Christine pressed her lips into a thin line, unsure of what he was offering. Spend the night? What did that entail? Spend it with him? In his bed? Was that what he meant? Perhaps he really had been jealous of Raoul, after all.

His pulse was pounding in his ears, his face rather red. He turned to glance back at her and saw that careful look of guarded caution on her face.

"In my guest room," he rushed to add. "I have a lovely guest room, you know - a-and it locks. The door. It locks."

He turned away from her again, mortified that he had even brought it up. How could he have voiced this shameful thing? A young woman, staying the night in the house of a man who was not related to her - it flew in the face of propriety! But the timing had seemed so right, she had mentioned she was tired, and didn't know when such an opportunity would come again...

Though he'd never admit it, the past week he had watched the entrance of the opera house every evening to see if Christine had returned at night or no. And each night the boy had dropped her off on the steps and she'd return to her little dormitory to sleep. She'd never stayed the night with the vicomte.

Of course he knew that her not staying the night didn't necessarily mean anything - he had accidentally stumbled across enough couples (and occasionally trios) in the opera house during the days and afternoons to know that things didn't only happen at night. And he also knew that if Christine was doing things with the boy, if she had chosen to do so because she wanted to, then that was entirely her prerogative and decision. But still - he had watched, from the roof, every night. Not because he thought that where she spent her nights was any of his business, but because he simply wanted to reassure himself that she was returning. He knew it was irrational, but he strongly felt that if Christine returned to the Populaire each night, then it meant that she wasn't planning on eloping with the boy or quitting her singing. Obviously she still might be planning on marrying him or leaving even if she did return at night, but still-

He would work on projects all day long yet even still, every so often the thought would appear in his mind - Christine is never coming back - and he would work even harder to try to drown it out and prove it wrong - how could she be gone forever when he had written an aria for her sing? How could she never be coming back if he had prepared an entire list of new songs she would learn for her next audition? How could she never return to his little house if she hadn't even seen the electrical lights finished? - and then every evening he would creep up to the roof and stare down at the road with silent despair until the carriage arrived and let her out. Each night she'd return to the opera house, and once she was inside he'd be overcome with guilt for having doubted her - and for having spied on her. Of course she would return to the stage, she loved singing more than anything. And since he just so happened to live under the stage, of course she'd return to him too.

No, Christine had never stayed the night with the boy. But she might stay the night Erik.

"It locks from the inside," he hastily explained. "Once you lock it from the inside, there's no key or anything that can be used to open it from the outside. It would be quite impossible to get into, once it's locked."

It was true - he had spent a while in her absence reworking the door to the guest room to have such a lock. In the midst of rewiring the entryway, he had been shocked with an image as surely as if it had been the very electricity running down the wire and sparking in his hands - Christine, sleeping peacefully, curled underneath the fluffy blankets on the big soft bed in his guest room. He had hastily abandoned the wiring, nearly running to the guest room so he could look at the bed and picture it greater detail. Yes, he could see it even clearer then - her long hair curling behind her, her dark eyelashes fanned across her cheeks, her little hand on the pillow next to her face.

He had set to work immediately.

He was nowhere to be found in that fantasy - he certainly had no right to be there, and besides, it was a purely innocent dream. He knew she often had trouble sleeping, she had told him so herself. But down here - down here it was quiet and peaceful and she could slumber undisturbed by anything else in the world. He only wanted her to be able to feel well rested - he knew from experience how awful it was to get no sleep.

But looking at her now, he could tell she still didn't quite know what to think of his offer, and it pained him - he knew he must have come across as some sort of lecher, even though he truly hadn't intended anything of the sort.

"Not tonight," she said firmly, unable to meet his gaze. "Perhaps another time?"

He nodded, watching how she nervously picked at the pillow she had placed protectively on her lap.

"It was just a thought, Christine," he frowned. "You don't have to stay if you don't wish to..."

He added, softly, "You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

She finally looked up at him and gave him a smile. He wasn't sure if it was just his own paranoia, or if it truly didn't look all the way genuine.

"The sandwich was lovely, thank you for making it for me. You're always so thoughtful, Erik."

"You're quite welcome, my dear."

"I believe I'm rested enough to go back up, now."

"Certainly," he nodded, but it did not escape his notice how quickly she had recovered from her fatigue.

