Remember me? This was a much longer wait than I wanted, but I hope the longer chapter makes up for it. :)

Chapter 4: enter

The tenements of Paris were truly horrific places.

The dredges of society, the poor and the ill, converged to live on top of each other, sandwiched in metaphorical cages like chickens off to the slaughterhouse. The floors were stacked closely together, the hallways severe, and the only windows were a choice few on the outside walls that faced the dirty streets. The narrow courtyards were strung with lines of dripping clothing, often found white with frost in the morning.

Such living conditions could hardly even be called living. With the lack of basic resources and the abundance of highly contagious diseases, these humans were merely waiting to die.

If Erik had been the sort of predator that hunted, he would have obliged here. Since he had not actively sought prey in decades, he had avoided the tenements where humans often begged for death.

At least, he had avoided them until now.

With Darius's aid, he had submitted his proposal of marriage to the young woman's father, and in return, he had gotten a favorable reply. Erik knew this was at the behest of the father and not the daughter, for she had not smiled in the few days that had followed. Still, he persisted, resolved as ever to make her his. If he could have eschewed protocol, he would have married her as soon as the father signed the agreement.

But there was a protocol to follow, and if he did not want to attract more attention than he already would seeking this marriage, he would have to adhere to it.

Madame Giry's reply to his message had been tart, but she had done as she had promised. As soon as she had escorted Christine from the premises, he had swept into the dark stairway, the father's invitation enough to at least allow him this far. He met no one in the hall, which was well enough by him, needing no extra strain on his glamour.

He needed to save the full scope of his strength for Charles Daaé.

He knocked on the door promptly one minute before their scheduled meeting.

Darius had offered two vials of Lucas's lifeblood as soon as darkness had fallen enough for him to cross Paris. He had spent the span of another day with the young human, taking more risks that Erik should be allowing. But Erik had swallowed both morsels without comment, knowing he needed their clarity and capability for tonight.

He tugged at the hem of his cream-colored waistcoat and straightened his cuffs, uncomfortable in the stiff new suit he had bought for this occasion. He lifted his hand and knocked again.

"A moment, please," came the raspy voice from within.

His keen hearing caught shuffling footsteps. Then the door opened to Charles Daaé, Christine's father, the violinist who had first drawn him out of his home all those weeks ago. The man had clearly made effort in dressing, but his brown suit was wrinkled from sitting too long, and his shoes needed polishing. The apartment had been scrubbed clean, the scent sharp even to Erik's dimmed sense of smell.

All of this he took in during one sweep of his golden eyes before alighting on the man in front of him. "Good evening, monsieur," he said. "I am Erik Voclain."

"Ah, Charles Daaé," the man introduced himself, reaching out with a welcoming hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Voclain. Please, come in."

The handshake was dry and solid, if a touch too warm. Erik stepped across the threshold, invited as he was. He felt two emotions then, swiftly felt and then gone just as quickly.

First, anger surged forward. Erik had seen many places in his life and the times that had come after, and he was not unused to such squalor. But to think that Christine had been living under such conditions… The girl had no bedroom of her own, her clothing new and old in neat stacks somewhat hidden behind the lumpy sofa. The furnace gave out less heat than the fireplace. The kitchen had no running water of its own.

At once, he wanted to swoop her away from Madame Giry and see that for the rest of her life, she wanted for nothing.

Secondly, relief made his shoulders lose a bit of their tension; the bloodmeal this evening had worked as intended. Even though this man standing before him was weak with sickness and far too welcoming, Erik's fangs stayed firmly within his gums. Even with his anger at things beyond his current control, he did not lash out.

It was… progress.

He ensured yet again that his glamour was brightly burning, his mask cleverly hidden beneath another one of smooth, pale skin free of blemish. He could not maintain it at this level and closeness to a human for long. He would need to move quickly to convince this man to give his daughter over.

He stepped inside the apartment and closed the door behind him.

"The pleasure is mine, Monsieur Daaé."

Christine's hands clutched each other; she feared they might shake if she did not keep them firmly in her lap. The older woman next to her on the carriage bench had said nothing beyond her name and where they were going. She was Antoinette Giry, and they were on their way to a dress shop in one of the wealthiest parts of Paris.

While her father met the man who wanted to marry her.

"We have much work to do."

Christine roused herself from her thoughts, feeling such relief at being pulled into any conversation to break the uncomfortable silence. "Work, madame?"

