A/N: Hello, again, lovely readers!

Today I will answer some questions before you ask them. Is this chapter long? Yes, probably too long. Is there a plot? Not really, no. Could this have been shorter and more to the point? Most certainly.
But, even so, if you're looking for some fun character development and relationship building, then this is the chapter for you. My apologizes, though, about the lack of plot for these next few chapters- I have found that it's really hard not to write a short amount on Erik and Christine. Anyway,enjoy!

Perhaps

The next morning, Christine awoke feeling oddly rested considering that was not in her own house and, moreover, that the house she was in, she shared with a man of ambiguous past. For a long moment, she sat in her bed in a state of comfortable bliss, considering if she wanted to leave the room and face Erik again. Last night, he had seemed so open with her, as he sat there, his hands fiddling with his lyre, and she had felt nearly comfortable with him. He was not all bad—she was certain of that—and no matter how she felt about him, she had no food in her room and she was, at present, feeling ravenously hungry. So, she left her room, still not entirely sure what she was feeling towards this man with whom she was staying. She followed the scent of sausage cooking until, after padding down numerous hallways and through countless rooms, she reached what she supposed must have been a kitchen. It was an odd one, however, being both very clean, compared to how her family's kitchen looked at home, and very empty, the only two people standing in it being herself and Erik, who was preoccupied cooking the sausages, although he glanced at her briefly when she entered the room.

"Good morning!" He said to her cheerfully, keeping his eyes on his breakfast. So, there would be no mention of the incident with the mask, she supposed? He seemed to be ardently ignoring the tension between them, and his voice sounded a bit too cheery to Christine, considering everything that had happened since she arrived at his house. But if he wanted to pretend that all was well between them, she did not wish to stop him. There was no need for unnecessary unhappiness, and while she was staying with him, she decided that she might as well make things as comfortable between the two of them as could be. So, if he wanted to ignore last night, she would, too.

"Good morning," she yawned, and looked around the room in confusion before seating herself at a sturdy wooden table. "Do you not have any servants to cook for you?"

"Hm? Oh, no. No servants at all, I am afraid. I have not had any for years, in truth, because most of them ran away at one point, and the rest I simply had no use for. So, yes—I cook for myself."

"Oh," she said, resting her elbows on the table. She had never been to a house that had not had servants before—only the very poorest people lacked them. She traced her finger over the rough wood, and asked, "May I have some of those sausages, too? They smell very good."

"I am making them for you, so, yes, dear girl, you can. I have, in fact, already eaten."

Her stomach growled when she heard them sizzle over the fire, but it was soon appeased, when Erik presented her with a plate full of them. She ate her breakfast in relative silence, which was only broken when Christine commented on how good Erik's cooking skills were, or asked a question about how he prepared such foods. She knew very little of the art of cooking, after all, since her servants had always done it for, but she had always wished to learn if only to be able to appease her own hunger at any time she wished.

After breakfast, Erik told her that he must clean their plates, so that they would be ready to use for the next time they ate, and told her he must get some water to do so. This concept of washing the dishes after eating was something Christine had never even considered to do before, since at home her servants did all of that sort of thing for her, but now that she thought about it, she supposed it did make sense to wash things after eating off of them. Needing something to do, she asked if she could get the water for him, although he could still do the washing afterwards if he wanted, since she had no idea how. He accepted this idea with some convincing on her part—Erik seemed to loath the idea of her doing any sort of labor while she stayed in his house—and told her how to find the well near his house, and gave her a wooden bucket to take the water back again.

In no time, she had completed her task, even if the water was far heavier than she had anticipated, and when she found Erik again, he was in the kitchen, stacking the bowls back on a table in the far corner of the room. He looked up when he heard her come in, his eyes shining.

"I see you have succeeded in fetching the water, then. Although I am terribly sorry I do not possess servants to simply do it for you, as I am sure you are accustomed to."

