Chapter Ten: The Nightingale and the Rose

By the time they returned home from the masquerade ball, Christine was so physically drained of energy that Erik literally had to carry her up the steps—a task which, although he did not mind, made him more aware of just how frail her health was becoming. He silently cursed himself for keeping her out so late.

If you'd just accepted her invitation to begin with, she wouldn't have been standing around waiting for hours. You could have had a dance or two and then come home before she got so tired.

But she was looking at him in a way that no one ever had before, giving him a dazzling smile that he'd once thought reserved for Raoul. In fact, she hadn't stopped smiling since they started dancing. It was an intoxicating smile, the kind of smile that lead to kisses that eventually lead to something more. More than once during his days in Paris he had seen a bashful ballet girl give that sort of smile to a young stagehand right before they'd disappeared behind a curtain or into one of the costume closets. He hadn't ever bothered to spy on them beyond that point, but he was not so naïve that he didn't have a fairly good idea of what had happened next.

But Christine wasn't like those girls. And he didn't want her to be. It was part of what made her so special. She was waiting to give her most precious gift—herself—to the one she would spend forever with.

And now she'll never get to share that gift with anyone.

The thought saddened him. Not so much for his own sake—Erik had long ago come to accept that love on such an intimate level was something he would never know—but for hers. She was so young. And to be deprived of life and love at such a tender age seemed incredibly unfair.

But he couldn't think about that now. So instead, he focused on her smile and forced himself to return the gesture. Already tonight she'd given him more than he'd ever dreamed she would. If a smile was all he'd ever get, then he would cherish that smile with all his heart until the day he died.

xxxx

Despite being incredibly tired when she went to bed, Christine asked Madame Giry to wake her in time for the Sunday morning mass. Once again, she tried to convince Erik to go, and once again he made up some excuse to stay at home despite a rather harsh glare from Madame Giry that made him feel a bit more guilty than he usually did about missing church. While he found the ballet mistress' frequent attempts to revive his Catholic faith a bit of a nuisance, Christine's genuinely concerned pleas were becoming difficult to ignore.

Just go. It wouldn't kill you to attend ONE service with her, would it? Even if you don't believe it, just go for her sake. Give her a little peace of mind. She's unselfish enough to be concerned about your soul. Why aren't you unselfish enough to make her happy?

What business does the Devil's Child have inside the house of God? You know what the church does to those with demons, don't you?

Erik shuddered at the memory. If there had been a day that he had lost his innocence—though he wasn't sure he'd ever had any to begin with—it was the day of the exorcism. The day he'd lost all respect for the one person in his life who, at the time, he'd thought to be a friend. The day whatever little faith he had had been completely shattered. He could still remember the first time he'd ever felt a whip bite into his skin. He had cried out for the priest, for his mother, for God—for anyone who was listening to make it stop—but his plea, it seemed, had fallen on deaf ears. God had shown no mercy then. There was little reason to believe that He would now that Erik had done more than his fair share of sins.

Ultimately, it was this fear rather than the fear of disappointing Christine that won out, and he found himself once again alone at the apartment with several hours to himself. This time, however, he found he was even more agitated than before. After nearly half an hour of restlessly attempting to compose and throwing out nearly everything he wrote, he eventually gave up and decided to simply wait for Christine outside of the cathedral.

It was a fairly long walk to the chapel—a distance that most would have preferred to ride—but all the carriage drivers were currently in church, leaving the roads almost entirely deserted. Erik didn't mind it, though. A year ago, he wouldn't have been able to walk the streets during the day at all. At least in Persia he'd been able to walk about freely.

One never knows how privileged he is to feel the sunlight on his face until he has been deprived of it.

As he drew near to the church, he began to hear strains of music on the breeze. It was an ancient hymn, a song written by the great Psalmist King David set to a more modern tune. Though he had given up on God a long time ago, the music of the church had been the first music he'd ever been exposed to—the psalms and hymns some of the first songs he'd ever sung—and for that, it still held a special place within his heart. Erik stopped, letting the words wash over him, the old familiar song slipping silently from his lips. [1]

Against You, You only, have I sinned and done what is evil in Your sight; so You are right in Your verdictand justified when You judge.

