I woke in the middle of the night to the uncomfortable feeling that someone was holding the two split parts of my skull together with heavy industrial vises. Moaning with both pain and confusion, I groped around in the darkness for the bedside lamp, promptly regretting finding it when the glare of electrical light, even muted by the heavy velvet shade, shot pointed arrows of burning pain through the back of my poor, shattered skull. I burrowed back under the blankets until the ricocheting in my head calmed to a bare minimum. Then, sticking my head out from under the comforter, I let my eyesight adjust, and saw with untold happiness the beautiful sight of a bottle of aspirin.

Bouncing out of bed, still mindful of the headache, I grasped the bottle and fiddled with the child-safe lid, popped about five of them in my mouth, and sucked down half the glass of water after them. I wanted nothing more than just to curl up under the blanket again until the medicine took effect, but something piqued my curiosity, and I had to look. I tried the door to the right of my bed, but it was still locked. But the thing that had caught my eye was the beautiful reflection of light that was peeking out from beneath the curtains of my window.

Upon pulling them away, I looked down with delight on the most beautiful panorama of Paris that I had ever seen in my life. I couldn't even have imagined something so beautiful! Below me, couples strolled on the street, enjoying the blissfully cool evening and marveling at the beautiful expanse of colored glass lights that illuminated the sidewalk. Shades of pink, green, and light blue made the gray paving stones look like a pathway to fairyland. I wondered what the view would be like from the library. I darted through the closet and was met with an even better view. Here, I could see more of the Eiffel Tower, with its eternal river of cars glinting down the Champs Elysees, and, entirely forgetting my headache, I just stood in my window and watched.

I wanted to walk. I had done nothing, I thought with a bitter pang, for the past few days other than sleep. I wanted to get out into that scene and see, see what I had always wanted to see. Maybe there was some way…

Maybe there was some way…

Immediately, I felt a jolt of anger for even considering it. There was no way that I was going to ask for any special favors from my kidnapper. No way in hell! After all, I couldn't trust him at all. Of course, if he really did have violent intentions towards me, I might be safer within the sound and sight of other men. Oh, God, it was all so confusing!

I sank to my knees and wrapped my arms around my knees, leaning against the heavy glass of the window. I wanted someone to come and get me out!

The lights of Paris floated and blurred when my eyes filled with tears. But I refused to let them slide down my face. No. I was going to have to be strong. I was going to have to hang onto myself until someone got here to take care of me. There was no other alternative. I'd taken care of myself for long enough now, and I could go on.

The grandfather clock that stood majestically in the corner started to chime 3:00. Each tone, unfortunately, went right through my head. I shivered with the renewed feeling of pain, and began to realize how cold I was in this climate-controlled apartment. I went back into the closet, picked out a heavy velvet robe and slippers, and went back to the study, which seemed to me to be the friendliest room in the whole apartment.

At first, as I sat on the plush, carpeted floor, I wanted to feel tired. I longed to be able to go back to sleep. Sleep promised an oblivion and peace that was unreachable at any other time. But I knew that my mind was too restless. I paced then, and wished that I had a hot cup of tea or coffee to keep me company.

Erik. Erik. When was I going to think about him? When had I thought about him? Ever since I had come here, I had tried to forget about him. But, obviously, that was impossible. And he knew that. There was no way that I could help wondering about the man who now held so much power over me.

It would have been easier if I knew what his motives were. But he was so…complex. He was entirely unpredictable. I thought that I knew who he was when we met at first. He had seemed kind, if a little jaded, and we had had a shy, yet friendly rapport. Then, doubts had entered, when I heard what Raoul had to say about him. I had rejected the idea at first, even though it fit with the missing spice in his personality. Then, when I came to accept the facts, I was terrified. That was when I had decided to go with Raoul in the first place. He had been my refuge from forces which, however interesting, I did not understand. Now, I was with him, and he told me that he loved me. I did not doubt that; there was simply no other reason for him to have gone to such lengths to take me away from my family and friends. And yet, it was still hard to believe! He had truly frightened me when we had gone to the Opera. I examined my wrist and could still see the faint bruise that had developed when he grasped it.

