AN: I'm back to working on this story again after (another) unexpected hiatus! I really hope there is still some interest in this and would love to hear from anyone who is still reading!

Give thy thoughts no tongue.

- William Shakespeare

oOo

Hide Your Soul

oOo

Trembling. The whole street was trembling, cold with silence, pale in the face of the moon. The night had no pity for the cowering souls, no mercy for the shivering corners and alleys made dark by its black, slithering fingertips. They crept into every crevice, filling them completely – triumphant and silent. The bewitching fingers crawled across the flesh of every passer-by, scratching at the skin with whispers, conjuring paranoia and backward glances.

Two hooded figures slid deftly through the alleyways and dark streets of the black Paris night. They drifted with the mist, glided with the smoke, and merged with the long, twisting shadows. The journey was silent. Christine shivered and Erik burned. Neither spoke of what lay in the recesses of their souls, of the dark torments that seemed to take the body in waves.

Erik felt deep warmth creep over him as Christine held onto him tightly, clutching first his arm, then his hand. Her grip was light and urgent – enduring. She had never held on to him in this way before, she had never sought such comfort from him. Erik allowed himself to feel it, just for that moment, to relish in the shivers that convulsed through his arm. Yet, almost at once, his joy was flooded by shame – she was scared for her life, and he was the cause of it.

They arrived outside the small house and stood side by side. It seemed far away, somehow dislocated, a forgotten nightmare suddenly reborn. The whole place was silent and empty, radiating innocent domesticity – all neatly-drawn curtains and pretty window-boxes.

Christine could not breathe. She tried to imagine the house by daylight, bright, with a familiar face smiling in the window and sunlight bouncing off the glass and clashing in the air in a dance of bright glitter.

Tonight, blood seemed to be all around it, and the flowers had dropped their plotting heads together.

"It is strange to be afraid of your own home," she said.

Erik continued to stare at the house. "I will search it… and I will remain outside all night."

"You don't have to –"

"You know I do."

The wind rattled past them, laughing as it went – taunting and shrill. Christine swallowed; she did not know which held more terror in this moment, the open street or that soundless house. She reached out, but Erik was standing too far away, so her hand fell limply at her side.

"Is there any point tomorrow that you might find yourself alone?" Erik asked.

"No, the outing has been arranged for quite some time. I will spend the entire day with Meg and Peter; we are going to an art exhibition, then afternoon tea – and in the evening we are to have dinner…" Her face whitened. "I'm not sure I can face it."

"You must," Erik's voice was deep and calm. "Nothing will happen to you, I assure you. But it is important not to be alone at any time. There are some urgent things I must attend to in the morning, but I will remain close. You may not be able to see me, but I will be able to see you."

Christine turned to him with a strange half-smile. "It feels odd to be grateful for such a promise – but I am."

Erik inclined his head slightly, his jaw set tight. Christine wished they could forget everything that had gone before, and start anew. She wished that spoken words, smiles, and the lightest of caresses did not result in a surging of anger and guilt. But she knew neither of them could ever completely let go of that time – it was too deeply embedded, it could not be undone. She did not know if the deep, terrible pain inside Erik would ever completely fade – whether she would ever be able to reach beyond his skin.

She took a step towards him and lay her gloved hand on his sleeve. Erik fixed his eyes on her. He did not touch her; instead his eyes took in every pore on her face.

Christine tried to read his expression, but a thick shadow veiled his visible side. All she could see was the mask.

"This will all be over very soon, I promise," he said.

They went inside the house.

oOo

The body of a young woman was discovered in the early hours of Monday morning on the banks of the River Seine. Unconfirmed reports suggest that the woman was found with a rope around her neck. Police have been reluctant to provide any details that may hinder their investigation.

Although the identity of the young woman has not been confirmed, many believe it to be Mlle Christine Daaé, former soprano at the Paris Opera, who disappeared in unusual circumstances on the 2nd of December.

oOo

Erik returned the letter to his pocket and continued to stare at the house. Watery shimmers of daylight were visible on the horizon. He had forced the dawn by devouring the darkness with his eyes, gorging on the night until there was nothing left for the sun to do but rise. He could feel it stirring in his bones – the delirious coldness of black fire.

