The longer she laid awake, the more miserable Christine became. She didn't know what she wanted to say, but she felt she must speak to the Angel. To Erik. To try to make an apology, to try to understand. She was still sitting in the parlor when she heard him leave. She sat up for another hour, but he did not return home, so she finally went to bed.

Lying down was worse. She had to keep still so as not to wake Meg, but sleeping was impossible. How would she ever know what to say? She was glad he was still living. She was furious that he had destroyed everything. Curious as to whether he still loved her. Hurt that there was so much that had been kept from her. Confused, certainly. Since the fire, she had mostly skirted around the memories of that last night and why he had let her go.

She heard the front door open and someone trying to be quiet on the stairs. He passed her door and then, after a few minutes, passed it again, as if heading for the parlor. Christine shivered with a chill that was mostly nervousness. It would be better to speak privately, she was sure. Fewer eyes would help her to be more calm.

She rose from bed and wrapped herself in her robe—a much warmer and more sensible garment than she wore the last time he had seen her half-dressed. She could almost smell the heavy scent of beeswax undercut by cold water. She shook her head fiercely and crept down the short hallway.

The door was partly open. He sat at his desk with quill and paper but not writing. His mask lay by his hand. She knocked softly, and he grabbed for the leather.

"No, it's all right," she said, and noticed the deliberateness with which he laid the mask down, the pause before he turned to her.

Christine kept her face very still and met his eyes. He looked exhausted, and his tired eyes were as pale as she had ever seen them. His marred cheek was wet.

"Oh no," she said. "You're not—"

"No." He pulled a handkerchief from his pocked and mopped his cheek. "Forgive me. This eye does not blink properly. Sometimes it waters when I am tired."

She remembered thinking that she could listen to his voice forever. Then, too, his comment brought up a hundred questions about his face, none of which she would ever be able to ask, of course. Neither of them seemed to know where to look.

"May we speak?" she asked after a moment. He blinked at her, then started a little and stood.

"Of course."

The only light was from his one candle. Christine twisted her fingers together and tried to think of what to say. He remained standing, looking down at the floor, and she stared at him, his worn face, and he was almost as rumpled as on that last night at the Opéra. He did look sad, but a sense of desperation was missing. His stillness no longer carried a threat of menace. He swayed a little, and she remembered her manners. She turned a chair toward him and sat; he sank down with a great breath.

She had no idea how to begin. There were at least twenty subjects to talk over, each one with its own list of places to start. Words tumbled through her mind until she barely knew one from another.

"I was ashamed," she said, and surprised herself.

Evidently she surprised him too, because he only said, "Er, what?"

It took her a moment to get going, but then the words were simply spilling from her mouth.

"Earlier tonight, I mean. I was ashamed. That's why I lashed out, and I'm sorry." She twisted her fingers so hard that it hurt, and she anchored herself to the pain. "It was one thing to take the money and feel that I was free, but to speak of it, suddenly it seemed shameful, as if you—all of you—would think that I had lowered myself, after all the time you and Madame had ambition for me, but I was just like every other girl getting money on her back"—she did not notice his wince—"and I know I didn't but it's almost as bad, a chorus girl trying to catch a nobleman. I mean, it wasn't like that, but it's what people would say, and I couldn't bear it."

"Christine," he said, and she shut her mouth. "Your hands," he said. "Stop that. It looks painful."

She unlaced her fingers and laid her hands on her knees. They were red, and they did ache.

"I'm sorry," she said, and he sighed.

"I hardly know what to say to you," he said after a pause. "After all the harm I have caused, what right do I have to even try to make an explanation? And yet you are here, apologizing to me for being angry? Saying that you were ashamed what I might think of you, I who have murdered and blackmailed, who destroyed your home and your livelihood."

She looked up into his eyes and was saddened that any one face should hold so much regret.

"But I am sorry," she said.

"Thank you."

"Madame says you were mad, at the end." He passed his hand over his face. The dim, flickering light softened the harshness of it, blurred the line between his disfigurement and the perfect, handsome side.

"I was. Mad, desperate, furious. None of that is an excuse."

"You were … different, after you returned."

There was no mistaking the bitterness that twisted his mouth.

"I had forgotten that you never knew," he said. "The night I killed the stagehand, I followed you to the roof. I heard everything."

This explained a great deal. Her heart ached a little. She knew that she should feel more over Buquet's death, but he had been given to pinches and leaping from dark corners. Strangely, it was hard to focus on the murderer part when he was sitting so quietly in front of her. As it had always been, it was one thing to resent and plot against the Angel when she was away from him, but his presence compelled and confused her. She heard that beautiful voice and thought him capable of every good thing.

"Is that why you went mad?"

He gave an ugly bark of a laugh.

"You know, I thought of little else, those first weeks after the fire. How far back do I go? I have never been reasonable. I have always sought to use others for my gain. Is that madness? I don't know. After that night, certainly I was insane with despair. For three months after that night, I ate only when I was starving, slept only when my body collapsed. The rest of the time I composed that damnable opera and drove myself further into misery. But was that the start of it? Or was it when you recoiled from the sight of this face? Or was it when I first discovered the hope that you might actually love me? I don't know what began it. I know only what I was driven to and the damage that I caused."