This is insane. The cool night air and the time sat alone had calmed Erik's anger, and he had begun to consider the possibility that following Celeste and Matisse may not have been the best idea in the world.

It had been easy to find their carriage outside the Opera House, Matisse's obnoxious voice drifting loudly out of it. Erik was almost surprised that they hadn't left in the time it had taken him to reach the entrance, but on second thoughts he should have expected the prat to get distracted talking about himself.

When their destination was finally called to the driver and the carriage had set off - Matisse's voice carrying after it - Erik moved away from the shadow of the Opera House and started through the streets towards the restaurant they were headed for.

He had arrived a little after the pair, and found himself a position in the restaurant's garden that provided a good view of their table.

Nothing had happened in the half an hour he had been sat there, and Celeste had her back to the window, so Erik just had to watch Matisse's smug face. He couldn't hear what was being said, but the git seemed to be doing most, if not all, of the talking.

Now that his temper had abated, he started to feel rather sorry for Celeste - he could only imagine how painfully annoying an evening full of Matisse would be.

Unless, his treacherous mind whispered. She's enjoying it.

Erik shook his head, trying to dispel the doubt, but crossing his fingers all the same.

Celeste sipped her wine, the taste harsh on her tongue then stinging her throat. She gave a small cough, and glanced again at the clock on the wall.

Almost an hour had passed since they arrived, and she had barely said a word. In fact, she had pretty much tuned out whatever Matisse was saying, and he seemed contended with her odd nod or noise of agreement.

I could be in my lesson instead of here. she thought wistfully. The lesson would have been finishing about now, and Erik would be smiling at her and giving words of encouragement before leading her back to her dressing room and bidding her goodnight.

She wished she could go back to her lesson now, in the calm of the cavern with the sound of Erik's music filling the air, watching for the slight smile lifting his lips when she began to sing.

Instead she was stuck having dinner with the most self-centred idiot she had ever met, and she couldn't even complain, because if she did the managers would probably write her off forever.

Celeste groaned inwardly, and was dragged back to the present when Matisse leaned towards her.

"...wouldn't you agree?" he drawled.

She forced a smile back onto her face. "Of course." she said, no idea what she was agreeing do.

"I mean," he continued, waving a hand self-importantly. "Are all the sets really that necessary? André and Firman would save so much money if they only had one or two backdrops, and they could easily cut down on costumes and props."

Celeste couldn't help frowning a little. "I'm sorry, are you suggesting the Opera House should have less equipment?"

"Naturally." Matisse took a swig of wine from his glass, then began to top it up again from the bottle on the table. "And I'm sure much of the staff could be fired; those stagehands and dressers are of little use."

"But it's an Opera House. We put on performances, of course we need sets, and props, and dressers. How else would we function?"

He waved his hand again. "It'd manage, I'm sure. Those kinds of people are all layabouts anyway. It's a class thing. No ambition."

Celeste stared at him as he continued.

"Besides, opera is rather outdated - it would hardly be a great loss if the House closed down."

She frowned again, perplexed. "You don't even like opera?"

"Not particularly." he answered disinterestedly, draining his next glass of wine.

Then why on earth do I have to be here?

Celeste looked at her own wine, which was starting to look more appealing by the minute. Her frustration was mounting, and she wasn't sure how much longer she could stay civil.

She was distracted from her annoyance, however, when Matisse leaned towards her again. His alcohol-drenched breath washed over her, and she immediately tensed. He started saying something, but she couldn't make out the words over the buzzing in her head.

Her vision turned fuzzy, and she felt suddenly sick. The crash that had killed her father and the alcoholic stench of the driver flashed through her mind, and kept playing and replaying, sending her dizzy.

She managed to get unsteadily to her feet, leaning heavily on the table.

"Would you excuse me a moment?" she gasped, interrupting whatever he was prattling about. "I need some fresh air."

She caught a glimpse of his affronted expression as she half-staggered over to the glass doors and out onto the veranda, taking deep breaths of the cool night air. She felt about ready to throw up as she steadied herself against the railing running along the edge of the walkway.

Erik sat up when Celeste came outside. She looked pale, and gripped the bannister tightly as though it was keeping her from falling. He was tempted for a moment to reveal himself and go to comfort her, but then Matisse stepped through the doors and his inclination immediately soured.

"Funny turn?" he said unconcernedly. "I suppose I can have that effect on people."

Erik stared. Was this idiot real?

Celeste's own expression matched his incredulity, and he could hear the clipped note to her tone as she said, "Just a little light headed, that's all."

