A/N: All right, everyone, here's a warning; I think this chapter will be spectacularly long because it is a series of short scenes that happen over the course of the month she stays with him, showing how they grow closer and maybe deal with a few of their issues. As that is the case, this chapter also contains an extreme amount of fluff. Tivette and La Console are entirely of my own imagination; the lyrics they occasionally sing to each other belong to the ALW musical. Read and Review—and please tell me what you think of the 'angry' scene—I'm still not sure about it.

Erik

Dinner by candlelight; Christine sitting by my side, her head on my shoulder, as I played a lullaby; her honest concern when she realized that she would be sleeping in the only bed. Of such simple, gentle, home-like things had my fantasies long been made of; for them to be reality was almost more pleasant than I could bear. This was all I had needed, all I had ever needed; to be with her, no matter what we were doing. I assured her that, not only would I be quite fine on my couch—I had bought it with the express condition that it be the most worn, comfortable couch I could find—but that I needed far less sleep than she required, and might not even go to bed at all that night. It surprised me when she appeared startled by this; Christine had remembered my eccentric eating habits well enough. But then, she had always been safely locked in her room when I slept. Perhaps it was not so odd—and rather more proper, considering the situation—that she had remained largely unaware of how rarely I slumbered.

I hoped she found the bedchamber to her liking; I had used the time she had been saying farewell to Raoul to spread her belongings about as I remembered she usually put them. Come to that, I think she was a little put out with me for not showing her the room myself, but I had left her at the door with a candle, an explanation that the bathroom had two entrances (one from inside her room and one from the living room, both of which locked), and a kiss on the hand. The distance of that last one had earned me a definite scowl; well, for her sake I could put up with a few scowls. In fact, on her they're rather adorable . . .

With this thought guiding me to the couch, I found that, despite my words to Christine and my own expectations, I fell quickly and deeply asleep.

The mixed beauty and the stupidity of sleeping on a couch facing an un-shaded eastern window were revealed to me quite early the next morning. While I could not deny the pleasure I took in the glory of the sun's rising, I also found waking to an alarm clock apart from my biological one rather annoying. My annoyance may have been partially due to the realization that I had slept for a good eight hours without interruption; this was completely abnormal behavior, and I viewed it with a certain degree of suspicion. I had had thirty-odd years with this body; by now it should not be doing things other than what I expected of it. Finally, I consoled myself with the decision that my long nap only meant I would be quite awake every night for the better part of a week.

This in mind, I rose and began to make breakfast. I observed early on in the Opera dormitories that Christine was an morning riser; I fully expected her to emerge, bathed and dressed, within half an hour.

Half an hour passed, and then an hour; I amused myself at the piano for another half hour, my attention focused on her door, before I gave up all pretense and leaned against it to listen. There were definite noises coming from within the room; bumpings and clatterings and what sounded suspiciously like a few curses in a soft, feminine tone. I hesitated, then knocked and called out, "Christine? Are you well?"

All noise ceased. Her voice had a pronounced sheepish cast when she answered, "Yes, Erik." I waited. After a few moments, the door cracked open. Christine was dressed in her chemise and stockings, with her corset on but untied. She addressed the floor when she spoke. "Erik . . . I . . ." She trailed off, the color rising in her cheeks. Truly, she needed to stop blushing in front of me; I found watching her flush far too entertaining, and my devilish mind was continually considering further ways to cause such a flush. I blinked as I realized what she needed; of course it was impossible for a woman to tie up her own corset. Raising her chin with the tip of my finger, I motioned for her to turn around. She did so, her eyes proclaiming her gratitude that she had not had to tell me the embarrassing predicament she was in.

Christine wasn't the only one embarrassed, but I think I did a better job of hiding my discomfort. She was not, however, so uncomfortable that she could not correct me. "Tighter," Christine said over her shoulder as I moved from one tie to another.

I frowned at her. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," she insisted. "Tighter, Erik."

