I sat in the silence and watched her retreating back. She paused at the base of the stairs and shook her head, almost as if she were trying to drive out cobwebs. Then, she slowly mounted the stairs and disappeared from my sight. I sighed. I held no regret for what I had just told her. It was the honest truth, and though I might make a life out of dishonesty and deception, it was not what I wanted for our relationship. I smiled bitterly. We were a long way from having a relationship, if I could even use the word.

Yet, I knew that there was something there. She had come to me willingly enough, responded to my grief, and understood what I had told her, as if she had been expecting it. I was not a mind-reader, by any means, but years of studying the human psyche did not leave me with no impressions as to the thoughts of mankind. She was angry, underneath, even beneath her feelings for me, and her anger would come to the surface very soon. I knew that I would not be able to control her without my music. She was brave enough to look in the face of the fear that I could instill and act regardless. Even with my music, Christine would not be so easily manipulated again.

I felt my blood rise. Of course she would not be. But therein lay the challenge. And therein lay the fun.

I rose from the organ's chair and extinguished the candles, not flinching as she had when the darkness enveloped me. I had told her to be dressed and ready. I needed to do likewise.

I had not been lying when I had told her that we were going to the Opera. Since her love of music and composition was an integral part of her being, I would never want to take that away from her. In fact, by showing her the world that she longed to become a part of, I hoped to drag her down into the nest that I had created for her. Reading her journals had given me such a detailed look at each one of her dreams and hopes that I knew everything she wanted was in my power to give. Including the exact kind of relationship that she desired.

My apartments lay directly beneath hers, on the third floor of the apartment. My servants would normally have occupied the second, and on the first floor were all of the entertaining and dining rooms, as well as the kitchen and laundry rooms. Each door on the second floor was locked to her, since I had no servants with me now, save one cook who prepared my meals for me during the early hours of the morning. While I might have done this myself, I did not want to divert my attention from my little prisoner one moment more than necessary. Christine was resourceful, and though there was no place that she could hide from me, she was smart enough to make things very difficult.

My tuxedo was beautifully tailored, so that it was always a joy to wear. There was nothing more amusing than seeing some Parisian teenager patronizing the arts in a rented tuxedo. To watch them adjusting the collars, or pulling at the sleeves. I smiled even as I thought of it, and tucked a fresh rose into my lapel. I checked the tickets again, and slipped them into the inner pocket of my jacket.

The clock read 6:45. That gave us enough time to struggle through the traffic and get to the Opera ten minutes before the curtain at 7:30. Though I did not live far from the Opera, there was always a crowd before the doors.

My heart beat faster as I climbed the stairs to her floor. There was only one door, a modification of mine when I had my first 'guest'. 'Fewer entrances, fewer exits', was my motto in that regard. While I wished that I could already trust Christine with more freedom, I was no fool. She would try to escape from me, until that day when she found she no longer desired to.

I paused outside of her door, wondering what my reception would be. I was always cautious, since I would not put it past her to try and run from me this early in the game. But all the doors were locked, and all the windows had been replaced with shatterproof glass. I thought it best that she not know that, but she could always find out by herself.

I knocked, politely, and, upon hearing nothing from within, I opened the door.

Christine looked up at me, her expression carefully neutral, from the bench at the edge of her bed. She stood and faced me with dark defiance. I wanted to smirk at her show of spine—since I had known it to be there all along—but she looked furious with herself and with me over the bit of manipulation earlier, so I refrained. She was not dressed. The clock on the dresser ticked the seconds slowly by.

I let the weight of my silence crash against the walls of her defiance. I knew that eventually she would crack, afraid to take any more of the pressure. I would not have to force her; I would just make her too afraid to do anything else.

She faced me, her head held high, her shoulders squared. She looked me square in the eye, and said, "I am not going anywhere."

I smiled. "Need I remind you, my dear?" a hint, no more, of a threat crept into my voice, "You really have no alternatives."

