Chapter 6: Bless the Child

"Just this way, Monsieur," murmured the timid little maid who had opened to Erik's knock. He followed the young lady as she fluttered down a hallway to the headmistress' private office, casting nervous glances at him over her shoulder. Pulling aside the heavy door, she whispered, "I shall fetch Madame for you, Monsieur." He swept into the chair she had indicated and watched her hasty retreat; he was used to such treatment after all his morning's errands, but this young woman was by far the most entertaining servant he had encountered thus far, with her snub little nose and her huge mob cap.

As he waited for the formidable "Madame" of whom the maid had spoken, Erik reflected on this day's occupation: he had visited several of Paris' schools for upper-class children, seeking employment as a maestro of music. Hitherto he had been unsuccessful, his strange appearance garnering even stranger responses from the proprietors of those institutions. One headmaster had slammed the door in his face outright. But Erik remained unruffled, confident that it was only a matter of time before he happened on a school that would suit him.

He knew he was in luck the moment he turned towards the clicking of the door latch. Madame Blèdurt, the headmistress of this particular school for young ladies, was an unmarried woman of middle age; but Erik could read in her face as she came through the door a certain flair for the dramatic and self-serving. Such a woman might very well be ... persuaded. "Madame," he greeted her, rising and dusting off that long-unused talent he had for charming the unsuspecting. With a slight bow, he introduced himself; "Erik Rouen at your service."

"Monsieur ... Rouen," she replied, taken suddenly aback by the rich velvet voice that issued from the throat of the strange-looking man standing in her office. It effected her deeply, in some seldom-used part of her heart. "I ... forgive me, have we met before?"

"Oh, no, forgive me," Erik said smoothly, already enjoying his little game; "I have come here quite uninvited. I really must apologize for my trespass, but I have a business proposition I had hoped would interest you."

"Really," Mme. Blèdurt replied, cautiously enthralled. There was something powerfully attractive about M. Rouen that she could not quite define; it was only now beginning to dawn on her, however, that his hat was at such an angle on his head that she could not see his face. She skirted her desk and took the chair behind it. "Please, be seated, and tell me why you've come."

Erik rearranged himself on his chair and began, "I shall be brief, Madame, for I know you are busy and do not wish to take up any of your valuable time." He spoke slowly, gauging the effect his voice was having on the schoolmarm; her chin was slightly lowered and her forehead faintly creased, but she was watching him with a definite interest. This was a good sign. Adding a slight lilt to his tone, he continued, "I am an accomplished musician, if you will forgive me for such conceit, and I am seeking a position as a maestro."

Her surprise was evident. "A maestro of music! Forgive me, Monsieur, but we have not employed a maestro for quite some time." She shifted ever so slightly, attempting to peer inconspicuously beneath his hat brim.

"I had heard that," Erik replied as smoothly as silk, "for I will not conceal from you the fact that I have been to several other schools this morning. But surely you must know the benefits of offering music to your pupils - it could prove a most profitable addition to your curriculum. And I assure you, my talents as a teacher are unparalleled."

"Monsieur," she wheedled, perhaps thinking herself coquettish, "one of our primary concerns at this school is to teach the students manners - and every gentleman removes his hat upon entering a house."

Erik smiled faintly, pleased to see his bait taken. "Forgive me, Madame - I have been rather rudely treated by some of your competitors this morning, and have forgotten myself." He removed his hat with his right hand, swiftly running his left over his hair to ensure it was all in place. The graceful gesture stirred something in Mme. Blèdurt's sensibilities, but the shock of his mask could not be overpowered.

"I ... I don't know that I can make such a decision today, Monsieur ... Perhaps ... perhaps you might return tomorrow ..."

Having expected such a reaction, he stroked her with his voice as one might caress a nervous cat. "I take your meaning, Madame - the mask disconcerts you?"

His words had the desired effect, acting almost as a truth serum. "Please, Monsieur," she whispered, only half-aware of the admission she was making; "it is just so startling ..."

He held up one graceful hand; the motion was so fluid it made her catch her breath. "Please," he said softly, his tone gentle and almost tempting, "I am really quite used to the reaction. Allow me to explain - the mask is the physical testimony to my concern for your comfort."

"Monsieur?" she whispered, her mind reeling against the almost instinctual reaction his grace and the beauty of his voice were producing in her. This man had only just entered her office, and yet she felt he was speaking to her as if she were reclining in his arms, his mouth only inches from her own ...

"I am quite ugly, you see - a tragic accident destroyed my face." The accident of birth, he remarked wryly to himself; but he found the syllables easy enough to pronounce. Perhaps he really was suited to life above ground. "I wear the mask for you, and for all who must see me - for your pupils, and their parents. I promise you, you will become quite insensible to it once you have witnessed my skill as a musician."

She shook herself mentally, tried to break the hold he was weaving over her. She knew she ought to suspect him of embellishment, but she could not conceive of that voice uttering an untruth ... her own voice was choked with emotion at the beauty of his.

"Madame, I can see you are incredulous," Erik continued, his tone waxing vaguely seductive, "and I can assure you I can understand your position. Please, allow me to prove my ability with a small demonstration?"

The ample spinster seemed to relax. "We have a piano you might play ..."

"Oh, no, you mistake me - of course I am a performer myself, but today I mean to exhibit only my prowess as a teacher. Bring me your best pupil, and allow me to instruct her for one hour on her instrument of choice. If at the end of that hour you do not find her greatly improved, you may turn me out of your establishment with all alacrity."

The strange request worked wonders in breaking the spell of his voice. She stared at him, and although she could not read anything in his strange blank face she could tell he was in earnest. The talent he was boasting seemed impossible - but if it were true ...! Mme Blèdurt had recently heard tell that her school was considered an inferior rival by her fellow Parisian schoolmasters, and that nagging indignity goaded her. Finally she replied, "Very well, Monsieur. Without a doubt, my best pupil is Estelle de Jardin; she is fifteen and studies the piano. I must warn you, however, that she is already quite accomplished."

"It makes no difference," he replied, the waving of his hand seeming almost careless. "One hour under my tutelage shall show improvement in her performance."

"We shall see, Monsieur." She moved to the door and addressed one of the several servants that Erik could sense had assembled outside it. "Fetch Mademoiselle de Jardin here at once, and tell her to bring her music."

Moments later a knock at the door revealed a pale, slender young lady with round spectacles perched atop her little snub nose. Her appearance was peculiar but not unpleasant; Erik consciously put down the reaction her voluminous brown waves stirred in him. "Monsieur Erik Rouen," Mme. Blèdurt said in a pompous tone, "allow me to present Mademoiselle Estelle de Jardin."

The child extended her hand as she had been taught, but her wide eyes betrayed a curiosity that obscured mannerliness. "Monsieur," she breathed.

He liked the child instantly and, reading an abundance of fantasy in her eyes, he decided to indulge it. Taking her little hand in his lithe gloved fingers, he bowed deeply. "Mademoiselle," he greeted her in his most mysterious tone, "I am a teacher of music, and I wish an hour of your time. Would you permit me?"

Erik's assessment of the dreamy child proved correct - her face lit up like a Christmas window. "Oh, yes, Monsieur!"

Stepping to one side, he invited her to precede him into the adjoining music room. "I am told you are quite accomplished at the piano, Mademoiselle."

Estelle blushed. "Your sources are overly generous, Monsieur ... I have never had a real teacher, and I am sure you will hear that very clearly."

"Have you no maestro, then?" he asked, surprised at her modesty and candor.

She shook her head. "I have learned at home - my guardian began me on the instrument, but when I surpassed her ability to teach me I learned simply by persistent practicing."

Mme. Blèdurt was bringing up the rear of the procession into the music room. "Estelle has had no formal training, Monsieur, but she possesses a great natural ability ..."

Once over the threshold, Erik turned on his heel and closed the door gently on her . "One hour, Madame."

Taken aback by his behavior, Mme. Blèdurt could only stare at the paneling inches from her nose. When she finally collected her wits, she shook her head indignantly and retired to a nearby armchair, where she spent the hour fanning herself with her handkerchief and repeating, "He must be a musician - the nerve!"

