The scent of roses filled his nose, nudging him awake. He wasn't ready to wake up yet, he felt so relaxed, so warm and comfortable with the blankets pulled up around him and— His eyes flew open, quickly taking in his surroundings. He was in the loft, in his own bed, but he wasn't alone. Who?

Looking down he could see nothing but a mass of brown curls.

He shifted, fingers stretching and finding a soft arm spread across his torso. The body moved, pressing its face against his side. A woman? For a moment he thought he was elsewhere. Lillian? No. Grief washed over him. Lillian was dead. The woman moved again, her hand skimming lower, settling across his waist. His body stirred, responding of its own accord. No. No. He would not be an unthinking animal reacting to primal urges.

He pushed back, nearly losing his balance and falling to the floor. He grabbed the covers, pulling them close as he sat up in the bed. The woman stirred, her head shifting to the side as she reached for him again.

"Erik?" Her head came up and he gasped in shock.

"Christine?" He recoiled from the bed, almost crashing into a night stand and upsetting a basin of water as he backed away. Oh gods, am I—no. He looked down in relief. He was wearing the thin cotton drawstring trousers he preferred for sleeping. He didn't remember putting them on. Or even coming to bed. And he certainly didn't remember coming to bed with her.

Christine pushed herself up on her elbows, moving the heavy curtain of hair from her face. "Erik? What happened?"

"Happened?" He croaked, his mouth suddenly impossibly dry. "I don't know." He started coughing and she rushed to him with a glass of water.

"Here, drink this." He took it, focusing intently on her outstretched hand. He wasn't surprised to see his hand shaking as he took the glass and raised it to his mouth.

He managed to swallow the water without choking. He moved cautiously around the bed and stumbled to the seating area. His eyes never left her while his brain desperately sought answers as to how she was standing in her underwear next to his bed in his loft. All he could do was shake his head in confusion as he lowered himself into an armchair suddenly realizing he was still half naked.

His head was swimming. "What's happening?" He felt dizzy and closed his eyes. He heard her moving around, opening doors, swishing fabric. "How are you here?"

"Here. Put this on, it's a little chilly."

Opening his eyes, he saw Christine wrapped in a silk robe and holding out a woolen dressing gown for him. "Thank you." She reached out to help him stand, but he pulled back, pushing himself up, taking the garment from her hands and managing to slip it on over his shoulders and tie it securely at his waist. The effort exhausted him, and he sank back into the chair.

Bending over him, she placed her palm against his forehead. "Your fever's broken. Let me fix us some tea and then we'll talk." He followed her with his eyes as she moved back to the kitchen area. "I'm sure you have plenty of questions." She looked over her shoulder at him while waiting for the kettle to boil. "It's so good to see you, Erik. I've missed you."

Missed him? She left him. Left him alone in the dark with a mob closing in. But that was years ago, wasn't it?

He turned away from her, gazing out the windows into the night. The view was familiar and comforting. San Francisco at night, streetlamps twinkling, bright lights pouring from windows in the entertainment district. If he listened closely, he could hear faint noises coming up from the club below. The club. His club.

"Nasir?" Erik pushed himself up from the chair and moved to the outer door. "I've—I've got to check on the club." Before he could take another step, a firm had was on the center of his chest, pushing him back into the chair.

"The club is fine. Mr. Khan is down there now. He'll be up later this morning with a full report, if you want one. And before you ask, he's also been in touch with the redoubtable Miss Vanucci and the hospital construction is continuing right on schedule." The boiling kettle claimed her attention and she stepped back to the kitchen. "Stay put. I'll bring the tea and I promise, I'll answer all your questions."

He had no choice but to wait and hope the room would stop tilting before she returned.

It had just righted itself when Christine placed a tray with tea, bread, butter, and jam on the low table in front of the sofa. Then she moved to sit on the side closest to him and handed him a steaming cup.

He took it, a little embarrassed by the China cup rattling on the saucer, but he dutifully drank the hot tea. He tasted peppermint, ginger, and eucalyptus, Nasir's special blend from their last days in Paris. "I gather I've been ill." It wasn't much of a conversation starter, but it was all he could think of to say. He was still rattled by discovering himself in bed with Christine, and witty, intelligent conversation was escaping him at the moment.

"Yes." Christine sipped her own tea. Then took up a piece of bread, spread some jam on it, and passed it over to him. "Eat this. Slowly. You've been ill for several days and have eaten next to nothing. You need the food."

She sounded sincere. Could she actually care about his welfare after everything he'd done to her? But then she must, she was here, wasn't she? Why was she here? "What," he gestured vaguely, "are you doing here?"

"Lillian." She saw pain flash across his eyes at the name. "She tasked me with delivering something to you, although I didn't know it was you at the time. It's in my handbag if you want it right now."

