Raoul

It was fitting to Raoul's mind that this ancient, beautiful city—Vienna, with all her old-world glory, the
acknowledged music capitol of the world—would become known as the first truly great solo triumph
of Angela Gloriosa, the Glorious Angel. Little did the world know that just two years ago she had been
merely a chorus girl; that only last year she had stood in the deepest pit of the underworld and chosen
her childhood friend over the beautiful, terrifying lover of her soul.

He wondered if she regretted it.

Things had changed, after that night in the cellar. They were not married; that was a dream he had given
up long ago. Yet still, like a chaperon, like a brother—indeed, as a friend—he followed her from city to
city, opera house to opera house, giving her encouragement and love and watching in wonder as she
raised audience after audience to tears with the clear, soulful heartache of her high soprano. He had not
had contact with his brother in Paris for six months at least; it was quite possible that the older Count
had disowned him. But Raoul, though he knew—he knew, without a word between them—that she could
never feel love for him beyond a gentle affection, found he simply could not leave her.

Raoul stood out of the way, in the backstage area of the Vienna State Opera, and watched as Christine,
her hair held back from her face, prepared for her opening solo. A strange shiver passed over him,
watching her; a powerful cloud of pain held ruthlessly under a veneer of cold indifference seemed to
engulf the riot of motion backstage. Raoul took a deep breath and tried to ignore the chill running down
his back; he had not felt such a powerful presence since . . . since . . .

Everyone else had paused, just for a moment, then shaken off the odd feeling and moved about their
last-moment duties. But Christine was suddenly next to him, her arms tightly circling around his neck. He
always kissed her forehead for luck before a performance, but now she was shaking, her face pale under
her makeup. "Tell me I've been dreaming, Raoul," she whispered, lifting her head to meet his gaze. Her
eyes were tearful. "Tell me its impossible, tell me that you felt nothing . . . Raoul, please, please tell me
I'm imagining things," Christine pled, her vibrant voice shaking lower with each word. He hesitated, and
in that moment she knew. "You felt it too. Raoul, he's here.What can I do? What if . . ."

What if he was furious with her? What if he had followed them to extract his revenge? Forcing himself to
put his own fears aside, Raoul tenderly took her cold hands in his and stared straight into her eyes. "Then
sing for him, Christine. Sing for him as you never sang before, even for him. Put your heart and soul into
your voice for him, and if—not that I think it likely, but if—he is here, he will know what you are saying to
him."

"I've been running from him for a year, every moment looking back, hoping and dreading that he would
follow. . ."

"You can do this. Go, Christine. Sing for your Angel." She gave him a tremulous smile and kissed his
cheek, then she was drawn back to her world, the stage full of curtains and attendants and above all,
music. Raoul knew what he needed to do; if Erik was here, really here, there was only one place he
would be. Turning away from the stage, Raoul began the brisk walk to box five.

Erik

It was purely on a whim that I still chose to sit in box five. It was habit, and habit was half of what had
kept me sane, this last year; habit, and my beloved music. I had been in Vienna for a month now, longer
certainly than I had stayed anywhere else—I had picked up my previous life of wanderlust easily enough,
but something in that old city called to me. So much of music had been born and, I was certain, would
yet be born there. I had even, half-heartedly, begun to tinker with a few compositions of my own. This
particular night the city was abuzz over some new young soprano who was to open for the Vienna State
Opera. They said that her voice was purer than an angel's . . .

That, of course, was the point at which I stopped listening. I had already heard the voice of my angel on
this earth, and she had left me. I didn't have enough heart left to be angry with her; she was so much
younger than I was, so much purer; until I had forced my way into her sorrowful existence, she had
known melancholy but never true darkness. It had been me who put pain back into her once-empty voice
. . . me and my wretched depravities. Would she be glad to know I had not killed, had not even come
close, since the night she left?

Would she even care?

Undoubtedly not. She was happy, somewhere, living out a gentle quiet life with her aristocratic Adonis.
And, in the end—as long as I could convince myself she was happy, as long as I forced her last
bewildered, almost pleading look from my mind—then I was content. I had given her up willingly, and the
consequences were mine alone to bear. I would never, never consciously burden her . . . particularly not
with memories of me.

I was aware of someone coming into the box and sitting next to me, but I ignored them. If some poor
fool had the gall to enter a privately held box and disturb the single, eccentric occupant, who was I to
argue? He might even turn out to be good company. As long as he dismissed the mask as the strange
custom of a rich patron, I was safe enough. The tales of a masked terror who enjoyed opera had not, as
far as I was able to determine, made it out of Paris yet.

My composure flew out the window when he quietly spoke my name. No, he definitely was not going to
be good company.

"Erik."

I knew that voice. It was a warm, good tenor—a voice that, under other circumstances, I would have
been quite happy to work with. These, however, were not other circumstances. I froze, feeling every
muscle in my body tense as I waited for the muzzle of a pistol to poke into my side. After all, I had been
trying rather enthusiastically to kill him at our last meeting; why should he hesitate to return the favor?

What on earth was he doing here? I had left Paris—I had specifically left Paris to them. Had left the whole
bloody country of France to them, for that matter. I would have been happy to leave them Europe and
the whole western hemisphere with it, but the Orient had proven too tempting a place for a man of my
past to stay indefinitely.

"Erik, look at me."

Blasted boy. No, what had I called him before? Wretched, that was it. Wretched, wretched boy. At least
tell me he had spared me the pain of seeing Christine . . . surely the Vicomtess, by now. I could not bear
to see her walk away with him again, despite all my noble intentions. If I had to go through that night
again, I knew what slight hold I had on sanity would disappear without compunction.

There was no pistol. In fact, as I turned very, very slowly toward him, I realized that he was completely
and utterly unarmed. Unarmed, and holding his left hand out to me as though it was of vital importance.
A courteous and knowledgeable man would simply have been compensating for my own southpaw grip,
but Raoul and I had never gotten around to being courteous with each other. Fighting over an angel will
make demons out of even the best of men.

"Erik." He was exasperated with me, I could hear it. Strange, how slowly my mind seemed to be working.

Calling my vocal chords out of their inexplicable and brief retirement, I managed to answer with
something approaching a coolly civil tone. "Monsieur? I believe . . ." I couldn't say you are mistaken, not
with him giving me that blasted look of . . . was it possible? Pity? I sighed and began again, more simply.
"Good evening, my dear Vicomte."

If he noticed my deliberate, ironic mocking of Firmin and Andre, he didn't acknowledge it. The young man
—oh, very well, Raoul—was very earnest and serious now, looking straight into my eyes without flinching,
which is a trait I have always appreciated in others. Fine, I could play that game as well. "Did you need
something, Monsieur?" Such as a particular length of catgut?

"Her name is still Daae, Erik." This was said quietly, that invading left hand still held out as though for my
inspection. I noticed that it was utterly without adornment, no rings of any kind . . . and then what he
had said registered in my mind. My head jerked up, and I stared at him wide-eyed. He couldn't possibly
mean . . . could he?

I was saved from answering by the voice of an angel.

The curtain must have risen, the orchestra must have begun to play, all without my noticing, but nothing
in the world could have prepared me for hearing her voice again. My Beloved, my Angel of Music! I
whipped around to face the stage, and there she was, her dark curls cascading around her, her porcelain-
pale skin glowing in the light, and her voice . . .

Her Voice!

She sang an aria to a lost lover, but I could not hear the words, for I was overwhelmed by the
unashamed longing . . . the love in her voice. The love . . . and the heartbreak. She had surpassed my
teaching. Somehow, in the last year, life had given her the heart to sing as she had never sung for me,
not even when she tried her hardest—her whole soul was in that voice. For the first time, she was
holding nothing back, and the intensity of her ability shattered every wall around my heart.

Then she looked up into my box, and I knew—beyond the opera lights, beyond the darkness of the
audience—I knew that it was not the young man beside me she was singing to.

She was singing to me!

Her song lasted for an eternity, and that final note, rising higher than I had dared take her voice for fear
of harming her beautiful clarity, seemed to echo in every chamber of my soul. I didn't think. I simply

acted. Unbidden, my voice rose from the stage in all its own power, enchanting and strange and beautiful
in its own right. I had just enough presence of mind left to throw my voice to the tenor across the stage
from her, though I believe he was so shocked at hearing someone else sing his part that he never made a
sound . . . I did not care. Her voice rose again to meet mine, and we danced around each other in music,
harmonizing, yet with an weird and triumphant discordance that made me—and everyone else in the
audience—shiver.

I don't know when our song ended; I don't know whether we even sang the right parts. I don't remember
the rest of the opera, even; the next thing I remember is Raoul—dear, dear boy—helping me into a
carriage and driving me to their hotel. It must have been an hour later, but it felt like only minutes when
she walked through that door. I was standing by the window; I had seen her carriage arrive. The only
power that was left me was to turn and quietly speak her name.

"Christine . . ."

Christine

It should have been so easy. After a year of wondering, of longing, of wishing to hear his voice, he was
there—just across the room. How could it possibly be difficult to simply walk through a room to a man
who she had just given her soul to in song?

Yet here they stood. And he knew her better than anyone; he had seen her in every mood, every shadow,
and she could see from the pain in his eyes, the way he turned away from her ever so slightly, that he
knew exactly why she hesitated. After all they had been through, after the long and painful tapestry of
their love, he still had the power to frighten her.

It wasn't much—the shadow of a shadow of doubt, of fear, but he knew it and she saw the hurt on his
face before he looked away from her. For a moment Christine wondered if he would turn aside from her in
silence, as he had done so often before, and let the unspoken shades between them pass. Instead, his
voice came clipped and cold, and she knew that he understood—as she did—that if there was ever going
to be a chance for them to be together, they would have to drag out all the old demons and deal with
them. Now.

"A year in my house," he murmured, the sheer flatness of his tone hurting her almost more than his
words did, "a year spent sleeping in my home, alone, utterly untouched and unharmed, and still you
cannot trust me."

The thread of fear restraining her snapped, and Christine felt a well of anger and hurt rising to her heart.
Without a thought she crossed to him, and without a thought did what she had never dared do, no matter
how often he had deserved it.

She slapped him.

The face that had been turned away snapped back to her fully, and he caught her wrist with a graceful,
lazy negligence. There was nothing lazy about the warning tilt to his eyes, however, as he regarded her
with all the steady distance of a cat. "Trust? You sent me away!" Christine said sharply, not certain how
the subjects of her fear and his dismissal were connected but certain there was a tie between them.

His laugh was short and harsh. "You chose to leave." With him Erik left unsaid.

"I chose to leave because you bloody told me to! Or had you forgotten the power of your own voice?" Oh,
that wasn't fair, that wasn't fair and she knew that it wasn't. It was a good thing, Christine decided, that
they had never had a fight before tonight. If she had known how painful arguing with him was, she
wouldn't have come back to the hotel. For that matter, why were they fighting?

"There is much I wish to forget about that night," Erik retorted darkly.

She softened suddenly in his grip, sliding her wrist free of his fingers to wrap her arms around his neck.
"There is much that I wish never to forget," Christine replied quietly, lifting her lips to within a millimeter
of his. She would invite, but this time he would be the one kissing her, or she'd know why.

Then he closed that last tiny distance between them, and she could think of nothing but the ached-for
feel of his kiss.

Erik

Our first kiss, in the shadows with Raoul's life hanging in the balance, had been about power. Our second,
following immediately after, had been about passion. But this . . . this was something else entirely. Sweet
and fiery, gentle and deep, whole and heartbreaking, this was a kiss of—

I dared not think it. Not even to myself.

My heart, how could I bear it? Each moment of that kiss was an exquisite and beautiful torture. And yet,
I never wanted it to end, because I knew—with the deep and painful knowledge born of fear and doubt—
that as soon as our kiss ended, she would walk away from me again. She had to; my touch was and ever
would be poison to her. If she stayed, my black heart would stain her beyond repair . . .

I would not let that happen. Not even if it meant keeping her near. My arms, which had of their own will
wrapped around her and pulled her crushingly close to me, returned to their rightful place at my side. For
a moment I hesitated; had I held her too tightly? Was it possible to harm someone by holding them too
fiercely? I could not forgive myself if I caused any damage to her lungs. She seemed to be unhurt, so
slowly, regretting every motion, I broke our kiss and tried to lean away from her.

She did not move. In point of fact, she was cuddling up against me, as warm and content as a kitten. If I
had not absolutely known better, I would have sworn I heard purring. Holding my arms away from me—
and thus, away from her—I took a long step back and turned slightly to one side.

For someone as skilled at reading others' emotions as I am, looking at Christine often resembled looking
straight into her mind; she was a good actress on stage, but she could no more hide her real thoughts
offstage than she stop her heart from beating. I watched as her eyes slowly opened; she was confused to
find me at arm's length from her. She stared at me for a moment, and then hurt understanding came into
her eyes. Christine looked away, a bitter regret etched into her features. Regret I could understand; she
had just kissed a monster. She was displaying other emotions, however, that I could not help but wonder
if I was misreading. Why, for instance, should her eyes seem to be recalling an old and painful loss? I
could see shame in the set of her shoulders, and there was something else . . . something familiar . . .

Something I had seen too often in mirrors. The feeling of being alone, unwanted . . . unloved. That was
the glue holding everything else she felt together.

Why would she feel unloved? I was merely bringing about the inevitable. She had to know that . . . didn't
she?

"I'm sorry," she softly interrupted my thoughts. "I shouldn't have—I thought, maybe, that you—but no.
Forgive me, Master. It will not happen again."

Bloody girl was speaking to me as though she had simply come for a singing lesson from her Angel.
Perhaps that is what she thought this was. Maybe that was all I had ever been to her. But, Christine,
most teachers and students don't share kisses like the one we just shared; most do not whisper 'I love
you' into the darkness.

Too much had passed between us unspoken; this, if nothing else, I would know. "You thought what,
Christine?" I asked quietly, reaching out to turn her face toward me and meeting her eyes evenly.

She tried to pull away, but I—as gently as I could—prevented it. Closing her eyes as though she was
admitting to something painful, Christine finally whispered, "It's like you said, Erik. I spent a year
between your house and my dressing room and never once . . ." She swallowed hard and, opening her
eyes, forced the rest out. "Never once did I even believe that you wanted to touch me. I should have
known better—known that I would only ever be your student—but sometimes I believed that when you
said you loved me, you meant as a woman, not as a dearly treasured child."

My shock burst out of me in one uncontrolled explosion of sound. "What!"

She gave me a pained, tolerant smile and pulled her chin out of my grasp; I was incapable of resisting. "I
mean, really, Erik . . . how foolish is it for a woman of seventeen to be jealous of a cat?" Her chuckle was
painful, forced. It was not the freely bubbling laughter I had once known.

That was the moment when I gazed past the blinders of my own self-loathing and saw her. She was not
looking at me like I was a feared and hatedthing; she was looking at me as though—well, as she had
said; as though I was someone who was both deeply beloved and wholly unattainable. Like a student
might gaze at a young and handsome teacher, save that I was neither young nor—hah!—handsome, and
her love went far beyond a mere schoolgirl's crush . . .

I was unaware of moving, but I must have done so, for suddenly I was close to her again, my hands
cupping her delicate face as I looked down at her. "Only as foolish," I whispered, "as a man holding a
woman so dear, so infinitely precious and deeply loved, that he uses every bit of self-control he hasnot to
touch her, because he fears that his touch will shatter her."

Her eyes—those beautiful, soulful eyes—widened as the meaning of my words thundered into her heart.
Hope echoed in her slight smile as she answered simply, "I have not broken yet."

This time, when we kissed, my heart did not break.

When we parted, we were sitting on a couch. Raoul, who had been the couch's previous occupant and
had been present through most of our little drama—come to think of it, I very clearly remembered
hearing a choked-off laugh once or twice—must have done the decent thing and left sometime during
that last kiss.

Christine traced the left side of my face with her hand; I wondered if she noticed that I was shaking. A
life like mine does not beget much in the way of non-violent physical contact; my senses were rapidly
overloading. I could not remember the last time I had been this close to someone without them trying to
hurt me (the slap did not really count; my mother had laid a harsher hand against me before I was three,
and with much less provocation).

Her fingers hesitated on the edge of the mask; she glanced down, biting her lip, then raised her gaze
back to mine and quietly asked a question I had never thought to hear from her: "Erik? Will you . . . can I
. . . please take off the mask?"

Unfortunately, I did not consider my reply very well, and my tone had far more acid in it than I had any
right to use with her when I retorted, "Why bother to ask?" I winced as soon as the words left my mouth,
but the damage had been done; she shrunk into herself and pulled away. I caught her hands as she
began to stand and tugged her gently back down to the couch. "Christine, no. I'm sorry." I gave her a
miserable look, then I raised her hands to the cool, hard shape of the mask. "My answer, as it should
have been, is of course you may."

I closed my eyes as her fingers grasped the edge of my mask; time is a trickster, and I did not want to
see whether a year of absence had made me more or less deformed in her memory.

Christine
Erik's eyes had closed, and for that she was grateful; this was something Christine wanted to do without
that penetrating gaze staring into her soul. She gently laid the mask aside and turned to look at him. The
other times she had unmasked him, his features had been twisted with rage and betrayal; now there was
only the sunken, misshapen half of his skull, the pale and deathly skin—terrible enough in its own right,
but now serene, as though it was patiently awaiting her judgment. Christine raised her hand and tenderly
brushed the backs of her fingers against his skin; Erik shuddered, but his eyes remained closed. As she
looked at him, she felt the love for him in her heart growing until it seemed to encompass her entire soul;
consumed with him this last year though she had been, it was incredible to realize that the love she felt
could go even deeper into her heart. Leaning forward, Christine did what she knew no other human soul
had ever done; she softly trailed a line of kisses down the right side of his face.

When she finished, she lifted her hand once more to lie against his cheek and waited for him to look at
her. He did, finally, his eyes opening slowly as though utterly disbelieving what they might see. When his
hand came up to rest against hers, pressing into his face, she smiled and began to speak, but then she
paused. Christine knew that he would do anything she asked of him—but she also knew that the mask
afforded him a dignity he felt he lacked without it. Instead of requesting that he lay aside the mask, she
told him, "I will not ask you to abandon this—" here she raised the mask with her right hand—"forever,
but someday, love, I hope that you will be secure enough with me to feel you no longer need it."

A pair of warm tears trailed down his face, and she brushed them away. Erik gently removed her hand
and replaced the mask. He stared at her, love in his eyes, for a very long while. Erik's voice was low and
rough when he finally spoke. "Come," he murmured, rising. "It's late, you need your rest."

Erik

Urging Christine to her feet, I paused a moment and tucked her securely under my arm. I felt exhausted;
strong emotions are incredibly tiring. We were in a tiny common room that connected Christine and
Raoul's separate bedrooms, something rather similar to the living area of a home. Christine's room was
to the right; when we reached it, I pulled away from her. "Good night, beloved," I whispered, raising her
hand to my lips.

"You're not going to tuck me in?" She was teasing, childlike as she opened the door and made to enter.
"Or check to make certain there are not any . . .ghosts . . . in my closet?" I had to grin, but I could tell
that she truly—and innocently—wanted me to see her safely to her bed, as I had a few times when she
slept in my home.

I knew that at the moment my rather scattered self-control was nowhere near up to the task of safely
entering her room. She would not, perhaps, understand that, but I did not want to explain it to her. I

settled for a compromise; as delicately as possible, I merely said "My dear girl, if I were to come one step
farther into your room tonight, there is little likelihood I would be leaving it before morning—and I do not
believe that either of us is ready for that."

All right, so I could have been more subtle.

She has a truly spectacular blush. Not quite as innocent as she once was, then; and that was likely my
fault as well. I kissed her glowing forehead and, lightly pushing her into the room, firmly shut the door
between us. Both of us had been raised by single parents aching for the loss of their spouse;
consequently, both of us had had respect for marriage vows drilled into us. Persia had rather dulled
several of my perceptions about marriage, but I had no wish for Christine to lose hers; it was one more
part of her refreshing innocence that I cherished.

