The Mask and Mirror

Toll no bell for me, Father
But let this cup of suffering pass from me
Send me no shepherd to heal my world
But the Angel - the dream foretold
Prayed more than thrice for You to see
The wolf of loneliness in me

(Nightwish, Gethsemane)

Chapter 2

She had plunged from paradise into hell.

There was no light or hope left - no faith or consolation. It had all been lies. From the very first time he had whispered to her in sleep to the moment he had drawn her through the parted mirror and into his labyrinthine underworld. Those moments of devotion had been illusions. Her eyes had opened onto a false dawn and now there was only darkness.

I believed… I believed so much that I wept for joy…

Dark hair spilled over the flagstones as she knelt penitently before the altar, as frozen and unmoving as the holy statues that adorned the lofty walls. Bleak darkness surrounded her. The stone floor of the chapel cold as her hands, cold as her heart.

She was left with nothing but echoes and emptiness. The chapel was cold and silent as an abyss. Here he had appeared to her on that fatal night and promised her heavenly rapture… filling the void ripped open by her beloved father's death. His voice. Making her feel warm… complete… alive. Drawing her soul to the pinnacle of transcendent heights. He sang, he sang… and like glass, she shattered. White flame, burning ecstasy, she died.

And every word had been false. Every assurance had been a mockery.

She waited, as though half-expecting the senseless stone to stir into movement and strike her to the earth. That those lifeless eyes would open to look on her with condemnation. For she had worshipped a false idol and now must pay the price.

Christine looked up into the empty silence. It was vast, brooding, unbearable. She ached for music. The mystical, elemental, divine melodies had wrung her heartstrings and he had promised her paradise. She had yearned for spiritual ecstasy, sang piercing and beautiful cadenzas until she was faint with delirium. Once she had sang until her senses left her and her body sank into unconsciousness, the darkness enfolding her with its sweet embrace.

She fell and he had caught her. Only last night! How could one fly into the sun and fall into the abyss in a matter of hours? She had aged lifetimes in the space of a day.

How clear it was still, the memory of her standing in front of the mirror in agonised hope, a slender hand outstretched, her reflection dissolving into his. He caged her, imprisoned her. His voice enchaining her soul. His hands over her body, an act both sacrilegious and profane. It consumed. It burned. An ocean of fire through her blood. And she had not run.

Until… the enchantment of his music dissipated, and she had stripped away the illusion - the mask, and saw -

What was he, this being that had possessed her, stolen her mind and imprisoned her body? A devil? A ghost? A demon? A spirit from another world that she had dreamed into being?

She pressed her hands to her aching brow. God, she could not think of it. She was losing her mind. The vaulted heights gave her no answers; her agonised prayers were met with indifference. Yet she could not sleep. Sleep brought only nightmares, and that voice - elusive, beautiful, maddening - followed her into those half-remembered dreams of agony and yearning.

She could not stand it. The moment she had pulled the mask from his face, she had fled from his wild eyes and fevered heart. Bitter with the knowledge that her salvation had been a cruel illusion. He had given her the world and then torn it apart. And now she was left alone in the dark with nothing but ghosts and shadows and old lies.

But then - the darkness moved. A haunting voice disturbing the profound silence.

"You cannot run."

Her body convulsed. Agony, horror - and yes - longing, froze her in place.

The blackness parted slightly, that ghostlike form gradually gaining substance and solidity. She saw him at last. Elusive in the ephemeral light of the flickering candles. A phantom in the darkness. Black as sin, yet that mask gleamed bone-white, pale as death. And behind that… oh, God…! … she shuddered at the memory. She had seen his face! His hideous, monstrous face. The twisted contortions of a demon, a demon with an angel's voice. Faintness overcame her. Her trembling hands reached out, but there was nothing to steady her, no net to catch her if she fell.

Christine closed her eyes, trembled.

"What do you want?"

"Only to see you."

Such an ache of longing passed through her at the sound of that voice! Even now, she found herself falling under its melancholy, evocative spell. Perspiration beaded cold on her brow.

Her icy hands clenched into fists. She would not look at him. She could not look at him.

"Leave me alone. Please."

"I cannot." His voice was calm. "I will not."

Slowly, she raised her eyes. The sleek black lines of his jacket rippled like the vast wings of a terrible angel. The figure of her darkest dreams breathed into life from her misery and deluded longings. And those eyes - those desperate, yearning, furious eyes - seemed to see into her, beyond her.