"Oh, it is fine. I will survive." She offered him a tight smile, and she placed the bucket on the table next to him. "You know, I never had to do this sort of thing at home, but now that I am doing it, I think I rather like it. Getting water certainly feels more useful than sewing, and cleaning, and all those sorts of things that I would be doing if I was at home."

He shrugged and took a seat opposite her, assuming an air of nonchalance. "Yes, doing things that must be done does give one a sense of purpose—does it not?—even if the work done is rather mundane. Even so, thank you for so readily volunteering to help me. I do appreciate your concern."

"It is no problem, really," she replied, watching as he dunked the first little bowl into the water. "It is not as if I have any other tasks to do here, anyway, so I may as well help you."

He nodded curtly and remained silent after that until he finished washing each and every dish. After that, Christine asked if he might give her a tour of his house, as something to pass the time. He agreed readily.

Most of the rooms had little or no special significance to Christine. He showed her the music room—the room in which she had found him playing the lyre—, his bedroom—a room very much like her own—, long hallways and entertainment rooms. None of these, however, captured her attention until they reached a dark stairway, tucked away in a small room next to his.

"What is this?" She asked, gazing into the deep shadows below her. It almost seemed as if the stairs stretched forever, down to the center of the earth, with so little light to show her otherwise.

"Would you like to see?" He looked at her carefully, his head tipped slightly to the right, reminding Christine of the curious stare of a cat.

She nodded, the idea of exploring the depths of the unknown sounding very exciting to her with so little else to do. In no time, he had procured an oil lamp for the both of them, and with those in hand, he led her down the steep staircase, which ended up not being very deep at all. They only had to descend about thirty or so stairs before their footsteps reached solid ground and her oil lamp revealed a small, earthy room, carved out of the rock beneath his house.

She sucked in a breath. "To think there was a whole other part of your house beneath my feet this whole time, and I never even would have guess, if you had not brought me here." The lamp showed a little pile of blankets on the floor, arranged in the shape of a sloppy bed against the damp, stone wall. She turned to Erik, her lamp casting odd shadows on the planes of his mask, making it look even less human than before. She shivered. "What do you use this place for?"

He wandered over to a small cavity in the stone, and pulled out what appeared to be an old wineskin. Brushing the dust off of it, he opened it, and poured it upside down, letting whatever the previous contents of it was pour out onto the dirt floor. "It is a hide out," he replied, "should I ever have need for it."

"Why would you ever need such a place?" She asked, shining her light of the dirty walls, and the raggedy bed again. It did not seem a fit place for any creature, much less a human being. It reminded her more of a tomb than anything else, with its musty smell and so little light.

He put the wineskin back in its spot in the wall. "One finds that when one lives a life of constant vigilance, one must have an escape plan at all times. This place locks from both the outside and the inside"—he shined his light on an old wooden door in the entry way—"so that, I can lock myself within it, should I choose, or keep others from coming up into my house."

"But you cannot live in here!" Christine said, touching the cold walls that surrounded her on every side. "No one should have to live in this horrible place. Besides, if you lock yourself in here, would you not starve after a while, if you cannot escape again?"

"Ah, but, you see, I will not. That is the genius of it all. You see, Christine, if I simply move this"—he pushed the pile of rags out of the way with his foot, revealing what appeared to be a wooden door in the floor, a square hardly large enough to fit a human body through— "There is a trap door beneath. This trap door leads to a tunnel a few feet beneath us, which then comes out in the middle of the forest, some way from here. So, there is really no way that I could starve in here, with another exist concealed so close by—do not worry. I would show you the tunnel, but I fear it is really rather dirty down there, and cramped. Although it is possible for a person your size, and even mine, to walk through with relative ease, it is not the most comfortable journey you will undertake, so unless you are set on exploring further, perhaps we should go back up. I never particularly enjoyed this little room, at any rate, and I do not like being in it for prolonged periods of time."

Christine could see why. "Let's go back up, then. This place has a bit of a chill to it, anyway."

As they walked back up the stone steps, Christine asked a question that she had been thinking about since Erik had told her about the room. "You have not ever used that, have you?"