The innocence I was destroying.

Restlessly pushing that thought away, I left the hotel and began to wander the streets as was my
nighttime habit. After a time, I would go to my apartment and sleep for a while; then, in the morning,
perhaps I would return to the hotel where my Angel was sleeping.

Christine

She awoke to sunlight. In the clear, warm dawn Christine sat up and wondered whether last night had
merely been a beautiful dream. However, there on the pillow beside her was a single red rose, a white
ribbon tied lovingly to its stem. She smiled and lifted the rose to her face; it was heaver than she
expected. Examining the ribbon, she found that it was securing a tiny, exquisitely carved stone
angel. Erik, she thought peacefully, losing herself in the rose's scent and thoughts of her beloved.

Pleasant reverie can only last so long, however, and soon Christine abandoned her bed and, after putting
the rose in a vase and setting both it and the angel on her vanity, began to prepare herself for the day
ahead.

Half an hour later, after she had dressed and she sat at the vanity brushing her hair, a soft knock
interrupted her. Smiling to herself, she called out, "Come in."

"You ought to be more cautious," Erik murmured from the doorway. His whole attention seemed to be
focused on her brush as it moved through her long, dark curls. "I could have been someone wishing to
harm you."

You are a murderer, a liar, a thief, and a tyrant, Christine answered in her own mind, but I do not believe
that you would ever willingly harm me. "But you weren't," she replied in the most reasonable tone she
could. Looking at him, she noticed that his hands were twitching as he continued to stare at her. Christine
smiled. "Come here." He hesitated, and she laughed. "Come here," she repeated, and when he slowly
moved to stand beside her, she handed him the brush.

"I don't—" Erik protested.

"Please?" Purposely Christine made her voice into that of a winsome child; she turned and looked up at
him, pouting.

He scowled down at her for a moment. "That is neither nice nor becoming," Erik retorted, though without
any real bite to his voice, as he took the brush and slowly began to run it through her curls.

"Mmm." Christine closed her eyes and tilted her head back, grateful for the modest neck of her day
dress. Erik began to hum, a soft, persistent sound that echoed soothingly through the room and out the
open door.

"What is that?"

The brushing had ceased; Christine opened her eyes to find Erik gazing down at her curiously. His fingers
motioned towards the chain about her neck, plain and sturdy gold shining against her pale skin before
disappearing into the folds of her dress. It was the same necklace she had been wearing last night;
indeed, the same necklace she had been wearing for almost a year . . .

When she didn't answer, he smoothly unfastened the necklace and pulled it to him. Hanging there on the

end of the chain, rather than any pendant he might have expected, was a simple ring of gold. Christine
was careful not to look at his face as he turned the wedding band over in his slender hands; she waited
with her eyes cast down until he spoke quietly. "You were wearing this last night."

"Yes."

"How long?"

"Since. . ." she broke off. Since the moment she had first realized she loved him and had left him alone in
the darkness.

Erik took her hand and pulled her lightly to her feet. When she finally met his gaze, there was a kind of
wonder in his eyes—and a kind of pain. "We should talk," he murmured. Nodding, Christine pulled away
from him and sat on her bed, waiting for him to join her. Erik just stood in front of her, giving her a long,
even look with a hint of amusement behind it. Glancing away, she blushed for the second time in as many
days and stood, making her way toward the couch in the suite's common room.

"I wish you would stop doing that," Christine told him quietly as they sat down, resolutely keeping her
gaze fixed on the opposite wall and all too aware of the high color still in her cheeks.

"Beloved," Erik answered tenderly, then the amusement came back into his tone, "I will cease making
you blush the moment you leave off tempting me." Christine gave him a timid smile and slipped the
golden wedding band onto her finger. She jumped a little when Erik's hand covered hers and stopped her.
Slowly, a look of disbelief in her eyes, she raised her head to meet his gaze. "Christine . . ." He sighed. "I
remain unconvinced that marriage to me is best for you."

She knew shock and hurt were plain in her eyes. Forcing herself to gather her breath, she finally
murmured a flat, unconvincing, "How dare you."

"Excuse me?"

Hurt gave way to anger. She looked up at him and demanded, "How dare you! How dare you ask me to
leave you again?"

"Because staying with me just might kill you."

Christine stared at him. He was serious. "I thought," she whispered, her voice shaking, "that we covered
that last night?"

"You interrupted, as I recall." His mouth twitched. This time, Erik caught her hand before it connected
with his cheek. "None of that, my dear." Sighing, he released her wrist. "Listen to me, will you?"

"No," she replied sharply. "You asked me to marry you a year ago; I'm accepting. Consider that the
period of our engagement. How long does it take to find a priest?"

"Christine, please. Listen to me. Don't think for a moment that I don't love you; that I don't want to
marry you. I do—more than you can believe. When I asked you to marry me last year. . ." he trailed off
into a sigh. "What can I say, beloved? I was half-mad with jealousy. I wanted you to know that there was
another option . . . I wanted you, without any consequences. I could not stand to see you with him, to
think that he might take you away from me in any way. All I could see was that I loved you and that if
you married me, I could keep you with me forever."

"And now?" Now, she thought, now that I finally know I want to be with you forever, will you still turn me
away?

Ever so gently, he brushed his fingers along her cheek. "Now I still want to be with you, my angel, but I
have come back to my senses—you belong in Heaven and I am a creature of Hell. And I will not let you
burn with me."

How she hated it when he spoke of himself that way. Her voice low and hard, Christine began to speak.
"You asked me how long I had been wearing this." Here she lifted the ring, now cool and heavy in the
palm of her hand. She determinedly ignored the warning in his eyes that said he did not want to hear
what she was about to say. "It was about a month, maybe a month and a half, after we left Paris. I was

singing the role of Margarita again that night, and I found myself more heartsick than usual—of course, I
had been hurting ever since the night I left you in the basement of the Opera House. In the middle of a
solo, I realized that it was not my Angel that I was missing, but Erik. Not the celestial voice with its
connections to my father, but the dark and haunted man who loved me more than I dared believe.

"It hurt, Erik. It hurt so much. That was the first time I allowed myself to know—to really know—that I
loved you; and with that knowledge came the deeper understanding, the realization that I loved you and
had left you. My heart felt like it was breaking all over again, but I was performing; I did not have the
option of running off in tears. So I did the only thing I could do: I put everything I felt, every bit of joy
and hurt that you had ever put into my heart and I sang it.

"There were a lot of firsts that night. That was when they began to call me Angela Gloriosa. It was the
first time an opera manager sought us out and requested for me to perform for his stage, rather than me
going to opera houses and auditioning. It was when I began to wear your ring—I had intended to throw it
away, but found I never quite could. That was also the first night Raoul tried to kiss me since we left
Paris; I think he was giving me space, letting me heal, and he took my renewed ability to perform as a
sign that I was ready. When I refused him, I think he understood—maybe even more than I did. All I
knew was that I loved you, and whether or not I ever saw you again, I must never appear to belong to
anyone else.

"And now you want me to leave you? Again?" Here, finally, she looked at him, and her eyes were two
pieces of burning charcoal. "What is the common phrase? Oh, yes. Over my dead body, Erik."

Erik
"That could be arranged," I muttered dryly, my mind still absorbing her words. I could only wonder at the
emotion in her voice, her face; only marvel at her loyalty to a man she believed she might never meet
again. My heart ached for her, for us; I knew we had reached them now, the painful subjects neither of
us had wanted to discuss: my belief that I was a fallen angel, her heart's choice to be true to me, and—
most painful—that last night I had forced her to make a decision she had been too much of a child to
bear . . .

Knowing that I was asking for more pain, I steeled my battered heart and decided to get everything into
the open, once and for all. "If you loved me, why did you leave?"

"If you loved me, why did you ask me to?" Christine replied softly. She silenced my retort with her tiny
hand and continued. "No—let me talk." Snuggling up close to me, she lay her head on my shoulder,
mostly, I suspected, so she wouldn't have to look at me while she spoke. "I know I'm horrible at lying,
especially to you, but I seem to have a remarkable talent for self-deception. I was jealous of a cat, I
wanted to spend every moment with you I could, but I still refused to let myself see that I loved you.

"A year is an eternity in the life of a child, Erik. It can mean the difference between infancy and maturity,
between fear and love, between pain and passion, between someone who knows herself well enough to
make a choice and someone who is only terrified of losing both the men she cared for. I had
felt nothing since father died, and then suddenly you were there, stirring emotions in my heart that had
little to do with a daughter's love or the worship of an angel. I couldn't handle them; I could hardly stand
to feel them. Raoul was safe and easy and gentle; what I felt for him was what I had always felt for him
through childhood, and so it was simple for me to accept it.

"But your love—that all-consuming fire I could glimpse in your eyes, even though I did not let myself
realize what it was—your love terrified me." Here I shrank away from her, but her grip was surprisingly
firm. "Not terrified of you, idiot," Christine whispered. "Terrified of what you made me feel. Scared out of
my mind of loving someone again, of letting another man become the center of my life like Papa had
been. But you gave me no choice; I couldn't not love you. I could not even bear your silence, much less
your absence."

I sighed, many of her actions—previously inexplicable to my mind—were beginning to fall into place. "But
then instead of letting you grow up a bit, I forced you to choose. All I could see was you leaving me."

"I might never have been able to 'grow up a bit' if you hadn't," Christine answered quietly. "But you still
haven't answered my question."

"I couldn't force you to stay down there with me; not because of him," I explained. "When we kissed—" I
found myself having to swallow hard, remember those other kisses we had shared just last night. "When
we kissed, I realized that I could not keep you with me against your will. Even though you chose me, I

knew I would never be certain whether or not you only did so because of your own noble heart, giving
your life for the life of the man you loved. And now . . .now I find that I cannot let that same noble heart
sacrifice itself for me."

I was being melancholy and impossible and I knew it, but this was how I felt. How could I possibly ask
her to share her life with me? Me, the monster, the demon, the fallen angel who seduced her with his
voice—I did not deserve her. That, I was certain of to the core of my soul.

Really, I ought to learn to see that slap coming. She's getting rather good. Is this the result of a year
apart, being forced to 'grow up a little'—that my beloved girl has finally grown a bit of a spine?

That could make life interesting.

I think she was surprised when I grinned at her—she had just hit me, again, after all—but she recovered
quickly enough as I leaned in to kiss her. Christine firmly covered my mouth with her hand and, in the
sternest voice she could muster, told me "None of that. I will not kiss a man who says he loves me but
refuses to marry me." The hint of a smile on her lips spoiled the effect, but on the whole it was a good
effort.

"All right," I answered, my lips tickling her palm. "New plan. My concern is that you don't know me as
well as I think you should—and don't start talking about the year you lived in my home, either. That, for
all intents and purposes, was a case of an apprentice living with a master. You have another month's
worth of contracts in Venice, yes?"

Christine's eyes were wary as she answered in the affirmative. I knew she was wondering where, exactly,
I was going with this. I was surprised myself.

"Live with me," I said simply. "For one month, live in my home as a woman, as a friend, and as a love
rather than as a student. If, at the end of that month, you still wish to bind yourself to me, then," my
voice softened, "it would be the greatest pleasure of my life to marry you. If not, you will go free. And I
promise," I added as she blushed, "that you will never be . . . inappropriately handled in any way."

Her cheeks were still a bright pink, but the look Christine gave me was suspicious. "And you won't . . . I
don't know, you won't try to deceive me? You won't try to make me believe at the end that you don't love
me because you're trying to release me, or any other nonsense?"

Curse her. Maybe she knew me better than I was giving her credit for.

"Erik?"

I sighed. "You have my word—I will not deceive you."

"Good," a bright voice said from behind us. "Who wants breakfast?"

Someday, that boy was going to find himself in serious trouble.

Raoul

Raoul cringed as the utter foolishness of his statement hit him and the couple on the couch turned to
stare at him. He had not meant to eavesdrop; truly, he hadn't. He had been awakened by a soft
humming throughout the hotel room—Erik's doing, no doubt—and when he had made his way into the
common area, had stumbled upon his two companions having a serious and painful-looking discussion.
Raoul had had no desire to listen in, but he feared that if he moved to return to his room, they would
hear him—and if he headed into the main hotel area, they would see him. He found himself stuck exactly
where he was, listening to a conversation that brought back painful memories on all sides. When it looked
as though the conversation were winding down, Raoul decided that it would be wiser to announce his
presence than to have them turn and discover him.

Clearing his throat, he started over. "I meant—I was just going down to breakfast before I packed, if
anyone would like to join me."

Christine and Erik exchanged a glance. "Pack?" Christine asked. She stood and frowned at him. "You're
leaving me?"

"Christine." Raoul sighed and found himself—wonder of wonders—looking to Erik for support. "You
don't need me, Lotte. I have stayed with you because I don't want anything to happen to you; I could not
just leave you alone in a foreign city. But now . . ." he trailed off. Now was rather obvious.

If he was not very much mistaken, there was understanding, and maybe even a little pity, in the
Phantom's eyes as he stood. It was quickly masked, however, by Erik's characteristic sarcasm. "You
would leave a woman you cared for in the company—unescorted, mind you—of a villain such as myself?"
He asked dryly.

"No." Raoul forced himself to meet that steady gaze. "I am leaving a woman I care for in the hands of
someone I know would die—or kill—before he saw her harmed. In any way."

"Monsieur." Erik bowed to him, utterly sincere, while Christine stood between the two, watching with an
expression of bemusement on her face. The masked man took her hand and beckoned towards the door.
"Breakfast, then, I assume?"

Christine

Raoul left them later that afternoon; Erik disappeared for a few hours, ostensibly to let the pair of
childhood friends say their farewells, then as evening approached he materialized at Christine's side once
more. She discovered that he had been busy in his absence; she was checked out of the hotel and most
of her belongings were already stored in his apartment. When she asked him about the speed of his
arrangements, Erik simply replied "You had already agreed; no better time to begin this little experiment
of ours than the present. If you would rather spend another day or two here . . ." he trailed off into a
shrug. She had assured him she would not; now, they stood before a door in a modestly prosperous
portion of Venice and Erik was turning the key in the lock. Idly, Christine wondered how he was
supporting himself—he couldn't very well be blackmailing Opera managers any more—but her thoughts
were pushed aside as Erik took her hand and gently led her into his home.

The few belongings they had carried over together were set by the door, and then Christine surveyed her
new surroundings. They were in a combination kitchen/living room, with a couch gazing out over an east-
facing bay window. Along one wall were shelves dedicated to Erik's many loves; novels, works of
architecture, and musical scores covered several of the shelves, while others were devoted to strange
mechanical-looking objects. A closed door led off into what Christine assumed would be a bedroom; but
then her attention was drawn to the piano set delicately into the corner underneath the shelves. She had
to smile; of course. No matter where he was living, Erik would manage to get a piano at the very least,
even if he couldn't fit an organ into the apartment.

"Do you approve?" He asked quietly from behind her. Christine turned to smile at him and felt her breath
catch. His eyes were drinking her in, absorbing as if for the first time every detail of her face, her hair,
her neck . . . she watched as he jerked his gaze away from her and gestured to the kitchen. She was
quite certain his hand was trembling; she would have to be very foolish indeed not to have seen the
desire in his eyes. "Dinner?" Erik interrupted; Christine could hear a faint tremor in his smooth voice.

She stepped towards him; his eyes flicked to her with a warning that clearly said Come no closer.
Christine hesitated, then obeyed, moving past him into the kitchen. "Yes," she answered softly. "Dinner.
You will not have forgotten that I am an abysmal cook?"

"All things can be learned given time," Erik answered cryptically, lighting candles on the kitchen table as
she began a search through his cupboards. When she turned to face him, he seemed to be perfectly
controlled once more. Indicating her selections, he asked, "Bread, cheese, fruit; not very hungry, are
you?" Christine shook her head and he frowned at her. "You don't eat enough, you know."

"Hah," she retorted with a smile. "Neither do you."

"True enough, I suppose." Erik took her hand and led her to the table. "If you will slice those, I believe I
can find us some wine—or even," his voice took on a teasing glint, "a certain favorite drink of yours I
have kept stores of out of sheer . sentimentality." Christine looked up at him hopefully; Erik laughed and
leaned down, deliberately sniffing her. Despite herself, Christine giggled and immediately clapped her
hand over her mouth, mortified at both the young noise and the school-girl reaction she had covered it
with. "Yes—just like I remembered," he murmured. "The scents of your perfume, you, the opera house,
and the faintest hint of chocolate following you around like a small, unobtrusive cloud delicately
proclaiming your presence; I could smell it in my house for hours after you had left . . ." Erik trailed off
and seemed, quite suddenly, to realize how close they were. He cleared his throat and returned to the
cupboard, reaching up to the top shelf and pulling down a wine bottle, a teakettle, and ingredients for hot
chocolate.

Noticing that she could not have reached that shelf even on her tip-toes, Christine accused him with a
slight grin, "You deliberately hid those from me."

"Why yes," Erik replied, his lips curving sardonically, "I believe I might have done just that."

Christine felt her grin grow in response to his. "Rogue," she muttered, turning her attention to the bread
she was supposed to be slicing.

"Angel," he whispered in her ear as his arms came around her from behind; his hands closed over hers
and they finished slicing the loaf together in silence.

Erik

Dinner by candlelight; Christine sitting by my side, her head on my shoulder, as I played a lullaby; her
honest concern when she realized that she would be sleeping in the only bed. Of such simple, gentle,
home-like things had my fantasies long been made of; for them to be reality was almost more pleasant
than I could bear. This was all I had needed, all I had ever needed; to be with her, no matter what we
were doing. I assured her that, not only would I be quite fine on my couch—I had bought it with the
express condition that it be the most worn, comfortable couch I could find—but that I needed far less
sleep than she required, and might not even go to bed at all that night. It surprised me when she
appeared startled by this; Christine had remembered my eccentric eating habits well enough. But then,
she had always been safely locked in her room when I slept. Perhaps it was not so odd—and rather more
proper, considering the situation—that she had remained largely unaware of how rarely I slumbered.

I hoped she found the bedchamber to her liking; I had used the time she had been saying farewell to
Raoul to spread her belongings about as I remembered she usually put them. Come to that, I think she
was a little put out with me for not showing her the room myself, but I had left her at the door with a
candle, an explanation that the bathroom had two entrances (one from inside her room and one from the
living room, both of which locked), and a kiss on the hand. The distance of that last one had earned me a
definite scowl; well, for her sake I could put up with a few scowls. In fact, on her they're rather adorable .
. .

With this thought guiding me to the couch, I found that, despite my words to Christine and my own
expectations, I fell quickly and deeply asleep.

The mixed beauty and the stupidity of sleeping on a couch facing an un-shaded eastern window were
revealed to me quite early the next morning. While I could not deny the pleasure I took in the glory of
the sun's rising, I also found waking to an alarm clock apart from my biological one rather annoying. My
annoyance may have been partially due to the realization that I had slept for a good eight hours without
interruption; this was completely abnormal behavior, and I viewed it with a certain degree of suspicion. I
had had thirty-odd years with this body; by now it should not be doing things other than what I expected
of it. Finally, I consoled myself with the decision that my long nap only meant I would be quite awake
every night for the better part of a week.

This in mind, I rose and began to make breakfast. I observed early on in the Opera dormitories that
Christine was an morning riser; I fully expected her to emerge, bathed and dressed, within half an hour.

Half an hour passed, and then an hour; I amused myself at the piano for another half hour, my attention
focused on her door, before I gave up all pretense and leaned against it to listen. There were definite
noises coming from within the room; bumpings and clatterings and what sounded suspiciously like a few
curses in a soft, feminine tone. I hesitated, then knocked and called out, "Christine? Are you well?"

