A/N – For Claire Starling, for the most rapturous response to the Pimpernel references I could ever have hoped for!

Christine Persephone – "something horrible" – how well you know me. This horrible enough for you? :)

And as for the end of this chapter … I think it's a result of watching Lisa Vroman unmask Brad Little one too many times. My apologies are sincere; I can't think why I did it.

Much love and hugs to all those who take the time to review; I love you all, you make my day :)

~

Both Erik and Christine had worried for hours over the inevitable awkwardness that must shadow their first singing lesson in almost five years.

Erik had driven himself almost to distraction with anxiety in the days that had passed between their meetings; he tidied the flat from top to bottom, and put the small framed portraits of her that he still treasured away in a drawer. He could not bear the thought of her seeing them, however accidentally. After a moment's hesitation, he added the small gold ring that had once belonged to her. He locked the drawer, and slipped the key into his pocket.

He returned to check that he had indeed locked it properly at least twice that afternoon.

Christine, in true female style, tried on every dress she possessed in anticipation of their lesson. Unable to think of any profitable way to displace her agitation, she tried them all on again, and put them all away. She did half of a rather crooked needlework; she read half of the first chapter of a book. She attempted to play the piano to calm herself, but finding that this last activity especially increased her tension exponentially, she finally called on St Cyr and went for a long walk with him around his estate.

And of course, on the morning of the long-awaited lesson, she did not even notice which dress she put on.

~

In the end, it was all very simple. He received her gracefully – and he had tidied away the reams of music spread over every available surface, she noticed – and produced her favourite brand of tea.

Somehow, it was all very much as it had been before, and while Christine delighted in his company, and Erik's heart thrilled to have her so near again, they both felt a flicker of anxiety somewhere deep inside. For Erik, this emotion was both comprehensible and easily defined: he was afraid of surrendering his heart to her again and risking his sanity on her trust; for Christine, it was less identifiable. Waiting for the lesson had made her sick with nerves, and she was thoroughly ashamed of the condition of her voice; and yet Erik had been supremely chivalrous. He had not commented on the depletion of her range or her slightly off-pitch tone, but had resurrected her old vocal exercises and was slowly, steadily, patiently recreating the instrument she had allowed to fall into such shameful repair.

The first time they sang together again, it was hard to say which of them was closer to tears.

~

Gradually they slid back into a routine. By an unspoken pact, they did not speak of the past. They spoke of music, art, books; again Erik began to purchase her books that he had read and thought she would enjoy; again she began to linger in his home long after her lesson was over.

Slowly, Erik's muse, largely absent over the past four years, began to return to him. Christine noticed, but did not comment on, the fresh stacks of hastily-scribbled music adorning the piano.

St Cyr noticed, and did comment on, how much happier Christine seemed to be of late. The first time he brought it up, Christine flushed, confused, and changed the subject. Later she considered the matter and realised that, as always, he was right. Erik's spirit had begun to pour liquid fire back into her soul; for the first time in years, she was able to think of Raoul without wrenching anguish: she was learning to remember their memories without dwelling on the future that they did not have.

Slowly, and utterly unknowingly, they were once again beginning to give each other the joie de vivre they had forgotten they could feel.

~

It was a very ordinary day, really. When he looked back on it, he could not even remember what day it had been. A Wednesday, perhaps.

Whatever day it began as, it ended as the day that Erik knew his absent muse had returned. Perhaps it was the sunshine pouring through the window, a sensation which in spite of all his years above ground he still found exhilarating, if occasionally disconcerting; perhaps it was the lark joyously declaring the magic of the world in the tree outside his window. More likely, of course, it was the promise that Christine would be coming the next day; but of course Erik would not admit that to himself.

It must have been the lark, he told himself as the first swell of inspiration burst upon him, blinding and flaming as the sun; but as the music welled inside him, he ceased to care: for six years now, he had been desperately searching for the inspiration that would allow him to express what he felt for Christine; it had finally come to him.

Every note ached with longing, softly tender, despairingly romantic; and when it was finished, he collapsed back into his chair, exhausted and trembling with the emotion drawn from him.

He came back into himself slowly, the euphoria of preserving his love within staves that remained steady even as his world might tip fading, and laughed with savage bitterness at the absurdity of it all. To think that music could make any difference! Even if she realised what the music meant, even if she recognised that he had poured his heart and soul into the devastatingly emotional notes, to think that her reaction would be anything short of disgust … or at the very least, pity …

He shuddered involuntarily. Perhaps pity was the worst emotion of all. He could bear her fear, her disgust, even her hatred – oh God, please don't make me prove it, not again – but somehow the light of compassion in her eyes was the most painful of all to endure.