Surely I was sinful at birth, sinful from the time my mother conceived me.

He smiled bitterly at the last line. It couldn't have been more true. The momentary distraction had made him miss a line or two, but he quickly caught back up.

Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean;wash me, and I will be whiter than snow.
Let me hear joy and gladness; let the bones You have crushed rejoice.
Hide Your face from my sins and blot out all my iniquity.

He considered the Psalmist's words for a moment. He made it sound so easy, as if a lifetime

of sins could suddenly be washed away in a single refreshing breath of forgiveness. No acts of punishment or penance required, as if it was given freely rather than earned. But nothing in life had ever been easy for him, and he didn't expect forgiveness to be any different.

But why should he even ask for forgiveness in the first place, he wondered angrily? What sort of loving God would allow His creation to be born into sin? To be born with a face such as his? If anything, it seemed to him that God was the One who needed forgiving.

You do not delight in sacrifice, or I would bring it;You do not take pleasure in burnt offerings.
My sacrifice, O God, is a broken spirit;a broken and contrite heart You, God, will not despise.

Was it possible, he wondered? Was it possible that God did not delight in all the pain that he'd

been through? If so, why did He allow it?

Somewhere amid the chorus of singers, he could hear Christine's voice soaring above the others. He'd heard this song a thousand times as a child, and yet the words had meant nothing to him then. Now, with her voice bringing them to life, they suddenly seemed more real. Sitting down on a bench just across the street, Erik closed his eyes and listened—really listened—to what the words were saying for perhaps the first time in his life.

xxxx

Christine exited the church feeling spiritually refreshed but physically more exhausted than she thought she'd ever been. She'd barely been able to keep her mind on the sermon, having caught herself daydreaming several times—though what she had been thinking about she could not remember. It was as if she had simply lost a few moments of her life, as if her body had been present within the church while her mind was somewhere else entirely, a thick fog obscuring all that was around her until everything dissolved into the haze of nothingness. Needless to say, it was more than a bit unsettling. She considered asking Madame Giry if they might make haste to leave, but the moment she looked up, she felt all of her words dry up, her lips forming a surprised little 'O' when she noticed a familiar masked face standing off to the side of the crowd leaning up against the old apple tree out front.

"Erik? What are you doing here?"

He shrugged. "I felt like going for a walk. Care to join me?"

"Well, I—"

"Christine is very tired, Erik," Madame Giry interrupted, seemingly unsurprised by his sudden appearance. "I think it would be best to allow her to rest for a few hours first."

"No, no! It's fine," Christine assured her, momentarily pushing her exhaustion aside. She turned back to Erik, giving him what she hoped was a convincing smile. "I'd love to go for a walk."

Madame Giry frowned. It was obvious the girl was tired, but the tiny hopeful smile that she saw peeking out from behind the mask was enough to give her pause. The feelings that they both had been trying to deny for so long were finally beginning to resurface, and she was loathe to quell the budding possibility of mutual affection.

"Alright," she sighed. "But come directly home. No dawdling. I expect you to be back within the hour, understood?"

Christine gave her a grateful smile. "Yes, Madame."

"Good." Her eyes flickered to the ones behind the mask. "Erik, make sure she doesn't get too tired. Stop and rest for awhile if she needs to."

He gave a polite nod.

"Well, then, I will see you both at home."

She gave a quick nod of dismissal before turning back toward the church and stepping into a waiting carriage. Peering out the window, she saw Meg and Jeffrey coming down the steps, laughing and talking like there was no one in the world but them and they had forever to discover what that world might hold, the epitome of youthful innocence and love—the way that love was meant to be. Her gaze wandered back to Erik and Christine who were walking arm in arm down the sidewalk toward the street corner. For the moment, they, too, seemed at peace. For the moment, they were happy. It broke her heart to know that their happiness would be short-lived.

xxxx

"So you finished early today, then?" Christine asked. "Your work at the opera house, I mean?"