I pulled the lace tighter, then asked if it was enough; she shook her head. Worriedly, carefully, I pulled it firmer still, and this time when I questioned her, she nodded. I bit back my own reluctance—surely something this tight could not be good for her—but tied the other laces with an equal amount of force. I hesitated, when I was finished; Christine was looking away from me, her hair pulled over her shoulder to expose a tempting length of creamy white throat.

Well. I wasn't an angel, after all.

A devious smirk on my face, I leaned forward and pressed a kiss into her neck. Interesting; I had not known she was capable of blushing clear to her shoulders. Christine glanced shyly back, but her voice was quite firm when she told me, "One day I am going to learn not to blush, and then what will you do?"

"Don't do that, mademoiselle," I answered as she went back into her room. "You would take all the fun out of life."

Christine

Five days—five easy, comfortable days in which she wondered how she could have ever lived without Erik in her life—had passed since the Incident de Corset. Each morning he had helped her dress; each morning, scandalously kissed her throat. Far from blushing now, Christine relished the contact; Erik was very, very careful about touching her. Too careful, in her opinion. She knew he would not break his vow of chastity to her, but she also knew that she wanted a little more attention than he seemed comfortable giving.

This morning, Christine took matters into her own hands. She came out of her room and, as he had every morning, Erik motioned her towards the kitchen with a quiet, "Breakfast, my dear?"

Instead of smiling and following him to the table, Christine walked closer to him, her steps slow and deliberate; if pressed, she may have admitted that she put a little sway into her hips. Close, and closer still, till he was eyeing her nervously and she was only inches away. Taking Erik's hands, she placed them on her waist, then reached up to circle his neck with her arms and bring his face nearer to hers. Wonder was mixed with hesitation in his eyes as she drew him toward her; Christine banished that hesitation by closing her eyes and joining her mouth to his in a kiss that was sweet and long and very nearly passionate. "A teacher," she whispered when they separated, "greets his student with good morning. A fiancé welcomes his intended with a kiss." Christine raised her eyebrows at him; she would have cocked one, as he so often did, but she could not seem to master the skill. A small part of her was shocked with her own daring when she coyly asked, "Do you understand the difference?"

Erik's answering grin was slow and entirely wicked. "I believe I do," he murmured, leaning down until she could feel his breath against her lips. "But, just to make certain that I am absolutely clear—" he kissed her, hard. "Good morning, beloved."

"I think you've grasped the concept," Christine replied. She softened in his arms until she was melted against him, her head resting against his chest. "I know . . . you're worried," she whispered, and felt his muscles tense. "But a kiss is perfectly acceptable and no threat to my virtue. And I know," Christine added, even more quietly, "that you are not used to touching and being touched. But . . . trust me?" Now she looked up into his eyes. "Please? I promise I will let you know if you have gone too far."

"Angel, what will a devil's touch do to your soul?" She had the distinct impression that he had not meant for her to hear that, so Christine decided to ignore it. She could battle his other demons after breakfast; it was enough that she had faced at least part of this one before it.

Christine

A few days later, she dressed simply—no rehearsal today, and so no reason to be any more uncomfortable than she had to be—and wandered into the living room. Erik was sitting on the couch, his back to her; on the table beside him was the array of wires and gadgets she had noticed when he tied her corset earlier. Curious, Christine slipped around the sofa and gingerly sat next to him.

Erik set aside the half-finished item he was working on—to Christine it looked like a collection of delicate glass snowflakes—and turned to her. "Good morning," he murmured. Asking permission with his eyes, he drew her close and kissed her slowly. Christine smiled. "Good morning," she whispered in return as he pulled away. "What are you working on?"

A twitch of his fingers indicated the shelves by the piano. Christine crossed to them and searched till she found one that looked like a completed version of his mess of snowflakes. She looked back at him and raised her eyebrows; Erik nodded his assent. She gently picked up the contraption. Each glass—no, crystal—snowflake prism, Christine noticed with a gasp, had a tiny portrait of her delicately depicted in the center. Bringing it over to Erik, Christine sat back down on the couch. "What does it do?"

