I did not forget about you guys! I only... very nearly did. I get to go home on Friday, so hopefully once I am caught up on sleep, my brain will begin to function properly again!

The kitty mentioned in the last author's note is completely fine. He did not show up for nearly another day, and now he's just itching to go back down under the house. Naughty thing. Obviously this experience was as traumatic for him as it was for all of us!

Thanks again for all your wonderful reviews. They keep me going! And I can also use them as an explanation to my aunt and mother as to why it is so critical that I sneak off for at least an hour every day to get my words written. "Do you want to explain to them why I missed a posting day?!"

XIV

Christine had eventually calmed herself enough to return his cloak and whisper a quiet, "Thank you," before retiring to her bath. To Erik's dismay she also removed her own tattered rag—as it was unworthy of being called a cloak—and placed it before the fire to dry.

As if he would ever allow her to wear that monstrosity again.

And while Erik was of course satisfied that she would finally be clean and warm—how she should always be—he found himself quite unsure about what to do with himself in her absence.

Tea.

They needed tea.

It had been days since he had made her anything, and it was with renewed determination that he went about fixing their afternoon repast. He would need to go to the market soon, as to his alarm, he realised that most of the food had begun to spoil instead of simply disappearing as it should have if Christine had been fixing proper meals during his self-imposed absence.

Erik did not think he could possibly feel any worse than he did at that moment.

While in his mind his intentions had been good by allowing her to leave unimpeded, he had not seen to her care in the least. She had not taken any clothing, money, or food, and he knew it was because he had failed to tell her she could do so.

He did not like feeling this way. He liked to be the one in control, carefully orchestrating either music or the people in the Opera House above to his every whim. And this girl...

She confused him. He, who could master the most complicated mathematical equations, learn languages with ease, and design the most grand and impressive of structures. But when it came to a young fifteen year old girl, he was floundering.

It did not take overly long to make fresh biscuits, and he was grateful for the distraction, although he did not particularly enjoy the way the flour clung to his black attire.

With a dry chuckle he supposed it contributed to his ghostly air.

But to Christine, he was no ghost, nor an angel, and while he knew she would never look at him as something desirable, he still wanted to look presentable.

He had not yet heard the release of her bath water by the time the biscuits were complete and the tea water was boiling. But he set them all on the tray in any case and took them into the sitting room. The tea cosy would ensure the pot remained properly heated by the time she emerged, and for a moment he could not remember how he had acquired such a thing.

Ah yes.

It was one of his most frivolous purchases when he had first moved into his subterranean home. He had discovered that when he was in the throes of composition he often forgot about the tea he had brewed, and often the fire itself. And there was nothing quite as vile as tepid tea.

So he had gone on an expedition and tried to find one that was not too feminine, but the more he looked—both in stores after hours and in the above kitchens—he realised that there was nothing masculine about a tea cosy. But finally he had grown tired of the search and had simply taken one, leaving a few coins in its place for the merchant to find the next day.

No need to admit to stealing something so hideous as this chintz atrocity, even if he begrudgingly found it to be tremendously useful in his everyday life. There had been little need for it since Christine arrived as she was devoted to her meals whenever she had them, and there was little worry of the pot growing cold by the time she had finished with it.

Erik placed the tray on the side table before sitting in his reading chair, his eyes lingering on the sodden bit of cloth before his fireplace. Remembering his earlier resolve to burn it so she would never be tempted to wear it again, and he hurried to it, suddenly aware that she might try to stop him should she walk in on him doing so.

As he picked it up however, he felt something lumpy in a hidden pocket, and remembered the franc that man had given her. He reached in to remove it—only to find a crumbled mass of what appeared to have once been biscuits.

Erik felt as though air was suddenly being blocked from his lungs, and he stumbled back to his chair and sank into it with a croak.

She had refused all of the things he had sought to provide her, except for the most menial and least important. He made them for her just so she would have something to eat and nibble in case he would be so consumed in his work that any of their meals were delayed. And, a small part of him recognised, he made them because he loved to see the rapture on her face while she ate them. She always had a special smile when he would place a plate of them before her, and she always watched so vigilantly when the remainder were carefully placed in the tin—always within easy reach of her greedy fingers, should the need for further nibbling overtake her.

And that was what she had chosen to take. There was other food in the kitchen—much more nutritious and long lasting—but she had chosen what he had made for her.

Perhaps he should not read quite so much into it, but Erik felt as though this was evidence that she cared—that it was important she take something of his with her.

But obviously her slight tumble into the lake had deprived her of even this last remnant of his affection.

So lost was he as he stared at the ruined biscuits and the tattered garment in his hand, he did not notice that Christine had appeared. She was once more in his dressing gown, never having given it back even after receiving a shawl of her own, and she was looking at him strangely.

"I had forgotten those were in there. I am sorry if they left crumbs on the rug. I know how you hate your lovely things to be soiled."

Erik could not help it.

