Yes! Another update! Within the same year! Surprising, eh?

Well, here it is. Read on, my friends...


Lise still couldn't push her discovery from her mind, even as she sat with her parents at dinner at the restaraunt. Nothing was adding up! What she'd found on her desk—Don Juan Triumphant—was the score of the very opera her mother had back home; that her mother had been, all that long time ago. For it to suddenly appear in her room—when it apparently hadn't been a current production; or any kind of well-known production at all—made no sense. It was too strange a situation to even ponder—and, somehow, Lise felt it was just one more thing she shouldn't bring to her mother's attention.

"Lise, darling?"

She was shaken from her thoughts to find her parents regarding her with concern. The waiter was at their table now.

"Oh...yes..." she said vaguely, showing the waiter what she wanted from the menu, and shifting back into her dazed state. Not for long, though—

"Lise, dear—you don't look yourself; a little pale, in fact—Christine, what do you think?"

Christine looked at her daughter with full, knowing eyes; feigning surprised concern for her husband's sake. Lise bit her lip and stared back at her mother in the same way. Let her think I'm still dwelling on the incident, she thought to herself. It was traumatic enough. I don't have to tell her about...

"Oh, she's only tired from her long, hard day," her mother laughed—forcedly, though. "Why don't we miss out the dessert course, just for now, and make an early night, hmm?"

Lise nodded, yawning; playing her part perfectly. Although, she was actually rather tired—she hadn't had to fake the yawn. Her mother's proposition sounded good indeed. She needed some sleep to rest her mind from all its troubling.

The waiter returned with drinks—wine for Lise's mother and father, while she herself had tea. The waiter, in black dress suit as all the waiters were, paused as he handed Lise her tea, fumbling with the spoon in the cup. Lise paid no attention, looking instead at her mother chatting away with her father, yet with a distracted expression on her face. She could tell her mind was still on...that man. Lise shook herself as she began to, for the thousandth time, go over the events of the previous night in her mind—she was just giving herself more tiring matters to dwell upon.

The waiter set her cup down and went. Lise never noticed his uneasy glance back at the table as she took the first sip of the scalding tea.

The first course came, then the second, then yet another course. Lise's eyelids gradually drooped lower and lower as the evening went on; feeling strangely numb to anything that was happening around her. Indeed, she felt almost unnaturally weary—she hadn't felt nearly this bad before...surely she was simply tired.

All of a sudden she felt the most peculiar sensation, like someone's eyes on the back of her head. She turned her head and searched the restaurant, but saw no one. Ignoring the feeling, pushing it away out of scorn, she turned her attention back to her own table—where the waiter had suddenly appeared once more, at her mother's side.

Lise noticed his hands clutched together around something behind his back, and saw he was holding something. Her mother was looking up at him in concern as he bent down slightly towards her and said in a low voice, "A...certain gentleman has asked me to bring this to you."

His voice was deep but clear, though with an accent unfamiliar to Lise. She struggled to keep her eyes open to watch him hand what he had been holding to her mother: a single red rose, tied with the thinnest, slimmest black ribbon—so thin she could easily have missed it, were she not scrutinizing the scene so closely, and especially as she was so tired.

Her father looked over in mild concern—but he, too, had a dazed and dreary look on his face, looking just as tired as Lise felt.

But the expression on her mother's face was what confused her the most. It was one of sudden realization—followed swiftly by worry, fear, horror—and then the smallest of smiles graced her face for a split-second, as she examined the rose—a sort of sad, nostalgic smile. Then it was hurriedly replaced by a forced one, accompanied by that same fake laugh.

"Oh, how nice!" she said, seemingly beaming. "Which gentleman?" She pretended to glance about the restaurant.

"I...it's—a gentleman," the waiter said, sounding confused himself. They could get nothing else out of him, so he hurried off, leaving them rather puzzled at his behavior.

Except for Christine.

"Oh! That's so sweet; perhaps someone who knows me from the opera!" she gasped, sounding happy and genuinely curious. "Raoul, you'd better watch out; I've still got admirers!"

Raoul, on the other hand, was looking rather concerned—but at his wife's words he shrugged and smiled to match Christine. Yet he still couldn't stifle his yawn as he murmured, "That's nice, Chris...tine..."