Was this the angel she had prayed and sang to night after night? This creature fallen from light and reborn in darkness?

She wrapped her arms around herself to suppress the violent trembling of her body. The cold clung to her bones. It was almost a relief. Perhaps if she froze to death, she would not feel.

At last, she spoke.

"You lied to me."

"Yes," he said steadily. "And I would lie a thousand times."

"Why?"

"Because I love you."

Christine shuddered again, a knife's blade of cold running down her spine. His dark gaze burned her soul with its intensity.

"You don't love me," she said shakily. "You don't even know me."

"I know you better than anyone."

Her mind was reeling. This could not be real. This could not be happening to her.

"Who are you?"

"What I have always been."

Wild anger surged through her, thawing the terrible frost. Her voice came out high-pitched and shrill. "Who are you? Tell me!"

He sighed - and that sigh! It almost broke her heart.

"My name is Erik."

"And my father…" She could not go on. The sharpness of that loss came over her once more, blinding and unutterable. There had been no visitation, no divine consolation. Yet she had thought, she had believed…

"I gave you only what you wished for, Christine. What you prayed for in the long nights." His gaze ghosted over her hungrily, desperately. Watching every unsteady breath she drew. "I would give you anything you asked."

She was beyond listening to him. How could she, when he had shattered her soul?

"How could you?" she whispered.

That porcelain mask never moved. "I wanted only to be near you. To hear you sing. To have you with me. You made the darkness beautiful." His smile tilted on the edge of cruelty. The edge of madness.

She could not listen to this… she could not… Impossible to think she could arouse such passion unknowingly.

He had moved closer. She could smell incense, darkness, closing in around her. Wrapping itself around her senses in long fingers. He looked down intently into her face. Eyes black in the gloom. Infernal. Hot as the brimstones that probably awaited her… but no hell could be worse than this…

Full lips curled. "Are you afraid of me, Christine?"

"Yes," she said.

She wondered how she looked to him, a trembling girl with tear-blurred eyes, so overwhelmed in her own agony and helplessness. Would he leave her in peace and end this consuming madness? Was there any pity in the depths of that blackened heart?

Even as the thought flashed through her mind, he fell to his knees, crippled, contrite, humbled, arms outstretched in a silent, entreating crucifix. Despair burned in his eyes as he looked at her with the acute wretchedness of the damned. "I will do anything you ask."

"Then leave me alone." The words were torn from her, quivering in the echoing silence.

His impassioned gaze darkened. "You do not mean that."

"Yes," she whispered stubbornly. "I do."

She could hear the cruel sneer in his voice. "You would renounce your teacher, your guide?"

"I'll leave," she breathed mindlessly, knowing even as she spoke that such a thing was impossible.

"If you do, I will follow you, and I'll find you."

And she knew in that he was telling the truth. There was nowhere for her to run. He would pursue her to the grave.

He drew himself up to his full height. Closer still. His shadow swallowing hers. Dark eyes flashed on her with tender ferocity. "Let me teach you. Sing for me still. Christine, I am the same angel you knew and loved."

"No." Tears stiffened on her cheeks. "No, everything is changed now."

He made an entreating movement. Hands outstretched, casting a shadow over her soul. She tried to move, but her footsteps were slow and dragging. Blindly, she stumbled.

"Christine -"

Her name coming from that devastating voice was too much. Christine turned and ran.

She did not even make it half a step to the door.

A blur of darkness and he was before her. He caught her wrists in a breakable hold, gloved hands caging the fluttering pulse, the fragile bones. She gasped for breath. Hotter than a thousand fires, colder than death, that touch seared through her… and oh, this was no ghost holding her…

Hands shackling her. Emotion wrenched her from within. Her mind was dragged back to those resonating touches in the cellars of the opera, every soft and melodious cadence of his voice claiming her flesh. Long-fingered hands everywhere. Shoulders, waist, jaw. Her body sinking under those enfolding caresses…

My God, what have you done to me?

She shook at her enclosed wrists as though chains bound her.

"Stop this," she whispered faintly.

He laughed, but there was something hollow and terrible in the sound. "Even now you will not disobey your Master."

She tried to pull away. Couldn't. He was immoveable.