Matisse made a non-committal noise and took a cigarette case out of his jacket.

Erik rolled his eyes when he lit the cigarette, Celeste scrunching up her nose as the smoke drifted towards her. Could the git get any more annoying?

The answer was yes apparently, evidenced when he turned to her and said, "As I was saying, obviously you're going to have to stop working at the Opera House."

What?

"What?" Celeste stared, clearly taken aback.

She would never agree to something like that, Erik was sure. It wasn't like the managers would encourage their star to leave, and she really loved going there. He was certain she wouldn't turn her back on something she loved just because some idiot told her to - her unwavering dedication to her mother alone showed that.

"You shouldn't go back there once we're married." Matisse said lazily. "Or before, preferably. You've made yourself known, so you should quit now before you become outdated. Besides, I can't have a wife of mine prancing around playing dress-up. It's beneath my standing."

Erik felt his stomach drop. What?

It seemed to be as much of a shock to Celeste as to him. "Married?" she squeaked.

"Of course." Matisse leaned closer to her and slung his arm around her shoulders. Despite the distracting flash of anger, Erik saw her tense with displeasure as she was pulled closer. "You're big news at the moment; I'll be rather impressive with you as my wife. It'll certainly boost my standing with the patrons, and I can affiliate myself with the arts and count on their investments to my family's company without having to go and sit through all those dull plays."

"But you haven't even asked me." Celeste said through gritted teeth, a rare spark of anger building visibly inside her.

Matisse laughed. "Why should I bother? I already know the answer."

"Oh, do you?" she looked ready to explode.

Erik couldn't blame her. What an arrogant, careless, egotistical fop! As if she would be caught dead as his wife! As if Erik would let it happen!

"Mmm." Matisse looked down at her again, blowing smoke in her face as he did. "You'll be lucky to join my family - once you've made a few changes, naturally, so that your lower status isn't so glaringly obvious. You'll need to start wearing more makeup for one thing, make that face of yours look prettier."

How dare he! Couldn't he see that his little angel was perfect the way she was? Didn't he get the same electric shock as Erik at her smile? Couldn't he see the way she lit up any room she walked into? How blind was he to not recognise the beautiful glow she emanated at every moment?

"And you should start wearing more fashionable clothes too, yours are rather drab." Matisse continued, oblivious to the consternation he was causing.

Celeste stared at him, her mouth hanging open a little at his blatant disregard for common courtesy and manners. She looked out to the dark garden, stepped away from Matisse and took a deep breath, then turned back to him, clearly straining to keep calm.

"I'm afraid I can't marry you." she said, her voice shaking a little with the effort not to snap. "I am not in a position to even consider it, given we have only just met. I highly doubt my family would approve of rushing into something like that. There are plenty of girls, both within and outside the Opera House that I'm sure would be delighted to have you as a suitor, but I'm afraid I am not the right girl. So thank you for a...delightful evening, but I should be going. Goodnight, Monsieur."

And with that she turned and walked away, straight out of the restaurant, her head held high.

Erik grinned, pride swelling in his chest. His little angel really did have guts.

He laughed to himself at the look of shock on Matisse's stupid face, as he slid quietly out of his hiding place and followed Celeste.

He easily found her outside the restaurant. She had stopped a little way down the street, clearly thinking. He almost approached her before she set off again, and he recognised her trajectory towards the Opera House.

Matching her route, Erik shadowed her in an adjoining street as she made her way back through Paris. He couldn't stop replaying her exit, the way her eyes had burned and the unusual sharpness to her voice.

He tilted his head, something nagging at him. He thought about the way she had left again, the look she had thrown over her shoulder at Matisse. Her expression at that moment had jolted something inside Erik, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

His step faltered as the recognition clicked into place. The expression had been incredibly familiar to him, but completely alien on her face. It was a look of pure revulsion and repulsion that had been thrown towards him so many times, and yet he had never once seen it shape her delicate features.

I don't disgust her. he thought for a moment, the realisation lighting like a spark inside him, but then was suddenly extinguished.

The only reason she wasn't disgusted was because she didn't know that she should be yet. She had come close when she glimpsed the darkness inside him at that first performance of Il Muto, but despite her forgiveness she had yet to discover the monstrosity of his visage.

Spirits considerably dampened, Erik walked the rest of the way to the Opera House promising himself that he would never reveal what was behind his mask. He didn't think he could bear seeing her look at him the way she had looked at Matisse.