*

When the music room door opened and Erik emerged, what appeared to be a smile was playing around the exposed corner of his mouth. "Madame, I bid you enter," he said jovially.

He was as good as his word. Estelle de Jardin, who had played well but mechanically previously, now infused each note with a heightened sensitivity. Her pianissimo was as delicate and pure as paper-thin ice. Mme. Blèdurt barely breathed as she heard the child play, and was moved to applaud upon the closing of the piece.

"Monsieur, you are a treasure," she cried, imagining the aristocrats of Paris clamoring to have their musically inept children admitted to her school. "You simply must stay on as our maestro of music!"

Erik chuckled inwardly at her sudden change of heart; placing one hand on the edge of the piano, he leaned in close to Estelle's ear. "What do you think, Mademoiselle de Jardin? Shall I stay and see you again, perhaps once a week?"

Estelle de Jardin had been under Mme. Blèdurt's wing for nearly a year, and she had come to know her as a somber, purposeful child; and so the sudden burst of energy from the little musician was quite startling. "Oh, please, monsieur," she cried, jumping to her feet and clasping his other hand tightly. "I want to learn everything about the piano - please stay and teach me!"

The good corner of Erik's mouth curved into a smile. "Madame," he addressed the schoolmistress, "I believe that, at this point, I have no choice but to accept your kind offer." He was, of course, heedless of how gravely he had just altered the course of his own fortune; he had not recognized the child, having paid little attention to her weeks before at the Opera.

*

Weeks slipped away as they tend to do. Estelle, delighted with her new musical tutor, began to exhibit improvements almost immediately; and Christine could scarce induce her young charge to speak one sentence that did not contain some exclaimed mention of the mysterious "Monsieur Rouen."

"I will say, Estelle," Christine smiled one evening over dinner, "that perhaps it is all worth your speaking of him constantly. Your playing seems perfected by magic."

"Oh, Christine," the young lady giggled. "You shouldn't be so skeptical - after all, you were the one who used to tell me about the Angel of Music!"

An awkward sensation flooded Christine's heart, which she tried to smother in her napkin. "Yes, dear, it seems you have found a veritable Angel in this M. Rouen." But her tone was flat, and Estelle, taking quiet stock of it, was careful not to talk of her beloved new teacher again that evening. She had hitherto not mentioned M. Rouen's mask, fearing that it might alarm her guardian.

Christine herself tried to maintain a cheerful demeanor through the end of dinner, but excused herself to her room shortly thereafter. Her cheeks aching from forced smiles, she allowed solitude to coax tears from her tired eyes. She could hardly blame her dear Estelle for unwittingly inspiring sad memories of Erik, but neither could she prevent her own sorrow. Despite her many efforts in the weeks since their near meeting at the Opera, she had been unable to locate him; but neither had he come to her, and it gave her to know he did not want to see her. "All the better," she sighed beside her bedroom window, the moonlight spilling over her form painting her a sad angel. "What could I ever say to him, after Venice?"

*

Erik, quite to the contrary, found himself growing increasingly happier following his employment at Madame Blèdurt's academy. He secured a modest flat not far from the school and settled into a quiet existence, even purchased furniture and issued Nadir an open invitation for chess and sherry. As for his working hours, he tired almost immediately of all the other students under Mme. Blèdurt's roof; Estelle de Jardin alone held his attentions, his confidence in her potential whipping his old creative energies to fevered pitch. With her he would spend hours, while he would dismiss the other young ladies after a cursory twenty or thirty minutes; for him, the others were simply pale, ordinary daisies in comparison to Estelle's fiery tiger-lily talent.

But musicality aside, Erik presently began to find himself endeared to young Estelle herself. The wide-eyed child seemed all at once younger and older than her fifteen years, and her solemn, dreamy expressions could lighten his mood even after the most dismal hours with his other plunking protégées. Her enthusiasm for the piano was, of course, refreshing and encouraging to him as a teacher; but her romantic disposition led her to be especially friendly towards him - she likely fancied him some wounded anti-hero from one of her beloved fairy stories. As foolish as the notion seemed to him, he found himself doting on her for it; and soon a gentle friendship began to develop between maestro and pupil.

This relationship, when it initially came to Mme. Blèdurt's attention, did not bother her particularly; Estelle was clearly the most promising young musician in her charge and her improvement was a credit, not only to M. Rouen, but to herself. However, when she became aware that the two would often linger for hours in the school's salon hammering away at the piano, she gradually became more and more irked. M. Rouen did not request a lofty salary, but for what she paid him he ought to at least divide his attentions equally amongst her pupils!

Finally she could contain her indignation no further; she stationed a maid in the hall outside the music room and, as soon as Erik emerged from one of his lengthy sessions with Estelle, had him summoned him to her office.

"Monsieur Rouen," she said, rising as he entered the room, "I have been meaning to speak to you about Estelle de Jardin."

"Ah, yes, a charming pupil!" he replied enthusiastically, seating himself in the chair opposite her desk. "Her potential is incredible, Madame - I really must thank you for the opportunity of teaching her."

" ... Yes," Madame responded, remaining on her feet. "But you see, Monsieur Rouen, Estelle is here to learn more than just music."

"Just music?" Erik repeated, dropping from his tone the assumed cordiality he always used when addressing Mme. Blèdurt. Since their first meeting he was always careful to charm the schoolmistress, but today there was something in her manner that he did not like and he could not bring himself to feign cordiality.

"I'm afraid so, sir," was Madame's reply. "As much as I am pleased at Estelle's progress at the piano, I am also concerned that it might be coming at the cost of the rest of her studies." Stony silence from Erik; she stumbled on, anxious to fill it. "And the other children, Monsieur - they could also benefit from your tutelage."

"The other children," Erik retorted, rising again, "have not an ounce of musical ability among them."

"But surely if you can make a prodigy improve, you can teach something to the others," she protested, understandably surprised - she had never before seen this side of him.

"I refuse to waste my time in such a fashion," he replied icily.

"Well then, we have reached an impasse, monsieur." Madame Blèdurt folded her arms before her and jerked her chin just as coldly. "I refuse to employ a maestro for the private use of one pupil."

Erik neatly sidestepped his chair and, placing his hands on its back, leaned in to make a soft and venomous reply. "Very well, Madame, then I shall make arrangements for private lessons directly with Estelle's guardian. And as for the rest of your students ..." He trailed off, making only that careless gesture with his hand.

Mme. Blèdurt's haughtily set jaw dropped wide open. "You don't mean to resign?" She skirted the desk and paused a few mere feet from his awesome personage. "Please, Monsieur Rouen, I cannot lose you to another school. We can discuss a pay increase ..."

He waved away her words. "Rest assured, Madame, that I shall seek employment with none of your competitors. Money is not at issue here; talent is. And since Estelle is the only worthy student I have encountered under your roof, then I shall make her my protégée without imposing on you further." Turning on his heel, he quit the room; from the doorway he threw one last remark over his shoulder. "I shall advise your secretary of my mailing-address, Mme. Blèdurt, and expect my severance within the week."

*

In the hallway, Erik met once again with Estelle, who had run upstairs after the end of their lesson to one of the schoolrooms to retrieve her cloak and books. To say they met is, of course, merely a turn of phrase; in reality, the child nearly bowled Erik over as she came rumbling down the stairs. "M. Rouen," she gasped, breathless from all her scampering about; "escusez-moi, I am so dreadfully clumsy."

Erik was struck with an idea. "No, cheri, it's quite all right. I am glad you are still here - I must speak with you."

"Must you?" The young lady's face lit up at once; she was quite enamored with her maestro and the very thought of receiving his confidence was thrilling to her.

"Yes," he smiled, savoring the sweetness of his regard for the little girl. "But it not good news, Estelle; I am no longer to teach here."

"Oh, Monsieur!" Estelle cried, dropping all of her books into a heap on the floor. "That cannot be true - it would be too horrid!"

