A/N: It's just barely come to my attention that strikethrough text (text with a line through it) is unable to be formatted in documents uploaded to the site. Sooo, for an upcoming scene in which there is SUPPOSED to be strikethrough text (they're crossed-out words in a note), I've underlined it instead. Not remotely the same effect (which is really disappointing), but I'm sure you'll get the idea at least.

Thanks for your patience, my dears! This is a long chapter, so buckle up!

The performance that evening was even better than my last, for no longer was my Siebel quite so tormented in the midst of his love, but full of life, alive with hope. I channeled so much of this into Siebel's words, my face glowing with the memory of Erik's laugh upon my ear, his lips upon my hand. I knew he watched me, though I could see no outline or even a shadow in Box Five; I could feel his presence, his delight, like the ghostly whisper of fingers against my skin.

Oh, what a confusing, alarming, yet strangely enticing day this had been! When the performance was over, and after everyone had congratulated the principal players on their own splendid performances, my acquaintances gathered about me in a throng, shaking my hands and clapping me lightly on the back. "She's a growing credit to our opera house, is Mlle. Daaé," I heard one man say, and the rest joined in a little cheer. I thanked them through my blushes, and then Carlotta appeared in front of me, silent and imposing. She was a tall woman, amply figured and ever defiant in posture, her eyes flashing. I stiffened, ready for anything, but she took my chin firmly in her fingers and tipped it up so that I looked directly in her eyes. "Yes, you did very well to-night indeed, Svedesa," she said, the Italian word for Swede, and amidst her defiance, there was pride. When she dropped her fingers from my face, I flushed a little and modestly bowed my head. "High praise, Signora, and I thank you for it," I said, glancing back up at her and measuring my words carefully. Is she toying with me? She has never paid me compliment before. Not once! "Though I am certain everyone would agree with me that your star shone brightest."

She tossed her head. "Ha!" she barked. "You are learning to play the game of words and flattery; it is somewhat admirable. But I mean this sincerely. I do not know who your teacher is, but they must be very good to have brought out such a spark in that voice, such newly discovered confidence in that formerly shrinking little frame. Or perhaps," and her eyes twinkled quite unexpectedly, "it is a lover, eh? No, no, do not tell me – we women must keep our little secrets. You will keep up with your practice, yes? You will be a very fine singer, little Daaé." Ignoring my astonished blush, she swept into the throng herself, greeting her devoted claque and showering them with the attention they craved. I slipped away to my dressing-room, sinking to the floor once I had shut and locked the door.

A lover. Does it so plainly show upon my face? Does she or anyone else suspect that my teacher and my "lover", such as he is, are one and the same?

It made my head spin. Erik. My lover. Why does that not sound so terrible or preposterous as it did only days ago?

I spied a note upon my dressing-table which had not been there before the performance, and I rose to my feet with a sigh. I wondered if he watched me, even now, silent behind the mirror, and hoped that he didn't. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts.

I fingered the paper, the familiar weight of it in my hand – Erik always used good paper, not the cheap sort – and slowly, silently read the spidery handwriting. A few things in the letter had been hastily scratched out, as though he had thought better of it as he wrote, but I was able to carefully discern these through the messy lines of red ink regardless.

My dearest Christine,

I cannot begin to express how brilliantly you shone onstage to-night. You will make a name for yourself very soon; I again hope that our sojourn in the country will not harm your career. Think on it, and tell me what you decide. We might perhaps travel to the house only on week-ends, or perhaps we might holiday there every month for a week at a time, and tell the managers you are resting your voice. I would be loathe to inadvertently crush this legacy merely so that I can have you all to myself for a few months at one stretch. Though it is an attractive prospect.

I am vastly content in knowing that you will be quite independent when I am gone. I know you do not like to speak of it, that it makes you sorrowful, and perhaps I should tell you that this is of no small wonder to me. No-one has ever sorrowed over me before, not like this, and perhaps it is quite wicked of me indeed to feel somewhat gratified – to feel cared for. Am I wicked, Christine? I don't mean to be.

Forgive the ramblings of an old man. Rest well to-night; I shall hire a cab to-morrow and meet you at your flat precisely at ten. I have the address you gave me.

With love,

Sincerely,

E.

I closed my eyes, refusing to allow myself the luxury of tears, and set the paper on the dressing-table. I changed swiftly behind the screen, and when I came out, I folded up the note and slipped it into my bodice, next to my heart.