But the minute Raoul turned his attention to something else, rubbing his eyes tiredly, Christine's face dropped into a subtly fearful expression. Lise watched her scan the restaurant with her eyes, then frown and stare down at the rose.

After a brief moment, Christine let out a huge yawn and slumped into her chair exaggeratedly.

"Goodness, I am rather tired...Raoul, I'm afraid—" she cut herself off with a yawn—"I might...go back up to bed early...we're just around the corner; I might lie down...I feel dizzy..." she said apologetically.

Raoul looked at her with genuinely tired eyes, but he nodded slowly, sat up straight and stretched.

"Go on up, dear. I'll just pay and we'll be up shortly..."

Christine smiled, kissed him on the cheek, then put on her cloak, secretively picked the rose up from the table and slipped it inside—but not before Lise saw the ring tucked away between the petals, the dim candlelight glancing off its perfect, polished surface. Then Christine kissed her daughter's forehead and was gone.


How could she have forgotten? After all that had happened…she had completely forgotten their ritual meetings from so long ago; and how he'd asked her to come that very night.

Christine burst through the private entrance to the opera house and almost ran through the foyer. She was careful not to look to hurried or harrowed; she knew there would still be people about the place, late as it was. She rushed up the stairs, around a corner, up a few more flights, and on down the hallway—not even thinking about how to get where she was headed. She knew it so well; going there faithfully every afternoon to prepare for the evening's show—then after the shows, night after night, back again…to meet with her Angel…

The whole way there, as her feet knowingly led the way, she let her mind wander. Erik still had yet to discuss his 'deal' with her…oh, what was this new ploy to capture her again?

Christine finally found herself striding down the right corridor, slowing reluctantly at the right door. Her old dressing room…Lise's now, she knew. Frowning and silently scolding her trembling fingers, she drew a deep breath—and with it, a sudden strange burst of confidence—and opened the door.

It was, naturally, unlocked; and Christine ventured into the dimly lit room and softly closed the door behind her. Then, as though it were a second thought—she locked it with the key that sat purposefully in its lock on the inside of the door.

The candelabras beside the dresser were lit, and the room glowed with a soft light, shadows dancing—trembling—on the walls. On the dresser itself lay yet another rose…this one just plain and unadorned; no ribbons or rings—just a rose. Christine exhaled slowly; not even knowing she'd been holding her breath; feeling somehow calmed by it all. She stood in the same place for a few moments more, her eyes closed, breathing in and out slowly and deeply; then moved to a corner of the little room where there was a wide, comfortable sofa, and sat down.

It all seemed so strangely calm…and it all felt right—except—

Christine felt a sudden pang of panic. In the wave of emotions that followed her reunion with her former dressing room, she'd been completely oblivious to the fact that—

He wasn't there.

She sat up sharply. Had she come too late? Oh, if she had, surely he would be furious…she prayed he hadn't come yet; that she'd gotten there first…

She glanced towards the mirror. Perhaps he was there… She stood and pried one of the candles from its stand by the dresser, wax dripping down onto her hand, and brought it close to the mirror. She stood just to the side, on the right; held the candle close, and looked just to the right of the flame; almost through it, just as he'd taught her—at such an angle that she could see, just barely, very dimly, what was behind the double mirror. She peered closely at the passageway she could just barely make out—

Nothing.

She sighed, drawing the candle away from the mirror—but not before she caught sight of the end of a dark shadow swishing past the exact spot the candle trick allowed her to see through the mirror.

She froze. It was him, she knew it. His cape. He really would be better off without it; it could cause all kinds of trouble. Christine was actually surprised there hadn't been any accidents with it beforehand.

Just as she thought this she mentally chastised herself. She was in too grave a situation to be thinking such thoughts.—Yet…Erik was playing some sort of game with her; pretending he wasn't there—probably, she figured, so as to make a surprise entrance and shock her into submission.

She sighed again, with a tiny shrug, and secured the candle back in its holder, and perched on the edge of the sofa, her gaze still fixed attentively (but somewhat carelessly) on the mirror. He didn't know she'd seen him—of course not; he was so confident of all his little tricks that he thought she had no idea, and he thought he'd take her completely by surprise when he made his presence known to her. But she was still unsure what to do.

