Chapter 3

Christine took a moment to absorb this, looking down at their clasped hands. She knew he cared for her, but to know just how deeply he felt, and for how long, was beyond simple words. "I thought, over the years, that you must have some love for me, but I never dreamt it was so much, Mas--…Erik," she added deliberately, meeting his gaze, "and I do return your love." Kissing his lips once again, she sealed her words to his heart; "I do." With that, she kissed him again, thoroughly, delicately, taking away the pain of the memories and replacing it with something much better—belonging.

He broke their kiss, afraid to ask but unable to stop himself. "Christine," he began, ignoring his racing heart, "will you marry me?" It was too much, too sudden, he knew, but he continued despite his better judgment.

"Marry you?" she asked, astonished. She remembered the doll in the bridal dress.

"Yes, why not? You do love me, don't you?" he pressed.

"Yes, I do, but…marriage? So soon?" she asked, apprehensive.

"Why should we wait? Say yes!" he implored. She had to agree, it couldn't be any other way.

"But…" she stopped, not sure how to put her doubts into words without hurting him again.

"What is it? You must tell me," he demanded.

Slowly she touched the mask, resting her whole hand on it. She did not speak; she didn't have to.

He placed his hand over hers where it lay on his mask. "You would let this stop you?" he whispered, crushed. "But you forgave me," he pleaded.

"And I do forgive you, but if you cannot share yourself, that would stop me," she said as gently as she could, hoping she did not sound cruel.

"Why? What does it matter?" he asked, dismayed.

"I've trusted you all this time; can't you trust me?" she answered, their hands still on the mask. Of this much she was sure; she loved him, yes, but marrying someone whose face she did not know was unthinkable, and exactly what had happened twenty years ago? If he could not share himself, trust her to understand, there was no point in marrying.

He searched her eyes, gauging her resolve. Finally, he decided. He had been rash to ask her, and if this was the price he had to pay for that rashness, then so be it. It was too late to turn back now. He stood up slowly, fright pounding in his chest. Giving her his hand to help her up, he led her to another one of the large mirrors he kept covered. Reluctantly, dreamlike, he threw the cover off and stood stock still in front of it. He waited.

Christine stood beside him. She realized what this must cost him, but she simply could not contemplate marrying someone who could withhold such a thing from her. Standing next to him, they watched themselves in the mirror for several long moments. Just as she had asked her Angel to reveal himself tonight, here was the final revelation. She took in his figure as it was now, perfect hair and perfect mask, his clothing immaculately clean. The black hair was too perfect; she knew it had to be a wig as so many people wore for fashion's sake. But what lay underneath, his true self, this she had to know or else he should never have asked her to marry him.

How brave of him, to acquiesce to her. He stood looking at her in the mirror, eyes locked on hers, waiting. She could see the mounting tension in him; his chest began to heave, the enormity of what she asked crashing down on him, but still he remained, unmoving, when clearly he wanted to bolt like a frightened horse.

She lifted her hands to the mask, carefully removing it by the edges. This side of his true face was not, in fact, pleasant to look upon; the whorls and bumps of flesh red in places, the eye socket distorted above and below by some extra layer underneath that continued along the cheek, back toward the ear. The hair had disappeared from the invading growth, retreating back and up from where it should have been. She could see now why he wore the wig; he really had no choice, and she carefully loosened it, too, smoothly sliding it off of his real hair underneath. She stood with him, holding mask and wig, looked back at him in the mirror.

His entire face was now become the mask as he waited for her judgment, not allowing anything to show at all. He felt more exposed in front of Christine than in front of all the clients his owner had ever brought in.

She turned back to his real self, to what he had fought so hard to hide. And looked, closely, at the real him. He must have been born this way; there was nothing she knew of that would do this, and for all that the flesh and bone were misshapen, they did not look diseased. They looked malformed, as if the sculptor had left this work unfinished, forgetting to smooth out the rough planings. Here, then, was her Angel's secret, what kept him in the recesses of the Theater and forced him into the hidden places. The courage it took for him to show her his true self moved her more than she could say; he risked all by allowing her to see him: he had risked all for her for years.

He watched her expression in the mirror as she changed, softened, pitied, moved into lovingkindness, at last meeting his eyes in the mirror again.

"Does it hurt?" she asked sympathetically, plainly concerned for him.

He drew a deep, ragged breath, closing his eyes briefly. His shoulders slumped in relief. "A little, sometimes," he answered.

