Erik had returned to the house by the lake feeling rather pleased with himself. His debut with Mademoiselle Dubienne had been highly satisfactory, and he didn't know which tickled him more, the fact that he had obviously frightened her or the way she had tried so hard not to slam the door.

During the quick trip back down into the cellars, he had also become comfortable with his decision to seduce her instead of kill her. The thought of killing a woman was vaguely distasteful to him. Besides, he needed a powerful pawn to checkmate the kings of the theater, and what better piece for the job than the queen herself?

He turned their encounter over and over again in his mind. Occasionally, he questioned his motives for revealing himself to her. It was an irretrievable step in this deadly chess game. He hadn't been able to help it, though, and if he was to regain control of his opera house, he would have reveal his presence at some point.

Besides he had been lonely.

He ground his teeth as his thoughts staggered down this uncomfortable path. It had been easy to be alone in a quiet, tomb-like opera house, with only the whispers of the breeze through broken windows and keening of a solitary ghost for company. But once living, breathing people had filled the place again, he felt the old, familiar yearning for something more, that damnable impulse to be part of humanity.

And, she had been alone. And, she had been tired. And, her guard had been down.

She had taken off her glasses.

He moved around his home, absently setting things in order. He paused in front of a small music box with a monkey dressed in Persian robes. He gently brushed the figurine with his fingertips, his breath catching in his throat.

Yes.

He would seduce Mademoiselle Dubienne…with his voice, with his music, with a melody that would haunt her night and day and that only she would hear.

His lips almost curved in a smile, but there was a touch of hardness in his eyes. This was no game of love – not like with, oh God, with beautiful, sweet Christine. No, no! God, the pain of love! No, never again. This was a pure game of power, and it was one he was determined to win.

The only pleasure he would allow himself was the thrill of fighting a worthy opponent. Mademoiselle Dubienne was no naïf, but she was a woman yet. And, he was a man. Even with a monster's face, he was still a man. If within a month he couldn't have her twisted around his little finger in the ecstatic agony of unfulfilled desire to know and serve the opera ghost in return for his unseen attentions, well, he'd eat his mask.

***

"Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

The voice seemed so close that Mireille thought she could feel a whisper of breath against her ear. But, she refused to turn like some startled filly and search for something she was quite sure wouldn't be there. She wasn't wholly surprised at the voice's finding her during the opening night gala. In fact, she would have been more surprised if he hadn't taken advantage of such a melodramatic occasion to renew their acquaintance.

"Not at all, monsieur," she replied, her lips barely moving as she smoothed down the drab olive green skirts of her three-year-old ball gown. "But the fact that my opera ghost pays such attention to my attire is rather amusing."

"I am not your opera ghost, my dear. You would do well to remember that."

"This is my theater. You haunt it. Ergo, you are my ghost."

"A pleasant conceit, mademoiselle. But with great regret, I am forced to make a small correction. This theater technically does not belong to you. It belongs to your father. And his partner."

Mireille bit her lip as his barb hit home.

She leaned her shoulder against the cool marble of the wall, the potted plant obscuring her from the eyes of the other guests.

"The sopranos in the chorus were flat tonight. The scenery painting had very little depth to it, and the last ballet dancer on the left in the second row back is about two beats off from everyone else."

"Have you anything else to say?"

"Hmmm. No. Other than that, it was a remarkably…remarkable evening."

"Oh good, I am so glad you are pleased." Sarcasm dripped in her voice like honey from a spoon.

The disembodied voice chuckled.

"Charming as this conversation has been, I must return to my guests," she said flatly.

"But of course, mademoiselle. We shall speak again."

"I have no doubt," she sighed as she moved past the potted plant back into the crush of bustles and cravats.

***

It was four o'clock in the morning when the Dubienne carriage pulled up to the stately hotel particulier where Mireille and her father lived. With a sleepy smile, she accepted her father's hand as she stepped out of the carriage.

"A splendid evening, my girl," he murmured, dropping an affectionate kiss on her forehead.

"And a splendid headache I'll have in the morning," she mumbled, think of the endless glasses of champagne she had quickly imbibed after her encounter with the ghost. She was quite tipsy and relaxed, feeling nothing more than a pleasant anticipation of slipping between the sheets of her soft, warm bed.

"Sleep in for once, will you, my dear?"

"No doubt I won't be able to help it."

"Good. Now go to bed, ma petite."

"Oui, papa," Mireille replied, mimicking the way she used to speak as a little girl.

Once inside, her maids swooped down on her, sweeping her up the stairs, stripping her of the ball gown and wrapping her in a soft white silk night shift.

Mireille soon found herself snuggling happily down among the pillows and pulling the covers up to her chin. She was conscious of a vague sensation of the world tipping and spinning, but she figured that would go away once she fell asleep. Her eyes drifted closed, and her breaths deepened as she slid into the grey space between wakefulness and sleep.

A faint melody seemed to come to her, and her groggy mind – too tired to rouse itself to full consciousness – wondered if it was something she had heard at the ball. But it went on and on, carrying her on a gentle sing-song current of a lilting melody. She dreamed of a man hidden by music.

That night, Erik dreamed of a honey-haired princess asleep in a tower.