Here I am again! It was a bit hard to get back into the swing of the story, so this chapter may read a little 'off.' The next one ought to be better.

Erik had attended the Tuesday evening opening of Don Giovanni. He had spent the entire show trying to imagine what it looked like to Nora. It was obvious that she was fond of that particular opera, though she had responded coyly when Erik had asked her just what she thought of it. Perhaps it was simple sentimentality, in the same vein as Erik's affection for Rusalka. He really rather loathed the work, but it was the first performance he had attended.

Or perhaps she related to it on some other level. Had she been a Zerlina at some point in her life? An Anna, an Elvira? God forbid that she might be a sort of Giovanni! Erik found that he unequivocally disliked casting Nora in any of those roles, and so resolved not to think of her again until Sunday.

He had mostly succeeded on that score. He spent his week searching every aspect of the opera for improvement opportunities, playing the occasional prank on Moncharmin, doing the odd bit of maintenance or composition.

Then Saturday had dawned and he found his thoughts irrevocably settled back on her. In a day or even less, Erik was expected to meet with Nora, escort her, converse with her—entertain her. The thought sent him into a spiral of anxiety. Perhaps it would be best if, when they met on the Pont au Double tomorrow, Erik simply walked by her. Good morning, Madame. Not even Good morning, Mademoiselle—Madame, as if they had never really spoken, as if he knew nothing more about her than she attended Mass at Notre Dame.

He imagined her response. She would probably laugh at him, which would be grating. She might even try to catch up to him and steal his arm again. And then the look on her face when she realized that Erik would not acknowledge her: confusion, probably. A little anger at being slighted by such a worthless man? She would stand for a few minutes, watch Erik disappear, and then move on and out of Erik's life.

Well. Perhaps it would be for the best, but the more Erik thought of taking such a course, the less he could stand to follow through with it. With that one action on his part, she would have just as well as seen behind his mask. A graceless monster, one who dismissed women and broke promises. She would loathe him, as assuredly as if she had gazed upon his wretched face.

No, Erik could not stand for such a thing.

It was in this spirit that Erik found himself attending another showing of Don Giovanni on Saturday night. As much as the show might bring Nora to mind, it might distract him from the fact that he was mere hours away from actually seeing her. He maintained the vague hope of having a relaxing evening.

Didier had sequestered himself in his office on Saturday evening, intent on clearing away the excess of paperwork that had been accumulating on his desk. He was still dressed in his tails, ready to make a managerial appearance at any moment. He doubted this would be necessary—Richard would surely be able to be the sole face of the company for the night.

His expectations were doomed to be thwarted. Just minutes before the performance began, Remy began knocking at Didier's door with the most odious fervor.

Didier admitted his wide-eyed secretary. "What is it?"

"It's the Countess!"

"The Countess?" Didier set down his pen and gave Remy his best imitation of Armand Moncharmin's humoring condescension. "Paris is full of Countesses. You'll need to be more specific."

"The Countess de Chagny," Remy said, as if this was the most important piece of information relayed since the Gospels. "Christine Daaé!"

Didier did not allow himself to show any of the surprise, nor the deep curiosity, that this revelation incited in him. "And?"

"And what, Monsieur Moncharmin?"

"And what is the Countess de Chagny doing?"

"She is here to see the opera!"

"Just as one might expect," Didier replied, serene. "And she has been seated?"

"In the best available box."

"And I assume that her every need has been taken care of?"

Remy's confusion was now plainly evident. "Why, yes."

"Good. Good. Perhaps I will stop by her box during the intermission to personally welcome her." Didier picked up his pen again and returned his attention to his paperwork. "Thank you for telling me, Remy."

"Of course, Monsieur…" the secretary departed from Didier's office. As soon at the door was firmly shut, Didier allowed himself to pause and consider the situation.

The infamous Daaé girl! The chorus girl with the voice of an angel—a veritable Helen of Troy, if the stories were to be believed. Even if one removed the absurd rumors that she was an object of affection for the Opera Ghost, it was still commonly believed that it was a rivalry for her affections that led to the death of the former Count de Chagny at the hand of the current Count de Chagny. Of course, such hearsay had never been substantiated, and Raoul de Chagny had been officially and socially acquitted of all foul play. However, it was also true that the Count and Countess had spent the first year or so of their married life abroad, and even now the Count was out at sea and not in Paris…

It was worth remembering that, no matter what scandals had once touched her, Christine Daaé was now the Countess de Chagny. And the de Chagny family had a long and distinguished history of patronizing the Opera.

Didier would certainly be paying her a visit during the intermission.

Erik stayed in Box Five after the curtain fell on the second act, fairly content with himself and the world.

He had often thought that he would have gotten along splendidly with Mozart, for the man's sense of humor had been vile. To call Don Giovanni a comedic opera was one thing; the change from the damning Commendatore scene to the lilting, moralizing epilogue was something else entirely! How different Mozart's Don Giovanni was from Erik's own Don Juan Triumphant!

It was rare that Erik thought of his opera. It was undoubtedly a master work, and could have, if the world was kind, become a sensation to eclipse comic, melodramatic Don Giovanni. Alas, the world was not kind and so the world would never hear Don Juan Triumphant.

He wondered for a moment what Nora would think of Don Juan Triumphant. Oh, she was hardly a connoisseur, but she was more invested in the art than the average listener. The story, she had said, she was interested in opera for the story and for the characters. Well! What would she do with his Don Juan, who made Rigoletto look like the doddering fool he was? The entire score seared—it burned the soul but denied escape. It terrified and entranced. Christine had even thought—really believed, he was sure—that she could love him for Don Juan Triumphant alone!

