CHAPTER FOUR

There was another note shoved under her door when Christine got home on Sunday. The weather was warm for fall, and she'd decided to walk around the city – just meander and see what she could see. She'd have loved to invite Erik, but she had the distinct impression it would just make him uncomfortable.

As it was, she decided she loved everything about the city, chiefly its people. There were just so many of them – it was impossible to not find something to like. Even the ones who bumped into her with rude comments as she stood staring up at the canyons of skyscrapers seemed to impart a sense of life to her.

So she opened the note with a light heart, and it grew lighter still. Erik wanted to meet. Not until eleven, though. And the note said to bring a jacket.

She pulled ingredients from her newly stocked cabinets and fridge and made a light pasta for dinner. Then she sat down with the novel she'd picked up at the Strand bookstore and kept one eye on the clock until it was time to see Erik.

She had the requested jacket in her hand when she knocked on his door. He opened it, and she felt her smile widen at the unadulterated look of excitement he wore.

"Come," he said, closing his door and taking her hand. In the other hand he carried his violin case. "I have a surprise for you."

"What is it?"

He was pulling her toward the elevator. "It's at Lincoln Center. We'll just be walking a few blocks."

Their apartment building was several blocks behind Lincoln Center, down near the river. Christine put on her jacket when they stepped outside and nodded a greeting to the doorman. She noticed he didn't greet Erik.

But Erik was too high to notice. He was practically bouncing as they walked.

They came up behind the Metropolitan Opera building, and Erik pulled her around a dark corner to stand in front of what looked like a supply entrance door. Before she could blink, he'd dropped her hand and inserted a gold key into the lock. It turned, he stepped back, pulled her behind him and launched them both into the darkness inside. She heard the door slam shut and then Erik fumbling along the wall for a light switch.

When the overhead came on, they were standing in what looked like a warehouse receiving dock. Shelves lined with boxes stretched down both sides of the hall in front of her.

"It's the back of the storage area," he explained. "Come on." He grabbed her hand again and dragged her forward, past boxes, costumes covered in dust, old scenery, and finally what looked like scenery that was actually in use. He took a quick right down another hallway, parted a curtain, and Christine found herself standing on the stage of the Metropolitan Opera house. Only the security lights were on, but the auditorium stretched out vast before her. She opened her mouth, but could find no words.

She looked over and saw Erik hop down into the orchestra pit. He dragged a chair up to the conductor's dais and took his violin out of its case.

"What would you like to sing, Christine?" he asked. He played a few bars of the aria from Hannibal as a warm up.

"No, wait," she said as he stopped. "I'll sing that."

Erik began again, and she joined him on her cue. She felt his eyes on her, and she put all her skill into a perfect execution.

But it wasn't the execution she was focused on. Raoul had asked her to sing something for him, and so she did. The perfect aria; the perfect goodbye.

Erik slowly let his bow and violin drop. "God, you're beautiful," he said. "You're incomparable."

She looked around the empty hall, feeling her soul rise to back up the smile on her face. "Are you going to tell me how you got us in here?" she asked.

He laughed. "I'd rather not. It wasn't by strictly ethical means."

"You shouldn't add to your sins on my behalf."

"It wasn't on your behalf," he said. "It was strictly for the satiation of my own desire to hear you sing here. If I have my way, I'll someday be able to buy a ticket to hear you sing here."

She shook her head. "My opera days are behind me."

"Your opera days are ahead of you. You just don't know it yet." He raised his violin. "What else?"

"What would you like to hear?" she asked. "I'll sing whatever you want."

A pained expression crossed his face. "Sing the aria from Tristan for me. I've been dying to hear you sing it again."

She cocked her head at him. "You only had to ask."

"I'm asking now."

True, deep, abiding love – a love full of passion and flame – that was the song. She sang it the only way she knew how – by imagining a love with Erik. She'd imagined loving his music when she'd sung it to him that first night in her bedroom. Now she imagined loving the man, the music, the mystery – all of it. She kept her gaze fixed to his and sang a song about the kind of love she'd never known. In lieu of experience, she substituted imagination and hope. She wanted Erik to hear that kind of love in her voice. As her tutor, he'd insist on nothing less. She hoped the man in him wanted to hear it, too.

When the last note died, he stood staring at her, not moving.

"Penny for your thoughts?" she asked, suddenly tentative. Had she made him uncomfortable?

"That was exquisite," he said. She heard tears in his voice, though he was too far away for her to see. "Your voice enchants me. It makes me want to be more than I am" He hesitated. "It makes me want us to be more than we are."