"The room?" He paused for a moment on the stairs before continuing up.

"Yes," she whispered, thinking of him, locked alone in that cold, little room, afraid of whatever was chasing him down there, like a cornered animal. The thought of him—or anyone, really—being stuck down there, like a person buried alive, made her upset, and she found herself sincerely wishing that Erik had never had to undergo such lengths to escape whatever chased him.

He sighed and murmured, "Yes. I wish I could say that I have not ever had to use such animalistic methods to escape from my hunters, but I have on one or two occasions. It is not the sort of life I had hoped to live, of course, but one must do what it takes to stay alive, even if sometimes, the reason for which I struggle to keep myself breathing evades me."

They reached the top of the stairs. Christine felt her heart sinking within her at his words, although she could tell he was trying his hardest to keep his tone light. The knowledge that he lived like that, in a state of constant vigilance and fear, made her want to do something—change the way the world viewed him so that she might keep him safe. No person, she felt, should ever have to fight to live, and she nearly told him so, too, passion rising within her for her cause. But he took her lamp from her, and went to go put it back before she could, and by the time he returned, her courage had left her and she had remembered that whatever Erik had done to cause men to hunt him as they did was most likely some horrible crime. He deserved this treatment that he now received, even if she did not know for what reason yet.

It was not until far later that night, after they had eaten dinner, and retired to Erik's living room, that she found the courage to ask him, although she did feel rather bad doing it. She could already tell that there were certain subjects that were a taboo for Erik, things such as his mask, his past, and his curse—whatever that was—that he did not wish to speak of, despite the fact that he would often answer her questions about them, anyway.

"Earlier, when we were in that room beneath your house, you said that you live a life of constant vigilance, that people hunt you," she said slowly, watching to see his reaction. "Who? Who would hunt you like that?"

He blinked and straightened in his chair, his finger curling around the edge of it. "Due to the fact that you had any knowledge of me being referred to as the phantom—you did call me that last night, did you not?—I dare say, you know quite well who chases me and why."

"What do you mean?" She thought back to the conversation she had had with Rhal and, except the fact that he himself had said he wanted to kill the beast, she could not remember any mention of any certain hunters. Perhaps, there were many people like Rhal, who wished to capture and kill such a monster as they had heard about, that turned innocent people into ash with its eyes.

"Only those who wish to see me dead call me 'The Phantom,'" He leaned back in his chair and adjusted his mask with a sigh. "For some reason, there are a great many horror stories concerning me, although I do not why, or who made them up. I am afraid I am not even entirely sure why people commonly refer to me as 'The Phantom'—I certainly did not make up the title—but I have gained it nonetheless. I suppose it is because of my mask, or my appearance, which, I know, is not a pretty one. But a great deal of those men who have heard these stories about me wish to prove their manliness and chop off my head, as unfortunate as that is for myself."

Christine nodded slowly. "I see. So, you cannot… you cannot turn people to ash with your eyes, can you?"

He shook his head slightly and leaned forward, his face mere inches from her own. "Look at me, Christine. Look into my eyes."

She did so, and he looked back at her, his eyes practically glowing amber in the evening light. Sometimes, they almost seemed brown, and other times, they appeared to Christine as liquid gold, always changing and flowing. They were the only feature of his body, that Christine had yet encountered, that reflected the same breathtaking beauty as his voice.

"Now, look at your hands." He instructed. "Have they turned to ash? Feel your face. Is it flying away beneath your fingertips? Are you still completely whole?"

She nodded; yes.

"Then, therein lies your answer." He leaned back again, and closed those golden eyes. "If my eyes had the power to do any such thing, would you not have already been turned to ash? Even if I had the ability to activate my power, as it were, by my own will, would I not have made you crumble when you tried to reach for my mask? No, Christine, I do not possess any powers like that in my eyes, you may rest assured. My eyes pose you no danger. The stories you have heard about me are all lies."

"So, I suppose I should not ask you if you can become invisible, then?"

