Christine breathed in, raised her hand and knocked. She listened carefully for the footsteps she knew would come closer, down the hall. She had come to recognize Françoise's footsteps in her many visits during the last months. Those footsteps were the last preamble to the best hours of her week. Christine looked down, as she fought a pang of disappointment. Erik would not be waiting in the sitting room for her. There wouldn't be warm tea and amiable conversation by the fire. Erik was still confined to bed, and she barely got any news from his daughter, who didn't fail to offer her tea in her iciest, most dismissive tone of voice. Christine always declined, never stayed longer than a few minutes to listen to the latest news. She hadn't dared to ask Gracie to let her see Erik again.

The door opened and Françoise greeted her with a warm smile.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle. Thank God you came early today. He is waiting for you."

Christine stared at Françoise, dumbfounded.

"Monsieur. . . Monsieur Kahn?" she stuttered, at last.

Françoise laughed, took Christine by the elbow and gently pulled her into the apartment.

"No, Mademoiselle. Monsieur Devaux. May I take your cloak?"

Mademoiselle's eyes got wider, if possible.

"May I take your cloak, Mademoiselle?" prodded Françoise with an amused smile.

She had to tug one of the laces that held Mademoiselle's cloak before Mademoiselle reacted and undid them. Françoise hung the garment and extended her hand.

"Your gloves?"

"What? Oh. . . yes, certainly," said Mademoiselle taking them off.

Suddenly she seemed to realise what was happening:

"Do you have a mirror? I would like to. . ."

She indicated her unruly curls. Some strands had escaped her chignon and hung loosely around her face.

Françoise opened the closet besides the entrance. There was a large mirror on the back of the door. Of course, thought Christine, Erik would not tolerate a mirror in his hall, but he wouldn't neglect his daughter's need for checking her appearance before going out. Jesus. Her hair was a mess. After pulling and tugging and trying to tuck the loose strands in, she finally gave up. She frowned when she noticed the dark marks under her eyes, the puffiness of her eyelids. Would he notice them? And what about her paleness? Christine pinched her cheeks, hoping to bring some colour to them. She smoothed the front of her dress and finally she turned around to face Françoise. The maid waved a hand, motioning her down the hall. She stopped by the second door to the right, but instead of knocking, she turned around and faced Christine.

"He's been out of bed today for the first time, Mademoiselle. And he's usually asleep at this hour. . . You'll not stay too long, will you?" she whispered, a worried look on her face.

Christine felt an irrepressible urge to hug her; such was the caring concern in Françoise's voice. She nodded.

Then Françoise knocked at the door and said:

"Mademoiselle Daaé."

And Christine went in and the door closed behind her.

There was hearty fire on the fireplace, to the right. A lamp stood on the mantelpiece, its flame not quite turned up. The light in the room was dim, but not much dimmer than in the hall, and Christine's eyes quickly adjusted to the change. She hardly noticed the Persian carpet, the desk looming in the shadows, the nightstand, the armchair. Her eyes immediately darted towards the bed. There, leaning on a mound of pillows, was Erik. He lifted a shaky hand, palm up. The visible corner of his mouth quirked in a welcoming smile. Christine was struck by his mussed hair, by the deep lines on the uncovered half of his face, by the white nightshirt he was wearing, but soon her surprise gave way to her elation and she rushed to his side. She bent over him and, a little awkwardly, put her hands on his shoulders in an attempt to hug him. She kissed him gently on his uncovered cheek. She lingered there, longer than was proper, relishing his spicy scent, the warmth of his skin. She pulled back, chuckled an emotional hiccup and blinked back tears.

"I'm so happy to see you again," she breathed.

Erik didn't speak. Christine eyed him with nervousness, uncertain at what his reaction at her emotional greeting would be. He wasn't used to bodily contact. It always startled and agitated him. Even during the first days they had spent together in his underground home, he had limited their touch to a handful of occasions. He had actually avoided any contact between them since they had started seeing each other again. Her eyes darted away, embarrassed at her own lack of control. She hoped he wasn't too shocked. Christine looked down at her hands, now entwined in front of her in a tight knot.

"Oh, Christine," whispered Erik in a barely audible voice.

Christine shuddered at the undercurrent of emotion that ran in his voice. She gathered enough courage to look at him again, and was startled at what she saw. Instead of the disgust she thought she would find in his eyes, they were shiny, the intensity that had always burnt in them even brighter.

Christine smiled and sat beside him on the bed, unable and unwilling to widen the distance between them. Greatly daring, she grabbed one of his hands and held it between hers, a movement from which Erik's shyness did not shrink. Christine thanked whatever guardian angel was protecting them, and idly caressed Erik's long fingers, noticing their coldness.

Erik stared at their hands. Never had she initiated contact between them before. He was dying, melting inside at this unspeakable sweetness. Christine started rubbing the back of his hand and he realised she was trying to warm it. He smiled apologetically, conscious of how displeasing the feel of his cold, clammy fingers must be. He made a weak, half-hearted attempt at withdrawing his hand.

"It will not warm up," he warned her. "Bad circulation. . . I'm sorry."

Ashamed of himself, he pulled a little harder, only to discover that she wouldn't relinquish her hold on his hand. She squeezed it instead, with a shy smile. She shook her head.

"I'm sorry," he offered again, for he didn't know what else to say.

