(a/n) Sorry for taking so long! I have been swamped with school work.

Kisses and hugs to all my reviewers, you are definitely my inspiration, without you I would never be half this industrious. I love you all: PhantomPhoenix, Padme Nijiri, Sue Raven, Crying Wasteland, erik'sangel527, Sugar Peaches, ae28, Ziroana, Kate, Leesainthesky, Monroe-mary, angelofnight, forever in a bottle, meneyavewen, Emily singing reflection, erikslil'angel1209, jlauren1224, and Misty Breyer.

Misty Breyer: Last scene in Erik's POV it is!

Jlauren1224: well I had no specific plans of bringing in Nadir, but it could be arranged, I'll see what I can do. I think they enjoy each other in this chapter . . . snickers. Thanks for the compliments!

Angelofnight: I really hope that you like my writing better, because it actually is better. But either way, thanks!

Monroe-mary: you were cracking me up with all your speculation. All shall be revealed in time. Muhahahaha.

Leesainthesky: Yay, that is one of my favorite lines too.

Ziroana: Sweet and fluffy huh . . .

Erik'sangel527: You are my angel as ever!

Crying Wasteland: Yes the killing was rather . . . romantic wasn't it. Hehe, I'm glad I can overcome everyone's scruples so easily. :rubs hands together evilly:

Sue Raven: I know I like long chapters, when I read them. I just didn't want people to think it was dragging on.

Padme Nijiri: Yeah, I know the relationship involved a lot of assumption, maybe one day I will go and revamp all of the earlier stuff. Thanks for telling me about the name mistakes, hopefully I got them all.

This chapter is especially long because I included a counterpoint from the last scene in the last chapter. There is Kay quote in here that should be very recognizable. In one scene the POV changes right in the middle of it, I hope you aren't confused. Anyway, enjoy!(a/n)

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Erik, Counterpoint

I walked quickly on the now familiar route, by instinct turning the corners that would lead me to the cottage. Reflecting on the events of the past few days, I could hardly believe what was going on. It was simple really; I was just assisting Christine with her travel arrangements, and escorting her to Paris. However, this simple act held a wealth of meaning. Considering how I had treated Christine, I was surprised she even wished to see me, but asking me to do this for her conveyed trust, and an intimate relationship, that I wished for, but had to admit, did not exist.

I had asked myself the meaning of it repeatedly already, each time cursing myself for my speculation. My sensible side firmly insisted she just needed my help, but my heart, (which I admittedly tended to listen to more), told me there was more to it—there had to be.

Opening the gate in Christine's garden, I felt a pang of sadness for Belle, she would miss her fairytale creatures. With a frown, I realized I could not see Belle living directly in the city, she needed large gardens, fresh air, and bright sunlight—not the tiny plots, smog, and weak sunlight of the city. I had neglected to ask Christine what she intended to do once we reached Paris, but then again, perhaps she would not welcome my questions.

I stepped up to the door and knocked. In a moment it opened, and Christine stood there, charmingly attired in a simple gown. I realized that as much as I enjoyed seeing her in her fashionable splendor, this unadorned dress reminded me of a younger Christine.

"Hello, Erik," she said softly, an unaccustomed shyness in her eyes, "Come in."

As I entered, I saw Belle standing in the hall, a shocked look on her face. Surmising that she was surprised to see me, I approached her with a smile.

"Hello again Belle, we will be spending some time together in the future. Does that make you happy?"

But she did not reply, eyes wide, her face grew more upset by the minute, and I felt a tremor of alarm run through me. Before I could speak, I heard Christine sharply ask from behind me, "Belle, what is the matter?"

I looked over at Christine, our eyes meeting in mutual concern, before Belle suddenly said accusingly, "You called him Erik!"

Realization struck me, she had heard my name, a name I shared with her 'father', and she clearly thought it meant something. But she hardly looked happy, and I felt my heart sink.

"Are you my father?" she demanded, her eyes bright and searching.

