CHAPTER SIX

(In which our heroine chooses her own mask)

Two weeks.

Erik had promised five days, but time spun beyond even his control in a dream-like flow. Once we spent an entire day trading snatches of song back and forth, here the final duet from Aida, there an aria from Romeo et Juliette, or fragments of the Breton folk-songs I had learnt in childhood while wandering with my father; only Don Juan Triumphant was forbidden from our repertoire. Another time I sat with my chin resting on my hands and listened, tea growing cold on the floor next to me, while Erik wove tales of his far-flung travels, twice as enthralling when told in that golden voice of his.

I do not say I forgot his face. Indeed, he would not permit it: he did not wear his mask again. But that was not the reason why I grew more and more aware of the time passing. Despite every reason to think ill of him, every cause to fear and despise this man, I could not hate him. I pitied him, then liked him. It was not the shameless passion that had drawn me to the Angel, but neither was it the sweet affection that tied me to Raoul. It was a further complication to matters that needed no more complexity. Erik knew too much of me already, and I did not know how to retrace my steps. Somehow, I had to leave.

Erik raised his hands from the piano and let the final chord die away, then abruptly turned on the bench. "I've kept you far beyond the time I promised, Christine. You must be feeling confined down here. Would you care to go out tonight?"

Go out? Leave these rooms? Christine set down her music carefully. "Go out?" she repeated, keeping her voice calm with an effort. "To where?"

"Must we have a reason?" Christine still had difficulty reading that gaunt, twisted face, but she recognized the undertone of thunder in his voice. "May we not simply go for a ride, like any ordinary gentleman and lady?"

"No one could call you ordinary, Erik. I would gladly go for a ride with you." She met his eyes, golden as a cat's, and as always, her breath caught in her throat. Erik had not touched so much as her hand since she had ripped away his mask, but his eyes…when he looked into hers, it seemed as if he could see all the secrets of her heart. And when he looks at my body… If anything, it disconcerted her even more severely, to feel the lick of his gaze along her skin and look up from whatever might be occupying her to find him hungrily watching her as if she hadn't any clothing on. But he never spoke of it, never touched her…never looks away when I catch him looking at me, either.

Erik turned away, and Christine found she could breathe again. "Come, then, Mademoiselle Daae," he said. "And mind your step."

They did not cross the lake this time. Instead, Erik led her out a back door she'd never noticed before (like most of the doors around this place: Erik seemed to have a taste for invisible doors) and down a long black corridor. Twice Erik made her edge her way close along one wall or another. After the second instance, she ventured, "Is something wrong?"

"No," Erik replied absently, from just in front of her. "All the ways down to my home have their particular protections. I would not have you harmed."

So long as I mind my step.

He says he loves me.

Yes, so he says. Raoul loves you as well, without frightening you half to death.

A door swung open before her, letting in light and clear, cool air. Christine stepped outside and tilted her head back, breathing in deeply. She hadn't realized how the closeness of the cellars had tainted the air. By comparison, this place felt fresh and clean as the mountains. "Where are we?" she asked.

"A few streets away from the Opera," Erik said from just behind her. She turned to find him masked again, white this time, with his hat drawn low over his brow. He looked almost…normal. "If you will wait but a moment, mademoiselle…" He walked past her, raised one hand, and beckoned imperiously.

Christine heard hooves, and turned to look, for a moment half-expecting Cesar to re-appear. No. Instead she saw a carriage and four, driven by a man muffled in scarves and a long coat. The carriage drew up just in front of them, and Erik opened the door. "After you, mademoiselle." He sounded almost playful.

Christine murmured, "Of course," and stepped into the carriage.

Erik seemed inclined to talk, once in the carriage, but I could think of nothing to say unless I were to inquire after practicalities. How had he hired the carriage to be here? Where would it take us? How long should we be out? I asked none of those questions, however: to own the truth, I half-feared he would laugh and tell me it was all due to black magic. I listened to him, and occasionally answered, but my heart was heavy. Out in the carriage, away from the close darkness of Erik's home, I remembered too clearly the life outside from which I had stepped two weeks ago. I had obligations, I remembered: the Opera, Mama Valerius, my friends, even Raoul. I could not stay. But I did not know how to leave.

I rested my chin on one hand and looked out the open window, breathing in the fresh air and praying it would calm my troubled thoughts. Erik fell silent.

Then I heard Raoul's voice, and my fragile peace shattered entirely.

"Christine! Christine!"

Christine sat back from the window, just in time, as the carriage lurched into rapid motion. Her heart pounded in her breast in time to the horses' hooves. Raoul de Chagny. What business had he here? Who had told him to come? How had he known --

Oh, she was a fool. Erik had arranged this before-hand, and not by black magic. If he had mentioned her name at all, then word could travel, either to Raoul or to his brother. Raoul had made no secret of his interest in her, after all. How was she to explain this to him? How was she to explain this to anyone? She looked down in her lap, and forced herself to untangle her fingers and lay her hands flat.

