A/N: Anyway, here's a new chapter! Please say hi if you're still around!

Chapter 12

Despite his revelation regarding Don Juan Triumphant's surprise addition to the upcoming season, Christine insisted on attending rehearsal. "I don't want to be seen as a diva, mon ange," she said, and Erik had unwillingly agreed. How unbearable it was to watch her walk away from him. The shy glances she tossed him over her shoulder were hardly a balm to shield him from the absence of her in his arms.

Oh how willingly she had touched him! So near that her breath on his face tickled the bare flesh of his face, his neck. He could not imagine a more fit tribute to her warmth than music itself, than an opera to her name. Christine, Christine and her voice sliding through notes of his music. She wanted him, the creature of the dark. She made a monster's name holy on her lips. There were not words for the kindness she afforded him. She called him angel, and yet...she was the angel. Christine, the syllables of her name in his mouth like sunlight. He wished that there was a way to bottle the feeling of her lips on his, a way he could bathe in the warmth of her acceptance.

He fought the urge to follow her, to lurk in shadow and watch the motion of her hands, hear the timbre of her voice echo off the dome of the ceiling as she rehearsed. He knew that watching would not be enough, not anymore. He had stayed below instead, walking the halls of his home.

It was so much darker, so much lighter. So open, and yet confining-

"I'll prepare her dinner," Erik murmured to himself. He grabbed at his cloak, and hissed with displeasure when it snagged upon its hook. Dinner. Erik knew how to cook. He knew the secrets of spices that empires had killed for, knew how to perfectly prepare fowl and fish alike-more importantly: He knew what Christine liked.

He knew the way she smiled at chocolate, the longing she held walking by fresh oranges. He knew her sweet tooth was unmatched, knew of her peculiar fondness for root vegetables. If the knowledge was halfway obtained through more illicit forms of observation, it could hardly be helped.

What mattered was he had money, and he had Christine coming home to him. He had Christine and her blue eyes, her pink cheeks-her warm lips-

Erik's musings had him halted by the door. With difficulty, he managed to pull himself together. To his immense shock, the first time he set off, he made it nearly ten paces before noticing he had forgotten his mask.

"Christine!" Meg's squeal of delight was deafening. "I've been looking for you everywhere!"

Christine grinned as her exuberant friend pulled her into a tight hug. She allowed Meg to tug her behind a piece of scenery.

"Where have you been?"

"Nowhere?" Christine ducked her head, trying her best not to gaze in the direction of Box Five. She knew Erik wasn't watching. He had left her at the mirror with a kiss to her palm, then her cheek, then her lips-

Her cheeks must have flushed, because Meg gasped. "YOU WERE WITH HIM! Weren't you? Were you? Did you kiss him-Oh Christine-"

"SHHHH," Christine said. "I don't need the entire company knowing my business." Her gaze tripped nervously over the stretching ballerinas and murmuring actors that populated the stage. Monsieur Reyer tapped rhythm against his music stand as the string section attempted to tune their instruments. The scrape of bows against strings filled the air, and Christine's mind drifted again to Erik.

"So it's true," Meg crowed. "You kissed your teacher, the mysterious E!"

"Meg!"

"You did!"

Christine blushed, crossing her arms. "Yes, don't tell."

Meg grinned. "I won't breathe a word. Not a syllable. Not even a breath. I'm sworn into the bonds of secrecy, Christine… Mutual secrecy." Meg grinned wolfishly, and waved at someone beyond Christine's shoulder.

Christine whipped around and saw Jean Clarque Reynald, one of the choir members. His hair was sandy colored, and his eyes were green: Meg's weakness to the letter.

"Meg!"

"And so," Meg said, evading Christine's grasp, "In the spirit of mutual secrecy-I was at your apartment last night. If mama asks. I was definitely with you and not wandering by the river-"

"The river?"

Meg blinked innocently, "And I definitely didn't allow myself to be ravished-"

"Neither did I!" Christine said, thinking of how willing she would have been if Erik had dared attempt to ravish her.

Meg arched her brows, and pulled one leg over her head to stretch. There was a clatter, and the girls turned to see that Jean Clarque had walked into a prop table.

"If mama asks, I was at your apartment last night," Meg said again, as Madame Giry crooked a finger in Meg's direction. "We ate pastries and talked all night. Repeat it!"

"Meg was with me. We are pastries and talked all night."

"Good," Meg said. "And we will for real. Soon. I need details."

"MEG!" Madame Giry snapped as Meg finally joined the other dancers. "You are a dancer, are you not?"

Meg nodded.

"Then dance."

Meg pulled a face the second her mother looked away, but she danced.

Christine tried her best to focus on the words in her libretto, but she could barely think straight, let alone give her attention to music that wasn't Erik's. The melodies and lyrics of his opera swirled through her mind and wove into tapestries of memory of his kisses, the careful way he removed his mask.

"Madamoiselle Daae," Reyer called. "It is time for your aria."

Christine scrambled into position and did her best to ignore Carlotta's exaggerated sniffs of displeasure. She stood tall, relaxed into the optimal posture, and sang.

******
The offerings of the market were unacceptable. That was Erik's takeaway from his fraught appraisal of the local wares. The bread too stale, the fish pungent in all the improper ways, and the oranges mottled with white mold.

He was forced to take the more difficult pathway to perfection. He stopped by the grocer and obtained all the necessary ingredients for fresh bread. He visited three chocolatiers before he was satisfied with the quality of their pre-made chocolate mix. He could not imagine Christine sipping anything other than perfection before his fire.

He managed to catch a farmer on his way out of town. The man had been too tired to notice Erik's mask, and had sold him bottles of frothy milk and bundles of sweet carrots at a bargain price.

"This will do," Erik murmured as he reentered his domain via the Rue Scribe door. His arms laden with supplies, he slipped into the dark. If he timed it correctly, everything would be ready. Just in time, he thought, just in time.