All noise ceased. Her voice had a pronounced sheepish cast when she answered, "Yes, Erik." I waited.
After a few moments, the door cracked open. Christine was dressed in her chemise and stockings, with
her corset on but untied. She addressed the floor when she spoke. "Erik . . . I . . ." She trailed off, the
color rising in her cheeks. Truly, she needed to stop blushing in front of me; I found watching her flush
far too entertaining, and my devilish mind was continually considering further ways to cause such a flush.
I blinked as I realized what she needed; of course it was impossible for a woman to tie up her own
corset. Raising her chin with the tip of my finger, I motioned for her to turn around. She did so, her eyes
proclaiming her gratitude that she had not had to tell me the embarrassing predicament she was in.

Christine wasn't the only one embarrassed, but I think I did a better job of hiding my discomfort. She
was not, however, so uncomfortable that she could not correct me. "Tighter," Christine said over her
shoulder as I moved from one tie to another.

I frowned at her. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," she insisted. "Tighter, Erik."

I pulled the lace tighter, then asked if it was enough; she shook her head. Worriedly, carefully, I pulled it
firmer still, and this time when I questioned her, she nodded. I bit back my own reluctance—surely
something this tight could not be good for her—but tied the other laces with an equal amount of force. I
hesitated, when I was finished; Christine was looking away from me, her hair pulled over her shoulder to
expose a tempting length of creamy white throat.

Well. I wasn't an angel, after all.

A devious smirk on my face, I leaned forward and pressed a kiss into her neck. Interesting; I had not
known she was capable of blushing clear to her shoulders. Christine glanced shyly back, but her voice
was quite firm when she told me, "One day I am going to learn not to blush, and then what will you do?"

"Don't do that, mademoiselle," I answered as she went back into her room. "You would take all the fun
out of life."

Christine

Five days—five easy, comfortable days in which she wondered how she could have ever lived without Erik
in her life—had passed since the Incident de Corset. Each morning he had helped her dress; each
morning, scandalously kissed her throat. Far from blushing now, Christine relished the contact; Erik was
very, very careful about touching her. Too careful, in her opinion. She knew he would not break his vow of
chastity to her, but she also knew that she wanted a little more attention than he seemed comfortable
giving.

This morning, Christine took matters into her own hands. She came out of her room and, as he had every
morning, Erik motioned her towards the kitchen with a quiet, "Breakfast, my dear?"

Instead of smiling and following him to the table, Christine walked closer to him, her steps slow and
deliberate; if pressed, she may have admitted that she put a little sway into her hips. Close, and closer
still, till he was eyeing her nervously and she was only inches away. Taking Erik's hands, she placed them
on her waist, then reached up to circle his neck with her arms and bring his face nearer to hers. Wonder
was mixed with hesitation in his eyes as she drew him toward her; Christine banished that hesitation by
closing her eyes and joining her mouth to his in a kiss that was sweet and long and very nearly
passionate. "A teacher," she whispered when they separated, "greets his student with good morning. A
fiancé welcomes his intended with a kiss." Christine raised her eyebrows at him; she would have cocked
one, as he so often did, but she could not seem to master the skill. A small part of her was shocked with
her own daring when she coyly asked, "Do you understand the difference?"

Erik's answering grin was slow and entirely wicked. "I believe I do," he murmured, leaning down until she
could feel his breath against her lips. "But, just to make certain that I am absolutely clear—" he kissed
her, hard. "Good morning, beloved."

"I think you've grasped the concept," Christine replied. She softened in his arms until she was melted
against him, her head resting against his chest. "I know . . . you're worried," she whispered, and felt his
muscles tense. "But a kiss is perfectly acceptable and no threat to my virtue. And I know," Christine
added, even more quietly, "that you are not used to touching and being touched. But . . . trust me?" Now
she looked up into his eyes. "Please? I promise I will let you know if you have gone too far."

"Angel, what will a devil's touch do to your soul?" She had the distinct impression that he had not meant
for her to hear that, so Christine decided to ignore it. She could battle his other demons after breakfast;
it was enough that she had faced at least part of this one before it.

Christine

A few days later, she dressed simply—no rehearsal today, and so no reason to be any more
uncomfortable than she had to be—and wandered into the living room. Erik was sitting on the couch, his
back to her; on the table beside him was the array of wires and gadgets she had noticed when he tied
her corset earlier. Curious, Christine slipped around the sofa and gingerly sat next to him.

Erik set aside the half-finished item he was working on—to Christine it looked like a collection of delicate
glass snowflakes—and turned to her. "Good morning," he murmured. Asking permission with his eyes, he
drew her close and kissed her slowly. Christine smiled. "Good morning," she whispered in return as he
pulled away. "What are you working on?"

A twitch of his fingers indicated the shelves by the piano. Christine crossed to them and searched till she
found one that looked like a completed version of his mess of snowflakes. She looked back at him and
raised her eyebrows; Erik nodded his assent. She gently picked up the contraption. Each glass—no,
crystal—snowflake prism, Christine noticed with a gasp, had a tiny portrait of her delicately depicted in
the center. Bringing it over to Erik, Christine sat back down on the couch. "What does it do?"

"Press this." He showed her a tiny button set into the base. Christine did so, and watched with wonder as
the prisms lifted and fell, spinning into a snowstorm that created rainbows of light across her face. A
familiar tune played along with the crystals. Christine sang softly, "Wandering child, so lost, so helpless . .
." She looked up at Erik. "It's beautiful. Why do you make these?" Christine indicated the other inventions
on the shelf.

"They're prototypes," Erik explained. His eyebrow quirked in amusement. "I doubted that you would
approve of my blackmailing and picking pockets to live—and at any rate, the wonderfully gullible fools of
the Opera House were lost to me once I left Paris—so I began to create things like this and sell them.
They do well, much better than I originally expected. And," he added, "I like to make them." He snorted.
"I suppose you could say I finally have a respectable living."

"You don't pick pockets any more?" Christine asked with a small smile. That particular vice of his had
always seemed somehow beneath him.

She drew in a quick breath as he smirked and handed her the gold ring she had not noticed leaving her
finger. "Of course I do, but I always return whatever was so carelessly . . . lost."

"Always?" Christine replied dryly. She knew him better than that.

Erik had the grace to look mildly ashamed. "Almost always, at least," he muttered.

"Thief," she retorted, laying her head against his shoulder as she watched him work. Unheeded, the
completed music box played on the table beside her, lulling her eyes closed . . .

Christine awoke alone on the couch; the darkness around her was quiet, empty, devoid of those bright
eyes she so loved. She stretched and walked to the piano; from memory she played a nameless Swedish
tune her father had often hummed. More to hear herself than anything, and because she was thinking of
Erik, Christine quietly sang, "Those flaming eyes, that both threaten and adore . . ."

"Christine . . . Christine . . ." came the hollow whisper; she whirled to find the owner of those flaming
eyes standing next to her, moonlight glinting off his mask. Someday she would learn that he was always
in the darkness, even if she thought herself alone. Erik gently pulled her to her feet. Whatever she was
expecting, it wasn't his dry whisper. "I object to the use of the word 'threaten', but adore is certainly
accurate."

"Erik!" Christine groaned, the eerie spell broken; she leaned her head against his chest. "You scared me."

"It's in the job description. 'Must scare chorus girls at least once per week in order to retain post'."

Christine smiled weakly. "But you're not a Phantom anymore."

He waved that away. "Minor details. Old habits die hard . . ." Erik casually swung her into his arms. "You
must be famished—you slept through three square meals."

She winced. "I know. And now I won't sleep a bit tonight. I don't know why I was so tired."

Erik shrugged, setting her on the counter. "I originally modified that melody from a lullaby; it's supposed
to make you sleepy. As for tonight—" he grinned at her. "Stay up and keep me company. You'll be
wanting your bed again by three or so anyway." Dinner—or rather, Christine thought, an enormously late
breakfast—was quiet; instead of allowing her off the counter, Erik seemed quite content to feed her
himself. At first Christine refused, but he gently closed her eyes and she realized this was an act of trust,
if a small one. It was intriguing to her, the way he used one food to set off the flavor of another; and
having her eyes closed seemed to heighten the taste of each morsel. "Finished?" Erik murmured;
Christine nodded, but before she could open her eyes his mouth had captured hers in a soft kiss. Smiling,
she threaded her fingers into his hair and pulled him closer. After a moment, he pulled away and laughed
softly. "And that is quite enough of that, miss, unless you wish to retire—alone—immediately." Christine
shook her head.

"I can walk, Erik," she protested as he gathered her into his arms again.

"But I like to carry you."

"If you carry me everywhere, I will never be able to stand," she reasoned.

"Humor me," Erik retorted, setting her on the piano bench.

"When did you do those portraits?" Christine asked, thinking of the tiny, intricate paintings on the
snowflakes. The prisms on the new music box he had been working on were blank.

Erik ran his fingers over the keys and settled into a quiet, flowing gypsy melody. "I haven't the faintest
idea what you're talking about," he replied.

Christine raised her chin. "Liar." Erik pretended not to hear her. She reached for a nearby stack of musical
scores and began glancing through them. Many were familiar; all were in the red ink Erik used to denote
his own composition, rather than a copy of someone else's work. Christine smiled at several of the titles;
these were songs they had sang together often.

At the bottom of the pile, she noticed an unfamiliar score. Unaware that Erik had abruptly quit playing,
Christine felt her eyes widen at the title.

The Nightingale and the Rose

There were old tearstains on the sheets.

Her breath caught as she read the music—it was haunting, biting even in its pain and sorrow. The older
ink of the score ended painfully discordant, but a fresher writing continued the piece, softening until the
song ended on a clear note of joy. Slowly, Christine looked up. Erik was watching her, his expression
blank, but she could see his fingernails digging into his palm. She reached up and molded her hand
against the left side of his face, stroking his jaw with her fingertips.

He turned slightly to kiss her palm. "That, I began the night you left the Opera House. I thought it
complete," he indicated the difference between the older and newer inks, "but recently decided it
deserved a better ending."

"Will either of us ever forgive me for that night?" Christine whispered.

Erik echoed her darkly. "Will either of us ever forgive me for that night?"

Christine touched the score again; it was the only piece she had ever seen that he had written entirely for
the extraordinary range of his own voice. "Will you sing for me?"

Erik

I did not want to. That song hurt too much; I was not entirely certain I could get through it without my
voice breaking. But it was Christine asking me. And if anyone had the right to hear this, she did.

I sang softly, letting my voice echo in her ears, her mind, reaching into her heart and gently playing its
strings. We both knew this song was ours, reflecting our love, the pain and joy we called out of each
others' souls; to hear it end in peace was very comforting to me, and I was grateful that I had finished
writing it. It gave me hope.

Christine was weeping as the last note faded into silence. I hesitated. She had cried in front of me before,
but quietly, not with these wracking sobs. What does one do, after all, to comfort a woman whose heart
one has repeatedly broken?

"Shh," I murmured, slowly reaching out to stroke her hair. "It's all right, I'm here . . ." Christine clung to
my hand, giving me the courage to draw her closer, wrapping my arms around her as she sobbed into my
shoulder. "Not," I mumbled, "a song for public display, then."

She hiccoughed, and to my surprise, laughed. No more tears then, right, darling?

Ah, no. The tears were back, but more gently. I cannot bear to see her cry. It hurts. Particularly when, as
usual, I am the cause behind the tears in one form or another.

Eventually, Christine quieted. She did not move away from me, which I took as a good sign; I swore she
actually wriggled a little closer. "Sorry," she whispered. "That song—hearing you sing—it just brought
back memories of this last year, when I missed you so much it hurt . . ." she reached up to touch my face
and found that my eyes had not been precisely dry, either. "What a pair we make," Christine chuckled
painfully.

"Indeed," I drawled. Tilting her chin up, I softly added, "And I forgave you for that night a long time ago."

"As I did you," she whispered. "It's forgiving ourselves that's difficult."

I wasn't ready for the rest of that conversation. Turning back to the piano, I began a light, lively piece
she had often danced to. Smiling, Christine stood and moved swiftly about the room, the long-unused
ballet movements awakening her muscles.

I do not know what possessed me to switch to the ballet from Il Muto, but something must have, for I
did. As soon as she recognized the music Christine froze and stared at me. "Not that, Erik," she begged
softly. "Please, anything but that." I realized she was shaking.

Brilliant of me.

"Go to bed, Christine," I said shortly, turning away from her. "Now, rather, if you would." How could I be
hypocritical enough to comfort her after that particular memory? I did not kill Buquet. I didn't.

I just gave him the motive and means to do it himself. And then moved his body from my home to the
stage. Which, after all, was so much more moral than killing him would have been.

Right.

I was far too busy hating myself for that particular bit of deviant behavior to hear the quiet footsteps
coming up behind me, so I quite froze with shock when her slim white arms slipped around my neck and
I felt her cheek rest against the top of my head. Those beautiful dark curls were dripping down onto my
shoulders; I was thoroughly surrounded by Christine.

Quiet though she was, this was no more my timid chorus girl. In simply holding me so, Christine revealed
a strength I had not suspected she had, though I should have known; she had survived me, after all.

I could not move. It was Christine who finally broke the silence. "I can't say I don't care, because I do.
And maybe, someday you will tell me why. But that is in the past, Erik; I love you."

"This I swear to you, Christine," I answered hoarsely. "I have not killed since the night you left me."

"You didn't have to tell me that; I knew." She told me simply. Christine leaned down and kissed each of
my cheeks, one flesh and one porcelain. "Good night, Erik. Beloved."

As she walked to her room, I sang softly, "Christine, I love you . . ."

Christine

The gentle rhythm of Erik tightening her corset laces was something Christine was grateful for, the next
morning; the little ritual allowed them to deal with lingering awkwardness from the previous night
immediately. Such as when Erik moved back without stealing his usual kiss. Christine looked at him over
her shoulder and deliberately drew her hair away from her neck. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

The faintest hint of red touched his cheek and made her grin; so, she wasn't the only one who could
blush. "Minx," Erik muttered, kissing her cheek.

"Only for you."

Christine saw Erik's lips curl in amusement when she came back out of her room; over her soft gray
gown, she had tied on one of his cloaks, which she had found abandoned in the bottom drawer of her
dresser. "Good morning, monsieur," Christine spoke formally, giving him a sweeping curtsey.

"If you want a cloak, my dear, I fear we shall need to trim one. That one has left a good four inches of
itself on the floor."

Christine looked down at her bare feet. "True. Perhaps I should leave the cloak-wearing to you."

Erik beckoned to her and she sat close beside him on the sofa. "Forgive me for last night," he said
quietly. "I was . . . out of line. Several times." He motioned for her silence. "You said that someday,
perhaps, I might explain Joseph Buquet's death to you. Though I am entirely responsible for his death, I
did not actually kill him. You recall the torture chamber?" Christine nodded; how could she forget? "He
accidentally found the entrance while I was away from home. By the time I returned, he had hung
himself. But it was my decision to create that chamber, I who left the lasso inside, and I who removed his
body to the stage during Il Muto." Erik sighed. "That was rather unpardonable, but I tend to esteem life
very cheaply, save for a few—yourself, Nadir, Madame and Meg Giry . . . for your sake, that wretched boy.
It's the habit of an unfortunately ill-spent lifetime, I'm afraid, which may take a lifetime to change."

"Thank you," Christine replied quietly. "I am glad you did not kill him." It sounded absurd, on the surface,
but it was the truth; there were other crimes, other deaths, they would have to speak of, but this was a
beginning.

Christine

A deep shudder ran through Christine as she slipped the key into the lock. She had left a note by Erik's
side saying she would be back hours ago. He had been composing when she left, but the simple trip to
the market that she had anticipated ended with an unexpected three-hour rehearsal after she stopped by
her dressing room and the manager threw a fit.

He would be so angry with her.

Christine could only hope that Erik had not yet pulled out of the haze of sound he composed in and hadn't
read her note yet, much less noticed the time.

Finally opening the door, Christine stepped into the darkness. His fury was a palpable presence, hanging
in the air like a dark, brooding storm. "Erik, I'm sorry," Christine called out softly; she knew he could
hear her. "Sanchez nearly had an apoplexy when I went to the opera house, he demanded a
rehearsal . . ."

Erik's voice, when it materialized out of the pitch-black air, was cold and awful. "Do you have any idea
how worried I've been?" He demanded icily. Beside her, the front door slammed shut, cutting off the
meager hallway light, and Christine could hear the lock being viciously twisted.

"I'm sorry," she repeated quietly. "What could I do?"

He seemed not to hear her. "For hours you could have been lost or dead or hurt, wandering the streets
alone, and all I could do was wait because any moment you might return. Worry and wait."

Realization seeped into Christine's mind. "You weren't just worried about my safety," she replied. "Erik!"
There wasn't an answer. "You thought I left you, waiting here endlessly when I had no intention of
coming back. You thought I left you. Are you angrier because I am late—or because you were wrong?"
She asked sharply. "Answer me," she stepped forward into the darkness. "Answer me, Erik!" A feather-
light touch whisked the key and chain from its place around her neck; the door opened, a black shape
passing through it, then slammed closed once more. "And so you make me wait, because if I follow you,
you'll disappear and I won't be able to get back in." Christine went back and leaned her head against the

door. "I'm sorry, Erik," she whispered again. "Forgive me . . ." Despite herself, Christine sniffed softly;
two quiet tears trailed down her cheeks. She hated being left alone in the dark; he knew she hated it.
Hurt turned to an unhappy sort of anger; Christine pushed away from the door and started making her
way through the darkness to her room.

She paused only briefly to stare at the Erik-sized figure outlined against the window; so he had not left
her, after all. Hastily Christine turned away form him. Removing her dress in the relative peace—and the
blessed light—of her room, she returned to the living area and patiently waited for him to undo her
corset. As soon as the long, thin hands started tugging at the laces, Christine grabbed them and swiftly
turned to face him. In the candlelight spilling from her room, his face was unreadable; Christine
murmured, "Erik," but he slid his hands from hers and faded back into the darkness. "Fine," she
whispered, turning her back to him once more. After a moment he finished untying her laces, and
Christine allowed herself to collapse.

Erik

I only just caught her before she hit the floor. I frowned at the slender figure in my arms; Christine was
not given to fainting fits. I understood perfectly, however, when quite suddenly her limp arms tightened
around my neck and her eyes opened, fully conscious. I clenched my jaw and coldly set her down outside
her door. "Your room, my Lady," I announced shortly.

"Stop it," Christine demanded. I caught her hand as she tried to slap me. "Stop acting like this, Erik. I'm
sorry that I worried you, but it isn't my fault Sanchez insisted on rehearsing, and it isn't my fault you
think I would leave you like that."

Sometimes, we humans say hurtful things without really meaning them; I found that I was as susceptible
to this wicked vice as any other. "Actually, my dear, if you'll remember—it is." I retorted, dropping her
wrist. "Good night, Christine."

I hate it when she goes quiet like that. It usually means she's up to something. I knew I was wrong to be
angry with her, but worry had turned to fear and pain, and even my disgust with myself for being sharp
with her fed my anger at her until all I really knew was that I was furious and hurt and Christine was at
the heart of it.

She was still quiet; I risked a glance over my shoulder. She was sitting on the floor, her back against her
door and her arms holding her knees; I could not see her face, but I could tell she was shaking and I
knew she was crying.

Christine was angry with me, and rightfully so, but . . . I took half a step toward her.

I never have been able to watch her cry.

Without a conscious decision to do so, I moved to her side and crouched down. "Christine?" I asked
uncertainly. She didn't answer. Gently I touched my hands to both sides of her head and slid my fingers
down her face until they found her chin. I raised it; her eyes were closed, tears running down her cheeks.

My anger vanished.

