To be honest, I am not satisfied with this chapter. Not at all. I want the pacing to be realistic, I don't want either of them to go gaga very soon… but with this Erik being mostly Kay with tinges of Leroux, who can tell what might happen?

I've also decided that he'll be wearing a full mask. No trace of Gerik here, folks. I want him to be 100 percent authentic and I'm doing my best to keep that promise. Another thing: the lack of romance is necessary, it will take some time before any signs of interest, let alone mutual feelings, appear. So far, it's mostly RC, because, well, that's the natural thing. This isn't love at first sight, you can guess. Erik is too bitter and guarded for that and Christine… well, there wasn't a first sight yet! Hehe.

Anyway, Euterpe is the muse of music. And once I heard this aria, I absolutely knew it would be fitting for this chapter. So yes, that's about the only thing about this chapter that I like. Besides the length – over eight pages! That's more than my standard, plus a quick update! What more could you guys want? Oh, yeah ECness. Well, not yet. Any ideas, feel free to send them in. I love suggestions, especially when I have need of them. And I certainly do.

End of ramble.

PS: Gotta love Elvis the parrot. Oh, and: review!

X X X

Chapter 11

X X X X

"Alright, Chris, you can't avoid answering me forever. Details, details, details!" Meg rambled several days later.

It was Sunday morning and the ever-bubbly Meg was back. After finishing the photos for the trial, she had returned to her normal hectic existence. That, however, didn't stop her from inviting herself along for a snack at Mrs. Valerius´ - the old lady had laughed when Meg revealed, in mock-serious tones, that their conspiracy had been revealed. Right now, Meg was attempting to get details about the clear dates she had had with Raoul out of Christine. After all, the brunette claimed, Christine spent hours and hours with her cell phone turned off and always seemed to be busy.

"There's nothing much to tell, Meg." Christine sighed, "We went ice skating on Friday and I fell about a dozen times. We had a good laugh, remembered the good old days and I didn't manage to stop on the ice and crashed into him once. Nothing major."

She had called Raoul almost immediately after she left the opera house on Monday and Her ice skating was worse than she had believed – she could hardly stand on the twin blades. Raoul had had a few good laughs on her attempting to stand up and failing, swaying and falling again… generally, it was as if they were two teenagers on a first date again. Christine had had a good time.

As for her vocal lessons, she hadn't received one word of praise, but she could tell that her voice was getting better after each lesson. Two days ago, she had mastered the arietta completely and the next day, she had been given a new, more challenging piece. What surprised her was that Erik had actually managed to solve the cello problem so simply that she almost had to slap herself for her stupidity. He had recorded the cello part of the accompaniment and brought it with him on a CD, along with a small radio. She had no idea how he had gotten the sound to sound so pure, but it was almost as if there was a real cellist sitting there with them. Crystal clear sound and complete mastery of the instrument. She could only marvel.

"Per la più vaga e bella. The shepherd's song from La liberazione di Ruggiero dal´isola d´Alcina, by Francesca Caccini." Erik had told her.

"A pants role, then?" Christine had asked, listening to him play it. It didn't require another instrument this time – just voice and piano. "Isn't that from an opera?"

"Yes, the only one by Signorina Caccini that had been preserved." His voice had said.

Christine was surprised. "A woman composed an opera?"

"Don't be so surprised. Francesca was the daughter of the composer of the first opera ever, Euridice. It shouldn't be so surprising." He finished playing the vocal line and closed the lid of the piano. They were still in the dark room, so Christine could rely only on her ears. Over time, however, she had managed to get her eyes used to the pitch-black atmosphere. Not that she could see anything of Erik, really, but she managed to spot his silhouette occasionally, which she imagined was a great success. All that she saw was that he was very tall and quite thin, but not unhealthily so.

"You may pose your question for today." He had said to her afterwards and she saw his eyes turn to her.

Everything was going wonderfully. She was progressing with astonishing speed once he had convinced her that opening her mouth was a good thing and once she managed to relax in his presence. Her tone was considerably less shaky and the new song went a tone higher than the last one. The jumps between tones were about the same size as those in the previous arietta. Truth to be told, he was as afraid of her progress as he was thrilled about it. Within less than a week, she had progressed as much as another person would have about a month of training.

"I'm not buying that, Chris." Meg interrupted her thoughts and brought her back to the present. "You constantly have that look on your face."

"What look?" Christine asked, perplexed.

"The weird look you always have when you're working – only magnified. It's a strange mix of determination, stubbornness and some insane kind of happiness that I simply can't determine."