Those words hit me like a blow, striking the breath out of me, emotions rampaging through my being. Simultaneously, I felt longing, doubt, and the dread fear of Belle's rejection. Before I had more time to think, to speak, Christine quickly interjected, "There are other men with the name Erik my dear. Besides you know your father died before you were born."

Abruptly I realized that Christine did not know that I knew . . . things were so complicated. Then I also wondered why Belle had assumed my name meant something so fantastic—so unbelievable.

Stamping her foot angrily, Belle partially answered my question, "You could have just told me that, besides other men don't visit us here, only the priest sometimes, and he doesn't count."

Interesting.

"Belle . . ." Christine started, but was interrupted by Belle once again.

"You are! You are! I know it!" she announced, addressing me, and this time I unmistakably heard hope in her voice.

Did she want me to be her father? Although I knew it to be impossible, the thought made me sickeningly happy. Why was it impossible? I suddenly thought rebelliously. Belle needed a father didn't she?

"What is all this noise about?" Madame Giry asked, entering the fray. "Ah I see M. Legard has arrived."

I sardonically smiled at her in greeting, no doubt she blamed me for the fracas.

I heard Belle blurt out, a tremor in her voice, "Aunt, his name is Erik!"

Ever perceptive, Antoinette swiftly took Belle's arm, "Come with me, I will make you a cup of hot cocoa, while we leave your mother and M. Legard to talk."

"I don't want hot cocoa," Belle protested, but she allowed herself to be led away.

As they left, I turned to Christine, but she did not speak, grasping my arm and leading me to the parlor.

Once inside, she spoke, her face flushed with embarrassment, "Well, I am sure you must be wondering what that was all about."

Feeling sympathy for her predicament, I sought to lessen her tension, "Christine, allow me save you some trouble. You see Belle has told me all about her father already, and that was how I first knew she must be your daughter."

"Oh," she said, her face turning even redder, but she bravely continued, "Well you must be wondering why I described you as her father."

She was silent a minute before continuing, and I could see the uncertainty in her eyes, "You see . . ." she started, then stopped, "I . . . oh this is so hard!"

Her faltering words were painful to my ears, she was clearly mortified, and I could not bear to see her discomfort. This was hardly the time for this confidence anyway, "Christine, we don't have talk that about right now. I understand it has to be difficult for you. I am very honored though that you deemed me worthy to be described as the father of your child, that you even wished to speak of me."

The flush rose in her cheeks again, and I almost laughed, wondering how she could blush so readily considering her chequered past. She looked at me, emotions chasing over her face, and reflecting on her embarrassment, I wondered anew at her description of me as Belle's father. I felt a hesitant flicker of hope, perhaps if she could do that she would not be averse to actually have Belle think me her father . . .

"Christine, I want you to know . . ." I said, my heart in my throat as I forced the words out, "I wouldn't mind if Belle believed me to be her father . . . that is if you don't mind."

Although Christine did not look immediately happy, she did not look disgusted either, and held my breath, waiting for her reply, but she exclaimed, "Erik I couldn't ask that of you! You do realize you could just walk away, or even visit every once in a while. You would have to be a constant presence in her life."

Of course she didn't want that! How could I be so stupid? Swiftly I sought to retract my words, pretend they weren't important, "It was just a suggestion, I quite understand if you don't want me in Belle's life that way."

"Erik, its not . . ." she said, but I didn't want her to try and explain herself.

"Forget it!" I bit out sharply, wishing I had never said anything.

"No! I need you to understand! I am not questioning this because I don't want you in Belle's life. Quite the contrary, you seem to have quite a connection with my daughter, but I just don't know if you realize the responsibility you would be shouldering. You have never had someone depend upon you."

She thought I had a connection with Belle? That soothed my hurt feelings slightly, but her last words stung. I didn't need to be reminded I had never really been a part of a family, that I had certainly never had anyone to support, to look after.

"No," I replied, "I have not."

She winced, quickly saying, "But if you want to . . . well, I have no objection. In fact, I think it would be wonderful, Belle dearly needs a male influence in her life."

