Author's note:  Remember how I promised a scene featuring a trip to the Bois?  Voila, here it is – only in a bit of a different way than it originally took place.  But don't worry, mes amies, it won't be bad!  Trust me and follow along, with your hand at the level of your eyes; Erik won't bite, have no fear…  ^_^

Disclaimer:  Erik is currently writing the music for this, Christine is my #1 model for the costumes, Meg helps me keep all the chapters filed correctly, Mme. Giry is creating the choreography, Carlotta and Piangi are in charge of catering, Raoul is the prop handler, and the managers are up to their necks in publicity work.  To tell you the exact truth, we're all starting a rebellion against Sir Andy and making our own musical the way we want it, even if I don't know Phantom or anything that has to do with it.   

Chapter Sixteen –

A night out with le Fantôme

Dinner was over.  Erik and I still sat in our high-backed chairs, our conversation having slowly died off, leaving us each with our individual thoughts. 

I surveyed the remains of my food on the silver plate before me and then looked up, tentatively, at him: he held his wine glass in one hand, idly moving it in gentle circles, making the dark wine inside the clear crystal swirl smoothly as he eyed it contemplatively.  I sat back in my chair, turning my head to gaze at the flickering flames of the tall, white candles in a sconce on the wall nearby.

This was all too wonderful – if only I could be here, like this, forever…

My mind drifted off from reality; times blurred, and still those candles continued to burn, their flames drawing ever lower and lower.

' "…and this evening, if the air continues mild enough for your throat, we might take a carriage out to the Bois.  Would you like that, Christine?" '

I started, guiltily, having been so absorbed in my own little counter-reality world that I hadn't even realized that he had been speaking.  I looked at him and found him eyeing me now, speculatively, waiting for me to answer.

' "Yes," I said, with slight surprise.  We had occasionally rowed on the lake or walked along the bank, but this was the first time he had ever suggested taking me out into the real world above.'

"Well then," he said briskly, pushing his chair back gracefully and standing, moving – as always – with his incredible, elegant cat-like style. "Let's have you out of that apron and gown and into something a little more appropriate – I'll not have you walking about the Bois in an evening gown, for it would mean no little damage to your precious voice."

I stood as he pulled out my chair for me as well, extending his hand towards with his perpetual grace: unfurling the hand from the wrist with a gesture that made my heart's pace begin to beat a bit faster as my knees went weak and watery.  His beautiful, mismatched eyes watched me, and I felt – as I had that first night when he had brought me to the lair – that I was begin put before some sort of test.

Trying to keep my breath steady, I put my hand in his and let him escort me out of the room.  As we moved into the foyer, I turned halfway back towards the dining room, belatedly remembering the mounds of dishes that had been left behind.  But Erik would not have any of this; with the air of a serene, benevolent parent, he shook his head and told me tenderly, "No, my dear – let them go.  We can take care of it later."

There was no saying no to Erik, and so I could do nothing but obey like a submissive little child.  I did as he told me and went to my room, there exchanging my gown of rose-coloured velvet for a lovely white-and-gold walking gown, pairing it with a deep blue hooded cloak.  I paused only another moment to replace my slippers with some delicate, ankle-length and high-heeled boots and to select a pair of white kid gloves. 

Then I went downstairs.  I found him waiting for me on the landing, gazing up as if he was a mortal who was watching me – an angel – descending from heaven.  There were a thousand different emotions passing between us in that moment; the air was fraught with them.  Then, he stepped forward and held out his gloved hand to me.  I gathered my skirts into one hand, holding them out of the way of my feet, and went down to him, placing my other hand in his.  He drew me close to him for a moment, his eyes boring down into mine, and I felt breathless.

"Christine…you are so lovely, mon petite!"

I whispered a shy thank you to him, looking down as I blushed.  I was fully aware of his smile on the top of my head as he gallantly escorted me to the door.  We crossed the broad expanse of the organ room and then he assisted me into the boat, and, together, we made the journey across the misty, black lake, and up through the winding labyrinth of underground passages that kept his home from the sight and knowledge of men. 

He was no more than a darker shadow in the midst of that blackness: his white shirt and red brocade vest replaced with a black silk shirt and vest, coupled with his hooded black velvet cloak, he was a silent, invisible, yet warm and powerful presence whose strength and confidence made me feel as if I was safe and cherished.

'Later that evening, we emerged from the underground passages to find a brougham carriage waiting for us at the end of the Rue Scribe.