Christine was saved the need to reply to that by the beeping of her phone. She felt a slight satisfaction when she saw that it was from Sorelli. She had sent her the lyrics of the arietta she was studying. It was short and she didn't trust AltaVista enough to translate it correctly. Sorelli had taken up the task quite cheerfully, as she spoke Italian fluently.

Hi, Christine. Here's the translation – romantic choice, by the way. I had to change the third sentence, because the first translation that came to mind was weird. "Which are sprinkled with cinnamon" sounds weird. Raoul never seemed the type to serenade a woman… too reliant on his boyish looks. If it's from some other secret admirer, tell the guy to give Philip lessons in romance, marry Raoul and keep the other guy – romantic guys are hard to find. Kudos! Sorelli

The astonished gasp Christine had made was enough for Meg to throw herself on the sofa next to her and read the translation and the message with her.

Love, let me be happy!
Let me kiss those lips
Which taste of cinnamon
I serve you as a debtor, blinded archer

Meg whistled quietly. "Talk about poetic… Raoul gave you that poem?"

Christine shook her head. "No… it's just an old song."

"An old song which you remembered suddenly and needed to know the translation of the lyrics?" Meg asked, raising an eyebrow, "Come on, spill the beans, Chrissie. Tell Meg all about it."

"About what?"

"About the song, about where you got it, about the other guy Sorelli had guessed exists."

"Meg!"

"Look, I might not know Raoul very well, but he really doesn't seem like the kind of guy that would be searching for an Italian love ballad for his girlfriend. He seems more like the roses and expensive wine kind of guy."

"Girlfriend?" Christine frowned. "I wouldn't go that far, Meg, we're just old friends…"

"And that's why he's been walking on air this past week, as Sorelli informed me." The brunette interrupted, "And why he calls you every day simply to check how your day has been. The poor guy is head over heels, Chris – just because he hasn't told you that doesn't mean it isn't true. Sorelli says that the longest his past relationships have lasted were up to three days, the second two of which were filled with his attempts to politely tell the woman in question that he didn't think it would work! It's love, sweetie."

"Love me tender… love me sweet…" Elvis the parrot began singing from the other room at once. Meg gave the bird an amused look. She had grown quite fond of the parrot and even Mrs. Valerius had a nagging suspicion that he was a great part of the reason why Meg liked to go visit the Valerius household with Christine.

Christine was silent for a moment, listening to Love me tender. She obviously couldn't tell Meg the whole angel tale that had appeased Mrs. Valerius, but she felt this was something personal. Until lunch had liberated her, she had to endure Meg´s rambles about just what she would do if she were in Christine's shoes. The blonde was only half listening. Only vaguely did she notice that Meg noted that she seemed pretty distant this week and heard herself automatically answering that she had a lot of work. After lunch, however, she excused herself and left Mrs. Valerius and Meg alone. She rushed to her car and drove away… to her lesson, of course.

Meg watched the car leave through the window. Christine had never been a very sociable person, but she had never retreated so deep into her shell.

"Don't worry, Meg, she's simply off to see her good genius." Mrs. Valerius said as she brought desert. Christine had skipped that altogether.

Meg looked at the elderly lady. "Her good genius?" she repeated. She didn't get it.

"Her angel of music, of course!" Mrs. Valerius smiled, "He has been teaching her to sing, as I understand. You know how devoted Christine can get to her work. I imagine she strives to appease her angel."

Angel? Meg frowned. Christine had never lied to Mrs. Valerius before… but then again, perhaps she shouldn't take it literally, she decided. But singing? Christine was afraid of it just as a cat was afraid of water. Angel of music? A strange pseudonym. She didn't dwell on it much, but she decided that she would, for the time being, become slightly more serious and less carefree around Christine. They had no secrets; after all, they were best friends. Why hadn't Christine told her that she was taking vocal training, then?

X X X

"And now, the inevitable – your question."

Christine bit her lip. Another lesson was over, once again, she had endured commands and demands, felt completely drained and exhausted, but at the same time, satisfied. She had been scolded several times that she was slightly distracted, but eventually, she had managed to focus.

It was their last day at Covent Garden, if she remembered correctly.

She had found out so much and yet so little about Erik throughout the past few days. He had told her that his favourite composer was Mozart, as she had predicted, but that he wasn't on bad terms with some of Puccini's works and he found Verdi's Aida charming. His opinions about the current situation in the musical world. His thoughts about operetta and musical. The qualities a voice from this or that fach has to have. Cautiously, she had avoided any personal questions, as she had promised, but she knew that she would have to ask some of them soon enough.