Chuckling under his breath, Erik stooped to collect the texts from the floorboards. Looking up into Estelle's wide, bespectacled eyes, he replied solemnly, "I'm afraid it is true. But," he intoned, allowing his eyes to sparkle up at her, "I have a plot by which we may continue our lessons."

Her expression lightened at once, all her storm clouds dissipating with his words. "Have you?" she whispered fervently, reaching as if to accept the books he had picked up.

But instead, he rose and offered her his arm. "I have," he said, "and if you will come and have tea with me at my flat, I shall tell you all about it."

Had she been younger than her dignified fifteen years, Erik could tell that Estelle would have clapped her hands and twirled for happiness. As it was, her plump little cheeks turned a sweet shade of rose at her first-ever offer of a gentleman's arm. Erik himself thrilled at the touch of her little hand on his elbow, and nearly forgot to collect his own cloak from a stand in the corner of the foyer.

Madame Blèdurt, having overheard and wondered to whom Erik was speaking in the hall, emerged just in time to see the two through the open front door. She stared incredulously as she watched him hand Estelle into a brougham and climb in after her. Although she had felt she was in the right when she reprimanded him, she could not help feeling a twinge - was it jealousy? - at seeing the obvious regard he held for the little girl. And though she prided herself in her private life for never having succumbed to any man's charms, she did feel a rather strong sense of regret at the loss of the elegant and mysteriously magnetic M. Rouen.

*

Erik chided himself as he reached for the doorknob - how foolish that a man of his age should feel so nervous that his hand trembled! But the fact remained that he had never before invited anyone but Nadir into his flat; and that his visitor should be a young lady was all the more disconcerting to him. Keeping his objective in mind, however, he ushered Estelle inside and presently had a pleasant tea set out in the parlor, with a fire burning cheerily in the grate.

"Monsieur Rouen?" Estelle suddenly spoke up. "All of this is lovely - but you have barely said a word since we left the school! Won't you tell me about your plan?"

Erik found himself suddenly embarrassed, and stared down into his teacup for a moment before answering. "Forgive me, Mademoiselle de Jardin," he replied frankly after his pause; "I'm afraid I'm a quiet man and not used to company."

Estelle placed her teacup and saucer on the table and impetuously placed her little gloved hand atop Erik's, which lay on his knee. "I could feel that about you, Monsieur - but I'm so glad you asked me here, that we ..." But the child turned a sudden shade of pink, and trailed off.

Erik, entranced by the little miss and her dramatic recitation, cocked his head. "Go on," he prompted gently.

She twisted her hands in her lap, clearly embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Monsieur ... I always let my imagination run away with me. I did not mean to be so forward ..." She blinked her eyes behind her spectacles, and Erik thought he could perceive a glint of tears. " ... but I would like for us to be friends."

Erik rolled his head back and laughed. "My dear," he smiled, removing his handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbing at the tears of mirth that rolled down his good cheek, "yes, I do believe we already are friends. Now then," he chuckled, trying to even out his voice, "now then. May I pour you some more tea?"

Estelle raised her face and smiled faintly. "Will you tell me the plan?"

"Immediately thereafter," he laughed. So did she, and raised her teacup.

Erik's "plan" was simply this: to continue as Estelle's piano teacher. But since he had left Madame Blèdurt's employ, this could only be accomplished in Estelle's own home.

"I could come with you this very evening, and ask your guardian's permission. What do you think?" he asked the little girl, whose grave reply gave him immeasurable internal smiles.

"I think that it could work," she said, "but I think perhaps I should speak to her about it first - you see ..." Estelle placed her teacup down again and, planting one elbow on her knee, leaned forward on her hand to confide in Erik. " ... she's something like you, Monsieur - she's quiet and, well, sad I suppose. Since my papa died ..." Her voice faltered. "It was hard for her."

"Hard for you too," he murmured, handing his handkerchief. "If we are to be friends, Estelle, you must call me 'Erik.'"

With a small smile, Estelle both sniffled and nodded. "We never have company to the house now; I shall have to persuade her. Will you give me a few days to speak with her, and then come to see us?"

"Of course," Erik replied, "it sounds an ideal proposal. But now," he said lightly, hoping to change the mood, "you must allow me to share my music with you, as you have shared yours with me." He rose from his chair and, lifting his violin from its case, began to play. He played for the smile to return to her lips and the dreamy cast to her eyes, and when he felt certain that she was no longer sad, he bundled her into a hired carriage and escorted her home. She waved to him from the front door of the modest house, and he made note of the address for his return in a few days' time.

*

Christine was puzzled, to say the very least, when Estelle told her how she had passed her afternoon.

"But why has he left your school?" she asked her young charge; but Estelle, having been so caught up in the drama and romance of tea with her mysterious tutor, had failed to get all the details Christine requested.

"He wanted to come and see you," Estelle replied, "but I wanted to talk to you first, to tell you ..." But she stammered, as if not knowing what to say.

"Tell me what?" Christine prompted, uneasy. The maternal instinct she had begun to develop since her guardianship of Estelle was tingling; she was unsure whether to give in to the worry that pricked at the edges of her consciousness, or to the sad sympathy she likewise felt coursing through her veins. She, too, had once been the protégée of a maestro from whom explanations were not always forthcoming; and she could see in Estelle's eyes the beginnings of an unconditional devotion that would transcend the absence of answers.

Here she thought the similarity ended. But Estelle's next words sent a trembling chill down her spine.

"He is ... not a normal man," Estelle was explaining carefully. "I suppose that, to someone who didn't know him, he might even seem discomforting ..." She lifted her eyes imploringly to meet Christine's. "But he is a wonderful man, Christine, and a wonderful teacher, and I know that you will see that if only you will meet with him."

Christine barely knew what to say. She was flooded with a hundred emotions she could hardly define, and it seemed that it was another voice that replied,

"Very well, Estelle. Bring your maestro here and we shall negotiate your piano lessons."

The usually somber child let loose one of the joyous outbursts that made Christine love her so; she flung her arms around her guardian and kissed her cheek impetuously. Through the embrace, Christine's mind swam. And what will tomorrow bring, she wondered, when I must come face-to-face with this shadow of my Erik who has enchanted my Estelle?

*

Shortly after noon a few days later, Erik descended from a hired cab, smoothed his jacket, and approached the door of the modest home of his promising pupil. The plump housekeeper that answered his knock seemed to want to examine his curious appearance - a natural, human response that he had come to expect - but good breeding or manners prevented her. "Please come in, Monsieur - Mademoiselle has been expecting you."

Mademoiselle, and not Madame? he mused to himself. Interesting.

He was ushered through the foyer and down a hall to a paneled and carpeted study. "May I offer you anything, Monsieur, while you wait? Some tea, perhaps?" the housekeeper inquired.

"Thank you, no," he replied with a small bow and smile, hoping such faint gestures would effectively transmit his gratitude. Though he had grown accustomed to walking about in the world, he was still very rarely treated with kindness. The housekeeper, touched by his warmth, returned his smile and left him to wait for Estelle's guardian.

"Mademoiselle," she called softly into the library a moment later, where Christine was whiling away the afternoon with a book; "Monsieur Rouen has just arrived and is waiting in the study."

"Laura!" Christine called after her, jumping to her feet and cracking the library door to peek her head out. Recalling Estelle's strange description of her tutor, she felt vaguely nervous at the prospect of finally meeting with him. "How did you find him?"

The housekeeper deliberated a moment. "... Unusual," she finally replied; "But there is a gentleness beneath his odd appearance - I could tell from his voice."

Christine smiled, relieved. "Thank you, Laura. I shall go to him presently." Marking her place in her book, she left the library; her footfalls echoed crazily on the hardwood floor of the empty hallway. A large mirror hung on the wall near the study door and she paused there for a moment, smoothing her appearance before taking a deep breath and opening the study door.

A tall and broad-shouldered gentleman stood at the window opposite, his back to Christine as she entered the room. His hair was thick and dark with a honey-toned sheen and was impeccably smoothed over his scalp despite the hat that Christine could see resting on a chair nearby. The dark suit he wore was well-made and fitted, and she found herself having to put down the urge to blush - how long had it been since she had been alone in the company of an attractive man?