"No - you have no hold over me -"

His cruel mouth was a rigid line. "You cannot renounce me."

"I can," she panted, struggling still - uselessly - "and I will."

His eyes glinted dangerously. Holding her, hurting her.

"You will not run," he growled, his breathing harsh in the space between them. "You will not. Your destiny is bound to mine."

She stared at him with fever-bright eyes. He was so warm, so real, so alive… how could she have not known? What wilful blindness, what madness had compelled her to believe in this deception?

So many faces fluttering across her consciousness. Father, angel, phantom. There was no escape. She wanted him to awaken her from this nightmare… he was her nightmare. Perhaps she had wished for all this. Perhaps she had brought it upon herself.

"Please," she managed at last.

That iron grip loosened. Eased. But then… his gloved hand began to trace a slow, tremulous line across her collarbone. Longing flashed through her. After so many years encased in ice… marble melting into flesh…

He was too close. She couldn't breathe. The chapel, the Opera House, had blurred away into another world. Dark paradise. Illumined hell. There was only this, him… my angel, my demon…

Hot breath against her shoulder. The hollow of her throat. A soft cry escaped her.

He gazed down at her, fierce and furious, eyes black with intent. Dark hair fell wildly over a brow of porcelain. The grip of that leather-clad hand tightened on her thin shoulder. Breakable. Like her bones. Like her heart. He drew a harsh breath, his beautiful voice harsh and menacing.

"You once made me promise that I would never leave you."

"But that was when - when -" when I believed -

Despair overwhelmed her. Christine sank in his hold. Those gloved hands were like ice against her skin, so cold it made her body shake, chilling her to the bone. His heart was beating too fast. Throbbing against her breast with maddened passion.

"And do you remember what I told you?"

"You said that - that -" She could not go on.

"That nothing could loosen the bonds of heaven," he finished grimly.

But I was a child then, and alone in the world…

She shuddered a breath and met his gaze. Terrible and ruthless, like the stone angels that looked down upon them, but no stone was he, this living flesh and blood man, and certainly no angel -

"And what about the bonds of hell, Erik?" she whispered.

His hands stilled and something unnameable flashed through his eyes. It frightened her more than anything ever had.

"Say that again." His voice was low. "Call me by my name. Call me Erik."

But she could not speak. His touches were crucifying her. Hands twisting in the fragile lace of her nightgown. Gossamer-fine material, fluttering. Fragile. Her breaths became short and frantic, gasping air through quivering lungs.

Leather fingers harder and more ruthless than his eyes, possessively claiming her neck, her arms, her waist. Pulling her against the hard line of his body, leather and silk and porcelain, his shadowed glances stripping away her skin and exposing her shivering soul…

Moonlight.

Stone.

Sinners.

She shuddered, she shook, she cried out. Her heart beating, pulsing, panting… no, she could not bear it -

Her fingertips were icy, but her palms were sweating as she pushed fiercely against the lapels of his jacket. But how could she fight a ghost?

"Stop this…" she whispered. "Please."

Finally, his hands fell away from her. Christine realised she was standing alone in the aisle, shivering and half-dying of cold. His dark form had drawn back into the shadows. Two pinpricks of light glimmered through the mask. His gaze searing into hers.

"You will see me again, Christine."

Fear seized her, clutched at her throat, but he had already disappeared and only a voice remained, echoing in the solemn silence with the profound depths of the final judgment.

"We part, never - I will be with you forever."

Is this my punishment, Lord?

She gazed up at the ceiling as though wishing it would open wide and devour her, bringing her some moment of release. Once she had knelt thus in her dressing room, waiting for the nightly tracks of an angel who never failed to come to her.

Is this the price I must pay for such a betrayal?

White silk billowed around her kneeling form.

They don't know, any of them. They cannot understand. They see only a villain, a devil, one of the damned. If he is so, then why is it my fate not to see him as they do?

