Notes: I'm so sorry it's taken so long to update. Real life interfered, and my muse has kept me busy on other projects.

Chapter 6

In the mad rush of the audience for the doors and the Opera crew's own dash for safety Rose lost sight of both Reinette and Jack. Close to panic herself, she spun in a circle, her eyes flitting from one terrified face to the next as she looked for her rival and childhood friend.

On the other side of the stage, she caught a glimpse of spiky brown hair, a white half-mask. When she looked again, it was gone.

"Hello, Rose."

She froze at the smooth, soft voice then whipped around and found herself face-to-face with her tutor, her Angel, the Opera's Phantom. He was dressed in his usual black, a long coat draped over his shoulders—it almost fell to the floor, she noticed vaguely—and his facial features had smugness written all over.

"You caused this, didn't you?" she accused.

He shrugged carelessly. "Maybe. Maybe not. I warned them what would happen. It's not my fault if they did not heed my warnings."

"You're enjoying this!"

Theta tilted his head, regarded her curiously. "Am I? Yes, I suppose so." The grin faded; he looked completely serious now as he studied her and held out his hand. "Come with me," he told her.

Despite herself, Rose closed her hand around his, their fingers intertwining.

Then, she didn't know how, they were outside her room, passing through the mirror, inside the secret stone passageway. She still couldn't see very well in the darkness, but her guide's cool hand encircling her wrist helped her to relax a little. Occasionally he would hum a few bars of a song, and the sound of his compelling voice would assuage her lingering fears, would bring her even further under his thrall.

". . . Sing once again with me our strange duet. My power over you grows stronger yet. . . ."

Oh, that was just rubbing it in.

Suddenly he covered her mouth with his hand; she gagged, accidentally inhaled the smell of death that clung to him.

What am I doing? That was her last coherent thought before she fainted.

Her eyes fluttered open to make out a large white shape in the dark—again. The shape snorted and stamped a hoof.

"Arthur? . . ." Rose murmured drowsily. Her eyes closed, her head lolled back as arms picked her up, and she smiled. "I used to sneak you sugar."

The stallion nickered and walked forward, following Theta without a lead. Rose, in her half-conscious and altered state, thought she sensed red shapes flickering beyond her closed eyelids, fiendish figures brandishing pitchforks. She slumped forward in the saddle, her cheek resting against Arthur's light-gray mane and her arms around his neck.

As always on these journeys, time ceased to have meaning. Cold hands then gripped her waist, slid her from Arthur's back and laid her down in a gently rocking boat. Mist kissed her face, dusted her hair and eyelashes, and again there was a soft blue glow all around her . . .

Theta started to step into the boat with Rose but stopped when he felt large teeth bite down on his sleeve. Puzzled, he looked back at Arthur. The stallion's ears were pinned back against his skull, and his tail swished at his flanks.

"What?"

Whickering, and with a blast of air through his nostrils, Arthur shook his head briskly from side to side and stamped his left hind hoof.

"I'm not planning on hurting her."

One ear swept forward, and his gray forelock hung over his left eye. If horses could look disbelieving, Theta would swear Arthur did.

"Let go of my sleeve."

Arthur, with a snort, did as ordered.

"Now would you quit following me? I'm not your mother."

Ears pinned back, Arthur lowered his head and shook his whole body. Then, with one last look at Theta, he turned around and trotted away.

Bloody horses, Theta thought irritably before turning back to his precious girl, his protégée. Soon, they were across the water and at the shore of his house on the lake. Picking up the unconscious Rose in his arms, he carried her into her own little room and laid her down on the bed. His eyes swept over her in one lingering look; then he turned and left the room.

He had work to do.

Rose would easily find him when she woke.

-oOo-

The sound of music wound through her dreams, finally roused Rose from her sleep. She sat up in bed and looked around. As her gaze landed on a plate loaded with food on the small table, her stomach growled, reminding her that she'd yet to eat dinner.

"Go ahead. Eat."

Rose jumped, turned to see Theta standing in the doorway of her little room.

"It's not poisoned, you know," he said with a small smile. To prove his point, he plucked a grape from the plate and popped it into his mouth. She watched warily as he chewed and swallowed; when he seemed perfectly fine—he wasn't doubling over in pain or anything—Rose reluctantly pulled the plate close and took a bite of the little meal. Then, as if realizing just how hungry she was, she ate with more enthusiasm. In a matter of minutes the plate was empty.

When she glanced back at the doorway, Theta was gone.

