To sleep without dreams and wake refreshed was still a novel sensation. To dream and yet wake with a sense of peace was entirely new. Even more strange, they were not entirely sanguine dreams—the woman against the wall had become Christine, and the memory of her dream self tossing her head and sighing his name made him blush hotly, but his suspension of despair remained. He did not think of it as hope, but it was certainly welcome.

Nonetheless, he was sticky and stiff, and despite his sleeping well into the day, his eyes felt gritty. Ringing Aimée for a bath was a sketchy proposition—she still occasionally behaved as if he might open his mouth and swallow her whole—but it must be done. A bath always made him think that he had been a barbarian his entire life. God knows he was no fit company for the world, no matter how sane he felt, but this thought no longer had the power to torment him. He knew what it was to make love to a woman. He had two friends, had discovered that he could walk a city street in daylight and be in no danger. Christine had twice kissed his mouth, and she did not hate him. There was enough music in these to keep him busy all his days, no matter how long he might live. Now that he had a last name, he might even publish some of it.

If only he had been able to think such things before he had tried to destroy the entire world. As it was, these thoughts had taken long enough for the water to grow cold. In the world aboveground, not every day was the same. This day held a newness like birth.

He felt oddly comfortable in his skin, and noticing this made his belly clench and his breath catch. The memory of his dark-eyed seductress was a constant purr in the background. If the score had survived the fire, he would've wanted to rewrite some of the lyrics in Don Jan. But no matter—there would be more songs, more operas. When he opened the door to the sitting room, there was Christine, aglow in the morning sun.

She smiled at him. He wanted to stop the moment and repeat it forever: she smiled at him. Except then the held out her hand, and he was across the room before he could blink, to take those slim fingers in his own and kiss her cool skin. Torment all over again, but so sweet. He had to sit down. The jasmine scent of her skin dizzied him.

"They've all gone out," Christine said. "There's tea. Would you like some?"

He nodded. She had acquired polish during her months in the country; he told her so. She blushed prettily as she handed him his cup.

"I learned a great deal from Aunt."

Even as he had once thought that he knew her very soul, it seemed that there was much he did not know.

"I was not aware that you had any family living."

Her face was so mobile and animated—when she returned to the stage, no one could accuse her of typical diva strutting. The beauty of her voice so often caused him to forget that. Erik struggled with himself. His mind was too full.

"Oh no," she said. "Not my aunt. She was some sort of Chagny cousin."

And she told him the most adorable story of being shunted off to the country and a shabby, genteel lady who was kind to her.

"I had no idea of the sorts of things girls are supposed to learn! I felt quite useless at the beginning. But I enjoyed everything she taught me."

There were happy memories, too, mixed in with the sadness.

"You were always an eager student."

She smiled. "Aunt taught me a little German. she was surprised that I knew how to pronounce the words, even though I didn't understand them. Apparently you taught me well."

"I'm very glad to hear it."

To listen to her was like the very early days, when she had chattered at him like any lonely child. Now, though, he listened. Surely that was one of the greatest gifts of growing older, the he had learned to pay attention. That had made everything possible, from blackmail to the subtle manipulations that had so awed her.

"And it was so lovely, to be far—" she stopped.

This could not rile him, not now.

"Far away from everything? Yes. I know that I have found these months of quiet to be very illuminating."

Her face was closed off, eyes on the floor.

"Yes."

This new hidden expression of hers made him uncomfortable. If he could not read her thoughts, he would have to rely on her speaking of them, and their history of that was not promising. After a moment, a fleeting smile crossed her face, and she met his eyes.

"There is so much I want to say, and so many questions that I want to ask, that I don't know where to begin."

Antoinette was right. They were each worse than the other.

"I heartily agree."

He felt sure that he could not ask about the Chagny boy. It was too dangerous. Any misery on her part would only double in his heart, and he would suffer for his own sake as well as hers.

"May I ask you something?" she said abruptly.

"Of course."

"How did you make the arms move on the walls?"

It was a disconcerting question.

"I don't know what you mean."

He loved the way she tilted her head to one side when she was perplexed. It was endearing, but the line of her neck was also accentuated, a gorgeous flow of white skin.

"Down in the tunnel," she said, "after Hannibal. When my dressing room filled with mist and you drew me through the mirror. It was magical, all of those lights."

Certainly the darkness of the tunnel had been lifted by her beauty, but that had been the extent of it. He hated to see the confusion in her eyes when he told her this.

"I don't understand," she said.

"Nor do I. I had trip wires and traps through some of the tunnels, but no tricks like that."

"But I remember it." She shook her head. "It's so clear. Are you saying that I made it up?"

Was there any right way to answer this?

"No. I'm saying that I do not understand."

In years past, she had ridden the waves of her own emotions, buffeted by her feelings like any young girl. As he watched her struggle for control, Erik saw that she had grown up through all their troubles. She mastered herself—her face cleared and her hands unfolded themselves. Even since the night before, she had grown. What a formidable woman she would be.

"How is this possible?" she asked.

"I don't know."

She frowned darkly. Her fingers twisted together briefly, and he thought his heart would fold in on itself when she glanced at him, blushed, and drew her hands apart. Yet he had no idea what to say to her. He knew that he was capable of madness, but her imaginings disturbed him.

"What about the cemetery?" she asked, and it seemed like just another question flying at him sideways. That had been an awful, humiliating day.

"What about it?"

"What I remember is that my father's tomb was alight, that the doors opened to me, and that there was a glow like fire on the inside. Did you do this?"

"I did not."

He could not think what she meant by it. They were both times when he had sought to beguile her, but surely his power was not such to make her hallucinate. That was absurd. It was also a comfort that she too had been caught up in the strange magic of those days. The music of the time still hummed through him—still urgent but no longer overwhelming. Now he thought of it, that was the only thread he knew that ran through both days.

"Music," he said, and she stared at him. "It is what ties them together."

She examined her knees for a moment, then nodded.

"It's very strange, but you're right," she said. "I remember these lights, but mixed in with all of it—" was he imagining that deep blush?—"You were singing to me."

It was true. Nine months, six months earlier, it would have been a great triumph, to learn that his voice could have such power over her. He would have used it to terrible purpose. The temptation was very great, even still. Considering, of course, that the theory was sound.

It was strange to him that the song that came to mind was not his own music, nor was it even a love song. His voice was rough with disuse as he sang to her the Swedish lullaby that Christine had sung to herself that first day, all those years ago.