Chapter 6

When a knock sounded on Madame Giry's door at twelve o'clock that night, it no longer surprised her.

Thank goodness Christine was already asleep, she thought as she padded stealthily to the door. It would save her some awkward evasions.

"What is it now?" she asked tiredly, stepping into the hall and shutting her door carefully behind her.

"Good evening, Madame." Erik was actually smiling. Not his usual cynical smirk, either - a genuine, happy smile. "I came to say that you are an angel of goodness and you ought to be canonized."

"Am I?" she said with a small laugh. "Good Heavens. Why is that?"

"I have something more to be grateful for even than usual. Perhaps you have heard; I do not know. If I could, I'd tell the whole globe. Christine has agreed to meet with me again." He was so happy he almost laughed. He couldn't hold still. "She knows who I am - well, as much as I can tell her - and she did not spurn me!" For a moment, he was too overcome to go on. He shook his head in wonder. "We can meet face to face as fellow-creatures," he said when he was at last able to continue. "It is the most extraordinary thing, you cannot imagine. You were right, Madame. Now that I know what it is to really talk with her, openly and honestly, I cannot understand how I ever could have contented myself with anything less."

"I am glad," she said gently. "But now you must go. I have company."

He looked at the door in confusion, as though trying to see through it. "At this hour of the night?"

She smiled disarmingly. "Aren't I allowed to be full of surprises?"

Erik was in too much of a good humor to be his usual suspicious self. "Of course. Well, good night, Madame."

Madame Giry watched him walk away, her mind occupied.

Before, there'd been a chance that this would all be resolved quickly - that Christine would refuse to forgive his deception and that would be the end of it. It might have provoked Erik to even greater despair, or it might have been the most painless way for this to end.

Now, for better or worse, that was not to be.

She couldn't decide if this was good or bad.

Christine's dressing-room was located in a narrow, obscure corridor of the opera house - Erik had persuaded her to request one there so people wouldn't overhear their lessons; he wanted everyone to be astonished when her talent was revealed. But nonetheless he had a time getting there in the middle of the afternoon without anyone noticing him. Nonetheless, he managed to arrive at Christine's door at two fifty-eight, precisely as he'd intended. He didn't want to waste a single moment with her - this meeting was a precious gift he hadn't expected to get, and he didn't know if he would ever get another one - and yet he feared he would seem overbearing and alarm her if he came too early.

When he knocked, to his delight and relief she answered the door immediately.

As always, his heart leapt when he saw her. She looked radiant in a simple white cotton dress sprinkled with pink flowers, her curls half-escaping from a simple chignon. He, of course, was in the same ensemble as he'd worn yesterday, his one good suit. He hoped she wouldn't notice.

He needn't have worried. Her mind was on other matters. A sheaf of music was clutched in her hand and she was poring over it intently.

"Good afternoon" she said quietly, looking a bit nervous, and she stood well aside to let him in. "Thank you for coming on time."

"Good afternoon." He squeezed through the narrow doorway, clutching the booklet of music he'd brought with him- all that was left of his once-proud position as music-master- and looked around. To call Christine's little pratice nook a 'room' would have been somewhat generous. It would have fit in Carlotta's dressing-room six times over.

'It's a closet with ambition,' Meg had quipped the first time she saw it.

The small, decrepit piano Christine had been lent to use for practicing was wedged awkwardly into a corner by the far wall.

"I'm afraid you'll be very cramped," she said apologetically, gesturing toward it.

Indeed he would be. He realized suddenly that there was an empty space near the door that would have been a much more logical place for the instrument. In fact, the room was barely functional as it was now.

He understood all at once that Christine had deliberately arranged things so he was out of her path to the door. The thought wounded him, he couldn't deny- she really did think the worst of him. But he could scarcely blame her, under the circumstances. He would have done the same thing in her place if the situation were reversed. He was even more distrustful than she was.

"It is no matter," he said quietly. "I have managed with far worse."