I had some difficulty sleeping, and was awake and arisen in my bed at home long before my usual time.

I did not have Erik's skill in the kitchen, and I had no maid at present – after Mama's death, I had sent our maid Emilie on her way with an excellent reference, knowing I could not afford to keep her on, nor did I have any particular need for her now that I did not require anyone to look after Mama.

My stomach was aflutter and my appetite was small; I breakfasted on a little buttered bread and not much else. I played a bit on Mama's worn little pianoforte, practicing old skills which had long been unused – I was pleased to realize that I still remembered a few songs from years ago. Mama Valerius had taught me how to play on this very piano (for like her husband, she was also possessed of some musical skill), and many a happy time I'd had beside her on the bench. Perhaps Erik might have this moved to the house, I thought, so I can play freely when we are there. He does not know I can play; how I would surprise him!

I wondered, however, whether or not this might in fact result in a sudden bout of firm criticism and instruction, if all my fun might be spoiled by the sudden appearance of Erik the Teacher. He would tell me how to hold my fingers properly, no doubt, perhaps even show me himself – and then, quite apart from the disagreeable prospect of being callously instructed in the finer methods of playing my own pianoforte, the sudden image of his long fingers on the keys beside mine inexplicably gave me a warm, full-bodied shiver.

I found my old instruction books and boredly played a few childish melodies to re-acclimate my fingers to the feel of the piano beneath them; how had it been so long since I had played? It was as though I had been away from it for a hundred years, and yet it was also as though I had never left. My fingers remembered quickly how to lightly, deftly curl atop the keys, and never to lie flat – they remembered this song, and that, and a long-forgotten joy began to bubble up within me as I reacquainted myself with my old friend of polished wood and ivory. It seemed such a long time since it had been uncovered from beneath the sheet keeping away the dust; Mama had preferred my voice to anything else musical in her later years, and much of my practice and my time had been taken up for so long by studies at the Conservatoire until I had finally joined the throng of eager new-bloods at the Garnier.

Oh, how proud of me she had been, how very proud and very full of life indeed! It was only last year that her mind had begun to slip – little things, at first, like forgetting where she had put her hair-brush only moments ago, occasionally forgetting to stir the milk on the stove and letting it curdle and burn away. Near the end she could not be trusted to go outside or even do the simplest of tasks herself, so unpredictable was the state of her lucidity. Many was the time I had considered abandoning my slowly blossoming career at the Opera to look after her myself, but a great many little influences had convinced me to stay.

The maid, Emilie, had been very kind and thoughtful, and Mama had enjoyed having her at the flat to keep her company and to make sure all the cleaning and cooking was done when I was at rehearsals during the day. The scant few nights I had spent in Erik's home during this time had been rather devilishly difficult to account for, but I explained them away by saying that I was occasionally staying at the residence of a friend with whom I could practice my music. I had meant for this to be taken to mean a female friend, but I knew Emilie had suspected it was a man; to her credit, she had never voiced any overt disdain for this occasional arrangement nor required any further explanations, and for my part I had made sure that Erik knew I could not often be away from home.

On Mama's more lucid days, whenever I had happened to bring up the idea of leaving the Opera, she had reminded me of how well Emilie cared for her and had refused to hear of me giving up my career. "And what will you have when I'm gone from this earth, then?" she'd said. "What will you do? Work in a laundry, or pluck and skin animals at the butcher's? Work in the factories? Pah! I'll not think of my girl with the golden throat working her hands raw to the bone with manual labor when she could make a perfectly good life for herself with the instrument God gave her – that voice, my child, is your gateway to a better world."

It was after her death and Emilie's dismissal that my visits to Erik's home had increased; I desperately wanted the company, the comfort that music provided. In those days he was indeed teacher and taskmaster and – sometimes – friend, and I had clung to that security and structure, even in the midst of the distaste and confusion which had plagued me for so long since learning his true nature. I had always suspected – even before he revealed himself – that at the other end of the Voice lay a man, but Erik had always possessed an uncanny way of winding truth and lies together so that one could hardly tell where one began and the other ended.