"Invisibility?" She heard him chuckle lightly, a true, pleasant laugh. "That is certainly a new one. I have not heard that before. I am sure that these tales get more and more ridiculous with every passing year. Invisibility, indeed." He laughed again.

"Well, I thought it was worth a try." Christine smiled, feeling a great deal more relieved to know this man did not have supernatural powers to kill others. Although, how did these stories come about if they did not have some truth in them?

"Did they ever catch you? These people, I mean. Clearly, no one has succeeded in… killing you because, well, here you are." She hoped for his sake that he had outsmarted them at every turn, for he did seem very smart.

He nodded, his attention now focused on the table sitting between them. "You are certainly right that no one has succeeded in bringing about my destruction. But yes. I am afraid I have been caught, as you put it, and on more occasions than one. I assure you, it is not an enjoyable experience to be at the mercy of one's enemies, and I have quite a few scars that will testify that for me."

"Scars?" Christine felt another, sudden need to protect this person, this fully-grown man sitting in front of her, although from whom or even why, she knew not. All she knew was that it sickened her to think of people abusing this man and calling him a 'monster,' when the person who sat in front of her now, despite his mask, was certainly not that, whatever else he might be.

"Yes, and a great many of them, too. I would offer to show them to you, if you would like, but I fear that would be a bit too much for you, having only known me a short while. And I, moreover, have no real wish to go about showing my guests my own mutilated body, if I do not have to. I would rather not make a habit of doing so, if it is all the same to you."

"Oh, no. Trust me, I can take your word for it." It seemed Erik had a dry sense of humor, if she could even call it that, dry as it was. Still, despite his little joke he had made concerning his scars, she hated to think about how many there were concealed under his cloak, covering his body. Desperate to take her mind off the image she had formed in her mind of Erik screaming as people cut into him with a knife, she asked, "How did you escape from these men? I am sure the tales you have are all very exciting."

"Oh, yes, very." His eyes narrowed slightly in what she guessed was a smile. "But, unfortunately for you, like everything else about my past, those are not tales I will be sharing, and, believe me, dear girl, not ones you would like to hear, either, if you knew what they concerned."

"Oh." Christine leaned her head on her palm. Everywhere she walked seemed to be covered in thin, eggshells and now, although she was trying her best not to step on any and break the fragile bonds between herself and Erik, she felt that everywhere she put her foot was precarious. She did not know what to speak to him of, how to act with him, and everything she tried seemed to go wrong.

Perhaps he could see it in her face that she was upset, because he said, in a light tone that sounded forced, "Let us try and speak of happier matters, hm? There is so much darkness in the world—let us concern ourselves with the light and clear. Come, tell me, child, what do you enjoy?"

"Well, I am no child," she replied, picking her head off her hand. "I am nineteen years of age—a grown woman, now."

He spoke again before she could think of what she enjoyed. "Indeed, Christine? You look so young and full of life, I had thought perhaps you were younger, but… Yes, I can see. Nineteen, then. Your life is only just beginning to unfold. You can still fall in love, and be married, have children… That is, if you have not done so already?"

"I have not."

He cleared his throat, suddenly looking sheepish. "Ah well, you are very young, after all, and that is to be expected. There is much ahead of you, Christine, and the world, I am sure, is still full of wonder for you, with so few years to tell you otherwise."

"I suppose so," she replied, thinking of when her father died, how she had thought the world was ending for her, how she was still not yet sure if life was friend or foe. "But how old are you, Erik? I cannot tell with your mask, although I do not think you are nineteen."

"No." He shook his head. "No, certainly not nineteen, although I do remember what life was like when I was that age. I hope that the nineteenth year of your life goes better than mine, although the way that mine went, I suppose next to anything would be better. But as for my age: all that you need know is that I am far older than you. To be completely honest with you, dear girl, I stopped counting my years long ago, after I realized they did not matter, so I do not think I could answer your question even if I wanted to."