"We can't have the maestro's wife dressed in rags, can we? Or her hair and skin in such poor condition." Madame Giry cut her eyes at Christine, noticeable in the dim light of the lantern hooked upon the door of the carriage. "At least your posture is decent."

Christine swallowed hard. "I have a background in music, madame. Posture is important."

That earned her another slicing glance. "Yes, it is. What sort of music background do you have?"

"Ah, n-nothing professional. My father plays the violin and my mother sang. She taught me a lot before she passed away." Christine squeezed her hands tighter together, knowing they were white-knuckled under her threadbare gloves. "You called him maestro?"

Giry shook her head. "Any questions about Monsieur Voclain will have to be directed toward him directly. He asked me to see to your needs, and so thus I am here. Beyond that, I have no directive and certainly no obligation."

"I-I understand, madame," Christine said obediently, but inside, her thoughts were spinning anew. The moniker of maestro was an interesting one indeed, and not one she had heard before about her suitor. She turned her attention back to Giry's comment about her state of dress. "Are new clothes truly necessary?"

"Your hem is too high, and your bodice is too tight. I daresay you haven't bought a new gown in years, and certainly not since you became a proper woman."

Christine flushed with shame. She already knew these things, but she had hardly possessed the money before now, had she? "I wouldn't want to embarrass Monsieur Voclain."

Giry gave her a sharp look. This woman could say much with merely a glance. "Erik is hardly one to care about such things in that manner. No, girl, this is about having respect in yourself and your own appearance. Here you have an opportunity to choose some clothing of your liking that fits you properly – appreciate the experience."

"Yes, madame," Christine said, mollified.

She had never given herself much thought before, her attention focused much more upon her father or their daily needs to survive. But now, as the carriage pulled to a stop outside the dress shop, Christine stepped out noticing what she had ignored before. Her hem did come a touch too high upon her ankle, and she knew from the discomfort that her corset no longer fit her womanly figure.

A bit of her tension eased. This was not about dressing her up in finery to impress her suitor. This was about finding her own pride in what she wore. About taking care of herself for once.

She followed Madame Giry inside the shop where two women had clearly been waiting for them to arrive. The next hour was filled with discussions of fabrics and styles, of trying on item after item, of measurements taken and retaken. Christine lost count of how many garments Giry ordered made. By the end of it, the trio of woman tallied off five gowns – two of which were for evening – eight nightgowns of various gauze-like materials, and eight sets of underclothes including three corsets. The total also included matching slippers, hats, gloves, and other accessories.

The total cost made Christine nearly choke upon the tea she had been offered. "I-I couldn't possibly…" she began.

Madame Giry thrust her waking cane to the floor. "Monsieur Voclain gave you funds already, did he not?"

Christine colored. "He did, ample enough, but I have been… shoring them away. Just in case." In case Papa grew worse. In case the furnace broke down again. In case their benefactor suddenly decided to stop giving… "To use all of that money to purchase things only for myself would be difficult."

Giry only sighed and turned to one of the women, the other quick at work tailoring a ready-made gown they had purchased. "Half now, my dear lady, and half when the items are delivered."

"Of course, madame," the seamstress replied. "Margie is almost finished with the first dress now – would she like to wear it home?"

"Heavens no. We wouldn't want to smudge it before tomorrow, would we?"

Dressed back in her own clothes, she was more aware than ever of her usual drab appearance. One of the ladies spent the last bit of time they had showing Christine how to pin up her tangle of hair like a true lady and how adjust her new hat to suit her hairstyle and the angle of her head. She left with a small assortment of lotions and hair tonics to restore some luster to her skin and hair.

Christine thanked the woman profusely for their handiwork. When she and Giry were back in the carriage, she ventured to ask, "What is tomorrow, madame?" She almost did not want to know.

Giry smoothed back her graying black hair at her temple, ever elegant. "Why, the day you meet your intended, of course."

Christine paused at the door to the apartment when she noticed her father sitting on the sofa. He had been abed for so many days that the sight took her aback. Even more so, she was surprised when he rose to help her with her packages.

"I can manage, Papa," she said as he took the stack of large boxes from her arms.

He smiled easily at her. "I know you can, dearest. Let me help you anyway." He set them on the kitchen table, then stepped back to admire the pile. "It seems you had a successful shopping trip."

"I did." The talk of purchases for herself always made her feel uncomfortable, but he seemed so pleased at the sight that she indulged him. "It is a new gown. I… ordered several more that will be delivered later. I hope to soon get to a men's shop to order you some clothes as well."