She thought it would be wonderful? My heart leapt, and suddenly I was just as happy as I been depressed just a few moments ago. I could hardly believe it, even when I had first made my suggestion, I admit I had not thought through the ramifications. But when Christine's words had sunk in, I had immediately realized this was a prize I could not have, and if I had thought about it beforehand, I would never have asked to begin with. But now she was saying that she had no objection . . . that she wouldn't mind!

I forced my voice into speech, "You really wouldn't mind?" I asked, my voice husky with emotion, half expecting rejection.

But she emphatically replied, "Have I not said so?"

Still disbelieving, I had to know if she understood exactly what she was saying, "You do realize that would mean you would also see me regularly?"

She shyly met my gaze, saying steadily, "I don't think that would be a problem at all."

My heart filled with pleasure, happy for even this small concession, "Oh Christine . . ."

But before I could continue, we heard Belle's upraised voice in the distance, "Aunt please, please let me go to the parlor!"

Our eyes met in laughter, and I felt my heart skip dangerously.

"Well," Christine asked, "Are we agreed then? I could give you time to think about it, but Erik, if we are to tell her you are her father, now would really be the best time."

"I don't have a doubt in my mind," I replied with certainty, there was only one thing I had ever wanted more!

"Lets go to the kitchen then," she said, smiling widely, and I felt my entire being respond.

I was about to follow, when I had a sudden thought, "Wait," I said, "What are we going to tell her about my supposed death?"

Christine frowned, and slowly replied, "Well I can say I thought you were dead . . , oh I do hate lying to Belle so. But I cannot tell her the truth, and this, this would make her so happy."

This would make me so happy! I thought, before directing my mind to the problem at hand, finally I said, "We both believed that the other died in the Opera House fire. Bodies were discovered, but they were too burned to be recognizable. Since we never found each other, we had to assume that one of the bodies was our . . . spouse?"

What would we tell Belle about that? Either she was illegitimate, or . . . we had been married . . . and still were! It seemed an insurmountable barrier. Christine surely would not want to say either of those things, but she replied placidly, "We can cross that bridge when we come to it. I think though that Belle won't ask if we don't make it an issue."

She must know what the inevitable outcome would be? Or was she willing to tell her daughter she was a bastard? Well she had said we would cross that bridge when we came to it. I stared at her intently, slowly replying, "Alright."

"To the kitchen then!" she said, drawing a deep breath.

We walked down the hall, to the kitchen, at the back of the house. As soon as Belle sighted us, she jumped up, a questioning look on her face. I felt nerves attack my stomach. How would she reply? What would be her reaction?

"Sit back down my dear," Christine told her, sitting down at the kitchen table herself, and I Erik followed suit, feeling ridiculously domestic. It felt so strange to be seated here, at Christine's cottage kitchen table.

Christine began to speak, telling the story in one rush, "Belle, I am sorry I did not tell you earlier, but this gentleman is indeed your father. We thought each other dead, or else we should never have parted. There was a fire at the Opera House we both, umm, worked at, and we were separated. He did not even know you were his daughter until you told him about your father, after that he had to speak with me."

For one sickening second Belle said nothing, but then she jumped up, announcing "I knew it!" joy actually filling her voice, and pouring out into my heart.

Then before I knew it she had thrown herself at me, her arms firmly clasping my neck. I was shocked for a moment, before an indescribable feeling of warmth permeated my being. I awkwardly closed my arms about her, wondering at her unrestrained affection. Never before had anyone treated me like this—I had always had to milk out even the tiniest bit of caring and even then I suspected its existence. There had only been once, once when it had been anything like this—another child long ago—but that child could not see. This one acted for all the world like she could not, and I determinedly ignored the voice that said she had not, I would not spoil this.

I felt as if I never wanted this moment to end, and I could feel my eyes start to water.

But all too soon Belle pulled away, grabbing my hand, and saying "Come on, I want to show you my room," then her little brow puckered, "although it is messy because of moving, but that's okay."