There was no mistaking his meaning. He came toward her and hefted himself back up onto the stage, taking ever so much care with his instrument. To her surprise, he left bow and violin lying on the stage as he came over to her.

Taking both her hands in his, he knelt down in front of her. "I know I'm not the kind of man you want, Christine, but, for what it's worth, I'm forever your servant. Use me as you will." He kissed the back of her palm.

"Erik," she pleaded, trying to pull him to her. "Please, get up."

He shook his head and kept his eyes trained on the floor. "I've only known you a week, but I can't imagine never hearing you sing again. I have no grounds to beg you not to leave me, but beg I will. Now that I've found you, I can't give you up. I won't."

"Stand up, Erik."

He looked up at her and then moved to obey, his blue eyes never leaving her dark ones.

"Will you put your arms around me?" she asked.

He stood stock still.

"You said to use you as I would. I'd like you to put your arms around me."

He looked at her as if he couldn't hear the words she was speaking, but he moved a step closer. When that was all he managed, Christine closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around him. She laid her head against his chest and heard his heart hammering. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you for the most wonderful gift I've ever been given."

His arms came up and wrapped slowly around her, being ever so gentle. Strong fingers touched her back through her jacket and shirt. She sighed against him, wishing for fewer layers.

"You're welcome." He backed up before the words were fully past his lips. "You're very welcome."

He went to pick up his violin, but looked up at her as he bent over. "Better than flowers?" he asked.

Christine laughed, but refused to answer. He already knew the answer.

They snuck back out the way they'd come, and Christine interlaced her fingers with his on the way back. Erik looked at her with a puzzled expression, but he didn't pull back from the contact.

When they were back at her door, she decided to be bold. "Will you come in with me?" she asked. "Will you come to bed with me?"

His eyes widened.

"Not for…well, not for that. I just meant I'd like to…well, sleep next to you. I'd like you to hold me. I want to be close to you."

He didn't say anything, and Christine couldn't catalog all the emotions that flitted across his face.

Finally, he shook his head. "I can't."

She frowned. "Can't?"

His eyes dropped to the floor. "I can't sleep in the mask."

"Oh."

Silence wove a net between them.

"I'll say goodnight," he said. "Thank you for one of the best nights of my life."

Christine nodded, thinking that it could have been even better. Would he never be comfortable with her in the way she wanted?

A sudden, horrifying thought occurred to her. Had he never been with anyone in that way before? She shuddered at the thought of a life led without intimacy, without touch.

On an impulse, she stepped close to him once more and laid her hand against his exposed cheek. Before he could react, she stood up on her toes and pressed her lips to his.

He didn't react, and she just lingered, letting her skin touch his.

When she pulled back, he looked at her as if she'd hurt him. "Christine," he whispered, "please don't."

"Don't what, Erik? Was it so terrible?"

He swallowed hard. "Don't tease me with what I can never have. You have no idea how I long for what you seem to offer."

She leaned back to look at him. "Has it occurred to you that if it's on offer, it's certainly not something you can't have? I don't understand."

"You've given me gifts tonight that I can never repay. Can't we just leave it at that? We have music, Christine. I can ask for nothing more."

She thought she was beginning to understand. He didn't think he was worthy of her. How cruel life had been to teach him that lesson – that he had no worth outside his music. "You can ask for whatever you wish, Erik, but I won't push you. Ask me in your own time."

"Has it never occurred to you to wonder what's underneath the mask?" he asked.

She nodded. "Of course."

"I'll never show you. I couldn't do that to you. If you saw me as I am, it would kill whatever is between us. You'd leave me."

She stepped back. "I think you underestimate the hold you have on me. Your voice invades my mind even when you're not here. I can't escape it, and I don't want to."

"Then let me give you my voice, and be happy with that. It's all I have to offer."

She shook her head. "That's not true, but if you believe it, we'll get no further on the subject."

She took out her key and turned away from him. "Good night, Erik."

The next day, the first bouquet arrived mid-way through Astia's lesson. Astia was not a morning person, and she hadn't managed to get up to speed until about half an hour into their efforts. Christine wanted to lecture her about devotion to her art, but she knew Astia's heart wasn't in it. Julliard wasn't her dream.

But the girl's lethargy seemed to disappear when the three dozen red roses came through the door of Christine's small class room.

