He hadn't left the house in four days, and hadn't mentioned an outing, either. I wanted so badly to ask him if we were still going, but I was afraid of raising either his rage or his suspicions. If he thought for a moment I was going to try to get word to Raoul, or anyone... I couldn't imagine his reaction; I didn't want to.

"Christine." he spoke from the chair he favored. It was after our morning music lesson and the day stretched ahead bleakly.

I fixed a smile on my face and looked up brightly. "Yes, Erik?"

He loved the way I said his name, and my ongoing charade of gentle affection seemed to be succeeding. He seemed more relaxed, and less on guard around me.

"Erik must collect his salary today, and there are some things we need. Is there... is there anything you would particularly like your Erik to bring you?"

I blinked, and my mind raced furiously. "Erik, is there no chance I might go with you?" This was a huge risk, but the words formed and slipped out before I could consider them well; it was my fondest wish, at this point, to get out of this house.

His yellow eyes, deep in the mask, narrowed and I caught my breath. Would he explode at me? Curse and rave?

"No, Christine." his beautiful voice was almost kind as he shattered my hopes. "You will stay here, safe, so that Erik will not worry. And when Erik returns, you will be ready to leave. Erik will take you on a carriage ride in the Bois, as he promised. Erik always keeps his promises, Christine."

I gasped. He would take me on an outing when he returned! It was the answer to my prayers, after all, and I would be ready with a note to leave somewhere, anywhere, as long as Raoul would find it.

"Oh, Erik, thank you!" I gushed, but it was unfeigned joy. "I have been so looking forward to an outing."

He was still watching me, but less suspiciously. "Erik knows that his Christine misses the sun and the breeze. It will be night when we go; Erik cannot be out during the day, but there will be a breeze and the stars will be out for Erik's Christine."

As excited as I was, I was worried about how he referred to me as 'his'. Still, I made it clear that I was very happy with him. "Thank you, Erik, thank you!"

"Does Christine have anything she wishes her Erik to bring her? Books, paints, embroidery things... sweets?"

"Just a chance to leave this house, Erik." I said fervently.

He nodded and said fondly "You shall have it. In fact, Erik would like very much to give Christine the option of boat rides, or walks along the shores of this lake."

My heart raced; was my act that good? Was he going to give me a measure of freedom? Oh, even to roam these dank cellars alone would be bliss!

"Christine would like that very much, Erik." I whispered.

"Then Christine will have that freedom." he promised somberly, rising. "Erik will go now and take care of these annoying, mundane details and when he returns, his Christine will smile to see him...?"

I forced myself to smile brightly at him, as he came towards me. The smell of herbal remedies, dust, and something else that pinched the nose came with him; it was an awful combination, but I forced my eyes to shine for him.

He knelt in front of me, studying my face, and then motioned with his gloved hand; it was an abortive movement, as if he wanted to touch my hand but forced himself to stop. He hadn't put a finger on me since that night... and I was filled with shame at the memory... since the night I'd unmasked him. The night when this all started to go horribly, horribly wrong.

Freedom. He was offering me a kind of freedom and I wanted... I needed... to make sure he followed through on his promise. I forced myself to touch his gloved fingers with my own bare ones.

He exhaled, a startled gasp, and his eyes flew back to mine, surprised. "Christine... touches her Erik. With her hand, her beautiful, tiny hand, she touches his..." the wonder in his stunning voice was humbling.

Using his name to refer to himself, so at least he'd hear it occasionally. Five years or more underground, alone; there were prison sentences that were more humane. Starved for contact, for touch, for affection... The man was, truly, pitiful. A genius driven mad by reaction to his hideous face. Surely, kindness and sympathy for him was the only Christian thing to do.

I squeezed his fingers lightly through the gloves. "Come back soon, Erik." I bid him, and brought tears to his eyes. Wordlessly he nodded and rose, taking up his cape and hat, and left the house. I held my breath, and heard the click of lock.

I stood up quickly and began to rummage around. I needed paper and a pen and a quiet place to compose a note to be left for Raoul. I didn't dare take paper from his music room; he was very careful about things here, even if it did look haphazard; he would surely notice if I'd been in there.

I found myself in the little library room, searching through the desk drawer to find a scrap of paper and although I couldn't find a pen and ink, I did find a pencil. I immediately started to write a note to Raoul, composed a hundred times in my head.

It was short; I finished and folded it up, tucking it into my corset where I was reasonably sure Erik would never find it. I put the pencil and remaining paper away, and sat back. I knew the wait would feel eons long, and I was determined not to let my nerves or anxiety foul my plans.

Finally, I stood and looked for a book to keep myself occupied. A slim volume of poetry looked promising, and I pulled it out to read. Loose papers that were tucked in beside it fell to the floor, and I picked them up with a sense of deja vu; they were drawings.

These were different from the others I'd found; they included color, for one thing. Soft pastel colors gently shaded the figures on the page. The figures of Erik and I.

These drawings were not taken from life; Erik and I had never stood together in my dressing room, or walked down the street together, or stood together on the roof of the Opera. We had sat together in the drawing room of this house, and at the table here, but I didn't think he'd drawn these recently.

One particularly poignant picture showed us at the mirror in my dressing room; I stood on my side with my hand pressed to the glass, and Erik stood on the other, his hand against mine, with the mirror between us.

Here I was on stage at the opera, clearly singing a leading role; I had to search to find Erik, but he was seated in Box 5, visible when you knew where to look. He was applauding me.

Here, he held my hand...

In this one, he kissed my fingers while I smiled, laughing...

Him offering me a rose, like the ones I'd found left for me before I joined his prison sentence... and me accepting it with kind affection from his hands.

And here, he touched my cheek with gloved hands.

He rested his hand on my shoulder, standing behind me while I smiled, as if for a portrait.

We sat together in an opera box, touching our fingers together.

In all of them, he wore his mask.

None of these pages had any childish, scribbled writing in the margins.

Regretfully, I put the pictures back on the shelf along with the book; I wasn't in the mood for poetry now. I went back to the drawing room and sat down in my previous spot. After a moment, I lifted the hand I'd touched him with.

No sane man expects a girl he kidnaps to accept the kidnapping. No sane man kidnaps a girl, period. No sane man keeps the girl locked up in a secret house.

I shouldn't have taken his mask. It was wrong of me, and cruel. I never dreamed that he was deformed under it; I just wanted to see the man who'd taken me.

I'd refused to question the Voice I heard in my dressing room; a man's voice that sounded like it should belong to an Angel. I was a fully-grown woman who was happier believing in stories and myths than questioning suspicious disembodied voices. I was Ridiculous.

After at least five years of crushing loneliness, he brought me here for what he'd said would be five days, wherein I could learn more about him. He loved me, tragically, and had a goal that in five days I would learn enough to feel safe in coming to see him. To keep him company. To assuage some of this loneliness...

... And I tore off his mask and his dignity, screamed and cowered.

Now he was moved to tears of joy when I but squeezed his fingers. The sound of his name on my lips made him beam like a little boy on Christmas.

In the pictures he drew, his fantasy seemed to... ordinary. Normal. Eating at the dinner table, walking down the street, touching the person you ... love.

None of that was normal for him. What a monumentally pathetic life, and I had done nothing, not a single thing, to help or heal; if anything, I'd made it worse.

Tears welled up in my eyes, but this time they were not for my situation and out of my sense of desperation; they were for him. I cried for Erik.