But that thought was driven from her mind when she noticed the cloak neatly folded beneath the hat. Fashioned from a fine wool - merino or cashmere, perhaps - it set her heart to pounding crazily. Stop this foolish thinking, she chided herself. There can be more than one man of good taste who prefers a cloak to a coat. Smoothing her voice, she greeted him. "Monsieur Rouen."

Erik's keen hearing had once memorized the timbre of a woman's voice, a woman's voice that had nearly been his undoing. Though he had long ago folded the memory of that sound and packed it gently in the depths of his mind, there would never be any mistaking it - it was as closely tied to his existence as the soft rhythm of the heart that had loved her. But the incredibility of it! Turning swiftly on his heel, he found himself gazing at her back as she closed the study door. And he reveled in that one moment where she was turned away - knowing some unpleasantness would presently ensue, he seized that opportunity to behold her before she beheld him, to treasure the soft cascade of hair down her back, the smooth curve of her elbow in the sleeve that was fitted so well to her forearm ... Oh, he had seen her and trembled at the Opera, but that was nothing to standing so close to her, to breathing in air that was faintly perfumed by her own scent, to spending one peaceful moment in her company where she thought of him only as a normal man and he was free to love her.

But that moment which was so blissful and precious to him could not last. The latch of the study door clicked, and she turned, and their eyes locked in a moment whose impact was measurable only in comparison to earthquakes.

Without speaking, they each saw the whole of the situation in complete clarity; hindsight emphasized the small coincidences, the tiny hints that they had either not seen or chosen to ignore. And as they stood as still as statues, each grappled with a fresh flow of pain and guilt and regret that they had each thought they had felt for the last time years ago.

Finally, Christine broke the crystal-shard-silence. "Erik."

"Christine," he replied as gently as he could over his warring soul; "please believe that, had I known, I would never have come."

"Do you hate to see me so?" she responded, suppressed tears cracking her tone to a rough edge.

Sorry immediately for his words and their misunderstanding, he put up his palms. "Only to disturb you," he said softly; "You have a good, peaceful life here and my trespass is clearly wrong. I am sorry - I shall go."

As he retrieved his hat and cloak, Christine felt as if she would tear in two inside from holding back her tears. How long she had wished for just one more audience with him - and now she had been given that chance, and was blundering it.

He was donning his hat and stepping towards the door - how could she just let him walk away again? This time there would surely be no hope of a future meeting ...

Her voice seemed to speak without her. "And what about Estelle?"

Erik froze. Only moments before he had thought there could be nothing worse than this sorrow, standing at the edge of a distance between him and his beloved that he knew could never be bridged. But with one sentence came the realization that increased the pain tenfold: not only was it Christine he would be leaving as he quitted the room, but Estelle as well would be forevermore lost to him. He was crippled - had his legs been suddenly lopped off there could not have been a more immobilizing pain.

"I don't know," he choked, tears gathering in his eyes despite his attempts to blink them back.

The tension of the moment - her own anger at herself - to hear him sound so like he had in Venice made Christine frantic, and without meaning to she lashed out. "Of course you do," she cried, "you'll do just what you always do when the choice is difficult - you'll turn away, you'll disappear!" Tears were streaming down her cheeks and she threw the study door open wide. "Don't let me stop you - go on, leave her without a word! Break her heart as you broke mine!"

Erik could not bear it - the memories, the accusations. The look he fixed her with was rife with intense emotion, intense enough to free his frozen limbs and propel him from the room and from the house and a good distance down the road before he slowed his pace to hail a cab. Where he would go he had no idea; Europe, as kind as it had once been to his broken heart, could never heal a wound such as this.

Christine herself sank to the carpet beside the open study door; he had flown past and, for the briefest of moments, had been the closest to her that he had been since their aborted embrace in Venice. How long she knelt there she did not know, but when suddenly the front door slammed and Estelle stood over her with an expression of concern, the dam within her broke; she succumbed to hysterics, and it took Estelle and Laura's combined efforts to carry her to bed.

*

Late that evening, long after Christine believed that she was the only soul still awake in the house, a soft knock preceded Estelle's entrance into her bedroom.

"I thought you had gone to bed," Christine said from her rocking chair, too weak in spirit to protest Estelle's breaking her bedtime, or not knocking before entering the room.

"Christine," Estelle said, trying but failing to keep reproach and disappointment out of her somber voice, "Laura told me that Erik came to call today."

Christine bit her lower lip but said nothing.

"I don't understand," Estelle whispered, unable to keep her voice from trembling any longer. She stepped closer to Christine's chair, stood over her with an expression of supreme sorrow. "I told you he was different from other people ..."

"That isn't it, Estelle," Christine protested with all the energy she could muster - which was not much, since her reply sounded more like a whine than an emphatic interruption.

"What happened this afternoon?" the young lady demanded, completing the reversal of their roles - Christine was clearly the child now, Estelle the mature adult.

But Christine was indignant. "Don't speak to me that way, Estelle."

"I deserve to know," she persisted. "I helped to carry you up the stairs."

"Watch your tongue," Christine snapped.

Estelle stared at her for a moment, clearly stung. When she spoke again, her tone was wounded. "You're not yourself, Christine. We've never kept secrets from each other." Christine turned her face away, rested her cheek against her shoulder. Estelle bristled and spoke the first angry words Christine had ever heard escape her lips. "What did you do to drive him away?"

She snapped back to face her surrogate child. "Don't say that, Estelle - I didn't ..."

Estelle was weeping openly now, and sank to her knees at Christine's feet. "Why won't you let me have him - he made me happy, didn't you see that? For the first time since Papa died I felt ..." But sobs choked her voice, and Christine sprang from her chair to throw her arms around the girl.

"Oh, Estelle, mon ange, don't cry ... please don't cry ... I cannot bear to see you sad ..." Christine was weeping herself now, and the two entangled women sank to the floor, rocking in their sorrow. "I never wanted to hurt you, my beloved ... please don't cry ..."

"Then let him teach me!" Estelle wailed. "Don't let the mask prejudice you, Christine - please look past it and trust me! He is good, and kind, and he has helped me so much already ..."

Christine tried to speak, but her voice broke under the weight of the secret she now knew she could not tell her beloved child. She simply hugged Estelle and sobbed into her shoulder; realizing what she must do. She could not break Estelle's heart, and her own could not be broken any further.

A long time later, when all their tears had been spent, they still knelt together in a heap on the floor. Christine smoothed Estelle's hair, which had gone all wild in their exchange, back from her forehead. "Forgive me, darling - I will try to make it right again."

Estelle looked like a little girl again as she turned her tearstained face upwards. "You will go and speak to him?"

Christine nodded and hugged her tighter, biting back a fresh wave of tears. "I love you, Estelle," she whispered fiercely into her hair.

*

Erik's hired hansom had taken him as far as the contents of his pockets would carry him; he had immediately decided against going to Nadir's, but instead instructed the cabby, "Just drive." When his funds were depleted he left the cab quietly, and found himself several hours' walk from his flat. He used those hours to turn over his options in his mind; when he finally arrived home, he fell into bed completely clothed, and fitfully slept off his emotional and physical exhaustion.

When he finally woke, the next day was well underway; noontime found him surrounded by trunks and traveling cases. A knock at his door made him suppose his landlord had received the note he had sent earlier, informing him of his intention to depart Paris for a time and requesting a meeting to discuss the payment of several months' advance rent. He opened to Christine, who was nervously turning over the scrap of paper upon which Estelle had written the address of Erik's flat.

"Erik," she said hurriedly, as though she expected him to slam the door in her face,"I am sorry to come here uninvited, but I must speak with you."

He stood silently for a moment, shocked and wondering if his unstable state might be causing hallucinations.

Christine tipped her head and peered into his face. "Erik?"

Her voice again - could she be real, really standing at his doorstep? He shook himself; he could not keep her standing there. A difficult choice lay before him ... but his voice, of its own volition, made it for him. "I'm sorry," he stammered; "come in."