He led her upstairs once more, still feeling awkward over the whole thing, though it seemed that she had blessedly chosen to ignore that he had ever mentioned it all.

She wondered about it that night as she tossed and turned on her cot. The springs were digging into her sides again, and the stuffing had lumped up in numerous places. She sighed. The mattress was hardly that old, either - it hadn't even been a year since she had bought it.

Having been brought up for much of her childhood in poverty, she now hovered between wanting to buy every luxury she could and feeling immense guilt for the luxuries she did buy. She knew the money from Mamma Valerius would not last forever, and her dear Papa had left very little behind for her. She was not on the verge of going broke, but she knew from experience how quickly situations like that could arrive - a splurge here and there added up far faster than one realized. Her salary from the opera was rather meager, though it did pay for some of her expenses. She lived with the fear in the back of her mind of what would happen to her should she one day find herself in need of money. There were options, but none of them pleasant. She hated the thought of having to ask Raoul for money (she knew he would, unhesitatingly, and would never ask for anything in return, but it felt wrong to her to accept money for nothing - and what could she possibly give him in return?) but she knew with a certainty that she would do just that before she ever enlisted the assistance of a patron. But Christine DaaƩ also knew how easy it was to suddenly find oneself in the position of doing something one had sworn they'd never do. Her Papa had often taken odd jobs here and there, some rather demeaning (especially for a talented violinist) - but he had never had to do anything like what a patron would ask of her.

It wouldn't be so bad, perhaps, if the patron was someone like Raoul - someone sweet and considerate. Some of the girls had quite good arrangements with their patrons. Philippe had started out as Sorelli's patron, and it had grown to something more between them, though she supposed Philippe did still pay her. But for every girl who didn't feel a deep dread about seeing her patron, there were three that would disappear for an afternoon and come back not wanting to talk about it, or had to use makeup to hide bruises, or would ask for accompaniment on outings due to the fear of running into one of the former patrons alone.

She rolled over onto her back, but it was just as uncomfortable.

It wouldn't be so bad to have Raoul as a patron, though something about that scenario made her want to cry whenever she thought of it.

She flopped to her side with a huff.

This was the best mattress they made for such a small frame. She could technically afford a better, softer mattress - but in order to do so, she'd have to buy a new bed frame. She'd already shamefully splurged on two new dresses, she couldn't truly justify the price of a new bed frame and mattress - and besides that, a bigger bed wouldn't even fit in the little room she occupied. She could rent a bigger room in the opera house, but she definitely could not afford that, let alone any room that wasn't in the Populaire.

An awful thought appeared in her head, and she scowled in mortification that her own mind would think of such a thing - what if Erik could be her patron?

He made a good amount of money from the managers, he would certainly be gentle, and she trusted him... Think of the money she'd save by living with him!

Her scowl deepened. Truly, she hadn't known the depths of her own deviance until now. What a terrible thought.

But what if Erik already considered himself her patron? What if he intended to collect his perceived due after so many free lessons? The icy grip of fear clutched at her heart. What if that's what he had been getting at when he had offered for her to stay overnight?

But no, he had been quite adamant about telling her that the door to the guest room locked.

She rolled into her stomach, burying her face in her pillow (but keeping her head turned just enough that her nose could still reach air). She squeezed her eyes shut as a tear or two escaped them.

She didn't want her childhood best friend or her teacher to give her money in exchange for the use of her, to pay to be with her like that. It felt awful to her, somehow, but she couldn't even put it into words in her own mind. It wasn't even the thought of being with either of them in that way - embarrassing or awkward, maybe, but she could cope, could stand to think of it happening. But to be paid for it? That made it feel so different. Besides - it was just another of life's little cruelties that the one thing that could continue to fund the pursuit of her art was also the one thing that could surely shatter her future on the stage - what use would she have for grand plans onstage that needed funding if she were to conceive a child?

It firmed her resolve to spend another night on the lumpy cot in her cramped little room. She would save her money and pray that should she ever one day find herself engaging in carnal acts with Raoul or Erik or anyone else, it would be because she wanted to and not because she needed to.

It was a stance she hoped to keep, but all the same, when she woke up and rubbed at the sore muscles in her back and sides, she couldn't help but wonder just how soft the bed in Erik's guest room actually was.

