Eleven

"Nadir."

"Yes, Erik."

"We will find Nadir."

"We will, Erik."

He stopped pacing and turned to face her. There was something he wished very much to say—

"Will you— if I—"

It would not come out right. But Christine guessed what he meant.

"If you send me," she said evenly, "I will return with all possible speed, and with Nadir in tow. I promise you, Erik— I swear it to you on my life. For my life would be nothing without you."

He breathed in a staggered breath, and nodded.

To let her go would kill him.

To hold her close would undo him.

She promised she would come back.

He held out his hand, and she took it.

He showed her one of the ways out— it was a long and winding pathway but she thought she could find it again on her way back. She mentioned as much and he smiled and closed his eyes briefly—

—reminding himself that she would come back, that he had to be alive when she got back, that he could not allow this to kill him—

She kissed him goodbye, sweetly, arms about his neck, then kissed the ravaged skin on the right side of his face. He felt naked without the mask— her kisses clothed him.

She released him too soon, and smiled warmly at him, her face flushed. Erik managed to smile back.

"Goodbye," he whispered.

"Au revoir, dear heart," she corrected him.

"Dear heart," he said, clutching his arms to him. "Goodbye— dear heart!"

She touched his hand and was gone. Erik sat down and waited.

Christine emerged into the cloakroom of the Opera Populaire. She smiled to herself, thinking how odd it was that Erik had so many secret passages and none of them had ever been discovered— it was no wonder people believed him to be a ghost. He had been able to come and go utterly as he chose, without needing to let walls hinder or stop him. She even smiled fondly at the tiny, dust-covered room, remembering briefly how it had been when the opera house was busy, bustling with patrons—

She walked out of the door and headed towards the main entrance. The great double doors would be locked, of course, but there was a side door that she could easily get out of. She stared at the ceiling of the once-grand building, pushing back a sudden desire to see the auditorium, the main theatre where she had once sung, been famous, been paid compliments—

Why should she not give into her curiosity? She would only be a moment, and surely Erik would understand.

She changed course and moved towards the grand staircases. They too were covered in dust, looking far more ancient than they should have, but they did not creak under her weight, a fact which she was grateful for. The fire must not have ravaged here. She ascended the stairs and went through the arched openings into the theatre.

"Oh," Christine breathed. Here the fire had done the worst— the seats were twisted, broken hulks, the stage was half charred, the balconies blackened and falling apart. She instantly regretted coming in— it was a terrible, sad sight, compared to the way she had known it, so bright and alive—

The carcass of the broken chandelier still lay in the middle of the room, glass glinting in the light that came through the windows. It seemed to her terribly morbid to have left it there— she could not understand the fact that it was not cleaned up, laid to rest—

There was a movement in the shadows to her left. She turned towards them with a gasp.

"Erik?" she asked.

The shadows moved towards the light, and took on the form of a man.

"Somehow I knew I would find you here," said Raoul.