She wanted desperately to shake him, to beg him to repeat those words. But if it had only been her own yearning, an illusion in the depths of their passion…

I cannot ask him to say it again, only to have him deny it…I cannot risk that…it would kill me.

He stirred in her arms and she knew he would let his cheek…the unmarred side…rest against her own. He had become fond of sleeping like that, his face pressed to hers. She hastily wiped away the tears with the back of her hand, not wanting him to feel them.

Forget what you heard…what you only thought you heard!

She nudged him so lightly.

"Erik, please, this settee isn't very comfortable. Please, let's go to bed now.

He rose with a reluctant groan. He stretched a little and smiled at her.

"Whatever you wish, Helene."

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

It was one of those rare mornings when she opened her eyes and did not see him beside her.

She sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing her temples.

She had slept poorly, despite the comfort of his nearness. Every second of the night, those words had echoed…not just in her mind, but throughout her body like a new pulse.

And hidden within that echo was a vague, chill demon's voice.

This will not last. This cannot last. Sooner or later…this will end.

"I won't let that happen," she said out loud to herself as she dressed and went down the steps.

She found Erik was dressed, his mask and wig in place. He was going out…or he had been out already.

"I'm afraid I have to leave you alone for a while, my dear," he said, his gloved hand cupping her jaw as he tilted her face up and kissed her forehead.

"Let me go with you."

"You're pale and you look tired. Go back to sleep. I won't be gone long."

She touched the edge of his mask, feeling the contrast between the cold leather and his skin.

"I'm fine, Erik. Only, come back quickly."

When he had gone, the loneliness of the grottoes settled around her.

How could he live like this for so long?

She ran her hand across the ivory keys of the organ as she passed it.

He had things to occupy his hands, his mind…his drawings, his music, his hopes for Christine.

She sat down at the work table and picked up the heavy portfolio filled with portraits of Christine.

The likenesses were perfect. The girl in each picture matched exactly with the young woman she'd met only a few days ago.

There she was, radiant in a white gown with spangles and stars that seemed to flash from the page, elegant in a pink costume that Marie Antoinette would have envied, coy in a gypsy costume of peach and black, veiled and innocent in a bridal gown.

Tucked in among those paintings was a sketch of a man, a self-portrait of Erik. He wore no mask and every flaw had been so brutally rendered in harsh, reckless lines.

She closed the portfolio, unable to see more. As she laid it down, she saw a second folder in a half-opened drawer.

More pictures of Christine, no doubt.

She opened it and spread the watercolors out on the table, startled to see her own face drawn by his hand.

She saw herself on the roof, his cloak blowing around her. And asleep on the divan, his dressing gown loose on her figure, reading in the book-filled alcove.

She smiled when she saw the volume of Byron's poems in her hands.

The last picture was an unfinished…yet so carefully drawn…sketch of a woman in black, her own features vague beneath a widow's veil.

She looked at the date on that one…it was drawn only two days after her accident with the trap-door.

She put them away quickly, returning them to the drawer.

Why did he hide them?