Erik passed a hand distractedly through his hair, abruptly withdrawing it as it came into contact with the cold edge of the mask. He winced, remembrance passing through him in a cold shower that stole his breath and his resolve.

Of course he could not give it to her. If nothing else, that sting of memory reminded him that he could never again entrust her with his heart; she would never reconcile herself to his love.

He shook his head savagely, warding off grief. Angry with himself now, he crumpled the paper in his hand and dropped it to the floor, and moved to the door as the claustrophobia he had thought long suppressed closed in on him again.

It made him angry to think that Christine could still reduce him to this, he thought irritably as he strode along a street, the exercise calming his jangled nerves. She had introduced him to so many new emotions, crystalline and fragile and exotically and intoxicatingly beautiful; and yet emotion left him vulnerable, open to the shadowed vestiges of pain that still lingered in the back of his mind. Since she had returned, he had found himself susceptible once again to the claustrophobia that had plagued him throughout his youth, yet another unwanted legacy of a childhood spent in captivity, and frequently found himself too nervous to work, agitating himself with anticipation of God only knew what. If it was she who inspired him to write his best music, he thought irritably, she did at least as much damage as good to his work by robbing him of his concentration. He frequently found himself staring into space, dreaming empty castles in the air that dissolved into nothingness as soon as he remembered himself, as soon as he came to and recognised the warmth of the sun on one cheek … and the cold kiss of porcelain on the other.

And yet, I am content, he told himself firmly. To sit with her, and to hear her sing, and … it is enough.

Infuriated at his inability to sound convincing to even his own ears, he glanced up at the street around him in a conscious effort to force himself to think of something other than her.

It was with no little alarm that he realised that he was on a street filled with people. Panic welled up inside him, and he forced himself to take a deep breath to keep himself from losing control. He felt somebody bump into him and murmur an apology, heard another voice raised in castigation – "not the best place to stand, mate" – and his self-possession deserted him utterly. Unable to suppress the rising panic crashing through him, he made for a small alley off the main road and ducked into it, drawing his cloak tightly around him and pressing his face into the soft material in a vain bid to slow the deafening pounding of his heart.

Erik stood there, invisible in the shadows, for a very long time. Gradually – very gradually – the panic eased and he began to be able to breathe again. As he slowly regained possession of himself, hot shame welled up inside him, colouring his frustration and anger at himself black with self-castigation.

It had been years since he had lost control like that; years since the terror he had thought to have left behind with his adolescence had unnerved him so intensely. He was always uncomfortable around people, of course; but he had not lost his nerve so badly since … it must have been since his departure from Italy in a whirlwind of anguished loss. In the ensuing years he had become a master of manipulation, and had learned how easily people could be controlled – as long as he retained control over himself.

Erik shook his head furiously. That he should have overreacted so! He was thoroughly ashamed of himself. And yet –

He looked out into the street, and felt the cold veil of dread sweep over him again. How could he bear to brave the myriad of eyes, the staring, the pointing, the unavoidable threat of violence? He felt trapped, and shrank back into the shadows, drawing his hat down low over his eyes, rendering himself invisible.

It was the thought of Marguerite, alone and hungry in the flat, wailing her especially pathetic mew that she reserved for special occasions, that finally drove Erik to take a deep breath and step out into the crowded street before he could think better of it.

As soon as he was out of the street and back on the Rue de           , the feeling of cold sickness began to relax its grip on Erik. It infuriated him to find, however, even as he slowed his pace, forcing himself to relax in the solitude of the private neighbourhood in which he lived, that he was still trembling. He held his hand out in front of him, willing it to still, and his distress increased as he found himself unable to calm its tremor.

Furious at himself and his contemptible weakness, he strode back home, feeling the uncomfortably familiar tightness building in his chest.

~

Erik could not restrain a sigh of silent relief as his flat hoved into view. It said much for his still-distressed state of mind that he did not notice the small blue-cloaked figure walking disconsolately away from his front door; and as a result of this, he was caught completely off-guard when, as he turned the key in the lock, a small white hand clasped hold of his upper arm.

"There you are!"

It was perhaps fortunate that Erik's morning had thus been so harrowing: the fact that the only conscious thought in his mind was to lock himself into his flat and put out all the lights until he felt calmer was the only thing that kept his usually razor-sharp reflexes from spelling an unfortunate end for his visitor.

As it was, the intense confusion induced by the unexpected touch slowed his arm enough for him to recognise Christine's voice.

She had released his arm, and was looking up at him, beaming. "I'm sorry, did I startle you?" She made an unsuccessful but deeply endearing effort to look contrite.

