Erik's face fell. He cautiously stepped into the chamber, trying to peer into the darkness and ascertain just how back this tunnel went. He couldn't see the end of it. Who knows how far it went, or what it led to - or who was hiding inside. He stepped back into the dressing room, his posture defeated.

"I am so sorry, Mademoiselle Daae, but I feel I would be remiss to allow you be in this room alone. This tunnel isn't safe, and by the time you screamed to alert me to the presence of an intruder, it would be too late," he told her gravely.

Christine's expression wavered, a small smile marked with confusion as she tried to tell if he was joking with her - was this the sense of humor that Madame Giry had told her about?

"Surely you're joking...?"

He looked at her regretfully, and her smile disappeared completely.

"You don't truly think someone is going to come through my dressing room mirror and abduct me, do you? That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!"

"I assure you that being here in this room is far from my first choice. If you truly feel there's no danger behind there, I will - against my better judgment - step outside as you wish. The choice is yours."

Christine stared down the tunnel. It was terribly dark... Her lip trembled. She slid the glass back to its original place.

"Very well then, I suppose," she told him with a confidence that belied her conflicted mind.

Erik turned to face the wall, his eyes trained directly in front of him.

"I am sorry, you know," he muttered.

Christine had never been more grateful for the folding partition in this room. She gathered the pieces of her costume and stood behind the partition to dress. Halfway through dressing curiosity got the better of her and she dared to peek around the corner - just a bit, just her face, though it wouldn't have mattered because she already had her dress completely on by then. Erik hadn't budged an inch, still staring at the faded floral wallpaper. Even if he had tried to glance behind him, she knew he wouldn't have been able see around the partition due to its height and width, but she was terribly curious anyway. She thought back to Meg's words about how he didn't like women in that way, and then wondered why on earth Meg of all people would know something like that about him.

She finished dressing quickly, stepping back out around the partition and settling herself in front of the vanity table. She began combing and pinning her hair up in a rolled style, glancing in the mirror over at Erik.

She stopped fussing over her hair and turned to face him. He was still facing the wall. She cleared her throat.

"You can turn around now."

He turned around, eyes now studying the carpet. She briefly wondered if perhaps he would have stood there facing away from her the entire time if she hadn't said anything.

"You can sit on the divan, if you like," she waved a hand towards the small couch. "My makeup always takes a while to finish."

He sat down awkwardly, the divan a little too low to the ground to be entirely comfortable for someone with such long legs.

He tried his very best not to stare at her as she primped and painted, but she was correct that it was taking a very long time and there was so very little else to look at in the room - one could only gaze at the vase of wilted roses on her table for so long before being tempted to watch her clever fingers twist and pin those flaxen tresses into woven curls and spirals.

Erik pondered this strange twist of fate that now had him sitting in her dressing room as though he were one of the patrons who payed extra for the ability to take such liberties with the performers, when not even a week ago he couldn't find the courage to even knock on her door.

Christine slid the tube of lipstick over her lips, turning them blood red in its wake. Her eyes flicked up to Erik's face in the mirror, that odd gaze of his intently following the motion of the lipstick, only for their eyes to meet when she paused. He quickly looked away, embarrassed, and she felt a blush creeping over her own cheeks as she smiled.

Finally she stood in front of the mirror, makeup and hair complete. She lingered, even though she knew she had no real reason to. It was silly, she was silly, but she was just slightly nervous about who would see them leaving her dressing room together. People talked around here, and she preferred to not be the subject of that talk if she could help it.

No one saw as they left her dressing room, but the pair did draw some glances as they approached backstage. Jospeh Buquet openly stared, looking Erik up and down nervously, eyes darting from his tall form to Christine and back again. Several stagehands whispered to each other, their eyes gone wide. Erik pointedly ignored all of this in a manner that Christine could only assume came from decades of practice, and she felt a pang of sympathy for him if this was how he was treated by most people for his entire life.

She managed a warm smile at Erik when he finally looked at her, but his eyes continued to rove the stage, looking at her as though she were merely another prop or piece of scenery, his mouth impassive. She raised her eyebrows and felt a surprising pout settle over her which she couldn't quite explain - she had been smiling for his benefit, not her own, so if he did not appreciate it that was his problem, not hers, yet all the same the emotion remained like a bothersome dark cloud on an otherwise sunny day.

A few other performers openly stared and whispered, and Christine made a mental note to ask Meg what exactly was being said about her. Meg could always be counted on for three things - a heartfelt hug when days weren't going well, to have an extra snack in her dance bag, and her uncanny ability to keep on top of every strand of gossip related to anyone who worked at the Opera House. Meg would know.

The director, however, had been informed in advance about the situation with Christine, and merely gave a small nod to Erik when he noticed him.