Her lesson was that morning, and Erik hesitantly stepped into her dressing room, as though he feared she'd order him to leave at any second. After his awful offer the previous night, who could blame her?

Ah, but the dear girl was too forgiving - that was her fatal flaw, in Erik's eyes.

"Downstairs?" she asked.

"That is up to you, Christine. We do not have to go downstairs if you do not wish, it is entirely up to you. I am just as fine with working here, if you'd rather."

She frowned a little. Was he still flustered over his invitation to stay the night? She had left rather quickly, but he had surprised her, that's all! Surely the proof of his intentions towards her were in his actions - he hadn't really meant anything by it at all.

"I would rather go downstairs, if you don't mind," she told him.

Al, sweet, forgiving Christine. She acted like nothing had happened, like he hadn't made her uncomfortable at all! She did her lesson in his home, and even stayed for a cup of tea afterwards. She looked him right in the eye and talked as though everything was fine!

Erik agonized over it the rest of the day. Was he taking advantage of her sweet nature? Maybe she simply didn't know how to act when she was uncomfortable, maybe she just found it easier to pretend everything was okay.

The company was gearing up for the new season. The director was working on stage blocking, and as such had requested that all of the cast be in attendance. Though he had yet to pick the lead and supporting roles, he wanted a feel for how the show would go.

Erik was not in his usual box seat that afternoon. He was instead up in the flies, watching the performers backstage as they waited for the director to need them. He watched Carlotta's antics for a little while, how she fussed and cooed over her little dog which rested on a silk pillow and occasionally wagged its tail, but his eye was drawn to Christine, who had wandered off a little to be on her own.

She stretched her foot against the wall, and Erik recalled that she had mentioned it was bothering her lately. The ballet mistress had given her a series of stretches to incorporate until it felt better, and Erik was glad that she was diligent in doing so.

It was only a moment later that she was approached by one of the stagehands. Erik narrowed his eyes. It was that Joseph Buquet fellow, and he didn't care for him at all.

Erik's heart sank as he watched the man place a hand on her shoulder. She jumped, surprised. His poor Christine. She looked vaguely uncomfortable, and Erik wondered if she ever felt uncomfortable like that around him, as well.

She turned her back on Buquet, but he was insistent and walked around to face her again.

Erik moved closer, but couldn't catch whatever they were saying. This insolent boy. How dare he? She obviously didn't want to talk to him. Erik felt a little stab of guilt - maybe there were times she didn't really want to talk to Erik, either, but she had allowed it, just like how she wasn't moving away from the stagehand. Was he just as pushy as Buquet?

Christine frowned and shook her head, turning from him again. She definitely looked upset now, and Erik's fingers traced the rope he kept coiled in his sleeve for emergencies.

He was loath to reveal himself in such a way to the entire company - but he knew from experience that Christine was too kind a girl to really stand up for herself. She had stood up to Erik on occasion, it was true, but she had always come back to him as well. Was she incapable of truly standing up for herself? She certainly couldn't actually enjoy Erik's company that much she'd still stay around him - no, he was a wretched creature, so it must be some sort of flaw on her part. Too meek, too understanding. Too kind and gentle. He would have to intervene here, because he feared she would not do so even if she wanted to.

Buquet pulled a little bag of francs out from his pocket and shook it, placing one hand on her lower back.

She jerked back from his touch, took a wide stance, and slapped him hard across the face with the back of her hand.

Erik stood dumbstruck. His sweet, innocent Christine had just slapped a man in the face.

The ballet girls stopped their chatter at the resounding echo of her knuckles cracking across his cheekbone - they turned to watch just in time to see her flip her hair behind her and stalk towards them, her eyes still shooting daggers at Buquet. They pulled her into their little circle and gave glares of their own to Buquet, who now looked shamefaced, a hand pressed to one side of his face where a red mark was already blooming. Under the judging eyes of the ballerinas, he fled the stage.

Erik didn't understand. He had never seen Christine react like that to someone - she had certainly never acted like that towards him.

Two thoughts occurred to him at the same time - first, that he needed to keep an eye on this fellow just in case an accident was required, and secondly, that perhaps he wasn't quite such a repulsive gargoyle in Christine's eyes.

He needed to check on Christine, and he needed to talk to the Daroga.