Before he had even realised he had moved, he found himself before her feet, crying into her hem as he held the evidence of her caring. "Oh, Christine..."

He chanced a look at her face, and instead of the look of disgust he had partially expected, she appeared nearly alarmed. "Erik, I do not like it when you are down there!" She was tugging at him again, and although he wanted nothing more than to pour his love at her feet—that she might see it and judge him worthy—he allowed her to raise him up and followed obediently as she held his hand and led him over to the settee where she invited him to sit beside her. And he did try valiantly to stem the tears that overwhelmed him.

He felt rather detached when she removed the biscuit remnants from his hands and bundled them up in her old cloak, putting it down at her feet as she did so.

While he was upset and overcome, she was calm and collected, pouring their tea and dressing it to their respective satisfactions. And he found that the longer he watched her, the more in control he began to feel.

They would talk.

They would both understand.

And maybe, just maybe, she could learn to love him even a little.

He sipped his tea, more because Christine was looking at him so expectantly than for any true thirst or desire. As he had expected, the tea was hot and soothing, and the chintz had once more done its job—even if it looked so odd placed in the middle of his sitting room.

Christine was smiling at it as she squished the plush cushioning between her fingers. "I would have thought you would have picked something dark. It seems like everything you choose is black." She eyed him carefully after that, obviously interested to see if she had offended him with her comment. "All you wear is black..."

Erik shrugged, trying to force his body to relax by easing toward the back of the settee and settling his teacup on his knee. "Everything goes with black."

She laughed then, and he wondered if it would ever cease to send a thrill through him when she did so. "Yes, I suppose it does. Though I am glad my bedclothes are not black. I would feel as though I was being swallowed up!" He did not tell her that his bedding was black, nor did he mention that the only reason he had any white for her bed was because that pair had been hidden away in one of the dresser drawers. He also did not point out that she would be glad of his black sheets should her monthly make such a disastrous appearance the next time.

Perhaps it was better if he did not speak at all.

Christine popped a warm biscuit in her mouth and sighed in contentment. She pulled her legs up onto the settee as was her usual way of sitting on his furniture, but he found that he did not begrudge the action. It was an endearing thing, something he was privileged to know about her—that contrary to what he thought proper manners, she liked to put her feet up on furnishings.

She took a small sip of tea and turned to him, her expression one of resolve. "I would almost rather we pretend this day never happened. We would read our books and then I would get sleepy and go to bed," this was sounding like a fine idea, "but I do not think that would accomplish much of anything."

Erik sighed, and took a bracing sip of tea. "No, I suppose you are correct. You may ask your questions if you have them."

She nodded, and with slight amusement he watched her pop yet another biscuit into her mouth before continuing. "Am I allowed to ask about... your face?"

He froze. He should have expected this of course as he had given her little explanation at the time, and it was only reasonable that she would have questions.

Erik would keep his temper.

Erik would not lash out at her simply for remembering what he had shown her.

Why had he shown her?

He nodded, though even that felt forced. It was not all right that she asked questions, but he would pretend for her sake. "You may. But please... it is a delicate subject."

Christine put a consoling hand on his arm, and while normally he would marvel at the gesture, he now felt it confining and uncomfortable. He wanted to shove it away, but he thought that would perhaps insult her. And causing offense would likely accomplish nothing but to inspire more tears between both parties.

"I understand." Erik sincerely doubted it. "Were you... born like that?"

Erik felt the bubbling of his sardonic laughter, as did the long winded speech he had perfected for when people had the misfortune of witnessing his visage. The Daroga had been the last one to receive it, and it had ended with harsh words on both sides. He would mind his tongue. Christine was all innocence and natural curiosity, and he would not scoff at her simply be being banal.

"Indeed. A face even a mother could not love."

Christine looked at him with sympathy, and though he wanted nothing more than to lock himself in his bedchamber until she would look at him with anything else, he allowed her to pat his arm and say she was sorry. "You should not have made me touch it like that. All you did was frighten me, and I could have hurt you terribly if I had not filed my nails down with the things you gave me."

He had not been aware that the trunk held any such items. And in the heat of the moment he had wished she would hurt him, if only so that the physical pain would dull the emotional one that had threatened to drown him.

"I was... very wrong to have made you touch me. I hope you are not still frightened."

She looked at him for a moment, and Erik knew she was not really seeing what was truly there. His mask was firmly in place, but he knew she was seeing past it—was remembering each vivid detail of what lay beneath, and he had to fight the impulse to cover his face with his hands. "No, not of that. But I will admit, I did not like that you were... forcing me. It reminded me of other times."

She did not expound on those other times for which Erik was very grateful. While his purpose had been well meaning as he simply wanted to be honest with her about the state of his person, his methods had been all wrong. They had caused her pain, and it was with sudden memory that Erik remembered just how tightly he had gripped her poor hands.

