache had now spread to Erik's temples. "You're an observant one."

Nadir ignored his friend's snide comment. "How was your day?" he called out as Erik left the kitchen.

Erik plopped himself back onto the couch, throwing his feet up carelessly, rubbing at his temples, as he considered all of the day's activities. "Uneventful."