As her turn on the stage drew nearer, she pushed all thoughts of gossip and potential kidnappers from her mind, trying to focus solely on what she would be singing. She rocked from her heels to her toes, clenching and unclenching her hands. Her thoughts turned only to the words of the aria she was about perform, no longer noticing anyone else, not even the odd presence of Erik right behind her that she still wasn't used to yet.

Erik himself was not unaffected by the buzz backstage. He was trying to keep his own thoughts at bay, thoughts of what it would be like to be up here every week, to feel the glare of those lights and to hear his voice echo off the walls and soar up to the vaulted ceiling night after night. Would it feel different than all those nights when people would gather around to gawk at his death's face as a child? It would have to. They would be drawn here by only his voice, by something pure, not by something nightmarish and grotesque. But he would never get a chance to know what that felt like. This was the closest he'd ever come to actually being on stage.

He glanced down at Christine. The poor girl looked terribly nervous. She was practically hyperventilating, her body shaking. He frowned. This was only a dress rehearsal - how much more anxious did she get during an actual show? He hadn't noticed any hint of nerves when she had played Marguerite. Perhaps the threats looming over her were getting to her. He longed to be able to reach a hand out on place it on her shoulder, to tell her it would be okay, to remind her to breathe deeply and slowly, but it felt too familiar of a gesture. He wasn't here to help her with her singing career, he wasn't even here for moral support - he was solely here to make sure no one grabbed her and ran off with her, and he would do well to not forget his place.

It was her cue to enter the stage, and as she stepped out from the wings a stillness settled over her. Erik stepped closer but stayed out of view of where the audience would be. Her music began, and after two measures of intro she began her aria.

It was as though she were suddenly a different person entirely. She didn't shake or falter, she didn't shift on her feet or tense her hands.

Erik sucked in a breath. How much stronger her voice was when he was this close. This was nothing like when he was sitting in the back of theater watching Faust and trying to hide. It was like being transported to another world. That golden voice curled around him and seeped into his very soul, teasing his mind with images. Never had he wished so fervently to be able to be on stage himself, for the sole reason of being blessed with the opportunity to sing in duet with her. She could be Juliet, and he would be Romeo, or perhaps he will be Tristan and she will be Isolde, two lovers united through the passion of their music - or they could even be someone new, he could write entire operas to showcase their voices together, operas that would bring all of Paris to its knees at the sight of such beauty and heavenly light-

In those few moments it didn't even matter that such a thing could never be. He knew that the aria was about to end and take with it those shining fantasies, and they would be once again simply Christine and Erik, a young woman who was uncomfortable around the masked guard that fate decreed she be saddled with.

He closed his eyes and held on to those last notes, those last pieces of artificial hope before he let them slip away and fade with the echo of her voice.

She lingered a moment on stage before gracefully walking back to the wings. Once out of sight behind the curtains, she shook her arms out wildly and jumped up and down a few times as though to work out the rest of the adrenaline in her system, and then practically ran down the steps and towards the empty auditorium. She glanced back at Erik, who was quite confused but managed to keep only a few feet between them.

"I want to see the others sing!" she said, smiling.

He followed her to the front row and took a seat next to her. He belatedly realized he probably should have left an empty seat between them - it felt strange to sit so close with their elbows practically touching when the entire theater was nearly empty, but it would be even stranger to get up and put space between them once they were already seated. He had been told by several people in the past that he had a tendency to make those shorter than him - which was very nearly everyone - feel crowded because he'd stand too close, unable to judge the distance from the perspective of the shorter person. It was nothing he did on purpose - generally not, anyway - so he tried to be aware of how much space he might need to leave around him. He assumed he had gotten better at it over the years, but Christine was so terribly short and he hated the thought of making her uncomfortable just by being next to her.

If she was uncomfortable, she gave no outward sign. She gazed up at the stage, her face full of wonder as she listened to the other performers, a big smile of joy on her face when she enthusiastically clapped for each one when they were done.

"I don't get to see them perform on the day of the shows, so dress rehearsals are the only times I can watch them," she whispered to him as one of the performers left the stage.

Erik nodded. He very nearly told her that her own performance was beautiful, that she was very talented, or any number of other compliments, but he hesitated just a moment too long and by then the next singer was beginning and her attention was solely on the stage.

This singer was talented as well, able to deviate from the prescribed notes and improvise and embellish, but there was something about her that Erik found off putting that he couldn't quite name. It wasn't until he song was finished that he realized what it was. Christine clapped as she had for each singer, but where the others had given a little bow or wave in acknowledgment, this woman paused and looked directly at Christine with an expression that could only be described as a sneer. The woman scoffed and shook her head and stalked off stage.

"Who was that?" Erik asked in a hushed tone.