She set the mask and wig down on a nearby table. Turning back to his mirrored self, she wordlessly asked permission to touch his bad side. He nodded. Tentatively she ran her fingers over the flesh there, learning this part of him that so few ever saw. Her touch was so soft, so tender that he allowed himself a heavy sigh. A mother could not be more gentle with her newborn. She moved on to his natural hair, admiring the mix of colors that created a warm brown rather than the severe black he preferred, stroking it into place so that it lay evenly down both sides of his face. Still he dared not move.

Taking his face in both her hands, she gently pulled his head down to her level. "Close your eyes," she told him, placing a kiss on first his good eyelid, then the other as he did so. Whisper-soft, she kissed his face, slow, tiny kisses going over every inch as she deliberately lingered on his malformed side. His eyes flew open again, amazed. She ended by sliding her arms around his neck, her flawless cheek to his bad one. "I love you," she whispered as they stood together.

He began to wrap his arms around her.

"What happened more than twenty years ago?"

And froze. He should have known she would ask; it wasn't like her to allow such a comment to go by the wayside. He held her at arm's length, searching her face. All right, then. She had a right to know, if he was asking her to make a life with him. No more secrets. He nodded once, resigned.

He let go of her, taking off the velvet jacket. Carefully folding it, he placed it on the same table that held the mask and wig, then began unbuttoning his shirtsleeves, pulling the fabric out of the black trousers he wore. Letting the shirt fall at his feet, he stood in front of her naked to the waist. Again, he waited.

Christine was baffled at first, trying to meet his eyes, but he would not cooperate. She let her gaze travel down, to his shoulders, his chest…and stopped, aghast. Yes, he was beautiful, yes, he was handsome, but his lovely skin was marked with thin white scars. Paling, she walked slowly around him, seeing what had once been cuts that ran all over his body. The implications were staggering. She dared not touch him until she came full circle, and even then let only two fingers rest on his forearm. Looking him directly in the eye, she asked, "What happened?"

"I killed the man who gave me these," he hissed, his voice filled with hatred. His eyes were blazing.

She cried, "Who? How could anyone do such a thing?"

"He was my Keeper," he said, spitting it out. "And he did it because he enjoyed it." He stopped, his jaw working in the rage that came back. He wanted to explain, but it was so hard, the feelings so strong they threatened to sweep him away. He saw himself in the mirror, realized how threatening he looked. He couldn't take the chance of scaring Christine again. He made himself take a deep breath, patted her hand where it lay on his arm. "Come, sit with me," he said, bending down to retrieve the shirt. He pulled it back on but did not close it, walking to the bed where there was room for two, and they sat where she had previously lain. He would not meet her eyes, kept his hands carefully away from her. A long silence stretched out as he wondered where to begin. He stared resolutely at the floor, at the dancing patterns in the rug there.

Christine sat next to him, studying his good side, waiting for him to find the words. She wanted to touch him but knew better than to try.

"Christine, Fleur brought you here when you were seven," he began. "I was nine when she did the same for me, twenty-four years ago."

Haltingly he told her of the young boy whose mother both loathed and feared him, selling him gladly to the passing carnival. Of being tied like an animal and locked in a filthy cage for the amusement of the crowds, called the Devil's Child now, of the pitiful hood being torn off again and again, whipped into shameful exposure until he could stand it no more. The day Fleur witnessed his humiliation he sensed something different about her; she was moved by his plight, and finally his torment boiled over into rage. He picked up the ropes and strangled his torturer, with Fleur the only witness. Escaping the cage, he was found out and the alarm raised, but instead of turning him over to the mob, Fleur grabbed his hand and ran, back to the House and a hidden entrance, hiding him from the evil of the world; he'd lived here ever since.

By the time he finished, Christine was weeping openly. "Oh, God," she managed, "I didn't know, I didn't know, I'm so sorry, please…" she implored, sinking to the floor at his feet, "Master, forgive me!"

"Don't call me that," he said sharply, the title making him recoil in disgust. He pulled her back up onto the bed with him, battling the ghosts clamoring in his mind, seeing them so clearly the intervening years might as well have vanished. The shame and rage seethed inside him, and he feared he would lose control of himself again. He tried to concentrate on now, on his Angel here with him after so much longing, crying for him as her sensitive heart broke from her unknowing trespass.

Finally he felt the ghosts recede, and he could look at her again, wipe her tears away and caress her face tenderly. "Christine, please. I'm not cross with you." He kissed her forehead, absolving her of guilt. "You and Fleur are the only ones I have ever told. Please, stop crying now," he said gently, looking into her eyes and regretting the sorrow in them. "Of course, how could you marry someone without sharing their secrets? It wasn't my intention to make you cry; I only wanted you to know."