He had caught me up entirely in those blissful early days when I had heard him first. I had dreadfully missed my father, and the thought that perhaps the Voice was some sign from beyond death, the Musikens Ängel my Papa had promised so foolishly to send me before he died…in the way of strange things that people irrationally want to believe in the midst of their grief, this had been my sustenance. It had been years since my father's death when Erik began coming to me as the Voice, but that grief had still plucked at me then and did so even now, oftimes with a terrible sharpness that made it feel as though I had lost Papa only yesterday. Erik had preyed upon that grief, albeit perhaps inadvertently; I saw him now through a much different lens than I had at the moment of cold, gut-wrenching clarity when I had truly realized his deception.

I had thought him cold and selfish, and he undeniably had been, but now I saw as though from a great distance how someone desperate for kinship – as I thought he must have been – could find themselves saying irresponsible things on a whim to catch a person's attention; I imagined Erik falling headlong into his own deception as it grew almost too large to contain. I did not in the least excuse it – though I had mostly forgiven him for it – but I thought perhaps I understood it better now than I had in the past.

I spent the remaining time organizing some old papers of Mama's and the Professor's, filing away letters and notes, a few out-of-date bills, and other correspondences that hadn't been touched since Mama's passing. I became caught up enough in my task that I scarcely heard the bell ring at the door precisely at ten – but when I did, I ceased my work at once and hurried to it.

It was not Erik who stood there, but a driver – a cabriolet waited at the curb-side. "If you please, mademoiselle," he said politely, "the gentleman told me you would be waiting for him."

"Would you describe him, please?" I asked, rather unwilling to get into a brougham I had not hired on the passing word of a driver – being a woman living alone in the city brought with it a certain necessity for caution, and while the "gentleman" he spoke of was almost certainly Erik, I could easily find myself at a terrible disadvantage if I assumed wrongly.

He nodded. "Tall – spindly, even. Strange eyes – if you don't mind me saying so. I daresay he might have been injured, for he covers a great deal of his face – "

"Yes, never mind, that's him," I said gratefully, and swiftly fetched my reticule. I politely declined his hand as he offered to help me down the steps, but thanked him for the gesture.

I embarked into the brougham, and was greeted by the sight of Erik looking rather nervous, although to a casual observer he might have appeared at ease. My practiced eyes noted the tenseness of his shoulders, the lacing of his fingers in his lap. I smiled at him, and he appeared to slightly relax.

"You are…you are well?" he asked somewhat awkwardly, and I nodded. "You?" I asked softly, and his eyes closed for a split second before he answered. "That is a somewhat…subjective question," he said, and I felt a spike of dread mixed with a dash of humiliation.

"I wasn't referring to your physical health," I said quickly, "but…while we're on the subject…you didn't have another attack while I was gone, did you?" He shook his head. "No. But I thank you for your concern. You received my note?"

"I did," I said, remembering with a pang the crossed-out With love at its conclusion. "I shall have to think about it – about what you suggested, regarding the house – a little more before I answer. But," I changed the subject, injecting a note of forced cheer into my voice, "let's talk about to-day. Where are we going?"

He fiddled with the buttons on his coat, not looking at me. "I thought perhaps we could take a stroll through one of the less-traveled parks. I am…somewhat regretting my hastiness in suggesting this venture last night, although I know it would please you."

"Why do you regret it?" I asked with a touch of consternation.

He shifted uncomfortably. "I am afraid I somewhat overly romanticized the idea of strolling about the city with the object of my affection on a Sunday. I had not considered…other factors. People might stare. Some might even harass us, I daresay. That brief journey to the Hotel de Ville on the day we were wed was short, necessary, and done quickly. But this might not be so simple a task. I…I am not accustomed to walking about in broad daylight for lengthy periods of time."

"Erik," I said softly, moving closer to him at once and covering my hand with his. He looked directly at me then, and the tight line of his mouth softened. "I do not deserve you," he said.

I shook my head. "Nonsense. But…if it bothers you to walk about in the city, and you would rather not do this to-day, I won't mind it."

"I do have something," he said then, "something I've used before, on certain occasions. I didn't want to shock you, or subject you to anything for which you were not previously prepared. It isn't entirely convincing, but it might make it a touch easier to…blend in."

I furrowed my brow. "What is it?"

"Will you…will you turn away for a few moments, please?" he asked, and my mind buzzing with confusion, I did as he asked. I heard a slide of fabric, heard more rustling that suggested he was going through his coat-pockets, and then I sniffed the air as a strange yet vaguely familiar smell pervaded it. "Erik – "

"Don't turn around yet. Please."

