Christine gave herself no time to dwell on her dreams; there was too much to do. She, Meg, and Madame had a hurried breakfast. Erik never arrived. She wanted to see him—those unsettling dreams had also been powerful and thrilling. But when she peeked into the sitting room, she knew that she would not even bother asking him to accompany them. He was at his desk, shirtsleeves rolled up, a pile of pages on the floor. His hand was moving rapidly across the page, and his head swayed in time with the rhythm only he could hear. She had wondered whether he had ever known joy—he was transformed by the music pouring from him into a beauty that certainly looked joyous.

Mme. Giry came to stand behind her, and when she looked back, she was gratified by the fondness she saw in the older woman's eyes.

"Wait here," she told Christine in a whisper. "I'll go make sure that Aimée feeds him today."

Christine was content to stand in the doorway and watch, but when he paused and laid his quill down, she was equally glad to step into the room and say hello.

"I had thought to invite you with us today, but I see that your muse has caught you."

He smiled.

"Indeed. Please forgive me."

"Oh, of course. You must write."

And Madame came in, pulling on her gloves.

"How are you fixed for paper, Erik? For ink?"

He rummaged briefly in his desk and declared himself satisfied. He was already bent again over the page when Christine turned to close the door.

There was so much to do. She had to get her papers in order, cash the Comte's check, withdraw her own small fund, buy a proper trunk. Madame's advice was invaluable. As she had hoped, they had time to go to the cemetery before the sun set.

Madame left her to go pay her own respects to M. Giry in another section. As the last time she had visited, Christine approached her father's tomb alone. As the last time, her mind was taken with thoughts of leaving behind her teacher. It did not seem as if she was leaving Papa behind—rather, she thought that she might find more of him in the city of her birth. She had for so long been bitter at Papa's patron, who had brought them to Paris, paid for this enormous mausoleum when he died, but left her with nothing more than a favor called in with M. Lefevre to let her in the ballet school.

How much of Papa would be left in Sweden? She deeply wished for another daguerreotype or a portrait—she missed his dear face. Perhaps it was not too much to hope for a cousin or a family friend. There was a possibility of rediscovering Papa; Erik she was definitively leaving behind. So many time she had nearly gone to him and pulled away, or been pulled away, at the last minute. Raoul had even nearly killed him, right here. She blushed to think of how she had thrown herself at Raoul that day, hysterical with fright. She had tried so many times to say goodbye to her Angel, until finally he had said goodbye to her and set her free.

Christine sat bolt upright on the steps of her father's tomb and laughed at herself. Set free! When she still sat here mooning over him like a girl. She was a romantic, and she could only shake her head at herself. Even now, she could not keep her feelings straight from one moment to the next, drawn to the past but eager to go forward, wanting peace but also longing for the passion of two kisses a season ago, likely never to be repeated again. It would all be easier and more sensible when miles lay between them and their conversations were tempered by ink and delay. She would be able to cherish him for his own sake, without this schoolgirl's desire that could only hurt him in the end.

Their errands were done, and the afternoon sun slanted gold. One more day. By the time they got home, she was tired, but she had her train tickets in hand, all the way to Stockholm. Dinner was full of plots for the next day. Erik was quiet all evening, clearly tired from a full day's work; the stack of pages at the corner of the desk was several inches high. Christine fought with herself to quell the desire to have him lean against her, to stroke his brow with her thumb. "Thank God I'm leaving!" she thought. "I've quite lost my mind."

There were no kisses in her dreams. Instead, she was back in the labyrinth, now with stained-glass windows of angels at every turn, and she wandered lost, calling out for something that never answered. She forgot these dreams as soon as she opened her eyes.