He lifted her chin, smiling a little, but it didn't reach his eyes. He felt exhausted, hollow, the confession taking its toll after all the long years of being locked away. But it was worth it if his Angel would stay, marry him, make him complete.

Nothing stood between them now, truth replacing the fear brought about by semblances and deceptions. Taking her hands he asked her again, but this time honestly, cleanly. "Christine? Will you marry me? Now that you know my secrets?" Her eyes were swollen and her nose ran, but she looked more beautiful to him now than ever. Letting go her hands, he waited for her answer, anxiety clawing at him; what if she said no?

Wiping her nose with her sleeve, she thought on what he asked. He had loved her in so many ways for so many years, she could think of no one else she could trust the way she trusted him. Now he trusted her in return, sharing himself at great expense. She had loved him too, relying on him for comfort and protection despite his dwelling in the shadows. She knew there was nothing he would not do for her; she could ask him to rip his heart from his breast, and he would do it. His belief in her talent and his tutelage led to her triumph tonight, and it seemed the natural progression of things that her Angel of Music, sent by her father, should now become her husband. What strange circumstances conspired that she would now join her life to his in body as well as soul, and she knew they were meant for each other. It was indeed perfect. Looking into her strange Angel's eyes, she saw his uncertainty and smiled lovingly. "Yes, I will," she said simply.

His arms went around her, holding her tight to him, and they swayed a moment as he almost lost his balance, trembling hard. His dream of love now at last came true; she was really here, really loved him in return, did not run shrieking from him like some monster. She had seen his true self, knew his haunting past, and loved him more because of it. "You're my life, Christine," he told her, almost breaking down again, "I love you. I've always loved you." He released her just enough to ask her directly; "Soon, then? Marry me soon?" a long engagement would kill him, he thought. "Please," he pleaded.

Radiant, Christine agreed, "Yes, all right, soon," and he kissed her at that, deliberately, gratefully. The hollow feeling scuttled away in the face of his joy.

Something was missing, he thought. "Here," he told her, taking her hand and bringing her to the doll where it stood, frozen and silent. He removed a ring from its finger, pressing it into her hand.

She looked at it, enchanted. It was a golden band with a filigree rose in the center, lacy and delicate; the gold that made up the rose itself was actually a shade of pink. "It's beautiful, thank you!" she exclaimed, placing it on her ring finger. It was exactly her size.

She was still admiring the ring when she felt his hand on her cheek, and looked up to see his eyes filling with tears. He was smiling through them, and she turned into his hand, kissing his palm. She could never have imagined this night, and embraced him, laying her head on his bare shoulder, wanting only to be close, to be together.

They stood like that a long time, listening to each other's breath, basking in each other's warmth, not speaking a word. It was too wonderful, to be loved. Each thought their lives now made sense, that at last they had a reason to live.

A soft chime broke their reverie. It was 3 AM, and Christine was not yet back in the girls' quarters. "Now, we must go," Erik said apologetically. "Fleur will be anxious, and you must not be found missing in the morning." He kissed her once more, tender and slow, marveling at how he could do that now, tonight, marveling again that she kissed him back. This kiss was a promise for the future, and a wish that this night could last forever. Finally he had to let it end.

He refastened the shirt, Christine helping with the buttons. How charmingly domestic, to have help in such a simple thing as dressing. Not since Fleur was bringing him clothing had anyone helped him. He reached for the wig, but Christine stopped him. "Please, let me," she said, and he did, sitting for her so she could do it properly. There wasn't a person in the whole House who couldn't do hairpieces. When she was done she simply picked up the mask and carefully placed it, too, on him, standing back to make sure both wig and mask fit perfectly. They did. "Thank you," he said, kissing her hand. He donned the jacket and gloves, collecting his cloak.

Christine saw his transformation into the mysterious Phantom, her Angel of Music, and was intrigued. It was bizarre, beyond imagination, but this night was real, after all. She shivered a little, and he quickly threw the cloak over her shoulders. She was surprised at its warmth, its heaviness. It was enormous, and she was dwarfed in it.

He saw it, saw her standing looking tiny amid its folds, and took a moment to kiss her again, his eyes warm as he thought how precious she was to him; he might never have seen this night, seen her waiting for him in his cloak. She was indeed his own Angel. Extending a hand, he took hers in it as she gathered the cloak to a more suitable length.

As they returned to the upper levels of the House, Christine no longer recognized the way. "Where are we going?" she asked, as they ascended yet another narrow passageway. Erik had brought along a torch; at times they needed it.

