Christine looks up from sewing the seams of her wedding dress the head seamstress marked for her with pins. The gown had been let out while her body was changing during her pregnancy, now, however, she has lost weight and the silk and lace confection required additional altering. She removes her wire-rimmed glasses – and rubs the bridge of her nose. A smile creases her face – in recollection of the first time she put them on in front of Erik.

"Eyeglasses?" he said. That was all, just "eyeglasses."

"Yes, for many years now."

"Will there ever be a day when you do not reveal another part of yourself I had no idea existed?"

"Nearsightedness is not some major revelation."

"In your eyes perhaps." Realizing his joke, he laughed. "Your eyes. Get the jest."

"Have you been indulging?" Her laughter joining with his.

"Only in looking at you." His laughter rings out again.

"You are quite out of control, Mr. Y. and making me feel quite self-conscious."

"Oh, my dearest, Christine, can you not see I only speak from love." At that point he was bent over with his foolishness. An Erik so unfamiliar to her, but so reminiscent of Gustave, she could not help but join him in appreciating his silliness. Something she was certain was new in his life.

They have much to learn about one another. Moments such as those make her even more certain this is the right choice for her – for all of them.

Elyse offered to do the work, but Christine uses the task to help her heal from the loss of the baby. There is comfort in performing the repetitive stitching – each one identical to the one before – careful not to pull the thread too tight or leave it too loose. When the thread became too short, the knot is hidden under the existing stitches. Then the needle would be threaded again, measuring the fine white silk from her nose to the tip of her extended arm and biting it, the touch of moisture sufficient to allow passage through the eye without too great a struggle.

What was the biblical quote? "It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the Kingdom of God!" Of course, this was not meant to be literal. The Eye of the Needle was said to be a gate in Jerusalem camels could not pass through unless it was stooped and the baggage of the wealthy merchant removed. Either way, she could understand the truth of the saying, having been in the company and living with people of great wealth these past ten years. Their self-righteousness often superseded the homilies given by the priests at Mass.

Erik was a man of wealth, as she discovered…not just now, but long before he took to living under the Opera House. Much of it acquired while he was in Persia – thanks to the jewels he received in payment for his work – or so he told her. The 20,000 francs he received from the Managers was put away or invested, much of it going into building Phantasma.

One night when she was sewing she mentioned the phrase. He laughed and said that it was not money that would prevent his entry through the pearly gates. When asked for an explanation, his eyes focused on some distant place only he could see – the amber appearing black…his entire visage darkened. "For a while, I was the monster the vicomte accused me of being."

When pressed, he just smiled…a twisted smile. "If I told you, you would leave me and I do not believe I could bear that."

"I will never leave you," she insisted.

"That is what you say now," he replied. "Can we just not move forward with our lives and not continue bringing up the past?"

She let the topic drop. The events of the night of Don Juan Triumphant gave her a clue to the answer. In his rage and madness that night, he likely would have killed Raoul. The presence of the lasso suggested this was his tool. Buquet died at his hand – not directly, but by means Erik created for those who ventured to close to his underground house. He certainly cried no tears for the man.

For that matter, neither did she or any of the other ballet girls mourn for the master of the flies. Buquet was a vile and predatory man. Most of the dancers felt his hand on them at one time or another.

Murder was Erik's sin, of that she was certain.

If that were the case, could she forgive him? Was it her place to forgive? Did he even wish to be forgiven?

Yet something within him prevented him killing Raoul or Meg, for that matter. Had her kiss changed him to that extent? He seemed to have paid a penance – first locking himself away from the world. How horrible must that have been. Even now – the room of black was the place he went for comfort…or absolution.

Part of what attracted her to him was the sense of danger. Every part of him was seductive – even the ruined face. Erik was surprised by her actions the night before – donning the gown created for the automaton – her replica, she imagined. Having only seen the mannequin that donned this gown before her – she imagined the face of this creation was hers, as well.

If he was confused, she was more so. Playing a role…no, it was more than that. Once again he reached inside her soul and revealed another part of herself, she was hardly aware of. Accepting his fantasy about the automaton – becoming a living doll – shocked her sensibilities. Donning the gold lame, touched something inside her. However intense and experimental their sexual relations were, this was new, strange and completely enthralling. Raw.

Now, when working on another gown first worn by another of Erik's creations, she wonders what else might she tap into. Recalling that night so long ago, her mind goes to the second descent to the 5th basement. The path was more familiar – using that route for her lessons had her know the feel of the stones beneath her feet and the location of many of the traps. They seemed to fly down the stairs.

When Erik told her to put on the gown, she did not understand. "We are to be wed. You must have a proper gown – not the dress of a serving girl.

"I am not marrying you – not like this, in any event. I have not betrothed myself to you or any man." A lie, but one she felt necessary. This Erik was terrifying – more so even than the time she first removed the mask from his face.

Yet, when he grabbed the mannequin, removing the gown then tossing the dummy to one side, she understood he meant it.

"I cannot reach the hooks…"

Throwing off the shroud, Erik's nimble fingers made fast work of undoing the cinnamon and black Aminta dress, turning away, not attempting to examine her in her corset and chemise. Just the command. "Put the gown on – it secures in the front."

