She woke late again, with a greater sense of peace. Christine was amazed at herself, that she had found a way to sit and talk to him calmly, as she had wanted, and to look unflinchingly at that sad, strange face. Over the course of one conversation, he had changed for her. He was no longer the Angel. He was Erik.

This, of course, meant that everything she knew about him might be wrong. To be a child of tragedy, a reclusive genius, was much different from a guiding spirit. The Angel would never have been so miserable over causing havoc—such havoc, such disarray. It was soothing to have the ritual of dressing, to make it seem as if she would have a normal day. But she no longer feared what would happen, what they might say to one another.

Mme. Giry was again knitting in the parlor, with the curtains drawn open to allow in the light of a beautiful day. She said nothing when Christine entered, and Christine had a pang of guilt. She knew nothing of the accord they had come to.

"Is Erik awake?" Christine asked her, and Madame's surprise was evident as she shook her head. Christine sat and took a deep breath.

"I am sorry," she said, "for how I acted the past two days. I've turned everything on its head."

Madame nodded. "That you have, my dear."

Christine could only shake her head. Mme. Giry was as immovable as ever.

"I talked to him last night," she said. "To Erik." Madame's eyebrows shot upward. "It was a good beginning."

Mme. Giry smiled at her and patted her knee. "A good beginning. I am very glad to hear you say that. Very glad for you both. It seems to me that you have a great deal to discuss."

Christine nodded. "I think so. Already I feel so much better. After the first shock of his being alive, I was so sure he must hate me."

Madame laughed. Christine, as a member of the ballet corps who was frequently in trouble, had not actually known that Mme. Giry laughed.

"Hate you, child! He could not hate you if he tried!"

Christine grinned. "That's just what he said." After a moment, her smile faded with a new thought. "It sounded as if he did try."

"Can you blame him?" Madame asked.

She thought about that, in light of knowing that he had heard everything on the rooftop, all those months ago, how she had railed against him, all the things she and Raoul had said to one another. She had already felt badly enough for so many things, the screams of the audience most of all.

"No," she said finally. "I cannot blame him for that."

After a while, Mme. Giry went out, and Christine was left to her own thoughts, to the pages of a novel she had already read. She found herself eager for Erik to come to her, and it was like the anticipation of years past, waiting for her Angel, except that all sense of awe was gone. She felt that she could talk to him for years and not say half of what she wanted. But where would the time come from? She couldn't stay in this house, trying to keep Meg from stealing all the blankets, for long. The more she thought about it, she realized that she didn't even want to. Her heart had settled on going abroad. Where and how soon were the only questions remaining.

The maid brought tea for her, and she was able to coax out the girl's name, but nothing else. She was like a shy rabbit, ready to bolt at any moment. It was fitting, somehow. What a strange house, full of refugees and madmen, yet it was a haven of sorts. For those months at Aunt's house, she had mourned the turmoil of the Angel's life and all the pain he had both caused and endured. All she had learned from Mme. Giry compounded this feeling that he had always suffered, but now he had safety and friends. He could not hate her if he tried.

Christine smiled down into her cup. It was silly how much joy that gave her, that he was living in the world and not thinking ill of her. There had been a couple of times the night before when something like the old ardor had been in his eyes. She told herself firmly that it would be good to go soon. If he had found some peace, she did not want to destroy it. Surely she would only cause him more pain, if the past two days were any indication. She never had known what she wanted, as far as he was concerned. While he had been the Angel, she had wished for him to be flesh and blood, a man to protect her, to care for her, and she had imagined that if he were real he would be like Papa—someone whose embrace would block out all hurtful things.

Then he had pulled her through the mirror, and he was a man, but also the Opéra Ghost, whose frights kept the dormitories awake and squeaking on many nights. She shivered at the memory—candles and chill, confusion, and through it all that voice in her ear. She had to smile a little in hindsight. For so long he had cajoled her to sing with her whole heart; it would have been easiest if he had said, "Sing like me." And he had put his hands on her, his huge, powerful hands that were yet kept from her by that annoying leather. She remembered that she would not have been able to speak had she tried, that it was difficult to get enough air, that she had felt dizzy and hot, that the unsettling mannequin with her face had been a horrid, cold shock.

Christine was aware of clattering in the hallway as she remembered all of this, but the pull of memory was stronger than curiosity. Waking in such a cold, strange place. The Angel at his keyboard, and she thought now that it was her first glimpse of Erik; the shy way that he had turned his face away from her had filled her with tenderness. She had forgotten all of this in the tumult that followed. She had never touched a man's face in such a way, exploring the texture of warm skin and cool leather, a faint scratchiness of beard, the slickness that told her he wore a wig. His face had looked almost frightened, tenuous but naked with yearning.

It was because she had wanted to touch more of him that she pulled off the mask. Her recoil had been surprise more than anything, having never before considered that there was a physical reason for his wearing it. Then he pushed her, and his anger had been so frightening. She had had only the briefest glimpse before he tore away from her—imagination had distorted her memory of his poor face, such that, on the final night, even as the audience screamed, she had been surprised that it was so less bad than she remembered.

She felt light-headed. These were memories tinged by so much confusion. Christine thought of their conversation the night before and wished that she had had such presence of mind the first night. After she pulled his mask away, how different could it have been if she had thought to say something kind? The world might be an entirely different place.

The door opened, and she jumped. There he was, his cheek red and damp hair pulled back, in a deep green waistcoat that made his eyes fairly glow. Already, the world had indeed changed.