I pursed my lips and tapped my fingers impatiently on my knee. Several moments passed, and finally he said with some faint dissatisfaction, "Well…all right. I suppose you can turn around now. But – will you promise me, please, not to be too alarmed? I know you likely won't be able to help it, but…"

"Erik, I don't even know what –" I said in exasperation as I turned around, and then bit my lip and tried not to draw in a startled breath.

Erik was not wearing his mask. I could not even recall how long it had been since I had seen him without it; all the sharp, sickly-pale planes of his face and the bluish-grey hollows surrounding his eyes stood out as starkly as I remembered, save for one thing in the very center of it. He wore a false nose, the seams of it covered somewhat by a little blended greasepaint.

That was the smell, I thought suddenly. Stage makeup and some sort of adhesive. Collodion, perhaps?

His eyes darted off to the side, as though he were desperately trying to avoid looking at my muted reaction. "I…I don't have to remain like this, if you don't want me to. I'll put on my mask again if you tell me. I'll do whatever you say."

He sounded so much like a child, a child in a man's body; the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding came out of me in a rush. "Why would you think that?" I whispered. "Why would you think I would ask you to do that?"

He closed his eyes, savagely wiping his makeup-coated fingers on a pocket-handkerchief. His voice was pained. "Because before you, Christine Daaé, I feel more exposed than I do in front of the whole of Paris."

My stomach gave a painful little clench. "You needn't feel that way."

"Oh, it isn't a question of need," he said with a touch of bitterness, still not looking at me. "It's entirely involuntary. Some reflexes are biological, ingrained in our very blood before we are even born; others must be learned, sometimes very early in our lives indeed. This particular reflex is, as I am sure you have guessed, of the latter variety."

"Didn't I tell you it wouldn't bother me?" I asked, more bravely than I felt. "You ought to take me at my word that it doesn't."

"Yes," he said smoothly, "I suppose I could, but the fact remains that you have always been a rather terrible liar."

My face flushed. "I'm not bothered," I said vehemently. "Only a little startled; I wasn't expecting this."

"Yes, I gathered that," he said dryly, and finally his eyes met mine. "Tell me truthfully," he asked, his voice soft and uncertain, but earnest. "Would you rather I go about to-day as I was, or no? With the mask, or without?"

"Without," I said easily. Inwardly, however, I hated myself for the thrill of horrified fascination that gripped me as I beheld his extraordinary visage. Would he have been handsome, had it not been for the circumstances of his birth? I thought not; the false nose was unsettling, but even with a real one, even with an ordinary-looking mouth and more color in his face, he would not have been particularly handsome. But there were plenty of plain-looking men who lived perfectly contented, ordinary lives, and I imagined Erik would have far preferred to be plain than to be…what he was.

"You're pondering something," he said. "I want to know what it is."

I shook my head quickly. "It's nothing."

"That fetching shade of red in your cheeks suggests otherwise," he pointed out calmly. "I daresay, however, that the fact that you show your little fibs so easily upon your face indicates a certain measure of good-natured conscience that a better liar would almost certainly not possess. There is, I believe, nothing remotely malicious in your occasional attempts at deceit, although I should perhaps point out that we both promised to put lies behind us."

My face flushed more deeply. "Forgive me," I said. "What I ought to have said is that I'm not comfortable sharing all of my innermost thoughts at present. But I do prefer that you go without the mask to-day. That was no lie."

He nodded. "Thank you," he said. "That is…kind."

I found his hand again, and he grasped it lightly. "You are a wonder, Christine," he said softly. "I sometimes think perhaps I am taking advantage of that sweet-tempered nature of yours."

"You aren't," I said. "In fact I rather think that you deserve far more kindness than what I give."

"Now that is surely a lie," he said, but with a sardonic little twist to his mouth. He began lifting my hand before suddenly stopping, looking at me. "I don't know the rules anymore, I'm afraid," he said. "You'll have to enlighten me."

"You can kiss my hand," I said, a little color still coming into my face. "It's all right."

"Very well," he said, and he carefully brushed his lips over my knuckles. I didn't know why, after so many of his previous kisses upon my hand, this should still make me blush – but it did.

"You're certain," he said, "that you will be at ease in my company while I appear thus?"

"Of course," I said, in spite of the little tremble in my stomach, and almost placed my hand on his cheek but swiftly thought better of it. We were shying away from too much intimacy at present, after all, and hadn't the whole point of this been to proceed at a somewhat more leisurely pace? Besides, I thought it might startle him, or make him feel "boxed in" all over again, and I had no wish to inspire another ill mood on a day that ought to be peaceful between us.

