He felt guilty as he opened the closet door and came face to face with her. He hadn't taken her out in so long, but her sweet expression held no condemnation for him. She still smiled as prettily as ever.

He bundled her close to him as he lifted her and carried her back to his bedroom, praying that the real Christine wouldn't see him with this. He had been so careful ever since he had given her a key to the front door - he hadn't taken the mannequin out of the closet since then, dreading that Christine might enter without warning and see the life-size doll of herself. It truly had started innocently enough - a mannequin to help him create dresses and costumes for her. It was merely a happy accident, he told himself, that it also helped to ease his loneliness at times.

But then the real Christine had graciously filled his life with her presence, and he hadn't been so lonely anymore. He hadn't needed the mannequin after that, not really, not for anything other than a shape to form costumes around, and he hadn't worked on any sewing projects in a long time. It would have been safest, perhaps, to sink it into the lake where his real darling would never have a chance to see it and become disturbed. But how could he do that to the poor mannequin? It looked just like her, after all, and how could ever bring himself to destroy something that looked like Christine? So she had stayed safely locked away in the closet with the rest of the faceless mannequins - until now.

Now he had need of her yet again. He closed his bedroom door and this time he locked it - something he had never done before when Christine was there (the foolish hope that just perhaps she would come to his door one night and want to come in - never mind the fact that she hated his coffin and almost certainly would never willing get in it, regardless, but impossible daydreams and hopes were just that - impossible - and the thought of Christine getting in his coffin was just as absurd as the thought that she'd want to be with him in such a capacity, so really, what was the harm in leaving the door unlocked?). But Christine would definitely flee in horror if she happened to glance in at this.

He propped the mannequin up against wall and left it there as he prepared for bed. Once finished with that, he faced the ersatz Christine and picked up a short length of rope. He tried to ignore the color blooming across his face as he tied the rope around her ankle - she wasn't real, therefore, nothing he did to her could be considered inappropriate, not really, but it was still an awkward situation. He couldn't imagine doing the same thing to the Christine who was sleeping just down the hall, tying her up like so... Or rather, he could, and that made it all the worse.

"Just for the evening," he murmured to her as he straightened up and guiltily met her painted eyes.

He picked her up from where she leaned on the wall and ever so gently and carefully (as though to make up fo the rope tied crudely around her ankle) laid her down in his coffin. He then dragged his latest contraption to just outside the foot of the coffin and wrapped the rest of the rope around the spindle of the machine. A genius device, truly - when the gears had completed a certain number of circles, they would then twist the spindle and retract the length of rope - which then, in turn, would cause the imitation Christine to pull out of his sleeping grasp. He paused a moment to admire his handiwork.

He was struck, suddenly, by the image of her in the coffin. How wrong it looked, how awful. Her pretty golden curls splayed about her head on the pillow, her pale blue eyes staring up at the ceiling, her body so still and unmoving. He didn't like it.

He quickly got in with her, hoping to dispel the thought from his mind. Settling down for the evening, or at least until a few hours from then when the machine would do it's work and wake him, he turned the mannequin towards him so he could hold it as he slept, as one might do to a lover.

It was then that he was faced with yet another difficulty - namely, he couldn't stand to face her. Her innocent blue eyes were far too near to his own hideous yellow ones, her precious wooden nose too close to his misshapen one - she was, all at once, much too reminiscent of the girl down down the hall and yet also an object of scorn because she wasn't Christine. He turned her around so that her back was to his chest and he didn't have to look at her. Much better.

As he cuddled the mannequin close to his chest, he wondered (certainly not for the first time) what the real Christine smelled like, because this one only smelled like paint and wood shavings. Surely the other one had a much more pleasant scent - like flowers or a cake or something. Almost certainly not paint.

Would the real Christine like being held like this? Probably not - at least not by him. The boy was probably who she wanted to hold her. He huffed. Perhaps it was a good thing he hadn't gotten rid of the mannequin after all - it would be the only thing he had left of her once she married the vicomte. Maybe she'd leave a little memento in his house by accident - a buckle from her shoe or a hair ribbon. That would be nice.

He pressed his face into her hair, squeezing his eyes shut as a tear rolled down his cheek.

He felt despicable and ridiculous doing it, but he kissed her on the neck all the same. He loved her (the real her, the one sleeping down the hallway, not the imitation he held now in his arms) so much, and even though he knew deep down in his soul that she would never be in this Christine's place, he couldn't stand the thought that he might harm her unthinkingly. So, he would learn. However long it took, he would remind himself over and over. He was safe, he was with his love. Nothing was going to harm him, there was no need to react harshly. It was just Christine, it was just his darling girl. In a few weeks she would be off somewhere with her husband, and he would be here with his shameful, inappropriate mannequin, but-

He would know. At least he would know. Know that he'd never hurt her, that he could sleep next to someone else without panicking at the sensation of movement while he slept.

Even if there never would be anyone else next to him as he slept.

He eventually fell asleep, and some time after that the machine did as was supposed to - the mannequin in his arms shifted enough to wake him up.