Of course, he could not, because anything she asked him about himself, he would not answer, or claim he could not. She was not sure why she had asked in the first place. She managed a tight smile. "I enjoy singing, you know, if you want an answer to your earlier question. My father used to play his lyre for me and I would sing with him. It was my favorite way to pass the time."

"Your father…" Erik met her eyes briefly. "You speak of him with such sorrow. May I ask what happened to him to cause this?"

"He died," she replied shortly, curtly, pushing all the emotions beginning to bubble up within her away. She would not cry in front of Erik, no matter what. She would not think of her father in his last moments, coughing painfully, or taking her hand in his cold one, telling her to live and be happy once he was gone. No, she would not think of that.

"Oh." The silence that passed between them was so heavy that Christine felt as if there was another presence in the room. After what seemed like an eternity, Erik broke it, his voice soft. "I am very sorry to hear that."

She breathed in deeply, trying to swallow the lump forming in her throat. "I cannot do anything to change it, now, so what does it matter? He is gone." Her voice was beginning to shake terribly, so she shut her lips, praying that Erik could not see the tears forming in her eyes.

"He is." He agreed. "He is gone, but the sorrow often lingers long after the soul leaves. My father died, as well, when I was near your age, and it hit me rather hard. I do understand what you feel, Christine, if you ever wish to speak any more on the subject." His eyes dropped to her hand resting on the table and for a moment, Christine was sure that he would take her hand in his, but he made no move to do so.

"Thank you," she sighed, closing her eyes. She suddenly felt very tired, and wanted only to sleep for a very, very long time.

"Anything I can do for you, rest assured that I will. And perhaps, sometime, if you are feeling better, I can play my lyre for you, and you can sing, if you wish, like you used to before. Would that please you, my dear?"

"Maybe. Oh, I do not know. Not anymore." She opened her eyes again and saw that he was looking at her with such concern, it nearly made her want to cry all over again. "Thank you for trying, though. You are kind to try."

After that, there did not seem much of a point to attempt to carry on with conversation, not when things were already so strained between them, so Erik and Christine parted their ways and retired to their rooms. This time, neither came out until morning.

It was then that Christine found Erik once more in the kitchen, carving out pieces from a loaf of bread, what would presumably be her breakfast. Again, when he presented her with her plate, he did not take one for himself, but simply sat down opposite her, watching her intently as she ate, his eyes following the trailed of her fingers to her mouth and back again. The whole of it, for Christine, was very awkward.

"So," she began in between bites. "Do you ever eat?"

"Oh, yes. I simply make mine earlier than yours, because I am up far earlier than most, and because of the mask, which, as you might have guessed, prohibits me from eating very effectively," he replied, motioning vaguely to his covered mouth.

She continued eating after that, not knowing what else to say to the man sitting in front of her. Finally, she finished her breakfast, and was glad to get the water for washing the dishes again, so that she would not have to endure anymore of Erik's staring. It was when she stood, however, that she saw Erik's eyes travel down her form in such a way that it was hard for her to miss. Blushing, she turned away, hoping to go outside before this situation turned any more awkward, when she heard a slight 'oh, dear.'

"What?" She asked, crossing her arms in front of her as she turned back to him, hoping the redness had left her face.

"I am afraid I have been very foolish," he said as he reached to collect her empty plate. "I suppose you only have with you that one dress that you have on currently? You did not bring any more with you, I presume?"

"Oh, no," she sighed, starting to understand where he was going with this. She had searched last night for something else to wear, as her own dress was beginning to get dirty to the point where it was noticeable, and had found nothing within the chests and drawers in her room that had been of any help. So, she was still dressed in the cream-colored chiton she had come in. He had only just realized she had nothing else to wear when he had noticed she was still wearing her clothes from yesterday, which explained why he had looked at her so obviously. He had not done so out of… desire or any such thing like that, although Christine's heart still fluttered at the thought of it.

"Yes, I fear I completely failed to think this through. Hm." He looked at her again, his golden eyes travelling up and down as he measured her, completely oblivious to the way Christine flushed and fidgeted. "I suppose… Yes, I suppose that I might have a few things that might do but I will have to see. You are so much smaller than myself, after all, so this will be a bit of a trial, but do not worry, sweet Christine! I shall find more for you to wear! I refuse to let you live in discomfort while you are in my house."