Typical, Rose thought with a huff. Then, cautiously, she walked to the empty doorway and peered out into the Phantom's lair.

He was nowhere to be seen, naturally. Firelight from the many candles flickered on the walls, cast deep shadows. She could hear the water from the lake lapping gently at the shore, sensed the main room of his "house" was just down the short hallway.

Did she dare go look? The previous time she'd been here, he had returned her to the surface world after a few short hours and she had been either in a trance or unconscious for most of that time.

How long had she been out? What time was it? There was no way of telling until he returned . . . And, since he was out, surely it wouldn't hurt if she looked around . . .

Her feet were moving down the corridor and out into the main room before she realized she was moving

The first time she'd been down here she'd been too much under his spell to look around, though she had noticed the organ, candles, and the mannequin that resembled her. Now that her mind was clear, she could see a little alcove set in one of the walls—an alcove filled with pictures, drawings of her and dedicated to her; an alcove with little figurines made to resemble her, her captor, Jack, and others at the Opera. How had she not noticed it before?

Then she noticed the note, folded up, addressed to her in red ink. Shaken, forcing her hands not to tremble, Rose picked up the paper, unfolded it, and read:

My precious Rose, you need not have any concern as to your fate. You have no better nor respectful friend in the world than myself; I don't want to do anything that would hurt you, flower. You are alone, at present, in this house which is yours. Don't go wandering off; I'll know it if you do, and I really wouldn't want anything happening to you. I've gone out shopping to fetch you all the things you will need and plan to be back shortly. See you soon—or later. After all, time is rather relative, isn't it?

Rose swallowed hard and dropped the note. She knew, with sudden clarity, that she'd fallen willingly into the hands of a madman. How could she have been so stupid?

She knew the answer to that one: Her father had promised to send her the Angel of Music, and she had believed her tutor when he claimed to be that very Angel.

Suddenly sick with horror, she retreated and hurried to her little room. The door swung and clicked shut behind her. After a frantic search for escape routes, she realized with dread that there were none.

She had vanished when everyone else was panicking. No one knew she was gone. There would not be anyone coming for her.

Rose choked out a sound that was half-laugh half-sob.

That was the state of mind in which Theta found her some time later.

-oOo-

Theta was making his way back to his underground house through one of his usual passageways, his arms loaded with bags and parcels full of food and clothes for Rose, when he heard another voice, one he knew instantly, come from a little dead end to the right, just next to him.

"Hello, sweetie."

He stopped, sighed through his nose. "Go away, River."

"You know I won't."

"How did you even get in here? You know better than to try and enter my territory without my permission. I could easily have killed you."

"Like you did with Zwölf? You promised there wouldn't be any more murders!"

He raised his left eyebrow. "Have I really committed murders?" he asked, putting on his most innocent air.

River shot back, "Have you forgotten the hours at the Citadel?"

"Yes," he replied in a sadder tone, his face shadowed. "I prefer to forget them. Oh, but I used to make the Rani laugh!"

"That's all in the past," River reminded him sharply, "but this is the present . . . and I'm responsible for you. If I wanted, there would have been nothing left of you. I saved your life, Theta!"

He said nothing, just gazed at her coolly. "Is that all?"

"Theta . . . The chandelier. . . ."

"What about it?"

"Don't play games with me," River snapped. "You know what I mean."

"Oh, that." He grinned. "It wasn't me! The chandelier was old and worn down." He laughed, the sound harsh and maniacal; and River found herself taking a step back before recovering. "Very old and worn, River. It fell on its own." All at once the grin was gone and his expression stoic. "Don't come around here again. Don't ever try to enter my house—I'm not always there—and I would rather hate having to dedicate my Requiem Mass to you."

Before River could think of a reply, he walked away into his self-imposed prison. He didn't look back.

River, not wanting to push her luck, decided to come back later.

-oOo-

He tapped three times on the door to Rose's room before entering. She was sitting at the desk but looked up and over at him as he began unloading his burden on the bed.

"What are—?"

"They're for you," he informed her, glancing over briefly before returning his attention to unpacking.

Despite herself, Rose joined him and looked over his shoulder, curious to see what he'd bought for her. There was some food—various fruits and bread and the like, which remained in their boxes—but his purchases for the most part were dresses: some for everyday wear but others were more elegant, more expensive by the look of them. And they all appeared to be in her size.

She didn't want to think about how he knew just the size to buy for her.

"Why?"