"Why do you teach me?" she asked suddenly.

"That's not a professional question, you know."

"Yes, but it's been running through my mind all this time. Why do you, a renowned composer who is about to blow the world away with a new opera, take the time to teach a completely unqualified rookie like me when divas, were they not so self-centred, would kill to have you instruct them personally. Don't tell me it's just because you wanted to answer my questions. I know you answer them only to make me come here."

"Ah, my grand master plan is revealed and ruined." he said dryly. Christine glared into the darkness. "Put it this way, mademoiselle: you have done me the favour of not asking me any questions you feel I wouldn't answer. Allow me to repay that favour by not giving you answers to questions you wouldn't like."

"Would it kill you to give me a straight answer just once?" Christine sighed.

"I couldn't be giving you a clearer answer." Erik noted coolly, "To descend to your level of childishness, I am your teacher and I don't have to explain my motives to you. This isn't a confession and you aren't a priest."

Christine was silent for a moment. She had the distinct feeling that the mention of something that concerned Christianity had angered him somewhat. "I apologize." she whispered, "Here you give me the opportunity of a lifetime that anyone in my place would kill for and I try going philosophical on you. I'm sorry. I should… I should have remained professional. Forgive me."

She could almost swear she heard him sigh. "There is no reason for your apologies. I am a complicated man, Mademoiselle Daaé, and you needn't be burdened with my troubles. What matters is that your voice is a gift and my professional interest in music refuses me to allow it to go to waste. You are something of a…"

"Project?" she interrupted, uncertain if she wanted to know the confirmation.

"In a way. I want to see if I can take that raw talent and shape a professional voice. Then, perhaps, I would try teaching professionals how I want them to use their voices. Of course, it is much easier to work with a fresh voice than an already flawed one. They are bound by their own mediocrity and that of their teachers, the modern opera singers. And shaping a stone into a statue is far easier than correcting a messed up statue of another. Not to mention more pleasurable."

"I'm a piece of rock in your eyes?"

"No, but you sing with about as much emotion as a piece of rock would." Erik noted, half amused by the scowl she gave him. "That is your greatest problem. If you were to sing Carmen, you'd look like a lost schoolgirl, even if you could sing it. But we will deal with expression that eventually."

"You… you want me to sing opera?"

Erik heard the panic in her voice. "Au contraire, mademoiselle. You are already singing opera. Both of the pieces you now have are from operas, albeit early operas and ones easy for the voice. I don't expect you to sing Martern aller Arten after less then a week of vocal lessons, so you can easily relax. But you can learn much on classical songs."

Martern aller Arten? She didn't know that particular aria, though she might have heard about it somewhere. Still, she concluded that it was probably insanely difficult – hence his use of its name. "Sometimes, I'm afraid of you."

You have no idea what you are talking about, he thought wryly. "So you have said before. Now please, ask the question you wished to ask and we can say our goodbyes for today."

"Have you thought about how we will continue the vocal lessons after the end of the week?" she asked.

"Either you don't have a proper question for today or you're trying to make me slip and tell you something. Yes, I have thought about it and made a decision."

"Dark rooms and mysterious vocal tricks?" she asked with a brief smile.

"No." That surprised her. "The question you're trying to ask and trying to avoid asking is: who am I? Why all this hiding, these tricks – all for effect, it seems, all for show. You yearn to ask me my name."

Christine was startled by his powers of observation. She had tired to hide her interest in him as a person – not that many people could, as he brought the term alluring to new heights – and her professionalism proved to be an ineffective see-through shield.

"Y-yes." She found herself stuttering. "Yes, I… I would like to ask that."

"Why?"

"Excuse me?"

"Why do you want to know? Isn't what I have given you enough?" There was some kind of pain in his voice, an indefinable emotion.

She was unable to answer. "Please don't be angry with me."

"That is no answer."

"You are one big mystery to me. And with each answer, more questions pop up. It's my job to understand the people I write about, you know that. I… I feel I almost understand your music, but I don't understand you."

"After a week of knowing me, that's a great disappointment." Erik noted coldly. "Don't concern yourself with who I am. It isn't the time – perhaps it will never be. I promised that you would be allowed to ask questions, not that you will get answers. Questions about my music, not about me."

"But your music…! It is the essence of who you are!"

There was a long silence. "How can you know that?"

"Art is a reflection of reality, everyone knows that."