He turned to answer her. "I know all the secret ways here. I come and go as I please, and no one the wiser." He smiled at her, mischief in his eyes. "How do you think I entered your dormitory after Fleur locked the doors?"

She stopped dead for a moment at that; it had never occurred to her. He laughed quietly, unable to stop himself.

They came at last to a door in a wall. Erik sat the torch in the bracket next to it and knocked softly; Christine heard Madame Giry's voice bidding them enter. When the door opened, she saw it was Madame Giry's room; she was waiting for them on her chaise lounge, and stood quickly as they came in. "My dears, are you all right? You were gone so long, I did not know what to think!" Christine was startled to realize Madame Giry expected Christine to be with him. How well did they know each other after all?

Putting his arm around Christine's shoulders, Erik showed Fleur the rose ring on her hand. "Fleur, we have news," he said excitedly, "She said yes!" Madame Giry stared, disbelieving, at the ring on Christine's hand, speechless. Shaking her head, a smile broke across her face as she looked from one to the other. "Well, then congratulations, my dears!" she exclaimed, holding out her arms to embrace them both at once. "This is wonderful news. And when do you plan on having this wedding?"

Erik answered, "As soon as you can arrange it, Fleur. And," he added, his eyes sparkling, "you must also tell Meg; it is time she knew the truth as well."

Christine watched as Madame Giry changed, clearly reluctant to reveal the Phantom of the Opera to even her own daughter. Then Fleur sighed heavily, resigned. "You miss her, I know," she said. Erik looked down, seeming sad all at once. "But let me tell her, yes? It would be better coming from me."

Erik brightened at that. "Whatever you think best."

Turning to Christine, Fleur told her, "And now, you must to bed. Remember, not a word of this to anyone, Christine, not even Meg. Erik's secret is now yours, and you must keep it, for your safety as well as his. You understand?" She turned back to Erik. "Wait here," she commanded.

Christine nodded soberly, her responsibility dawning on her. "I will, I promise." She was swept up in Erik's embrace, his kiss on her lips embarrassing her in front of the Ballet Mistress. The night's discoveries were going to take some getting used to. Madame Giry took her hand, a candle in the other, leading her out of the door to the dormitories down the hall. She lifted her finger to her lips for silence as Christine entered the sleeping dormitory, handing Erik's cloak to Madame Giry.

Christine heard the lock working again behind her. That won't keep him out, she thought, and smiled, wondering if her Angel would come to her in the night.

The clock was chiming four as Fleur entered her room again, Erik waiting for her. He knew what was coming, and bristled at Fleur doubting him. "Erik," she began, but he cut her off with a wave of his hand. "No. Of course not. How dare you ask me that?" he said angrily, sitting stiffly on her lounge.

Relieved at his answer, she relaxed. "I am sorry," she told him, "but you know I worry." She came to sit beside him, giving him the cloak and putting a hand on his shoulder. "You have done a great thing tonight, it is your triumph! You have made Christine into the star you always said she could become. You should be very proud," she smiled at him, then became earnest. "But her career is just beginning, and if she were to have a child now, it would mean the end of it. You know that, yes?" she asked kindly, searching his face.

The anger drained out of him at that, and he studied the floor, not sure of himself. "I do not think I could bring a child into the world with this curse, Fleur," he said slowly, looking up at her at last. "You'll help me?" he asked, knowing she could. She knew everything.

"Of course, always," she told him; he laid his head on her shoulder, his arms around her waist.

"You're so good to me," he said softly.

"As you are to me, my dear," she replied. She put one arm around his shoulder, resting her chin on him. "I have one more question," she began, letting him sit back up to look at her curiously. "Did she see you?" she asked, concerned.

His smile was brilliant in response, and she had her answer before he spoke. "Yes! That's what's so marvelous! She insisted, and that's when she said yes!" he took her arms for emphasis, hardly containing his joy. "She's the most caring, compassionate…" he stopped, chagrined. Here was the compassionate woman who'd rescued him, looked after him all these years, and he was going on about Christine with no regard for her feelings. "I…I didn't mean…" he began, but Fleur smiled, amused.

"No, my dear, it is all right," she said, shaking his arms indulgently. "You are in love, this is what you should be saying. And now, I must get some rest before the day begins. Time for you to go!" she told him, escorting him back toward the hidden door. "And you must rest as well!" she called after him as he disappeared.

But he was too elated to sleep. Later, as Christine awakened briefly between dreams, she could swear she heard her Angel, singing to her softly.