Erik took a deep breath and passed a hand across his face, this time barely even noticing how it shook.

"You did, rather," he murmured, feeling his pulse racing in his fingertips. Aware that Christine was looking at him slightly oddly, doubtless taken aback by his uncharacteristic discomposure, he made a conscious effort to pull himself together and smiled at her. "Forgive me – I don't recall our having planned a lesson for today …"

Christine beamed and shook her head. "Oh no, we didn't. No, I just …" she made a charming little shrug, "… just had a free afternoon and thought I might come and see you." Doubt entered her eyes, and her brow furrowed slightly. "You don't mind?"

Erik's heart leapt. That she should come to him willingly – unexpectedly! – was almost inconceivable. Suppressing the thrill he felt sure must betray itself in his eyes, he moved one hand in graceful denial. "No, of course not."  There was a brief, slightly awkward pause, and he stepped back from the door. "But forgive me – do go in."

Christine obeyed, and as Erik traced the line of her shoulder with his eye, wondering whether he dared take her cloak from her shoulders, a small furry thunderbolt hurled itself at his legs, winding herself around his feet and stealing his balance.

Christine, startled, turned to see Erik stumble as he moved his feet to avoid either stepping on his cat or allowing her to trip him, and she smiled inwardly. Moments such as these, when Erik appeared neither formal nor forbidding, Angel of Music nor Phantom of the Opera, but rather a man unique in so many ways and yet fundamentally no different to any other she knew were, although unusual – so rarely did he allow his façade of omnipotence to slip – becoming increasingly precious to her. She knew, perhaps better than anybody, just how far Erik really was from the frontispiece of indifferent dispassion he presented to the world; and it was comforting to know that inside the brilliance of his passion and the whirl of his temper hid a man like any other.

Erik, catching her eye, smiled wryly and gathered the cat, now purring violently with ecstatic satisfaction, up into his arms.

"Ludicrous animal," he said with a smile, drawing one finger across Marguerite's head, making the cat squirm in delight.

Christine laughed. "She's adorable."

"She's ridiculous," said Erik wryly, giving the lie to the cynicism shading his words by bestowing another caress that spoke volumes of his devotion to the little cat still purring rapturously in his arms.

He deposited Marguerite on the floor, where she rubbed up against his ankles and sat down on the floor to stare up at her master with adoration.

Christine giggled. "She certainly is fond of you."

Erik smiled unconsciously, and Christine saw his pride in his beloved pet. "She's more like a dog than a cat at times. And disgracefully spoilt – aren't you?" he addressed Marguerite, who purred and dug her claws into the thick plush carpet.

Christine laughed, and Erik's heart staggered at the sound. No matter how many times she came to him, no matter how often he saw her smile or heard her laugh, the rush of joy her presence brought would never fade. Oh, he loved her always, every moment of the day and night; but there was never a moment in which she was dearer to him than when her lovely face lit with a smile and her celestial soprano laughter rang in the air. She was exquisite, and he wanted her with an aching yearning that transcended the physical, exceeded the uncontainable desire to take her in his arms: her love was the golden apple he could never hope to achieve, and yet for which he could never surrender his hopeless quest.

Christine, unaware of the sudden change in Erik's mood, knelt down on the softness of the carpet and reached out gently to stroke Marguerite. The little ginger cat rolled over, stretching her small furry limbs, and purred rapturously.

Erik watched his two most beloved little ladies in silent adoration and drew in his breath in a sharp shuddering inhalation as Christine bestowed a caressing touch upon Marguerite that set the very core of him aflame. He suddenly wanted desperately to be out of the room.

"Tea, Christine?"

She glanced up from the cat quivering in ecstasy beneath her hands, and nodded, still smiling in amusement at Marguerite's exaggerated rapture. "Thank you."

~

Erik made his way to the kitchen and leaned his head against the wall, its surface cool beneath his aching forehead. His chest and arm felt tight again, his heartbeat erratic and painful against his chest. Forcing himself to straighten his back, he poured a glass of water with hands that were suddenly slow and far away, and took a sip; and suddenly the pain exploded down him, the brilliance of lightning and the crash of thunder intense in the magnitude of its agony. He was on his knees, gasping for breath, a dagger white-hot inside him, shards of broken glass cutting his hands as he choked, the mask suffocatingly tight and air suddenly in devastatingly short supply.

~

Christine glanced up as she heard the shattering of glass come from the kitchen.

"Erik?" she called. "Is everything all right?"

There was no reply, and she rose, smoothing down her skirts, and made her way into the kitchen.

"Eri – oh, God!"