"Do your wrists require attention? I am well aware that I was not gentle with you and I am..." His throat felt tight and his mouth dry, and it took nearly all of his self-control to swallow the sob that wished to burst forth. "I am so very sorry for having caused you pain."

Christine smiled softly, yet he could easily see that there was little joy in the expression. She pulled up the sleeve of his dressing gown slowly, and while by no means were the marks dark, he still felt as if a knife was being pushed into his chest as the sight of them. "Christine," he choked.

He grasped her hand so carefully, holding it loosely so that if it should be her wish, she could pull away with only the slightest of effort. He kept her hand within his and he could feel it trembling—as was his. He kept his gaze steady with hers, wanting to ensure that she was fully accepting of his action before he pulled her wrist to his mouth and placed a lone, dry kiss upon the mark. "You must forgive your poor Erik. He did not mean to be so careless."

She whimpered then and pulled away, and he could see that while physically present, her mind was far from him. "You cannot... I want to trust you, but how..." Her other hand covered the marks on her wrist, twisting in agitation, and it was all Erik could do not to moan and crawl away.

He would never be worthy of her.

It had never been his intention to hurt her, but with his horrid temper he had forgotten himself and inexcusably, had forgotten just how delicate his Christine truly was.

Erik looked at her miserably. "What can I do? You may ask anything of me, Christine. Anything at all."

She blinked, and it was apparent that whatever dark corner of her mind had overtaken her had been driven away, if only for the moment, and she relaxed slightly. "You are not very good at keeping your promises, Erik. It makes it difficult to put my faith in you."

He grimaced. While he had always meant to keep his word, he understood how she could doubt his sincerity.

"Of what matter in particular would you like reassurance?"

Her mouth dropped open and he scrambled to find what had been so very stupid about his question. Before he had come up with a satisfactory answer, Christine had drawn herself up as she tried to look down at him from what he supposed was to be her righteous indignation.

"I would like to know that when you promise me a home, the next day you will not rescind on your offer. I would like to know that when you reveal yourself a man—whether or not I had been foolish to think you anything else—that you have no improper intentions." She nibbled her lip then, and she seemed to lose whatever spark had lit her ire. "Because if you do... I have thought about it and even though it would be my preference to not... allow you to... know me in that way, I find that I would rather be forced to do so with you than to be on the streets once more." Christine was whispering, and Erik dearly wished that he could not hear the vile situation she was presenting for them, but he found himself entirely unable to stem her ridiculous flow of words. "I would not fight you too much..."

With a shaking hand Erik moved his teacup to the tray before he rose, and if his compositions were not still scattered all over the sitting room he was quite sure that they soon would have been once again. "After all this time, how can you even suggest such a thing to me? I love you." His voice cracked at the words and he stumbled, but he knew with certainty that she needed to hear them. "I was not aware that people generally showed their fondness by forcing themselves on the object of their affection. I may be a monster, Christine, but never in that way."

And he hoped to God she would believe him. Even if their music could offer her some semblance of healing, if she could not trust him in this fundamental way there was little hope that their relationship could survive—in whatever form she would allow.

"I want to believe you, truly I do. But I do not know how to be loved by a man other than my papa, and it frightens me. I do not know what you will want or what you expect. I thought maybe for a time that Raoul loved me but today..."

Erik froze. "That boy was Raoul? He is the new patron? He hurt you!"

Christine cocked her head and regarded him with a strange expression. "How do you know about that?"

He shifted awkwardly, and finally decided that resituating himself with his tea was far better than looming over her as he sought answers. "It is my job to know all the details of the Opera House. I am paid handsomely to do so." Never mind that his payment was akin to extortion.

She shook her head, but this time there was a slight smile on her lips and he was satisfied that she was not too upset for him having watched her without her knowledge. "Raoul hardly hurt me beyond the fact that he did not recognise me. I did not realise I had changed so very much."

Erik wondered then what she had looked like in her prime. She was still pale, and no matter how he plied her with sweets and regular meals he knew that his home would never provide her an infusion of colour beyond her many blushes.

He took her hand in his, this time a little more firmly, and she did not protest in the least. "I did not want you to go, Christine. I thought you had wished it, and I know now that you felt you were being evicted for some perceived misdeed. The last thing in the world that I wish is for you to be anywhere but here."

His expression was beseeching and she looked at him for what felt like a very long time. Eventually she gave his hand a small squeeze and moved a little so she could lay her head on his bony shoulder. "If I choose to trust you, will you make me regret it?"

Erik kept very still, thinking that if he moved even the slightest bit she would somehow disappear. "I can say with utmost sincerity that there will be days you wish you had never met me." And with only a shift of his tone he knew she could hear him whispering in her ear, so he added, "But if you could love me, I would be as gentle as a lamb, and you would want for nothing."

Christine made no reply, but since she did not leave and only settled more firmly at his side, Erik found that he did not mind at all.

Sooo… Now that's all cleared up… How about we start moving toward something a bit more monumental…