"You'll need clothes, won't you?" Though he sounded matter-of-fact, the unmasked side of his face wore a slightly puzzled expression, as if he was confused as to her reasoning for asking such an obvious question. "Besides, these are much nicer than anything you could afford, and you know it."

Rose bridled, started to snap back that she didn't need his charity. Then she remembered where she was, the fact no one knew she was here, and that it would not be wise to irritate him. And the dresses were rather beautiful, as well as outside her price range—as Theta had been so kind to mention. So she held her tongue, forced a smile, and said, "Thank you. How did you manage to pay for all this?"

"Oh, I have my ways," he answered mysteriously.

I'm sure you do, Rose thought. "How long do you think you can get away with this?" she asked suddenly, angrily, once again speaking with no filter.

"Get away with what?" His tone was causal, almost amused. He stopped unpacking, straightened, and looked straight at her.

"Kidnapping me, holding me down here, causing accidents, murdering people, blackmailing the managers . . ." Okay, that last one was a lucky guess. And his expression and body language gave nothing away. "I'll . . . I'll go to the police."

He regarded her with mild amusement. "Is that supposed to sound threatening?"

"Sort of, yeah. Did it work?"

"No. Besides, how would you get to the police when you're down here with me and you don't even know the way out?"

Her golden-brown eyes narrowed. "Then show me."

"Yeah, right. Like that's going to happen."

What is with that mask? Rose wondered suddenly. Eyes no longer narrowed, she flashed him her best smile, one with a hint of tongue between her teeth. "Would you take off your mask for me, then? If you're an honest man"—she slid her hands up his arms, his shoulders; caressed his neck, his unmasked cheek with one hand while the other tangled in his messy chestnut-brown hair—"you would let me see your face."

He'd leaned into her touch, his eyes halfway closed, but at her last words his eyes snapped open and he'd wrenched himself free of her. "You will never see Theta's face." Then, taking in her appearance for the first time, he frowned. "You're not fully dressed, and it's just past noon."

"I—"

He waved aside her protest. "Get dressed. I'll have lunch ready for you when you are finished. You have thirty minutes." As he spoke, he set her watch.

He vanished before she could say anything else, leaving Rose staring after him in bewilderment. She wasn't sure if she would ever figure him out . . .or her feelings for him and Jack. Maybe it was better that way.

Then anger took over and she slammed the door behind him before retreating to the bathroom. When she came out again, feeling somewhat refreshed, Rose made her way to the dining room. She stopped in the doorway and stared, stunned at the rather modest spread laid out on the table.

Theta noticed her standing there in the doorway. Though he had been seated, he Rose and pulled out a chair for her. "Come and sit. Eat however much you like."

After a moment's hesitation, Rose walked over and sat in the chair he'd reserved for her. "Why go through all this?" she asked him, wondering what motive he could possibly have for teaching her how to sing, for abducting her and holding her here in his underground domain . . .

"Because I love you," he responded, taking his own seat and reaching for a chicken wing.

Out of all possible answers, somehow Rose had not prepared herself for that one. "What," she said flatly, shocked.

"Oh, yes. I won't tell you so, though, except for when you allow me." While Rose struggled to make any sense out of that he continued, "The rest of the time will be devoted to music." His hands were turning over the chicken wing, as if to keep themselves occupied, but he did not eat it.

"'The rest of the time'? What do you mean, 'the rest of the time'?"

"Five days," he said decisively.

"Five days?!"

"Yes, that's what I said," he responded mildly.

She managed to swallow past the sudden lump in her throat. "And after those five days?"

"You'll be free, Rose. You'll have learned not to see me by then." (That struck her as odd, but she said nothing.) "Are you going to eat?" Theta asked suddenly.

It was then that she remembered there was food on the table, and her stomach growled in agreement. Rose took the other chicken wing, a couple of prawns, a slice of bread, and some sort of fruit she didn't recognize. While she started on her wing, Theta took her glass and filled it.

"What is this?" she asked him, taking a sip.

"Hypervodka."

Rose accidentally swallowed; the liquor burned going down her throat. Suppressing a coughing fit—a natural reflex—she set the drink down and reached for her bread. "Where is it from?"

"I had it imported from Arcadia."

Rose searched her memory for a town named Arcadia but came up blank. "And where's that, then?"

"It's one of the largest Gallifreyan cities."

"Is that where you're from? Gallifrey?"

He averted his gaze, suddenly intensely focused on a loose button in his collar. His fingers worked feverishly at it for a few seconds. "I have no country. I even took the name Theta by accident: it was a nickname when I was at school—one I'm not fond of, but it stuck."