"La Carlotta," she replied softly.

"She doesn't like you," he was slouched down in his chair so their faces were level with each other, and he glanced over at her.

Christine gave a small smile.

"I know."

"So why did you clap for her?"

"Just because she doesn't like me, that doesn't mean I have to dislike her," she shrugged.

Erik was silent at this, and the arrival of the next singer saved him having to reply.

La Carlotta was arrogant and haughty where Christine was sweet and kind, and he was almost certain that this came across in their singing as well. He glanced at her again, studying her features. She was entirely engrossed in the next performance, not noticing that he was watching her instead of the stage. He wondered how many of the other performers she was actually friends with, and how many she was simply supporting because she thought it was a nice thing to do. She certainly hadn't been any less enthusiastic for La Carlotta, so he had no way of knowing which might be which.

Erik had always been suspicious of nice people. They were usually the ones plotting something, the ones who had reason to hide their true feelings until they got what they wanted, the ones who were too dishonest to display their distaste for others up front.

But Christine's niceness seemed different than that. It didn't seem to be masking anything underneath. It just... was. He wondered what it might be like to get to know someone like that, then he reminded himself that the ultimate goal was to spend as little time around her as possible - to find the missing Vicomte and find whoever was responsible for threatening her so that she didn't need someone watching her constantly. He would have to continue to wonder, he told himself wryly.

After the rehearsal was over they made their way back to the dressing rooms. They passed La Carlotta in the hallway where she was standing against the wall with several other people around her. She focused her glare on Christine, who in turn gave her a small smile. Carlotta crossed her arms and frowned, turning her attention then to Erik.

Perhaps niceness was simply Christine's nature. It certainly was not, however, Erik's nature, and he had no qualms about returning that icy stare. He thought he saw a flicker of fear go across her face for just one instant, and perhaps a hint of jealousy. She continued to stare as Christine entered her dressing room and held the door open for Erik.

"Who were those people she was with?" he asked as he turned to the wall once more.

"Her friends."

"Other singers?"

"Piangi is. There's also her personal assistant, and the other two are from who knows where else."

"Does she always travel with such an entourage?"

"Usually, yes."

"Does she have any reason to dislike the Vicomte? Or the Comte?"

Christine paused behind the partition.

"I- don't think so. Oh, you don't think she had something to do with all this, do you?"

"I think she very clearly doesn't like you."

Christine finished changing and came around to the vanity table, pulling the pins out of her hair and taking off her jewelry.

"I don't think it was her," she fretted.

"You don't think so, or you don't want to think so?"

Christine looked up at him, worry written across her features.

"She's just upset because I did so well when I took over her role while she was sick," she shook her head.

"And you feel such revenge is beneath her?"

"Well- she might have written such a letter, but I don't think- I'd like to think that she didn't actually have Raoul kidnapped... Do you really think it was her?"

Christine sounded scared and sad, and Erik briefly regretted being so adamant about it.

"I am not certain, but I would be careful around her," he said gently. "The first letter didn't mention you at all, which makes me think it wasn't related to her bruised ego, but then again, what better way to get back at you than by spiriting away your boy?"

"Oh, Erik..."

Christine had to admit, it did make sense in a way.

"It would also explain why you were targeted in the second letter- you will forgive my saying so, but you have been merely an understudy," he hesitated. "But perhaps you were targeted because of that reason - if Carlotta always travels with an entourage as you say, then it would stand to reason that kidnapping her would become exponentially more difficult."

Christine felt like her head was spinning at it all. She rubbed her hand over her eyes.

"I just want to go home, Erik," she sighed.

He nodded.

"Of course."

He would have to run his ideas by Antoinette and see what she thought of them. He decided not to say anything more of it to Christine, who he had already managed to overwhelm. He certainly couldn't ask her about the Comte now, he had already pushed too far for one night.

They walked back in the darkness in mostly silence. His mind was busy mulling over possibilities of who was responsible for what, and she was focused on what she needed to do to prepare for the show that was happening the next night.

He broke her from her thoughts.

"Do you always walk home alone?"

"Excuse me?"

His face flushed.

"I mean, do you always walk to and from work? At the same times each day, even in the dark?"

She thought about it.

"I suppose so."

"You shouldn't, especially not now."

She nodded, too tired to do much else.

As they finally approached Giry's house, he noticed that Antoinette was inside, standing by the little window, anticipating Christine's return. She opened the door before they even had to knock, and Christine entered without a word to either of them, heading straight for the stairs and up to the room she shared with Meg.

Erik watched her go and felt strangely awkward about the parting. She hadn't even said goodbye. He thought about that for a moment, and then he felt awkward for feeling awkward - what did it matter that she didn't say goodbye? They weren't friends. She was merely a client, and there was no need for anything beyond the bare minimum of what was required to do the job expected of him.