Bemused, I allowed her to pull me out of the room, and up the steps.

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Christine

The car rattled dreadfully, the sound of the rotating wheels pounding into my head. I rubbed my temples futilely; traveling was so stressful! However, although traveling on a train was extremely unpleasant, the reduction in travel time more than made up for it—we had cut hours off our trip by taking the train. Thankfully, we should be arriving in the station at Dover any time now. Once there, we would be staying at an inn overnight since the ship embarked very early tomorrow morning. Smiling to myself, I let the anticipation of being by the sea drown out my irritation with the train.

Looking across from me, I found even more reason to smile; there sat Erik and Belle, Belle was slumped down in the corner, her eyelids drooping as she listened to Erik. Ever since we had departed from Victoria Station, he had been regaling her with fantastic stories of foreign courts, magic tricks, and gypsy revels. She was undeniably enthralled, determinedly keeping her eyes open, although the spell of his voice was lulling her to sleep. Several times already her eyes had drifted shut, and Erik had slowly trailed into silence, but immediately Belle's eyes had jerked open, and she had demanded he continue. I would have told her to let him alone, but I could see he was enjoying himself, and I had to admit, I was enjoying myself as well.

Erik was a masterful storyteller, his active imagination and magical voice a fatal combination; I was unsure how much of his stories were true, but believed there was a kernel of truth in each, and treasured learning more of my angel. Only in the last few moments had I allowed my mind to wander, Dover's close proximity causing me to think over the details of our trip yet once more.

I glanced to my left, Antoinette sat there, contentedly reading a book of collected works by Jonathon Swift—an author whose satirical tone seemed to suit her very well. I suspected, however, that she had been neglecting Swift, also drawn in by Erik's tales.

I heard a soft knock on the door to the compartment, before it opened, and the conductor stuck his head in, "Pulling into Dover now, ma'am."

"Thank you," I replied graciously, and he swiftly withdrew.

Our little group stirred, and rustled around, collecting belongings as we prepared to disembark. The train chugged on, soon pulling into a busy terminal. As we alighted, I furtively glanced at Erik and by the compression of his lips I could tell how much he disliked emerging into the crowd.

We successfully navigated the hassle of locating our trunks, and getting them loaded onto our transportation. Because of all the luggage, we hired two hackney carriages to take us to our destination, Antoinette and Belle riding in one, while Erik and I occupied the other.

"How are you feeling?" I inquired, once we were seated inside.

Erik gave a little grimace, "As well as can be expected, and you my dear?"

"The same," I replied, before saying with a smile, "Already you spoil Belle, you must learn not to let her impose on you."

"Ahh," Erik said softly, "But I like being imposed upon."

I shook my head, a smile still upon my lips. "Well, she was not your only audience this afternoon," I told him, "I, and I suspect Antoinette, enjoyed your stories as well."

"What, all that nonsense?" he said dismissively, but there was a warm look in his eyes.

I gave a little laugh, "Well my instinct tells me that not all of your stories are nonsense, is it wrong?"

"No, not entirely, but what really happened . . . well, is not half so enjoyable," he replied seriously.

"That I also suspected," I said, before saying shyly, "But nevertheless, I would like to hear more one day."

His eyes darkened, "I am flattered, but I don't know it that is a good idea. And," he said meaningfully, "I think you have some far more pertinent information for me."

I relapsed into silence, eyeing him unhappily, but I knew that I had to tell him some time. Thankfully the carriage came to a stop, and I gave a sigh of relief.

As I got out of the carriage, the smell of the sea wafted into my nostrils, and I breathed in deeply, glorying in the scent. How I loved the ocean! I wanted to see it, to leave all this behind me, and immerse myself in the glory of the sea, its vast grandeur greater than all my problems, all my worries. With a sigh I opened my eyes, only just realizing I had closed them, I could not go right now, but maybe later . . . Determinedly I turned my mind back to the prosaic reality of The White Horse.