He waved off the idea. "Don't worry about me, Lotte. I can't tell you how happy it makes me to see you provided for."

She forced her own smile. "I shall model it for you tomorrow."

"Perfect."

"How did the visit go?" She hoped her tone was as casual as she tried to force it to be; inside, her stomach roiled with nerves.

"Well, I think. Voclain was most polite. Ever the gentleman. He didn't drink the brandy I offered him, but he was most pleasant otherwise." Her father's brown eyes lit up with mischievousness she had not seen in weeks. "I could share quite a lot about his background and what he does for a living, but I don't want to spoil the discovery for you."

Christine clicked her tongue at him, playing along. "You and Madame Giry both have your secrets. Is there nothing you will tell me?"

"Oh, he is tall," Charles said, wagging his eyebrows at her. "Quite thin and pale, but not overly so. You can report to me tomorrow about your opinion of his appearance, but he had fine enough features. A long, straight nose. Nothing out of the ordinary. Handsome enough for my daughter, I think?"

"Papa!" she said, nudging him with her shoulder. "You shouldn't talk of such things."

"I guess not." A cough wheezed out of him, cutting off his laugh. She missed his carefree spirit so much, the banter they used to have between them.

"We should get you to bed," she said, putting an arm around his waist to help him. He acquiesced without any protest, another worrying sign. How had they come to this moment of daughter helping father in such a way? The doctor's awful words echoed in her mind, followed swiftly by her father's own blunt acceptance of his fate.

Her world was spiraling beyond her control.

"Thank you, daughter," Charles said. He eased back to the pillows, and Christine knew he would be asleep within moments. Dr. Martin's tonics had at least helped with her father's rest.

The next day progressed much as the others had. Christine cooked meals and did laundry and saw to her father's comforts whenever needed. Dr. Martin paid them his usual visit, and though he did not say much to Christine, the firm set of his mouth told her everything she needed to know.

As she brought her father soup, he caught her around the wrist. "Shouldn't you be getting dressed soon, Lotte? It is nearly seven."

The words stuck in her throat, but they must have been all over her expression because Charles tugged her down and looped his free arm around her shoulders, giving her a tight hug.

"My strong, my darling," he said in her ear. "You can do this. You must do this."

Her throat closed even more. "Yes, Papa," she managed to choke out. He released her, and she hurried off before he could say anything more, closing the door behind her for privacy's sake.

The box from the dress shop yesterday lay on one of the chairs, its rectangular shape and promises within waiting expectantly for her. She remembered Madame Giry giving her directions on what to expect of today – Monsieur Voclain's butler, Darius Ardavan, would come to pick her up at 7:30, and she must not keep him waiting. It would be a fifteen-minute carriage ride to Voclain's manor. She would spend no more than one proper hour there before being escorted back home by Monsieur Ardavan. When Christine had asked if Madame Giry would be accompanying her, she earned a snort and biting remark.

"The ballerinas at the opera will hardly improve by themselves."

It was a statement that had opened all sorts of questions, which had Christine biting her tongue to remain silent. Did unmarried women normally attend to unmarried men at night? And why must she go to his home in the evening rather than brunch or afternoon tea?

Christine did up her own corset the best she could, the fit so much better than her old one, and slipped into the rest of her layers. The gown fell in satin waves of green and blue with intricate detailing in gold thread. Her bodice covered her to the wrist and came high on the back of the neck, leaving a triangle of bare skin at her collar. She pinned up her unruly curls the best she could in the oval mirror hanging near the door.

She was placing the last of the pins in her matching hat when there was a knock on the door. It was Darius, his black hair carefully combed, the scruff of a mustache on his upper lip. He removed his hat and gave her a slight bow in welcome.

"Good evening, mademoiselle."

"Good evening, Monsieur Ardavan. I am almost ready."

"Darius, remember?" He stepped inside, lips tilting up in a smile. "Is your father presentable? I would like to say hello."

"He is."

Darius strode to the back room while Christine finished fixing her hat. She tugged on her new gloves as she followed him, her stiff shoes making unfamiliar hard clunks upon the wooden floor.

The men exchanged greetings and handshakes. Charles's face lit up as he saw her.

"Stop, Papa," she said, bending down to kiss his forehead.

His voice was hoarse as he spoke. "I only wish your mother could see what a beautiful woman you have grown into."

"So do I."

There had once been talk of heaven, of seeing Mama again once their lives here were over. Christine was not certain when those words had faded away. Perhaps when they had moved to Paris and their struggles had truly begun with Papa's cough. She could not bring herself to say them now, but she had heard Papa praying more every evening since Dr. Martin had told them he would not recover.

