I am searching for a beta. While I love to edit peer's papers, I absolutely despise looking over my own work. Sure, I do minor grammar corrections, and yes, I do have spellcheck up and running… but I enjoy having someone else's eyes run over the piece before I publish it. If you would like to edit this, or if you know someone who would like to… feel free to send me a message.

I also have a dislike for writing authors notes before the chapter. I know people don't really read them, (and I confess, I am one to skip them as well), but this concerns the quality of my story.

And I am quite anal about quality, so I would much appreciate it if I could be introduced to an editor… I happen to be an artist. It is possible that in gratitude for editing, I could draw my beta beautiful pictures…

Erik could feel his body immersing itself into his dance. Like blood gives muscles oxygen; music gave his soul life. It delivered him into a different plane of existence entirely. Each note, chord progression, and meter was a breath, heartbeat, and flutter of wings as his very core took its dance upon the stage. There was no one else except for him and his partner. The dance wasn't simply a performance; it was an outpouring of his very being. It was a bond of the spirit, from dancer to dancer. The girl went on point in her little, slender feet as he carefully took her hips in his hands. One of her legs raised well above her shoulder. It was a smooth movement, born of hours of stretching. Erik matched her, his right hand moving beneath her thigh, raising her into the air like a goddess meeting the sky. Her arms fluttered slowly in the air, beckoning the very heavens to watch them dance.

Upon meeting the wood of the stage, her hips swayed in a bohemian fashion. It was like that of the belly-dancing gypsies, but refined and watered down to appease the Parisian audiences. Erik had never seen the gypsies before, but he had the sense to know that this was a mere copy of their art. However, since this was Hannibal, anything that looked remotely foreign and erotic was added to the choreography. It was what Paris wanted, but Paris didn't want to consider it so low to stoop down to the lowly level of the vulgar gypsies.

Yet, Erik's lips twitched in a hidden smile, he knew many of the girls went to the bars to perform their "can-can" dances. Vulgar. Refined. Such was this city. It seemed like everyone wore a mask of some sort.

The dance progressed. Jammes danced seductively; the women had all moved to the center stage for the men to fawn over, as it was their part in this section of the play. They were all acting as slaves, dancing to impress their king. A genuine smile crossed Erik's lips as he watched his partner dance. She had been so timid when they first met, and it was easy to see why. She was barely over five feet tall against his height of roughly six foot three inches. She too was an orphan, but she lacked the connections that Erik had obtained through friendship with Raoul. At first, she was cripplingly shy. The little girl had eyes like a doe about to be struck with an arrow every time Phillipe even said her name aloud. After their fist dance together as assigned partners though, she relaxed considerably.

"You seem like the whole world becomes a dance whenever you hear music." she had laughed. "I was afraid you were going to drop me or I step on your feet."

"I do enjoy music." Erik laughed, watching her handicap of xenophobia melt before his eyes. Joseph Boquet had once tried to lay his hands all over her, but Erik came into the room and simply stared at the man. His malachite green eyes glowing with the holy light of an avenging angel. The other man had instantly wet himself out of fear, (and possibly due to the amount of alcohol he had consumed), and ran off. Since that moment, Erik and Jammes had been more than just dance partners, but kin. His instinct to protect the little girl was much like an older brother, and the converse was true. Jammes always had a knack for knowing when Erik was upset. She also sometimes played the role of an annoying little sister...

Piangi's overly nasal tone broke the stream of pleasant thoughts, as Erik's sanctuary of music was brought to a painful halt.

Mon Dieu, is he out of tune...

Carlotta gave her husband a harsh look, but he was too busy singing to notice. His arms were stretched out as if he was waiting for an embrace. The intended target?—none other than my little Meg. The lead soprano practically screeched her lines as the solo became a duet. Thankfully, this was my cue to exit to the wings. Carlotta attempted to get him back in tune, but her voice only gained more vibrato the louder it got. The result was even more horrendous; it sounded more like a band of three drunks instead of two trained professionals. I could only look to the heavens and sigh. It was just under my tolerance threshold. Anymore, and I'd fake an injury to make it stop; I was so desperate to be released from this torture.

However, something in the rafters made me start. It looked like a will o' wisp of sorts make by the lights, due to its thin frame. All of the stage crew that worked up above were burly men; their upper body strength was what landed them the job. No, this looked to be a shadow of a woman or young boy. They wore pants, jabot, and a coat that was styled to look like a layered bustle. Whoever they were didn't belong there…

Unless it was…

The figure turned profile again, and I heard myself gasp. It was clearly a woman, and it was clear she was in a mask. It had a long nose, much like a traditional plague doctor's mask. She procured a wicked, hooked knife from her hip and crouched down, looked at the actors in the stage. Frantically, I searched for the source of the shadow, trying to find this would-be assassin. When I looked back at the shadow, she was still crouched, knife in hand,

And she put a finger to her lips.

For some reason, I slowly nodded. It was almost as if this mysterious person above me was a puppet master, making my head bob in assent. I could feel the heat drain away from my face and fingers. Her presence was terrifying, even to me, a man considered strong and intimidating. I felt, more than saw Raoul come to my side. I was too distracted, staring at the shadow as she cut something. I couldn't quite make it out.

"Friend?" he laughed, "Does this 'music' really make you look this sick, or is there something else wrong?" Oh Raoul, how you make the most terrible situations sound jovial. Snapping out of my terror, I realized that a backdrop above was shaking ever so slightly.

"Step back from the stage a bit Raoul." I whispered, trying to keep my voice even.

"Why? I'm not within view, am I? Brother is always getting on my case for doi-" I pulled him back, taking a few steps backwards myself.

"What are you-" he began, but was cut off when a young dancer girl screamed. The painted scene that I had seen fluttering suddenly came crashing down on none other than the singing fat man. When his torso connected with the stage, I felt a vibration in my feet. Despite myself, my face cracked a small smirk.

"IT'SA ZE OPERAH GOST!" Piangi roared in his tiny, high pitched Italian-accent. All eyes suddenly widened, looking frantically around for any sign of the apparition. I watched as the shadow pantomimed a hearty laugh and slapped a hand on her knee. The knife was nowhere to be seen.

A bony elbow prodded my ribs. "E-Erik?" Raoul whispered, almost as frightened as I. "Was that what you were staring at?" His voice quivered and cracked, making him sound like the young boy I had met all those years ago when I first joined the troupe.

I was silent, still stunned at what just transpired.