I settled down next to her and lifted her into my lap; I considered it a miracle that she let me. "Shh," I
whispered, holding her against my heart. "I'm sorry, love, I'm so sorry . . ." Her tears ceased, and I
forced myself to speak. I knew a large part of what was hurting her; for, not half a week earlier, did I not
tell her—truthfully—that I had forgiven her for leaving me that night a year ago? "I should never have
said that," I told her quietly, "never should have doubted you. I did not mean it, beloved, please . . . I'm
so very sorry," My voice was low and hoarse; I could only watch as her eyes slowly blinked open.

"No, Erik," she answered finally, "You should not have said it. And you should not have been angry with
me."

"I know it," I replied softly. She was leaving, she had to, how could she stay when I had been so horribly
angry with her? Demons and angels are not meant to peacefully coexist . . . she, who so rarely lost her
temper, how could she understand mine? I continued truthfully, "And I cannot even promise you that I
will not lose my temper again; this is hardly the first time you have seen it, and if you stay here it will not
be the last."

"If I stay?" She had pulled back far enough to glare at me. "If I stay, Erik? The love we share is not
something that can be cast aside over something as simple as your abominable temper. You're right; it is
not the first time I have seen you as angry, or even angrier, than you were tonight. I have known you
had a temper for years; it is one of the faults of yours that I have to live with because I love you. I
certainly have my fair share of mistakes, even though you refuse to see them. But I can live with your
temper, Erik, if only for one reason; as furious as you have ever been with me, you have neverhurt me."
Her voice softened. "For a man who has spent his life solving problems with violence, I find that fairly

incredible. And it isn't right, but it is human, Erik, for worry and fear to turn to anger when they are
released. I certainly would have been upset if you had come home so much later than you had told me
you would."

I touched her cheek in wonder. "I don't—" deserve you.

"Don't say it," Christine warned. I had to laugh; she looked so absolutely beautiful, her eyes flashing and
tearstains still marking her cheeks, her hair in disarray, her expression one of utter fierceness.

"Know how I ever lived without you," I completed my thought. I let my gaze bore into her eyes. "I love
you. Please forgive me; I was so worried about you getting hurt, about you leaving, that I couldn't think."

She nodded and leaned forward, pressing her lips briefly to mine. "I forgive you, beloved. Good night." I
reluctantly released her, my mind still amazed at the pure and awesome faith of her love, and watched as
she closed the door between us.

Erik

Betwixt the little dramas that made up our life there were rehearsals and performances at opera houses
throughout Venice, but those seemed almost to belong to another world. We were wholly entranced with
each other; after a year of separation, to be able to walk into the next room and actually holdChristine
was heavenly. I even began to compose again, as she found out one late night about a week after her
saucy and utterly disarming demand that I kiss her good morning—and, as I discovered, any other time
either she or I wished.

It was the Friday evening after a gala performance; she did not get home until very late indeed. I
shadowed her, as I always did when she walked home after dark and sometimes in daylight; if anything
happened to her on her way home, I don't think I could have forgiven myself. Christine was thoroughly
exhausted. Her weariness was evident to my sharp eyes in the way she moved slowly across the living
room, in the stiffness she displayed when she sunk into the couch. I managed to get a little food and
water down her throat before she waved away my fussing, insisting she was merely tired. "Come on, little
one," I murmured to her in Persian as I lifted her into my arms. I knew that she would not be willing to
move of her own free will, and I was even less willing to allow her to rest on the couch when she was so
utterly spent. It was not without a bit of trepidation that I carried her into her room, but I knew that my
concern for her was overshadowing any other desires I might have, even if she had not been half-asleep.
She protested when I settled her into the covers and made to leave her; with a sigh, I knelt by
Christine's bedside and began to sing a quiet old Swedish lullaby.

She was fully asleep in moments. I felt a tender smile tug at my lips as I looked down at her. Her dark
hair and pale skin seemed almost ethereal in the moonlight. Christine had managed to stand long enough
to remove her dress and allow me to loosen her corset, so I was assured of her comfort as I quietly
closed the door behind me. I myself was not tired; my eight hour slumber of that first night seemed to
have been a unique occurrence, and since then I had reverted to my normal hour or three of sleep
without feeling any side effects. My piano was calling to me as I stepped out of her room; I missed the
organ, but there was no chance of fitting one into this apartment. I was surprised that I had managed to
get the piano inside. Sitting down on the bench, I pulled out a new piece I had begun with Christine in
mind and began to quietly compose. This was a melody for the Christine I was gradually beginning to
unravel; the girl who I could still make blush at will, but who could also sashay up to me and demand a
kiss or two. She was the woman whose hands were equally capable of slapping me (when I well deserved
it) or easing the worry lines in my forehead; she sang like an angel, she did pirouettes in my kitchen
when she was happy, she looked otherworldly as she slept in moonlight . . . I loved her more every
moment. I thought I had known love when we lived in the illusory world of the Opera Populaire, but what
I felt for her now went beyond even that consuming emotion.

I played the finished piece through twice, as softly as possible, and was satisfied. It was only when I
stopped playing and started to put the music away that I noticed the slim figure in white hovering behind
me. "What was that, Erik?" She queried softly, her hand reaching out to touch the score. "It was beautiful
. . ."

You should be asleep. I bit my tongue on that sharp, worried thought; she looked so peaceful standing
beside me. "Forgive me for waking you," I murmured instead. She shook her head and did not take her
eyes off the music. "Do you . . . like it?" I asked quietly. At her nod of assent, I motioned for her to sit
beside me. "Then I will play it for you."

I went through the song twice; she began to hum along midway through the second round. It was as I
had intended it to be: absolutely perfect for her voice. When I finished, Christine sighed and leaned her
head against my shoulder. "You wrote that for me," she stated. It was not a question.

"Yes." I did not feel the need to elaborate; she knew she had long ago become the inspiration for much of
my music. I was a little startled, though perhaps I should not have been, at her next words.

"It is of the new me—the stronger me. This is not written for a child, but a woman."

I nodded and gently lifted her back into my arms as I stood. "A woman, more deeply loved than she ever
was, but who should be in bed."

"All right, Erik," she spoke against my shirt. She still had enough energy to put a teasing lilt into her
voice when she continued, "I will be a good girl and stay there this time, I promise."

I smiled as I tucked her in once more. Leaning down to kiss her nose, I told her, "And I will attempt to let
you sleep, and not lure you awake with music I should have known you could not ignore. Agreed?"

"Mmm." She was already asleep.

Christine

Erik had insisted that she not live with him as a student, so despite the warmth and openness growing up
between them, Christine found herself strangely hesitant to ask for his help. She was to sing a
particularly difficult solo in her next performance, and while she felt that she was doing fairly well at it,
she had found within herself a drive to excel; if she was to sing, Christine wanted to know that she had
sung her best.

Perhaps it was not overly strange, after all, that she was reluctant to bring up the subject of a singing
lesson. It was, in fact, very simple; Christine did not want to go back to being just Erik's student. She
couldn't go back; not after the last two and a half weeks of falling slowly and surely more deeply in love
with him. To not be able to curl up against him on the couch and watch the moon rise in peaceful silence;
to not feel his eyes watching her as she learned to cook, to not see the occasional invitation in those eyes
that simply meant hold me—these were things that Christine feared. Irrationally feared, perhaps, but fear
is powerful whether rational or not.

Finally, a few days before the opening night, Christine gathered up her courage and sat next to Erik as he
was absently playing the piano. He turned to look at her, his fingers silencing the keys. She felt herself
shrinking a little under that even appraisal; then, to her surprise, he smiled. "I thought you had been
tiptoeing around something for a few days now. Come," he touched her mouth, "spit it out. What is it you
want?"

Christine groaned and pressed her face into his shoulder. "Am I really so transparent?"

"Yes."

She scowled up at him, but found she couldn't hold the expression. It melted into a smile, then she
forced herself to become serious. "Erik, would you . . . I'm singing Tivette in La Console on Friday and the
last solo is . . ."

"Not where you would like it to be?" He asked gently. Christine nodded; Erik sighed as though an
understanding had entered his mind. "And you did not want to ask because—"

"Because I did not want to become just your student again." There; she had admitted it.

He kissed her forehead and murmured huskily, "My dear girl, you never need fear that. I had wondered
why you did not ask—but no matter. Are you ready to begin?" Christine smiled and briefly kissed him
before she stood. Erik began to play the score from memory and nodded at her; opening her mouth, she
sang for him.

Erik

She was wonderful as Tivette, of course—so full of an innocent fire, a pure young woman with the
passion of Aphrodite. I never saw a bit of better casting.

Unfortunately, there were others who felt the same way. La Console ran for a week; in that time, I
noticed the Baron de Riviet becoming increasingly interested in this beautiful young soprano with an
angel's voice. I gritted my teeth and bit my tongue; my jealousy had driven us apart before, and I could
not bear to separate from her now, only a few days before I asked her for her final decision. Still, I had
an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, and especially those last few days of the performance I was
averse to allowing her to walk home alone.

The final evening performance went off splendidly, or so I was told; for I was not attending that night. I
had intended to meet her in her dressing room after the performance, but I was delayed by our landlord.
He had to choose the precise moment I was leaving to come and complain about our music, my mask,
and the rent; in irritation, I ended up paying him double what we owed him just to get him to go away. I
hurried to the opera house to find it empty; the performance must have ended on time, for once. Cursing
quietly, I glanced up at the sky. It was still light; there was a chance I could find her along our ordinary
route home.

I do not know what made me stop and ask that particular old woman if she had seen a young girl pass
by. Perhaps she reminded me, just a little, of a more aged Madame Giry; perhaps it was simply a
prompting of fate or heaven. Regardless, I did ask, and my heart seemed to shatter when she leaned in
close and whispered that she had seen such a young lady, with a cloud of dark hair just as I described,
but that she had been stopped and then pulled away by a tall, overbearing man with thick black hair. The
woman, looking around to see that we were not being overheard, added that she did not think the girl
had gone with him willingly; she described the Baron—for I knew it was him—putting an arm around the
young woman and dragging her down a side street. I asked which street; I hope I remembered to thank
her before I started to run.

If there is a Heaven, it set its blessing upon us that night. I heard them before I saw them; a trained
soprano knows how to attract attention. Christine's cries ended as abruptly as they had begun and I
found myself on the rooftops, moving towards where the sound had come from. When I looked down,
what I saw froze my blood in my veins.

He was holding her close—far, far too close—and leering at her as he pulled her toward the end of the
lonely alley. I could see the bruises, finger-print sized, forming on her neck and arms where he had held
her and shook her to shut her up. I only hoped he hadn't hit her. He still had one hand in his pocket and I
knew he was carrying a pistol; he had no intention for her to sing anywhere else, ever. I may well have
remained there, hanging on the roof stairway frozen in horror, had I not had a clear view of Christine's
face. I could see those perfect, beautiful red lips—the lips I loved to kiss, to touch, to watch—forming a
word. A name. Over and over again, I could see her whispering Erik.

I had not carried the Punjab lasso for months. Another sign of Heaven's blessing—or just the devil's own
luck—had it in my cloak pocket tonight. I did not remember putting it there; my fingers remembered its
use.

Hiss. Snap. The sound of a lasso whizzing through the air; the jerk as it snagged firmly around Baron de
Riviet's neck. His arm dropped from Christine as he turned furiously to see who had him so entangled;
his right hand was lifting from its pocket, gun in hand.

Oh no, monsieur. None of that. You will not be killing me, not after you have threatened the only woman I
love. Unfortunately, you have forced my hand and I—jerk —am forced to be killing you—snap—in front of
her!

He collapsed, neck broken. I dared not look at Christine; I slipped from my vantage point and removed
the lasso and the pistol from his corpse. Taking a deep breath, I stood and slowly, gently held my hand
out to her. She was shaking, and I worried—but then she was in my arms, clinging tightly to my and
crying into my shirt. I wrapped my cloak around us both and gently rocked her, murmuring softly into her
ears until she was comforted enough to quit crying. "Please," she whispered when she could speak,
"please take me home."

I wanted nothing more.

Christine

Erik did not ask her to speak; he did not ask her to explain. Indeed, all he seemed to require was that
she settle into the couch, eat, and rest. He returned her touch hesitantly when she reached out to him;
otherwise, all seemed to be normal. Almost.

At her request, he sat by her side and stroked her hand, but he was still distant. Christine shivered; she
needed him, needed the memory and the reality of his touch to brush away the Baron's harsh hands. She
could only think of one reason for his reserve. "Erik?"

He was immediately attentive. "Yes, cherie?"

"Are you . . ." Christine hesitated. In a month, this was one question she had never had to ask—whether
yes or no, she had always known the answer. "Are you angry with me?"

She could see the shock in his face; she was getting better at reading his emotions. Erik reached forward
and gently took her face in his hands. "Christine, love, no. Why would you think such a thing?" He
stroked her cheek tenderly. "I am not angry with you, not in the least, not a bit, not ever. Please, if you
believe nothing else, know that."

"Then hold me," she whispered. "I need to be held, Erik, not set on a shelf for protection."

His arms were instantly around here, clasping her tightly to his side as he stroked her hair. "Beloved,"
Erik said lowly, "Forgive me for not understanding. I had thought that you needed space, needed . . ." His
hand twitched in a dismissive gesture. "I don't know what." He raised her chin and looked down into her
eyes. "Are you all right?" Christine nodded; he paused. "He did not . . . hurt you? Other than these?" Erik
indicated the fingertip-shaped bruises along her arm.

She shook her head. "No, Erik, he did not hurt me. It happened so quickly—he came up and wanted to
congratulate me about the show. I thought it strange that he was alone, and the next thing I knew he
was dragging me through the streets. I screamed—"

"I heard you."

"I don't remember much else; everything came together too quickly."

Erik faltered for a moment, then asked evenly. "You do remember that I killed him?"

"Yes." Christine lifted her hand to stop his answer. "And . . . thank you. That sounds horrible, but he
wanted to harm me—how many other girls might he have harmed in the past? The future? No, Erik. That
was not murder. Thank you."

Erik

Oh, no, cherie, it was murder. I have never wanted to kill anyone as much as I wanted to kill him. I kept
this thought to myself. Anytime did not seem like quite the appropriate answer, either, so I simply
decided to respond to the other parts of her reply. "Yes, he wanted to harm you," I told her softly. "He
was carrying a pistol; he had no desire for you to survive his . . . attentions."

"Attentions?" She frowned at me.

Blast it. I cursed in my mind, calling myself seven kinds of idiot. Surely she could not still be that
innocent? And if she was, why on earth had I mentioned his intentions? Stupid, Erik. Very, very,
very stupid. "Someday," I said quietly, "you will realize, even if you do not understand it, that your
incredible beauty and your equally appealing innocence make you an irresistible temptation to men who
prey upon others, such as the late baron." And me.

She was glaring at me. "You have not preyed upon me."

I blinked. "I am almost entirely certain," I said cautiously, eyeing her, "that I did not say anything of the
sort."

"No, you didn't," Christine agreed. I was still regarding her with a raised eyebrow, so she added, "You are
not the only one who can read faces, and I know the way you think."

"Apparently, I am going to have to keep a closer guard over my thoughts." I smiled at her to take any
edge out of my words. "Are you sure you're feeling better?" She nodded, and I couldn't help but let a
smirk slip onto my features. Leaning in a little to whisper in her ear, I murmured, "Can you tell what I'm
thinking now?"

If her blush was anything to go by, that was an affirmative. Grinning, I kissed her cheek and stood. I
looked down at her, her skin glowing prettily in the candlelight, and was struck by how very close I had
come to losing her tonight. Dropping to my knees, I laid my head in her lap and whispered my first
prayer since I was a very young boy; "Thank you, Father."

Christine

One month. Christine smiled to herself as she drew a warm bath; today marked one month that she had
spent with Erik. They'd had a few rough moments, to be sure, and a deep scare—she shivered at the
memory of the Baron de Riviet—but for the most part it had been one long paradise.

As she drew on her corset, she smiled at the memory of the first time, mortified, she had silently begged
for Erik's help. Now that small, intimate moment was a beloved daily ritual. This morning, Erik's hands
lingered at her waist when he finished the ties; Christine felt him draw her back against him. She
shivered as a thrill went through here when Erik pressed a not-so-chaste kiss into the hollow of her
throat. "You're trembling," he observed dryly, his lips still mere inches from her skin. "Cold?"

"You know it isn't the cold," Christine whispered, brushing her fingers along the left side of his face.

He just smiled and released her. "Dress, my dear, quickly."

Erik

I was sitting at the piano when she came back out, my fingers idly modifying an old theme. Christine sat
by my side and leaned her head against my shoulder. "Erik," she murmured, "It's been—"

"Shh." I cut her off gently. "Patience, love. 'Tis a virtue." I looked at my watch. "You're late, you know.
Rehearsal starts in half an hour." The opening of, ironically, Hannibal was tonight; it was her final
contracted performance.

"Erik!" She protested. I gave her my most innocuous look. "Very well, play your games."

I grinned and kissed her nose. "Breakfast, then I will walk you to the theatre."

"Will you be watching tonight?"

"Of course." Thinking of my other plans for tonight, I added, "And I will meet you in your dressing room
after."

"Oh, will you now?" Christine gave me a slow, coy wink; I kissed her cheek and carried her to the
kitchen.

Christine

It was her best performance yet. After the final curtain, Christine hurried to her dressing room. As she
approached, she was startled to find the bouquets of flowers that usually adorned her room after a
performance lining the hallway instead. The opera manager, Sanchez, was waiting for her by the door
marked Daae. He shrugged as she indicated the flowers with a questioning look. "He was very insistent,
Miss Daae." The manager hesitated. "He told me he was your teacher—" here he traced the shape of a
mask on his own features. "I was not certain—he is known to you, then?"

Christine smiled and nodded. "Yes, and I know he can be very . . . demanding. Thank you, Signeur."

Still, the manager hesitated. "We can get an escort for you, you know, miss . . . is he then, just a
teacher?"

"Teacher," she whispered, looking at the door, "friend, beloved, and fiancé. Thank you, Sanchez, but no
escort will be needed. Good evening."

"Happiness to you both, then," he murmured and departed.

Biting her lip, Christine opened the door.

It was immediately clear why Erik had banned the other flowers from her room; here, every surface was
covered with roses of the deepest red, glowing in the candlelight. There was a small table set for two in
the center of the room, with a covered dish and a white rose in a vase in the middle of it. Despite herself,
Christine gasped; it was gorgeous.

The door clicked shut behind her. "Like it, my dear?" Erik's voice spoke in her ear as his hands on her
shoulders guided her to a seat. He tenderly kissed her cheek, then sat down beside her, his immaculate
evening dress reminding her of other dinners at his home in years past.

Christine knew her eyes were shining as she gently touched his hand. "It's beautiful, Erik."

The meal was perfectly French; he had even managed crème brulee. They spoke quietly and comfortably,
or watched each other in easy silence. When they had both finished, Erik stood and held his hand out to
her. "A dance, Christine?" he asked softly. She smiled her acceptance, and though the cramped dressing-
room grew no smaller, they managed a simple, graceful dance to the song Erik had written for her. The
melody, coming from beneath the roses in one corner, slowed, then stopped, and they were left holding
each other closely.

Erik closed his eyes for a moment, then met her gaze evenly and began to speak.

"You know my sins, Christine. You know the demons of my—rather spectacularly haunted—past. You have
seen my temper; I have even killed in front of you.

"And you know that I do not ask this lightly. I would die rather than hurt you, kill rather than have one of
my devils return to harm you. I cannot help but feel my past will catch up with me sometime, and I
would not put you through the hell there will be to pay when that happens.

"And yet," he continued, his voice becoming tender, "You also know that I love you. Beyond reason,
beyond life, beyond all the darkness in this world, I love you. You are the only light my life has ever
known; you are my inspiration and my heart. I love your gentleness with me and your strength with my
pain; I love your rare and precious little soul, your quiet heart, your young mind. I love you when you
laugh, when you cry, in silence or in song, when you give me a well-earned slap, when you sing, when
you grow. I love that you have come to understand my strange sense of humor, even though it means
you know to look past my irony and see heart's truth." Christine was crying now, tears slipping down her
face as he knelt before her. "I love you. And so despite my fear for you, despite my reservations, I am
once again asking you to marry me."