We traveled to the gates of Paris, where the Bois de Boulogne stretched out its formal emerald acres in proud testimony to the late emperor's dislike of chaos.  For some time we explored those quiet, deserted paths that would be crowded by visitors in the light of the sun.  Even the coldest winter day attracted hundreds of skaters to the frozen lake and the chalet that stood on the center island.  Gentlemen, their faces swathed with mufflers, pushed fine ladies in sledges while liveried servants exercised lithe greyhounds swathed in overcoats.  In summer there were gondolas on that lake, lit with colored lights, an endless procession of happy Parisians passing through the delights of the zoological gardens.  All the simple, human pleasures that I knew Erik could never have shared, even in the days when he had still lived in the world.'

He had never told me much of his life before…the Opera, I suppose, but from what I gathered in his wonderful stories of far-off lands, exotic cultures, and strange peoples I knew that he had spent some time in places that I couldn't even imagine.

Which was saying quite a bit, as my imagination tended to be somewhat…unleashed, at times. 

He had been a world-traveler at some point in time…but now, this was not the case.

'If he had been here before, it would unquestionably have been after dark, when the park was cold and empty, entirely devoid of laughter and gaiety.'

This thought saddened me.  The world was a cold and cruel place indeed if a soul could not walk openly among his fellow men simply because his face happened to be different from everyone else's.  In this day and age, and most likely in many days and ages before it, ugliness – let alone deformity – was a sign of the devil, of God's punishment for some grave misdeed.  Erik had said so himself: he knew of this.

I suddenly felt chilled and voluntarily sought the protection, the warmth, of Erik's hard, strong arm; I buried my cold face against his broad shoulder, snuggling it into the rich black velvet of his cloak.  He took another stride or two before he realized what I had done, and then he looked down at me, smiling a bit in confusion and slight amusement.

"Too cold, mon petite?  Perhaps we ought to turn back," he said.

I shook my head against his shoulder, wrapping my arms more closely about his arm, and replied hastily, "No!  It's not the cold…I just wanted to know you were there."

"Well how could you not?" he queried, even more amusement in his tone. "I'm a walking black hulk – who wouldn't know I was here?"

He was trying to make me laugh.  He did that often – saying things that were either purposefully silly or simply ironic.  It was a ploy that never ceased to work.  I smiled and rested my head on his shoulder again after looking briefly up at him for a moment that didn't seem to end.  "Erik." I said, a few seconds later.  He glanced at me.  "When will I know how 'Don Juan' ends?"

He suddenly sighed deeply, seeming to be abruptly filled with a grief that I couldn't comprehend.

"I don't know, mon petite belle.  À personne savoire."

He shook his head.

"I just don't know."

We walked on in silence: him, foreboding of aspect and grim, and me, hesitant and pensive.  Then, without warning, he looked at me again; and this time, his gaze was thoughtful and questioning.

"Christine…" he said, in a queer tone of voice, one that made shivers run up my spine, "Do you…are you…happy, with me?"

Something in his voice made me want to cry out and draw him into my arms, to make him forget the world and all of its insane cruelties.  It was as if he thought that I would say no!

I turned on him, stunned by the question and desperate to tell him the truth.

"Erik," I breathed, my eyes widening, "Of course I am!  Why would you think otherwise – how could you think otherwise?  Is it – have I done something that has served to make you think so?  Tell me and I'll—"

He stopped, turning towards me, one hand moving to grip my arm: tenderly and gently, as the other hand slid up to let two of his long, elegant fingers rest on my lips, effectively silencing me.  His mismatched eyes shone out from behind the white mask, reflecting the bright moonlight, as he said, reassuringly and comfortingly, "No, no, mon petite – shh, no.  It's not that at all.  It's just that…that, well…"

"What?" I asked.  It wasn't often that I saw him inelegant: to tell the strict truth, actually, I had never seen him inelegant, except for in the moment that I had removed his mask and we had seen each other face to face for the first time, and even then he had been incredibly dignified…open…graceful.  But right at the moment, he was clearly fumbling for words – and it surprised me.

He had been looking away, down the path, and then he turned back to me, his expression rueful, his lips twisting wryly.

"I had might as well say it right out, hadn't I, mon petite?"

He sighed again, and moved his hand to push his hood back, running his fingers through his hair, an action that made it fall onto his forehead, its golden highlights glimmering in the moon's glow. 

Finally, then, "I have a…an acquaintance, a man whom you might say is a friend to me, under certain circumstances – I met him some number of years ago, in Persia.  He is the Daroga of Mazanderan, a law officer of sorts, servant to the shah-in-shah, and his name is Nadir Khan.  Lately, he has been residing in Paris and the idea that he is my sole conscience, my guardian, has obviously come into his mind.  For the last several months, he has been meddling in my affairs, poking his nose around in business – and places – that he probably shouldn't, and…"

He trailed off.