And with that, he walked off, leaving a very bewildered Christine lingering in the kitchen, wondering if he meant for her to follow him. With nowhere else to go, she decided she might as well, and ran to catch up with his lengthy strides.

She trailed behind him until he came to the door of his own room, and entered into it, motioning for her to follow him in when she lingered outside. The design was very similar to the room he had given her to stay in, but there was more furniture in his, and more objects, which made things appear altogether more lived in, and gave off a more homey atmosphere that Christine's room lacked. As she looked around, he opened a chest at the foot of his bed and began to dig through it, searching very intently for something. Every few seconds, there would be a soft thump on the floor as he dropped a bundle of cloth onto it, until there was a large pile of different colored fabrics laying next to him.

"This should be enough, I think," he said at last, standing to survey his work. "Yes, I think this will do. Come over here, Christine, and I shall see how I can make this work as pleasantly as possible for you."

She moved over next to him, and did as he instructed—sometimes lifting up one of her arms, sometimes both, as he held a large piece of fabric up to her. When she tucked it under her chin one way, it was so long that it trailed on the floor, but when she turned it the other way, it was just long enough to brush the tops of her feet.

"Ah, this is satisfactory, indeed! These will work quite nicely, I think, with a few modifications," Erik said, lifting a few more of the fabrics and holding them up to her.

"Good," Christine replied, smiling as he worked. "It would be a shame if I could only wear this old thing during my stay here."

"Yes, indeed. What color do you desire?" He asked, motioning to the fabrics laid out across his arms, and the few still strewn on the floor.

She chose a brightly colored blue one, the color of the sky on a summer's day.

"Lovely!" He cried, clearly proud of his problem-solving abilities. "Yes, this will do perfectly. Although… Hm—I suppose you might have trouble getting a thing so large as that on by yourself, and I suppose you will need someone… to, ah… help you. Oh. This is why people possess servants, I am now beginning to realize."

Christine might have laughed at how quickly his manner had slipped from excited to embarrassed, had she not been feeling the same way as he did. "Yes, that is one reason. Ah… Let's see…" She lifted the piece of fabric, trying to gauge how she would tie it about her with no one to help her. Perhaps it could be done, if she tried hard enough, and possessed at least two extra hands…

Erik began to wring his hands. "I did not think of this either, I am afraid." He watched as she struggled to lift the heavy fabric around her, sometimes taking a step forward, as if he wanted to help her, before stepping back again. "Perhaps," he said at last, once she had the blue fabric draped about her in such a way that resembled the chiton she was currently wearing. "Perhaps, you ought to try and do it by yourself first, and if you truly cannot, I can attempt to help you as best I can."

She agreed with him quickly, but she had already decided that no matter what, she would succeed in putting on this giant cloth by herself, because the thought of Erik seeing her in any state of indecency made her blush all over again. Besides, she was sure that if she worked hard and long enough, she would be able to tie it well enough. So, taking the blue fabric in her arms, she crossed back to her own room and found that she was correct—after nearly fifteen minutes of fighting to tie back the cloth in such a way that it would not slip off her shoulders, she succeeded unaided.

She presented herself to him in the kitchen where she found him once again, washing the dishes while he waited for her. His head shot up when she told him to look at her, so quickly it almost would have been comical, had Christine been comfortable enough to laugh at him. She spun around once, showing him her new outfit, which she had found she really quite liked, despite the fact that she knew he had worn it, and that it had an odd but not entirely unpleasant smell to it that she knew must belong to him.

"Thank you," she murmured, smoothing out the fabric again after her spin. "I really do like this. The color is so pretty."

"But of course! If you wish, you may keep all those clothes, as well. The ones I gave to you really do not suit me much anymore, although I assure you, they are still in prime condition. It is just that such bright colors, like that blue, are not entirely to my taste. I prefer darker colors," he said, and Christine noted his dark brown toga. "You, however, look beautiful in blue."