She fell to her knees and buried her face in his shoulder, only just managing to choke out a simple, "With
all my heart."

Erik

The wedding took us two weeks to prepare for; they passed in a moment. Even finding a priest who
would perform a wedding ceremony for a masked man was far easier than I expected.

In fact, the mask's only problem was Christine.

The morning of our wedding had arrived; as I usually did not sleep with the mask on, I had set it on the
low table by the sofa. I don't know how early she must have gotten up to whisk it away, but when I
awoke at dawn, it had disappeared and she refused to tell me where she had hid it. "I am not marrying
the mask. I am marrying the man behind it," Christine insisted.

"I know, Christine," I grumbled. "But the man who wears the mask would very much like to have it
returned to him!" She shook her head; I yanked irritably—though not too hard—at her corset strings. "I'll
steal your veil," I threatened ominously. She shook her head again, though she was smiling slightly. I
sighed, finished tying the laces, and pulled her close. "What do I have to do to get it back?" She
hesitated, then glanced away from me and blushed. "Christine," I warned, shaking her gently.

"All right!" She gasped, but when she met my gaze her eyes were stern. "You can have it back today, if,"
she blurted, "you will leave it off tonight."

She was blushing furiously now, but she did not look away from me. I dropped my hands from her waist
in surprise, but covered it by neatly raising one eyebrow at her. "You mean what, precisely?"

"I mean, Erik, that that mask is not entering my room. You may wear it now, or you may wear it later
and sleep alone."

Could she ever understand how much it meant to me to hear her say that—and mean it? "I love you," I
murmured, leaning down to kiss her. "May I have it back, then? I promise," I added quietly as she
opened her mouth to ask for my word. She pulled away from me and briefly vanished into her room.
When she returned, she was wearing her wedding dress and had the white half-mask in her hands. I
could not resist teasing her as I put it on. "I thought you said it wasn't allowed there," I muttered.

"Not when you're wearing it, it isn't," she agreed complacently.

I kissed her palms. She looked so beautiful; I had seen her in a wedding dress once before, but this was
real in a way that vision never had been. "Angel," I whispered and led her to the piano. We were still
quite early; the ceremony was set for early evening.

We spent a pleasant, easy day lounging about the apartment; as dusk approached, I beckoned for her to
come. The butterflies in my stomach were reflected on her face as she took my arm and we began the
short walk to the chapel.

The wedding ceremony in the quiet, dim church was a blur to me; all I remember is our voices echoing as
we whispered, "With this ring, I thee wed," Christine's dark eyes shimmering with tears as I lifted her
veil, the sweet fire of our first kiss as husband and wife.

I will never forget the words she said to me that night; I was surprised at my own nervousness, but she
had simply removed the mask and told me, "I remember the first night you brought me here. I could see
the same hunger in your eyes that I see now, and the same fear—the belief that you are wrong to need
what you so want. I love you, Erik; I am yours, and you are mine. For better, for worse, for richer, for
poorer, in life and death and through whatever may happen, I am sworn to you and am yours mind,
body, and soul." She reached up to kiss me; just before our lips met, Christine whispered, "There is no
sin in love between a man and his wife."

As it had before—in the cellars of the Opera, that first night I saw her in the hotel, and a hundred times
since—her kiss changed everything.

Erik

We had four days of bliss. Whether in passion or in peace, our two souls—tied to each other from the
beginning—had become one. Words were inadequate for so much of what we said to each other; 'love'
hardly described the depth of our emotions. That four days was to have been a week or two, after which
we would travel to another city, another opera house, for my Angel to sing. But on the fourth morning,
our lives took a very different direction.

I had lured her out of bed before the sun rose, and—with my mask firmly in place—was lying with
Christine on the sofa, waiting in the false light for a beautiful sunrise. I think she may have dozed off, but
the warmth of the sun on her skin caused Christine to open her eyes. She was delighted; it was a
glorious sunrise. I was torn between watching the sky lighten and watching the rays of light throw color
into the alabaster skin of her face and throat. She noticed my interest and gave me the sort of smile
which welcomes a kiss; I had just settled into that business seriously when we heard a voice call out,
"Erik?"

We pulled apart and stared at each other; I knew that voice.

I don't know how Nadir found me; for that matter, I couldn't think how he'd gotten in, unless he'd been
paying far closer attention that I thought when I showed him how to pick locks. He must have come in
very quietly; neither Christine nor I had heard the front door. Untangling myself from Christine—I was
glad that our couch faced away from the door—I stood and scowled at my old friend. "Daroga, what
on earth are you doing here? You are supposed to be in Paris."

He sighed and gave me a look I had seen far too often from him. "Did you kill the Baron de Reviet?"
Nadir asked quietly.

I had to stare. "You crossed half of Europe to ask me if I was involved in a murder that occurred three
weeks ago? Nadir, that is obsessive, even for you."

"You remember Investigator Haron, I'm sure?"

That made me frown. "Twitchy little man—there's another obsessive one for you—wasn't he supposed to
be looking into certain . . .ah . . ." I cleared my throat delicately, "events that occurred around the time I
left Paris?"

"He had to be ordered off the case of the 'Opera Ghost'," Nadir agreed. "But that case has been reopened
—he saw a report of the Baron's death. A little investigation connected the Baron to you; he has been
working tirelessly to convince the Parisian and Austrian police to let him have free reign in finding you. He
will arrive in Vienna tomorrow with a warrant for your arrest and execution; if you value you life, old
friend—which I know you usually do not—you must leave the city immediately."

I groaned. Why had I been so selfish? Why, why, why had I allowed myself to marry Christine? I knew
something like this would happen; I knew it. She was looking up at me with large, unhappy eyes, and I
sighed, gazing down at her. "Well, my dear, the choice is once again in your hands. I would rather have
you safely back in Paris, but you have demonstrated that asking you to leave me against your will would
be a practical exercise in the art of futile gestures. I knew my demons would catch us someday; I just
didn't believe it would be this soon."

"I know that look," Christine retorted as she stood. "You are wishing that we never married."

"Because I love you—yes, I am." I took her face in my hands. "Do you know what they will do to you,
what they will call you, if they realize you are with me freely?"

"Nothing worse than I would call myself if you talked me into staying safe," she spat. I sighed and pulled
her into my arms, holding her tightly. Only then did I look over at Nadir.

Somehow, I don't think he was expecting Christine to be there.

The look on his face was absolutely beyond price; despite the gravity of the situation, I snickered.
"Christine, you remember Nadir, though you were not properly introduced. Daroga, this is my wife,
Christine." Oh, it felt good to say that.

"Madame . . .?" he said gravely, and Christine loosened one of her arms from around me in order to
reach out her hand to him. Nadir kissed it as though properly greeting a woman who otherwise has a
death-grip on her husband was an everyday occurrence. He raised one eyebrow at me and I realized he
was waiting for one of the things I had never told him—my last name.

Christine must have noticed the look he gave me as well. "Erik claims he does not recall his name, so we
are using mine," she explained smoothly.

"Madame Daae," Nadir smiled, and the real joy in his features touched my heart. Then he had to
continue, "You do realize that Erik is an incurable liar?"

Christine returned his grin as though she had suddenly found a kindred spirit. "Of course, but if he wishes
to carry on my father's name, I have no objections."

I cleared my throat and gave both of them a thoroughly unconvincing glare. "If you two are finished?"

"You did not answer my question, Erik," Daroga reminded me.

Question?

Ah. The Baron. I felt my voice lowering into a dangerous growl as I held Christine tighter still. "Oh, yes,
Daroga," I snarled icily, "Yes, I killed him. You see, he made the rather fatal error of harming Christine in
front of me." Nadir nodded in reluctant understanding; he has never really approved of my feelings for
Christine, but at least he had enough sense to know that I could not be called to task for me actions
when she was threatened.

Christine

They left Vienna that afternoon. Nadir stayed with them; he had convinced Erik that a party of three
would be less suspect than a young singer traveling with a man who hid his face. "They know you like to
kidnap chorus girls," the Persian had teased lightly.

"I have never kidnapped a chorus girl," Erik sniffed disdainfully. "I cannot believe that you would accuse
me of such a thing; I kidnapped a diva."

"Who was a chorus girl before you awakened her voice," Christine had smiled. Erik had shrugged his
acknowledgement and let it pass.

They traveled south. By nightfall they had checked into a room with a lock-off in Baden. After tucking
their belongings around the room, Christine caught Erik's eye and drew a line with her toe between the
dresser and the bed. Nadir, watching with interest from the door to his lock-off, saw Erik gesture closer to
the bed. Christine folded her arms stubbornly; with a sigh, Erik nodded. "If I may ask?" Nadir questioned,
curious as to the meaning of this silent little drama.

Erik made a face at his wife, who was passing back and forth between the rooms as though making
certain all was in order. "Christine has banned my mask from her room; she was telling me where the
boundaries of that space are."

Christine raised her eyebrows as Nadir caught her hand and kissed it, murmuring "Bless you." In a louder
voice, he added, "Good night," and firmly closed the door between their rooms. Christine slipped to his
side and Erik turned out the light.

Erik

The absence of Christine's warmth beside me awakened me. That first morning, I confess that I fully
expected her to be gone—dressed, bathing, getting breakfast, anything—when I woke up; but she had
been curled by my side, waiting quietly for me to awaken. I blessed whatever intuition in her knew that
I needed her there, trustingly by my side.

It was dark still, the early hours of the morning. She must have gotten up restlessly; now Christine was
standing at the dresser in her night-gown. I watched, vaguely amused, as she ran her fingers over the
mask and then held it against her face. "Looks better on you," I commented softly, and she jumped.
Laying the mask aside, she smiled and slid into my arms. I leaned back against the headboard and
stroked her hair. "Hello, there," I whispered. "You've been quiet today."

"I haven't felt like speaking much," she agreed softly.

I touched her lips with one finger. "It was an observation, love, not a criticism." She closed her eyes,
snuggling into the hollow of my throat. "You should sleep," I muttered, kissing her shoulder.

"Mmm," she sighed, then asked, "What was Nadir's wife's name?"

Nadir's family was not a subject I was prepared to discuss with her. Ever. "How do you know he was
married?"

"Something in the way he looked at us. Answer the question, Erik."

"Rookheeya."

"Did she . . ." Christine hesitated.

"Die? Yes." Unwillingly, I added, "In childbirth, I believe." She didn't ask, but I could feel her eyes
watching me, waiting patiently. "The boy's name was Reza," I added softly. "Will you go to sleep now?"

Christine lifted her mouth to mine in a slow kiss; I mumbled in protest when she pulled away. "There's
something you're not telling me, Erik."

"Please, Christine. Leave it."

She ran her fingers into my hair. "All right."

"And don't ask Nadir, either," I warned. "That memory is even more painful for him than it is for me."

"I wasn't going to," Christine replied, sounding a little hurt. We were silent for a moment, then in a
would-be casual voice, she asked, "So you knew Reza, then?"

"Christine." I sighed and gathered her close again; I didn't want to watch her face. I knew she would get
this, as she had almost everything else, out of me sooner or later. "Reza was a child when I lived in
Persia. He was already blind; the boy had a wasting disease that was going to guarantee him a slow and
painful death, both for himself and for the adoring father who would have to watch.

"Two months before the real pain began, I went to live with Nadir and Reza. For those months, I created
an illusory paradise for the both of them." Christine waited; I tightened my jaw and continued. "Then,

when the beginning of the end took hold, I . . ." I had told Christine more of myself than I had told any
other living soul; somehow, that didn't make saying this any easier. "I gave him a potion that sent him to
his Allah quietly in sleep, rather than screaming in pain." Sighing, I loosened my hold on her. "Nadir loved
him so much; he claims he's forgiven me, but sometimes I wonder whether his determination to be my
conscience—since, according to him, I don't possess one—comes from that time."

Christine was quiet for a moment, then she touched my cheek. "You cared about Reza, too, Erik," she
murmured.

I have never been willing to admit to myself just how much I loved that child. I hadn't been in Persia for
almost fifteen years, but I could still see Reza's face clearly. "Yes," I answered finally. "Yes, I did."

Her mind was skipping tracks on me; I could tell by the way her fingers were curling in my hair. "Erik?"

"Yes?"

"Have you ever thought . . . about having children?"

"Children?" Plural? I snorted. "Love, I never thought I was going to get married, much less have
children." She stiffened a little and I stroked her arm. "Any child we have would be welcomed and loved,
you know that. How could I not want something of yours? I simply hadn't considered it, beloved."
Christine smiled a little and yawned; I sang her to sleep.

Christine

Nadir left them after three weeks; Erik thought he saw Rookheeya a little too clearly when he watched
the pair of them. They were constantly moving, day by day making their way farther and farther south.
For a time, it seemed as though their pursuit had been thrown off. Christine managed to believe that they
were simply taking an extended honeymoon, stopping in small towns every night as they wandered
toward Italy.

That illusion shattered the first time they snuck out of a hotel in the middle of the night; Erik had noticed
the hotel manager speaking to a man who looked suspiciously like a gendarme and had been tracing the
shape of a mask on his face.

They spent that night in someone's barn, Erik holding her closely. Christine shivered as she began to
realize what she had not allowed herself to before: they were fugitives being chased by the law. She had
not thought Erik was still awake, but his voice, deep and soft, spoke from the darkness above her head.
"Do you know now why I did not want you here? You would have been safe, away from me—they aren't
looking for you yet." He nuzzled her throat. "Will you make me watch them hurt you?"

"I am scared." Christine pulled him closer, meeting his lips with her own. "But I am not alone, and being
with you is worth whatever happens."

Erik

She was exhausted. We had spent the last week traveling hard, living in cramped, filthy lodgings and
avoiding all bright places. I could barely bring myself to take her into such surroundings; since I had no
choice, I mad certain that Christine was never out of my sight. She made this easy by showing no
inclination to stray farther than a hands-breadth from my side. My delicate butterfly was not meant to
live in places like these, not at all, but her gossamer wings had a strength to them, and it was that
strength I was depending on to pull her through.

The more tired Christine become, the colder she got, until not a night passed she didn't spend shivering
despite my most devoted efforts to keep her warm. I worried constantly about her catching an illness,
and as I lay and held her, my mind was raging with fury at the two men who were forcing us into this life.
I had caught glimpses of Messrs. Haron and Lorea; they looked just the type of pushy, nitpicking,
superstitious bloodhounds who would love a sensational case like mine.

But then, I was prejudiced.

Finally, we were only a day's journey from Italy. Christine, who had always been slender, was down to
nearly wraithlike proportions. I took a long look at her by my side and determined that, close pursuit or
no, we were staying in a proper hotel. Christine didn't even blink as we entered our first brightly lit lobby
in a week; I think she was honestly too weary to notice. She perked up a little when I settled her into the
big double bed of our rented room, tucking blankets around her. "Better?" I asked as she snuggled into
the pillows.

"Much better if you were here," Christine answered, reaching her hand out to me. I wrapped it in both of
mine and kissed her fingers, resolutely ignoring how her tiny bones felt even more fragile than usual.

"Forgive me, love, but I have to retrieve a few necessities we are running short of. Don't give me that
look, Christine," I added as her dark eyes reproached me. "If I was going to leave you, I would have
done so in Vienna, where you had an apartment and an income."

"That makes sense, I suppose, " Christine yawned and smiled up at me. "I miss you."

I groaned and leaned down, pressing my face into her neck and holding her tightly. "Tempt me and I
won't be going anywhere," I murmured. "I love you. I miss you. I'll be back as soon as I can." I hated
leaving her; that pleading look in her eyes wasn't helping any. But we were in desperate need of several
things—food, soap, clean clothing—that I would not see her do without, so I forced myself to pull away
from her and quickly walk out the door, locking it behind me.

Christine

Erik was gone, and she found herself drifting hopefully towards sleep. Though she tried to hide it,
Christine had not had a full night's rest in days. Most evenings she just lay still in her husband's arms,
curling up to him for warmth and comfort and trying to conceal the fact that she was still awake.

She had very nearly drifted off when a heavy knock sounded at the door. Grateful that Erik had ushered
her into bed fully clothed, Christine rose and checked the peep-hole to see who it was. She opened the
door for the hotel manager; the man looked upset. "Is your husband home, Madame?" He inquired
immediately when she let him into the room. Christine shook her head. "He requested to be informed if
anyone was asking after him, and we have two gentlemen in the lobby who seem interested in knowing
whether a man in a mask has been seen here recently." She had lived long enough with Erik to know that
"requested to be informed" meant "paid handsomely."

Christine forced herself to take a breath, pushing away the spurt of panic that had risen in her. "You have
been paid for the night, yes?" She asked. At the manager's nod, Christine asked another question. "Is
there any way out of the hotel other than through the lobby?"

"There is a servant's entrance, Madame."

"Good." Christine was grateful that Erik had forced her to learn at least a few things to do if they got
separated or she suspected they were being followed. "I will take our things out the back way, then, and
leave a message for my husband with you. It would be very helpful if you could rent the room again so
that they find someone here other than us." And, of course, it meant that he would be getting paid twice
for one night's stay. The manager accepted this and the message for Erik cheerfully; she slipped him an
extra few coins to be certain that message did not make its way into the wrong hands. Then he left, and
Christine swiftly grabbed the few—thankfully still packed—possessions that had so far survived their
journey and left the room without looking back.

Erik

Something was wrong.

As soon as I entered the lobby, one of the manager's assistants ushered me out of sight and into a
private meeting room. He seemed to know nothing save that he had been ordered to keep me hidden. I
was wary at the prospect; was this aid or betrayal?

And where was my wife?

I could not do anything until I knew Christine was safe, so I bit my tongue and waited. I did not have to
be patient long; soon we were joined by the manager. In a rush of words, he explained that two
gentlemen had been asking for me; as per my instructions, he had gone to find me but got Christine
instead. Here, he handed me her note:

My dear Vicomte

All is well in Paris, but I find myself longing for a house in the country. Meet me at our regular spot, on
the 24th at 6:00 in the evening.

All my love,

Madame Christine Daae

As codes go, it wasn't much; 'my dear Vicomte' meant the letter-bearer was believed to be a friend, Paris
was the native home of who had scared her away, a home in the country was a bed and breakfast inn,
and the numbers were the address of that inn, switched. I could only hope it would throw off any further
pursuit for at least another day. Nodding briskly to the two hotel men, I paid them for their troubles and
their silence and quietly carried the results of my shopping expedition out the servants' exit.

I found the inn easily enough; a conversation with the man behind the bar led me to room eight. Leaning
against the door, I quietly called, "Christine . . . " She flung open the door and wrapped her arms tightly

around my neck. The relief I felt at seeing her, here, whole, flooded my mind with gratitude and I locked
the door behind us, content to bury my face into her hair as she shuddered. "Shh," I soothed, stroking
her back, "shh, it's all right, I'm here. Are you unharmed?" Christine nodded against my chest. I picked
her up and, for the second time that evening, carried her to bed. Sitting her on top of the covers, I
settled down beside her and held her as her tears finished.

Christine did not stay on the bed long; soon she had wriggled into my lap, her face pressed into the
hollow of my throat. I had no complaints against such behavior; as far as I was concerned, the nearer
she was, the better. "You're here," she murmured finally, lifting her head a little to kiss my undamaged
cheek.

"I thought you had noticed that already," I teased a little and was relieved to see her smile. "Do you want
to tell me what happened?"

My answer was a shrug. "The manager came, I wrote him a note for you, and left. You pointed this place
out on the way here, remember, as somewhere we could go if the hotel was full."

"True," I murmured, "true." I slowly lifted her mouth to mine, allowing myself the luxury of fully
reassuring myself that she was real. As we kissed, my mind began to work against the two Parisian
investigators who had forced us to flee.