What was I supposed to think? I tried to trace an evolution, or a development, of ideas that I thought about him, but there was nothing! Each time I had put trust in him, some interference from either others or he himself tore that trust down again. I was always at square one. If he loved me, why didn't he want to trust me?

I snorted and began to pace again. That was obvious. He had kidnapped me! If he didn't keep me locked up, what proof did he have that I wouldn't just go and reveal him to the cops? That's what I would do right now if he hadn't kept the door locked! Right?

Right?

Right!

Christine, you're not giving me an answer.

And the truth was, there was no answer to give. Could I blame him, or punish him, for loving me? Surely, it was a wrong, twisted love, one that held too much obsession to ever flourish, but could I blame him for not knowing what real love is? I knew, deep down, that he didn't want to hurt me. Any pain he caused me was purely accidental. The question was, though, how much hurt could I forgive in the name of his love?

Could I forgive his kidnapping me?

I considered, standing stock-still in the middle of the room. He had hurt no one else (that I knew of, that is) and he had probably had the right motives in mind. Yes, I could forgive him for this. The damage to myself was negligible; he had drugged me, but that had provided no long-term effects. He had frightened me, but once I knew what kind of game he was playing, that also was more to be pitied than punished. And, on top of all that, he had treated me to the greatest performance I was likely to see in my entire life!

Of course, all this did not mean that I wanted to stay with him. Oh, no. But it meant that, perhaps, if he gave me my freedom, that I wouldn't have to press charges against him.

I nodded. That was satisfactory enough. And now, everything seemed simple! I would go to him, demand, in the name of his love for me, my freedom, and if he didn't deliver, then I knew on what ground I stood.

If he didn't free me, then I had to do everything in my power to escape.

I returned to my bedroom and relaxed back onto the bed, the pain in my head barely noticeable now. I wondered why the idea of leaving him, abandoned and alone in this hell of his own design, wrenched so at my heart. I pitied him, that much was clear, but I was too confused by him to really…

No. Really nothing. Nothing!

His mask. All my thoughts went around and around this question. Why was he like this? Why did he secrete himself away in this gorgeous apartment? He was like other men. Deep down, I had always fancied that he was handsome underneath the cover of white leather. I wondered what psychological problem had led him to the donning of that mask in the first place.

Suddenly, where there had never been any feeling before, I felt a driving need to see beneath his mask. I scolded myself at first for being rude and reminded myself that curiosity had killed the cat, but at the same time, I was resentful at him for knowing all my secrets. Why shouldn't I know one of his? No moral boundaries held us together. Besides, if he really did have a psychological problem, maybe I could help him tackle it. Maybe he'd believe me if I told him that nothing was wrong.

I cherished that thought as I curled up again. Maybe I could help him.

The next morning I was pleased to find that my headache was gone. I felt groggy and exhausted to be sure, but considering how bad it might have been, I considered myself well off. This morning, thankfully, even in my odd circumstance, I was not worried about what the day would hold. I hoped that this feeling of well-being would persist, since I was not sure how well I could function being constantly afraid.

I went to the bathroom and popped into the shower, reemerging to find that breakfast had again been laid out for me, and though there was no one else in the room, I murmured a 'thank you' for the kindness.

After eating, I stretched out again on the bed and felt like drifting off again. But, remembering the pattern of yesterday evening, I tried the door first to see if it would be open. It was.

I walked down to the second floor of the apartment, and nearly walked into Erik. He had been coming up the stairs, and had not been paying close attention. The papers that he had been carrying scattered everywhere, and the look in his eyes when he suddenly realized the situation was hysterical. I couldn't help laughing, even though the sound was slightly tinged with hysterical relief, and I bent to help him pick up his papers.

"I'm so sorry," I apologized, after I stopped giggling, "I wasn't fast enough when I saw you come around the corner."

He was smiling now too. "There is no need for apologies. I should have been more careful too. Would you wait for me in the kitchen? There is coffee or tea there, if you would like. I will be down in a few moments."