As he passed her dressing-table, he saw that she'd placed a small knife prominently beside her. It looked horribly out of place against the delicate bric-à-brac that filled the rest of the room - a photograph of her father, a tiny carved statuette of a nightingale, a little vase of wildflowers.

He nodded toward the blade as he went past. "A wise precaution, to carry a knife," he said, "Although I fear in a confrontation it may end up up the hands of your enemy." That precise thing had happened to him once. A shiver ran through him, and he shoved the horrible memory away, though he knew it would only come back to haunt him again later. "A pistol might be a better choice."

Christine flushed. She hadn't expected him to acknowledge its presence. "For what it's worth, it was Meg's idea to have it out like that," she said. "She wouldn't leave me alone until I promised - and I can't break a promise to a friend."

He already felt better. It had been Meg's idea, not hers. Perhaps Christine did not think of him quite as badly as he'd feared. "You do not need to explain yourself. I quite understand. It is a brutal world we live in."

"Thank you for not taking offense," Christine said. "That is generous of you."

"Not at all. I am glad you know how to protect yourself. And even more glad you have friends who ensure you do."

Christine was looking at the knife with distaste. "I hate it. It breaks my heart that it is necessary to have one. I don't ever want to do violence to anyone."

"You have not needed it, I hope?" he asked.

"I have not needed to use it, thank God. But-" She paused. "I have needed to... make someone aware that I had it." She blinked.

He thought his blood would boil. "And did they leave you alone?" Who were they? Where are they? I'll kill them all. I'll tear their heads from their bodies.

"Yes," Christine said. "It frightened them away. They were cowardly - which I suppose is fortunate for me."

"Then perhaps it is of some usefulness to you."

"Yes, I suppose you are right." She paused, looking as though she had thought of something else and was thinking carefully about how to put it into words. "I should like to ask you something," she said afer a moment.

"Of course."

"A few years ago I mentioned to the Angel- I suppose it was you really- that the head scene-shifter, Buquet, had been... bothering me. Do you remember?"

"Yes," he said.

Christine nodded slowly "I suppose... you did tell me to go to the police, I remember now, which I suppose ought to have struck me as an odd thing for an angel to say, though of course I did not think of it at the time; I was too determined to believe in y- in the angel. And then I said it wouldn't do any good, so you said you would make sure he did not trouble me again. You said you would 'put the fear of God in him' - I remember that. And then the next time I saw Buquet he shouted at me that I must be a witch because he'd seen a huge inferno of fire chasing after him, and then the silhouette of a man appeared out of it and said he wasn't to go near Christine Daae and her friends anymore, and he saw a horrible face coming toward him, and then everything was plunged into darkness. He said the ghost and I must be in cahoots, but I don't believe in ghosts. I knew someone must be behind it, though. Was that you?"

"Yes," he said proudly. He smiled fondly at the memory. Buquet had screamed like a child. It had been one of the more enjoyable moments of Erik's life.

"But how did you manage it all?" Christine asked. "I can understand it all going dark; that is simple enough; all one would have to do would be shut off the fuses-"

Erik had to hide a proud smile. You would make a very respectable Phantom yourself, Mademoiselle, should you ever decide to go into the business.

"-But a fiery inferno?" she finished. "That is beyond my feeble powers of comprehension."

"It was quite simple, really," he said, not without a hint of the theatrical. "I suspended a piece of cotton-wool from the ceiling, then soaked it in kerosene and lit it on fire." He couldn't hold back a grin. "It was quite exciting, really. I had always wanted to try something of the kind."

Christine's mouth was a perfect O of horror. "Kerosene? Why, you might have burnt down the whole opera house!"

"I took care," he said.

"Even so, you surely endangered yourself. Why did you go to so much trouble to help me?"

"I despise men who prey on those more vulnerable than themselves," he said. "It has become rather a habit of mine to cause them trouble, I am afraid. Perhaps it is not laudable, but someone must do something."