"And now he has discovered that I am with you, and he wishes to know if I am being held prisoner, and whether my fiancé is running mad trying to recover me – to rescue me from the clutches of the Phantom of the Opera?" I guessed.   His expression told me all-too-well that this was indeed the case.  I laughed then, as wryly as he had. "What a world, mon ange – what a world we live in!  I tell Raoul that I have no desire to wed him, you tell your friend Nadir Khan that I am with you of my own free will…we tell the world one thing: the complete truth, and it refuses to believe us." 

And then I shrugged, carelessly, nonchalantly.

"C'est la vies, non?"

Erik stared at me, his face unreadable for a moment, and then he threw his head back at the sky and laughed: the hypnotic, rich, deeply musical, golden sound echoing in the night.  When he looked back down at me, I saw that his eyes were sparkling once again, and he was grinning, his teeth flashing a brilliant white in the darkness.

"Ah, Christine, Christine – you never cease to surprise me."

Suddenly then, his expression sobered and he quickly reached out, over to me, and drew me into his arms, guiding my head to rest against him, in the hollow of his throat, while his hands anxiously sought my spine and hair, running themselves softly against me.

"And may you never cease to do so, mon belle ange."

Then he tipped my head back so that I looked straight up into his eyes.

"But as for Nadir's questions, as we are somewhat compelled to pay heed to the bloody infernal prying man…are you absolutely certain that you are really happy with me, my dear?"

I smiled at him tenderly.

"Am I absolutely certain?  Yes, mon ange.  It's just that…" Now it was my turn to trail off, searching for the right words. "I'm so tired to being ordered to do the right thing, to do as I'm told." I paused, knowing fully well that my next words would be in direct rebellion to everything that I had ever been taught as a woman.

"Maybe…maybe I don't want to always do the 'right' thing."

He raised an eyebrow. 

"Do you mind when I tell you what to do?"

My smile broadened at his obviously teasing tone.

"Well, what do you think?"

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

We returned to the lair soon after that, and I went to my room to prepare for bed – and to reflect.  There was so much to think about. 

I had stayed in the lair with Erik for more than three weeks now, since the masquerade, and he began to teach me the part that he wanted me to play in his opera – the part of the gypsy girl, Aminta, whose tragic fate was the shaping force of the entire plot of 'Don Juan Triumphant'. 

However, Raoul would soon return from England.  I would be forced to return home to my flat so that he would not suspect that the Phantom of the Opera was continuing to haunt me.

Haunting me in my most beautiful dreams at night.

I thought this as I sat at my lavish dressing table in my room, brushing my hair slowly and contemplatively.  I had never really spent so much time with Erik in one visit to the lair.  Three weeks had gone by, and I was seeing something new of him every day.  He could be cold and distant, and he could also be furious and black, as I had already seen – but he could also be soft, tentative, gentle, and quite kind, which was how he behaved most of the time towards me.  His patience with me as he taught me my part in his opera was paramount.  I couldn't imagine being so sweet-tempered with a pupil of my own, if I had been in his place. 

He could also be shy and almost boyish at times, on the spare occasions when he let his sense of humor show through.  Sometimes, when we weren't busy doing anything else, he had led me by the hand up through the dark, winding passageways to the surface, and then he would show me how he could move about and both hear and see things without being seen or heard himself.  He also showed me how he had played quite a few rather nasty tricks on Carlotta, and I tried to reproach him for it, although my sternness was severely underminded by my uncontrollable laughter – especially when he sprayed some magic dust in her hair one day, turning it a bright, ostentatious blue. 

The memory of her reaction to that caused me to laugh softly again then, and I gazed at my reflection in the mirror.

One wouldn't think that the girl who looked out at me from the mirror's depths was the same ill-fated young soprano who had been kidnapped by an awful, ghastly wraith and carried off to his dark realm beneath the earth.  That was what a great many people most likely thought, I knew. 

But it wasn't really that way. 

I had come back because I wanted to be with Erik – because I didn't want to live without him, to face reality and the cold, hard world with the knowledge that he wasn't there to guide and protect me. 

No, I decided: this girl in the mirror, the child with a flushed, smiling face and large, wide eyes that sparkled with both hope and happiness was anything but an abducted, unwilling captive of the ghostly Phantom.