The streets would soon be waking; curtains would open and let daylight flood the rooms with warmth. Slowly, people began to leave their houses, off to start their days in offices around the city. Some people cast curious glances at the silent man dressed in black, distant and unmoving. But Erik did not look at them; he sat staring only at the house.

He saw her small, white face in the window, isolated, as though she had been plucked from a dream. She was too far away to see her features clearly, but Erik knew every curve, he traced each shape with his eyes. He thought he saw her put her hand against the glass, but a moment later she was gone and he wasn't sure if he had not imagined her.

He remembered the game of chess he had played with Henry on that cold night in London. The old man had made the first move; he played with a confident, merciless manner – taking Erik's pieces ruthlessly. At the time Erik had half-expected to see Henry rub his hands together with unashamed glee, so sure that victory was in his grasp. He remembered the excitement in those dull grey eyes, the secret swelling of triumph. Erik had been able to read the old man's every move by the expression on his wrinkled brow. He remembered Henry's surprise, his utter disbelief, when Erik had set down his final piece and won. Henry had been speechless in the face of his quiet victory…

He saw the boy, Peter, walking to the house. It must have been approaching nine. Erik stood up and walked away, coldness following him, dragging across the floor with every step he took.

oOo

Christine's neck flinched with pain as she glanced back; she rubbed it and continued to look forward, mindful not to loose sight of Meg and Peter. The two of them seemed to move in a world of their own, laughing and smiling as they went. Christine was trying desperately to keep up with them, but the oncoming crowds were becoming thick: the people jostled and bustled together, stopped to talk and laugh in the middle of the path, flocked in every direction and sometimes came to a dead halt without reason. She felt invisible and abandoned – half of her wanted to recoil into the wall and disappear, and the other part wanted to fight through with steely determination. She tried to keep her eyes on the feather that sat atop Meg's hat – she needed to stay close to them, she could not risk being separated.

In her haste she crashed into two well-dressed women travelling in the opposite direction. They stopped and threw stony stares of displeasure at her. Christine heard the muttered words "…insolent rudeness…" and "…ill mannered!" She tried to apologise, but was answered only with pursed lips and raised eyebrows. Christine felt helpless, frozen to the spot by their stony disapproval – and then, when their censure would still not relent, she fought off her mortification with a helpless smile. Such pride could not be beaten, she knew – there was nothing else she could do.

She turned away from their scowls and back to the throng of the boulevard – Meg and Peter had not seen the incident and had carried on into the swarm. Christine ran slightly, dodging arms, umbrellas and walking canes, weaving between bodies and large bonnets – trying to catch up with them. When she finally did, she slowed down, red-cheeked, and tried to walk with decorum.

She noticed the way Meg held onto Peter, so at ease, so content. To her the boulevard was probably empty; nobody barged into her or gave her cold looks. She almost seemed to be flying. Christine remembered the day she had walked with Erik through the bustling streets. They had not floated nor had they been gleaming with contentment – all she could remember was the scratching of fallen leaves against the cold ground and the sickening in her heart.

She was trying to keep her mind clear and focused, to banish the awful note to the back of her mind – just as Erik had told her to. Fear would only do her harm, make her more vulnerable. But it was very difficult not to peer at the faces of all these passing strangers, not to imagine their dark brows and twitching eyes were looking at her – watching her. It seemed impossible not to look at all of them and wonder if they were the serpent with a poisoned pen.

"Come on, Christine – keep up!" Meg called over her shoulder. "We don't want to loose you in this awful crowd!"

Christine smiled and quickened her step, then threw another nervous glance behind her.

Erik had told her to say nothing of the note to Meg and Peter, and she agreed; it was pointless to worry them. It would all be over very soon, Erik kept telling her… it would all be over very soon. Looking back, Christine could not help but find it strange that she had run straight to Erik. To a man she had once feared, a man she had fled from so many times before. How had it happened? How did he change from being the cause of her fear, to the man she sought to help her? Was it a change in him – or in her? In many ways she felt closer to him than ever before. She could tell him anything, she knew, and he would not judge her. She needed him and he wanted to be there for her. And yet there was also a distance, a hollow, terrible distance. They were only close again because she needed him – Christine was annoyed that it should even matter.