"Would you like to stay for dinner, Erik? We ate earlier, but we made enough for both of you for when you got back," Antoinette offered.

He hated to admit it, but he was rather hungry. And Antoinette was a very good cook. But the thought of having to sit at the same Christine while they ate... He couldn't do it.

"Thank you, Antoinette, but no. I'd rather just go back home, I think."

She nodded and studied his face. He seemed tired. Perhaps rest would do him good.

"You know you can stay here tonight if you prefer, if the walk back is too much for you."

"That- that will not be necessary."

He walked back to the office, hands deep in his pockets, the collar of his coat popped, hat tipped low. He was the only person walking down the street, surrounded by a crushing quiet punctuated only by his footsteps, and in that moment it didn't feel like a stretch to imagine that he was also the only person in the entire world. Darkness pressed in around the edges of the bright spots on the sidewalk left by the overeager street lamps, creating a mottled look across the ground - darkness, light, darkness, light.

He scolded himself for still lingering on the lack of any kind of parting words to Christine - it was only natural, he told himself, considering he hadn't said hello to her that morning. He had no one but himself to blame because he was the one who had set the tone for their acquaintanceship. Perhaps if he hadn't flooded her with details of the process of trying to deduce who was threatening her she wouldn't have been so distracted and then maybe she would have had the sense of mind to be polite to him.

He sighed. Perhaps if he hadn't snuck up behind her on that first day she had visited the office, she wouldn't be afraid of him and then she would actually want to be polite to him. No, that wasn't exactly right - perhaps if he didn't have the face of a monster and didn't require an ominous mask - perhaps if he wasn't so freakishly tall - perhaps-

He only had a few items sitting forlornly in the icebox in his bedroom, and staring at the leftover half of a sandwich and a banana which had certainly seen better days made him wish that he had stayed for dinner with Christine and the Girys after all. He grabbed the sandwich and wandered downstairs as he ate it, ending up in the basement as he took the last few bites.

He sat at the bench in front of the organ with a heavy sigh. His fingers were itching to compose again, but it wasn't like the flowing, airy compositions he had working on after seeing Christine in Faust. Instead, the music which poured from him now seemed only to compliment the stifling darkness outside, the oppressive summer heat which clung tenaciously even in the middle of the night as though you'd never be rid of it. Dirges leapt forth, nearly violent in their sadness. He couldn't say how long he played for that night, didn't even look at the clock when finally he felt there was nothing left in him, no more will to force his fingers into the keys. He simply stopped playing as suddenly as he had started, went upstairs, and fell into bed.

Christine couldn't fall asleep that night no matter how hard she tried. It had unnerved her that the culprit could be someone she had spent so many years around, that such viciousness and hate could be festering in someone she actually knew. She squirmed under her blanket, trying to find a position conducive to sleep. She tried to focus on the rhythmic huff of Meg breathing though her mouth as she slept, but it didn't help.

She rolled into her stomach, her arms under her pillow. Rehearsals had gone well. She had done her best, and everyone else had sounded lovely as well. She had been genuine when she had applauded them all. No one had clapped for her, though. She told herself that it was because she was earlier on in the show, that everyone was still too focused on their performances to give much heed to hers. Still - it would be nice, just occasionally, to hear some form of encouragement from her fellow performers. She knew she'd been away for years, but she had practically grown up around these people! It's not like they were strangers...

She curled into her side, legs twisting around each other. Erik hadn't even said anything afterwards. Did he not think she was very good? She rolled her eyes at her own silliness. It's not like she wanted his approval or anything, but he was seemingly a singer himself. A kind word coming from him would have meant a lot - because he was a singer, of course, that's why it would mean a lot...

But still, not a single word from him about it.

She sprawled on her back. No 'good job, Christine', or 'that was very lovely', or even 'your dress looks nice' - nothing. She scoffed. It's not like his opinion actually mattered... But still. It was nice to hear nice things.

Guilt gnawed at her. Raoul was out there somewhere suffering who knows what, and here she was pouting over not receiving a compliment from a man who strongly disliked her. Her poor, dear Raoul - when would she see him again? A tear slid down her cheek as she thought of him. She missed him so.

As the faintest sunlight began to filter through the window in the early hours of morning, her eyelids finally grew heavy and fluttered shut. It seemed only mere moments later that she was being unceremoniously smacked in the face with a pillow.

"Wake up, lazy bones!" a triumphant and far too awake Meg called out as she stood over Christine, pillow in hand. "You have a show today!"

Christine looked up at her with bleary eyes, resting the back of her hand on her forehead and rubbing away the sting left by the pillow.

"Oh, Meg," she sighed.