Christine

"If we can just cross the border, we should be safe," Erik told her quietly as they gazed south from their
new inn room. "I doubt that our friend has authority extending past Austria."

Christine frowned. There was a decidedly nasty glint in his eyes as he turned away from the window.
"Erik, what are you thinking?" She whispered, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck. He just
raised an eyebrow at her coolly, the wicked cast to his features more pronounced. "I don't like that look
in your eyes," she told him, meeting his gaze frankly. "It frightens me."

He laughed, and it was the dark chuckle she had not heard from him in over a year. "I was just thinking,
my dear," Erik replied, lightly kissing her forehead, "that once we reach Italy, it might be well to remind
our friends who it is they are chasing."

Christine pulled away from him, and, not letting her eyes leave his, sang lowly, "In sleep he sang to me,
in dreams he came, that voice which calls to me, and shares my name. And do I dream again, for now I
find, the Phantom of the Opera is there, inside your eyes." He turned away from the mixed hurt and fear
in her features. Christine wrapped her arms around him, pressing her face into his back. "Please don't
leave me," she whispered. "You are neither angel nor ghost nor demon—nor Phantom. You are my
husband, Erik, a man I cannot live without."

"I love you." He turned and crushed her to his chest. "And I will protect you—any way I have to."

"Oh, no you don't," Christine spoke into his shirt. "Don't make this about me; it isn't. This is because
you're angry that someone is chasing us, and you think playing the Phantom again will be an entertaining
way to get even."

"Would you deny me such a simple pleasure?" He asked, lending a double meaning to his words as he
kissed her.

"Erik, be careful . . ."

Erik

Tarvisio. It was a small town on just the right side of the Italian border; utterly unremarkable, save that I
knew of a little inn there that would be of use. Soon we were safely in place; Christine was in the
common-room, picking at a solitary dinner. I watched her from the shadows. It had taken a little
convincing and more than one promise to get her to play her part, but the result would be well worth it. I
watched as the two French investigators entered; this was going to be fun.

M. Haron was reassuring his companion; apparently, Nadir and I had guessed correctly; they had no
authority here. "Just a quick look," Haron wheedled as they paid for their meals. "Then we'll go back and
pick up the trail somewhere else. I've spent a year studying this man, Lorea; he's here."

I was flattered. How sweet of him.

It was then that Haron saw Christine. I tensed; this was the difficult part. He had been tailing a man in a
mask. If he knew she was with me . . . but no. The expression of his face was that of someone who
comes face-to-face with a legend; apparently, he had been studying me quite thoroughly, and in the
course of that study Christine would have become rather synonymous with Aphrodite. He rushed over to
her. "I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle," he babbled in French, "but I couldn't help but recognize you.
You are Christine Daae, are you not? The Glorious Angel?"

Christine pushed away her plate. "Oui, monsieur, I am thrilled that you recognized me. Would you care to
join me?"

"Indeed." He and his partner settled down on either side of her. Indecent brute, he immediately began
questioning her about me. "Quite a rough time of it you had last year in Paris, wasn't it, dearie? That
scandal with your teacher . . ."

I restrained a laugh. Barely. She was under no such constraint and led them freely into a conversation—
wonderfully misinformed—about my whereabouts. "Do you know," Haron burst out suddenly, "We believe
him to be very near here? You're escorted, of course, aren't you?"

"Of course—my husband is with me." Again I had to choke down a chuckle. Minx. I was beginning to rub
off on her.

"I did not know you were married, Madame."

"We keep out of the public eye . . . monsieurs, perhaps you would care to carry on our conversation in a
more private setting? If my old master is near, the very walls may have ears."

I couldn't believe they fell for it. I had known they would, and I still couldn't believe it.

Christine led them to a private dining room; like a good shadow, I followed.

If they were surprised when, suddenly, all but one candle extinguished, they were shocked when
Christine disappeared. I had chosen this inn for a reason; its architect had been almost as fond of trap
doors and hidden passages as I was. The current owner was blissfully unaware of this, and I saw no
reason to enlighten him.

My voice, cool and silky, caressed the air. It was here, there, to the front and side, surrounding them with
coldness. "You have trespassed, Gentlemen, on a domain you do not understand. It suited me to allow
you to play the game for a time, but my patience has run out. You stand now on the threshold of a realm
where ghosts walk and angels sing; beware. You may turn back, or step forward into the mist and be
devoured," here, I added the distant roar of a lion. Showmanship, after all. "The choice is yours."

Mirrors are such wonderful things. So useful in creating illusions. They saw a single candle, then a
thousand that all died in an instant with the cry of a banshee; they saw the shimmering image of a
woman in white, eerie as though she belonged to another world. They ducked and reflexively jerked their
hands to their faces when they heard the unique snapping hiss of the Punjab lasso . . .

I only played with them for a quarter of an hour or so; I am sure they felt it much longer. Those two
gentlemen were very fortunate that I loved my wife; it was for her sake that I demonstrated a certain
amount of restraint.

Quite suddenly, the candles relit, and the two men were left gaping at Christine—dressed in blue as
before—who picked up the conversation from precisely where it had left off. They tried to cover their fear,
but they ended the discussion quickly and excused themselves.

Christine sat at the table and rested her forehead in her hand. When I appeared beside her, she shook
her head—but she was smiling, just a little. "Erik . . ."

"They won't be chasing us again. Wasn't that worth a little peace?" I grinned and knelt down next to her,
resting my head in her lap. "I love you."

"You're still haunting me . . ."

"Never."

"Its that look in your eyes—when I realize how much you still enjoy that—"

"Christine. It was a means to an end. We don't have to run anymore. Believe me," I whispered, "when I
say I would never intentionally do anything that frightened you."

"Without good reason," she qualified gently.

I hesitated, but I could not deny that. "Without good reason."

She smiled twistedly. "At least you don't lie to me. Often." I opened my mouth to argue the point, but
she stopped me with a kiss. "I love you. And I knew who and what you were when I married you. I was
just . . . startled by the Phantom side of you, I guess. I have not seen him for more than a year, you
know. I had forgotten."

"He doesn't come out that often, outside of the Paris Opera House. He was born there, and a good bit of
him died there," I assured her.

"Phantom, Erik, man, angel, devil," Christine replied. "I love you just the same." I pulled us both to our
feet and wrapped my cloak around us.

"Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind . . ."

Christine

She woke alone in a cold bed; a shiver ran through her. There was no light; the drapes had been pulled
earlier that evening, Erik's hands twitching them closed behind her back as he kissed her. She had
laughed with happiness, the sound luring her husband's tickling fingers to her sides in an attempt to
make her giggle again . . .

Where was Erik?

Christine shivered once more; she did not like the silence. She no longer knew how to wake alone in pure
night . . .

Erik's voice, deep with amusement, came from a corner of the room, but his words were anything but
reassuring. "Still afraid of the dark, my love?" He bit out.

There were dangerous tones behind the humor in his voice; Erik was almost never amused for
amusement's sake. Melancholy, yes, she had heard that, and bit of pain and anger. Bitterness from that
beautiful voice left her with a feeling of grime in her ears, as it always did; something so pure should not
lend itself so well to his cursed spite. It was a black mood indeed Christine had woken to find her beloved
in, and while she found herself hesitant to pry at it, neither could she simply turn away in ignorance.

"Only when you are not in it," Christine responded carefully, trying to keep her tone neutral.

She heard an exasperated sigh. "Go to sleep, Christine," Erik grumbled.

She paused for a moment to gather her strength, then quietly slipped out of bed and stood, peering
toward the part of the hotel room his voice had first come from. "Where are you?"

"I'm here—" echoed maliciously from all four corners.

Closing her eyes, the girl tried to think of what might have slanted her love's mercurial temper into his
current mood. He had been having fun, or as much fun as he ever had, tormenting the two French agents
that afternoon; later, he had been entirely playful, a rare side of him she had enjoyed seeing. His
merciless fingers had sought out all of her most ticklish spots; laughing, they had ended cuddled together
on the bed, Christine abandoning her pillow-shield as his caresses became the gentle touch of a lover. . .

What strange twist was it of her Angel's spirit, that such joy as had caused him to murmur in her ear as
he held her, "You, only you forever, and I would be happy the rest of my life," could drop him into such
black melancholy? Or was this evil temper a nightly occurrence, something he kept hidden for her own
peace?

No.

She listened; his breathing was coming from somewhere behind her. Knowing the devil in him far too
well, Christine stepped forward, toward the corner his voice had first come from. "Erik," she pled softly,
"don't shut me out. You don't have to tell me; you don't even have to talk to me, if you don't want to. I
wish you would, but I know there are things still that you will not let me hear." She was close now, close
enough to see the black-on-black shape of him in the armchair, close enough to notice the barely
perceptible icy shimmer of the dagger he was toying with in the dark. She knelt slowly, resting her
forehead against his knee. "But please, Erik, beloved, let me help you . . . let me hold you and know that
you are real."

Even to herself, Christine had to admit that she was not entirely surprised to feel the cold steel blade
against her throat. Trust, she reminded herself firmly, willing her body not to flinch. Trust. You know he
would never hurt you.

"I should have killed you long ago, you know," he murmured. "It's what men like me do. That I would
have to kill myself after your death at my hands is irrelevant; what is one more corpse, after all?"
Christine didn't move; she did not blink. "Murderers do not marry the women they love, dear; it just isn't
done. Never happens in the fairytales. The princess leaves with her Adonis and the dragon is rightfully
slain, because his love would have killed her. Whereas if the princess had the common sense to stay with
her safe prince, she would at least live freely." The bitterness was back in his voice.

"But what is a life," Christine asked, feeling her throat pulse against the dagger with each syllable, "when
lived outside the consuming love of dragon's fire?" Nearly under her breath, she added, "You promised,
Erik."

"I—oh, yes. I promised not to frighten you unnecessarily." The dagger disappeared and he gently pulled
her to her feet. His tone was at odds with his tender touch as he waspishly continued, "Though to be
perfectly fair, if you had just had the sense to stay in bed, you would not have been frightened."

Christine jerked to a stop, forcing him to collide with her. She looked up into where his face should be in
the darkness and firmly told him, "That is a lie. I am more afraid of you gone from my side than I ever
could be of you holding a piece of steel against my neck. Maybe you have not learned this yet, my love,
but I have: no matter how dark your mood, I know you will not hurt me."

"Here," Erik whispered, touching a finger to her neck, "I have even put a knife against your skin. And yet
you still persist in your incomprehensible faith in me."

She reached up and found his face with her hands; he was not wearing the mask. Christine pulled him
down towards her, guiding him until his mouth found the spot where his blade had touched her. "No," she
murmured back, holding him briefly against her throat. "Here."

Erik groaned against her and jerked back. She could feel his eyes staring at her, then he had lifted her
into his arms as she had hoped. Christine let a tiny smile play across her lips; she knew where he kept
that knife. Brushing her hands idly across his shoulders, she inched toward the sheath that hung at the
back of his neck. "No, you don't," Erik told her grimly. Still holding her against him with one arm, he used
the other to firmly trap her wrists. As soon as he had set her upon the bed, and keeping a tight grip on
her with one long-fingered hand, he drew the dagger and negligently tossed it. A wince tightened her
features as it thudded into the door. "Don't worry, my dear, it isn't the first such indignity that door has
suffered in its lifetime," he informed her dryly. His hold on her wrists disappeared as he began to pull
away; Christine twisted her own hands around to catch his. She felt more than saw him turn back to gaze
at her. "You really don't know what's good for you, do you?"

Christine voiced the question that had plagued her since she woke. "Does my touch always send you into
such a wicked temper?"

"Mon ange, no. Don't think that." He ran his fingers lightly across hers. "And you have seen me in a
temper; this is not one."

"No, Erik. This is not a temper. It is just a painful mood that I wish I could ease away from you. And what
did you want me to think, waking up to find you in this bleak mind frame that I do not understand?"

A persistent tug brought him back to her. In a deliberate reversal of their earlier roles, Erik dropped to his
knees and rested his head in her lap. "Must you always understand?" He mumbled into her nightgown
wearily before looking up at her. Gentle fingers found her waist, smaller than it had been a month ago;
Christine knew that the dark circles she had worn under her eyes for the last week were still quite visible
in good light. "You're going to get sick if you don't rest," Erik tried to cajole. When she did not respond,
he stood, his hands trailing up her sides to hold her face. He kissed her deeply, then pulled away against
her protests. "Never, ever believe that you bring me anything but happiness, Christine," he murmured.

She lay back, pulling him with her. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Erik shook his head and eased her into the covers. For a moment she thought he would withdraw, but
then he sighed and lay down by her side. "Not now. Tomorrow."

Her husband's arms around her, her eyes already nearly closed, Christine could only nod as she drifted
off.

Erik

I could not close my eyes. Every time I did, the nightmare that had chased me out of bed in the first
place appeared in my mind.

Christine, lying cold upon the frozen ground, a bouquet of black roses in her hands. Her lips were blue,
her skin tinted with the icy pallor of death, and though I watched desperately for a sign of life, her thin
chest remained still. The body that had housed the woman I loved was now nothing more than bones
covered with a little skin; there was no flesh left on her.

I had killed her.

There was not a mark anywhere upon that fair skin, but I had killed her nonetheless. This, I knew,
because the boy kneeling by her side with his perfect features staring up at me was demanding why, his
blue Chagny eyes rightfully accusing me of killing the only thing we both adored . . .

I fled.

Darkness that I had loved so long closed in around me, threatening me with torment that was more
exquisite than any torture. I could hear her voice, soulless now, a cold high pitch severing the very wind
as it enthralled me, leading me to the edge of a cliff. The raging sea below held only comfort; the siren
song of my beloved called to me, begging me to join her, but I stepped back from the edge.

I could not be with her. Past death, I would never see her again, for she was light to my darkness. My
Angel would fly straight to heaven, but if I followed her I would be condemned to the deepest circle of
hell . . .

The ocean beneath me turned into a raging black fury of souls, rising up to claim me as the devil's own,
and I was consumed with burning darkness . . .

Shaking, I pulled Christine closer, burying myself in the comfort of her warmth. Warmth was life; as long
as she was here, her body heat surrounding me, she was alive. I cannot say how much time passed, but
I realized suddenly that she had awoken. I held still, hoping that she would think I was slumbering and
return to sleep herself, but then I realized I was holding her far too tightly for her to believe me
unconscious.

"You're freezing," she murmured, writhing around a little until she could slide her arms around me,
pulling my head down to rest against her shoulder. I did not answer, and Christine began stroking my hair
with her hands. My mind desperately wanted to resist, but I found myself succumbing to her wishes,
holding still as her small hands gently soothed the muscles in my neck and back, relaxing me and
warming me until I was comfortable and drowsy in her arms. I tensed again, however, when she started
humming to me in a low tone. It was too much to hope that she hadn't noticed; Christine stopped and
lifted my face to hers in the darkness. "Erik," she said quietly, her lips moving gently against my ear,
"what is wrong? Please? You're worrying me, love."

I forced my voice to sound normal; it was not easy. "Just a dream, Christine." She was silent, expectation
floating in the tiny space between us. I groaned and tried to pull away, but my wife had taken the
opportunity to tangle herself into my arms, burying her fingers in my hair and generally making escape
difficult. Former ballet dancers, I have discovered since our marriage, can resemble boa constrictors
when they wish to.

Perhaps it would be best to keep that observation from Christine. She would not appreciate being
compared to a snake.

Giving up my futile efforts, I closed my eyes and allowed her to hold me once more. "You saw me hurt,"
her voice whispered, and I jerked my head out of her grasp to stare at her dark shape in shock. "It was a
guess, Erik. Most nightmares would drive you into my arms, not away from them."

My voice sounded hoarse even to my own ears as I buried my face into her hair and replied, "I didn't do
anything. I didn't do a thing to you, and yet I had killed you. And . . ." I did not want to admit to Raoul's
presence. There was no earthly reason for me to still be jealous of the boy, and admitting to such
jealousy seemed a weakness indeed. But I loathe lying to her; even when I attempt it, she knows and
her innocent eyes shame me into the truth. Finally, I just muttered, "He was there. Holding you. Asking
me why. You called me into the sea . . ."

"So you could follow me into heaven?"

"No." Bitterness flooded my tone, and this time I was able to pull away from her. "So I could burn in hell."
I sat up on the edge of the bed, my elbows resting on my knees as I held my face in my hands. Christine
was silent; I could feel her hovering close beside me, wanting to be near but unsure whether or not I
would allow her to comfort me. "You know that's how this ends, don't you?" I asked bleakly. "If there is
anything after this life is finished with us, my dear, I can assure you—"

She struck my shoulder, hard. "Stop that. Stop it." Christine pulled me around to face her. She was
kneeling, peering down into my eyes, only a hair's-breadth between our faces so that she could see me in
the darkness. "Do you think any heaven or any hell can destroy what binds us together? You and I
are one, my beloved angel, and no force can separate us. Satan has not the power and God would not try
to, so what have we to fear?"

"You and I," I whispered, "believe in a very different God."

Christine leaned forward and gently touched her lips to mine. Her kiss was sweet and timeless, a precious
bit of her soul that spoke of love and freedom and peace, a kiss that tasted of the very heaven she
believed in. "My God," she told me softly when she had pulled away just far enough to speak, "made this
mouth to fit your own, made this spirit the twin of yours, made me and you two halves in the deepest
measure of our hearts. And that God, Erik, would not tear apart what he has so painstakingly created to
live as one."

Her fingers found the tears on my cheeks and she began to slowly kiss them away, lingering over each
part of my face. "Oh, beloved," I whispered, and Christine's mouth again found mine. This kiss was
longer, deeper, and though she told me much I had forgotten about love, we spoke no more that night.

Christine

Waking, Christine smiled down at her sleeping husband. Erik had turned on his stomach, his back
exposed to the warm air of their room. His worn black trousers were shadowy against the white sheets of
the bed. He had been awake at least long enough to dress, then, after she had fallen asleep; he almost
always was. Her gaze sobered a little as she studied the scar-patterns across his shoulders; she had only
asked about them once, and his reply had been a flat stare that firmly denied any further attempt to pry
into that particular portion of his past.

Prodding her thoughts away from the old scars, she smiled again and slipped out of bed. Christine put on
her dressing-gown and made herself a cup of tea, then hesitated, looking longingly at the comfort of the
pillows. Erik wasn't awake just yet . . .

She settled herself back into the mattress, sitting near her husband. All was silent peace for a few
moments as she sipped at the hot, sweet tea, then a long arm crooked around her waist and Erik moved
his head a little to rest against her leg. His eyes remained closed. "You're drinking tea," he murmured.
Christine smiled to herself but didn't answer. Erik was a firm believer in the idea that bed and breakfast
should remain two separate entities. At her lack of response, he gave a light, playful growl, and his arm
tightened around her. "Infernal woman," he muttered, smiling.

"Hmmm." Christine reached back and set the tea on the hotel's nightstand. Her fingers stroked Erik's
hair, and for a time they remained quiet, lost in each other's presence.

She quivered just a little, however, when the hand he wasn't using to hold her stretched up to feel,
almost lazily, at the back of his neck. "Where did that sheath go, Christine?" Erik asked softly.

"You took it off last night," she replied evasively.

Now his eyes did open and he gazed up at her. Erik's stare was even; there wasn't, at least, any anger in
his eyes, only a wry prompting. "I put it back on after you fell asleep."

"You did?" Her tone was far too innocent, and she knew it.

"Yes. After replacing my dagger, I might add." Erik reached up to touch her cheek. "Christine, if you want
a knife, I will get you a knife." She shook her head; she had no desire for a weapon of any kind. Erik
sighed. "Why take this one?"

She leaned against his hand and closed her eyes. "I don't know." Before he could reply, she slipped the
sheath from where it had been hanging at the back of her own neck. "I think I was hoping you would
explain to me . . . " about last night, she silently continued.

