Christine bent over him, her arms around him, and her own tears dripped down into his hair. Raoul had worn a very fine cologne; Erik smelled only of himself, which was a little like wood smoke and a little like the memory of some great comfort. His shoulders continued to shake as she held him, as she ran her fingers through his hair. She could make any excuse for him, she found—he had suffered so much. "How cruel I have been," she thought, and she knew that much of what had attracted her about Raoul was in fact his handsome face. His calm rationality had seemed restful. And he had known Papa. The one thing Erik could never be. She held him tighter, miserable at her own faithlessness, that it had taken so much pain for her to see who he was.

After a time, Erik pulled away, not looking at her, and drew a large handkerchief from his pocket. She turned to the hearth and pulled her own handkerchief from her sleeve. Her heart was oddly lighter. Despite all the tears of these few days, the past year made so much more sense. And it had not been that he changed his mind. He had sent her away for her own sake. Christine brushed at the large wet spot on the front of her dress and told herself that she would never be able to say it to him—had she known that he would not deny her, she would have stayed when she went back at the end.

So many chances lost. He was starting to find peace here, and she would not jeopardize that for anything. She herself had the chance to build her own life. Their time was past, but at least they would go forward having reconciled with one another. The wet spot at her waist was not going to dry any time soon. She was able to produce a little smile as she turned to him.

"I think I shall have to change."

He looked at her with a faint twist to his mouth.

"And I may have ruined this mask. Forgive me."

She kept finding herself standing close to him, reaching for him.

"Of course I do," she said. "I hope that you will forgive me."

She shivered a little when he took her hand, kissed her knuckles.

"Freely and fully," he said.

Back in her room, Christine gratefully splashed water on her hot face, loosened her corset, and laid down with a sigh. As good as it was to be resolving the mysteries of the past, everything was exhausting. There had been too little sleep and too many tears the past few days. She felt very young, tremulous, to think of the two men who had loved her so—one a brave, rescuing knight, and the other a wounded genius, both of them willing to tear themselves to pieces for her sake. What had she ever done to deserve it? She was merely an orphaned singer of some beauty who could barely darn her own stockings. Her only remarkable talents were the ability to read music and to hit a G two octaves above middle C.

Here she was, leaving them both behind. Whatever lay ahead, surely it would be more peaceful than what was behind her. She had had enough drama for a lifetime. It must be her own sense of melodrama that made it seem so tempting to stay, to try to find a way to heal Erik's shredded heart. If he even wanted her—which was doubtful, if he had any sense of self-preservation. No. She would keep reminding herself to go, and the distance would prove itself.

She fell asleep and dreamed again, for the first time in many months, of water. She was no longer drowning—rather, she floated, surrounded by its coolness, and there was a sense of a huge cavern all around her. Music seemed just out of hearing, but she could feel it in her bones, on her skin, as if what she floated in was not water after all but pure song.

Christine woke to a sense of fading light. Her dress was dry but crumpled, and she hoped that Aimée would be up to washing something so delicate. She dressed herself in another gown, one more formal (since it was evening) that showed a little shoulder. Madame Giry would probably tease her, but it wasn't as if she had many sensible clothes. The green would complement Erik's waistcoat beautifully, unless he had changed too. She took her blue gown down to Aimée, who mostly gaped at her but handled the dress as if she knew her business.

Mme. Giry was in the sitting room, and she rolled her eyes when Erik stood at Christine's entrance. He was still wearing that becoming green, but straightened and tidy. A small, bright fire was crackling in the hearth, and they each had a tiny glass of some brown liquid.

"How was your day out?" she asked, sitting in the free chair, next to Madame and so across from Erik.

"It was a gorgeous day. You were both very foolish to have stayed inside." Christine was coming to prefer this teasing, wry Madame, so different from her stern mistress.

"But as autumn is coming, Erik and I are comforting our old bones with some sherry. Will you join us?"

Christine nodded. "I've never had it."

"As well you should not," Erik rumbled as he went to the sideboard to pour. "Alcohol dries the vocal cords. It is no good thing for one's voice. However, as you have no engagements at present, I will allow you this exception." His eyes, as he handed her a glass, were bright and calm.

"Oh, God save us if you're going to order her about again," Madame groaned, and he made a neat bow before he sat.

"I would never dare," he said. "I've found these past few days that our Mlle. Daae has quite surpassed me in strength of will."

Christine began to wonder if they were both a little drunk. She sipped her sherry—it was sweeter than she had expected, with a creaminess about it and a nice almost-smell of wood that lingered in her mouth. After her second sip, she decided that she liked it.

Erik and Madame were talking comfortably to one another of household matters, the weather, neighborhood gossip. Christine was content to burrow into her chair and listen, to hold the small glass in her fingertips. She watched him, she hoped surreptitiously. He wore a different mask, one that molded less closely to his face and had a less clear expression than his usual one. She was interested by the difference it made—his face seemed much less elegant, but it was also softer and more kind without that permanent white scowl. She remembered thinking earlier that he was like a cat, and he certainly seemed so now, lounging in his chair with those mile-long legs stretched toward the fire, ankles crossed. As he talked, he moved his hands like a conductor. He grace made her feel gawky by comparison.

They had her grinning after a few minutes, they way they gossiped like old women and kept referring to themselves as "ancient" and "old and tired." Despite the risk of bringing up even more unpleasant subjects, her curiosity was too great.

"How old are you, Erik?"

He did frown, but just a little, and he shrugged. "Older than you and younger than Antoinette is the best I can say."

"Bah!" Madame said. "You are no more than five years younger than I, which would make you 33, so do not pretend that you are barely out of childhood like Christine."

He saluted her with his glass.

"I cannot argue with your excellent logic, Madame."

Mme. Giry snorted, and Christine giggled. She liked them both so much like this, relaxed and sardonic. They would be perfectly fine without her. Then Meg came clattering through the door, and all was made even brighter.