"Press this." He showed her a tiny button set into the base. Christine did so, and watched with wonder as the prisms lifted and fell, spinning into a snowstorm that created rainbows of light across her face. A familiar tune played along with the crystals. Christine sang softly, "Wandering child, so lost, so helpless . . ." She looked up at Erik. "It's beautiful. Why do you make these?" Christine indicated the other inventions on the shelf.

"They're prototypes," Erik explained. His eyebrow quirked in amusement. "I doubted that you would approve of my blackmailing and picking pockets to live—and at any rate, the wonderfully gullible fools of the Opera House were lost to me once I left Paris—so I began to create things like this and sell them. They do well, much better than I originally expected. And," he added, "I like to make them." He snorted. "I suppose you could say I finally have a respectable living."

"You don't pick pockets any more?" Christine asked with a small smile. That particular vice of his had always seemed somehow beneath him.

She drew in a quick breath as he smirked and handed her the gold ring she had not noticed leaving her finger. "Of course I do, but I always return whatever was so carelessly . . . lost."

"Always?" Christine replied dryly. She knew him better than that.

Erik had the grace to look mildly ashamed. "Almost always, at least," he muttered.

"Thief," she retorted, laying her head against his shoulder as she watched him work. Unheeded, the completed music box played on the table beside her, lulling her eyes closed . . .

Christine awoke alone on the couch; the darkness around her was quiet, empty, devoid of those bright eyes she so loved. She stretched and walked to the piano; from memory she played a nameless Swedish tune her father had often hummed. More to hear herself than anything, and because she was thinking of Erik, Christine quietly sang, "Those flaming eyes, that both threaten and adore . . ."

"Christine . . . Christine . . ." came the hollow whisper; she whirled to find the owner of those flaming eyes standing next to her, moonlight glinting off his mask. Someday she would learn that he was always in the darkness, even if she thought herself alone. Erik gently pulled her to her feet. Whatever she was expecting, it wasn't his dry whisper. "I object to the use of the word 'threaten', but adore is certainly accurate."

"Erik!" Christine groaned, the eerie spell broken; she leaned her head against his chest. "You scared me."

"It's in the job description. 'Must scare chorus girls at least once per week in order to retain post'."

Christine smiled weakly. "But you're not a Phantom anymore."

He waved that away. "Minor details. Old habits die hard . . ." Erik casually swung her into his arms. "You must be famished—you slept through three square meals."

She winced. "I know. And now I won't sleep a bit tonight. I don't know why I was so tired."

Erik shrugged, setting her on the counter. "I originally modified that melody from a lullaby; it's supposed to make you sleepy. As for tonight—" he grinned at her. "Stay up and keep me company. You'll be wanting your bed again by three or so anyway." Dinner—or rather, Christine thought, an enormously late breakfast—was quiet; instead of allowing her off the counter, Erik seemed quite content to feed her himself. At first Christine refused, but he gently closed her eyes and she realized this was an act of trust, if a small one. It was intriguing to her, the way he used one food to set off the flavor of another; and having her eyes closed seemed to heighten the taste of each morsel. "Finished?" Erik murmured; Christine nodded, but before she could open her eyes his mouth had captured hers in a soft kiss. Smiling, she threaded her fingers into his hair and pulled him closer. After a moment, he pulled away and laughed softly. "And that is quite enough of that, miss, unless you wish to retire—alone—immediately." Christine shook her head.

"I can walk, Erik," she protested as he gathered her into his arms again.

"But I like to carry you."

"If you carry me everywhere, I will never be able to stand," she reasoned.

"Humor me," Erik retorted, setting her on the piano bench.

"When did you do those portraits?" Christine asked, thinking of the tiny, intricate paintings on the snowflakes. The prisms on the new music box he had been working on were blank.

Erik ran his fingers over the keys and settled into a quiet, flowing gypsy melody. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," he replied.

Christine raised her chin. "Liar." Erik pretended not to hear her. She reached for a nearby stack of musical scores and began glancing through them. Many were familiar; all were in the red ink Erik used to denote his own composition, rather than a copy of someone else's work. Christine smiled at several of the titles; these were songs they had sang together often.