Erik sat up and pulled her into his lap, tucking her head under his chin as he held her close. "Forgive me,
Christine," he murmured into her hair.

"There is nothing to forgive," she replied in the same tone, content suddenly to just be cuddled up
against him. The whys always seemed so much less important when he was holding her close.

"I can't even explain it in my head, much less to yours," Erik told her quietly. "I just . . . was thinking. Of
the life you could have had with," he deliberately paused, "someone else. You wouldn't have had to run
these past few weeks; you wouldn't be so thin now that I worry about your health," to prove this point,
he gently stroked her now-bony shoulder. "I was almost angry with you for staying with me, for doing
this to yourself . . ."

She touched her fingertips to his mouth, silencing him. "Raoul wasn't right for me, Erik. I knew that even
before you came back into my life. Let it go. We're free; we don't have to run any longer, right?"

"For now," Erik replied cryptically.

"Then we can rest." Christine smiled up at him. "I'll let you fuss over me to your heart's content. I'm
happy, Erik," she whispered, letting her eyes fill with tenderness. "Can't you see that I'm happy with
you?" Erik was quiet; Christine smiled and touched his mouth. "And you're happy, too. I can tell; you
usually don't have that bitterness your eyes always used to carry. Isn't happiness worth anything else we
lose?"

His lips curved in a smile, and he leaned in to kiss her lightly. "Angel," Erik murmured quietly.

Erik

Christine was true to her word; those dark eyes were mildly amused, but she didn't speak a note of
protest when I confined her to bed for the day. I may have disliked the word 'fussing', but that was

precisely what I intended to do. I had not been able to coddle my beloved in far too long; I fully intended
to make up for lost time.

I did not try to forbid her to speak, however. Her voice, as far as I could tell, was fine; it was only her
body that was worn to the bone. Besides, while I could think of a number of ways of enforcing such a
command—some, such as spending the entire day just kissing her, more pleasant than others—I was no
longer her voice teacher who could demand instant and complete obedience from his devoted student.

Personally, I preferred our current relationship.

With Christine safely ensconced in blankets and pillows, and a hearty breakfast in her stomach, I found
myself faced with an abrupt lack of purposeful activity. For a few moments, I was able to pause and
simply watch my wife. Christine had requested one of the light romances she cherished from the inn's
front desk and was lying curled on her side, idly perusing through the pages. Her curls were tumbling
loose around her face and shoulders, and my eyes lingered on the soft curve of her arm in sheer bliss.
The darkness of last night was utterly forgotten; as she always managed to in the end, my Angel had
once again led me back into her light.

Only when Christine raised her eyes to me did I realize that I was singing, my voice low and hypnotic
even to my own ears. She smiled and accepted the temptation in my tone, letting her sweet, clear sound
mingle with mine in an old gypsy tune. The gypsy passion for love, for life, for travel, came through in
the music and when we ceased singing, the silence was full of all the words we could not say to each
other.

This, then, was heaven.

Christine

Neither of them had any inclination to seek out a large city just yet; the quiet simple life of this little
Italian town was appealing to Erik and Christine's mood. It was a good place to rest, to recover for a
while, and so they took up temporary lodgings in what Christine had begun to call the trap-door inn. Her
husband, much to her laughing dismay, was thoroughly enjoying himself with the inn's twisted secret
passages; while Christine extracted a promise from him not to frighten the other guests, Erik delighted in
appearing from no-where to startle her.

After the first day or two, however, they found that they were both in need of something to occupy their
time. Erik, particularly, was growing restless, and that worried Christine. While it was under much better
control now, her beloved husband's temper could still be truly phenomenal when roused, and his temper
was never shorter than when he was lacking activity.

She was not amused at the occupation he used to ease his boredom.

Erik had found a friend. This friend was large and furry; Christine hated it. She hated the rigid brown
hairs that covered its body; she hated the predatory stare it leveled at her every time she blinked. She
hated the very way it moved; and she hated, she hated, each and every one of its eight legs.

Only Erik's fingers around her mouth had prevented her from screaming, the first time he showed this
'friend' to her; she had quivered, terrified in his grasp, as she stared at the tarantula he was holding in
his opposite hand. Christine was quite proud of herself for keeping quiet until her husband placed his
newfound pet into the glass cage he had bought for it; her vocal and high-pitched protests once the
creature was safely put away had only earned her a raised brow and the calm warning that her
screeching was going to ruin her voice.

Christine had stared at him in shock. How could he do this to her? Erik knew—Erik knew—that she was
frightened of even tiny spiders. Why would he think this monster he had found would be any different?
She had been about to explain this to him when he had casually reached for her with the hand that he
had held the demonic wretch in; Christine had promptly given a tiny, soft shriek and jumped away from
him. Erik had stared at her, utterly perturbed; when she explained, with all the dignity she could, that he
was not touching her until he had washed his hands, Erik had laughed out loud and then allowed his
amusement to darken into a menacing chuckle. The resulting chase around the bedroom had ended with
Christine squirming in her husband's arms as he gently stroked her with the spider-infected fingers of his
right hand.

Now they were alone in the room, Christine and her enemy. The tarantula was in its box on the dresser;
Christine was sitting on the bed in her nightgown, knees tucked up to her chin, as she glared at her
husband's pet. Erik had gone to find food for the three of them and Christine refused to let the glass cage
out of her sight while he was gone. She didn't know what she would do if the monster escaped; the only
thing preventing her from smashing cage and spider to death was the worry that the spider would not, in
fact, die, and would chase her from the room.

This was the tableau Erik was met with when he entered the room; neither arachnid nor girl had moved
from their respective places, and Christine heard him sigh. "It cannot escape, Christine," he muttered as
he sat beside her on the bed, wrapping his arm around her. She was silent; she did not move. Wanting a
reaction, he told her something he had not intended for her to know for a while yet. "You know, I
eventually want you to hold it."

"Absolutely not!" Her head snapped up and she stared at him in horror. "You can't be serious, can you?"
Christine pleaded quietly. She gazed up at him through lowered lashes. "Please tell me you're kidding.
Please?" He did not answer, just looked at her expectantly. "You are serious," she breathed. "Oh, Erik, no.
No. You know I hate spiders. They terrify me. I thought you wanted me to rest. How am I to rest when I
know that that thing is in here waiting to attack me?"

"Christine, it isn't going to attack you."

She whimpered and reached up to kiss him. "Please," she murmured between each fierce kiss, "please
don't make me. Please." Christine dug one hand into his hair, pulling him closer, while she used the other
to guide his fingers to her waist.

"Not . . .going . . . to work," Erik retorted when she lay back, locking his elbows as he stared down at
her. Deliberately he leaned in to kiss her and then pulled away. "Temptress," he added as an afterthought
before sitting up straight. He glanced at the dresser and frowned. "That might be a problem," Erik mused
quietly.

"I'm not looking," Christine replied. "You're just trying to scare me." When Erik glanced back to her and
raised his eyebrow, she groaned and nervously raised her head enough to see the—spider-less—glass
cage sitting serenely empty.

Erik

When had spiders developed intelligence?

The cursed thing wasn't supposed to figure out how to escape from its cage for at least another week.

Not, of course, that I would ever be foolish enough to inform Christine that I had meant the tarantula to
get loose at one point. Some things are better left unsaid.

She was gripping my sleeve tightly, her eyes darting around the room as she wriggled closer to me.
Christine has never gotten along with arachnids; she is utterly terrified of them. But then, she was once
utterly terrified of me, too. I have always had a soft spot for spiders; I reasoned that if I could just get
Christine to see what magnificent creatures they truly were, she would let go of her fear and learn to
tolerate the web-spinners. After having the tarantula in our room for only a day, I had realized that this
was less than likely to occur.

I scanned the floor and walls, apprehension tightening my stomach. I knew, with a flash of awful
insight, exactly where the spider was. Slowly glancing over at my wife, I let my gaze trail down the long,
curly tresses of her hair to where it was puddled on the bed. For a moment I allowed myself to hope I
was wrong; but then I saw it, the light brown standing out against Christine's dark locks as the predator
slowly crept through the jungle of her hair. She had not felt anything, yet; she was far too busy frantically
looking around the room.

"Christine."

The tone of my voice made her snap her gaze back to me in horror.

"Do not scream and don't move."

I heard the faintest whimper, but she obeyed, freezing in place. Lightening-quick, I snatched the crawling
tarantula out of my wife's hair and deposited it safely in one of the dresser drawers. Turning back to
Christine, I winced at the tears pooled in her eyes; she was visibly shaking, her hand clamped tightly to
her mouth. I sat down next to her and pulled her into my arms. "Shh, you're all right. It's gone," I told
her gently, rubbing her back.

She shoved me away. Tears were streaking down her cheeks, her mouth was shaking—but she
was angry, and I realized that, as the spider had, in fact, escaped, the door of the cage was open—and
Christine was anything but stupid. This could get unpleasant rather quickly.

"You lied to me!"

"Beg your pardon?" I asked warily.

Christine gritted her teeth and flung a hand toward the empty cage; she was trained as an actress, after
all, and gets a little melodramatic when she is upset. "You specifically promised me that it couldn't
escape, my dear. Would you care to explain?" She was nearly snarling now; I was impressed.

"Christine—"

"It was in my hair! My hair, Erik! I'm not going to be able to sleep for a week because your pet decided it
would be more comfortable in my hair than in the cage you promised it couldn't get out of!" She pointed
to the drawer and then to the door. "Out! Out! Both of you, out!"

I decided that, as she was not reasonable at this time, it would be wisest for me and my eight-legged
companion to vacate the room for a while. Christine obviously needed a little space.

Christine

I shuddered as Erik swiftly rescued the spider from its temporary containment, then scowled at the door
after he had closed it behind him. He had known it could get out. I had to repress another deep-seated
shiver. The horrible tone in my husband's voice when he said my name had brought my fear into reality;
it was on me. It was on me, and he had let it in. I hadn't been able to do anything other than freeze; I
could not have screamed even if I wanted to. In that moment before Erik rescued the spider, I could feel
it moving through my hair . . .

Twitching, I glanced back to make sure that there was nothing there now. Surely I hadn't felt a little tug?
No, my hair was quite spider-free, and I sighed gratefully before turning to look at the cage.

He had known it could get out.

I had seen that in his eyes. He had known.

My fear began turning into anger. How could he? Erik knew I was terrified of spiders, yet he brought one
into our room, for pity's sake! Not only that, he knew it could get out—and he said that he wanted me to
hold it. Me, hold that beast?

Not if Erik knew what was good for him.

Huffing a little—though there was no one around to see it—I drew a pillow near to me and alternately
cuddled and throttled it, pretending that the innocent white bit of fluff was my dear husband.

It was not long before the door opened and Erik cautiously peered around it. "Christine? Can I come back
in?" The meal that he had brought us earlier—now cold on the dresser—was dinner; the sun had set.

I stared at him evenly, looking up from the pillow in my lap. We had been in the midst of one of our
strangling moments. "Do you have any spiders with or on you?"

"No."

"How can I believe you?" Telling me the spider couldn't escape was the first time he'd really lied to me,
after all—at least that I knew of. Not just hiding his emotions or teasing me, but an actually, flat-out lie.

Erik sighed. "Christine—" he began, stepping into the room. He held his arms out to the side as though to
prove he was spider-less. "I promise. I don't have any spiders of any sort." I just looked at him. A
mischievous glint came into his eye, then; Erik lightly kicked the door shut and began removing his shirt.
"Would you like me to prove it to you?" He asked, his tone striving for innocent but falling into seductive.

Oh, no. He wasn't going to get away with this that easily. I forced my eyes away from him and tried to
block out the tempting quality of his voice. This was not a simple task, as his mouth was quickly at the
tender spot where my neck met my shoulders. Erik, I thought dreamily as he kissed my skin. My hands
curled up around his shoulders to draw him nearer—and then I remembered that I was angry with him. I
slid my hand reluctantly back up his neck and across his cheek until I could slip my fingers between his
lips and my skin. "Do we still have a couch in the other room?" I asked softly; our inn-room was quite
well appointed, with separate areas for the bedroom and a kitchen/living room.

Erik froze. "Yes…" He finally answered slowly, his mouth tickling my hand.

I hated saying this. I hated it. But I was too angry with him to let him stay next to me tonight. Still, my
request was phrased as a question when I asked, "Would you mind sleeping on it instead?"

He pulled away from me abruptly, and his voice was very cool when he answered simply, "If you wish." I
tried not to wince; this would be the first night of our marriage we had not at least simply held each
other. I almost tried to take back my words, but Erik was already distant, gathering a blanket and a
pillow as he headed into the other room.

I buried my face in my hands till he was gone.

Erik

I spent most of that night cursing spiders and myself with equal ingenuity. Trying to be angry at Christine
proved, as usual, a nearly futile gesture; I was hurt by her request, yes, but I knew it was mostly my

own fault. I had known how much she hated spiders; why hadn't I listened to my inner Nadir when he
informed me that my idea for a pet was less than brilliant?

Sighing to myself, I settled down into the early hours of the morning. Sleep was nowhere to be found;
apparently I did not fall asleep half as easily without my wife's company as I did with it, and as a result
my old pattern of wakefulness in the nighttime was keeping me from blissful unconsciousness.

It was easy to pretend I was slumbering, however, when a ghostlike Christine entered the room. Through
half-lidded eyes I watched her pale nightgown approach in the darkness; she paused, hovering next to
me, for a long moment in which I nearly forgot to breathe.

I did forget that I needed air to survive when she leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to my mouth.

She did not try to wake me; she just kissed me and returned to bed. I think we both knew that I was, in
fact, not sleeping, and we both understood that this was not an invitation to return with her. It was
simply a sweet little gesture, an utterly Christine action that said I love you—even though I'm angry with
you.

Ahhh, mon ange. For a man who had been temporarily banished to his couch, I was smiling deeply when
I fell asleep.

Christine

Words cannot tell how grateful I was the next morning when, as I was fixing our breakfast, I felt Erik
come up behind me, wrap his arms around my waist, and press a kiss to the back of my neck. I had
missed him last night more than I cared to admit. Enough, in fact, that I had gone looking for him; I had
been halfway across the living room when I realized that he was not asleep. Months ago—a year ago—the
thought of approaching him when he was awake and quite possibly angry with me would have sent me
scampering back to bed; but this was my husband. Instead of running, I simply pretended that he was
still sleeping and did what I came to do—give him a light, sweet kiss to let him know, even if only in
dreams, that I loved him.

I knew that we would not speak of it this morning; that was not the way of things with Erik and me. But
much can be communicated without words; as my kiss had been last night, his this morning was a gentle
echo of I love you.

Nearly, I murmured 'Missed you,' before I remembered exactly whose fault it was that we had slept
separately in the first place. I think Erik heard me anyway; he kissed me again, this time a gentle touch
on my cheek. "Good morning," he yawned.

How is it that my husband holds so powerful an attraction for me that I find something like a yawn—a
lazy stretch and snap of his jaw, reminiscent of a lion—utterly magnetizing? I shivered pleasantly and
melted back into him, letting the knife I had been using to cut an apple drop back to the countertop. I
knew he was wearing a smug grin, but I couldn't help it; he always did this to me.

If I was lucky, he always would.

That was a pleasant thought; an eternity of being seduced by my husband.

Lost in contentment, I barely noticed when something crawled onto my shoulder that was not a hand. My
ignorance didn't last long, however; thoroughly and suddenly, the thought spider rang through my body.

Erik swore; it was the last thing I heard before I blacked out.

Erik

I swiftly moved Christine to the couch, reattaching my friend to my shoulder as I carried her. Truth be
told, I hadn't known he was on me when I began to cuddle with my wife; however, I had let him back
into the hotel room last night, so it was my fault. Or, at least, Christine would see it as my fault, and
there were far too many sharp tools in the kitchen for me to want her there when she awakened.

Kneeling next to the couch where I had placed her, I took a few precautionary measures, covering her
mouth with my left hand and firmly holding her limbs to her sides with my right arm. The tarantula
seemed content to wait on my shoulder; as I did not have a hand free to move him, I had to leave him
be.

Perhaps, after one has fainted often enough, the body becomes used to the activity; at any rate, I had
noticed that Christine regained consciousness much more quickly now than she had when I first began to
teach her.

As if I had needed further proof of the influence I had on her life . . .

Christine stirring beneath me snapped my thoughts back to the present. Her dark eyes opened and she
glared up at me, the stare turning to an expression of absolute horror when she perceived my shoulder
decoration. A muffled shriek partially escaped my fingers over her mouth and I pressed down warningly;
her yelp instantly ceased.

"Now, my dear," I murmured, "let us get a few things straightened out, shall we?" The expression on
Christine's face clearly said, Do I have any choice?"I must apologize for your fright this morning; I swear,
beloved," and now my voice dropped from civilly light-hearted to sincere, "I did not know the spider was
on me when I kissed you. I swear, Christine, please believe me."

Her eyes were not encouraging.

"However, as I did, in fact, allow this beautiful creature," I nodded to my furry companion, "back into the
room last night, the incident was partially my mistake. And no, before you ask; I did not have him with
me when I first returned to the room. I was honest with you when I said that I had no spiders; I rescued
him late last night." Of course, telling her that I had no spiders with me even when I had fully intended to
bring mine back in had not been precisely honest, either, but I ignored that. "And now," I concluded, "I
believe it is time for you two to be properly introduced." I steadily disregarded the increase of shock in
Christine's eyes. I had to see this through, as much as I hated causing her fear. "Once you have been
introduced, of course, I will do anything with him that you wish me to." Carefully, I removed my hand
from her mouth, preparing my ears for an outburst of sound.

"Erik, why?" Her tone was not what I expected; it was quiet and frightened, instead of loud and angry.
Somehow, it hurt worse.

I hesitated. "Because I believe that you need to conquer this fear of yours. Because I like spiders; they
are wonderful creatures, Christine, once you look past their outward appearance." Stroking her arm
lightly, I admitted to my bluff. "You know, of course, that I can deny you nothing. If you wish me to take
him away permanently, I will do so immediately. But . . . please? Try? For me?" I turned my best pout on
her.

The remark about looking past outward appearances had not missed its target; Christine knew fully well
that I was manipulating her, but she sighed in acceptance. "If I hold it, you will let it go back to wherever
you kidnapped it from?"

Oh. I was not the only one capable of manipulation. Kidnaps and bargains were the stuff of our tangled
past; deliberately mentioning them in the same sentence was guaranteed to make me think guiltily of the
night I had stolen her from the midst of Don Juan. She was good. "Yes," I retorted lightly. "My victim will
be returned to its nest quite safely, I assure you."

I couldn't help letting a slightly wicked grin coming to my lips. Victim was certain to bring forth dark
memories of my past; take that, my dear!

Christine's jaw had dropped open a little, but when she responded, her voice was too, too sweet. "I'm
sure the creature will mistake you for an angel when you take it home, love."

I blinked. That was entirely uncalled for.

Christine

My triumph over Erik's momentary silence was short-lived; he smirked down at me and lifted his free
hand—the one he had been using to cover my mouth—to his shoulder. "Now that we have the
compromise settled, my dear, I believe it is time for you to fulfill your half of the bargain," he purred.

I shook.

Erik gently lifted the tarantula into his hand and let his gaze rove over me. I blushed, but began to
squirm again when he let the spider hover over my abdomen. "Hold still," my husband commanded.
"You'll frighten it."

I managed to glare at him. "I'll frighten it?" I challenged.

Immune to my sarcasm, Erik just nodded and lowered the tarantula down towards me. I winced as its
slight weight settled on my nightgown; maybe if I kept my eyes closed, I could pretend it wasn't there?

My breath was coming in short gasps; no such luck.

Then it began to move.

"Erik," I whimpered desperately, trying and failing to suppress my tremors. I knew in the back of my
mind that shaking would only upset my predatory guest, but I couldn't help it; I had all I could handle by
forcing myself not to scream.

