He played until he had nothing left to say. Christine was still in her seat, in his theater, and he marveled at that. True, the worst was still hidden, but she must know, must suspect, that his hands weren't the only monstrous thing about him. As the last note faded, he carefully replaced his violin on its rack. He'd still not looked directly at his quiet listener.

His gloves lay where he'd dropped them, but just as he started to put them back on, she spoke.

"Are…they…medically necessary, then?" her voice was tentative, her word choice delicate.

He shook his head.

"Then why are you putting them back on?" Christine saw him pause and pressed on. "You don't have to, if you don't want to. I mean, I can tell they don't fit right."

It was true. They did not 'fit right.' The design created the illusion that his fingers were close to a normal length, but the gloves had to be tight and constricting to accomplish this. For the first time, she was seeing what it took to pull them on and make himself acceptable.

"So, if you don't need them, don't put them on, ok?" She sounded sincere and almost pleading.

Speaking to the floor, he muttered, "Do they amuse you, then?" The slightest bitterness tainted the question. He had been used to amuse others, before. Echoing in his mind still was the laughter, screams, crude comments, the perfect helplessness to run…or to hide. But if he amused her now, he should only be grateful. In service and obedience, he reminded himself.

Christine was taken aback. Amuse me? It was one of those peculiar statements he made that left her with no reply.

"No, it's just… I guess I like you better free to play music."

That is what she said, but all he heard was, "I like you better free." He placed the gloves on the piano and turned to her, forcing himself to meet her gaze. Her expression was unreadable, but there was no harshness there.

"Then I will leave them off."

Christine nodded, said, "Thank you," then, "I really am sorry I can't work on the ballroom for a while. But if you are up for it, I'd love to practice singing for a bit."

She'd sung with simple accompaniment hundreds of times. Recently, he had pushed her to sing a cappella more often, honing her pitch and her ability to stay on key without help. Until this night, though, she had never heard her voice backed up by full accompaniment. The effect was magical, and she found herself laughing with delight afterwards.

"That. Was. Amazing!" she laughed. "You're amazing!"

That's what she said. Not 'your music is amazing'. Her Maestro felt galvanized and lost. So often she left him feeling this way: elevated but confused. He was a monster, after all, and she knew that now. Or she should know it, but still she treated him like a man. Like someone she enjoyed being with.

He bowed in acknowledgement of the compliment, if not in acceptance. She yawned widely and stretched.

"Christine…"

"I know, I know. You're tired; go home. Right?"

"Yes, but…" he searched for something else to express the emotion that pulsed painfully now in his chest. "Be well, Christine." It was inadequate, but it would have to do. "Be well."

She nodded and turned to go, shouldering her backpack on her right side to avoid her hand. As he moved to open the exterior door for her, she placed her hand on it to stop him.

"Listen. I don't know what exactly is going on, but I know that what you did tonight, well, it was really brave. And, I mean, I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for trusting me. I'll see you tomorrow."

Before he could recover or even fully understand what she'd said, she opened the door and was gone.

.

.

.

Christine crossed the road this time before she allowed herself to fall into her thoughts. The mystery was solved; at least, some of it was. The answer was terrible. If she had not heard him play, if she had not known him before she had seen, what would she have thought? Now that she knew more, though, she realized that her teacher was not just strange and awkward, he was uniquely vulnerable.

If de Chagny got his way – or even if deChagny even began closely investigating the opera house – her Maestro stood to lose everything: his home, his freedom, his precarious dignity. For all his talent, for all his command and his three-piece suits, he seemed very much in need of protection.

And who was there to protect him? He said he had ways, she thought, but what ways? I'm it, aren't I. The thought was huge and scary, but it was also exciting. This was a part she'd never played before.

It was not necessary that he know if she contacted Mr. de Chagny. She could be subtle. She could be discreet. The man definitely flirted with her when they met. It wasn't as though she had nefarious intentions, anyway. She just needed to know, so she could warn her teacher. Was de Chagny making progress? Had he found the owner? What would he do with the…

Her eyes popped wide. This was an angle she had never considered before. The whole thing might be much more manageable than she originally thought. It was late, but had he not been cruising the neighborhood later than this? She pulled out her cell phone and his card.

"Capere development. This is Raoul."

"Hi, Raoul. This is Christine. The lady you almost hit with your car?"

"Ah, yes. The artist! Have you considered my offer?"

"Well, I have been thinking about it. Should I bring it by your office?" This was a gambit; Christine was counting on his wanting to flirt with her. She did not, however, want to be perceived as asking him out. For some reason, she felt her Maestro's presence even as the idea rose.

"That is so formal, Miss Daae. Why don't we meet and discuss this over coffee? There's a little place on 9th street with good atmosphere. The Slow Cup. Are you familiar with it?"

"Yes, if that would be easier for you." Feigning a lack of enthusiasm, Christine tried to sound as though she met with fabulously rich men at high-end coffee shops every other week.

"My treat," he confirmed. "I'll see you there Saturday. Is 8 good for you?"

"Ye…I mean, no. I can't do 8. That's…too late. It will have to be earlier. Is 6 workable?"

"I'll be there." So smooth, so confident. "And Christine?"

"Yes?"

"Bring your portfolio."