He actually smiled! I was so bowled over by the way his aspect was transformed with kindness that I couldn't help but smile back and do exactly as he said. I helped myself to a cup of tea and perched myself on one of the kitchen stools, resting my elbows on the counter. I wondered, with more excitement than trepidation, what he had in store for me today. Belatedly, I wondered if whatever he had planned would allow me to get any closer to freedom.

As I heard his footsteps come downstairs again, I wondered if he would mind some of the questions I had to ask him. Upon seeing the smile still on his face, I decided that there could be no real harm done if I did.

I took a sip of tea to give myself some countenance, and then asked, "What is your name?"

He, though the quick jerk of his head showed me that he had not been expecting my questions, did not loose his balance. "My name, such as it is, is Erik Troche."

"So you are French, then?" One of the foreign exchange students at my high school had had the same last name, so I assumed that it was fairly common.

He smiled. "I was born in France," he took a cup of coffee and, in a simple act of familiarity, took the stool on the opposite side of the counter, "if that answers your question. I am from too many places to remember them all."

Somewhere, deep in my mind, I was berating myself for not demanding my freedom, bolting for the door, or doing something else to show my displeasure for my current circumstances. And it was true that I was uncomfortable, but my thinking last night had soothed me. I was nervous, but at the same time, there was such a feeling of companionship between the two of us, that, regardless of situation, I felt that we would have been drawn together. As, indeed, we had been.

He started to talk of Paris, in a broad, general way, and I soon began to find myself insatiably curious. I had taken out travel books about Paris, the city had made such a wonderful impression on me the first time, and I wanted to know about each and every part of city life. He gave me an in-depth view of everything that he had seen and heard of in the city, with such vivacity that I was laughing and joking back at him with spirit. The…ease…of his conversation was something that I had not been expecting, but it was wonderful and calming. The feeling of camaraderie increased, and I was very much at ease.

Suddenly, he asked a very strange question.

"Christine, would you like to sing?"

I was silent, for a moment. The strangeness of the situation came back to me in a rush. I was thrown off balance, and I stammered for the answer.

"M-My mother was a singer," I looked up at him in confusion, "but I'm not. Um…I really can't sing at all. I'm terrible." The laugh that followed the declaration was awkward and loud.

His eyes bored into mine with a strange intensity. "I did not ask you if you could sing. I asked if you would like to sing. Because you can."

I found myself entirely unable to look away from him. Suddenly, his simple declaration seemed to make all my knowledge of my talents and my limitations completely worthless. For a moment, I actually believed that if he said I could sing, then I could. I sat in silence, suppressing the part of me that wanted to scream out 'yes!', and settled for staring down at my teacup.

His hands took that away from me, and instead, I felt his oddly cold hand on mine, leading me away from the counter and towards that land of enchantment, the basement that housed his magnificent organ. I followed him, and as I did, I found myself relinquishing all hold on the reality that sat, waiting, upstairs. I was no longer Christine Day, accomplished dancer and aspiring librettist. I was whatever he saw me to be. And if that meant singer, it was singer.

But he did not take me to the organ. Instead, he took me very close to the stairs, where a grand piano sat, lit with some of the light filtering from above. I had not even noticed it the first time I had come here. But, of course, like everything else now, it seemed natural. Several candles also stood upon the instrument, lighting a pad of sheet music near the curve of the piano. That was where he stood me. I looked down at the music with blank misunderstanding. It was only when he struck the first chord that I realized where the music came from.

It was one of Fantine's songs from Les Miserables. My mother had sung this on Broadway; it was one of the first memories I had of her. My mind flew me back to that magical time, when I had watched her perform on stage, singing sadly and softly about the disillusionment that life had offered her. Without thought, without awareness of anything else, I opened my mouth and sang.

I didn't even hear my voice. I couldn't hear my voice. I was thinking of her, the way she had sung, and all of a sudden, my posture straightened. I arched my back, so the airflow could move smoothly from my lungs to my diaphragm, and opened my mouth, allowing the volume to swell up and come from my chest, not my nose. But I still heard no sound. It was the most natural thing in the world that I was standing in this basement and singing and crying at the same time. My mother was smiling at me from the stage, and my father was clapping for me. Finally, I had found the music. And both of them were so happy…so happy!