"I see. Well," Christine said slowly, "I cannot say I condone your methods, but Buquet has left me and Meg very much alone since then, so I suppose I must be grateful for your, er, assistance." She paused. Suddenly a small smile appeared on her lovely face. "And you must admit, it is very funny. I shall never forget the look on his face when he saw me." Her shoulders began to shake.

Suddenly the two of them were convulsed with mirth. Christine's laugh rang through the room, as sweet and clear as a bell. It was one of the loveliest sounds Erik had ever heard - whether it was as lovely as her singing was a beautiful riddle he didn't think he'd ever be able to solve - and the thought that he had brought it about was almost too marvelous to comprehend.

She and I have laughed together, he thought in a joyous daze. I have tasted all the happiness the world can offer.

I should not wish for more. It is too much. I am flying too close to the sun as it is.

"And what about the dreadful face?" Christine said suddenly, as though in response to this thought.

He froze. Yes, what about it? "Er- What?"

"He said he saw the most horrible face coming toward him. At the time I didn't think anything of it - angels in real life sound quite terrifying, you know; not at all like the sweet little children in paintings, so it seemed quite natural to me that the angel should be able to frighten people with his face. But now it seems... peculiar."

Erik swallowed. "Er - another mask."

Christine looked puzzled. "He said it was very lifelike."

"That imbecile is always drunk. And I am certain he is no stranger to opium and cocaine and God knows what else. I shudder to think what his tormented imagination could fabricate. It would be better not to contemplate it." Erik turned away and pretending to be looking at the music, his mirth from a moment ago entirely evaporated. "I should not stand about talking all day. Now, you said the Countess' aria from Act III is what you were asked to prepare for the audition?" he asked.

"Oh... Yes. Just as you say," Christine replied, looking a bit surprised by the sudden turn in the conversation.

"It should present no problem for you," he said. "On the whole, the music lacks innovation."

She smiled.

"It drives me mad to think that you are stuck singing this insipid nonsense when you could be singing Juliette or Ophelia or Violetta," Erik said, shaking his head.

"Perhaps someday I shall," Christine ventured, then flushed, looking as though she had said something very ambitious - which in fact, she had.

He smiled. "Do not blush. You are quite right. Now, there is no time to lose. Let us begin straightaway. Will they allow you to embellish the Countess' candezas?" he asked.

"Yes. I was hoping you might assist me in that," she said.

"Certainly," he replied. "I am glad to hear they are giving you that freedom. With proper embellishment, your coloratura technique can lend the piece a distinction it does not on its own possess."

"Thank you. I have two copies of the music," she said, moving toward a folder on her dressing-table. "Monsieur Reyer lent me-"

"-Oh," he said stupidly, looking down at the booklet of music he was holding.

"Do you have a copy too? Where did you get it?" Christine glanced down at his copy. It was obviously handwritten. She looked up at him in amazement. "Did you write all this out?"

He inclined his head. "I did."

"But... that must have taken you a great deal of time!"

"I do not mind in the slightest," he said. "There could be no better way of spending the time."

"Thank you," she said breathlessly. And then, a few moments later, "Where did you copy it from? It has not been released publicly that I know of. Do you still work at the opera?"

"Er- no," he said. "But I, er, attended rehearsal a few days ago. And then I copied it down later at my writing-desk."

"Do you mean to say you copied the whole aria from memory after hearing it only once?" Christine snatched the manuscript from him, without even realizing it. "And the orchestration too?"

"Yes," he said, bewildered by her look of amazement.

Her eyes flew over the lines of music, comparing his version with the original. "But this is utterly remarkable! These are identical! Even down to the quarter-beat." Suddenly she looked up. Her gaze fixed on him. "Wait. Do you mean to say you copied just the aria from memory-" She paused as though afraid to hear the answer- "...Or all of Act III?"

"Act III," he said. "Why do you ask?"

"My God!" Christine flung her hands out in astonishment. Several sheets of music flew out of her hands and fluttered down around her like enormous white leaves. She scarcely even seemed to notice. She was staring at Erik, her mouth open. "How- how is such a thing possible? Are you sure you're a mortal?"