She squeezed his hand, but she did not linger, knowing tears were just at the surface. "I will be back soon."

"Good night, Monsieur Daaé," Darius said. He replaced his hat atop his perfect head of black hair.

Not much was said between them as they made their way down the several flights of stairs to the black carriage waiting at the curb. Christine did not know what to make of Darius Ardavan, the butler of her suitor. He seemed friendly enough, and while he smiled easily, she had not missed the quick way the smile had slipped from his face when he had turned from her or her father. His niceness seemed more the impression of politeness, given easily but not truly meant.

This unsettled her, now that she had noticed it. He opened the carriage door for her, still the model gentleman, or perhaps just a butler doing his job, but she thanked him either way. He paused and opened the door a crack to peer within another moment. His face was cast in deep shadows from the single lantern hanging outside her small window.

"Nervous, mademoiselle?"

"A little," she admitted. She gave her own thin smile. "Perhaps more than a little."

"If it helps, he is likely just as nervous as you are."

That did make her laugh, genuinely. "That does, thank you."

"Just don't tell him I said so. I wish to keep my position. And my head." With that, he hopped down from the step and climbed up to the front to drive the pair of horses.

It was that sort of thing, not knowing if he was serious or not, that set her on edge.

The carriage rolled forward. Christine moved the curtains aside so she could peer beyond the glass. She saw few pedestrians and only two other carriages; this particular night was dark with more rain threatening. Her father had not questioned why this meeting must be in the evening, the time long past for polite tea. She knew dinner for the wealthy was often served this late or even later, but there had been no mention of such food from anyone.

The carriage roll to a stop, and Darius helped her down with a surprisingly strong grip. She had thought him young at first, not much older than her, but she doubted that first impression now.

"Here we are," he said. "Let's get you in quickly before it starts to rain."

She had to take care with her train not to trip on the carriage's steps, but once she was on the ground, she took in her surroundings. Darius had pulled them into a large private courtyard surrounded by the walls of Voclain's manor house, three or four stories high made of pale stone, only the archway through which they had traveled having no rooms above it. The black-shingled roof ascended in steep spirals high above her, a medieval gothic style unique to Paris. The sheer size of this place made her eyes widen, and she had wondered how much larger it would look in the daylight when parts of it did not vanish into the darkness.

Oil lamps dotted the courtyard, giving her enough light to see the red trim around the windows, and the red wooden door through which Darius was about to usher her. She could see that only a few windows were glowing from lights within the rooms, but when Darius pulled open the large red door, light spilled forth.

Her new shoes clicked upon the polished marble floor as she stepped inside, Darius closing the door behind them, and she could not help but gape at her surroundings. Stone walls rose around her, much the same light color as the outside, the ceiling plunging upwards and disappearing into darkness above her. A plush rug with intricate thread in red and gold covered much of the entryway.

Darius gestured for her cape, and she allowed him to take both it and her gloves. "He is waiting in the western drawing room. I lit a large fire in there for you to warm yourself. I know this place is drafty."

Christine had not even noticed she was shivering, but she was, tremors wracking her small frame. Had it even been that chilly outside?

"The stairs are to your right. The drawing room is through the first doorway you see."

For all the oddness that surrounded Darius, she did wish he would escort her upstairs. The thought of walking up those massive stone steps alone made her shivering intensify.

Darius placed her cape and gloves near the door. "I will make tea, yes?" he said, already sweeping down a hallway in the opposite direction. "You will want tea?"

"Yes, please." That might help, having something to do with her hands. For now, she fisted one in her heavy skirts and lifted the front of the hem to start her ascent. The other she placed on the wide berth of the railing, the stone cold under her bare hand. Everything in this manor seemed overly large and overdone, and walking up the stairs with each laden footstep made her feel incredibly small. The urge to bolt rose and she shoved it down.

At the top of the stairs, double doors stood tall to the right. The rest of the second floor faded into gloom, but one of the double doors was open and light flickered into the hallway. Christine's shoes sounded too loud on the stone floor as she approached the open door.

She had expected another massive room, but this drawing room was smaller, more intimate. Thick carpets in red and cream covered most of the floor, dulling the sound of her footsteps. To the left, away from the windows, rested a baby grand piano in gleaming black. At the far end, a fire blazed hotly in the hearth. A red lounge was on one side of the fireplace, with several matching armchairs on the other.