Ah, and here we see the frailty of the mortal species. A hint, no more, suggesting the damage I could do, and already she was afraid. Not so that many could see it—she was admirable that way—but her breath hitched and her hands trembled where she clenched them to her sides.

We stood that way for several carefully measured seconds longer, and when she showed no signs of relenting, I wanted to see how much she was going to make me push her. I feigned relenting.

"You must not have been able to find anything suitable," I breezed right past her, going close enough to feel the tension reverberating from her very muscles, "I understand. One's first visit to the Opera is rather…special."

I did not need to watch to see her flinch. I went into her closet and picked out a dress that had been put there expressly to test her limits. It was the most beautiful cocktail dress I had ever seen. I knew that she would never wear it. I watched her reaction carefully as I laid it out on her bed and would have laughed out loud at the dumbfounded and terrified expression on her face if I had not been sensitive to her overwrought feelings.

At this point, Christine showed me the iron that had been bred into her. A lesser girl would have succumbed, tearfully putting on the dress and obeying my wishes. She looked at me furiously, stalked into the closet, picked a dress that she had obviously had her eye on, found the lingerie to match—in plain sight of me—marched into the bathroom, and locked the door behind her.

Within minutes, just when I was wondering if I had misjudged the time we had remaining, she emerged from the bathroom, looking lovelier than I could ever attempt to describe, wearing a cranberry sheath of satin that flared out ever so gently from her hips to the floor. She refused to meet my eyes—though they followed her everywhere—went back into the closet, and selected the pumps to match.

When she reemerged from the closet, she surprised me even further by adding an infantile, "Happy?"

I felt, suddenly, like the overbearing father of a teenaged girl. I winced when I realized that that was what I could be. I decided to start hinting again.

I stepped aside, my lips motionless, and extended an arm, motioning her towards the stairwell. Her boisterous manner calmed substantially, and she took the handbag from the top of her dresser and walked out before me, her head ducked almost as if to dodge a slap. She would never know how angry and elated she made me—sometimes even simultaneously—but her instincts were still sharp. She might even need them if she kept pushing me so.

We walked to the first floor, and it was testament to her courage that she never looked behind her, though the set of her back indicated that she was very leery of having me constantly behind her. As we approached the door, and her hand reached out to take the handle, mine moved swiftly out to take it. The sudden contact made her gasp, and she jerked back from me so violently that she almost upset the entryway bench. It was not, however, enough to make me loose the grip I had had on her wrist.

My face moved close to hers, and though she tried not to be afraid, she was.

"Don't scream."

Before I could gauge her response, I had turned to the door, punched in the interior access code, and opened the door. I motioned to her again, and we went out into the Parisian evening together.

The weather was unseasonably cold for the middle of June, but the Parisian nightlife stopped for nobody and nothing. Already the streets were flooded with the cars of the modern-day aristocracy—i.e., those with the money to make themselves important—each one of them dressed to the nines for a night at the Opera. I was one of them, technically, as my sponsorship could make or break any musical, opera or play I chose to sponsor, and I threw my weight around almost as much as any charity-obsessed Comtesse. The mark of 'E. Troche' was a gem in any amateur production, though none of them had ever seen me, and none of them had ever produced anything even marginally worth seeing. I only sponsored them in the hopes that one day something truly amazing would present itself. I supposed then, that I could stop. My gem was standing right beside me, trying hard not to be overwhelmed by the sights of the city she had always dreamed of.

My chauffer opened the door for us, and I noticed with displeasure the look of shock and the frank look of interest he showed towards Christine. My look, as I passed into the car behind her, was—hopefully—chilling enough to stop any such ideas before he even considered them again. I would have everyone admire her that night, but no one touch her.

Enclosed in the space of the car, I swear I could almost hear her heart beat. She stared out the window next to her, looking at the buildings, the street signs, absolutely enamored of the beauty of the place, and obviously trying to remember the address. I knew that her first escape attempt was with her that night; she had not had enough time to dress and do whatever she was planning on. She was not stupid—she had wanted to be ready in order to stop me from suspecting anything. Nor was she inordinately disobedient, especially since she suspected how intractable I could be. She was not, though, entirely trusting of me yet. She wanted to make it through alive, and cooperation was the key, or so she thought.