"No." He sipped again, inhaling the steam and feeling the herbs doing their work to ease his breathing. "Lillian was my….my friend." He couldn't go on, feeling the grief rising in his throat.

Christine nodded. "She was my friend, too." She settled back against the sofa cushions, drawing her knees up and tucking her feet under her legs. "You drink that tea and eat a little and I'll tell you the story.

"I came to Lillian to sing a private recital. I'd been engaged to sing at one of the Danby Foundation's benefits in London, and afterward Benjamin, Mr. Sholokhov, asked me to sing for her privately.

"Of course he offered to pay me, so my manager, who was standing at my side just then, immediately said yes." She caught Erik's eyes. "Managers are such sharks, you know. Always scenting money. I'm sure he's not happy that I turned the money over to the Foundation, including his percentage."

He nodded, thinking back to other managers he'd known and how he enjoyed relieving some of them of the heaviness of their purses.

"I met her. We talked, and I found myself telling her my—our story."

He leaned forward in his chair, balancing the small bread plate on his knee. "You told her about me?" He shuddered to think of Lillian's reaction to his past at the opera. She hadn't known about that time, and he never her wanted to. Even now, years later, he was ashamed of what he'd done.

"I told her about the Angel of Music." Christine looked directly at him. She could read the concern in his eyes. "I also told her that I knew I'd made a mistake when I left him."

"No, Christine. No, you didn't." He swallowed hard, needing to get the words out quickly before his courage failed him. "You made the right decision. Have you forgotten how I terrorized you, stalked you? I wasn't fit to be with then." I'm not fit to be with at all.

She looked at him, thinking back to that night and nodding slowly. "Perhaps you're right. At least about then."

She moved to him, taking the plate from his hands and kneeling on the floor in front of his chair. "Things have changed Erik. We're not the same two people we were. I'm not the innocent girl from the opera torn between two men who both wanted me, not knowing what to do—whom to love. Not knowing that I was the one who should control my destiny."

"I know who I am now. And I know who I want." She looked up at him, holding her breath and waiting for his reaction.

He was frozen, her words tumbling over and over in his head. She couldn't mean…. Couldn't want…. Him? "You…you still don't know me, Christine. Who I am, everything I've done." He shook his head, trapped in the chair. There was no way he could move aside without pushing her down to the floor.

"I don't care."

"But I do!" His eyes fell to the bruising around her throat. "I did that to you, didn't I?"

"You were ill, delirious. You didn't know what you were doing."

"It doesn't matter. It wasn't the first time I grabbed you by the throat. We both know that." He looked around the loft, at the view of the city. "It's all a show, an illusion, the civilized veneer I wear along with the mask. It's all a lie.

"I'm no different than I was when I terrorized the opera house. I'm no different now than when I served the Shah of Persia, building his palace and doing everything else he asked of me. Or when I was stealing to get through every day of my youth. I'm still the wild boy in the cage and I always will be.

"Did you think you could come here and everything would be better? That I forgot how you hurt me, betrayed me to my enemies?" He pushed up from the chair, stepping over her with his long legs. "You have no idea how hard I fought to make a life here. A life where I could finally live above ground and walk the streets and dine in restaurants and talk with people and…and do everything you've taken for granted for your entire life.

"And then you come here. You've changed your mind and now you want me and I'm just supposed to fall all over you with gratitude?" He was shaking so hard he could hardly stay upright. A coughing spasm hit and he almost fell back to the floor. It took all his strength to get his breath and remain upright. She ran to help him and he pushed her away. "Leave me alone!"

His vehemence shocked her. She backed away, until she stumbled against the sofa, sliding down to the floor. "You don't want me here?"

"Now you understand. I don't want you here." He moved back to the bed, yanking the dividing curtain across the space, cutting him off from her sight. "Just go, Christine." He sank down onto the bed exhausted. "Go now." His eyes closed as he struggled against his heart. "Leave me."

His voice came as a whisper but in her mind she heard those same words as he screamed them at her years before. She'd been a confused frightened girl then. But that girl was gone, replaced by a woman of determination and strength. She thought about his words, what they revealed of his past. She knew he'd killed at the opera but she didn't know he'd taken lives even before that time. What kind of man does that?

The answer came to her quickly: a man who'd been given no other choice. She thought about the many sides of the man. The boy Lillian found in a cage, Erik, obedient servant to a powerful despot, the angel of music, the opera ghost, the Phantom, and Erik Dantes who saved people during one of the worst disasters in modern history. Could she forgive him his past in order to try and build a future with him? Could she find it in her to help him forgive himself? Did she even want to?