I turned and left my room, closing the door behind me, and made my way down the hall, down the broad, pristine white marble staircase, crossed the front room, and paused before the gigantic double doors that led into the organ room.  I had heard music playing when I had been in my room, and now the delicate strains of some beautiful melody came from directly behind those doors, in the chamber beyond. 

After hesitating for a moment, I pushed open the door and stood in it for a moment, looking into the room beyond.  Erik sat at the huge, magnificent pipe organ, a pen in hand with dozens of dripping candles lit all about him.  He was composing.    

I had long since learned that he could see alarmingly well in the dark, and his hearing was much more acute than any other human being's that I had yet come into contact with.  Thus, it wasn't a surprise to me that he turned from his work after a moment: a somehow dark, brooding look on his face, although the light in his blue and green eyes belied his true reaction to seeing me there. 

"What are you still doing up?" he asked, as I came to his side. "It's very late."

"I know." I replied, smiling at him sweetly. "But I wanted to be out here with you – it's my one last chance to do so before I have to…" I balked at saying my next words, as the awful reality hit me.  I had to go home. "Go back up."

He made an unappreciative noise, turning his back on me to write down a few more notes on the manuscript before him.  He muttered something then, and began to leaf through the papers, his brow clouding. 

I observed his profile carefully, trying to read the unmasked left side of his face for his emotions.  He was hiding them very well, however, and I could see nothing but annoyance at the fact that he wasn't finding the particular sheet of music that he was looking for.  Suddenly, he turned back to me, his eyes piercing through me.  I only rarely thought of him as menacing, but right now he seemed to loom over me.

"Did I wake you?"

His voice was so soft and gentle, so caressing and almost tender, that it completely took any menace out of his air.  I slowly shook my head and gestured to my attire.  I was still wearing the gown that I had been wearing earlier that evening.

"No, Erik."

He turned back to his music again.  Enchanted by the thought of seeing some of his musical work in progress, I leaned in, looking over his shoulder, gazing at the creamy white paper before us.  Moving so quickly that I scarcely even had time to realize what he was doing, he scooped the papers up before I had a chance to even glimpse the title at the top of the page, and held them away from me, saying in his sweetest, most condescending tones, "Oh no, mon petite – you're not allowed to look.  That, I'm afraid, is a right that I must reserve for myself alone."

"That's not fair!" I protested, and made a grab for his hand. 

A teasing grin suddenly flashing on his face, he lifted his arm and held it straight up, so that his hand was completely out of my reach.  I continued to advance on him, still trying to get at the music sheets, and we were both laughing then.

"Erik, please!  You're not being fair!" I repeated, to which he replied, still grinning his maddening, almost boyish grin, "Fair?  Who said anything about my having to be fair?"

"I did!" I railed at him, my voice full of desperation and laughter, but he only grinned all the more, easily evading my grabbing hands, and then I resorted to a very underhanded trick indeed.  "Fine then.  Be that way.  But if you want to be a naughty boy, it won't get you anywhere." I said, primly, like a mother who was reproaching her child.  Then I stood up, smoothed my skirts, and, turning crisply on my heel, left the room.

I went back inside the house, into the drawing room, and picked up a book of Eastern fables that I had been reading earlier that day, then seated myself in an armchair. 

A few moments later, I heard booted footsteps click across the marble floor and sensed Erik's presence in the room.  He stood in the doorway, looking bemused as he absentmindedly ran a hand through his hair.  I pointedly ignored him, and he quickly figured out my game.  He crossed the room and knelt before me, his eyes roving my profile. 

I kept my own gaze fixed on the book, and after a silent battle of the wills, he straightened, sending down on me a glare that was supposed to be malignant and annoyed but didn't quite come out that way.

"That is not fair!" he growled.

I burst out laughing, unable to control myself, and set down the book.

"Erik, you overgrown baby!  That's just too – oh, heavens…" was all I could manage to splutter out, completely losing the ability to string to words of sense together coherently.  I stood and wrapped both of my arms about myself and kept laughing, my giggles only intensifying when he continued to shoot me his baleful, dark glare.

"All right, that's it – come here now!"

He growled – playfully, I hoped – and lunged at me, whipping around with lightning speed, whirling me into his arms.  Shrieking, I gathered my skirts in my hands and ran from the room. 

Erik, of course, came out right behind me, and he soon caught up to me, but then I turned and whirled out of his reach.  I then dashed further into the house, and we both skidded around a corner, both attempting to keep our balance on the slick marble floor.  Somehow, I managed to put some distance between us and found my way into part of the house that I had scarcely frequented yet – as it was much larger than I had first known.  There, I discovered a large, candlelit room full of marble pillars.  I glanced behind myself, over my shoulder, for a split second to see where he was.  I heard the sharp click of his footsteps behind me and knew that he would catch up soon. 