Meg and Peter were waiting patiently for her outside the art gallery. Their smiling faces soothed her and she felt herself breathe without fear.

"I thought we had lost you for a moment," said Peter. "It's my fault, I've been exciting Meg with talk of honeymoons –"

"Greece," Meg cut in, "can you believe it, Christine? Three months touring Greece. I'm so excited!"

"Nothing has been finalised just yet," Peter said, laughing nervously.

"Oh, well then, we should finalise it as soon as possible. I don't think I want to go anywhere else."

"But there are lots of wonderful places...We should talk about it more before we make any definite plans. Italy has always interested me – or perhaps Spain…"

Meg looked thoughtful for a moment. "No… none of those excite me as much as Greece."

"I'm sure whatever you decide, and wherever you go, it will be wonderful," said Christine, coming to Peter's rescue. She motioned to the doors of the gallery. "Shall we?"

"Of course, we do look rather foolish talking like this in the street," said Peter.

They went through the doors and into the grand foyer. The smell of polished brass and marble made Christine think of the Opera, an aria found its way into her mind and she was tempted to hum it, to bring the notes to life and release them. She could hear the whispered anticipation of the impatient crowd and the nervous chattering of exited chorus girls, and a surge of delight overtook her; she missed that life, those feelings. A time when even the darkest tragedy hid behind a veneer of glitter… she had been telling herself for all these years that she did not want to go back, that the door was closed on that time. That it had all been laid to rest in a coffin of gold and velvet. But how wonderful it would be to go back, to be that girl again…

"Excuse me, Mademoiselle," said a man trying to walk by.

"Oh," Christine smiled in apology. She was momentarily perturbed, she felt yanked from a dream, spun out of herself. She studied the man; he was well dressed, with a kind face and warm eyes. Christine's skin prickled with heat and fear. It could be him, he could drag her into the crowd and that would be it. Erik was wrong, it had been foolish to go ahead with this outing – it was too dangerous.

She jumped at the feel of Meg's hand on her arm. She felt colour rush to her cheeks and realised she had been staring at the man strangely.

She turned to Meg, and when she looked back the man was gone.

"Are you all right?" Meg asked.

"Yes, sorry – I'm not sure what came over me."

"Did you know that man? He was very handsome."

"No… I was in his way, that's all." She took Meg's arm and linked it through her own. "Come, Meg, let's find Peter and go into the next room."

The afternoon passed steadily. Christine stayed close to Meg, smiled at Peter's jokes, and looked at the paintings with interest. She tried not to look at the other people in the crowd, not to wonder if the author of the note was here, watching her from afar. Perhaps Erik was here too, watching her. She would never know, of course, she would only be able to see him if he wanted her to…

The thought was both a comfort and a torment.

oOo

"Excuse me, Monsieur, may I help you?"

The man did not turn around. His silhouette stood black against the timid sun of early morning. The housekeeper took in his back, his shoulders, and the proud top hat. She stood with the door slightly ajar, her fingers trembling imperceptibly.

The man repeated, "I am here to see Monsieur Lockhart," then, at last, turned slowly and the sun invaded every crevice on his face. She recognised at once the proud brow and deep eyes. She wondered why his voice had seemed so different.

"Oh, it's you, Monsieur – I didn't recognise you. This is an unusual hour to call, but I'll tell him you're here."

She trotted off down the hall, leaving the door open. The visitor stood in the doorway silently for a few moments, then, glancing over his shoulder to see that the boulevard behind him was almost empty, he stepped inside and closed the door.

He could hear the muffled noises of a household beginning its daily routine – the footsteps shuffling above, the faraway voices that seemed to rise and fall from nowhere, and the rodent-like scurrying of young maids moving so quickly that they ought to be invisible.

Edgar Lockhart came ambling down the corridor, dressed in a red and white polka-dot waistcoat and a blue cravat. He smiled at his guest.

"Ah, Larsson, what a pleasant surprise!"

Erik nodded casually at the old man. He took off his coat and gloves and placed them on the sideboard – just as he had done many times before.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"There are some things I need to discuss with you," Erik said evenly. He did not return Edgar's smile.