A man stood near one of the long windows, his black silhouette a stark contrast with the heavy drawn curtains in a dark cream color. He turned when she entered the room, but she had known before he had turned that this was the same man who had stopped her on the street those weeks ago, the same man who had found and paid for Dr. Martin, the same man who had watched her Papa perform in the gardens.

He was dressed much the same as he had been that rainy night. His black suit was tailored impeccably, and he wore a waistcoat in ivory instead of black. His massive cape was missing, of course being indoors as they were, but this did not make his form seem less imposing without the bulk. He still stood head and shoulders above her slight height, his body far larger than hers. He wore no hat now, and his hair was as dark as his suit, carefully combed from his narrow-featured face.

The mask was gone.

She knew he had worn a mask before, knew it with all her being. Darius had even confirmed its existence when she had thrown out the comment and gotten a reaction. So why did she see only smooth skin and narrow features that conveyed little emotion?

Honeyed eyes swept over her appearance. Then he reached out with a white-gloved hand. "Welcome, Christine."

Oh, that baritone rumble. She remembered that voice well. She remembered the sound of her name upon his lips.

"Good evening, monsieur," she said, and her voice was trembling as much as her frame.

His hand did not waver, outstretched as it was, and so she stepped closer and closer still until she could slip her own into his. His long fingers curled over the entirety of hers. She could feel no heat through his fine kidskin glove, but perhaps the fabric prevented it. She dropped into a curtsy as he bowed at the waist over her hand, a formal greeting between two people about to discuss marriage.

She swallowed, suddenly unsteady upon her feet. Marriage. She had almost forgotten the reason she was here.

"You are trembling," he said. "Are you cold? Come stand by the fire." He drew her over to the hearth, keeping her between him and the fire, which now was a comforting warmth at her back and side. "I trust your trip here with Darius was uneventful."

"Yes, monsieur. Darius was a good escort." He had not yet let go of her hand, but when her gaze shifted to notice this, he let go immediately, taking a few steps back from her. Her hands went to clutch at each other, pressed against the upper folds of her skirts. The shaking had not eased.

She tried on a slight smile, wanting to see friendly. "I wanted to thank you for what you have done for my family. Dr. Martin is amazing, and my father is finally able to sleep again and speak at least a little without coughing."

"I heard his prognosis is not positive."

"I, well, no." A lump formed in her throat. She was already thrown off by her unceasing shaking and by the blurriness that had formed in her mind when she had entered this room. Whenever she tried to glance up from the carpet, to look upon him as one must do when being polite, she found her concentration lagging. She could not handle discussion about her father moreover. "Please, monsieur, I do not wish to speak of such things tonight."

"Understood."

His golden eyes were intent upon her, watching every movement she made. She had a feeling he was memorizing her every feature, scrutinizing her, and she felt herself redden a little under the rapt attention. She looked down and smoothed the fringed gold trim on her gown.

She cleared her throat. "Your home is lovely."

Voclain did not answer as Darius arrived with a tea tray and set it down on one of the small glass tables near them. "Should I, ah, pour?" he asked.

Monsieur Voclain waved him off just as Christine said, "I can do it, thank you." Maybe something to distract her, to busy her hands, would help her nerves calm. When she bent to the tray, she noticed there was only one teacup present. "Monsieur Darius, we are in need of another cup," she said.

Darius's lips parted to speak, but again, Voclain cut him off with a sharp cut of a gloved hand. "I do not need tea," Voclain said. "Have some for yourself." The words were uttered curtly but polite enough, so Christine went back to pouring her own cup. It might be odd to drink alone, yet she did not want to offend by refusing.

She reached for the teapot with one hand, decided on two because of the noticeable quivering. Two men watched her struggle to aim a steady stream of light brown tea into the tiny teacup. She splashed a little before she set the teapot back down, fearing she would make a mess.

She gave a little laugh, hoping it sounded more carefree than she felt. "I seem to be more chilled than I thought."

She caught the exchanged glance between the two men. Monsieur Voclain's face shifted, for a moment blurring into a stiff white mask that covered him forehead to upper jaw, curving around the flat line of his mouth.

She gave a little gasp at the sight. "Monsieur, your face."

His golden eyes widened; if she had not been staring at him, she would have missed it. She felt as though his face slammed shut, and something swept over it, an insistence that she had seen wrong, that there had been no mask. Her vision blurred; her head spun. When she managed to refocus upon him again, his face had returned to the porcelain features of a statue.