We arrived at a moderately sized park, peppered and surrounded with a great many trees. Erik's hand gripped mine with the nervousness of a child and the strength of a man not paying attention, and I inadvertently let out a little squeak of pain. He drew in a breath and loosened his grip at once. "Forgive me," he said. "I…I don't know what's come over me this morning."

I somewhat gingerly laced my fingers through his. "I am with you," I said softly, the game suddenly seeming very distant. "I'm your wife, and I'll remain at your side."

He closed his eyes and shivered. "I'm simply a suitor taking his intended on a stroll to-day," he said, "but that is a lovely sentiment indeed, from an even lovelier young woman."

He helped me from the cabriolet and the driver left us; suddenly we seemed quite alone. Rather than be unsettled by this, I had rather come to welcome moments spent quietly in each other's company, and I felt strangely tranquil – a counterpoint, perhaps, to Erik's uncertainty.

"Come," he said, slipping his fingers from mine and offering me his arm instead. A little lance of disappointment went through me, but I took his arm without complaint. I had asked for this, after all, this courtship; I might as well see it through to its conclusion. But my thoughts were a tumble of strange longing; the absence of our former familiarity suddenly pricked at me, and the novelty of pretense was beginning to slowly wear away.

I really am the very picture of capriciousness, I thought miserably. Perhaps this invisible distance between us is for the best after all; it will give me some measure of time to know my own mind.

I looked up at Erik, and he glanced down at me; my thoughts calmed. "I am glad to be with you, M. Deschamps," I said with a small smile, and his mouth curved up, his own smile slowly spreading across his face and – to my surprise – quite transforming it for a moment. Oh, happiness suited him very well indeed, whatever he might think, and I felt a deep, comfortable warmth spread along the length of my spine.

"I am glad to be with you, Mlle. Daaé," he said in turn, and my own smile widened a little further still. I averted my eyes, feeling unaccountably shy beneath his soft gaze; my fingers, tucked into the crook of his elbow, gave it a light little squeeze.

Suddenly Erik stiffened, and I saw two pairs of people ahead of us on the path. Like us, they appeared to be couples out for a Sunday stroll, and I gripped Erik's arm reassuringly. "I am with you," I said again, and he let out a long breath, his body beginning to relax, though he quickened our pace a little.

We passed the first couple, a man and a woman, who glanced in our direction only briefly. I saw the man do a sudden double-take as he regarded Erik, but he had the grace to swiftly avert his eyes and pretend he hadn't been staring. Erik didn't appear to notice, his eyes firmly fixed on the path ahead, his jaw set in a firm line.

The second couple was actually a pair of women – sisters or friends, I wasn't certain – and they had seated themselves on a bench. I saw their eyes widen a little as they looked at Erik, and then their gaze darted toward me with something like confused pity. I smiled beatifically at them, leaning a little into Erik as we walked and giving him an adoring look. When I happened to glance back at the women, one of them was awkwardly pretending to search through her reticule, and the other was looking at her hands in her lap.

When we had put a fair distance between ourselves and the other people on the path, Erik's jaw unclenched and he looked at me with an unreadable expression. "You are quite a fine actress, Mlle. Daaé," he said smoothly, and my cheeks flushed. "All of my acting," I said, forcing my voice to sound calm, "onstage or otherwise, has always carried at least a measure of truth in it. Make of that what you will."

He was silent for several moments as we walked, and my face grew warmer as I stared ahead at the path. "You may tell me at once if this is too impertinent a question," he said, "but I confess I am…curious."

"Yes?" I asked placidly.

His arm shifted a little under mine. "Has any man…ever kissed you?"

I furrowed my brow. "That depends on what sort of –" I began, but he cut me off. "Your mouth," he said, his voice at once curt and uncertain. "Has any man ever claimed your mouth?"

I looked at him, mildly startled at his directness. "Now that is rather impertinent, M. Deschamps," I said evenly, keeping my composure by playing the game, "but if you truly must know, I suppose it can't do much harm to tell you. I don't wish for there to be very many secrets between us." I paused, gathering my courage. "Raoul did," I said, my chest suddenly seeming to shrink as I said it. I had felt more than brave enough to let the words come, but as they came, I abruptly felt small and very nervous indeed. "Only once. Before he left for the North Pole."