"What for?"

He cleared his throat, gave out a self-deprecating snort.

"For presenting you a mere grey speck of a man."

"Oh, Erik," she sighed.

Was that disapproval in her voice? She gently squeezed his hand again, and Erik suddenly felt trapped. He didn't know how to carry on with this situation. The emotional turmoil she caused by simply being near him was all too much. He took in a deep, controlled breath and searched his mind for something, any comment that would draw them away from this. How he wished he could stand and pace the room! His hands were shaking, his chest tight. He looked up, expecting her to still be looking down, but met her eyes instead. She was watching him intently. Was there a flicker of concern in the blue depths? He squirmed and she suddenly released his hand, stood up. The sudden coldness on his skin was unbearable, and it was as if light was receding from the room. She was drawing away.

"No, please, stay," he begged and almost winced at the pitiful note of longing in his voice.

He looked at her through the haze that seemed to cover everything around him but her. She blinked, smiled, and nervously tucked a curl behind her ear.

"Am I. . . Am I not bothering you?" her voice was uncertain.

"What? No. . . please," he patted the side of the bed, tried to smile through his weariness.

As if it was one of his dreams, the crazy fantasies his idle head spun stirred by his foolish heart, her smile grew wider and she sat back, took his hand again. Erik could only smile, could only contemplate her with what he was certain was an utterly stupid look on his face. After a while, he was able to speak again.

"Thank you, Christine."

Christine shuddered at the warmth of his voice.

"What for?"

"For coming by," he answered.

For touching me, for smiling at me, for caring, his ridiculous heart cried.

"I was so worried about you. . ." she looked into his eyes intently. "You are getting better, aren't you?"

He nodded, once again at a lack for words. He was exhausted and dizzy, but he wasn't certain that it was due to his illness. Her nearness made thinking impossible.

"Really?"

He nodded again.

"Promise?"

Erik couldn't help but chuckle at the childish sincerity of her tone. It was only when his bout of laughter had passed that he noticed the satisfied grin on her face. The little minx. Erik shook his head, sobered enough to start guiding the conversation to the subject he wanted to discuss.

"And how have you been?"

She shrugged.

"I'm fine, Erik," her tone told him that she didn't want to talk about herself.

"Nadir said you had moved to Paris."

It took her some time to nod.

"And you've stopped teaching music."

Now he was bluffing, but he had the distinct feeling that Christine had been withholding something from him for some time now, and he really wanted to find it out. Christine bolted slightly, as if pinched. Erik was afraid he'd gone too far, but then, to his relief, she just nodded again.

"What. . .?"

"I have found another occupation," she interrupted him. And when he opened his mouth, she quickly added:

"I needed a change of airs, Erik. I missed the city. And. . . I wanted to be closer. . ." suddenly, her boldness seemed to have left her and she grew quiet.

Erik nodded, understandingly.

"Wanted to be closer to your old friends," he finished for her.

He had to swallow the sudden knot in his throat.

"How has Meg Giry been doing?" he asked, with all the nonchalance he could muster.

She frowned, unable to understand why Meg had popped up in their conversation.

"Meg? I haven't. . . I haven't seen Meg in a long time, Erik. We wrote for a while and she visited a couple of times but the last one was. . . I think it was four years ago. I wanted to be closer to you."

She heard him take in a shuddering breath, saw him close his eyes. He was fighting her words again, not daring to believe. Monsieur Kahn was so right. Erik was the master of denial. But he was quite right in mistrusting her, after she had betrayed him and run away from him. If only she had been more mature back then. . . She took a deep breath. She'd better leave the past be, and be mature and wise now. He was weak, ill and tired. She took in his drawn face, his shaky hands, the way in which he had reclined his head on the pillows. She patted his hand.

"You need your rest, and here I am bothering you," she said lightly. "It's already late. . ."

She started to rise.

His reaction was stunning. His eyes shot open and he grabbed her hand.

"No, please. . . stay."

Christine felt a surge of hope at his words. She sat down again.

"But not for long. Françoise will murder me if I tire you."

He chuckled, and despite the fact that his low, hoarse laughter was another sign of his weakness, she smiled victoriously. She loved the sound of it.

"A little bit," he whispered.

"All right," she finally acquiesced.

They didn't talk. They enjoyed a warm, companionable silence instead. After a while, Erik's eyes started fluttering. He was fighting sleep, but evidently wasn't winning the battle. Inwardly, she rebelled against the fact that her visit was over, but stilled herself. She had to leave now. She leaned forward, caressed his cheek with the back of her fingers. She imagined he turned ever so slightly towards her caress.

"You must sleep now, Erik," she whispered.

And she kissed his cheek.

He didn't react, didn't stiffen or recoil at her touch. He must have fallen asleep, she thought. Carefully, she disentangled her hand from his, but when she had just stood up, his eyes drowsily opened again.

"Christine?" he muttered.

"Yes?"

"Come back tomorrow?"

"Yes, Erik. I will."

"Promise?"

Christine chuckled. A half-smile curved the visible corner of Erik's mouth.

"Yes."

His eyes slid shut again, but he lifted his hand, trustingly, and she squeezed it one last time before forcing herself to turn around and walk out of the room.


Author's notes: thank you everybody for the reviews. I hope some of your questions were answered in this chapter... I really love your comments!