At the bottom of the pile, she noticed an unfamiliar score. Unaware that Erik had abruptly quit playing, Christine felt her eyes widen at the title.

The Nightingale and the Rose

There were old tearstains on the sheets.

Her breath caught as she read the music—it was haunting, biting even in its pain and sorrow. The older ink of the score ended painfully discordant, but a fresher writing continued the piece, softening until the song ended on a clear note of joy. Slowly, Christine looked up. Erik was watching her, his expression blank, but she could see his fingernails digging into his palm. She reached up and molded her hand against the left side of his face, stroking his jaw with her fingertips.

He turned slightly to kiss her palm. "That, I began the night you left the Opera House. I thought it complete," he indicated the difference between the older and newer inks, "but recently decided it deserved a better ending."

"Will either of us ever forgive me for that night?" Christine whispered.

Erik echoed her darkly. "Will either of us ever forgive me for that night?"

Christine touched the score again; it was the only piece she had ever seen that he had written entirely for the extraordinary range of his own voice. "Will you sing for me?"

Erik

I did not want to. That song hurt too much; I was not entirely certain I could get through it without my voice breaking. But it was Christine asking me. And if anyone had the right to hear this, she did.

I sang softly, letting my voice echo in her ears, her mind, reaching into her heart and gently playing its strings. We both knew this song was ours, reflecting our love, the pain and joy we called out of each others' souls; to hear it end in peace was very comforting to me, and I was grateful that I had finished writing it. It gave me hope.

Christine was weeping as the last note faded into silence. I hesitated. She had cried in front of me before, but quietly, not with these wracking sobs. What does one do, after all, to comfort a woman whose heart one has repeatedly broken?

"Shh," I murmured, slowly reaching out to stroke her hair. "It's all right, I'm here . . ." Christine clung to my hand, giving me the courage to draw her closer, wrapping my arms around her as she sobbed into my shoulder. "Not," I mumbled, "a song for public display, then."

She hiccoughed, and to my surprise, laughed. No more tears then, right, darling?

Ah, no. The tears were back, but more gently. I cannot bear to see her cry. It hurts. Particularly when, as usual, I am the cause behind the tears in one form or another.

Eventually, Christine quieted. She did not move away from me, which I took as a good sign; I swore she actually wriggled a little closer. "Sorry," she whispered. "That song—hearing you sing—it just brought back memories of this last year, when I missed you so much it hurt . . ." she reached up to touch my face and found that my eyes had not been precisely dry, either. "What a pair we make," Christine chuckled painfully.

"Indeed," I drawled. Tilting her chin up, I softly added, "And I forgave you for that night a long time ago."

"As I did you," she whispered. "It's forgiving ourselves that's difficult."

I wasn't ready for the rest of that conversation. Turning back to the piano, I began a light, lively piece she had often danced to. Smiling, Christine stood and moved swiftly about the room, the long-unused ballet movements awakening her muscles.

I do not know what possessed me to switch to the ballet from Il Muto, but something must have, for I did. As soon as she recognized the music Christine froze and stared at me. "Not that, Erik," she begged softly. "Please, anything but that." I realized she was shaking.

Brilliant of me.

"Go to bed, Christine," I said shortly, turning away from her. "Now, rather, if you would." How could I be hypocritical enough to comfort her after that particular memory? I did not kill Buquet. I didn't.

I just gave him the motive and means to do it himself. And then moved his body from my home to the stage. Which, after all, was so much more moral than killing him would have been.

Right.

I was far too busy hating myself for that particular bit of deviant behavior to hear the quiet footsteps coming up behind me, so I quite froze with shock when her slim white arms slipped around my neck and I felt her cheek rest against the top of my head. Those beautiful dark curls were dripping down onto my shoulders; I was thoroughly surrounded by Christine.

Quiet though she was, this was no more my timid chorus girl. In simply holding me so, Christine revealed a strength I had not suspected she had, though I should have known; she had survived me, after all.