Erik felt a stab of guilt for having fed her yet another fabricated explanation for his absence at the church. He answered as truthfully as possible, trying to avoid any more lies without giving himself away.

"As it turns out, I didn't have nearly as much to get done as I'm afraid I led you to believe. Everything is in place for the performance now, and if the cast remains as diligent as they have been at the rehearsals thus far, opening night should be a success."

Christine smiled. "Wonderful! Perhaps you'll be able to resume your attendance now that everything at the Opera has been settled."

"Perhaps…" He didn't have the heart to tell her that he'd never set foot inside of a church in his entire life—not even for the exorcism. His mother had been too ashamed to let herself be seen in public with the demon-child.

The sound of Christine's melodic voice brought him out of his dark thoughts.

"How far is it from here to the shore?" she asked suddenly. "Not the docks," she clarified. "I mean a more secluded part of the beach."

Erik looked at her curiously. "About an hour by carriage, I suppose. Why do you ask?"

"I've been thinking about things I'd like to do before…." She glanced down.

"Before you leave?" Erik finished for her.

Christine was unsure of whether to smile or to pity him for his pathetic attempts to sugar-coat the situation. He made it sound so simple, so normal—as if she were merely returning to Paris. Had it been anyone else, she might have been offended by such belittling behavior, but knowing Erik she couldn't be entirely sure that he hadn't deluded himself into believing it was true to avoid the inevitable pain that would follow her death. It would hurt less to know that she had left of her own accord and loved him only as a friend than to believe that she had finally come to love him only to have her snatched away by a Higher Power, Whom he would likely blame. She drew a shaky breath.

"Yes, before I…leave…." She chewed her lip nervously, slightly uncomfortable with the idea that she was allowing him to perpetuate such a fantasy when it would ultimately make things more difficult for him in the end. "I'd like to go for a walk on the beach one day, I think." She sighed wistfully. "I haven't been to the sea since I was a little girl—well, except for the journey over here, of course. But that's not really the same thing. I want to walk in the water's edge again, to feel the sand on my feet and the sun on my face and the sea breeze in my hair."

She closed her eyes for a moment, envisioning the house that she'd grown up in. It was a homely little cottage with brown wooden shingles and blue colored shutters and a rickety old porch that wound all the way around. It was a single floor with a single bedroom and a small living area that could barely hold the few worldly possessions that they owned. But it was home. The cramped little attic that was added later on was more of a nursery than it ever was a storage room. She and Raoul had spent countless hours up there, turning chairs into thrones and blankets into robes of gold as they imagined themselves in various stories as the righteous king and queen who had to fight off the evil dragon or ogre or whatever other menace her father might decide to be, punctuating the more dramatic moments of the story with a few bars on the violin. Even now she could almost hear the soft strains of a Swedish lullaby on the breeze….

"Christine?…Christine?"

She inhaled sharply at the sound of her name, jumping a little as she came out of her daydream. When she opened her eyes, she noticed that Erik was looking down at her with a mixture of confusion and concern. She blushed.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "It seems that I am very easily distracted today." She frowned. "What were you saying?"

"I said that I think it's a bit cold for a walk by the sea."

Her countenance fell.

"But, of course, it's your decision," he amended. "I suppose we could go sometime this week. Tomorrow, perhaps?"

He was relieved to see the smile return. He'd do anything to keep her smiling like that.

"Tomorrow would be wonderful."

But then the frown came back.

"What is it?" he asked.

Christine fidgeted with her dress. "I…Well, there's something I've been meaning to ask you, but…but I'm afraid it might offend you."

Erik stiffened. I knew it was too good to last. She's going to ask something about your face…or that kiss the other night…or Persia. He sighed. Well, you knew you couldn't avoid it forever. Might as well get this over with. "Go on."

