Helene knew she could not spend another night in the house where she was born and raised. She had to return to Erik. Tonight.

When the household had retired, she called her maid and asked the girl to pack her necessities in a little trunk, one small enough for her to manage on her own. She instructed the maid to have the rest of her belongings sent to a hotel near the train station. She would find away to have them brought to the Opera Populaire later.

Once her preparations were completed, she took a sheet of paper from her lap desk.

"Mariette," she said, handing the finished note to the maid, "you will give this to my mother in the morning. If they ask you about my sudden departure, tell them you brought me a telegram…that there are matters in Sicily involving my late husband's estate that require me to leave sooner than I had planned."

She drew on her cloak and pulled up the silk-lined hood.

"Please, call a carriage for me. Not my own. Have the porter hire one."

Christine's voice haunted her during the ride to the ruined theatre…to his home.

I understand now why he loved her…loves her…why he can not simply accept that she does not love him…her voice is so very beautiful…too beautiful for this world…and that was his doing…his gift to Christine…the only thing he could give her.

When the carriage had left her in the Rue Scribe, she unlocked the door and pushed her little trunk inside. She left it and ran down the dim passage way to find him.

He was playing the violin, his face unmasked, his hair rumpled, his eyes closed.

She did not dare disturb such perfection, though she wanted nothing more than to collapse into his arms.

The melody was like so many others he had written. Rich, dark, melancholy, yet tinged with sweetness.

She closed her own eyes and leaned against the wall, feeling the music as she would feel his hands on her bare skin.

Then it stopped and she saw him lay down the violin. He had not heard her entrance.

She said his name, letting herself imagine for only a second that the look in his eyes when he turned was one of love and not merely surprise.

He did not question her sudden appearance, though he was not expecting her to return so soon. He came up to her, taking the steps two at a time.

She looked up at him, noticing again how tall he was, how he towered over her as he pushed the hood back from her face.

He slid his arms beneath her cloak and held her, his strong body seeming to completely envelop her weary one.

"Sanctuary," she whispered against him.

It was only then that he kissed, over and over again.

--------------------------------

She had been so tired that she had not undressed for bed. She had not even removed her shoes, but fell asleep in his arms.

When she finally opened her eyes, wincing against the prodding of her stays, she sensed it was late morning. But she didn't want to disturb the peaceful contact between them.

By now, her family would have read her note. It hurt to lie to them, but the truth was impossible.

"I wasn't expecting you," he said.

With a small, contented sigh, she shifted so her head was pillowed on his chest.

"I'm here to stay, Erik," she answered as his fingers traced idle circles along her arm, "just as I promised."

"Are you sure that's wise, Helene?"

"It probably wasn't very wise for me to come here that first time. But I have not regretted it for a moment. I never will."

He turned, drawing her beneath him.

"Do you realize what you are damning yourself to, Helene?"

He caressed her face as he spoke, smoothing her sleep-tangled hair back from her forehead.

"Damning myself?"

"Yes…damning yourself…to the loneliness, the isolation…to enduring the sight of this face…this is hell and, yet, you walk into it so willingly."

"Hell, Erik," she said angrily, pushing him away and sitting up, "was counting the hours until I could return to you. Hell is not being able to see you, not hearing your voice…waking in the night without you beside me."

He sat up, too, untangling himself from the bedclothes.

"But what will you do here? Believe me, Helene, the boredom can drive you to the edge of insanity."

"I shall find ways to keep busy. I've known the ennui of being a respectable widow in a little Sicilian town."

"I could teach you…to sing."

She shook her head, remembering the beauty of her sister-in-law's voice.

"No, Erik, no. I told you once before that I am not…" she hesitated, almost afraid to said that name, "I am not Christine."

He looked away from her, staring for a moment at a tarnished little bronze gondola that lay in a stone niche, trying to remember when and where he had acquired it.

"You really do love me, don't you," he said at last.

Her answer was a kiss so sudden and zealous that it was several moments before he could respond, matching her passion with his own.

------------------------

Erik was sitting on the ottoman beside the sofa, his head against her knees as he read to her.

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain,
Have put on black and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
And truly not the morning sun of heaven
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,
Nor that full star that ushers in the even,
Doth half that glory to the sober west,
As those two mourning eyes become thy face:
O! let it then as well beseem thy heart
To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace,
And suit thy pity like in every part.

It was a battered copy of Shakespeare printed in English, but he read it to her in Italian, knowing how much she enjoyed hearing it like that.

Finally, he snapped the book shut and looked up at her. Her eyes were closed, her one hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

"So," he said dryly, tossing the volume aside, "not even a day with me and you are bored already."

She did not open her eyes, but she smiled as she answered him.

"Not bored, Erik. But I am sure you can find some way to amuse me."

"Amuse you? My dear, I'm a cynical old ghost. I'm not amusing in the least."

But as he spoke, he turned and pushed up the cream-colored silk of her dressing gown.

She sighed, anticipated his touch of his skilled hands. Instead, he pressed his lips along the inside of her thigh.

Her eyes flew open, wide with surprise at the first flick of his tongue against her.

"Erik…oh…Erik…it's too much…please, stop…I can't…"

Even as she protested, she opened herself to him, shuddering with need as his rough cheek scraped against her skin.

Her own hands felt so clumsy as she tugged off the sash that held the robe closed. When the gown fell open, he leaned over her, kissing her stomach and breasts before he lifted her hips against him.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, lightheaded with pleasure as he plunged into her with slow and relentless tenderness.

He sat back, pulling her up with him so she was straddling his lap.

As his thrusts became deeper and more urgent, she spread her own hands against his back as she gave in to him completely.

La petite mort…the little death…that's what they call this…

When he lay spent against her, she realized that she was weeping and trembling…but not only with the sweet aftershocks of their passion…but with disbelief.

Had she really heard those words, a hoarse whisper against her throat as he took her?

No…I was delirious…dreaming….he never said it…

She did not dare believe it…she did not dare.

Helene, I love you.