I could not move. It was Christine who finally broke the silence. "I can't say I don't care, because I do. And maybe, someday you will tell me why. But that is in the past, Erik; I love you."

"This I swear to you, Christine," I answered hoarsely. "I have not killed since the night you left me."

"You didn't have to tell me that; I knew." She told me simply. Christine leaned down and kissed each of my cheeks, one flesh and one porcelain. "Good night, Erik. Beloved."

As she walked to her room, I sang softly, "Christine, I love you . . ."

Christine

The gentle rhythm of Erik tightening her corset laces was something Christine was grateful for, the next morning; the little ritual allowed them to deal with lingering awkwardness from the previous night immediately. Such as when Erik moved back without stealing his usual kiss. Christine looked at him over her shoulder and deliberately drew her hair away from her neck. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

The faintest hint of red touched his cheek and made her grin; so, she wasn't the only one who could blush. "Minx," Erik muttered, kissing her cheek.

"Only for you."

Christine saw Erik's lips curl in amusement when she came back out of her room; over her soft gray gown, she had tied on one of his cloaks, which she had found abandoned in the bottom drawer of her dresser. "Good morning, monsieur," Christine spoke formally, giving him a sweeping curtsey.

"If you want a cloak, my dear, I fear we shall need to trim one. That one has left a good four inches of itself on the floor."

Christine looked down at her bare feet. "True. Perhaps I should leave the cloak-wearing to you."

Erik beckoned to her and she sat close beside him on the sofa. "Forgive me for last night," he said quietly. "I was . . . out of line. Several times." He motioned for her silence. "You said that someday, perhaps, I might explain Joseph Buquet's death to you. Though I am entirely responsible for his death, I did not actually kill him. You recall the torture chamber?" Christine nodded; how could she forget? "He accidentally found the entrance while I was away from home. By the time I returned, he had hung himself. But it was my decision to create that chamber, I who left the lasso inside, and I who removed his body to the stage during Il Muto." Erik sighed. "That was rather unpardonable, but I tend to esteem life very cheaply, save for a few—yourself, Nadir, Madame and Meg Giry . . . for your sake, that wretched boy. It's the habit of an unfortunately ill-spent lifetime, I'm afraid, which may take a lifetime to change."

"Thank you," Christine replied quietly. "I am glad you did not kill him." It sounded absurd, on the surface, but it was the truth; there were other crimes, other deaths, they would have to speak of, but this was a beginning.

Christine

A deep shudder ran through Christine as she slipped the key into the lock. She had left a note by Erik's side saying she would be back hours ago. He had been composing when she left, but the simple trip to the market that she had anticipated ended with an unexpected three-hour rehearsal after she stopped by her dressing room and the manager threw a fit.

He would be so angry with her.

Christine could only hope that Erik had not yet pulled out of the haze of sound he composed in and hadn't read her note yet, much less noticed the time.

Finally opening the door, Christine stepped into the darkness. His fury was a palpable presence, hanging in the air like a dark, brooding storm. "Erik, I'm sorry," Christine called out softly; she knew he could hear her. "Sanchez nearly had an apoplexy when I went to the opera house, he demanded a rehearsal . . ."

Erik's voice, when it materialized out of the pitch-black air, was cold and awful. "Do you have any idea how worried I've been?" He demanded icily. Beside her, the front door slammed shut, cutting off the meager hallway light, and Christine could hear the lock being viciously twisted.

"I'm sorry," she repeated quietly. "What could I do?"

He seemed not to hear her. "For hours you could have been lost or dead or hurt, wandering the streets alone, and all I could do was wait because any moment you might return. Worry and wait."

Realization seeped into Christine's mind. "You weren't just worried about my safety," she replied. "Erik!" There wasn't an answer. "You thought I left you, waiting here endlessly when I had no intention of coming back. You thought I left you. Are you angrier because I am late—or because you were wrong?" She asked sharply. "Answer me," she stepped forward into the darkness. "Answer me, Erik!" A feather-light touch whisked the key and chain from its place around her neck; the door opened, a black shape passing through it, then slammed closed once more. "And so you make me wait, because if I follow you, you'll disappear and I won't be able to get back in." Christine went back and leaned her head against the door. "I'm sorry, Erik," she whispered again. "Forgive me . . ." Despite herself, Christine sniffed softly; two quiet tears trailed down her cheeks. She hated being left alone in the dark; he knew she hated it. Hurt turned to an unhappy sort of anger; Christine pushed away from the door and started making her way through the darkness to her room.