Christine had come, like Orpheus, to the very gate of Hades; she had expected a bitter battle with Cerberus, or to at the very least to be unceremoniously turned away. Yet here was the Dark Prince himself admitting her to his sanctum. She drifted through the doorway as vaguely as a shade into that underworld, hardly knowing what to expect. When she found herself in a finely furnished flat, one which might be inhabited by any person of comfortable means, she felt oddly disoriented. But realizing the old mindset into which she was slipping, she reprimanded herself silently and forced her vision to broaden. What she noticed then was the various baggage scattered about the room.

"You are not ... leaving?" she asked, cautiously turning to face him.

He cleared his throat. "I had considered it, on an old friend's advice."

She dropped her gaze to inspect the tips of her shoes emerging from beneath her dark dress. Erik noticed that she was pale and her eyes lacked their usual clarity. How had she spent the previous night?

"I'm sorry, Erik" she said suddenly, her voice soft but strong beneath that softness. He watched in wonder as she seemed to gather poise; she lifted her chin and continued, "The things I said to you yesterday were cruel and uncalled for, and I offer you my humblest apology."

He was struck, not only by her words, but by their undeniable ring of sincerity. His surprise made his voice easy. "What brought this on?" he asked gently.

Christine blinked quickly several times, willing her eyes not to well. "Estelle," she replied after a pause. "The thought of losing your lessons upset her so, and I could not bear to allow my selfishness be the cause of her tears. I need you to forgive me, Erik - and to come and teach her the piano, as you wanted to before I received you with such rudeness."

A moment passed where he simply watched her, waiting for the mirage of her to disappear. He could barely stand to believe himself awake - it seemed too much to believe, that she should suddenly come to him, apologetic, with the extended olive branch. But when she did not waver or dissolve into mist, he took a deep breath. "Christine," he said frankly, "we both know how things have happened between us ..."

"I know," Christine interrupted, "but..."

He held up one hand. "Please," he said softly, "let me speak. These meetings - they are distressing to us both, and we both know that." Christine bowed her head, silently assenting. "Can you really want to see me, in your own home no less, under the pretext of piano lessons for a child who is not even yours?"

Christine jerked her chin up, her eyes suddenly lively again. "She is mine," she replied intensely, "and I love her as dearly as any mother loved any child. Do not question that, Erik - do not believe me so incapable of devotion." It was his turn to cast his gaze downward; but he looked up again a moment later, for he had felt her take a step nearer to him.

"I will do anything to make her happy, Erik; swallowing my pride and admitting my wrongs is a small price to pay for that." Her features were smooth and resolute now, and she drew still nearer, her mien conciliatory. "Please, Erik. It must be worth the trouble if you were willing to leave her school and tutor her privately."

"I left the school because I wanted to tutor her privately," he replied; she looked at him questioningly and he elaborated, "The headmistress actually had the nerve to reprimand me for spending more time with Estelle than with the other pupils. She failed to acknowledge that the other pupils were talentless lumps." Christine smiled and reveled for a moment in a normal conversation with Erik.

"Then you must think she has potential," she prompted.

"She is gifted," he answered; "and she will go far with training."

"Then train her," Christine implored quietly. He sighed, and she could sense his resistance weakening. "Please, Erik - she will be heartbroken if you refuse."

The thought of dear Estelle weeping! It was too much to be borne ... and this change in Christine was disconcerting but persuasive. If she could bring herself to come to him as she had, could he not make a similar gesture? And he recalled her words in Venice, her insistence that she had always loved him ... he derailed this train of thought, knowing how dangerous it could be to allow himself to hope. Better to close that door soundly, and think of Estelle - it was not a lie, exactly. He wanted so much to teach her, to see the musician she would become ...

"Very well," he said gently.

Christine's eyes went wide. "You will teach her?" she breathed.

"I will teach her," he echoed, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Oh!" she cried, clasping her hands before her. "You shall not regret it - and I shall make it worth your while."

"Christine," he demurred, "You know I cannot accept your money."

"It is not mine, though - it was left by her father for her education. And you will teach her more than that pompous Madame Blèdurt ever will," she chuckled. Erik could not help but join her. "Come then; are we agreed?" Before she realized what she was doing, she extended her hand.

A brief tension descended, where Christine wondered whether he would accept her offered palm, and Erik wondered if he had the courage to touch her. But the heavens did not part - the ground beneath their feet did not rend - and they clasped hands.

For a moment Christine was without words, and when the contact ended she found herself studying the bare floorboards that protruded from beneath his rich Persian rug. But, catching this foolish display of coyness, she forced her chin upwards and met his eyes. "Thank you, Erik," she said simply, and with her expression tried to betray the true depth of her gratitude. She was thankful that he could forgive her enough to agree to teach Estelle - it meant so much to the child. She told herself she could admit how much it meant to her once she was safely out of his presence.

He watched her turn and move towards the door and he felt like a child, not knowing how to swim and yet suddenly finding himself thrown into a pond. "Christine," he managed as her hand lit on the doorknob, "perhaps you and ..." He trailed off, wanting but not wanting to pair himself with her even in words. " ... perhaps we can be friends again."

She looked at him over her shoulder, frantic to be away from him before her resolve crumbled and she fell to his feet to beg for his love, and yet unable to resist this offer - this indication that he, too, had sorrowed and suffered during their separation. He must still care for me ... on some level - and perhaps he can be brought ... No, she must stop these thoughts; but the unchanged beauty of his voice transformed his words to manna from the very hands of God. "Yes," she whispered, her voice dry and strained, "I would like that."

Her emotion could not be overlooked and Erik paced his floor into the wee hours of that morning, his mind strolling through sudden and intoxicating landscapes of hope. Once safely home again, and the news related to the now-ecstatic Estelle, Christine pled a headache and retreated to her bedchamber, where she sat rocking in her chair all night with tears of abject misery slipping down her cheeks. He could be brought to teach music to her adopted daughter, true; but experience had shown her he could not be brought to love her.

*

At first, Erik came once a week; he was loath to press his presence upon Christine, yet he wanted to test the waters. He found them friendly but at the same time distant, as though she was holding him at arms' length. Still, Estelle saw only pleasantness pass between them, though there were no hints given as to the history that lay concealed between the two.

Christine especially was very concerned with keeping the past a secret from Estelle. "Forgive me if I seem cool," she whispered frantically to Erik one afternoon when the young musician was out of earshot; "I don't want her to know ..." But she trailed off and looked away, wishing sadly that there were no need for silence. There were so many things she wanted to say to Estelle ... so many more she wished she could make known to Erik ...

She raised her eyes to his and, for one brief and tortured moment, could have sworn he already knew. Luckily, Estelle returned and once again commandeered his attention.

Little could she perceive that she did not really hold her tutor's undivided attention as she played or chattered on. His ear was hers, of course; but his eyes were ever fixed on Christine - provided that hers were fixed elsewhere. That she was immersed in some emotional turmoil was obvious to him; but whether that turmoil provided him with a true right to hope, he feared to guess.

He increased his visits to twice a week, and they came to be friendly even in Estelle's company; the young lady, once so distraught over the prospect of them disliking each other, seemed to find no faults with the world now that her beloved guardian and her beloved teacher had been brought to like one another. Erik and Estelle's lessons often ended with Christine serving tea for three in the drawing room; the little musician would chatter vivaciously about her schoolmates, the books Erik brought her to read, the odd things she was being taught at Madame Blèdurt's. She never noticed that the grown-ups who seemed to hang on her every word were in reality trapped in their own silent cycles of emotion. Christine forced a smile to her lips despite the misery that grew each day with the growing of her friendship with Erik - friendship, when she ached with all her heart to hear once more the words of love she had so flippantly discarded all those years ago; but she bore it, for Estelle's sake, and for his. He seemed so happy sitting at tea with them, listening to Estelle's fantastic daydreams - and he was, but it was not his pupil that brought him the purest moments of happiness while in the de Jardin home. It was, oddly enough, that strange expression in Christine's face: her strangled smile whose meaning seemed lost on Estelle but to him so clearly denoted her inner struggle. He wondered if she remembered the things she had said to him in Venice as clearly as he did: he had tried to pretend that he had forgotten them, but sitting in the parlour with her as he did now tore to ribbons all these foolish fantasies. Her words then were seared upon his memory, and the light she radiated illuminated all their scars. He wondered that she could not see them plainly.