In the days since the Opera Populaire, she'd done a lot of changing, a lot of growing. The naïve girl who sang for an angel, fled from a devil, and loved a handsome young vicomte was long gone. She'd made a choice to have a career instead of a marriage and she knew it was the right choice then. But was it the right choice now?

She'd been given another chance. Lillian entrusted her with Erik's heart, even if Erik didn't trust her now. She thought earlier that if he wanted her to go, she would. She'd swallow her pride and accept his rejection. But now, the more she thought the more she knew it was the wrong decision for both of them.

Christine was a proud woman, she knew that about herself. It took determination and courage to carve her way, as a single woman, in the world. But she'd done it. Yes, she'd taken lovers, but never to use to her advantage as patrons and playthings, as the La Carlottas of the opera world did. She wouldn't let any man buy her a role she wanted or make deals that included her personal favors to get her at the top of the bill in a world-famous opera house. She'd done it all on her own.

Now she'd have to use that determination to win herself the greatest prize of them all—the man who held her heart. She said she'd leave if he told her to go, so she would. For now but not forever.

"I'll go, Erik. But I won't go far and I won't stay away for long." She clutched her handbag tightly as she made her way down to Nasir's guest room to dress and gather her things. She could feel the outline of an envelope through the soft leather and remembered Lillian's gift that she'd promised to deliver. That would be her entry back into Erik's life.

She'd wait, give him time to recover and then go see him at his office. She'd give him the gift from Lillian and see where it would lead. She didn't think it would be easy, nothing with him had ever been easy. But she knew, had seen it in his eyes, that behind the anger was a man lost and afraid who needed desperately to know he was loved.

. . . .

"Christine?" Nasir called from the loft doorway. He'd managed to get several hours of uninterrupted sleep and had come to relieve Christine so she could do the same. Miss Daaé?" The space was empty, but he noticed the curtain drawn by Erik's bed. With some trepidation, he slowly pulled it back and breathed a sigh of relief to see his friend sleeping alone.

"Erik?" Nasir whispered, not wanting to startle the man in the bed. Even ill, Erik could be dangerous as he knew from past experience. "Erik?" Receiving no reply, he walked quietly to the bedside and placed his hand on Erik's brow. It was cool. The fever must have finally broken during the night.

"Take your hand off me before I break it." One eye opened and then the other.

"Ah, good morning, Erik. It's nice to see you, too." Nasir stepped back, doing a visual appraisal of his friend. "You're looking much better today."

Flinging back the covers, Erik sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, reaching a hand to the wall for support. He stood and Nasir immediately held out a hand to help. He pulled it back just as quickly in response to the glare from the patient and stepped back slowly. The message was clear. Don't touch.

Erik looked sideways at Nasir then walked slowly into the bathroom and slammed the door.

Nasir busied himself removing cups and a plate of half-eaten bread and jam from the table by the sofa. Then he moved to the stove, lighting a burner and setting a kettle of water to boil. He knew Erik preferred coffee in the morning, but herbal tea would have to do until Mr. Sholokhov said otherwise. The metallic sound of a curtain being moved brought his attention back to the bed. "I see you're still on your feet. That's a good sign."

"Shut up, Nasir." Erik walked barefoot across the floor and settled into his favorite armchair, pulling his dressing gown closed over his bare chest. Dropping his head into one hand, he groaned.

"How do you feel?" Nasir turned away to conceal the grin on his face. Seeing Erik up and moving under his own power was heartening after the fears of the last few fever-wracked days.

"I have been better."

"That's vague. Can you give me a comparative measure?" Erik just glared at him offering no words. "Better or worse than the last time you were that sick in Paris?"

"Never mention Paris." The biting tone of Erik's voice left no doubt that Paris was now a forbidden subject.

Nasir carried a tray to the low table in the seating area and sat himself comfortably on the sofa. "Here," he held out a cup to Erik. "Drink this." It wasn't a suggestion.

Erik nodded, sipping at the steaming liquid and flinching slightly. "Hot." Watching Nasir over the rim of the cup, he drained it and set it down. "Happy?"

The Persian smiled and poured a second cup. "Have another." Erik turned his head, looking out the window and ignoring the prompt. "Ah, well, you must be feeling better, I can see you're your usual surly morning self."

They sat in silence, sipping tea, until Erik finally sighed and turned back. "Go ahead. Say it."

"Where's Miss Daaé?"

"I threw her out."

"Bodily?"

"No, of course not." Erik shuffled to the sink and rinsed his cup. "I told her to leave…rather forcefully, I think."

Nasir nodded, he could imagine what occurred when Erik realized Christine was really in his loft. He also knew that until Erik was ready to talk, nothing more would be said on the subject. And given that the subject was Christine Daaé, Nasir knew he was in for a long wait.