"Christine, have a seat by the fire," he said sharply. "Darius, you are dismissed."

Darius's brow furrowed. "Maestro, you must-"

"Darius." The word was filled with warning. It carried a steel edge to it, promised violence if disobeyed.

Still, Darius persisted. "You must stop this, maestro. You can see how she is reacting. You will damage her."

Damage her? Dizziness overcoming her, Christine wanted to move to sit on the sofa as instructed, but her edges seemed fuzzy, her spatial awareness fading. She feared she might fall if she shifted even one muscle.

Voclain took a single step toward Darius, his tall body stiff, his height growing with menace. That single step was all it took for the butler to back down. Darius countered by taking a step backward and holding up both hands in compliance, and Voclain rocked back on his heels. Somehow, a fight had been avoided.

"Messieurs," Christine began. She could feel herself tipping to the side. She tried to focus on Voclain who still stood adjacent to her, but sharp pain spiked within her temples. Her hands reached out and grasped onto his arm and one lapel of his coat, wrinkling the fine black linen. He instantly froze under her touch. "Please…" she continued, "I think I am unwell."

"No, you are not unwell," she heard Darius say, bitterness coloring his voice.

A growl rose up from within the chest where her hand rested, a vibrating rumble that she felt as much as she heard. "Sit, Christine. The couch is just behind you." She felt his long fingers grip her upper arms, apply enough pressure to guide her backward. When the sofa pushed against the backs of her knees, she bent to sit. He guided her down as though she weighed nothing, his hold firm but not painful.

"I cannot be a part of this," Darius said, now sounding closer to the door. "If you want her to be around for much longer, you will do what you need to do. Or else turn her loose, for god's sake." She heard his quick footsteps in the hallway, and she knew she was again alone with her suitor.

"What does he mean?" Christine asked. She shook her head, trying to clear the fuzziness. When Voclain's hands slipped from her upper arms, she grasped onto one of them lest he try to back away from her, the fingers like stone in her grip. "What have you done to me?"

"Nothing that I thought could be prevented," he said, voice thick. He knelt before her, his face flashing from smooth pale skin to mask and back again. His visage blurred and flowed like water. Her head ached like it was being hammered from within.

She lifted her other hand and reached to touch his cheek, needing that physical contact to understand why her eyes and mind were at war.

He recoiled. "Mademoiselle Daaé."

No, she must do this. "Christine," she said. "You have said my name before. Why do I feel like this when I am near you? Whatever truth you are hiding from me must be cast aside. We have only just met, monsieur. If we are to wed, there must be no lies between us."

She felt the rush of his breath cool upon her hand. "I cannot hide from you, Christine Daaé."

She frowned. "Why would you want to hide? Am I that frightening?"

He shook his head. He was kneeling upon one knee, the other an angular jut next to her skirts. "I am not a trusting… man. I have spent too long fearing the reactions of others."

"Their reaction to your mask, you mean." From the way his fingers tightened around her hand, she had guessed correctly. "I have seen it before, monsieur. When we met in the street that rainy evening. Are you doing something to prevent me from seeing your mask?"

"It is a trick, of sorts."

"Like a magician?"

"I suppose so. I was called that once, yes. Yes, like that of a magician." His eyes softened, the only thing about him that she could currently see clearly. "You are a marvel, Christine."

She did not understand why he thought so. She was being far too outspoken, far too blunt, especially for a young woman meeting her intended husband formally for the first time. "Can you stop? The trick, I mean. I feel so utterly sick from the confusion. I only wish to see you as you are, monsieur."

He blew out another cool breath, and she had the odd thought that he had not breathed between them. "My name is Erik. I wish to be called thus."

"All right." She wet her lips. "Erik."

A ripple traveled down to the hand she was still holding, clearly a tremor from him and not from her. Then, all at once, the fog within her mind lifted as though someone had pulled a pillowcase off her head. She blinked away the last of haziness and settled her eyes on him free from the veil of trickery for the first time.

He wore a mask of ivory, the skin around it nearly as pale. She could see the thin bit of string or wire that held it around the back of his head just above his ears. The mask cut across his forehead and covered the entirety of his cheeks and nose, ending in a curve around his thin lips that were set in a firm grimace.

There would be other times to question why he wore such a thing. For now, she let her hand travel the rest of the distance between them, and he did not draw back though his fingers spasmed once in hers. Her fingertips touched the fierce arch of his cheekbone, and the material of his mask was shockingly cold.

"There you are, Erik."