He said nothing more after that. Rose, even as she ate, couldn't help noticing that his own plate and glass were untouched. The wing he'd picked up earlier lay abandoned. Though when Rose sometimes looked up from her own food, she could swear there was less meat on the chicken wing. Another time, there was bone . . . and then nothing.

How did he do it? She could swear she hadn't seen him take one bite.

After lunch, Theta rose and offered her his hand. "Come on," he said. "Let me show you around my flat."

Rose reached for his hand then snatched her own back as her fingertips touched his. His hands were cold, bony (yet strangely elegant), and she remembered that they smelled like death.

"Oh, sorry!" The visible side of his face suddenly seemed flustered, his brown eyes almost apologetic.

Almost.

When Rose stood, instead of taking her hand he placed one on her lower back. Guiding her over to a door she hadn't noticed before, he opened it. "This is my room, if you'd like to see it."

Something about his suddenly shy manner gave her confidence, and Rose walked through the door into his bedroom.

The floor was made of a dark wood; the walls were hung with black. Instead of the white trimming and lining that usually set off funeral upholstery, there was an enormous grand staff with the notes of the Dies Iroe repeated endlessly. In the middle of the room hung a dark red canopy, and beneath it . . . beneath it lay a black coffin with midnight-blue lining.

Rose recoiled and took a step back, fighting the urge to run. He would easily catch her before she made it very far, and then he would never allow her to leave . . .

"Yes, that's where I sleep," Theta said from behind her. "One has to get used to everything in life, even to eternity."

"It must be lonely," Rose murmured to herself, suddenly feeling sorry for him.

"In the end, everyone ends up alone."

Rose suddenly spotted an organ keyboard along one wall and a music book covered with red notes on the desk. She stepped toward the organ, looked back over her shoulder at the Opera Phantom. When he didn't object, she walked over to the desk to have a better look at the book. The cover read Don Juan Triumphant.

"Yes," Theta said over her shoulder, joining her. She jumped: she hadn't heard him move. "I compose sometimes. I began that work ten years ago. When it's finished . . ." He smiled faintly. "I'll take it with me into that coffin and never wake again."

"Then you'll have to work on it as little as you can," Rose said, forcing her voice to sound teasing.

"Sometimes I work at it for fourteen days and nights altogether without food, sleep, or drink. Those times I live on music only, and then rest for years at a time." His voice never changed from that clipped, matter-of-fact tone; Rose suppressed a shudder.

She turned back and smiled at him. "Will you play me something from your Don Juan Triumphant?" she asked, hoping to please him.

What little warmth there had been in his eyes froze over. "No. I'll play you Mozart, Beethoven, anything from any opera ever written. Don't ask me that again."

"Why not?"

"My Don Juan burns, Rose. He's fire and ice and rage; the night and the storm in the heart of the sun." The left side of his mouth twisted into a scathing parody of a smile. "He's no angel."

He held out his hand; she took it, and he led her back to the drawing room. Rose couldn't help noticing that there were no mirrors throughout the entire flat—unless, of course, he'd hidden one away. She opened her mouth to comment, but Theta had already seated himself at the piano, his fingers arched over the keys in a position that was clearly familiar to him.

"You see, Rose," he said, "there is some music so terrible that it consumes all those who approach it. Fortunately, you have not reached that level of music yet. If you did, you'd lose all your pink-and-yellow coloring and no one would know you when you returned to Paris. Let's sing something from the Opera, Rose Tyler." Somehow he managed to make those last few words sound like an insult.

Then he began to play, and Rose had no time to think about what he'd meant. She flung herself into the duet in Otello, singing the part of Desdemona with never before displayed terror and despair. As for him, his voice conveyed his revengeful soul at ever note. Jealousy, love, hatred burst out around them in harrowing cries; and Theta's mask made Rose think of the natural mask of the Moor of Venice, made him seem like Othello himself.

There was silence when the song was over. He was still turned away from her and again Rose wondered why he never took off that mask. Suddenly overcome with the desire to see his face, she tore off the mask in one quick movement.

His outraged cry startled her; she stepped back as he whirled around angrily, hand covering the now-unmasked side of his face. "Damn you!" he spat. "You stupid ape!"

Rose, horrified, backed up against the wall and felt her legs give way. He crawled toward her, grinding his teeth and hissing incoherent curses in what sounded like another language. Rising, he leaned over her.