Christine rose slowly, her legs stiffened in acute pain from their prolonged position on the hard floor. The Girys had given her a small room at the top of the house, assuming she wished for privacy. She smiled bitterly. By God, how wrong they were. To be secluded in such silence, such overwhelming solitude… this was death, darkness, a devastating wilderness. She needed company, to be distracted from the overpowering thoughts that dwelt hopelessly on what she had lost. The room was cold, frozen as the dead earth, but she welcomed the frost, as it stopped her thinking, stopped her feeling -

She pulled a robe around herself and passed like a ghost through the path of cold winter moonlight that streamed across the floor. The window sash was stiffened by age but her trembling hands had thrown it open in an instant. The half-frozen shutters shook snow over her. A savage and fierce blast of winter air swept into the chamber and assaulted her unmoving form, but the icy tendrils were unable to clear the wild and uncontrollable emotions that raged within her. She seized the frosted ledge in a delirium, gazing out half-blindly. The fog was so complete, even the carriages rolling past in the streets below could not be seen. She could have been the last being left in the world. Alone. The one thing she feared above all else, and it had fallen upon her once more. It seemed she was destined to be alone, abandoned by those she loved most. First her dear father, then Mama Valerius, now the one in whom she had found solace, Erik, her angel, her soul's comfort… gone forever.

She stared unseeing at the shadowy world concealed by mist, and then upward at the sublime expanse of night sky. The silver moon was shrouded by fog, but every now and then, she caught the fleeting glimmer of stars, glittering hard and cold, as bright as the painful stinging behind her eyes.

And she had betrayed him.

I had no choice - there was nothing else I could do -

Then why must it hurt?

Slender fingers reached up to the hem of her robe to pull it tighter around herself, when she felt the sheer material tangle on something around her neck. With hands becoming steadily more numbed, she fumbled with the catch until the crucifix came undone and was resting in her palm. She stared at the figure of Christ crucified. A choking feeling rose up in her throat. The image burned her eyes; the bowed head, the crown of thorns. She remembered Erik's expression of grief and surrender as she pressed her lips to his, and a storm of passionate tears shook her.

How could I have abandoned him so cruelly… I'm the only one he ever had… how could I?

He had given up everything to release her. At the last, he had not been found wanting. She could only pray that last act of self-sacrifice would be enough to save him. Terrible doubt assailed her. Would it be enough to ensure his redemption?

Have I saved him or damned him?

Christine closed her eyes, frozen and beside herself.

O be thou nailed unto my heart,
And crucified again,
Part not from it, though it from thee would part.

The thin silver chain fell from her shaking fingers and clattered to the floor.

Her body felt as though it was slowly dying inside. She wrapped her arms around her slight frame, trying to hold herself together, before everything would be released in a deluge of bitter agony and outrage. This must be how it felt to grow old, she reflected dimly. This sense of weakness, as though the strength and fire and sweet joys of youth were being drained away and only the shell was left, collapsing slowly inwards until only ashes and dust remained. But I'm only eighteen, her mind cried out in helpless protest. This should not be happening to me! It is too soon, I'm not ready!

Is this what she would have to endure? Would this be her existence now? Struggling to get through every moment, each minute, each hour, each day, with this unbearable emptiness in her soul? Her white face burned with a feverish pallor; its lines and contours hollowed with the exactness of a carved statue. It was as though something – youth, hope, love – was being drawn from her slowly, extracted by some sickness running through her veins. There was a desperate frailty to her now, enhanced by the moonlight illuminating the moth-like delicacy of her skin.

Christine shuddered with cold, the ice on the windowpane searing her feverishly hot skin like the blade of a knife. Her entire body was frozen; she glanced down at her clenched hands, gleaming like pale marble, numbness already stealing into her unmoving fingers. What was it, this sickness inside her, this malady that would not heal? She didn't want this. She wanted to escape this aching void that opened before her. She wanted to feel alive.

She wanted fire.

That was what Don Juan had given her. Fire. Burning. Smouldering. All-consuming. It had terrified her then, but now her soul yearned for it. Anything to draw her in from the cold. She would never tell Raoul how much of her soul she had thrown into that violent tableau. There was so much he did not yet understand, despite his heartfelt assertions she could tell him anything. But she knew that if she even begun to express her true emotions at Erik's loss, it would hurt him beyond imagining, and that she could not bear. And how could she speak of something that was so wholly beyond her understanding? He could never know. Never realise that Erik would always be a part of her, however much she resisted or fought against it. How could he not be? He was the one who had reawakened the love for music, filled her soul with its transcendent beauty once more, overwhelmed her with the glory and the grief of this troubled world and the world that was yet to come. All her life she believed she had been destined to meet the angel of Music, and that moment she first heard his voice, it seemed her aching heart's every wish was fulfilled. He had made her want to live again. And now, and now…

Her dry eyes burned.

