The last day. As last days went, Christine could not have asked for better. Meg had pulled Erik in to breakfast, where he had gazed at them bemusedly, obviously distracted by whatever music played in his head. Was it more strange to sit with him at a table and ask him to pass the butter or to think that she would never see him again? He, whom she had wished to see for years but never had until—what?—eight or so months ago. For so much to have happened in so short a time, no wonder she felt that she could sleep for a month.

They cut a wide swath through the fashion district, and Christine could not remember a day since Papa died when she had had such fun. Even Madame had gotten caught up in it, though she played the voice of reason all day. Meg would not have bankrupted her, but Madame was firm that Meg did not need three evening gowns and silk underthings.

"And if you are going to take advantage of your friend's generosity, you should buy some more toe shoes."

"But Maman, that's so boring!"

Christine bought her two pair. She also got a pair for herself, just in case. It was vexing how much they were limited to choosing fabrics and trim, and that she would not see any of these dresses on her friend. This was probably why they ended up buying so many stockings, hats, and gloves.

"How cold will it be in Stockholm when you get there?" Meg asked over tea.

"I don't remember. That's why I've bought so little for myself today—I don't know what the weather will be like at all."

"And I should imagine that the furs you will need for winter will be a good deal cheaper there," Madame said.

"That's my thought too. I'm sure it will all be very strange, especially to be going in autumn. By Christmas, there will be almost no daylight at all."

Meg shivered. "How gloomy."

"I hope not. I remember thinking as a little girl that it was lovely, all the candles in the darkness."

Madame's gaze was very level, and Christine thought of that vast cave underground, lit by golden candelabra. It had been the same sense of cold, of bright lights winking in a darkness that would not leave with morning. And a tall man, deep-voiced, whose music carried her deep inside herself, whose power protected her. Christine looked down into her cup, shaken. She had not ever thought of these parallels between Erik and Papa—not consciously, though she had often that the Angel, having been sent by Papa, was a sort of replacement. When had that changed? At some point, the music had begun to affect her differently, but it was not until he first touched her hand and then sang just for her that all thought of fatherliness disappeared. She had felt before then the sensation of her corset rubbing her breasts in a way not unpleasant, of a restlessness in that secret spot between her legs. When he sang to her, without being told she understood what she felt, and in that unreal place she had been unashamed of her desire. Had he not shown her that horrid bride doll, or had she reached for him later instead of handing over his mask, would she ever have left? But he had revealed his obsessiveness, then his fear disguised as rage, and she had been neither strong nor wise enough to see.

"Christine?" Meg asked, stroking her arm. Christine blinked, unaware of how much time had passed.

"I'm sorry—I'm getting nostalgic, I think."

Then it was off for parasols, then shawls, which she did buy, with the prospect of a three-day train ride before her, heading north the whole way. All day she looked for a gift for Erik, but nothing seemed fitting. She had persuaded Madame to accept a couple of small items, and of course she was carrying packages for Meg because her friend's arms were full. But nothing for him. When she picked out a soft wool shawl for Aimée, she lost patience with herself.

"How is it that I can buy a gift for your maid, who has not spoken a dozen words to me, but I can't find a thing for Erik?"

Meg blinked at her, and Mme. Giry chuckled.

"There are few things so difficult as choosing a gift for a man."

Christine grimaced.

"They can't all be so difficult. He already has more clothes than I do, I wouldn't begin to know what book he'd want that he hasn't already got, and I've seen for myself that he hardly eats. It's maddening."

Meg suggested ink and paper, but that idea was altogether boring. At last they wandered into a music shop, where she poked around, despairing, for several minutes. There, in a case, was a small gold cravat pin in the shape of a conductor's baton. It was just the thing for her maestro. Madame nodded in approval. By that point, even Meg had had her fill of shopping.

They bustled into the parlor, and she wondered how she had ever thought him a monster. In narrowly cut black, he seemed impossibly tall, and any light always found his eyes, which today were nearly cobalt blue. Only his mask and his stillness might make him seem uncanny, and these no longer bothered her. She thought him very handsome, standing by the mantle smiling at them.

Meg had to show him everything they'd bought, and he gravely examined all of it, though he asked no leading questions, and several times he glanced up at her and Mme. Giry with an amused glint in his eye. When Meg launched into descriptions of the dresses they had ordered, Madame laughed and took her hand.

"Enough! Do not torture the poor man! Come, let us put these things away."

When they had left, Christine suddenly felt shy. It might be the last private conversation they ever had—what did one say? She searched his face and saw there sadness, but also calm.

"Are you eager for your journey?" he asked after a minute.

"Not the journey," she said. "I haven't been on a train since I was seven, and I hated it. But I am excited to see Stockholm again, and I hope that I will be able to make my way there."

"You will," he said, the firmness in his voice like an anchor that held her to herself, gave her strength. He ducked his head and looked at her sideways with a quirk to his lips.

"And if you do not, then I shall travel north and bully them into hiring you."

Christine grinned. "The Royal Swedish Opera?"

He waved his hand lazily.

"I am unimpressed by nobility."

She snorted. At the same time, she wondered who this person was.

"Will you write to me?" she asked, suddenly afraid to lose the moment, to lose this strange new friendship, which seemed so fragile yet so important. His teasing expression disappeared, and he looked at her solemnly for a long moment, then reached for her hand.

"Yes," he said, "yes. Thank you. I am very glad you will allow me to."

She had to smile at him again.

"I'm sure I will look forward to every letter."

She wished that she could reach up and curl her hand over that sculpted cheek, that a gesture of fondness so small did not carry with it the chance of causing him more pain. She squeezed his fingers.

Before she lost her mind and gave in to the temptation to tilt her face up and again taste his mouth, she stepped back to pull the tiny box from her bag and give it to him. He handled it as if he might crush it by mistake.

"What is this?" he asked.

She felt shy and awkward.

"I just … wanted to buy you a gift." Her voice was not entirely steady. "Isn't it strange, that I have only been here a few days? I mean—it's very small, but I wanted to do something."

He opened the box and was so long staring at it, utterly still, that she began to fret a little.

"Erik?"

He looked at her, his brows drawn together and his eyes smoldering.

"It's perfect," he whispered.

And there was that feeling again, that she could step forward into his arms and not have to go anywhere else, ever again. It was unfair. His eyes were too keen—she knew that he could read her thoughts as easily as notes on a page. She fought to master herself, to remember that she was leaving in the morning, that she did not know her own heart, that she had hurt him enough already. It took enormous effort to clear her head with those crystalline eyes boring into her; but she did it and smiled at him.

"I'm so glad."

He nodded slightly before returning her smile.

"Will you pin it on me?" he asked, holding the box toward her.

If he had indeed read her thoughts, he was entirely wicked to ask it of her. Given that she might never touch him again, she chose recklessness. He was tall enough that it was awkward to try to reach, even though he simultaneously bent forward and leaned his head back. It was hardly romantic; she chuckled a little. She dug her fingers down under his collar to shield his neck from the pin and worked it into the knot of his cravat. It made her dizzy to stand so close to him, so she was glad to step back and check whether the pin was straight. It made a handsome little spot of brightness against the black silk. He touched it with those long fingers and smiled a little.

"Thank you."