He had best throw the entire composition into the lake! Even if the world was ready for it, Erik knew he never would be. Share his Don Juan? Allow it into the public forum to be ridiculed, abused, debased—and misunderstood? There would be those who would misunderstand out of genuine ignorance, which pained Erik. But there would undoubtedly be those who listened, and heard, and understood and chose to turn their backs on its true meaning. That would be unforgivable.

He pulled out his watch. It was a quarter to midnight. Nearly Sunday at last! Surely he could survive what the day held in store for him.

He vacated Box Five and took the longest route away from the main auditorium. He walked the hidden pathways around the back of the stage, pausing on occasion to listen to snips of conversations and gossip.

"Well, I would rather like to visit my old dressing room."

Erik froze. That voice—that voice. Her voice. Christine's voice. He strained to hear.

Moncharmin replied, "of course, Countess—if you would like, I could personally escort you."

"I think I remember the way," she said, a note of the coquette in her tone. "And Monsieur le Daroga has been gracious enough to be my protector for the evening."

Christine and Nadir? Whatever was going on?

Erik thought his heart would surely fail him as he raced towards Christine's former dressing room. It was used but occasionally now, but did not have a permanent name attached to it.

The last time Erik had gone there was just after the incident. He had fixed the mirror and permanently severed the mechanism that had allowed it to tilt and move. At the time he had replaced it with his own special type of two-sided mirror out of some twisted desire to keep everything just the same. As if that, and that alone, could negate how terribly, terribly wrong the entire affair had gone…

He stood still staring into the dark, empty room.

At length, the door opened—Christine swept in, followed by the Daroga. He lit the lamps in the room and looked at Christine. She inclined her head fractionally and Nadir departed.

She stood in the center of the room, looking more regal than Erik had ever seen her. She was dressed in champagne silk and pearls, as befitted her station; her bearing was that of a prima donna. Erik had never seen her so elegant, though he had seen her more beautiful.

It was painful— violently, viciously, brutally painful— for Erik to stand so close to her.

Her next actions were slow and deliberate. Choreographed was the word that came to mind. She found her position in front of the mirror just as she might have found it on the stage. She steadied herself, corrected her posture, regulated her breathing.

She sang.

Erik was unmoving, unbreathing as she began Marguerite's Jewel Song. Faust!

Her technique was rusty but her voice was still unparalleled. It was shown to great advantage with the light, lyric song, but Erik knew how much more she was capable of. This little aria had not been the part of Faust they had spent so many hours perfecting. No, their focus had been the final duet and trio—the declaration of love between Marguerite and Faust, followed by Marguerite's salvation. Her voice had lent that passage such a majestic beauty that one really could have believed that angels had descended to bear her away to heaven. By comparison, the Jewel Song was a tawdry music hall ditty.

Still, to hear her—to see her— Erik rested his hand on the glass of the mirror and let her voice invade his soul.

I laugh to see myself so beautiful in this mirror…

She did not finish strongly, as Erik would have wished. The last note faded into oblivion before she opened her eyes, her magnificent eyes. Erik found himself as lost in them as he had been in her voice. Was it possible that those were tears appearing? Could they have been for him? She lifted her hand, her left hand, and brushed the water from her cheek, her wedding band glinting.

It was not the ring Erik had given her. Erik noticed that fact with a measure of detachedness, heart rent but unsurprised.

There was a knock on the dressing room door. Christine exhaled slowly. "Come in."

It was the Daroga. "Countess?"

"Did you find anything out?"

Nadir shook his head. "The entrances I am familiar with have all been blocked of."

"Rue Scribe," Christine murmured. "I still have the key."

Erik's heart began to pound again, even as Nadir offered a slight affirmative nod. Entrances? The Rue Scribe? They intended to go down to the house on the lake! "Perhaps that would be out wisest course of action—but not tonight."

"No, not tonight," Christine agreed, "but soon."

"How will you stand to go back down there, where you encountered so many horrors?"

Erik nearly offered a word of mockery to stave off the cuts Nadir's words were inflicting on his heart. How will you stand to go back there?… He backed away from the mirror, one hand locked over his mouth. Not that such an action could actually prevent his voice from coming forth, but it served as a reminder that he ought to stay silent.

Christine finally replied to the Daroga's question. "How shall you, Monsieur?" This was not the tone or manner of Erik's fair, young student. Perhaps she really was Marguerite, innocence destroyed by her association with vile old Faust.

"Shall we go, Madame?" Nadir inquired, ignoring her previous question.

"Yes." Christine spent a final moment looking deeply into the mirror. Erik stared back, into her eyes, then at her retreating back, and finally at the empty room.

He trembled. He might have sobbed, but he could not be sure. He did not know how long he stayed on the corridor behind the mirror, but eventually he found himself outside. He walked his now habitual route, uncaring of the dark. He came to the usual bridge; crossed it. He ended up on the Rue de la Harpe, knocking on a door, mumbling to a sleep-addled housekeeper. He could not convince to woman to admit him to the building, and was just about to unwind his lasso when he saw her.

He perhaps would have not recognized her, with her unbound hair and silk robe. But she walked forward, waving the housekeeper away, and said his name.

Erik.

Erik looked into Nora's eyes. They were so very different from Christine's eyes: green and harsh, angled and unafraid. When Erik spoke, his voice was even and quite normal. "I'm glad to see you again, Nora. How was Marseilles?"