How could a dress make such a change in a person, but, whereby, in her earlier meetings with Erik, he was always in control. Not now. Now he exposed his own vulnerabilities. It all began that night. The dress gave her power. As with everything else in their relationship, he bettered her – drew out traits she never dreamed she might possess.

She had to admit that a part of her – the Lutheran baptized part, learned as a child about make believe and how statues to not have power – a holdover from the Reformation – mocking the Catholic dependency upon praying to their saints for this or that. It was simply wrong and craven – a sin against the first commandment.

However, Christine loved the cathedrals she and her father visited and thought the statues beautiful and understood how having an image to speak to made prayer easier. One could imagine the piece of art to be a friend, particularly if you had no "real" friends to share your life with.

Her first impression of the mannequin was one of shock, not fear. It was odd for a man to have an image of a living woman in his home dressed as a bride, certainly. Especially when it represented her. Then she remembered her saints. The whole mystical saint/angel element was integral to their relationship. How could he not want her present with him?

That he recreated the mannequin – more sophisticated, certainly – she took as a compliment. That he destroyed it, was his offering to her – he needed no false image to come before her. Was it a sacrilege to mock the commandment? She was certainly no god or goddess, but she is his love and he is hers. Who knows, had she been more creative, she might have reconstructed him – the piece of his cloak had to suffice…and the gown.

"Thank you, Raoul," she murmurs. "You shall never know what a changed person your former wife has become. I do not recognize myself. So many emotions and feelings I held back during our years together. So unfair to you – to both of us. As I look to this wedding day, I feel only great hope for the future, so different from the day we wed. You deserved more and better, but I had no choice. I was afraid – I had nothing, nowhere to go."

A knock on the door interrupts her reverie. Laying the dress on the ottoman in front of her chair, piercing the fabric where she completed her last stitch with the needle to mark her place, she rises and walks to the door.

"Who is it?"

"Nadir Kahn, Mme. Christine."

A frown of confusion crosses her brow which she converts immediately to a brilliant smile to open the door to the Persian. "M. Khan, good morning." She steps back to allow him passage into the sitting room. "Erik is at the Eyrie."

"Yes, I know – I wished to see you alone."

"Indeed. Well then, come in – I am very much so at the moment – both of my men involved in their personal affairs."

Nadir follows her into the room, taking a seat on the settee she offers him with a wave of her hand.

"Tea or coffee? I am relegated to tea for my voice, but I can offer you a lovely Turkish brew Erik discovered. Nothing seems to affect his voice. There is something superhuman about him and I often wonder if he is real."

"Tea is fine."

"Good, since it is right here." Removing the cozy from the pot, she pours him a cup. "Help yourself to sugar and cream and a cookie. I am still a novice at baking, but Gustave informed me that this batch was by far my best." With that she returns to the armchair, moving the gown once again to make more room for herself.

"Thank you," Nadir says, adding his usual 5 lumps, putting another 3 in the saucer for dipping. "I have a sweet tooth," he explains. "The cookies look delicious."

Christine watches quietly as he addresses the snack, her hands folded in her lap. The daroga is a handsome man – his face very different from Raoul's and what Erik's might be were he whole in that respect – European. The mystery of the East seemed to fill the entirely of Erik's friend from the past. Persia seemed such an exotic place to her. Much of her time lately has been spent reading books, particularly those with colored pictures of the land where the two men met.

"What can I do for you? I owe you my son's life, so there is little you might ask I would not agree to give you," she says.

"Seeing him…all of you happy and whole is gift enough," Nadir replies, his face flushing. "I actually came as a favor to Erik."

A lifted eyebrow and a tilted chin is her initial response.

When she did not offer a question, he continues, "Frankly, I told him he needed to discuss these concerns with you, but the fact that he even asked me to do something for him had me hesitant to refuse. I have not known him in recent years…perhaps 30, so what happened to him during that time is a mystery to me, but I did know him as a young man…a very young man…so completely unwise to the ways of women and romance and…"

Christine bestows a half smile on him, her green eyes sparkling.

"I am rambling," he says, wiping his brow with a handkerchief pulled from the breast pocket of his gray frock coat. "I told him this was a bad idea. I am not a man of words…particularly about…intimate subjects."

Unable to stifle the laugh bubbling inside any longer, she releases her amusement with a very unladylike guffaw.

The daroga's eyes widen at the sound, but soon adds his own chuckles to her now lyrical chortles.

"That poor man," she finally says, holding her stomach. "Such a proud and daunting figure in his black garb, coiffed hair and the elegant white mask, one would never assume there was a frightened little boy hiding behind the façade."

"Then I have no need to continue with my insights?"

"Your insights…no, but I would be interested to learn something of the world you introduced him to and, if I am correct in my understanding, helped him escape from."

Nadir relaxes into his seat on the settee, taking a bit of sugar dipped in the tea, before taking a sip. "I cannot tell you much of who he was before I met him in Russia – he was quite glib about being a magician – as if he simply sprang from the earth playing a violin and doing tricks with his voice."