"You shouldn't glower so at your hand," Erik said suddenly. His voice had gone flat, not the terrible harsh voice like a demon's that terrified her, but its golden beauty dimmed. "Or are you fearing what your lover thinks?"

"Raoul de Chagny is not my lover." Though he wanted to be, once… Christine closed off that line of thought firmly. Raoul was not, nor ever had been, more than a dear childhood friend, and Erik was certainly not the person with whom she cared to debate might-have-beens on the subject. "I have told him again and again to leave me alone. I do not know what more I can do."

A moment's silence. Erik was watching her with that sharp golden look. At last, he inclined his head. "Of course not, mademoiselle," he said, gently ironic, as if he understood perfectly. "And yet he follows you still. Such devotion, from a nobleman yet, might turn a woman's head."

"Do you think--"

Erik raised one hand, stilling the angry words on Christine's lips. "No, Christine. I believe you should answer the good vicomte's questions. They must be pressing indeed." Christine's skin prickled as Erik leaned forward and gently took her hand in both his. "Tomorrow night, the Opera goes in masque, and even I can venture out freely. Send a note to this persistent suitor of yours, bidding him meet you there."

"Why should he come?" He was touching her. Erik was touching her. Some part of her mind must be working, else she could not have answered at all, but the rest of her kept very very still, like a mouse aware of a snake waiting for it to move. That door should have remained closed. But he had touched her.

"He shall," Erik said. He still held her hand. "If only to ask his questions. And you must try, once more, to tell him that you must be left alone. You cannot have both the vicomte and the music, Christine."

"I know." The words came out a whisper. If she wed Raoul -- and it would be marriage, he was too idealistic and she too stubborn for the other, more usual arrangement -- then she would never sing again, unless at a small musicale for people who would look down their noses at her and whisper behind their fans about how she used to be an opera singer, my dear, you've heard the story.

Erik said nothing more. He let go of her hand and sat back in his seat, and watched her until they arrived back at the Opera.

The note was easily written, if not so easy to dispatch -- letter carriers don't stand around outside the Opera in case they're wanted, alas. The rest…was not so easy.

They no longer have masked balls as they did then. No invitation need be handed in at the door: anyone might go, wearing any costume they pleased, and behave in any manner they desired. A very few disdained the safety of a domino and strode the halls bare-faced, their expressions as much a mask as the leather and silk and lace the rest of us wore. For the rest of us, chaos ruled: a Columbine here, a lion there, a pagan goddess here again -- whispers told of a gentleman who'd come as Adam, wearing only a fig-leaf and his mask. Even so, Erik produced a sensation. He went as Red Death, wearing no mask whatsoever. Who was he (he asked me, with grim amusement) to taunt Fate by scorning the natural mask with which She had provided him?

I, on the other hand, chose a simple black domino. I had only to be at the place I had chosen, at the time I had chosen, and pray Raoul would be there. And if that prayer were answered…well, I should have time enough for more prayers then.

"I'll follow you in," Christine said, keeping her voice as quiet as she might and still be heard as she opened the door. She'd lit the candles near the door before going to meet Raoul: they gave a meager, flickering light. Good. "Keep to the shadows if you can, and for God's sake, let no one see you."

Raoul cocked his head at her as if in puzzlement, but he entered the private box without protest. Out of the corner of her eye, Christine saw him remove his white mask as he turned to face her. "Christine?"

"Yes, of course." Christine pulled the door mostly shut, leaving it far enough ajar that she could peer out at the hallway. Where was Erik? She'd seen him nearby as she led Raoul to the box. He must not hear this conversation, not by chance, not by eavesdropping, no matter what had happened two weeks ago. Or perhaps because of what happened two weeks ago. No. It was because Erik had nothing to do with this, she told herself sternly: it was between herself and her childhood friend, and she didn't care to be constantly biting her tongue for fear of what Erik might think. Where was the man? "Perhaps he went up to the Box of the Blind," she muttered, mostly to herself. Then she saw a flutter of red. "No…ah! He's coming back down."

"Who's coming back down?" Raoul demanded, entirely too loudly, and leaned over Christine's shoulder just in time to see Erik pass the door. Christine heard his breath catch. "It's him," he breathed, then, almost a shout, "It's him! This time he won't get away from me--"

Christine slammed the door shut, just in time to keep Raoul from rushing out. "'Won't get away from you', Raoul?" For a miracle, her voice sounded perfectly steady. "Who are you talking about? Who is 'he'?"

"Christine, let me pass!" Raoul seized her arm as if he meant to physically push her out of the way.