My fingers clenched against my knee. Until she betrayed me. Until she left me, alone. Again.

I too, looked out my window, and a smile twisted my face. But I would never let her go. She did not know that yet, but I would never, ever let her go. She was mine. As long as God remained uncaring in his heaven, she was mine!

And I made a vow to her, as well as to myself. The day God condescended to show himself to me, she could go free. The day God admitted me as one of his children again, she would be my first tribute in humility to Him.

My smile broadened. She would be mine forever.

The car slid to a stop. The Paris Grand Opera House.

I held her arm folded tightly to my side as we made our way up the crowded stairway and into the dark hallways that led to the boxes. I was a subscriber to the best seat in the house, Box #5, and had been for the past 10 years. It was always my first financial concern. I could do well enough without a house, without fine clothes or servants, but I would never go without my box. Nor was it an unsubstantial concern either. The cost for holding one of the boxes for a season was fairly astronomical, even to the wealthier set in Paris.

As we entered the box, I heard the rustle of serge skirts behind me, and I turned to greet the old Madame Giry, faithful keeper of the boxes since time immemorial. She wore the keys to the storage rooms like gold and silver badges of honor, and indeed, there were few offices in the world more honorable than hers. She was wise, as befitted her years, yet discreet, and I had often longed to tempt her away from the Opera and into my employ. But I had never made the offer. I knew she would never agree, and I would not want her to in any case. She belonged her. Perhaps more than I did.

I took two programs from her, making sure that the libretto was tucked firmly between the pages of Christine's, and arranged for two glasses of wine be brought to myself and my guest during intermission. Paris was extremely lax as regards drinking laws.

The lights were just going down as I reentered the box, and Christine had pulled her chair to where she could rest her arms against the plush edge of the box. Her frame trembled with excitement, and she leaned forward, watching the orchestra sound its final tuning note, just before the curtain made its majestic ascent and the overture struck us with a wave of glorious sound.

I tapped her arm discreetly with the program, and she took it from me with a murmured thanks. She was far too engrossed in the performance to remember what her circumstances actually were. It was an exploitable weakness, but one that I felt much sympathy for. Music threw us both into an ecstasy.

It was late in the Opera season, and to a professional's eye, it was obvious that the performers were very tired. One aria lacked the proper force that befitted the amorous Radames (it was Aida that we were watching) and the ensemble in general was not as professionally crisp as usual. As a private observer, I would have considered this viewing a failure.

But watching Christine…everything took on a new perspective. Watching Christine, I was able to remember the time before I had had music. Before there was light in my life. She was the embodiment of every marvelous wonder I had ever had. She leaned forward to watch the audience's reaction, she studied the performers and watched the scenery changes, she felt every emotion that the opera offered, even to the point of crying during Aida's passionate cry for justice. Her tears were nothing substantial, just one or two drops, whisked impatiently to the side, but she felt, where others just watched, or, in some cases, snored.

Intermission came, and as before, when the music stopped, so did her lovely oblivious state. But this time, the residue of the—to her—magical performance stayed with her. She turned to me and smiled, laughing and clapping still. It was the first glimpse of childish abandon that I had ever seen in her, and I admit, I smiled too.

But then, the questioning started in earnest. How did they shift the scenes? How was the illusion of moonlight done? Did they still use candles, or had they changed to electricity? How often to characters rehearse in full costume and with the scenery behind them?

I answered these as completely as I could, without making short work of the answers, encouraging her to take more and more wine before the intermission was over. When the curtains raised again, her face was slightly flushed. She had had two glasses of wine, when she had been very careful to take only one or two sips before. And she did not, I noticed, enjoy the first few songs, thinking about the mistakes she had made. But the music slowly took control of her again, and she was lost to everything else.