"Ah," he said softly, his eyes closing for a moment. When they opened again, he did not look at me. "And did you make any promises to him, or he to you? I am curious about this as well."

"I…" I swallowed. "We…we said that perhaps we might marry. Someday." It was not exactly a lie.

"Do you think he truly cares for you," he asked in a very flat voice, "your sweet-faced sailor?"

I bit my lip, facing forward again. "Yes," I said softly, "I do."

"Do you love him?"

These words were pained beyond expression, and my teeth drove down upon my bottom lip so fiercely I almost drew blood. "Erik, don't ask me that," I whispered. "You won't like the answer."

"I don't care," he said, suddenly stopping in the middle of the path and turning swiftly to face me. "I want to know."

I trembled. "I think I do," I said. "But it's…different with him. I'm not at all sure his family would ever give their consent for us to marry, and I don't want him to risk ruin by giving everything up to make me his wife. I haven't allowed myself any grand notions. Only vague possibilities, far in the future."

"And me?" he said, his voice suddenly fierce, no longer the gentle, timid suitor. "What do you feel for me, beyond pity and revulsion?"

"I told you," I said with some alarm, "I care for you."

"Yes, but what does that mean, exactly?" he asked me, his eyes burning. "Is it the care of a student for her aging teacher? A daughter doting upon her ill father? Or is it something else entirely?"

"Erik," I said, quivering, "you are not my father, however gamely you have occasionally acted in that sort of capacity. And it is not how I see you, nor how I care for you."

"What, then?" he asked brusquely. "Teacher? Friend?"

"More than that," I said before I could stop myself, and he swallowed. "More?" he asked. I took a breath, then nodded.

"Explain that to me, Christine," he said, lightly grasping my shoulders. "Please."

My pulse quickened. "Those people will be gaining on us at any moment, if they are continuing up the path," I said, and without further ado, he took my arm and pulled me into a nearby copse of trees, where we were safely obscured from view.

"I…I apologize for touching you so much without first gaining your leave," he said suddenly, and I shook my head. "It's all right. I don't mind keeping to the same rules as before, at least in this particular instance."

"In that case," he said, and tipped my chin up with his fingers, far differently than Carlotta had. My blood pounded in my temples. "Tell me, songbird," he said, his voice honeyed and rich, but demanding, "what does 'more' mean?"

"I…" My voice caught in my throat, and I stared at him, at his sharp, pallid wreck of a face, his slightly flushed, twisted mouth, his fierce eyes. The old Christine would have stammered out I don't know, please don't ask me, take me home, I don't want to do this anymore, but the new Christine had rather different ideas in spite of the lingering little anxieties which assailed me.

"Two nights ago," I murmured, before I could stop myself, "I wondered if I was in love with you."

As the words left my mouth, I felt a sudden rush of panic, but it was far too late to take them back. His lips parted and his fingers fell slowly from my chin, his hand going limply to his side.

"You're not lying," he breathed. "Oh, this is impossible."

"It's true," I said, and my voice quivered, "although I might as well tell you I haven't quite decided the answer yet."

Erik's hands were shaking; one finger on the left hand tapped a nervous rhythm on his thigh, the other hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. I reached out without thinking and he held up his hand, halting me. "Give me…give me a moment," he said. "Please."

I stood uncertainly as he shut his eyes and took a few deep breaths. "Oh, Christine, I feel so very exposed," he whispered. "All I wish to do is hide. A man doesn't do that, does he? A man is not meant to hide, even a very ugly one. But I am truly beyond the pale in every conceivable way."

I felt another painful dagger in my heart, and anger too – anger for the treatment he must have endured, anger for his upbringing. Anger for all the despicable human influences, large and small, which had shaped his view of himself. And then I felt shame – for I, too, had been no stranger to repulsion inspired by that visage. Many things had happened over the course of my acquaintance with Erik to make me initially dislike the idea of being bound to him, but the past few weeks had been different. He seemed different; he was, at least to my observation, truly making an effort to be better. I was ashamed that my wariness of him had almost as much to do with his appearance as it did some of his past traits – traits which he seemed, for the moment at least, to be doing an adequate job of reigning in.

I also realized that his face now held far less aversion and distaste for me than it had previously. It was only a face, a collection of features, and he was far more than the sum of it. I knew I cared for him; I knew that the feeling was far more than that I might feel for a friend. How many times had I imagined putting my lips to his over the past several days, and especially since the events of yesterday morning? It had gone from an idle caprice in my mind to an almost definitive longing in my heart. And that was a very earth-shattering thought indeed: where once I had feared and despised the idea of giving him my undivided affection, I now knew for certain that it was not so unthinkable at all.