"Look!" he hissed, removing his hand from his face; Rose bit back a scream. "Isn't this what you wanted to see?"

The right side of his face was withered and yellowed, the skin so dried and wrinkled she could see the lines of his facial muscles and the outline of the skull beneath. It seemed as if he was partially mummified already, and she really didn't want to know if the rest of him was affected in the same way.

"Go on, then! Feast your eyes!" he cried. "Look! Now you know the face of the voice! You weren't content with just hearing me, eh? You wanted to know what I looked like! Oh, you women are so inquisitive, aren't you? Well, Rose, are you satisfied? I'm very good-looking, aren't I? When a woman has seen me, as you have, she belongs to me. She loves me forever. I am a kind of Don Juan, you know." He raised himself to his full height, hands on his hips, his dark eyes boring into her golden-brown ones. "Look at me!" he roared. "I am Don Juan Triumphant!"

Rose closed her eyes, whimpered, and turned her head away. He drew her head to him, forced her to look at him as he brutally, forcefully twisted his dead fingers into her hair. "I frighten you, do I?" he hissed. "Do you think I have another mask and that this . . . this . . . my head is a mask? Well then!" he roared, "tear it off as you did the other! Come on, I insist!" Theta seized her hands, dug her fingers into the cold, dead flesh, tore at his skin with her nails.

"Know," he continued, breath hot on her face, "that I'm built up of death from head to foot and that it is a corpse who loves and adores you and would never ever leave you." (Rose shuddered, suddenly felt wet drops on her fingers, and realized they came from him.) Then he released her, anger once more clouding his eyes before it faded. That anger, however, had given way to far worse emotions: sorrow, despair. He seemed young and ancient all at once. "As long as you thought I was . . ." He trailed off, as if searching for the correct word then continued, ". . . handsome, like one of your pretty boys, you could have come back. I know you would come back . . . but now that you know what I truly look like, you would run away for good . . . But, Rose, fear can turn to love. . . . I'll keep you here with me." He'd dropped to his knees by now, hand covering the disfigured side of his face, and was crawling away from her. "Why did you want to see me, Rose? Why?"

She had no answer for him and found that her heart was breaking in two. He looked so sad, so lonely and pitiful . . .

"You'll learn to see, to find the man behind the monster . . ." he sang softly. He looked back at her. "Oh, Rose," he breathed.

She wordlessly handed him back his mask. He took it, stood, and when he turned back to her his deformity was hidden once more. Then he disappeared into his room.

A short time later Rose heard the sound of the organ, and she slowly began to understand Theta's contempt for Opera music. What she heard now was entirely different from what she'd heard up until then. His Don Juan Triumphant—she had no doubt that he'd rushed to his masterpiece to forget everything that had just happened—seemed to her at first like one long, awful sob. But little by little, it expressed every emotion, every suffering of which the human race was capable. It intoxicated Rose as it drew her deeper and further in to an increasingly darker place. Without her really noticing, she entered his room.

Theta rose as she entered, but he did not turn in her direction.

"Theta." The softness, huskiness of her voice took Rose by surprise. She swallowed, cleared her throat, and walked across the floor toward him. He still wouldn't look at her as she rested a hand on his shoulder, wouldn't stop playing. "I—I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that—taken off your mask."

He stiffened beneath her touch, then scoffed. "You think?" he said sarcastically.

"Not as much as I should, apparently."

That earned her a small smile, though she couldn't see it. "That's rather obvious," he agreed."

"Hey!"

"What? You walked right into that one. Now, is there anything else you wanted to say?"

How he was able to have a conversation while playing, Rose couldn't begin to guess. Her father had played only the violin, and she'd had no desire to learn any instrument save for her voice. But that was neither here nor there.

"Show me your face without fear," she said in her most coaxing, persuasive voice.

He tensed even further. "No."

"How can you live like this? You're so unhappy, so alone . . ." And completely brilliant, she thought. The hand on his shoulder went to the back of his neck, ran up through his thick mess of brown hair. "If I ever shiver again when I look at you, it will be because I'm thinking of your genius." Rose wasn't sure how she managed to get the words out, but she did. She wanted him to calm down, wanted him to . . . What? Become her Angel again? She didn't know exactly what she wanted from him, she realized.

Theta turned and faced her then, for he believed her. He fell at her feet with words of love . . . words of love in his dead mouth. . . .

The music had ceased . . .

And as he kissed the hem of her dress, he failed to see that Rose had closed her eyes.