"Then enlighten me why you sing as if you were to die if you showed a tinge of emotion."

Christine felt a knot in her stomach tighten. She bowed her head. "It doesn't matter anyway. I sing like a cat whose tail had gotten between a slammed door and the doorframe."

"Do you always avoid answering questions?"

"I guess you could teach me much about that."

There was a long silence, but Christine knew he was still there, watching her. "You are an interesting young woman, Mademoiselle Daaé." he said finally, "And we seem to have one thing in common – neither of us wishes to drag their personal problems into this cooperation." Thoughts and ideas swirled through his mind. He didn't want to anger her or make her feel endangered or offended. The short week had allowed him to see that she had, perhaps, even more potential than he thought.

But he couldn't show himself to her. He didn't want to, actually. There was no reason… other than the fact that she could walk out of his life at any moment. And that was what he desired the least at the moment. After such a long time of solitude and separation from the world, when his only company was his music and science, he didn't think he could still desire the presence of another person. Within a week, that illusion had been shattered. He found that he had no inspiration until spending those few hours with her, guiding her voice. The power it had over him frightened him to a certain degree. It made him feel… and he felt happiness each time she hit a higher note than last time, each time she repeated a phrase without a previously corrected mistake.

But he found himself composing not only the opera he had to compose, but also the almost forgotten Don Juan Triumphant, rewriting it and adding bits and pieces. It became increasingly obvious that he was writing material for her voice and, surprisingly, it didn't bother him that much.

"I will amend my question, then." Christine said quietly, "I'll ask you this: is Erik really your first name, or just a pseudonym? You don't have to answer. If you choose not to, I'll understand."

"There is a perfect song for this, mademoiselle." Erik said, bringing the conversation back to the neutral area: music. "And it will be your answer." He didn't let her answer, simply played the introduction to one of the most famous and most difficult opera arias in the world.

Nessun dorma! Nessun dorma!

Tu pure, o Principessa,
nella tua fredda stanza
guardi le stelle
che tremano d'amore e di speranza...

Ma il mio mistero è chiuso in me,
il nome mio nessun saprà!
No, no, sulla tua bocca lo dirò,
quando la luce splenderà!

He sang quietly, quieter than it should be sung on the stage, perhaps, but Christine didn't mind. His version of the aria was unlike anything she had ever heard. She was positively certain that he meant only one line as his answer, despite the emotion he put into the singing.

Ma il mio mistero è chiuso in me, il nome mio nessun saprà! But my secret is hidden within me, my name no one shall know! No, no…

He stopped singing suddenly. Somehow, he didn't find the ending appropriate. Even the last line he had sung was too daring and could be misinterpreted if Christine knew this song, which was highly probable, as it had been sung at the winter Olympics by Pavarotti and even at the 1990 world cup. No, no, I shall say it upon your mouth when the light shines!

The trance broke and Christine found herself slightly disappointed that he didn't finish the song. "Why have you stopped?" she asked, hearing the lid of the piano close.

"Because art reflects reality, as you have said. I cannot sing: Vanish, o night! Set, stars! At dawn, I will win!" Erik explained. He skipped the line Ed il mio bacio scioglierà il silenzio
che ti fa mia altogether.

Christine shook her head. "I wish I understood you."

"Do you truly?"

She nodded. "I have never met anyone quite as intimidating, talented and… sad… such as you. You are truly a wonder, monsieur."

You are the wonder, my young student. You endure my commands without protests. "You may call me Erik." He said, dismissing the compliments. He wasn't sure how to react. He had been called talented and intimidating before, but not sad. Clearly, she was right. She almost understood his music. Almost… but one without the knowledge of his face had no way of understanding fully. "It is my real name."

"Since I am hereby finished with my work in the Royal Opera House, you can call me Christine." she said, feeling slightly more cheerful, "Now I'm only your student, not your interviewer. Unless you wish me to continue prodding you with my persistent inquiries?"

For the first time ever, it seemed, his eyes seemed to brighten up instead of darkening. He didn't laugh and probably didn't smile either, but he seemed to be at least slightly amused by her suggestion. "Might I have your phone number? So that I can tell you where to go for the next lesson."

"I can't write it down in the dark…"

"No need. My memory is, most unfortunately, far too good for my liking." Christine frowned, but recited the number without problems.

"Before you leave…" she began quickly, when he stood up.

"I think there has been quite enough soul searching for today, wouldn't you say?" he said wryly.

Christine smiled briefly. "Yes, but… I would be very honored if you would sing the rest of the aria for me."