His hands tightened around its wooden body, panicked and confused. His sleep addled brain took a moment to remember what was going on (was there something - someone? - in here with him?), and he nearly had a heart attack at the sight of a blonde woman in his coffin next to him (what was Christine doing here?! Had he dragged her to bed with him? Monster, monster!), and that panic reached its height when, in his confused clutches, the wig slipped off of her head. But a moment later he relaxed his grip and sighed, the previous few hours coming back to him.

His reaction hadn't been ideal, but at least he hadn't tried to kill the apparent intruder. He righted her wig and brushed his fingers through her tangled curls before resetting the machine. He wouldn't get very much restful sleep, but he wouldn't feel at peace knowing he couldn't hold her and not hurt her.

He reacted nearly the same for the rest of night, and while he supposed it was progress that on none of the occasions had he tried to choke the mannequin, he also assumed that the flesh and blood Christine would not appreciate being grabbed at in such a manner should she try to roll over in her sleep.

Sure enough he felt a little groggy the next day, but he tried not to let Christine notice. They had breakfast together, although all he ate was a piece of toast while she had scrambled eggs, and a little while after that it was time for her lesson.

She seemed to be able to sing just fine, but once she missed a note and Erik's eyes darted suspiciously to her ribs, though it didn't happen again.

"You're perfectly ready for rehearsal, I believe," he told her at the end of the lesson. "How do you feel about it?"

"Good," she nodded, then wrung her hands together and added- "Nervous."

"Rehearsal is the place to get all your nerves out, you know that," he chuckled lightly, and she smiled.

They were both quite a moment longer. She had so much she wanted to ask him, so much she wanted to say, and not just about the show coming up, but she couldn't find the way to put it all into words.

"Christine," he whispered. "All of Paris is going to fall at your feet."

She couldn't shake the feeling of a lump in her throat.

"Do you think so?" she nearly squeaked.

"I know so, my dear."

He quickly took his leave of her to work on his architecture, but she couldn't help but feel that he was also avoiding her. Breakfast had been a solemn affair, and she hadn't seen him again until their lesson.

She went out to look at the lake after her lesson, needing a slight change of scenery. She could hear a faint drip somewhere of water, and every so often the smooth surface of the dark water would ripple as though something underneath were moving. She shivered, and wrapped her arms around herself. It was always so chilly underground, she didn't know how Erik could stand it.

She frowned at the strange water, thinking of how close opening night was. Erik thought she was ready, and she seemed to have done well enough so far. But was she really ready?

She returned inside after a while, chilled and shivering, with doubts itching in the back of her mind. She warmed herself by the fire and picked out a book to try and lose herself in. She wondered every so often what Erik was up to, if he would mind if she checked in on him. She knew it seemed silly, but she'd barely seen him all day, and she missed him. She liked spending time around him, even if they weren't particularly doing anything - it was a pleasure just to be in the same room with him. She wondered, with a little smile, if she'd still feel the same way after being married to him for a few years. Perhaps he'd grow annoying eventually - perhaps she would annoy him as well. It was an odd thought, but she was excited to find out.

It wasn't a hour later that he nonchalantly entered the room, and without a single word or a glance in her direction, grabbed a book off the shelf and settled himself in the chair farthest away from her.

Her heart felt like it skipped a beat, and she couldn't help but smile down into the open pages of her book. She hoped that his appearance here in this room signaled the end of his self-imposed exile from her presence.

She stayed and read until her eyes grew blurry. She shut her book and sighed, supposing she should go to bed and be rested for rehearsal tomorrow. She returned the book to its place on the shelf, and Erik finally looked up, taking notice of her as though for the first time.

"Are you going to sleep now, Christine?" he asked, closing his own book and standing.

She nodded.

"I think so. I don't want to go upstairs too early tomorrow. I'd rather sleep in, if you don't mind. We can go up an hour before rehearsal?"

"Of course," he agreed as he put his book away. "Sleep well, my dear."

He went to the door of the sitting room with her, and as he bid her a tender goodnight, he reached a hand out and brushed the tips of his fingers across the top of her shoulder. It was a gentle touch, lasting barely a second, but it was the first he had touched her since the unfortunate incident, and it caused a hope to bloom in her that perhaps all was not lost. Perhaps tomorrow night he would grow bold enough again to actually place his entire hand on her shoulder as he had often done before. She smiled sweetly at him before leaving the room, a smile that still lingered on her face even as she fell asleep that night.

Erik waited up again to be certain she wasn't going to come out and ask for a glass of water or to ask some nearly forgotten question, and when he was certain she was most likely asleep, he unlocked his bedroom door and locked it again after him.

She was there, just where he had left her - sitting on the bench in front of the organ, her back to him, her eyes looking at the keys and her hands folded demurely on her lap. It had been quite necessary to place her there, really. It seemed horribly morbid to just leave her laying in the coffin all day - the though of that would have eaten at him constantly.

He approached her for a moment, letting his hand rest on her shoulder like he had wanted to do with the real Christine, before he left for his bathroom to change and prepare for bed. When he had finished changing, he started the now nightly ritual he assumed he'd be doing for a long time henceforth - tying her ankle to the machine and settling her into the coffin with him, his arms wrapped tightly around her.

As he drifted off to sleep, he could almost, almost pretend it was really her.