He waited several weeks before finally confiding in Nadir about his new-found situation. It came out in degrees - first he admitted to having left the school; later he confessed he had taken on a private pupil of some talent. Finally, goaded by Nadir's persistent questions and his own guilt at concealing such a secret from such an old friend, he told all.

The daroga, who never lost his composure, dropped his cut-glass tumbler to the floor where it shattered into a thousand pieces.

"God in Heaven, Nadir," Erik chided him humorously, dropping to one knee to mop up the mess. "Don't you think that was a bit dramatic?"

"Erik!" Nadir knelt before him and seized him by both shoulders. Giving him a hard shake, he cried, "How can you tell me, so matter-of-factly, that you have entered the employ of Christine Daaé?"

With a shrug, he replied, "Because it is a simple matter of fact."

"Did you seek her out after our night at the Opera? Erik, you promised me ..."

"I assure you, Nadir," he interrupted his agitated friend, "that it was an utter coincidence. I began working with the child while I was still working for that dreadful headmistress - she was the star pupil there. When I left the school, I wanted to continue with Estelle - so I sought an audience with her guardian, and found myself standing face-to-face with Christine."

It took Nadir several days to come to terms with the situation; he was like a man in a trance. But finally, as he began to accept the workings of fate, he also began to notice a change in his friend. At first he believed it was just his own eyes playing tricks on him, that he was seeing Erik differently because of his bizarre revelation. But soon he realized he was not mistaken; there was something different. It was as if a seedling of hope had been planted in his friend's mind - and watching it sprout filled Nadir with the deepest of foreboding.

"Erik, I do believe that it is more than child that draws you there," he said carefully one afternoon over chess.

Erik's eyes moved over the board, making no indication that Nadir's remark had make any impression upon him. His right hand drifted to his chin, the index finger hovering near his lips as he considered his next move.

"Erik?" Nadir leaned closer, thinking his friend had not heard him.

In one swift motion, Erik slew Nadir's queen with a well-moved bishop. "Check," he said quietly, removing the captured piece from the board. "Your thinking, Nadir, is as faulty as your strategy."

Cross at the loss of the useful piece, Nadir mulled over the board for a moment. "You are impossible, Erik - toying with me like this. Here, I concede."

"No," he protested, "you cannot give up - bad form! You must go forward with the situation you have visited upon yourself." When Nadir's frowning countenance did not change, he sighed. "Block me with your knight, and tell me why you said that."

Grudgingly, Nadir made the move that he had not noticed before Erik pointed it out. "Do you really need me to tell you, Erik? It is Christine Daaé, for the love of Allah! And after the way you behaved at the Opera, what else am I to think?"

Erik was quiet again, thinking out another move. Once he had made it, he replied softly, "Old adversaries can become friends, Nadir. Look at us together."

"We are hardly comparable to you and Mademoiselle Daaé, Erik, and you know it."

"Do I?" he asked wryly. With a merry glint to his eye, he asked, "Would you care to be trained to be a great diva, Nadir? I am sure it could be accomplished ..."

"Your humor is in poor taste," Nadir snapped.

"And your accusation is without basis," Erik replied smoothly, leaning back in his chair. "Do you still not trust me, old friend?"

It always pained Nadir when Erik lobbed this comment his way - and unfortunately, because Nadir could tend to be a bit oppressive and nosy in his friendship, this happened from time to time. He did trust Erik, with his life in fact; but when it came to Christine Daaé, he could not shake a feeling of uneasiness. It seemed to him that there was too much history between them for a simple friendship to result; some quagmire must lurk beneath the surface, waiting to subsume his friend. And he was concerned for Erik, knowing how fragile his heart could be despite his impermeable exterior façade.

And recalling the conversation he had had with Christine at the Opera, about which he had never told his friend, Nadir realized exactly where it was his skepticism lay. "I do trust you, Erik," he replied softly. "But Mademoiselle Daaé ..."

Erik was surprised with his own indignation at these words. He had not realized the extent to which Christine had re-entered his heart; but to hear her accused of anything gave rise to a protective urge. "What has Christine done to make you mistrust her?"

"What has she done?" Nadir cried. "She only wounded you so deeply that you left the country for years! She only hurt you more profoundly than I knew a woman could hurt a man! Erik, I was afraid for you all those years - did you know that? I wrote you so often, all those letters that I'm sure brought you untold annoyance since you answered them so infrequently, so you would still feel some connection to this world. I worried that, in your despair and heartbreak, you might feel so detached from human love that you might simply give up, disappear - or kill yourself!" Erik was staring at Nadir, having never seen him so agitated - or candid about his own feelings. Nadir himself leaned over the chess table. "Do not rebuke me for caring for you, Erik. I have been your friend - what, these thirty years at least? - and I cannot sit idly by and watch you reconcile with a woman who might as well have been your murderess. Not without having something to say about it - I'm sorry, Erik, but I do not trust her."

"Nadir," Erik breathed, his voice betraying wonder at this new side of the daroga. "I had no idea you felt so strongly about this. I am truly blessed to have you as my friend, and I appreciate your concern - but I know my own limits, and I know my own capacity for forgiveness. It is hard for me to see her, to remember ..." He passed a hand across the good side of his forehead. "...to remember everything. But believe me, Nadir - it grows less every day. I loved her deeply, true - and I cannot dismiss that. All those years ago I could not have her in any estimation. But things have changed - I am different, I have learned to let her go - and she is willing to have me teach her child, and take tea in her parlour. I am content, Nadir, I swear it." He felt dizzy speaking this way.

Nadir was clearly not convinced. "But what of her?" he asked, forgetting himself in his state of agitation. "Is she content with this arrangement? Can't you see, Erik? She came to you in Venice - you told me long before we ever saw her at the Opera - you told me yourself that she wanted you to come back to her, to rescue her from whatever tragedy she fancied herself the prisoner of. She is manipulating you, Erik - she has lost two rich men, she is disillusioned with the world, and she wants you back again to play her Dark Angel, her mysterious protector. And she will use whatever means she must."

Erik gaped. "Nadir, where on earth did you get such a ridiculous idea?"

Throwing up his hands in exasperation with his own inability to keep a secret, Nadir resigned himself to telling Erik the truth. "I spoke to her that night at the Opera, Erik. I am sorry I kept it from you, but I did not think it wise to tell you - and when she attempted to persuade even me that she had changed, that she truly loved you, my mind was made up."

In a movement so sudden it startled the daroga, Erik reached across the table and clasped his wrist. "What are you telling me, Nadir? What did she say to you?"

Realizing that all his ravings had had quite the opposite of their desired effect, Nadir surrendered to a sensation of resignation. This was, after all, far bigger than himself; he alone could not stop whatever fate was to befall his friend at the hands of Christine Daaé, and Erik was too stubborn for him to presume to offer advice. With a sigh, he related every detail of his meeting with Christine at the Opera.

Erik sat quietly, listening patiently to the daroga's story, calm in the knowledge that Nadir's concern for him had brought him to keep it a secret for so long. But his calm could not be maintained as he heard what Christine had said that night; he felt as though he were plummeting headlong into the abyss of the unknown, the suspicions he had barely dared to have so suddenly and frighteningly confirmed. It had been nearly four years now since he and Christine had clashed in Venice ... if her feelings were unchanged, could he dare to doubt their sincerity?

As Erik took his leave that evening, he placed a light hand on Nadir's shoulder. "I will take care," he said softly, "I promise you ... and I beg you, Nadir - it all happened years ago. We were both, in our own ways, children. Mistakes were made. But do not hold it against her."

Nadir clasped his friend's hand tightly. Silently, he resolved to interfere no more, no matter how much it pained him; but his commitment to Erik's safety was unshaken, and he said simply, "My door is open to you, my friend. Remember that."