Christine pulled free and braced herself against the door. "Not until you answer my question." She'd expected a conversation, not a confrontation -- not this sort of confrontation, at least. If Raoul ran out and confronted Erik, face to face --

Nothing would happen, she reassured herself. Except that it would anger Erik, and he had no love for Raoul, nothing to hold back that vicious temper she'd seen. What do you think the Phantom would do?

"Who is he?" Raoul repeated, his voice rising. He turned and began to pace around the box, as well as he could without running into the chairs. "The man who hides behind that mask of death that's no mask! The evil spirit that haunted the graveyard at Perros! Red Death tonight! The man you call your friend and your Angel of Music, that's who! But I'll unmask him --" He flung his own mask to the floor, "and we shall stand face-to-face at last, without any disguises or pretenses, and I'll know who loves you…and whom you love." His voice faltered off at the last.

No one! That would be cruel, without even the grace of being true. But neither could she look Raoul in the eye, clearly and honestly, and tell him she loved another. Why did he have to make it so difficult? "Raoul, please --"

"At least tell me the truth," he said, spinning to face her. "Do you love me? Did you ever love me? Or did you set me up as a fool and a puppet, to be deceived and mocked for your amusement? I dared hope, when we met in Perros, there was such joy in your eyes when you looked at me -- I wanted to court you, openly and honorably."

"Raoul --"

"But instead I find..." He broke off, gesturing fruitlessly with one hand. "Madame Valerius told me you were with the Angel of Music. And instead you're at an Opera masquerade with Red Death."

"I'm with you."

"For now. For a few minutes. And then what?"

"I don't know!"

They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity. Christine felt a frustrated scream welling up, but before it could break free, Raoul turned away. "Christine…if you are not deceiving me, then hasn't it occurred to you that someone might be deceiving you?"

He'd suggested this before, Christine remembered, and had to swallow a bitter smile. "This is no jest," she said quietly.

"I know that now," he said, just as quietly -- he'd calmed down, thank heaven. "But Christine, you've been gone two weeks, and if you've been with Red Death…I know what I saw in Perros. You must know this…this man is not an angel. Christine, Christine --" he turned back to her, eyes aglitter in the candlelight, "if you will not tell me as your lover, at least tell me as the boy you once knew!"

"Tell you what?" She still wore her mask, she realized. She reached up belatedly and untied the ribbons, letting it fall away from her face. "You seem to have all the answers settled, monsieur."

She looked up to find Raoul staring at her. He reached up one trembling hand and touched her cheek. "Christine…you're unwell!"

"Raoul, no -- I'm perfectly well." Pale, perhaps, her eyes shadowed. She'd spent two weeks entirely out of the sunlight, often not sleeping as much as she should.

His hand dropped away. "You should -- you must go home. Madame Valerius believes you're with the Angel of Music --"

"You told me so," Christine reminded him gently. "I am well. I'm safe, truly."

"I don't understand."

That was why she'd arranged this meeting, wasn't it? To explain everything? The Angel of Music is a man, true -- a man who is also the Phantom of the Opera, a man named Erik. She bit her tongue instead. "I shouldn't meet you again," she said instead.

"But I'll see you," Raoul said anxiously. "On the stage."

"I don't know." Her music. Another triumph, all Paris at her feet. What had Erik done to give that to her? "I must leave."

"Leave -- Christine!"

Christine pulled her mask back on without answering him, opened the door, and walked away, forcing herself to walk slowly rather than run. The few people passing her didn't give her more than a cursory glance. She heard the door open behind her, and glanced over her shoulder to see Raoul standing in the doorway, looking after her with wide pitiful eyes. She shook her head emphatically. He bowed his head, and his shoulders rose and fell as if with a deep sigh. Then he stepped out and closed the door and leaned against it as if waiting.

It would have to do. She walked down toward the music and the ball.

That was not the end of it -- but I did not know Raoul's movements. I myself wandered around the ball, looking for Erik and avoiding the occasional overly-familiar pat of the hand or wet kiss, 'here's a pretty young thing, won't you join us!' At last I returned to my dressing-room: I had arranged to meet Erik there at half-past two, if we could not find each other again at the ball. But it was not yet time. I took out paper, and wrote down the exact truth of what had occurred between myself and the 'Angel of Music', including the truth of what had happened after the disaster of the chandelier, and where I had spent the past several days. This, once written, I folded up and addressed to Mama Valerius. As Raoul had just reminded me, she still believed in my father's fairy tales. I could not endure further deception. If something happened -- if I vanished down into the subcellars and was never seen by polite Parisian society again -- then at least she would know the truth.

Just as I finished, I heard Erik, singing his way up the path to my mirror. I called out something teasing about his lateness -- and then the witchery of his voice took hold, and I was through the mirror once more, into the world where Angels and Phantoms mingled and became one.