Chapter One

She intended to apologize. Her dreams had been troubled since the night she had covered Carlotta's role. Full of fire and death, full of his anguished screams and her own staccato heartbeat.

She missed the soft tones of his voice leaking from the walls, the feeling of her ribs expanding as she breathed for him during their lessons. Surely there was something wrong with her? He was a monster, a wraith, a ghost of the cellars. Yet…

There were other dreams too, half-remembered and ashamed. Echoes of a voice and feelings of joy, the thrill in her throat as she answered that voice spreading through her like honey upon toast. She woke hot and fevered, aching for something. She never went out. It had been two weeks.

Raoul had called several times, but now she found no solace in her childhood friend. His blue eyes were clouded now with something more than childhood fondness, and it scared her away. She did not think she was meant for a life as a lady of the gentry, and so answered his pleas with bemused negations. It was not him, it was the stage. And she knew he would make her stop if they wed, and that she could not bear.

Raoul did not understand. He didn't love opera as she did, could not feel the magnetizing pull of the stage. He was a beholder of the art, but had never himself been possessed. Not like she, not like Erik.

It was that very camaraderie she missed, and so she had gotten up before the break of dawn. At first she had just sat upon the edge of her bed, fully clothed, staring at a ray of sunlight as it crept up her wall, breathing in and out until she felt half mad.

Then she had shot up like a flare and dashed to the kitchen, craving the sweetness of sugar, the indulgent creamy purr of butter. As she blended and mixed an idea oozed its way into her mind. She would take Erik some cookies, she would apologize and explain. Everything would be fine. Everything would be normal again.

She painstakingly baked a batch of cookies, carefully placed them in a basket, and set off to the cellars. No light, no direction, not a sound. She had found the lake, followed the sound of lapping water. The gondola that she hazily remembered was not there, and so she had slithered along the stone ledge that rimmed the lake, gripping the grimy wall with both hands. She held the basket of cookies tightly between her teeth. Her jaw ached by the time she reached the opposite shore.

His door was unlocked. She thought him more careful than that, had expected to have to holler and bang at the door, but instead she slipped in, afraid to even whisper his name.

She found him without a mask to hide his face. Sleeping quietly. Long body curled like a cat on the chaise. In his shirtsleeves. A cup of tea on the floor beside him, cold now. She had not been expected. She looked at him, the pink of strawberries in her cheeks. It seemed too intimate a view of her maestro. That dark, avenging ghost-angel of her dreams. The friend she had loved from afar…

Oh—if he only knew of all the nights that she had cried thinking he was in Heaven. Out of her reach like a star. Now? He looked much softer. Face no longer distorted with primal rage, he was not so terrible. Mottled skin bloated across his upper lip, then thinned to what seemed the point of breaking across his cheekbone. A scar like those left by birthing tongs cut the line of his brow, red and rope-like. His eyelashes were so long. Long and thin like spider's legs. His hair must be real, it must! It had come free of the products that tamed it. And it was not black as she had supposed, but a rich deep red like the finish on a Cherrywood cabinet. So dark it was nearly black; strands clinging to the perfect side of his face. His eyes, she remembered, had shone like her favorite stone: emerald.

Christine felt foolish standing there, as if she did not belong. A little girl covered in slime, carrying a basket full of slightly burnt cookies. She had never felt so…small. But she was her father's daughter, and he had not raised a coward.

Tentative tiptoes forward, a shaking hand extended to touch his shoulder. "Erik…?"

He started as if he had woken with a knife to his throat, eyes feral and muscles tight. She feared him. They locked eyes and he seemed to deflate, emitting a strangled gasp. He covered his face. She turned away full of emotions she couldn't decipher, only knowing somehow that it was wrong of her to see him.

"Why are you here?" He demanded. She turned to face him, and he was still covering his face. She idly wondered what he would do should she pull his hand from his face, make him talk to her about everything. Instead she raised the basket.

"I made you cookies. I thought that you might want to have tea with me today….?" Her eyes again fell on the cup. He followed her gaze with a slack-jawed expression.

"But you already had tea—I'm sorry, this was stupid."

"No, no. Forgive me. I'll take—I mean…" He stared blankly at her. "You're covered in slime."

Christine flushed to the roots of her hair. "The gondola was gone."

"Had I even the slightest inkling that you would come…but I thought you'd try to forget me."

The silence seemed to laugh at them both. "Do you have somewhere I could wash?"

"Of course. This way."

He led her down the hall and to a spacious bath-chamber. All marble. The tub was huge. They stood awkwardly. He still had a hand to his face.

"I have towels and soap. I can run you a bath? But your dress… You shouldn't put it back on, you'll catch your death if—" He abruptly turned on his heel and walked away, returning a few seconds later with a bundle of fabric and wearing a mask. He thrust the bundle at her timidly, nearly dropping it when their hands touched.

"Thank you." She whispered. Erik turned on the taps.

"I'll put the kettle on. Let me know if you need anything?"

Christine stripped quickly and pinned up her hair, which was clean; a small mercy. It took hours to dry. The tub was full when she slipped into the water, sighing at the warmth that worked its way back into her bones. A bar of soap sat upon the ledge of the tub.

It was his. So strange a thing to think of, as she rubbed it over her arms; it had touched his scarred face. This bar smelling of sandalwood and peppermint had been guided over Erik's naked body. It gave her a thrill to think of, though she hardly knew why.

It was the same thrill that renewed when she slipped on the clothes he had offered. Black silk nightclothes, too long for her. But luxuriant against her bare flesh. Unsure of what to do with her clothes she left them on the floor, and padded down the hall with bare feet. She felt strangely naked without her usual barrage of undergarments, but the scent of the lake had permeated everything.

She found Erik in the kitchen, immaculately dressed once more. He turned around when he heard her whisper his name. The parting of his lips, the soft sound he made; it pinked her cheeks and she crossed her arms over her breasts.

The tea things were set. Her cookies were upon a plate. His teapot was bone china with gold inlay. His cups matched. It was so ridiculously normal that she began to laugh, a sound that had been foreign to her for the past two weeks.

The kettle whistled.

"Please, sit down." Erik said. "We have much to talk about."