But the song was over. The only sound I heard now was the tears and the sobs. His arms were around me, and I turned and buried my face into his chest, breathing in his smell and crying and crying and crying.

I had never really cried for my mother. There had been too much to do, too much to see to and take care of. She was in the ground and dead and gone, to the world. To me, she had been on an extended vacation, and I had to take care of the house and the cooking and the cleaning and my schoolwork. And daddy was so lost without her. I couldn't make him feel even worse. I went on and on with no indication to anyone that I wasn't okay with my mother's death. But I had never, really cried.

I was seventeen years old and bawling into the shoulder of a man who had kidnapped me for love. And I felt so grateful to him. He had given me wings to fly, and he had allowed me to let go of my past. He knew everything about me, everything he needed to give me the peace of mind that I had always looked for. He was an angel. A guardian angel.

Erik!

I knew nothing about him!

I stopped crying and was just resting, with my eyes still closed, inside the warm and comforting circle of his arms. The place where I was resting my head was wet with tears, so I switched to his other shoulder, where it was soft and dry. I wrapped my own arms around him, and we just stood there. I sighed and opened my eyes, stepping back and looking into his.

"Thank you."

There was now nothing I did not owe to him. He had given me everything and asked for nothing in return.

"Thank you."

He led me to the side of the piano bench and I sat next to him as he played. I felt the muscles of his arms rippling underneath his shirt, and the fevered concentration that reverberated from his mind. I was softly contented.

When he stopped playing, I pressed my lips softly to his ear. The only other exposed part of his face was his mouth, essentially, and I did not want to make him feel as if I was forcing myself on him.

Thankfully, he didn't seem to think anything of the sort. In fact, if anything, he took my show as permission.

His hands, his fingers, those wonderful instruments, were on my neck and drawing me closer to him. Our lips met in an unbelievable expression of peace. The kiss was soft, and gentle, and if it had never before been possible to share understanding in that way, it now had become so.

I had never kissed or been kissed before. It was amazing.

I sensed the repression beneath that gentle kiss, but did not, at the moment, want to provoke it. This was something that could wait. Right now, I still felt emotionally fragile, and I should wait until I was ready.

He played me Beethoven's Ode to Joy, and I fell asleep next to him on the bench.

When I next woke up, I was in my bed, and a note crumpled on the pillow when I turned over.

My dear Christine,

Please allow me to apologize for leaving you without prior notice, but you were so peaceful that I felt unable to disturb you. I was obliged to leave to visit a friend, but you are more than welcome to use any part of the house that you like. You will find that your door is unlocked. Please allow me to assure you that you are perfectly safe, and that I will return late this evening, and certainly after you have retired for the night.

I remain always, your obedient and most humble servant.

I smelled the rose that he had left next to me, and, still holding it to my lips, I went out onto the balcony, which, had also been left unlocked.

The Paris evening was beautiful, and I swept the street with my eyes, wishing to see him looking up at me. Instead, I saw something that I had almost forgotten about.

Now, I was at least three stories up, and I had just awoken, but I knew Raoul when I saw him. His anxious face was searching the apartment—for me, I knew—and for one wild moment, I almost hid from his gaze. Somehow, the idea of seeing Raoul was akin to betrayal. But then, I reminded myself that I had been kidnapped. Somehow, the sensible part of me had skipped over that, and I looked down at Raoul with infinitely more pain than pleasure. Several days, or even hours ago I would have seen him with relief, but now…

He waved frantically to me when he noticed that he had gotten my attention, and he motioned that I should come down to the ground floor. When I did, I saw that a note had been shoved underneath the door. While I still did not have the code to the front door, I looked through the windows on either side of it and did not see him anywhere. I felt a slight—very slight—pang of disappointment, and opened the letter to see what he had to say.

My dear Christine—

I winced, and tried again.

My dear Christine,

Meg and I have come to Paris to help you. I know that you must be afraid, but you must help us do this. Erik will not harm you, put your mind at ease as to that, but the utmost caution is required to get you out of your current circumstances. I will try to contact you again.

I will think of you always Christine. Be strong.

Raoul

I folded up the letter, put it in its envelope, and walked back upstairs, hardly knowing what to think. What was I to do now?