The White Horse, true to its name, was a little white inn, the yard neat and clean, and the atmosphere welcoming. We entered the building, and were immediately greeted by a plump landlord, who asked how he could help us with an avaricious gleam in his eye. I informed him that we were the expected party; James had written to secure three bedrooms and private parlor, but considering the short notice I half expected to be turned away. However, he immediately bade us welcome, and ushering us upstairs, showed us our rooms. Erik and Antoinette had their own, while Belle and I were to share. The rooms were nothing special, but looked clean and cheery, and I was very satisfied. However, noticing the size of building, I imagined we must be taking up the whole house.

We directed all of our belongings to their appropriate places, and settled on a time for dinner, which would be served in the private parlor in two hours. We were quite hungry, however, so the landlord provided us with some tea and cakes to tide us over until our meal.

With the tea consumed, we still had more than an hour before dinner, and my mind quickly returned to the Ocean.

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Erik

"We should go down the sea!" Christine suggested, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. I smiled inwardly, I had seen the joy on her face the moment she smelled the scent of the ocean, and I dearly loved the excitement she clearly felt at the idea of seeing that natural beauty.

"I too would enjoy a stroll down to the sea," I told her approvingly. Unbidden my mind recalled another 'casual' nighttime stroll, that night by the Bois . . . but this was different. This was not in the midst of a twisted charade, although it did contain some farcical characteristics, no I did not have to pretend, this, this was real.

Belle was ecstatic at the notion, giving an excited little wriggle, and declaring "I have never seen the sea before, how exciting!"

Madame Giry sensibly summoned a servant and inquired the best way to go.

"Just turn right, directly you leave the inn, ma'am, then go straight, you'll pass two streets before you come to Marine Parade, and just across is the promenade. If I may suggest it, the Promenade Pier is very pleasant. But you'll have to hurry if you're to get there before the sun sets," the rosy cheeked maid told us, her eyes curiously flitting to my face every so often.

Madame Giry thanked her, and we all hastened to don our outer wear, setting out from inn. As we walked down the street, Madame Giry took Belle's hand, and I offered Christine my arm. Never before in my life had I had felt so . . . normal. I gloried in the feeling, this feeling of belonging. To an outside observer we might look like any other family party, (except for my mask), and I felt a thrill at the thought.

The walk down the cobbled streets, and soon the Ocean came into view from behind a building, glittering under the setting sun. I heard Christine's indrawn breath at the sight, and I looked down at her, entranced by her awestruck face.

Belle squealed with excitement, and began pulling Madame Giry by her hand, in her haste to explore this new wonder.

As we followed Belle, Christine murmured, "How I wish she could have grown up by the sea. It has given me such happy memories."

"She is not grown yet," I reminded her, comforted by the thought myself, "Exactly how old is she?" I asked tentatively.

Christine grew a little stiffer, but she answered, "She is eight years old, and turns nine in September."

Swift calculation caused me to draw in a breath; it must have been scarcely a few weeks later! The bastard! Christine must have sensed my mood, because she said with a beguiling smile, "Come let us enjoy the present."

Belle and Madame Giry had already crossed the street, and Belle looked to be arguing with her, probably wanting to make a closer inspection of the sea shore.

With an answering smile, I crossed the street with Christine, pushing the past to the back of my mind. There would be plenty of time for that when we reached Paris.

"Belle," Christine said, once we reached the other pair, "my dear, I'm sorry but you can't go nearer, you will ruin your dress. But look, we can go out onto the pier and we will be right over the sea."

Belle acquiesced immediately, her eyes lighting up at the sight of the pier, and we proceeded to walk out onto it. Belle ran on ahead, with Madame Giry closely following behind her, while Christine and I continued to walk together. She drifted along next to me, her dreamy gaze absorbed with the sight before her.

Contentedly we walked down to the pier, passing a few lone fisherman, and the occasional couple. Soon we came to the end, where Belle was already sitting, her stocking-clad feet dangling down.