"It was nothing extraordinary," he said, delighted to have impressed her but genuinely puzzled by her amazement.

Christine laughed. "Au contraire!"

"I imagine you could do the same," he said. He found he was shuffling his feet. As the phantom, he was all bombast and swagger, but with her, he was as awkward as a shy child.

"Forgive me, but I imagine not." Christine shook her head in disbelief. "I have been around musicians all my life, and not a one of them can do what you've done here. I am, I suppose, reasonably competent in harmonic dictation-"

"-Oh, more than competent."

"Thank you," she said. "But that is only because I have devoted hours upon hours of practice to it. And even so I certainly cannot copy down an hour-long, multi-instrumental piece from memory! Does it just come naturally to you?"

"I suppose it does, yes." He had never thought about it before.

She stifled an astonished laugh. "Did you come out of the womb writing music? How old were you when you started to learn?"

"I do not know precisely," Erik said. "My birth did cause considerable consternation for other reasons, though," he added almost without realizing it. He froze, realizing how dangerously close he'd come to admitting his most hatred secret.

It had become too easy to talk with her. The freedom of being able to address her as one human being to another was intoxicating. It was dangerous. He would have to be careful.

If he hadn't already ruined everything just now.

Christine had fallen silent and was peering at him as though trying to work out a difficult puzzle. "I am sorry," she said at last, her voice gentle. She looked as though she were choosing her next words with care. He waited for her to ask what he meant, as though waiting for a blow.

She seemed to realize, however, that if he had wanted her to know more, he would have told her about it. Thus, and to his eternal gratitude, she didn't ask why. "Well," she said simply instead, "You have an extraordinary gift."

"I am honored," he said, stunned by her praise - and by her kindness. There was a pause. "Now, then, let me hear what you have done with the aria so far, if you please."

They plunged into the task of studying the piece. Erik was glad. They may be at odds in all other ways, but in this respect they shared the same wishes, the same purpose and ambitions. For these few precious moments, there was nothing but them and the music.

He might have gone on forever, had he not eventually happened to glance up and see the clock on her dressing-table.

"Is... is that right?" he said.

"What is the matter?" Christine said, looking up. "The clock? It has always kept good time."

"Then you ought to have a short étirement and then... be done for the day," he said with enormous reluctance. "Any more and you may overtax your voice - and it is essential that you save it for the audition."

She couldn't see the clock face from where she was standing. "How long has it been?"

"Nearly four hours," he said, scarcely able to believe it. The time had flown by. These moments he was able to snatch with her were never enough. Still, he was delighted that she hadn't tried to end the lesson before now.

"I did not intend to keep you here so long," she said.

He winced. Was that really an apology, or was she trying to get rid of him? "I do not mind," he said.

"That is very kind of you." Christine paused to pour herself a glass of honeyed water from the pitcher she had resting on her dressing-table. "I don't mean to sound immodest, but I think the piece has improved just in these three hours," she said happily.

"It is not immodest," he said. "Yes, it has improved. You have quite resolved that little difficulty with your vibrato in the introduction. And the cadenza sounds far clearer than it did before."

"How can I be as great as you say, if I have so much I still need to learn?" Christine shook her head. "I fear I shall never be ready."

"It shows how much potential you possess," he said.

"Thank you. Still, I... I think would feel more comfortable if I could have another lesson before the audition," she said. "If you do not mind. I would not wish to impose upon you, however."

"That would be..." Wonderful. Marvelous. Spectacular. "...Beneficial." He tried to appear indifferent, but inwardly he felt like leaping for joy. "Tomorrow at the same time, then?"

"Yes," she said. "Thank you very much indeed."

Erik walked away from the lesson feeling dizzy with his success. Another victory. It hardly seemed possible that so much could go the way he wanted.

His luck had to run out soon. The plumes on his wings were already starting to fall away.

End of Chapter 6. Thank you so much for reading!