Filled with sudden, strangely bold determination, I raised my hand to his cheek and he flinched backwards, but I shook my head. "Let me," I murmured, inexplicably desperate to convince him to allow me this, "please let me, Erik, please," and he stilled, his eyes filled with some mixture of terror and wonder. I lightly touched my fingers to the shallow dip of his temple, the sharp jut of his cheekbone and the gaunt hollow beneath; I slowly grazed them over the long line of his jaw. His eyes fluttered almost shut and his breath came in short little bursts.

"Are you…are you feeling badly?" I asked softly, awkwardly. "Is this all right? I'll stop if – "

"No," he whispered. "Please. It's…I am merely…very unaccustomed. You are so…" He opened his eyes. "So very beautiful," he said hoarsely.

My fingers trembled atop his skin. It was softer than I had expected, like something between velvet and leather; some places were smooth, others crinkled with the lines of age. I drew my fingers over his throat before I could give it a second thought, feeling a little faint stubble beneath his chin – there was, strangely, none on his face – and he caught my wrist, breathing heavily. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful for your…very generous attentions," he said, "but I am feeling mildly overwhelmed at present."

"Oh," I said quickly. "I'm sorry, I knew this might make you feel boxed in, I didn't mean – "

"It isn't that," he interrupted, and then paused. "Well…not entirely, at any rate."

"Then what?" I asked, and then suddenly color came up into my cheeks. "Oh," I said. "I…oh."

A mild flush came into his face too at this – which was a very odd sight indeed – and he awkwardly smoothed his coat, dropping my wrist and taking a stiff step back from me. "We should keep walking," he said.

I might have felt rather brazen and powerful for a moment, but the feeling faded very quickly. I began to think that perhaps I had gone too far, that I had somehow managed to frighten him too badly.

I slowly held out my hand, unsure if he would take it. He did, but gingerly, tucking it quickly into the crook of his arm. As he did this, he regarded me with a strange, very careful expression, almost as though I were made of gunpowder.

"Don't worry," I said, looking away from him, "I won't do that again. Not if you don't want me to."

"Oh, but that is precisely the trouble," he said, and his voice seemed to shiver and slide down my spine like a warm caress. "I do want you to."

My breath caught in my throat, and I looked up at him again. He did not look at me.

"It is my understanding that the flowers in the northern corner of the park are particularly lovely when they begin to bloom," he said quite normally, as though nothing remotely out of the ordinary had happened. "Shall we go and take a look?"

My mouth was slightly open and I shut it quickly. "I…yes," I said, fumbling over my words. "Yes, let's."

We were silent for a long time as we left the trees and continued along a different fork of the path. There were so many things I wanted to say, so many things I wanted to do, but I felt paralyzed by indecision. If I give my heart to Erik, I thought, I might never be able to get it back again after he is gone. And what of Raoul? I loved him first, didn't I? And I love him still – at least, I think I do. Is it a sin, to carve my heart in half? Or is it not at all a question of dividing my love into halves, but simply a matter of multiplying the love I have to give?

We reached the spot he had spoken of, but most of the flowers were still tightly closed in their buds; I was glad I had worn my light wrap, for there was a lingering chill in the air.

Erik looked at me and shrugged rather helplessly. I smiled in return. "Thank you for bringing me here," I said. "The flowers aren't quite in bloom yet, but it's still lovely. It's all right." I smoothed my skirt, giving my hands something to do, and then I spoke again. "Flowers are very much like people at times, aren't they? All they require to reach their full potential is a little warmth, a good place to grow."

"Some plants," Erik said, "are not at all beautiful like carefully tended flowers, but scrubby and hard due to their circumstance. I rather admire the weeds in a garden, in point of fact; they are tenacious. They cling to life despite every obstacle hurled into their path. Flowers experience no such diversity; they wilt and wither under pressure."

"Not all of them, surely," I said, becoming increasingly aware that we were not, in fact, speaking of plants anymore. "Surely there are some flowers which thrive in spite of their obstacles."

"I for one have always enjoyed the sight of marigolds," Erik said, "though they are perhaps not the best example of what you describe. I have never been able to keep them, myself; they are beautiful and fairly hardy, but they require a significant amount of warmth and sunlight. They do not do well in the cold or the dark." He looked pointedly at me.