She flew to his side, falling to her knees beside him, seeing with distress the blood where he had cut himself on the broken glass that lay in a pool of water on the floor. He was gasping for breath, his head bent away from her, and she repeated his name, her voice shrilling with panic.

"Erik – Erik! Can you hear me?"

He shook his head with tremendous effort. He heard his own voice as if from far away; "It's all right"; and it was with a violent start of shocked emotion that almost rivalled the attack itself in intensity that he felt her hands on his face.

"Tell me what I can do," she begged, lifting his face to look him in the eye. "Tell me how to help!"

Erik's mind reeled. It had been so long since he had dared to dream of her touch; and now the sensation of her fingers on his skin robbed him of the power of coherent speech.

"Erik, please!"

The panic in her voice gave him strength; he did not want to upset her. Concentrating his mind and focusing every fibre of his being on the opposite wall, he raised himself to his feet with a mammoth effort. The exertion exhausted him; he clasped the worktop for support, concentrating his mind on blocking out the throbbing agony lancing through him.

Forcing himself to straighten, he shook off the iron rod bending his spine and moved unsteadily the few paces to the central room, seeking the solace of the couch.

He sat down heavily, and felt Christine at his arm.

"Erik, please, tell me what's wrong."

He did not quite dare to look at her. "I daresay it's just a touch of fatigue, my dear …" He closed his eyes, compelling himself not to wince. "I would appreciate a few hours of solitude … it was good of you to come, but tomorrow would perhaps be more convenient … or Monday," he amended, grudgingly acknowledging that he might not be fit to receive her so soon as the next day.

"Erik –" He heard the protestation in her voice and sought to suppress it. He managed to force a smile.

"Please, leave me."

Christine looked at him for a moment in confusion, then turned and left.

Left alone, Erik collapsed onto the couch and lay quite still, closing his eyes in agony and willing the pain to subside.

Thank God she wasn't here to see this.

Then he heard footsteps, and before he could sit up, he felt cool fingers brush the hair away from his forehead and heard the sloshing of water in a bowl. He tried to sit up, but her gentle hands stopped him.

"Shh," she murmured, dampening a cloth in the water and laying it against his head. "Lie still. The pain will ease if you stay still."

"Christine ..." He forced himself to sit up, gritting his teeth against the screaming agony that started again in his head. "I really would prefer that you leave … there is no need for you to be here."

Leave and let me make a fool of myself in private.

She laughed softly and pressed him back down onto the sofa.

"Don't be silly," she said with a smile, brushing back the hair that had fallen into his eyes. "You just lie still and I'll play nurse for an hour or two." She seemed calmer now; Erik smiled in spite of himself. Of all her little idiosyncrasies, this was one of the things that he loved most about her: panic though she might at the slightest knot in her plans, as soon as she had something to do to take her mind off it she became sedate and surprisingly efficient. He smiled, very faintly, even that slight motion an effort.

She laid her hand against his forehead, her fingers smoothing cool fire across the agony in his head.

"You're burning," she murmured, her forehead creasing with concern. "What do you usually do when this happens? Is there medication you can take?"

Erik closed his eyes against the hammering of pain in his head and tried to manufacture a smile.

"No," he whispered. "It will ease soon …" Soon, the lancing of knives in his chest and the thud of hammers solidly into his head would recede, leaving only a dull, debilitating ache that would steal his strength like a slow poison and render him weak as a kitten before frustration and sheer bloody-mindedness forced him back onto his feet.

He heard her shift her position slightly, kneeling on the floor.

"You know, my dear, you are going to cripple yourself if you continue to sit on the floor," he told her, trying to take her mind away from the heat in his head.

Christine smiled and stood up. "I'll go and make us some tea, then. Unless –" her face clouded "– unless you shouldn't drink tea for a bit?"

He shook his head and regretted it as Thor took up his hammer once again. "No, tea would be very welcome … thank you."

Erik closed his eyes as Christine moved out of his field of vision. Sleep came through his haze of exhaustion fast and soothing, but as its velvet curtain obscured his senses, he wondered vaguely whether Christine would stay the night … and just how he would bear the joy of it if she did.

~

Christine returned to the sitting room carrying two cups of tea, spilling an embarrassing amount of the overfull cups' contents into the saucers, and wondering if she could make it back into the kitchen to make the drinks a little more presentable without Erik's noticing.

She stopped abruptly at the sight that met her eyes, and icy fear drenched her in cold perspiration. She deposited the teacups rather abruptly on the table, ignoring the liquid that splashed out to mark the wood, and ran to Erik's side. His eyes were closed, and his unmasked cheek was pale and unguarded.