"Wow," she exclaimed. "You sure made an impression on someone, Ms. Daae." She waggled her dark eyebrows at her teacher. "I guess I don't have to ask what you were up to last night."

Christine felt herself blush, and she hastily directed the delivery boy to put the flowers on the windowsill.

Her classroom was narrow and long. The piano and one chair took up most of its width, but a long row of windows ran the length of one side, making it seem less claustrophobic.

She thanked the delivery boy and turned back to her pupil.

"Aren't you going to read the card?"

Christine shook her head. "There's no card."

Astia laughed. "But you know who they're from. Go, teach."

"It's not like that. Erik is a dear friend. I think he's afraid he upset me."

"I wish I had friends like that." She looked again at the huge arrangement. "Somehow that just doesn't say 'friend' to me. I think your 'dear friend' is in love with you."

She turned back to Christine. "Haven't you only been here a week or two? How'd you get a man like that overnight?"

Christine sighed, wondering how long this discussion was going to last. "He's a musician," she said. "It's not that hard to meet musicians in the middle of Lincoln Center."

Astia nodded. "Well, don't settle down too soon. This city's full of eligible bachelors – most of whom make more money than musicians."

"Astia!"

"What?" She laughed. "Just because I want to be a pop singer doesn't mean I can't have a backup plan."

Christine shook her head. "Well, let's get back to work on Plan A, shall we?"

The next two batches of roses arrived during her second and third lessons, respectively, and caused a similar uproar, except that Kee wanted to know if it was another student trying to get a better grade out of her. He had a competitive streak. After reassuring him that no one was outdoing him, he was content to resume practice without further comment.

Christine showed up for practice precisely at eight, and Erik let her in with a sweep of his arm.

"The flowers weren't necessary, you know," she said, turning to him.

He smiled. "I wanted to be sure you'd come tonight."

"There's very little that could keep me away. I think you know that."

"I wanted to be sure."

"Well, you delighted my students, that's for sure. Astia thinks I'm some sex goddess who's seduced a musician with one night of fabulous love making."

He laughed. "She clearly doesn't appreciate the power of music."

"Let's get started?"

He went eagerly to the piano and began warming up. He led her through three glissandos before starting an aria from Tosca.

During his interlude, they both heard the sound of knocking, but it was coming from next door – her door.

She shrugged her shoulders at him and went to look out into the hallway.

A tall, blond man stood there, banging on her door.

"Raoul," she whispered.

He turned. "Christine? I thought you were number twelve. I'm glad your neighbor wasn't home."

He strode over and hugged her, but she was too shocked to respond. "You look well," he said, pulling back.

She felt it when Erik came to stand behind her.

"What the…?" Raoul exclaimed.

"Raoul, this is Erik." She turned slightly in his direction. "Erik, this is my ex-husband."

"Charmed," Erik droned without offering his hand.

"I do live in number twelve, Raoul. Erik and I were practicing. He's a musician."

"Oh. Well, I've come to talk to you. Can you cut your session short?"

She nodded and turned to Erik. "Tomorrow night?" she asked.

He stood still, but then nodded and retreated into his apartment.

She looked at Raoul and saw him shiver. "My god," he said. "What was that?"

"That was my neighbor. What's your problem?"

"That mask. It's horrible. And what must be underneath. It's not natural."

Strange. She'd never thought the mask unnatural on Erik.

"Can we go inside?" Raoul asked.

Christine opened her door and let them both in. "I can't say how surprised I am," she said. "Why are you in New York?"

"Well, I'll just say it. I want you back, Christine. These last months without you have been torture. You're a part of my life, and I want you back."

"You want what we had before. That's not possible anymore."

"But look how much better you are! Surely we could try to get things back?"

"So you've just dropped everything to come and woo me back?"

He nodded. "Nothing is as important as you."

Did she owe it to them both to try? she wondered.

"You don't have to decide right now. Have dinner with me tomorrow. We'll start over at the beginning."

Dinner. She could do dinner. "Alright," she said. "But I have to be back by eight to practice with Erik."

Raoul shook his head. "You can't possibly enjoy spending time with him. How can you even look at him?"

She shrugged. "The mask really doesn't bother me." She felt a smile coming on. "And, Raoul, he's a prodigy – easily the best musician I've ever known. Singing with him is…well, it's like paradise."

"I'm glad I came," Raoul said. "You're too easily influenced. You're just getting back on your feet, and you're letting this man manipulate you. You don't need a fiend to practice your singing."

"Don't call him that. He's a friend."

"You can make better friends, Christine."