I took the opportunity to glance into her purse. This had been the clue that alerted me to something wrong in her performance earlier that day. Had she truly been intending to fool me, she would have put the purse back into the closet with the rest of the outfit. But she had forgotten that I would notice it. And so she left it out.

Behind her back, I removed the three sheets of letter paper that she had stuffed inside, and read the beginning of her note.

Raoul;

Help me! You were right, it is Erik. I know I should have listened to you, but I am sorry that I did not believe you. I am in Paris, I will try to tell you what my address is when we go out later tonight. I'm scared Raoul. Don't tell my father what's wrong, I don't think he could deal with another heart attack. Just tell the police, or someone, that I've been kidnapped. He's coming, I'll write soon.

The envelope was addressed to Raoul's condominium. The writing was hurried and sloppy, the only legible part being really the address. She had taken a book of stamps with her too, as well as a pen to write the rest of the letter. The final aria had begun while I was still trying to decide what, precisely, to do with this little piece of betrayal.

Should I destroy the letter and see if she confronted me? Should I allow her to send it, and risk being inundated with police? Of course, de Chagny would never bother with police, stupid little boy. He would come and confront me himself. How wonderful.

I replaced the sheets of paper and the envelope just as I had found them, and watched the rest of the performance, highly amused, though it clashed with the tense moment. There was so much to look forward to.

When Christine begged to be excused to the bathroom after the performance, I put on a great show of being grudgingly permissive. When she emerged a bare three minutes later, I was impressed with how quickly she could write.

I allowed her, with hardly any complaint, to roll down the windows in the car. She complained that she felt sick, and that she needed fresh air. I knew it was because she was searching for a mailbox. I glanced the other way when I saw her flick something long and white out of the window, and only looked over at her when she slumped back against the seat, clutching her head between her flat palms. I would not be surprised if she had gotten her first hangover.

I locked the door on her for the night and took off my evening dress, opting for something a little more simple. Then I went for a walk. She had thrown the letter out only two blocks from the house, and it would be a shame if it were missed in the morning pickup, now wouldn't it?

I found the envelope, still marginally white even after being run over several times in the gutter, and slipped it into the mailbox. I did hope that she had gotten the address correct, but I was certain, that even with this slight encouragement, her knight in shining armor would come running no matter what.

And I knew exactly who he would go to right upon arrival. Though I could trust Nadir to back me up when he agreed with the target of my intentions, I knew well enough that he would never support me if he happened to disagree. Thus far, we had never had a moment's disagreement, except over the unfortunate affair of Phillippe de Chagny. It had been he, who, through various mediums, had led the younger brother so close to actually seeing me leave the scene of his murder.

I knew that Nadir knew exactly who I had with me in my home now, and what her circumstances were. Quite frankly, I would never expect anything less. But Nadir never knew how I watched him, knowing each and every move he made. He never suspected that I knew exactly what information he leaked, and though he was very careful never to be overconfident, I still knew that he was very proud of his ability to function 'behind my back'.

Oh well. It all worked for the greater good, after all. As I slipped her letter into the mailbox, I hoped that Nadir would send one of his own soon after. If Christine's impassioned plea was not enough to get him moving, Nadir's cold confession of facts was quite persuasive. He would come, I was absolutely certain.

It was very late by the time I returned. I had gone for a long walk in the Bois, to think and clear my head, and it was past midnight before I walked back up to her room. I listened at the door for a moment, making certain that I heard no noises from within. I had to verify in person because I had had removed all the security cameras before she awoke. Spying on her seemed too low, even for me, and I wanted her to be secure in her privacy.

Knowing she would have need of it in the morning, I unlocked the door and placed a bottle of aspirin on her bedside table, along with a glass of water that I filled in her bathroom. Her legs were curled up to her chest, and she had wrapped the blanket up around her head. Her face was flushed and her breathing deep and even.

I left her with one wistful backward glance to the sweet oblivion of her dreams.