She hesitated, opening her mouth as if to say something before abruptly changing her mind. There were many answers she needed, but now wasn't the time to ask about the injections. Instead, she tried a safer subject—one that he actually knew she was aware of. She took a deep breath. "Joseph Buquet…why did you kill him?" She rushed on. "I don't mean to bring up the past, I'm just…trying to understand. Piangi makes sense. I don't like that you did it, but I understand your motives. Buquet never made sense to me…." She glanced up. "Please don't be angry."

Erik considered her words. Although the topic was not what he'd been expecting, it was no easier for him to answer. But studying her eyes, he was surprised to find that they held no anger or accusation—only honest curiosity. He took a deep breath.

"Joseph Buquet was a drunken lech and a poor excuse for a stagehand. More than once, I caught him ogling Little Giry and yourself. That in and of itself should be a crime worthy of death."

"But didn't you…" Christine flushed with embarrassment. "I-I mean the mirror…." She looked down.

"NO!" Erik felt the heat rise to his cheeks. "I-I mean…It did…Well, I could see you, but I never watched you when you were…indecent." He purposely focused his gaze on the sidewalk.

"Oh. Well, um…thank you."

Erik wasn't quite certain how to respond, so he merely nodded and continued. "At any rate, that was not the reason that I killed him—though it would have been a more honorable motive, I suppose."

Christine cocked her head in confusion. "Why, then?"

"He knew too much." He paused and turned to look at her so that she would know he spoke the truth. "I never set out to kill him that day. When I interrupted the performance, he saw me and tried to follow. My letters to the managers were intentionally threatening in the hope that threats alone would be enough to frighten away any who would dare seek out the Opera Ghost…. Unfortunately, Buquet had too much bravado for his own good—which I suspect was brought about by an unhealthy amount of liquor—and my warnings went unheeded. I did try to escape, but when he continued to follow me, I knew that if he learned my secrets, it would only be a matter of time before the managers found out and sent all the genedarmes of Paris storming down into my hideaway." He glanced back down. "Sometimes one must die in order for another to live. That is not to say that his life was worth any less than mine—in fact, I'd wager it would be rather difficult to find anyone whose life is worth less than my own—but self-preservation, however basic an instinct, is present in us all. It's a rather selfish and ignoble cause, I know—but it is the truth."

Christine nodded slowly. "I suppose that makes sense." She faltered. "Do…do you regret it?"

Erik thought for a moment, taking care in how he worded his response. She didn't know about the gypsy circus master or the Persians, but in a way he felt that the question was aimed at more than just Buquet. Perhaps he could use this as an opportunity to apologize for his other misdeeds without actually giving himself away. But was he truly sorry for all that he had done? Buquet and Piangi had merely been pawns in part of a larger plan, neither truly guilty of wronging him in any way. Persia had been a living nightmare; there was no question of his remorse in that matter. But the gypsy….

"I have never taken pleasure in killing an innocent man," he said.

The emphasis, of course, being on the word 'innocent,' which the gypsy circus master was not.

She dared another question. It was dangerous territory, but she needed to know. "What about Raoul?"

While it was true that he hadn't actually gone through with the plan to kill the vicomte, he very nearly had. And it had certainly seemed to Christine at the time that he would have enjoyed nothing more than to squeeze the life out of her childhood friend.

Surprisingly, Erik seemed almost amused by the question. "In my defense, he did try to kill me, too. Twice if I'm not mistaken. The second time relatively unprovoked. Your little vicomte is not quite so innocent as you would like to imagine." He smiled a little. "Not that I can blame him. He knew as well as I do that you are worth dying for."

Their eyes met for a moment, but her expression was unreadable, and so he let the conversation drop.