Christine disengaged from my arm in order to lean against the railing, her voice thoughtful, she softly said, "The beauty of the Ocean is so hard to describe, and I feel as if its glory invades my very soul. When I look on it I know that I am nothing compared to its beauty and majesty, and my only desire is to become one with it—to belong to its wonder, even if I am just one humble drop of liquid in its vast domain."

Her words were poetic and filled with passion, and I found an answering strain of my soul.

"Its like visual music," I said softly, "I have always thought the sea beautiful, Christine, but it is glorious beyond belief when seen through your eyes."

"I am glad . . . glad I can make you feel its wonder," and she was silent for a few more moments before she said, "It is like visual music, but Erik it is so much more than sight, it is a feast for your senses. The ocean breeze caresses your face, its smells are like a drugging perfume, and the sound of its movement changes at every moment. It can be a soothing lullaby, harmonically shushing you to sleep, but it can also be a raging cacophony of sounds—awesome in its power and might. Oh it is ever-changing, unpredictable."

Then she turned her eyes to me, and said, placing her hand on mine, "Kind of like you."

My breath caught in my throat, but I replied with a laugh, "Are you saying I'm moody?"

"You are indeed," she said in a teasing tone, before becoming serious once more, "But I do believe that I were to compare the Ocean to a person—I have found a worthy candidate in you."

Was she serious? She had just spoken of the sea of beautiful, majestic, glorious; she had spoken of it with passion and with love. How could she even speak of me in the same breath? I opened my mouth to speak, but found a finger pressed up against my lips.

"Don't," Christine said softly, "Just accept it, believe I mean it."

I relapsed into silence, my heart full, and as we watched the sun set over the ocean, I twined my fingers with Christine's and she did not pull away.

As it grew dark, I felt a little tug on my other hand. Belle looked up at me, "Aunt says its time to go in." she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "But we don't have to if you don't want to."

Clearly she hoped to find an ally in me, but dutifully I said, "If your aunt says its time to go, then I suppose we must leave. You will be hungry soon, and regret you are not sitting down to dinner."

She gave a little sigh, "Alright."

Madame Giry walked over to us, and together we all returned to the inn.

We partook of dinner in our small Parlor, and afterwards we all collapsed into chairs, sated and tired. I wondered then if I should retire to my room, and leave this family to themselves, I almost felt like a trespasser who had looked too long.

Belle was not as tired as the adults, and soon began to ask me to tell her another story, however before I could speak Christine interjected, "I have a better idea, I noticed your violin case Erik, how about you play us some tunes."

At this moment, I believe there is not much I would have denied her, so I returned to my room, and fetched the violin. I realized this would be the first time Belle heard me play, and the first time I saw her react to music. Naturally I was very curious to see what she would think.

I started off with a simple tune, and watched Belle's face; to my satisfaction she looked fascinated. I wanted 'my' child to harbor the same love of music I felt.

When I was finished Belle begged me to play another, and I launched out into a more complicated song, soon losing myself in the music. I had played several more songs before Madame Giry finally put an end to night, declaring it was Belle's bedtime.

After much discussion, during which time Belle tried to wheedle her way into staying, Christine and Belle left the room. Eyeing Madame Giry a little nervously, I departed as well, on the pretext of returning the violin.

I had been in my room a few minutes when I heard a soft knock upon the door; surprised, I opened it up to see Christine there. Repressing the demons that were making illicit suggestions, I asked politely what she wanted.

"Belle wants you to come say goodnight to her," she replied.

I felt a sudden pleasure at the thought, this mundane duty a precious privilege, and followed Christine to their room.

Belle lay in the bed, all tucked in, the white lace of her nightgown encircling her throat, and her brown curls barely restrained in a braid.

I leaned down to her, and she said, "I am so glad you are with us, now I have a proper family."

I felt my heart rise, then sink, as happy as her words made me, I wondered at how this situation would play out later. However I replied softly, "And I am very glad to be with you."

"You must kiss me, you know," she said, as if instructing a wayward pupil.