"Well, it must be important, for you to call so early."

"I do apologise for the hour, but I am afraid it cannot wait."

The old man's thin eyebrows jutted together in confusion. He motioned to the small sitting room.

"Come this way."

Erik followed him into the room. It felt strange to be here, in this place of light and warmth. He took it in, knowing that this would be the last time he would be inside this house. He thought fondly of the conversations Edgar and he had shared – talks of politics and history, things Erik had never paid particular attention to before. He felt a slight jolt in his stomach, a kind of sadness that lingered in the soul.

The portrait of Isabella hung above the fireplace, taunting him. Erik looked at her with hate; the secrets she had taken to the grave were alive again, her betrayals infecting the next generation.

He took the chair opposite Edgar, and crossed his legs casually.

"Now then," said Edgar, "tell me what is troubling you, my friend."

"I am not who you think I am," Erik said, smoothing the upholstery with his finger. He fixed his gaze on Edgar; the old man was still smiling.

"I see – and who, in fact, are you?" Edgar asked with a small laugh.

Erik smiled thinly. "I doubt we have the time, or the mental capacity to answer that question." Then his frown returned. "I am a man who does not deserve your friendship."

Edgar regarded Erik for a moment. "I think I know what this is about."

They both sat silently for a few moments. Edgar took off his glasses and rubbed his face wearily.

"I suppose I should have seen this coming, but I had hoped the situation would resolve itself without my involvement," he said gravely. "I did have my suspicions, not long after our first meting. To be honest, I am rather shocked it has taken you so long to tell me…"

"It appears I am weaker than you thought me to be."

Edgar raised his chin. "I believe weak is far from the right word to use. Some might call it a kind of bravery, to act as you have done – to act as you are acting now."

"I certainly would not," Erik said in a low voice.

"Come, Larsson – where is your fighting spirit!"

"It is intact, I assure you," Erik said with a slight smirk, and then his face softened. "I need you to know how difficult this has been, Monsieur; I did not intend for any of it… You have my respect and friendship, for what little they may be worth. But I must at last tell you the real reason for my being here –"

"You know how I value our friendship! It seems I know you better than you think. This business that has been weighing you down, it does not concern just me, does it?"

Erik raised a brow. "What do you mean?"

"I guessed from the moment you announced your intention of buying a house. That, together with your sudden appearances and, some might say, odd behaviour – I may be old, Erik, but I am not blind. Please do not take me for a complete fool."

Erik could not look at him, his insides convulsed and a red heat spread to his ears. For the first time in his life he felt very small.

"This involves Mademoiselle Daaé too, does it not?"

Erik nodded, and managed to choke out the single word, "Yes..."

"Well, I admire you for coming to me first – it cannot be an easy thing to have on your soul, but you are doing the right thing! Did you really think me that brainless? Of course I noticed! I have known from the very first moment you set eyes on each other. And when you said you were looking to buy property, I just knew, I could sense it!"

Erik could only stare at the old man, unable to speak.

"Naturally, with her being an orphan and her guardian away you have sought me out instead. Well, I am honoured! You must not be nervous, I have seen the way she looks at you, and any fool can see how much she cares for you. Why, the girl adores you! She is about as good at hiding it as you are… Oh, how cruel you are to come to my door looking so grave, when all the time you had happy tidings like this to discuss with me!"

Erik found he had regained control of his speech. "Monsieur, there appears to have been some confusion..."

It was Edgar's turn to fall silent.

"While you are correct in your judgment of my feelings for Miss Daaé, I am afraid to say that they are not reciprocated."

"That cannot be so!"

"I'm afraid it is. Believe me; I have more than enough evidence to support what I say. And while my feelings do weigh heavily on my soul, and on my entire wretched existence – they were not the main reason for my being here this morning."

Edgar was confused. "They were not?"

"No."

"Then, tell me the real reason."

Erik stood and walked to the window. This was the right thing to do, the only way. He had caused all of this, it was his crime, and the only way to regain control was with the truth – the despicable, awful truth. He closed his eyes and summoned the image of Christine's face to his mind, and then took a deep breath.

"Very well… it began when I met a man named Henry Cranmer."

oOo