As for Erik himself, a will of iron repressed his joy until he was hidden within the confines of a hansom; only then did he allow his heart to pound. Can she have changed so much ... as to really care for me? he mused, seemingly insensible to the jolting of the carriage over the cobblestones.

*

More time passed, though it did not go quickly for Christine. With each visit Erik made to her home she became more and more miserable, and she felt like an evergreen tree under the weight of a heavy snowfall: soon it could be borne no more, and she would snap. Estelle was improving at an incredible rate - Erik said that soon she would be ready to perform at recitals, or to audition for a musical conservatory if she wished to continue her studies. Christine could barely contain her tears that evening; if Estelle were to go away, what inducement would he have to come to her ever again? There was no denying that her feelings for him were undiminished; and she was convinced now that he knew of it, and, as he had told her in Venice, could not reciprocate her love. She longed to catch a glance, a turn of his voice, anything that would indicate he returned her affection. Nothing came.

"Why should he?" she wept into her embroidered counterpane. "He told me in Venice..." She felt she would die - if he did not love her, if all he could offer her was friendship, or if he were to stop coming. With or without him, she would die.

Erik's sensibilities too had been heightened since his conversation with Nadir; and he was especially careful now in his interactions with Christine. He needed to examine her behavior, to determine whether he could possibly be right in thinking that the love she had professed in Venice was still alive in her heart. It took some time - he could scarcely trust himself - but in the end, her wan smiles, the sad note to her voice, the way he could feel her eyes imploring him when his back was turned convinced him where he thought he could never be convinced.

That afternoon he packed all his trunks before leaving his flat for Estelle's lesson - a pretext, really, for the confession he planned to make once more to Christine. If she rejected him he would simply disappear and never return to Paris again; it would be easy enough to accomplish, and Nadir would just have to learn to enjoy traveling to Stockholm to see him.

*

It was raining when he set out, but Erik chose to walk the short distance to the de Jardin home - the cool air jolted his senses, and he needed the time to think. What could he ever say - how could he re-begin a conversation that had twice been so painfully cut short? The first time it had been at her wish, true; but his had been perhaps the crueler insistence, based in bitterness and grudge. Could a peace offering make any difference, so many years afterwards? And what could possibly be an acceptable gift?

The kitten was grey and white, and its huge amber eyes regarded Erik solemnly from beneath his cloak. He had purchased it days ago from a poor child on the street, paying far more than the animal was worth to ease the little one's obvious hunger. Having meant it as a gift for Estelle, he had been unable to think of an excuse to present it to her. But with the nearing of her sixteenth birthday, he had tucked it under his arm as he left his flat.

But wasn't it a dreadfully foolish undertaking? Could such a mundane gesture really endear him to Christine in the way that he was hoping? Wasn't it just all just rubbish? He had tented the material over the little beast, to shield it from the rain. "What am I thinking?" he asked the kitten softly, but it answered only with a small mew. Reaching his deft fingers beneath the cloak, he stroked the creature's little face; it purred loudly and cuddled closer into the crook of his arm.

"Precious," he found himself murmuring. A normal man might bring such a gift to the daughter of the woman he hoped to court ... He sighed, knowing in his heart exactly what it was he had been thinking. And he was sure the kitten had known the answer too.

The rain streamed down through the folds of Erik's cloak as he parted it and gazed down at the kitten again. "Wish us luck," he whispered to it, trailing his fingers once more along its little upturned face.

*

Erik drew open the front door of Christine's house tentatively. Someone, either the housekeeper Laura or Christine herself, was usually there to admit him; but today his knock brought no response and the rain was coming down furiously, so he permitted himself the transgression of crossing Christine's threshold without an invitation.

Once inside, he drew aside his cloak to check on his tiny passenger. "And are you all well and dry, my little friend?" he asked softly.

"Erik? Who on earth are you talking to?"

Christine's voice, faintly tinted with concern, still managed to startle him. "Christine ..." he fairly stammered; "I ... had thought I was alone."

He was attempting to conceal something beneath his cloak, and Christine was determined to solve the mystery. "Here, let me take that," she said, moving towards him with her hands outstretched. "You are running rivers on my floor."

He could tell her interest was not in his wet wrap, but rather in what was hidden beneath it. Still the inquisitive child! he found himself thinking before he could check it.

"Forgive me," he said as he let the cloak part. "I should have asked you first ..."

Christine's face went bright with pleased astonishment. "Oh, how lovely," she cried, gently taking the kitten into her arms and leaving Erik to hold his own wet cloak. The little animal liked her instantly, and began to purr as she caressed it and touched its pink nose with her own. "And what were you doing hiding beneath Erik's cloak?" she asked it in that loving, deliberate voice we usually reserve for small children.

"I brought him for Estelle," Erik replied, forcing his voice steady even though he was distracted by the sight of his beloved cradling the adorable bit of fluff. "I hope you don't mind, I completely forgot to consult you ..."

"No, no, it's perfectly fine," Christine smiled, already in love with the animal herself. She returned him to Erik's arms, one tiny butterfly beating its wings in her heart - Erik truly loves my little Estelle. As soon as she caught the thought, however, she reprimanded herself; he might love the child without loving her as well.

"You simply must give him to her right away," she forced herself to say cheerfully. "I cannot wait to see her face!" With that, she hurried to call Estelle to the foyer.

*

Perhaps an hour later, Erik called an end to the rather half-hearted lesson that was transpiring in the music room.

"Very well done, Mademoiselle de Jardin. But I can see your heart is elsewhere today ..." He graced her with one of his rare smiles as she turned an inquisitive look his way. "I am sure your new kitten is restless to be played with." Estelle started to demur, embarrassed that she had allowed herself to be distracted during one of Erik's precious lessons, but he closed the music book. "Go," he said softly, "we can continue next time." The absent-minded pupil needed no further encouragement; she fairly flew from the piano stool and, gathering the kitten into her arms, dashed to her room with the precious cargo.

Christine, who was sitting quietly by, looked up from her sewing to smile lovingly at Estelle's departure. Despite Estelle's usual seriousness, during her joyous outbursts her sash still flapped, along with that loose cascade of brown curls to which her childhood braids had given way. Her little girl was growing up ... but Christine's smile disappeared as she realized that she was now alone with Erik. Bending back over her needle, she hoped frantically that, because her profile was hidden by the wings of her armchair, he had forgotten her presence.

But he had not; it was, in fact, why he had sent Estelle from the room. Finding himself alone with her again after all these years was arresting, and every nerve in his body tingled. The old urge to flee welled beneath his sternum, but he put it down; his trunks were packed, but - the very inconvenience of it all! He did not wish to leave Paris, and he suspected she would not have him go. But how to find out? Finally, he resolved to try their ancient language, the tie between them that neither time nor distance had been able to destroy.

Having a care not to crease his trousers, he took Estelle's place at the piano and began to play, his fingers coaxing soothing tones from the keys. He did not speak or turn towards Christine, but in a few moments he sensed her relax. Soon he heard her embroidery hoop slip unheeded to the floorboards.

His words were unexpected. "Christine - will you sing for me?"

She caught her breath, her nervousness returning. "What?" she stammered.

"Sing for me," he repeated, his tone encouraging, enticing.

Rising, she allowed herself to drift towards the piano; but when she reached it, and he raised his eyes to burn into hers, her resolve crumbled. "I can't."

"You're only out of practice," he replied lightly, and his fingers changed their tune to one of the simple old vocal exercises. "You remember ..."

"Erik, please," she interrupted him suddenly; his fingers paused and he looked at her questioningly. She looked down at her hands, folded them weakly before her. "I have lost the voice of the Angel of Music."

He rose and closed the key cover. Realizing that a music lesson was too reminiscent of the old manipulation, he moved to a chair near her sewing table. "But you have been Estelle's Angel of Music." She shook her head bashfully; but he insisted, sliding one hand over the shiny surface of the piano wood. "You began her on her road, after all."

His praise warmed her, and she returned to sit in the chair near him. Taking up her sewing again, she tried to form a reply. "It is all your teaching that has made her playing good ..." She trailed off; too many thoughts, too many feelings rushed in her mind. A silence descended in which she made several very poor stitches, her fingers working sullenly under his watchful gaze.