As they turned another corner, they fell into a comfortable silence, each lost in their own thoughts as they passed the darkened windows of bakeries and tailors' shops and book stores. Christine took the opportunity to observe her companion, taking in every detail from the creamy white porcelain of the mask to his perfectly starched dark suit. Despite the many years that they had known one another from a distance, she had never had the chance to study him up close for an extended period of time. She noticed details now that she hadn't really paid attention to before—the chiseled curve of his jaw, the tiny flecks of gold suspended in his forest-green eyes, the little ghost of a smile on his lips that seemed happily out of place. He might have been a handsome man, she thought, if not for what lay beneath the mask. She tried to envision what he would look like with two perfectly symmetrical cheeks and a full head of his naturally honey-blonde colored hair and smiled at the thought. Yes, he would have been a handsome man, indeed…but his face was part of who he was. It was the cause of all his suffering, the reason he was warped in mind and soul, the reason he'd been forced to live among the shadows for the larger portion of his life, and ultimately the reason he felt justified in retaliating against a world that had disowned him and denied him his basic rights.

Could she forgive him of all he'd done now that she had a better understanding of his motives? Could she love him as she wanted to despite his flaws inside and out? The thought troubled her. Although she had come to care for him deeply, his past deeds still haunted her, and his face remained an obstacle she wasn't sure that she had the strength to breach. He had not seen fit to show her his naked cheek since her arrival, and while she understood his reasoning, it hurt to know that he did not trust her enough to fully be himself within her presence. Nevertheless, it had been more than a year now since she had seen his face, and while she thought that she could now gaze on it with love, it was possible that time had dulled her memory of the horror beneath the mask. If she fainted or screamed or ran away, it would surely damage his self-image more than it already was, but if she could manage not to show any fear or disgust, to show him that he could be loved as any other man, then she might begin to heal the wounds that she and others had inflicted. It was a risky thing to do, but it would eventually be necessary if they were to have any sort of serious relationship. She wondered if he'd ever give her the chance.

Somehow in the midst of her musings, Christine noticed a gentle pressure on her waist, an enveloping warmth that she had not felt before. Glancing down, she realized that Erik had unconsciously wrapped his arm around her waist. She wondered if he could feel the little sparks of lightning that ignited where they touched. It was a strange, tingling sensation that seemed to radiate out from the center of her body to the tips of her fingers and toes. But it wasn't the happy sort of tingling that she'd been expecting. She frowned suddenly. Something didn't feel right.

It's probably just the lack of sleep catching up with me, she reasoned.

Not wishing to alarm Erik, she decided that it would be best not to mention anything. But she couldn't quite shake the feeling of uneasiness that had suddenly settled itself around her heart.

Before she could worry any more, however, her troubled thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the startled chirp of a little brown bird at their feet. In its haste to escape, it flew straight into the glass of a nearby flower shop window, landing on the pavement with a resounding smack where it lay unmoving, stunned. Forgetting her fatigue, Christine immediately slipped out of Erik's arm and knelt beneath the window full of roses, gently scooping up the battered bird and cradling it in her hands. She could tell that it was breathing, but it remained still, as if in a trance.

"Poor little thing," she crooned, stroking its feathered head. She looked up at Erik. "Will it be alright?"

He stooped to examine the bird, noting the odd angle of its wing. He unfolded it slowly, releasing his hold when it started to squirm in pain. He frowned. "Its wing is broken. It won't live long like this."

"Can't we do something? We can't just leave it here!"

"Christine…"

He started to protest, but the look in her eyes made him stop. It was the same look that she'd given him the first time she'd seen him without the mask, huddled in the corner on the floor with a hand covering his face.

Is that how she sees me? A pitiful creature in need of rescue?

But the way she was caressing and cooing over the little bird made him wonder whether being the recipient of her pity might not be such a bad thing after all. Was pity truly a form of love? Was it enough?

He sighed, removing his outer coat and rolling it into a sort of makeshift nest. "Here, carry it in this until we can get home. We'll find a box or something for it later until we can get a cage."