"What can you tell me?" She, too, relaxes into her chair, pulling some of the rich fabric onto her lap, stroking the delicate silk with her delicate fingers.

"I convinced him to come with me to Persia – the shah was always looking for new talent. Little did I know then, that besides being a gifted musician, he was also an architect and…" his eyes like molten chocolate gave her a pained look.

"A criminal?" Her fingers tighten on the gown.

"Yes…that." Lowering his head, he turns his body away from her. "I should not be telling you any of this."

"A murderer?" The calm with which she asks him this question, the answer to which she has already assumed, surprises her. Having already decided Erik killed other men, not just one, but likely many. How many she did not know – was murder something you could do so often you become numb to the act? What sort of inner death of your own could prompt committing the act over and over?

Nadir responds with a curt nod.

"But he stopped."

Another nod.

"Why?"

"I asked him to. He relieved my son from his pain – gave him a peaceful death. The shah was planning to execute him – the palace was designed and built…Erik knew too much." Nadir shrugs. "Or he was simply bored with him – one could never tell. In any event, Erik was to die."

"But you could not allow that."

"No, I could not," Nadir says. "I brought him to that place. He took care of my son – I had to help him, so I did."

"With conditions," Christine offers.

"Yes. He promised to only kill if his own life was in danger," Nadir says.

"Even then, although he came close – with Buquet, who died in a trap, and Piangi, who recovered…and, of course, Raoul – he did not break his promise to you."

"Yes, I learned that before I left Paris myself."

"Thank you for your courage. I am certain you had no idea how I might respond to someone telling me the man I would be marrying in less than a week was a murderer." Her tone light, almost giddy. Where was this sense of lightness coming from? The daroga confirmed her worst fears. Or was that her worst fear about Erik. In her heart she knew the blackness of his soul was created from the most evil of acts. Nadir merely confirmed her knowledge. Her fear was he had not stopped at some point – the reawakening of the devil haunting him brought him to kill again…or want to kill. It was she who was responsible for that.

Nadir's eyes narrowed. "You appear to have known."

"A suspicion."

"It does not appear to matter."

"He punishes himself. But, of course it matters – what matters more is he stopped…a very long time ago."

"The opera house? The vicomte?"

"No one died…at least by Erik's hand – Buquet died in a trap…and deserved it."

"Raoul wanted to kill Erik – encouraged the entire troupe to support killing him – even me."

"Self-defense." Lifting the dress, she shakes it out and places it over her lap. "I accused him of deceiving me, when, in truth, I betrayed him as well. All was resolved that night."

"You are certain?"

Holding up the gown in front of her for him to see, she says, "This is the gown he created for me to wear all those years ago. I shall wear it for our wedding." Putting it aside, she rises from her chair. "I must excuse myself, M. Khan, I am to meet Erik and Gustave in the restaurant for luncheon."

Nadir puts his cup down and stands up, straightening his clothes. "Of course, I have overstayed my visit."

"Not at all, you are most welcome in our home at any time," she says. "You are a good friend who took on a difficult task. I thank you for that."

"If there is anything else…"

"I think I shall take anything else up with Erik," she laughs. "Would you care to join us for our meal?"

"Hmmm, no. You should have a pleasant meal. I fear my appearance would bring to mind Erik's request I visit you and spoil everyone's appetite."

"Makes sense," she says, walking him to the door. As he passes in front of her, she rests a hand on his shoulder and presses a kiss on his cheek. "Thank you for loving him. He had no one before you – how horrible that must have been."

"Now he has you."

"Yes. Me, our son, you and many, many others. I believe his sins have finally been forgiven."

"Many of them at least. One never knows what Allah has in store."

"True enough. We shall have to hope for the best, for all of us."

With a nod of agreement, the Persian touches his hat, signaling good-bye and turns to leave.

Christine watches him walk down the hall for a moment before closing the door. Once alone in the apartment, she checks the room. The gown is hung in the armoire, sewing gear put away. Tea things gathered and put in the kitchen.

Pausing in front of the ornate mirror hanging over the parson's table next to the armoire, she pinches her cheeks and bites her lips for color. The revelations of the past hour impressed no physical changes as far as she could determine. Would Erik know? Of course he would, he wanted her to know. Did he suspect she knew, then? Likely, he would not have risked sending the daroga on such a mission had he not at least suspected. Was she as certain Erik's past was of no matter as she suggested?

Sighing deeply, letting the thought process. A smile crosses her face. She is as certain as she needs to be to love him and to marry him. The future might bring other questions, particularly from Gustave. For now, her heart is at peace with her choice. The ormolu clock chimes the hour. If she is to relay that information to her betrothed, she must stop mulling the issue and join him and their son for luncheon. Strong as he is, his trust in her love is fragile and she does not wish him to worry – not now. Not ever, if possible.

Tucking a curl behind her ear, she drapes her cashmere cape over her shoulders and leaves the apartment, locking the door behind her. With a light step, she makes her way to the elevator, humming one of the new songs Maestro Rudolph has given her to learn. The time for pondering is over. Life goes on. If not entirely normal – suitable for her and her family. Pappa would be pleased, she thinks.