"Of course," I replied, my heart tightening unbearably. Such a little thing really, a kiss . . . most people don't give it a moment's consideration. They kiss on meeting, they kiss on parting, that simple touching of flesh is taken entirely for granted as a basic human right. But I had never had the luxury of taking a kiss for granted, and wondering that now this precious being expected it of me, I leaned down and reverently pressed my lips to her forehead.

She did not kiss me back, she hardly could have, but briefly raised her hand to face, and I wondered if Christine had warned her about the mask. Fear filled my heart at her lingering touch, but she twined her little arms around my neck, pulling me to hear, and whispered, "Good night . . . Father."

And that one word was like a caress that soothed the deepest torments of my soul.

My throat felt tight, and with great effort I replied, "Good night Belle."

Pulling away from her, I turned to see Christine, at the back of room, watching the little scene with a tender look in her eyes. She did not speak to me, but moved forward to Belle, no doubt to finish her own goodnight, and I left, taking refuge in my room.

XXXXXxxxxXXXXX

Christine

I finished saying goodnight to Belle, before returning thoughtfully to the parlor, where Antoinette still sat reading.

"Belle wanted Erik to say goodnight to her," I said slowly, "He came, and well . . . it was really sweet."

"I never doubted that Erik had great capacity for love should he only be allowed to exercise it," Antoinette replied, putting down her book, "Christine my dear, you are very brave, continue to be so."

I gave a deprecating laugh, "Not so very brave."

She eyed me thoughtfully, and said, "If you wish to have some time alone with him, I will retire to your bedroom and watch over Belle."

I blushed, amazed once again at how perceptive she was, "Well, I would appreciate it, but I'll probably only take a second, I mean we have an early day tomorrow."

"Whatever you say my dear," Antoinette replied, calmly picking up her book and preparing to leave.

I took a deep breath, I wanted to make a rather odd request of Erik. He would probably think it was stupid, too much trouble, but I was determined to try.

I walked to his door, and knocked. When he opened the door he looked just as surprised as before.

"Is something wrong Christine?" he asked, clearly puzzled at my presence.

"No, nothing at all," I replied, hesitating.

He patiently waited for me to speak, and finally I shyly made my request, "I have two favorite sounds in the world, one, as you have no doubt realized, is the Ocean, and the other . . . well the other is you."

He looked about to speak, and his eyes were dark with emotion, but I rushed on, "So I was wondering, it's stupid really, and I know we both need sleep, but well I wanted to hear the two of you together."

He gazed, down at me, a tender light in his eyes, "I am honored, and I don't think it's stupid at all. You might need sleep my dear, but I, well I would be up for hours no matter what."

"Thank you," I said shyly, "While we were on the pier I imagined hearing you play there."

"Well," he said, "there we shall go."

Breathlessly, I returned to the parlor to fetch my shawl and hat, and returned to Erik's room. Together we departed, the streets were not crowded, but they were hardly deserted, and as we walked we did not speak—comfortable in each other's presence. As the Ocean came into sight, I was once again caught up in the glory of the sea, wondering at its nighttime personality. The wind had picked up and the waves crashed onto the shore, glittering in the pale moonlight. We walked down the pier, and I felt as if I was in a fairytale—if I was, make-believe had never been so pleasant.

The pier was deserted, and I was only too happy, I did not wish to share my music with anyone this night. When we reached the end I withdrew my arm, preparing to hear Erik play. He quietly extracted the violin from its case, and brought it up to his chin, sending me one smoldering gaze before raising the bow.

The first haunting strains of the violin softly caressed me, filling me with that strange delight only Erik's music could bring me. It combined with the shushing, rolling waves, creating a composition more wonderful than even I could have imagined. I slowly sank to my knees, closing my eyes, utterly overcome with the sensations. And Erik played on, his music one with the sea, the melodies uniting into one glorious extravaganza of sound.

(a/n) Well I hope you enjoyed this extravaganza of fluff! I wanted to get the steamer trip in, but it didn't work out. Oh well! Review Please!(a/n)