She loved Raoul, more than anything – so much it hurt – but was it enough if she could not reconcile herself to the fact that Erik had been hopelessly lost to her?

It would get better with time. She had to believe that. Yet all she saw now was despair. The only way she could survive this empty world was to carry on living, but how could she hope to do so when a part of her yearned for that other world her loved ones inhabited?

No. This must stop. Erik is gone. Papa is gone. But you are not alone. There is still Raoul.

Raoul. Her heart contracted to a sullen ache when she thought of the misery in his beloved face when she had left him that morning. He did not deserve this. Beloved, ardent, constant Raoul. The dearest person in the world to her. She would have cut off her right hand if it could have spared him pain, but she could not agree to an engagement while her emotions were so raw, her feelings so confused. She owed him that honesty. Her existence had been torn apart and she needed time to rebuild it. She desperately hoped he understood her reasons – that she could not marry him while feeling this way – but feared instead he thought her merely capricious and callous. Christine debated writing to him, to express the devastating feelings that burned her heart and mind, but feared it would only bring him to her when she needed him to stay away. She could not see him until she was sure she could heal. She must heal.

Oh God, why did she feel like this?

Erik was gone. Wasn't that what she had longed for all this time? To be released from his annihilating hold at last? So why wasn't she happy?

Christine gripped the windowsill, staring out into the mist.

She knew the answer.

Erik's music had touched her more than she had ever suspected, echoed through her entire being and awakened that unearthly wish to transcend herself. Had she really thought renouncing those devastating moments of completeness would be so easy? That Erik would be gone and she and Raoul would live in innocent bliss as though none of this had happened? No, no, she could never escape him so easily! A part of her was bound to him inextricably. She would never be free of him. She was foolish to have even thought so for a moment. Now without him, she must endure the emptiness and torment of living in this world, knowing once more the separateness of existence. It had been hard enough agreeing to play her part in Don Juan. But it had ultimately been her decision. She had made that choice.

And now she must live with it.

Christine hoped never to experience the violent madness of that first night ever again. And although this wish was not granted, and she spent many a sleepless night in the cold attic room of the Girys apartment, the passing of weeks into months began to soften that sharp agony of grief, and fleeting glimmers of joy added a gentle grace note to her reviving existence. She could not define exactly when, but at some point she had made the decision to live again.

It was easier when she was not alone. The company of Meg and her mother was invaluable; they saw she was kept occupied and in the first weeks of her staying with them, she threw herself madly into any task that would prove a distraction. Busy with household duties, being taken around Paris – though avoiding its Opera House – time began to resume its normal progression. She no longer felt she was falling out and away from the world.

Raoul's absence was perhaps more powerful than his presence. Over the days and weeks that followed, Christine found herself thinking more and more of those long-remembered times in Perros, those cherished memories persuading her she loved him more than ever. She was filled with a desire to visit their old childhood haunts and to recapture their past – that happy past before any shadows had fallen between them. When her father had been alive, playing the violin to the two children who sat on either knee, breathlessly listening to every haunting note that lingered in the stormy twilight. If she concentrated hard enough, she could almost persuade herself that she heard the sea beating against the shingle, taste the tang of brine in the air. Even now, she remembered the little boy drenched to his shirt collars, fair hair plastered with salt water, but clutching her scarf undaunted and smiling. That smile had not changed. It was still the smile of the boy he once was, open, honest and heartfelt. There was no duplicity in Raoul, no mystery. It was not in his nature. He was the one pure and true thing in her world of loss and darkness and lies.

With Raoul, she had a chance of something she had never thought possible. A chance at happiness. The knowledge that he was still prepared to wait for her to come to terms with everything that had happened touched her deeply, bringing warmth to her cold heart. She was not blind. She knew he could probably have any woman in Paris he chose, but instead he remained unfailingly constant. The intense longing to see him increased with every day that passed. She missed him. As she grew healthier and stronger along with winter's turn into spring, her behaviour when she had last seen him filled her with constant remorse. Oh, her poor love! How hurt he must have felt, when she would rather have died than cause him any pain. She reminded herself that such a step had been necessary, but still –! It was cruel and wrong of her. She should have written to him. But she knew Madame Giry was informing him of her well-being – each week with more sincerity. Besides, Christine could not help but feel she should speak to Raoul face to face when she saw him again.

