Christine

Erik's eyes had closed, and for that she was grateful; this was something Christine wanted to do without that penetrating gaze staring into her soul. She gently laid the mask aside and turned to look at him. The other times she had unmasked him, his features had been twisted with rage and betrayal; now there was only the sunken, misshapen half of his skull, the pale and deathly skin—terrible enough in its own right, but now serene, as though it was patiently awaiting her judgment. Christine raised her hand and tenderly brushed the backs of her fingers against his skin; Erik shuddered, but his eyes remained closed. As she looked at him, she felt the love for him in her heart growing until it seemed to encompass her entire soul; consumed with him this last year though she had been, it was incredible to realize that the love she felt could go even deeper into her heart. Leaning forward, Christine did what she knew no other human soul had ever done; she softly trailed a line of kisses down the right side of his face.

When she finished, she lifted her hand once more to lie against his cheek and waited for him to look at her. He did, finally, his eyes opening slowly as though utterly disbelieving what they might see. When his hand came up to rest against hers, pressing into his face, she smiled and began to speak, but then she paused. Christine knew that he would do anything she asked of him—but she also knew that the mask afforded him a dignity he felt he lacked without it. Instead of requesting that he lay aside the mask, she told him, "I will not ask you to abandon this—" here she raised the mask with her right hand—"forever, but someday, love, I hope that you will be secure enough with me to feel you no longer need it."

A pair of warm tears trailed down his face, and she brushed them away. Erik gently removed her hand and replaced the mask. He stared at her, love in his eyes, for a very long while. Erik's voice was low and rough when he finally spoke. "Come," he murmured, rising. "It's late, you need your rest."

Erik

Urging Christine to her feet, I paused a moment and tucked her securely under my arm. I felt exhausted; strong emotions are incredibly tiring. We were in a tiny common room that connected Christine and Raoul's separate bedrooms, something rather similar to the living area of a home. Christine's room was to the right; when we reached it, I pulled away from her. "Good night, beloved," I whispered, raising her hand to my lips.

"You're not going to tuck me in?" She was teasing, childlike as she opened the door and made to enter. "Or check to make certain there are not any . . . ghosts . . . in my closet?" I had to grin, but I could tell that she truly—and innocently—wanted me to see her safely to her bed, as I had a few times when she slept in my home.

I knew that at the moment my rather scattered self-control was nowhere near up to the task of safely entering her room. She would not, perhaps, understand that, but I did not want to explain it to her. I settled for a compromise; as delicately as possible, I merely said "My dear girl, if I were to come one step farther into your room tonight, there is little likelihood I would be leaving it before morning—and I do not believe that either of us is ready for that."

All right, so I could have been more subtle.

She has a truly spectacular blush. Not quite as innocent as she once was, then; and that was likely my fault as well. I kissed her glowing forehead and, lightly pushing her into the room, firmly shut the door between us. Both of us had been raised by single parents aching for the loss of their spouse; consequently, both of us had had respect for marriage vows drilled into us. Persia had rather dulled several of my perceptions about marriage, but I had no wish for Christine to lose hers; it was one more part of her refreshing innocence that I cherished.

The innocence I was destroying.

Restlessly pushing that thought away, I left the hotel and began to wander the streets as was my nighttime habit. After a time, I would go to my apartment and sleep for a while; then, in the morning, perhaps I would return to the hotel where my Angel was sleeping.