Her pulse slowed as she saw his chest rise and fall, and she laughed softly to herself with embarrassed relief as she realised he was asleep.

She stood up as quietly as she could, holding her skirts to keep them from rustling, and glanced ruefully at her abandoned cups of tea.

"And after I even managed to light that wretched samovar," she said with mock reproach to Marguerite, who was curled up on top of the piano, watching Christine sleepily.

Christine sighed and retrieved the teacups, stroking her finger with a faint smile along the red and white roses that twined around the china.

"Has Erik ever told you the story of the red rose?" she asked Marguerite, holding up the teacup to show the little cat. Her face changed as she remembered that story; she grew sad. "No, I don't suppose he would have," she murmured, holding the teacup a little closer to her.

Marguerite made a little meow, and Christine smiled sadly. "It's not a very happy story," she whispered, tickling the little cat gently under her chin and bearing the unneeded cups of tea back into the kitchen.

Christine returned to the sitting room a short time later, having cleared up the prodigious mess she had somehow managed to make in the process of producing two cups of – even she had to admit – rather indifferent tea. She smiled involuntarily: she remembered, a long time ago, Erik drinking an entire cup of her tea with a poker straight face, determined to finish it in order to avoid hurting her feelings. She had not realised the depth of devotion that engendered until she had taken a mouthful from her own cup. Only the deepest and most entrenched desire not to look a fool in front of her teacher had kept her from spitting the concoction straight back into the cup. And yet Erik had finished his entire cup without even a grimace …

She knelt by the couch, smiling at the memory of Erik's unfailing kindness. Her hand rose to his face to brush away a lock of hair that had fallen into his eyes, and her fingers unexpectedly brushed a ridge of scar tissue emerging from the concealing border of the mask. She snatched her hand away instantly, her heart suddenly pounding.

He had not been kind always. The man who had read to her for hours on end, written her music that would have made the angels weep, swallowed her dreadful tea without even a flicker of distaste, abandoned his own pursuits at a moment's notice to help her with her libretto; this was the same man who had attacked Raoul, murdered two men, had terrorised the entire population of the Opera Garnier for years.

Christine withdrew, suddenly confused. Why was it so hard to reconcile the two? The two distinct and manifest personas he adopted – the aloof, abrupt Angel of Music, unprepared to tolerate a lapse in concentration or a missed rehearsal, and the malevolent Phantom – seemed to her so remote from the man she had come to know. When had she first realised that Erik was a real person? Was it the first time he had played to her on the violin? the night on the roof when they had watched the sunset and, as they turned back to the stairs, she had been sure for one brief, ecstatically exhilarating and terrifying moment that he was going to kiss her? It had not been in that ghastly, supremely painful moment when she had first seen his face; that at least was certain.

She shook her head, and her eye wandered again to the border on his forehead where the mask met his hair. If she brushed his hair back, she would be able to see the edges of the crevices and ridges that heralded the beginning of his deformity. She wondered briefly whether she remembered how he looked unmasked. It had been so long … she wondered if she would still be afraid.

A very little voice whispered something in the back of her mind. She put down the idea immediately; it was a terrible idea. Supremely unjust. He would never forgive her …

But then, need he necessarily know? He seemed to be fast asleep … and she could always replace it before he awakened … or pretend that it had come free of its own accord …

She passed her hand over his face a few times, experimentally. He did not stir.

Her common sense bubbled, pressing on the back of her throat.

He would never forgive her …

But then, she had seen him before. It was not now the betrayal of his trust it had been so many years ago.

She lowered her fingers tentatively, cautiously, inexpressibly lightly to the ridge of distortion visible at the crest of his forehead, ready to snatch away her fingers should he wake. He shifted very slightly, and she withdrew her hand instantly, her heart pounding. She waited. Her touch did not appear to have woken him; he sank back into sleep.

He would never forgive her.

She could see the tie that would free the mask to her hands.

If she was careful – if she was gentle … he would never know. If he did not know, then how could he be angry?

Christine stretched out her hand and cautiously, so slowly she felt her hand might shatter with the tension, pulled experimentally at the tie that would allow her to lift the mask away from his face. It gave way without resistance, and Erik did not stir.

Christine hesitated. Then, quickly, before her nerve could fail her, she reached out and lifted the mask from his face in one swift motion.

She barely had time to glimpse the distorted malformation of Erik's face before his hand came up, the reaction immediate, visceral, sleep torn away with his porcelain protection. He was upright on the couch in a moment so swift that he barely seemed to move, his hand over his face, his eyes frenetically scanning the room.

They locked onto Christine's.

The sound that tore from Erik's throat, horrified in betrayal, strangled with anguish, haunted her sleep for months to come.