Finally he spoke again. "She is a lovely child." Casting for something to say to ease the tension, he said, "You have done so well by her."

"I could not do otherwise," she replied, relieved at the benign and easy-for-her subject of Estelle. "We are as close to family as each of us has now."

"Nadir told me she has a mother," he prompted quietly.

Christine set her lips. "A selfish, spoiled woman," she retorted. "She has never been a mother to Estelle; I have been the nearest thing since she was seven years old."

"I can tell you love the child," he reassured her.

"With all my heart," she answered fiercely.

The devotion warmed his soul, and he cautiously allowed affection for this new committed Christine to stir in his heart. "Where is she now - the mother ..."

Sighing, she put down her sewing. "Married to Raoul."

He fairly gawked. "What?"

Looking at him, she found herself unable to suppress a laugh. "It is ridiculous, isn't it?" She smiled wistfully. "But she will do quite well for him - she is beautiful, cruel and a driven socialite."

He could not manage a reply. "I ... forgive me, but I am shocked."

"Imagine my reaction when I found them together," she replied wryly.

"You did?"

"While she and Gerome ... Monsieur de Jardin ... were still married."

The picture began to focus, and a new and terrible thought occurred to him. This man left her all his money ... this man she calls 'Gerome' ... He steadied his voice. "So that was the cause of their estrangement."

"Monsieur de Jardin was furious."

"I see ... but you stayed on afterwards ... to help with the child?"

Christine dipped her head. "I did not have anywhere else to go. And besides, Estelle was too dear to me by then to even think of leaving."

"And her father ..."

A pause. Christine had heard this insinuation before, of course; it had been Babette de Jardin's favorite battle cry, and she had learned to steel her heart to it. But she had never thought that Erik might make it ... She flushed from shame and leaned towards him. "Please, Erik, you mustn't think that. It never was that way ... Gerome did ask me once, but I could not consent. I did not care for him, only for his daughter ... so I stayed with her, and he was a friend to me, and when he died he left me the money for both of our comforts. This," she gestured distractedly to her fine surroundings, clearly upset, "this is no mistress' pension, I swear to you."

The fierceness of her reaction took him by surprise; he leaned in, too, sympathetically. "Someone has accused you of that?"

"His wife," she replied feverishly, swept up in her emotion, "but it was never true. He did try to make me love him ... he wanted me as his wife, and as Estelle's mother; but he always knew I could not." She raised her eyes to meet Erik's. "He knew I could not, because when he asked me I told him that my heart belonged only to you."

The fervor of that moment surprised them both into silence. Finally she pressed her hands to her face and murmured through them, "Forgive me, Erik - I know it is wrong of me. Please, go if you think you must; I will think of something to tell Estelle."

But he reached out and took one of her hands from her face, caressed the back of it with his thumb. Her inadvertent confession had supplied him with all the boldness he needed. "Why would I go?"

She blanched. "Because of what you said in Venice ... I am so sorry, Erik. I will never say it again; please say you will stay on as Estelle's teacher. Your friendship means so much ... to both of us."

"But Venice was nearly four years ago, Christine. I am sorry for how I behaved then - I was striking out blindly. I was angry with myself for loving you still, when I told myself I had forgotten you." How easily the words slipped out ...

... But she did not seem to hear them! "No, you had every right to be angry with me; I treated you so meanly. I am so ashamed to think of my selfishness ... of how I thought only of myself and how it hurt you ..." Tears began to spill from her beautiful eyes.

He rose and drew her with him; he touched his free fingers lightly to her cheek. "This cannot be Christine," he whispered, amazed and in love with her. "You have her face and her eyes - but these are not her tears."

"No, Erik," she cried, lacing her fingers tightly with his, transforming his loose hold on her hand to a pleading union. "They are the tears of a woman who has done years of penance, grieving for the loss of your love."

He pulled her to him, not caring any longer for the consequences; he only cared that her words were making him ache to hold her.

She exploded into tears as he enfolded her in his arms. "Oh, Erik, I was so cruel - but I have changed, I have grown up, and I love you so much ..." Placing her hands on his chest, she pushed herself out of his embrace. "Please, to not torment me - I know you mean to comfort me, but it causes me too much pain."

He wanted to laugh at her misunderstanding; his heart was lost in a swirling sea of love, and her still-naïve objections almost delighted him. "Christine - do you think I have stopped loving you for even one moment in the last ten years?"

She stared at him, surprise stopping her tears. "Erik .. can you still love me, after all my selfishness?"

He answered her by returning his hands to her cheeks, brushing away the tears with the pads of his thumbs. "Christine," he whispered, his voice too choked for any other words.

She flung herself back into his arms and clung to him, weeping into his shirtfront; she wept away the years of heartache and hugged him tightly, wordlessly promising to never again take his love for granted. His own tears subsided into a frenzy of tender gestures; he stroked her shoulders, pulled her close, vowed his love a thousand times in whispers pressed into the waves of her hair. And when her sobbing was ended she lifted her face to be kissed, just as a daisy lifts its petals to the sun after rain.

He came undone at the touch of her lips, and his hands moved everywhere - her cheek, her waist, the nape of her neck. Soon his lips were following suit, and he kissed her fingertips, her forehead, the smooth sweep of skin his lips touched when he buried his face in her shoulder.

She was laughing at his energy; but her fingers brushed the mask, and she whispered urgently in his ear, "Erik - please, let me see you."

He pulled back, looked down into her eyes. "No, Christine; you cannot want that."

"But I do," she insisted, running a fingertip along his lower lip. "I've spent my whole life loving your ghost - please let me spend the rest of it loving your face."

He set his chin as if to lock in a sob, but she held him tightly with one arm as she raised the other hand gently to his face. She let the mask fall to the floor beside her sewing and cupped a soft palm on either cheek, staring straight into his eyes which brimmed with tears. "This is what I want, Erik," she swore with her voice and her eyes and her hands. "You are what I want."

He closed his eyes and let her words seep into his heart like water into desert soil; and when they touched and soothed the most wounded parts of his soul, he took her gently back into his arms. Their embrace had long ago melted into a tender kiss when Estelle suddenly returned to the room.

They heard her small feet thud to a surprised stop just inside the door, and as they turned to stare at her, embarrassed, she drew in a sharp breath. Erik lunged for the mask, but Christine stayed him with a hand on his arm. Hurrying to Estelle, she grabbed the young lady's hands and leaned confidingly towards her.

"Estelle," she said gravely, "I have been untruthful with you, and I am sorry for that. Erik and I have known each other for a long time, nearly since before you were born."

"I knew you must have," she answered softly, her eyes fixed over Christine's shoulder on Erik's exposed face. "There was always some secret you were both trying to hide ..."

"Darling," Christine shook her vaguely until the girl met her gaze. "He may not be a handsome prince, but I love him so very much. You should not be afraid of him."

Estelle slipped out of Christine's grasp and moved cautiously towards Erik, who felt frozen to the carpet with anxiety. A small distance from him she stopped, her eyes seeming to search the ruin of his face for her kind and gentle teacher. "Erik?" she finally whispered.

"Estelle," he answered, raising his right hand to his face. "I am sorry you have had to see this. I will continue to wear the mask for you."

But the young lady took his wrist in her nimble fingers and drew his hand away to look deeply into his face. "No," she finally said, "I don't want you to. I'm not afraid - it's just so ... so sad and beautiful, I shall need some time to grow used to it. Is that all right?"

Tears rose in his eyes and Christine could see that as he touched the girl's chin, his expression was brimming with joy. "Yes, child," he managed, "that is just fine."

Estelle tripped back to Christine and, taking her hand, led her to Erik's side. The two watched in wonder as she joined their hands and then drew back to observe the tableau she had created.

Finally, she smiled. "Oh, Mam'selle Anna," she breathed teasingly. "Now I understand about the Angel of Music."

Erik and Christine stared at each other for a moment, then burst into joyous laughter. But when Christine turned to embrace her adopted daughter, they realized she had slipped from the room and shut the door quietly behind her, leaving them to celebrate their reunion together.