Christine looked so lovely. She wore a dress of deep blue silk trimmed with silvery lace. Her curls were elaborately arranged and I could see a diamond necklace gleaming against her skin. Looking very much like an aristocratic lady, she held a silver mask in one hand, her other hand rested on her husband's arm. Raoul looked as charming - and as dull, in my opinion - as ever in his burgundy brocaded coat and silk britches.

I saw the Vicomte whisper something to his wife. She smiled and shook her head. It seemed as if his words had made her blush. He laid his hand gently on her waist and she looked up at him with adoring eyes.

I prayed that Erik had not turned, that he had not seen them.

I looked up at him and saw that my hope had been in vain. He took a step forward and stood there, watching them.

For a moment, it seemed as if we were no longer part of the world. I knew that people were passing us on the stairs, that we were deep in the midst of laughter, music, dancers. But we were so very far from it.

He did not move. I stepped in front of him and took his hand.

He looked down at me. There was an expression in his eyes that I could not understand

It was an emotion that I could find no name for. It was neither rage nor despair. It was dark, unreadable. For the first time, I was truly afraid of Erik.

"I didn't think they would dare...I didn't think she would come back here," he said in a low voice.

"Erik, listen, please! Look at me," I begged.

His fingers gripped mine, but he did not answer me, he would not look away. I was so desperate. What could I do? What could I say to make him turn away from the happy couple.

"Erik," I cried, "I love you!"

Mon Dieu, I never meant to say that aloud. I never meant to tell him.

He let my hand fall away and, I froze, unsure what would happen next. I should never have asked him to come with me to the ball. I should have known that this would happen.

Gathering the Persian shawl around my shoulders, I turned away from him.

He caught my arm and spun me about.

"Leaving? Oh, no, Marguerite, I promised you this evening and you shall have it."

His hand held my wrist so tightly, it seemed he would crush me. I could feel the heat of his hands (which were normally rather cold) burning me through our gloves.

He drew me down the stairs with him and we made our way among the dancers. That look never left his eyes.

Beneath my own bright mask, I could feel tears.

In the grand foyer, we came face to face with the de Chagnys.

Christine's hand flew to her mouth and she grew pale. Her eyes were wide and I thought she would faint. The Vicomte's face darkened with anger and he made an involuntary motion as if to reach for his sword. Mercifully, he was not armed.

I looked up at Erik. He met Christine's gaze and slowly released my wrist.

"Get away from my wife," Raoul ordered.

Neither Erik nor Christine seemed to hear him. .

"Angel, forgive me," Christine whispered.

"Christine, don't beg for his pardon," Raoul interrupted.

But for that moment, the Vicomte and I were outsiders. We looked at each other, uncertain of the next moment.

"Are you happy," Erik asked.

"I am very happy," she answered softly, tearing her eyes from his and glancing at her husband.

"There is no need of forgiveness, then. Farewell, Madame."

He made a surprisingly formal bow to Christine and, taking my arm again, walked away from the woman he had loved.

We left the ball in silence. Not a single word passed between us until he helped me step from the boat.

I was miserable. I let my beaded mask slip to the floor and the treasured shawl dragged as I made my way toward the steps.

Before I went up to my room, I took off the pearl necklace and laid it beside the white roses. Their soft white petals were already beginning to wither.

"Forgive me, Erik."

There was no answer.

I did not bother to undress. I drew down the curtain and sank down on the bed. I forced myself not to cry. I knew I was losing Erik and the grief I felt was so bitter, a thousand times more cruel than when Maman died.

In the morning, I sat forlornly on the edge of my bed. My beautiful gown was crumpled. My hair was falling loose from the chignon. I had not slept at all and had no will to rise.

"Marguerite, I wish to speak with you."

His voice was so calm that I was afraid to face him. Slowly, I stood. My anguish seemed to have turned into a physical pain. I could hardly force myself to walk.

"In the music room, Marguerite."

I stood in the doorway, afraid to face him. He was standing before a shattered mirror. Just as he had on that first day when I came down here, searching for answers.

He turned to face me, his dark blue dressing down swirling about him like the wings of a fallen angel. His white mask had always seemed a part of him, but now it seemed to have an expression of its own. The harsh, artificial features seemed to judge me and rebuke me.

"Did you mean what you said?"

"Please, Erik, forgive me." I would not lie to him, yet I was afraid to tell him the truth.

"Did you mean what you said last night"

"Yes, Erik."

He looked away from me, his eyes wandering the room as if seeing it for the first time...the organ, the piles of music, the precious violin, the pale roses.

"I think you should leave me, Marguerite. You don't belong here," he said, with a sharp gesture at his home, "I will find a place for you, you need not worry. You saved me from myself, for a time at least. I owe you that much."

"Erik, no, please, no!."

"You don't belong here," he repeated, trailing his fingers lightly over the shards of the mirror, "I couldn't condemn Christine to this and I will not condemn you to it now. Go, Marguerite, leave me."