With scarcely any time to plan my actions, I dashed behind one of the pillars and hid in its shadows, pressed up against the cold marble, struggling to control my breath and remain quiet.  Not a moment later, he was in the room.  I could hear his breathing, but only for a moment. 

Then, everything became as quiet as an undisturbed tomb, and I realized, for the thousandth time, how quietly he could move.  It was as if he was a shadow, gliding gently along a moonlit wall – and he moved fast!  I had seen very many examples of his grace, his poise and speed, all of which were executed with complete silence.

"Quelle surprise!"

I was grabbed from behind and hauled backwards by a pair of long, powerful, and muscular arms that somehow managed to be slender and yet well-developed all at the same time.  My back came up against a hard, curving surface like the plain of someone's chest, and then both of those arms locked around me, refusing to let me go.  After my initial shriek of surprise, I turned my head up and around, and found myself looking straight into the masked face of the Phantom of the Opera.

"You can't hide from me, mon petite," he said. 

I saw, suddenly, that there was a glint in his eyes that I had never seen before – something that unnerved me with its unfamiliarity and its intensity.  He whirled me around in his arms then, so that I came abruptly to face him, my skirts twirling around both his legs and mine.  I gazed up into his eyes, both somewhat frightened and wondering.  What was he going to do?

He bent his head, craning his neck down, as one of his hands moved up from the small of my back to my hair, taking a lock of it between his fingers and holding it to his lips.  "Did you know," he asked, slowly, almost seeming to contemplate his question even as he said it, "that you are very, very beautiful, Christine Daae?"

I stared at him, benumbed with what was happening.

He kissed my hair and then lowered his hand, letting my hair slide through his deft, gentle fingertips.  His mismatched eyes stared out at me from behind the mask, like a prisoner who was caged behind cold iron bars, and I felt pity stir my soul for the poor, trapped soul that was held within his eyes. 

Then, that look went out of his eyes, replaced again by that look, the gleam of both darkness and light, that I did not know.

"Christine…"

He said my name in a voice that was half between a hoarse, rough whisper – incredibly like his usual, brilliant, cold tenor – and a low growl. 

I swallowed sharply, overcome by my raging emotions. 

The things that this man had said to me, the things he had done for me…they all seemed to have come to pass only to show me merely how much he cared for me.  Raoul had never treated me this way.  He hadn't ever been willing to take me away, into a world where people wouldn't stare and whisper and gossip and cut me down since I was poor and an orphan…but Erik had.  He had done so much for me. 

He cares so much more than Raoul ever will.

That thought unnerved me even more, and I found myself involuntarily – instinctively, almost – pulling my hands closer around his arms, drawing myself closer to him.  I looked up into his sparkling, beautiful, mismatched eyes and my thoughts began to whirl again. 

I had never seen such wonderful eyes.  Two different colours: like night and day, ocean and land…earth and sky. 

He gazed down at me, his eyes piercing through me from behind the black porcelain of his mask, and I sighed shakily.

"Do you want me to stay, Erik?" I asked him, softly; even this did not seem like it was truly reality.  No, it seemed, instead, like some sort of tender, blissful dream.  The candles around us seemed to have shimmering golden haloes about them, and the shadows took on alluring, velvety black warmth.  I could stay here forever, I thought – stay here, and simply rest in his arms: knowing that I am safe.  I am wanted.

I am loved.

He looked at me for a moment, the same emotions that had overpowered me seeming to captivate him as well.

"Yes…of course I do.  I always want you to stay.  Forever."

I lifted my hand from his arm and brushed it through his silky, thick, golden-brown hair, trying to see his thoughts in his face.

"Even the shadows will your presence, my Angel."

I am your Angel?  Just as you are mine…

"Erik." I whispered, dropping my eyes from his as I let my head come to rest on his chest, with him towering above me. "We never really got to dance…at the masquerade…I wanted to dance there with you, all through the night…"

"Dance with me now," he said, and then he stepped away, and I saw his movements from within the shadows.  Within a moment, a beautiful, lilting, waltz-like melody filled the room, and he held out his arms to me.

"Come and dance with me, all through the night…"

And the waltz began, and we did dance…all through the night, whirling about the ballroom in the Phantom's lair, we two: the Phantom of the Opera, and Christine Daae.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *