Erik pushed a small spring in the wall, which caused the window to click open slightly. He moved past her, pulling the window back into the passageway to reveal her dressing room to her. Dumbfounded, she stepped inside, looking back to find that it was her mirror.

She was curious, but slightly perturbed now, thinking of who else had access to this passageway, and what they might use it for.

"... Do you watch me?"

"Never!" Erik proclaimed, his voice sounding quite sincere. "I am a gentleman. I have never used this passageway, but now it might be quite useful to us."

She nodded, for she was compelled to believe him, but she still had questions. "Does anyone else know about this passageway?"

"No. It is for my own personal use."

She took a moment to think, and it dawned on her that everything she learned about him converged to one terrifying fact.

"You are the opera ghost."

Behind the mask, Erik's face drained of color, and he stood very still as he tensed. He could tell that she was formulating ideas of him in her head, but he did not realize how much she really knew. Of everyone in the entire company, it was the little Swedish ballerina to figure it out. He supposed that he should be quite proud of her intelligence. Despite this, her knowledge was a threat to his security, his future, if he even had one. Would he have to kill her now? Did he allow her to know? Did he manipulate her into forgetting, into submission? He did not know, and suddenly, his conscious was wrought with conflict. But for now, he decided he had no choice but to allow her to know.

"Indeed, I am."

Silence dominated the pair for another moment, before Christine had the mind to reply.

"So it is you… The notes, the threats… The deaths."

Erik set his jaw, thinking of lying, but he could not bring himself to. He nodded slowly, and it was then that Christine realized that she had befriended the most dangerous man in the world.

Then, Erik did something quite unsettling. He did not attempt to explain himself, defend his actions, or reassure her in any way. He simply stated that he would be waiting for her on the top floor, in their usual room, before he closed the mirror. He was gone.

Of course, Christine immediately tried to open the mirror again, but she found that it was suddenly, inexplicably locked. It was just a mirror once more. What would happen to her if she refused to see him again? Did she want to see him again? His face was a true horror, but the real horror to her now was the way he systematically terrified and extorted hundreds of people, using them as pawns in his game with no sense of remorse or regret. She was overcome with inexplicable grief, grief for let life as she knew it, grief of the death of the man she thought she knew. Throughout the scattered ramblings in the storm that was now her mind, she knew that she must meet him. Not because she necessarily wanted to now, but because she did not know what would happen if she didn't.

She entered the room on the top floor, wearing a robe over her dance uniform with her hair in a bun. She had her pointe shoes in her hand, and she greeted him quietly before sitting on the wood floor to put them on. If he wanted to see her dance, she would show him, determined to keep the civility for the sake of her own safety. She knew that as long as she did as he asked, he would never hurt her. Because of their bond, she was granted immunity from the wrath of the opera ghost.

It was as if Erik had completely disregarded their previous conversation. He greeted her warmly, watching her begin to stretch quickly before standing. To him, she was beauty itself, and he watched her move with a fluidity that he had never once seen from her. She stood for a moment, going on and off pointe as she thought. It was very strange: she now knew that her mentor was a murderer and extortionist, and yet she could not shake the feeling of desperately wanting to impress him. She was not used to being afraid of him.

Christine attempted a few pirouettes, looking at herself in the mirror that lined an entire wall of the room. She surprised even herself when she did not lose her balance and fall, which is what usually happened before she began to dedicate herself to dance. She was no longer the awkward, clumsy girl who acted as the laughing stock of her company: she was improving, quickly, and was mediocre no more.

Erik simply watched her in awe. He had watched ballet before, not quite paying attention to the minute details of the craft, and he never knew that someone could move like she was. Of course, she was not the best dancer, but in her he had an opportunity to do something which was not normally allowed of him. He was allowed to watch close.

She went through a few moves that she remembered from the ballet in Faust, quite often pausing in order to remember what came next. As he watched, he wondered about the amount of energy it took to execute the steps of the dance in a technically satisfactory way. No wonder she was exhausted most of the time, he thought to himself. The mechanics of the motions fascinated him, and he wondered why she did what she did.

He started to ask questions, such as why her feet were placed where they were and why her arms moved the way they did. She answered all of his questions, although some of her answers were simply that she did not know. He found that dancing was like an extension of music, where there was a right and a wrong way, and some things, for some reason, did not look or sound as beautiful as others.

Eventually, she stopped dancing, coming to rest on the floor and asking Erik what time it was. She had forgotten her own watch, and she knew that she had a class at four, which she might be able to make it to. When he informed her that it was a quarter to four, she plucked up the courage to ask if she could go.

He thought for a moment, quite sad that he could not watch her dance anymore. But he agreed and allowed her to go, under one condition: that she was to return with him to the house on the lake that night. Reluctantly, she accepted this condition, bidding him goodbye before going to class.