He grimaced. After his years with the gypsy circus, he found the idea of forcing anything to live inside a cage disagreeable—but the idea of chasing an injured bird around the apartment was even more so. Finding bird droppings on the furniture and expensive Persian rugs would be a rather unpleasant surprise that he didn't want to deal with.

Christine accepted the jacket from him, laying the bird gently in the center and wrapping one of the sleeves partially over it to shelter it from the cold and hopefully keep it from being frightened.

Erik stood, offering a hand to Christine, who accepted it gratefully with her free hand, cradling the makeshift nest in her other arm. She noticed his eyes flicker briefly over to the window. He gave a short laugh and shook his head.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I just find it rather ironic that the bird would fly into this particular window. It reminds me of a legend I once heard in Persia." He hesitated. "Did I ever tell you the story of how the red rose came to be?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so."

"According to the legend, there once was a lonely nightingale who wanted nothing more than to find love. One day he came upon a white rose—a rose so beautiful and pure that he felt sure that she would never return his affections—and at first, she didn't, for she was a flower and he was bird, two species so very different that a union seemed impossible. But at length, she found beauty in his song and from their love was born the very first red rose the world had ever seen."

He glanced over at her briefly, anxious to see her reaction. He knew the parallels of the story with his own life and its insinuations would not be lost on her. He held his breath as their eyes suddenly met.

But she quickly looked away, biting her lower lip. She knew what he was waiting for but she didn't want to give him false hope for a future that she knew would not be possible in her condition. Instead, she decided to answer with a story of her own. [2]

"It sounds a lot like one of the stories that my father used to tell me as a child." She smiled, remembering the sound of her father's voice, the musty smell of the attic, the creak of the dusty old floorboards beneath her feet. "Once there lived a young man who was desperately in love. The woman that he sought, however, was of a higher class and far beyond the reach of most with his social standing, but she promised him a dance if he brought her the finest red rose in all the kingdom. The young man left, discouraged, because he knew that there was only one red rose tree in the land, and the frost had killed the buds before they had the chance to bloom.

"But a little nightingale that lived outside his window heard his cries of despair and decided she would help him out, for she had watched him from a distance for many nights and hated to see him so unhappy. She searched far and wide, flying from tree to tree throughout the kingdom, but there were no red roses to be found. At last, she pleaded with the red rose tree to share his secret that she might create a red rose of her own. But the tree refused to tell her, for he knew that red roses can only be born of the pure, unselfish love of a willing sacrifice—a price he did not wish for her to pay. But the nightingale was persistent, and at long last, he gave in."

She paused. The pain she saw reflected in his eyes was almost enough to make her cry. He might not have heard the story before, but by now he knew the ending would not quite so happy as the story that he'd told. He didn't want to hear any more, but Christine knew that now that she had started the story, she had to finish it. Taking a deep breath, she continued.

"Singing one last song of love, she pressed her heart against the sharpest thorn on the highest branch of the tree, burying the spike deep within her chest. She sang until she could sing no more, until the first pink rays of dawn broke across the sky and the stars began to fade. But when the rose tree shouted excitedly to tell her of their great triumph, the nightingale was silent, a magnificent blood-red rose opening its petals to the sun a living testimony of her undying love.

"When the young man saw the rose the next day, he leapt for joy, and plucking it carefully from the branches, took it to the woman that he loved. But the woman was not satisfied and refused his gift, thinking it inferior to the jewels and other such expensive gifts that the noblemen could give her. Angry and upset, the young man cast the rose aside, allowing it to be trampled in the streets where it lay in the cold rain as the skies wept for the bird who gave her life and the man who did not even know that he was already loved."

She was quiet for a moment, allowing the story to speak for itself, hoping that he would understand what she was too afraid to say. The little sparrow, who had settled contentedly within her arms, seemed to be waiting, too, his beady black eyes staring expectantly up at the two humans with more curiosity than fear. But Erik did not respond, and Christine was left wondering whether she had said too much or not enough.

"It's a shame, really," she said quietly. "He could have done so many things with that flower that would have still made her sacrifice worthwhile—pressed it to preserve the memory of its beauty, given it away to someone else, or planted it to grow a new rose tree so her love could live on forever and its beauty could be shared with all the world. Instead, he chose to give up."

But Erik seemed not to have heard her. He was still trying to overcome the shockwave of comprehension that was slowly sinking into his mind. She said that the man never realized that he was ALREADY loved. He was unworthy—ungrateful—and yet the nightingale still sang her last song—gave her last breath and the last beat of her heart—for him. Does that mean…?

He couldn't bring himself to finish the question even within the quiet confines of his own mind. If he had misinterpreted the story, he would make himself look like an utter fool…and yet he desperately needed to know the answer.

They were nearing the apartment now, almost at the bottom of the stairs. The moment that they stepped inside, their privacy would be almost nonexistent. As they reached the steps, she started to ascend, but he stopped her, taking her gently by the arm and pulling her aside. He held her at arm's length so he could look into her eyes, one black-gloved hand resting softly on each shoulder.

"Christine…Are you…I…I don't understand…Do you…Could you ever…" He took a deep breath. "Christine, you know that I love you. Not a single day has passed that I have not thought of you from the moment that you left. I gave up on the hope of my love being returned long ago, but…but now I dare to hope once again." He licked his lips hesitantly. "If I have misinterpreted your feelings—if you still feel now as you did then—I understand and respect your decision." He drew another shaky breath. "But if you do love me, then I beg of you to speak it plainly. Just let me hear it once from your lips and I will never ask anything of you again—not marriage, not companionship, not even a simple kiss. Just to hear you speak the words would be enough." He paused. "But if you cannot say them truthfully—if you know that you never will—please tell me that I may not raise my hopes on the unfounded dreams of a broken heart."

Christine had gone deathly pale. "Erik, I…I…"

She wanted to continue, but she suddenly found that her mouth would not cooperate. She felt the tingling again, stronger this time, as if an electric pulse was passing through her body. And suddenly, her eyes grew wide with fear.

The bird had started flailing again, chirping and squirming in her arms, the animal's odd behavior immediately alerting Erik that something was wrong. Taking the coat from her trembling hands, he frowned.

"Christine?"

Though her lips were moving, she could not form the words.

Erik grabbed her arm. "Christine, are you alright? Speak to me!"

A sudden burst of pain shot through her brain like a million fireworks all going off at once followed by a bloodcurdling scream that echoed down the alleys. She could hear the blood rushing in her ears, feel the surge of lighting in her veins. When she opened her eyes, there was a blinding white light.

Erik watched in horror as she collapsed in the street, her body jerking in strange, uncontrollable motions that bent her arms and legs in all sorts of unnatural angles. Immediately, he dropped to his knees, the bird set aside and forgotten as he tried to hold her down.

"ANTOINETTE!"

But the ballet mistress was already at the top of the stairs, making her way down as quickly as she could and followed closely by a very frightened looking Meg. By the time they reached the last step, Christine's eyes had rolled back, and Erik was in a panic.

"Christine?! Christine can you hear me?! Oh, God! GOD, PLEASE!" He didn't know what he was praying for or if God was even listening, but the words spilled out anyway.

Suddenly, she went limp.

Gathering up her seemingly lifeless body, he cradled her in his arms, rocking her back and forth as he buried his face in the fabric of her dress, dark droplets of grief staining the blue velvet black.

"Oh, Christine," he wept, "Christine, don't leave me. Don't leave me."

[1] The bits and pieces of the song/psalm used in this chapter come from Psalm 51. King David wrote the psalm to ask God for forgiveness after having an adulterous affair with Bathsheba and sending her husband out in the front lines of the army with the intent that he would be killed.

[2] The story that Christine tells is my retelling of Oscar Wilde's "The Nightingale and the Rose." Many believe the story to be symbolic of Christ's love for the world. In this case, while the religious symbolism still holds true, the story is also intended to be somewhat representative of Christine and Erik's love.