How did he manage to make me so angry when I had resolved to be kind to him? Why did he have to provoke me when we had finally begun having a real conversation, a civil one? And what right did he have to criticize my choices and my life, living as he did like a madman in the basement of an Opera House? I knew I had made some bad decisions, but I certainly did not need him to tell me so. When he had brought me to the rooftop, understood my need for air and for freedom, I had felt my heart go out to him, trying as hard as he was to make me happy. I had felt so comfortable in his presence that I did something I had not done in a long time: I had told him exactly what I was thinking, before wondering how he would take it, or if it was appropriate, or if it fit the rules for polite conversation that had been drilled into me.

It seemed that the more I was around him, the more I felt myself reverting back to the girl I had been at fifteen, before my mother took ill, before my grandfather came to take me to my new life. The carefully built up reserve that had brought me through countless social occasions was breaking down, leaving behind it the confident, headstrong girl that I used to be.

Never before had I realized how much my aristocrat training had affected me, made me believe that I was not good enough as I was, stripped me of all the qualities that had once considered admirable; my courage, my outspokenness, my faith in myself. But when I began to fight back, starting with my escape from prison, all that I had been began to return to me. Now, I had finally felt free enough to tell someone about my past, to relatethe storywhich I had been taught to believe was shameful. And when Erik asked me if I liked the view, I had finally said what I had wanted to say to someone for three weeks now, the conclusions I had reached as a result of the turmoil of my life. Then, I had compounded my lapses in etiquette by revealing my age, something a civilized woman would never do.

But then Erik had to go and make me lose my temper, another thing I had been taught not to do. And somehow, we had both turned cruel, throwing words like they were daggers, intent upon wounding each other. He had started it, of that I was sure, but I was ashamed that I had joined in so readily, that his questioning of my life had provoked me to attack so quickly, and wound him the way I had.

For I could see that my careless comment about his lonely life had stung him, he had stopped speaking, stopped moving. His face, which had actually become animated, at least for him, froze back into the cold expression he wore whenever he was trying to convince me that he wasn't feeling anything. And then I knew that I should not have said it, that while his attacks were annoying to me, they were not harmful. I knew well enough that my reasons for marrying Leon, while perhaps selfish, had nothing to do with his betrayal of me. I had already admitted my mistakes to myself, during long hours spent soul-searching while trying to evade Leon's men. Those truths had already cut me when I realized them then, the wounds had healed and the pain was mostly gone. But attacking Erik's lonely state, that was harsh. I didn't feel much like apologizing, not after he had insulted me, and even though I knew it was bordering on childish, I walked away.

Once I was few feet away from him, and not so oppressed by his gloomy presence, I began to enjoy myself. The rooftop was truly magnificent, and the statuary grand. The light from the stars reflected off the gleaming marble surfaces, the only things that seemed unaffected by the terrible fire that had destroyed the interior. The sound of carriages rolling over stone streets below barely penetrated the heavy silence, and all I could hear were my own footsteps. The whole scene was like something from a fairy tale, and it sparked in me a desire for the romantic and absurd. Without even a thought for how ridiculous I must look, I closed my eyes, and began to dance across the rooftop.

In my mind, my bruises and scars disappeared, my ragged clothing was a ruffled dancing dress, my enormous boots were dainty slippers, and the silence was filled with music; music that filled my heart and soul, and drew me across the cold stone of the rooftop. I was drawn back to campfires and guitars; to glowing ballrooms filled with laughing people.

The ache in my legs from climbing those long flights of stairs was gone, as my feet moved through the elegant patterns of the waltz, my arms extended as if I was being held by an imaginary partner.

Suddenly, I felt a leather-clad hand take mine, and a strong arm circle around my waist. My eyes fluttered open again, and I found myself staring into Erik's unreadable eyes. Even in the darkness, I could make out an amused smile on his lips. I had stopped dancing, but he pressed his hand to my back, and began to lead me in the dance, his feet in perfect synch with mine, despite the lack of music to keep time by.

"What are you doing?" I whispered, surprised by his participation in my flight of fancy.

"I might ask you the same thing."

I felt a blush creep up my neck and across my cheeks, and didn't answer.

"It would have shown poor manners on my part to let beautiful woman dance alone."

"You really need not indulge me. Just because I choose to make a fool of myself doesn't mean you have to."

"You looked like you were enjoying yourself, and I have never had the honor of escorting a woman to a ball."

"Well, I am very sorry. This must be a very disappointing first ball; usually, there is a great deal more music, and light, and people. And the woman are generally dressed better."

The earlier tension was gone, as if the same magic that swept me into my dance had driven away all memory of insults and anger. In any case, I had forgiven him for anything he had said, and it was clear that he had done the same.

"On the contrary, Mademoiselle, I do not believe I could enjoy the experience more. You are a lovely dancer."

"Remy."

"What?" He looked at me, startled.

"I'm not much of a mademoiselle. My name is just Remy."

"Very well...Remy."

With that, we both fell silent, as our feet considered to move in measured steps across the stone. Then, I heard his voice, soft and low, filling my mind and my heart, as he hummed the waltz melody in my ear, his face so close to mine that I could feel his warm breath.