If you only knew, my darling, how much I long for that day. I know and believe in my heart that it will be soon and that I will be in your arms once more, my own beloved! I long for it more than anything in this world, even though I don't deserve it and you are in your rights never to forgive me for what I have put us both through. But I trust in your love for me and wish only to see you! But I am afraid - is that not foolish? I can hardly dare to believe in happiness after everything that has happened, but for your sake I will. For you I can believe anything.

Meg Giry's rather pointed remarks every time the carriage drove away were beginning to hit their intended mark and Christine found herself running out of excuses to turn Raoul away, other than her own shyness and fear. For two weeks now, she had initially told Madame Giry she would see him, only to be seized by a sudden and unexpected attack of nerves and change her mind a moment later. This impossible stasis continued until a morning in mid May, when Christine was woken by a rapid knocking on her door. A dreamy starter to the day, she groaned and pulled the blankets over her head, but the loud and impertinent rapping persisted.

"Christine! Christine, are you awake?"

Long experience in the Ballet Corps dormitories told Christine that she was not going to be left alone until Meg had said whatever was on her mind. Reluctantly dragging herself to the door, she opened it a crack and saw Meg – always an early riser – already dressed and glowing in a state she considered indecently bright and alert.

"Is this urgent?" she asked tiredly.

Without waiting for an invitation, Meg entered the room and curled up on Christine's bed, leaning forward eagerly and clasping her hands. They could have been back at the Opera House again, sharing gossip about the chorus girls, except that Christine had never indulged in gossip. Not when she had such spiritual concerns preoccupying her mind. The remembrance caused her a sharp pang. With a sigh she sat back against the pillows, pushing her unruly curls from her face.

"Is it true?" Meg demanded. "Maman says you turned the Vicomte away again at the last minute! You are an idiot, Christine Daae!"

"Do you think I'm an idiot for wanting to be sure of my feelings?" cried a wounded Christine.

Meg exhaled in frustration. "Christine! It's obvious you're in love with him. Why, you were swooning the very first time he came and watched us practicing Hannibal."

"I didn't swoon."

"Trust me, dear. You were swooning – completely. Carlotta herself couldn't have done better. But that's not the point. He's kind and rich and good-looking – and he's clearly infatuated with you. What possible reason can you have to turn him away?"

"I…" Christine stopped and sighed, realising she had no answer to this.

Meg drew her knees up to her chest and looked at her, an expression of uncommon solemnity on her vivid, coquettish little face. Her quick, dark eyes held a curiously penetrating look rarely seen in those mischievous, sparkling depths. "You are so strange, Christine. I believe you are half out of this world most of the time and you say such unsettling things I hardly know what you mean with your wild talk of ghosts and visions and dreams. It is all palaver and superstition to me. But I do know that you love the Vicomte. And I think you should let him know how you feel. If you keep him waiting for too long, he'll get tired and find someone else. I don't wish to make you worry, but well… he is a man, after all. And a noble. They're supposed to be the worst."

Christine suppressed a smile at this. Meg's silky blonde hair, dainty figure and talent for performing difficult ballet aerobics was well known to have driven half the noble patrons of the opera quite wild. But Raoul was not like those others. Hadn't the last few months proven that beyond all doubt? In her heart, she knew Meg spoke sense. She had no reason to hold Raoul off any longer. No reason at all.

"You're right," she said thoughtfully. "Not the part about Raoul being like other noblemen, but –"

"I'm only speaking from experience. Do you remember the Duc d'Aubigny?"

Christine frowned. "Wasn't he in love with you for about six months?"

Meg smiled, impishly. "Seven, actually. But when I finally shook him off he turned to Fantine Collette and – well, you know how that turned out. She's had her baby now, poor thing, and he's married the daughter of a Count. So much for all his promises."

Christine felt her cheeks colouring. Meg's openness on such subjects still embarrassed her.

"Not that anything like that will happen to you," Meg hastened to assure her. "The Vicomte's too in love with you to do anything that sordid. And he's so rich, it doesn't matter that you're poor. I'd marry him myself if he'd have me."

"Meg!" exclaimed a scandalised Christine.

"Sorry, darling. But he's really too good to for you to let him slip through your fingers."

"Yes," Christine said quietly. Resolve filled her. "Yes, he is."