Suddenly feeling somehow contended and almost coquettish with her knowledge, she began to sing. Of course he wouldn't be expecting that: her voice was the one weapon she had against him; it was his one…his one weakness.

"In sleep he sang to me…" she sang softly, gazing at the mirror, still perched on the edge of her seat, hands clutching the edge, "in dreams he came… That voice which calls to me,… and speaks my name…"

She let her voice grow a little in her song, taking on the shape and beauty it always used to when she sang with such fervor. Granted, she hadn't sung in a long, long time—it had still been too painful; she'd preferred to leave it all behind. But now she began to realize how she'd missed it, and how—even if she tried—she'd never lose it.

As she finished the phrase the room grew silent once more—so silent, in fact, that she thought she could almost hear Erik's light breathing behind the mirror; standing frozen behind the glass, she knew; the way he always did when she sang. As close as he had ever dared go…in the beginning, at least.

Christine paused, then took another breath—and changed her song.

"But…his voice filled my spirit…with a strange, sweet sound…" she sang; slowly, reverently; now standing and moving towards the mirror; all very slowly. "In that night, there was music…in my mind…" The passion grew in her voice. "And through music, my soul…began to…soar…"

She'd never sung with that much true feeling before. How she'd missed it—singing, yes, but most of all—singing for him.

"Now I sing as I've never sung before…" The words she sang now, though different, were truer than they'd ever been.

And—to her enormous surprise, even though she hadn't known what to expect in the slightest—a voice answered her in song; a voice she'd yearned to hear for so long…:

"What you sing…is a dream, and nothing more…"

She almost fell to her knees at the feeling that washed over her as she heard his voice, singing, once more.

But—

"That is not what we're here for, Christine, and you know it."

She looked up. The mirror was now clear as glass. There he stood, staring right back at her. And—of all things—she broke into a smile, in spite of herself. But the moment she felt it touch her lips she fought it back and raised her head in defiance. She wouldn't let him do this to her.

"Are you too good for my tricks now, madame? I thought the mysterious apparition act was rather amusing," he said, in the simplest of tones, so that Christine couldn't tell what he was feeling, or what he meant by it.

"Erik—do not play games," she said softly. "I do know what we're here for. You needn't make it difficult by playing ghost with me. I know you."

This reply seemed to be different than what Erik had expected, for he seemed taken aback, and a tense silence rested between them for quite a while. However, Christine soon realized that while he was taken aback, the answer also somehow displease him:

"Do you?"

Christine, in turn, was knocked off balance by this.

"Do I—what?"

"Know me? Really, do you?"

"I…" She didn't know what to say. "I know you better than anyone else here, I can give you that," she said hesitantly, softly. "But I don't know you well enough to ever know what goes on in your mind, if that's what you mean. I don't know your—feelings."

"Oh, I have feelings now, do I?"

This shocked Christine more than anything else that had happened that night—especially the roar of cold laughter that accompanied it. But he wasn't finished.

"I thought the poor, pitiful monster didn't have feelings. No, of course he didn't; not all those times he was betrayed, and mocked, and scorned, and made fun of—as child and adult. No, he never had feelings; his whole life he surely didn't; not that whole time as he was brought up in the world that knew it and took advantage of it! Oh no, madame—he couldn't have had them that night down underground when he was left alone, and wished to die?"

This Christine couldn't stand.

"I never wished you to die! Erik, don't you see!" she cried hopelessly. "Perhaps I was a fool; I was afraid, I was angry—but I never wished that—and I've changed, Erik, I've changed! I know you expected me to run at every clue you were here—especially after last night—but I've changed! I didn't run. I'm here, and so are you. I've changed—and I thought you would, too."

She finished, and breathed heavily, shocked at her nerve—she'd never spoken up to him like that! She'd never been so bold…not with him, anyways… She'd changed, yes—but she'd only changed just then, as she said that. She'd shocked even herself.

But, even so—no one was more shocked than Erik, she knew. She knew she'd dug in right at the heart of it—the fragile place in Erik's soul; the one place where he was not confident and brave.

She waited, trembling, for his reply.


No comment on the, um, "cliffhanger". I know, I know- I was going to put it all in one chapter- you know, everything about 'The Deal', etc- but I'm sick which means that a) my brain is malfunctioning and b) The Mom wants me off the computer and into bed. :S

But, nonetheless- REVIEW!