Quite suddenly, both the spider and the arm restraining me to the couch were gone; I opened my eyes in
time to see Erik and his pet disappear through the door. I heaved a sigh of relief and sank down into the
cushions, still shivering.

I lost track of time trying to control my shaking; the next thing I knew, familiar arms were lifting me and
Erik's golden voice was soothing me, his tone moving from gentle to suggestive and back again, lightly
teasing me while carrying an undertone of true apology. He settled into the couch with me curled up in
his lap, his mouth brushing against my jaw as he murmured comforting nonsense into my skin.

Finally I stopped quivering and melted down into him, letting my head press against his chest and listen
for the relaxing measure of his heartbeat. "Hey there," I said softly.

Erik smiled and playfully brought his lips close to mine, letting his warm breath caress my face. He
hovered, not quite touching, and grinned at me when he saw the desire in my eyes. My husband,
however, has a love of tantalizing me; Erik shifted a little so that his mouth could tease the corner of
mine. "Does this mean I have permission to kiss you again?" he asked lowly, his voice rumbling in his
chest. He ran his fingers lightly up my back and I shuddered.

"Perhaps," I managed to reply, finding my fingers already in his hair to hold him close. Erik chuckled, and
slowly let our mouths meld together in a deep kiss.

Erik

We spent that week recovering from the last month of running; it took the place of a honeymoon. It had
only been four days after our wedding that Nadir and the French investigators invaded our lives, after all,
and we strongly felt that we deserved some quality time alone together before moving on. Eventually,
however, Christine and I realized that our time in that little border town was at an end, and we headed
for Venice and La Fenice.

Christine seemed to have forgiven me for the spider; at least, if she was planning on revenge, it was a
revenge that was slow in coming. This did not necessarily ease my mind; my wife had been living with
me long enough to have picked up a certain inventive turn of creativity, should she wish to use my own
devious nature against me, and that turn of mind would be quite content to wait until the proper moment
to launch an effective attack.

We spent our first week in Venice in the last of a long string of hotel rooms before I secured an
apartment. It was a bit larger than our home in Vienna, with a spacious studio and plenty of living space.
Indeed, I caught myself eyeing the studio and wondering if I wouldn't be able to assemble a small organ
inside. Christine was delighted with the apartment; after having to live in hotels for almost two months,
the thought of having our own space was making her quite nearly giddy. As for me, I had quickly found a
few dealers for my inventions, so we had a steady—even affluent—income and I could allow Christine to
decorate as she pleased, within reason.

The first night we stayed in our new home, it was quite bare, holding only the belongings we had
managed to carry from Austria and a large double bed I had purchased that morning, but it was home. I
had a feeling we were going to be in Rome for a long and even happy time.

Christine, dressed in her chemise, danced lightly around the studio as I put up a few shelves; we had
been in our little apartment for two weeks now, and more and more it was taking on the appearance of a
home. I smiled and allowed myself to watch her, not really minding that I was quite distracted from my
task; we had plenty of time to install shelves. My wife had regained the healthy glow she had possessed
in the early days of our marriage; Christine had even put on some weight so that I could no longer
complain about her waif-like frailty. She was well and happy; that was all I needed.

Noticing my gaze, Christine stopped her joyful pirouettes and held her hand out to me. "Dance with me,
Erik," she invited, smiling.

I laughed and pulled her into a dizzying spin. Christine twirled around and around until she stumbled and
collapsed, laughing, against my chest. "Hello," I murmured down to her, a smirk tugging at the corners of
my mouth. "May I inquire as to who I have the pleasure of dancing with?"

"Aminta," she retorted, taking on the playful gaze of that character. "Perhaps, monsieur, you have met
my husband, Don Juan?"

"Nay, nay, m'Lady," I chuckled. "For I am Romeo, in eternal search of my beloved Juliet. Have you seen
her?"

"I have not, good sir, because I am the Margarita, looking for my Faust."

I lowered my head to tickle her ear with my mouth as I spoke. "Then you should be warned, fairest, for I
am Mephistopheles, who has come for his soul."

"Could even a Carmen tempt you from such a terrible conquest?" Christine asked, pulling away to pout at
me. "I do not believe you to be Mephistopheles, my dear stranger, for I feel a connection between you
and I that cannot be denied. Mayhap, could you be Orpheus? For I, good sir—I am Eurydice!"

"Indeed!" I leaned down and kissed her deeply. "Then your quest is over, beloved, for I am the one you
seek." Roughly trailing my mouth down her jaw and neck, I muttered, "Christine?"

I grinned at her happy little moan as she answered, ". . . yes?"

"Are you sure I can't be Mephistopheles?"

Her eyes, which had closed, flickered open suspiciously. "Why?"

The look I gave her started innocent, but quickly dissolved into a wicked grin. "Because then I could
kidnap you, my dear one." So saying, I tried to lift her into my arms.

Christine wriggled away from me. "Not if you can't catch me," she retorted, flashing me a quick smirk as
she hovered just out of my reach.

Growling playfully, I lunged toward her. "Better run," I advised, showing her my teeth in a predatory
smile. She laughed and darted across the room; too late, Christine realized that the only door to the
studio was behind me.

"Not fair," she gasped past her giggles as I advanced upon her. I just smirked and kept coming closer.
When I was an arm's-length away, Christine tried to slip past me, but I grabbed her forearms and firmly
pressed her back into the wall.

I wrapped one hand in Christine's hair, holding her steady, while my other dropped to encircle her waist.
She smiled up at me as I drew us together into a harsh kiss. When I finally released her, she pressed her
face into my chest, her hands tracing lazy circles on my back. Humming, I swung her back up into my
arms—successfully, this time.

Christine lightly played her lips across my ravaged right cheek. "How about," she suggested lowly, "you
just be Erik, and I will be Christine?"

That sounded perfect to me.

Christine

The first two weeks had been spent making our apartment into a home; the second fortnight Erik and I
focused on preparing my voice for a return to the stage. After all, this was Venice; home to one of the
oldest Opera Houses in the world, La Fenice. The title of "Glorious Angel" had been given to me in Rome;
I had not auditioned in Venice during the year I traveled with Raoul. A letter had come for me about two
weeks before Erik had appeared in his Box Five, asking for the Angela Gloriosa to return to Italy as a diva
on the stage of La Fenice. Erik had replied for me, telling the theatre that I would be in Venice before six
months had passed.

It had only been just over three, but I didn't think the managers would complain.

They did require me to audition; after all, this was not my beloved Populaire, where the quality of the
audience was more important than the quality of the show. I gave them my old role of Margarita, and I
think that I surpassed even that first gala triumph in Paris, for now I knew that the one I loved was no
Angel of Music I could never touch, but a man. A man with a past, a man with a dual nature that could
frighten me, but a man all the same—a man named Erik, who was most likely watching me from the
shadows as I displayed for the owners of La Fenice the wonder he had made of my voice.

The silence past my final note was deep. Smiling, for I knew the difference between a silence of awe and
a silence of disgust, I coquettishly lowered my head and waited for them to find their own voices. For a
moment, though, I allowed myself to glance into a certain box and let my lips form the words, 'I love
you'.

As the managers prattled about the divinity of my voice, I heard a different tone tickling at my ear. No
one else would have heard it; those soft words, "The angels wept to-night," were for us alone.

Erik

She has always loved opening galas. At heart, Christine is just a happy, friendly little girl, and both the
fantastical extravagance and the sociality of such parties appeal deeply to her. This was the second such
gala we had attended in Rome, opening for the new production of Carmen; Christine had spent every
afternoon for the past two weeks rehearsing the lead role, while yet playing Juliet in the final productions
of Romeo et Juliet in the evenings. Keeping lines straight has never been a problem for Christine, but I

knew she was grateful to only have to remember one set of verses from now until the rehearsals for the
next opera started.

Truth be told, so was I; I loved my wife in the sweet role of Juliet, but she had rocked the very
foundations of my soul tonight as the passionate Carmen. It had been all I could do not to ambush her in
her dressing room after the performance, and the teasing smile she had given me when she leaned
around her door just before closing it had told me she knew exactly what I was thinking.

I lingered in the shadows, as always; I was quite content to watch the bright jewel of my Angel as she
circled among the opera guests, though the glances she threw me thoroughly communicated her
displeasure at my absence from her side. I would go to her in a few moments; for now, I needed to
watch her, to set her free from my arms and know she would willingly return. It was wrong of me, to still
need to play such games with her from time to time, but I cannot deny what I am and have been. I have
become an angel for her, for the most part, but there is still a devil lurking in my heart.

I like to think that she understands.

Gazing uninterestedly across the crowded ballroom, I glanced back to my wife and had to restrain a snort
of disgust. Signore Valtova was with her; he was a portly gentleman who gave generously to the arts so
that he would have an excuse to be the interfering gossip he was by nature. He was harmless enough,
but I did not envy Christine having to entertain him for long. Though, knowing my beloved's sweet
nature, she probably thought him to be just a kind-hearted old man with an inquisitive disposition.

Perhaps he was. I have noticed that if one combines my cynicism and Christine's naiveté, the result is a
startlingly accurate portrayal of a person's character.

Christine

Oh, that man! The desire in his eyes before I ducked into my dressing room had almost overwhelmed
me, but for all his presence at the gala I might very well be wed to a ghost. He had done this at the
opening night for Romeo et Juliet, too; in fact, while I knew that he spent a great deal of his time at La
Fenice, watching me rehearse—and he attended every performance—I would not be surprised if none of
the other performers or staff had even seen my mysterious husband. I turned around a little, picking him
out among the other shadows along the wall, and gave him a hard glare; I couldn't be certain, but I
would swear he smirked at me.

Huffing—just a little, and under my breath—I turned back to the gentleman who had just accosted me.
Signore Valtova was an old and wealthy patron of the opera house, and he had a fondness for gossip that
matched an old woman's. However, I myself was a private fan of the most harmless forms of gossip—one
does not grow up in a ballet dormitory without a certain taste for the exchanging of stories—and so we
got on splendidly.

"Mademoiselle, may I ask you a rather impertinent question?" The Signore smiled at me, his rough warm
voice inviting conspiracy.

I laughed. "Why, of course, Signore—but you must call me Madame, lest my husband become jealous."

He raised one eyebrow at this. "I had heard the rumors that you were married, but have never met your
husband." A hearty chuckle enveloped my ears. "Bit shy, is he? A man would have to be, with a diva for a
wife."

"A bit," I agreed lightly. "But you said you had a question for me?"

"Ah, yes. I attend nearly every performance, as you know, Madame, and I have noticed something
strange." I was silent, and he took this as a sign to continue. "Every night, just before the final bow, you
look to the exact same place in the audience—the exact same place, every time!—and your lips move as
though you were saying something. But when I spoke to your fellow performers about it, they told me
they had never heard you say anything at all!"

I smiled. Oh, true, he was digging for information—but this was information I adored admitting to. "Oh,
Signore, it is a simple thing indeed. I am telling my husband I love him. I need only whisper the words,
but he knows what it means when I look to where he sits and say what no one else can hear."

"He must attend often, then."

"Every night," I answered softly.

The dark eyes of the old gentleman before me softened. "Then you must love each other very much
indeed." We were quiet for a moment, but he continued thoughtfully, "I would like to meet this husband
of yours, Madame; surely he would not allow you to attend a gala unescorted?"

I froze, but suddenly a familiar arm was wrapped quite publicly around my waist—sometimes Erik's nerve
astonishes even me—and his solid frame was at my side. "A pleasure, Signore," he said smoothly,

offering his gloved hand to the dumbfounded patron. It was a trick indeed to appear unnoticed in the
midst of a crowded gala, but then, Erik was Erik, after all.

"Indeed," Signore Valtova murmured, lightly shaking my husband's hand. Another silence descended, and
again the Signore seemed to feel it was his duty to break it. "I say, aren't you two from up in Paris,
originally?"

No one else would have noticed the slightest change in Erik's demeanor, but to me he was suddenly stiff
and wary. "Yes, we are," he answered, his voice carefully neutral.

"I wouldn't wonder, then, at you knowing the Vicomte? He's a boy traveling from France in the company
of his brother; apparently the elder wanted to show the younger Europe, though of course they've both
seen all of it before. A very lovely pair, the two of them; no family rivalries there, I can assure you!
Perfect gentlemen, though I hear that Comte Philippe is something of a rogue with the ladies." Here he
gave us a broad wink, but neither Erik nor I took any real notice. It couldn't be, could it? I would be
delighted to see my childhood friend again, but I knew my husband's reaction to Raoul being here might
be . . . less than positive.

"Did you happen to catch their name?" I asked innocently, my hand discreetly finding Erik's at my waist
and squeezing it in reassurance.

Signore Valtova frowned as he concentrated. "Now what was it . . . Chamy something or other . . ."

"de Chagny?" Erik responded coolly.

"That's it!" The Signore snapped his fingers. "Come, you must be introduced."

"No need," a light voice replied from the side. "We are already quite well acquainted." We turned to see
Raoul de Chagny looking at us with an expression of amused delight. "And may I say that it's wonderful
to see you again?"

"Alive, you mean," Erik retorted. I leaned close to him, smiling sweetly; in reality, my elbow was sharply
digging into his side.

Raoul faltered, just a little, then he answered softly, "I did not say that. It is good to see you both." He
held out his hand to Erik, and hesitantly my husband shook it. The formality of the men past, I smiled
and disengaged my arm from Erik's to hold both my hands out to my old friend.

"It is good for us to see you too, Raoul," I told him sincerely, giving him a happy grin. "Both of us."

"Then you have met Monsieur and Madame Daae," Signore Valtova exclaimed. "Delightful! Well, I must
leave you young people to your chitchat, then. Enjoy the rest of the gala, won't you?" He took off in the
direction of another patron, and we all murmured polite goodbyes to his back. Once the Signore was out
of earshot, our little threesome quieted.

"You have married, then," Raoul stated, glancing between us, his gaze lingering on my wedding band.

I nodded; Erik's reply was a short, "Yes." I knew he was making an effort to restrain his tongue, and to
my surprise he continued, with something that passed for a smile, "I don't suppose you've found a young
lady to steal away yourself, have you?"

The utter absurdity of Erik asking Raoul about his love life made me choke, but I was further surprised
when he blushingly answered, "I have found such a young woman. She is the daughter of a count herself,
and very good to me. I love her," Raoul explained softly, turning to me with the faintest of questions in
his eyes.

"Then I am glad for you," I responded. I truly was; as odd as it felt to know a man I had once considered
a suitor had fallen in love with someone else, I had realized long ago that all I ever felt for Raoul was the
love of a dear sister and friend. I was thankful that he had moved on, that he had found someone else to
bestow his affection upon; someone whose mind and heart would not always belong to another man. "Tell
me, my friend, is she very beautiful?" I teased, and Raoul's blush deepened.

"She is stunning," he admitted with a sheepish smile.

The rest of our conversation was gentle, avoiding any mention of the past or of painful topics, and Raoul
and I parted friends, as we always had. But Erik . . . I suggested innocently enough that we leave; the
gala had began to wind down anyway, and there was no real reason for us to stay for the entire party . . .
in truth, I wanted to get him home where I could draw out his emotions. All the way to our apartment, he
was taut and stiff beside me, though I could tell he was trying to keep his mood hidden.

Inwardly, I had to sigh. I had married him, hadn't I? I loved him with my whole heart and whole soul;
why did he have to be insecure about our love? Now, after nearly six months of marriage—would he
never really trust me?

We were quiet as we entered our home; as soon as my shawl and his cloak were put away, I pulled
myself into his arms. Erik did not respond; he just stood quietly, letting me cling to him. I tried to press a
frustrated kiss to his lips, but after a moment he pulled away. Lightly kissing my nose, he disentangled
himself from my embrace. "It's late, Christine. You should go to bed."

"Won't you come with me?" I asked softly.

The look he gave me was long and flat. "Have you not learned by now, my dear, that you will be much
safer and happier in your bed when I have asked you to go to it?"

"Our bed," I corrected, stepping close to him again. Erik shied away from me, just a little, but it was
enough; I realized suddenly that I was tired of fighting him. I would not win this battle tonight, and I was
exhausted. For once, then, I would simply do as he asked. Sighing, I reached up to gently cup his face in
my hand. "Good night, Erik. I love you," I told him softly, then turned and headed for our room.

He was silent behind me, for so long that I was almost out of the room when I heard his quietly strained,
"Christine." I almost thought I had imagined it, he spoke so lowly, but I looked over my shoulder anyway.
Erik was standing with his hands at his sides, watching me with a helpless expression on the unmasked
portion of his face. His eyes were begging me for something, anything, and with a slight smile I held out
my hand.

Erik

I stared at her for an endless moment, then swiftly crossed the room and took her in my arms. She did
not resist, as I half-expected her to; instead Christine melted into me, and I shuddered. "I'm sorry," I
whispered, holding her tightly. "I'm sorry." I shouldn't have allowed myself to be jealous of Raoul; there
was absolutely no reason for me to be. But seeing him again, there with her, noticing how perfect a
couple they would make with her dark beauty and the bright golden brilliance of his handsome features,
had sparked an old hurt. Neither one of them was disfigured, or tainted by inner darkness; Raoul's
presence had reminded me of how much my Angel gave up in her world of light to join me in the sunlit
shadows of our existence.

"I love you forever," Christine murmured back, her face nuzzling into my throat.

I smiled. "My dearest, we have eternity." I captured her mouth in a long, warm kiss. When we finally
parted, I let out a deep breath and leaned my head down to rest on her shoulder. "How do you put up
with me?" I muttered, holding her tightly.

"Patience," she retorted dryly, her gentle hands running down my back. "Gallons of patience."

Six months ago, she would have simpered, hastening to assure me that I was the easiest man to live
with in the world—hah! Lifting my head enough to mock-glare at her, I gave Christine a light, playful
growl. "You wouldn't have dared be so impertinent when I was an Angel to you."

"No, I suppose I wouldn't have. You were an angel; ancient, untouchable." Her tone was light, but some
of the joviality had left it.

Ancient, was I? That thought worried me a little—did she think me too old for her? We did not often
speak of the age difference between us. While such differences between a husband and wife were
certainly not unusual for our society, neither could we pretend that Christine was anything but nearly
eighteen, and I was in my late thirties.

Which reminded me—"What do you want for your birthday?"

Christine pulled her head back enough to blink at me. "Where did that come from?"

My train of thought had made sense to me. I shrugged. "Answer the question, Christine."

"Surprise me," she retorted with a smile. It faded, however, when she noticed the lingering worry in my
eyes—Heaven on Earth, she had to be sick of my insecurities by now. "Erik, what is it?"

'Nothing' would only earn me a glare. I was learning; slowly, perhaps, but I was learning to open up to
her all the same. "I was ancient and untouchable," I murmured to her. "And you were a child. So how did
we get here?"

She shook a little, burying her face into my shirt. "You're right. I'm too young for you." I stiffened,
thinking she considered me elderly, but I should have known her better than that. "You should have loved
a more sophisticated woman, Erik, someone who would not always be leagues behind your mind and
your life. She would be your equal; she would be more mature—"

Blast it, I was not the only one with fears.

"But she would never, ever be bound to my heart. That privilege is yours alone, my love," I told her
softly, gently raising her chin with my hands. "Yours, and no one else's. If you do not believe me to be a
foolish old man for loving you . . ."

"Never," Christine whispered, her grip around me strengthening. "Never."

"Then never believe that I consider you to be anything less than perfect. I did not want an equal,
Christine, a sophisticate; I needed—still need, will always need—you, because only you are the missing
half of me." My lips twisted into a half-smile as I stroked her cheek; she was gazing up at me steadily,
her chin resting against my chest and tears standing in her eyes. "I'll make a deal with you for tonight," I
murmured. "I'll leave my fears behind if you will." The soft banter was rewarded with a smile.

"Agreed." She leaned up to kiss me, and we were right again.