"Perhaps we could plant some," I said, pretending I didn't know of what he spoke, "at the little house. I'm sure they would do well there."

"Perhaps," he said. "But I wonder if a marigold can truly thrive with a weed in her garden."

I slid my other hand across his arm to meet the one tucked into his elbow. "I rather think," I said, "that the two might learn to peacefully coexist, don't you?"

"Let me put it another way, then," he said, his arm stiff beneath my hands. "Can a marigold love a weed?"

I became very still, and I looked up at him, my heart thumping. "I think perhaps she can," I said quietly. "But you must be patient with her."

He regarded me with a very strange expression, as though he were attempting to take the measure of me, trying to decipher and discern.

I took his cool hand between mine, sliding my fingers over the ropy veins and callused skin, the protruding bones and knuckles. He lifted his other hand to my face, looking at me wonderingly. His fingers hovered just at the side of my cheek, a hair's-breadth away, and on a whim I leaned into it so that he cradled my cheek in his palm. A breath came out of him, a soft oh of surprise.

"I love you, Christine," he said, his voice a pained murmur. "I love you."

I couldn't say the words in return; not yet. I wasn't quite ready for that yet, and I thought – I hoped – he knew this, and that he did not take offense to it. But I thought I was ready for something, at least, and I wondered how to do it when he was so tall and I couldn't reach. Even standing on tip-toe would have made me come up just short of his mouth; I needed him to reciprocate the act, to meet me in the middle, and I hadn't the faintest idea of how to ask for it without startling him.

I lifted my hand to his face again, brushing my fingers over his cheek. He shivered, but didn't move away. When I trailed my fingers over his mouth, his half-lidded eyes shot open and looked at me not with panic, but with molten ardor.

My lips parted, and I tugged on his coat before I could think myself out of it, pulling him down to me.

Our mouths brushed each other's lightly, fumbling and uncertain, an awkward dance between inexperienced partners. His hands were akimbo, shaking. I wanted more, but I was worried Erik would feel it was too much; I released his coat and he straightened, his breath short.

"I…" He pressed his fingers against his lips, then lightly touched my face, my hair, wildly and at random, as though he were trying to make sense of it all. "I'm sorry I didn't…oh, Christine…I was caught off guard, you see, and…"

I put my own finger to his lips to shush him. "Do you want to do it again?" I asked, my boldness startling even me.

He gently grabbed my hand, studying my face intently. "What a question," he said. "What an absolutely extraordinary new caprice from my little fedrottning." (I noted he pronounced it perfectly this time.)

"It isn't a caprice," I said, my knees shaking a little, my lips tingling. "I can assure you of that."

"Be careful, Mlle. Daaé," he said, his voice taking on a low, deliciously dangerous tone. "I may take you at your word."

I opened my mouth to boldly ask him to do just that, but at that moment we heard voices from around the bend, and Erik's expression changed from predatory to mildly unsettled.

"Clearly, we shall have to continue this discussion at a later date," he said, tugging on my hand so that I followed him along the path in the opposite direction from the voices. "This is hardly the time or the place for such matters."

"Where are we going?" I asked, and he sighed. "I don't know," he said. "Home, I suppose. I thought perhaps I might take you to coffee, but you must forgive me my social failings, for I truly don't believe I can manage that just now."

The thought of being underground suddenly felt stifling; and then a thought came to me that was entirely unexpected. "We could go to my flat," I said mildly, and he stopped dead in the middle of the path; I almost bumped into him. "Your flat?" he asked strangely, his voice thin and timid.

"It's not as though there's anyone there to bother us," I said. "Mama's maid has been gone for some time. I live alone." I had a sudden image of being wrapped in his long arms on the sofa – my sofa, this time – and a little burst of anticipation swept through me.

"I…" I saw his tongue dart out very swiftly along his lips as he stared into the distance. "I suppose…if you are amenable…"

"I am," I said. "You've never seen it, and I'd like you to. We can have coffee there, if you want. It would be a very ordinary sort of Sunday."

He looked at me and tilted his head. "Yes," he said quietly. "Yes, I suppose…"

"It's settled, then," I said firmly, quieting the faint shrieks of propriety in my head, and strangely eager for the chance to have more kisses. And who could have imagined I would feel so wanton from such an awkward occurrence? "Let's hail a cab."