"Oh!" Christine smiled at him again as she began to pick at her finger nails beneath the table, hoping for all the world she did not look nearly as pleased as she felt. "Thank you."

He gave her a curt nod before turning his attention back to the dishes. "There is no need to thank me, dear girl. I am simply stating a fact."

Christine left the room before he could see how terribly she was blushing.

Besides that, however, the rest of the day passed without incident. Although Erik was strange with all his odd mannerisms, Christine was beginning to find that she liked him all the same. He went out of the way to get things she desired, whether it be clothing, food, or anything else, truly, and was far kinder to her than she thought she deserved. Despite the fact that the tension between them was constantly there, clouding the space between them, there was something else growing between them, too, something that greatly resembled friendship. With so little else to do, Christine was obligated to sit and listen to Erik's stories—of which he did have a great abundance, even if very few of them had much to do with concerning his own past—and exchange questions with him. She found that he was a great lover of poetry, specifically the epic kind, but he loathed the story of Ilium. When she had asked him why he felt so towards it—for she enjoyed the story, herself—he had only said something along the lines of 'there is enough bloodshed in the world; there is no reason for people to romanticize mindless killing more so than needed.' Aside from simply playing music, he also built his own musical instruments, as well, and occasionally sold them to earn some money for the few things that he needed. He was able to cook, to sing, to craft instruments, to clean, and to play, and Christine was quickly beginning to wonder if there was anything in the world which Erik could not do.

Christine also found it surprisingly easy to open up to Erik about her own life, even though he refused to do the same, and he would listen to her eagerly for hours on end. She found herself telling him everything about her sisters, what she remembered of her mother, about the time an unknown passerby had offered to make her a queen after he heard her sing, about childhood fantasies and mature realizations both. And he listened happily. The only things she could not bring herself to speak of were her father and, for some reason, Rhal, her dear old childhood friend. Speaking of her father was too painful for her even now, but as for Rhal—she did not know why she avoided mentioning him. Something, however, felt wrong about her doing so, especially to Erik, with his soft golden eyes and his gentle care for her. So, those two subjects she left quietly tucked away in her mind; he had his secrets and she had hers.

That night, after Christine ate her dinner (Erik neglected to do so in front of her once again), he brought her back to his music room and entertained her with his lyre for some time, long past when the sun had slipped below the horizon. But there was power in his music that made her feel something warm building inside of her, and made her want to close her eyes and bask forever in the peace it brought to her. It did bring her peace that stemmed from the memories of her father playing the same instrument, but happy sorts of memories, memories that did not hurt to think of again. She treasured these moments with Erik the most, when the two of them could sit for hours without talking, when music was all that existed between them.

Lying in bed afterwards, the sound of his music still ringing in her ears, Christine could not help but think that perhaps she and Erik had started off on a bad foot, and that he was truly not so bad after all. Yes, he wore a mask that hid him from her, and yes, it was very possible that whatever had occurred in his past involved murder or other monstrosities, but he had never shown her anything other than kindness, except, of course, when she had tried to remove his mask. He had felt so badly after that, and apologized so profusely that she had put the matter behind her for the most part. It had been her fault, too, after all, and if she had not tried to remove his mask, he would not have been desperate enough to attack her. And, yes, it was possible that he was the man she was destined to marry, but as she lay in her bed, halfway between dreams and reality, no dread flooded through her at the thought of him as her husband. Perhaps, it would not be such a bad thing. Perhaps, she thought, as she closed her eyes, they could be friends, like he had wanted. She would not mind it…

When she awoke again, it was to the sound of screams, coming from down the hallway.

Another A/N: How are you liking things so far? Are you into the story? Leave a comment and let me know?

And sorry about the little cliffhanger, especially because tomorrow I'm going away on yet another vacation where I will have neither wifi nor service, so no updates until next Saturday or so, unfortunately. But after I get back, hopefully I can crank out another chapter before school starts up again!