She paused only briefly to stare at the Erik-sized figure outlined against the window; so he had not left her, after all. Hastily Christine turned away form him. Removing her dress in the relative peace—and the blessed light—of her room, she returned to the living area and patiently waited for him to undo her corset. As soon as the long, thin hands started tugging at the laces, Christine grabbed them and swiftly turned to face him. In the candlelight spilling from her room, his face was unreadable; Christine murmured, "Erik," but he slid his hands from hers and faded back into the darkness. "Fine," she whispered, turning her back to him once more. After a moment he finished untying her laces, and Christine allowed herself to collapse.

Erik

I only just caught her before she hit the floor. I frowned at the slender figure in my arms; Christine was not given to fainting fits. I understood perfectly, however, when quite suddenly her limp arms tightened around my neck and her eyes opened, fully conscious. I clenched my jaw and coldly set her down outside her door. "Your room, my Lady," I announced shortly.

"Stop it," Christine demanded. I caught her hand as she tried to slap me. "Stop acting like this, Erik. I'm sorry that I worried you, but it isn't my fault Sanchez insisted on rehearsing, and it isn't my fault you think I would leave you like that."

Sometimes, we humans say hurtful things without really meaning them; I found that I was as susceptible to this wicked vice as any other. "Actually, my dear, if you'll remember—it is." I retorted, dropping her wrist. "Good night, Christine."

I hate it when she goes quiet like that. It usually means she's up to something. I knew I was wrong to be angry with her, but worry had turned to fear and pain, and even my disgust with myself for being sharp with her fed my anger at her until all I really knew was that I was furious and hurt and Christine was at the heart of it.

She was still quiet; I risked a glance over my shoulder. She was sitting on the floor, her back against her door and her arms holding her knees; I could not see her face, but I could tell she was shaking and I knew she was crying.

Christine was angry with me, and rightfully so, but . . . I took half a step toward her.

I never have been able to watch her cry.

Without a conscious decision to do so, I moved to her side and crouched down. "Christine?" I asked uncertainly. She didn't answer. Gently I touched my hands to both sides of her head and slid my fingers down her face until they found her chin. I raised it; her eyes were closed, tears running down her cheeks.

My anger vanished.

I settled down next to her and lifted her into my lap; I considered it a miracle that she let me. "Shh," I whispered, holding her against my heart. "I'm sorry, love, I'm so sorry . . ." Her tears ceased, and I forced myself to speak. I knew a large part of what was hurting her; for, not half a week earlier, did I not tell her—truthfully—that I had forgiven her for leaving me that night a year ago? "I should never have said that," I told her quietly, "never should have doubted you. I did not mean it, beloved, please . . . I'm so very sorry," My voice was low and hoarse; I could only watch as her eyes slowly blinked open.

"No, Erik," she answered finally, "You should not have said it. And you should not have been angry with me."

"I know it," I replied softly. She was leaving, she had to, how could she stay when I had been so horribly angry with her? Demons and angels are not meant to peacefully coexist . . . she, who so rarely lost her temper, how could she understand mine? I continued truthfully, "And I cannot even promise you that I will not lose my temper again; this is hardly the first time you have seen it, and if you stay here it will not be the last."

"If I stay?" She had pulled back far enough to glare at me. "If I stay, Erik? The love we share is not something that can be cast aside over something as simple as your abominable temper. You're right; it is not the first time I have seen you as angry, or even angrier, than you were tonight. I have known you had a temper for years; it is one of the faults of yours that I have to live with because I love you. I certainly have my fair share of mistakes, even though you refuse to see them. But I can live with your temper, Erik, if only for one reason; as furious as you have ever been with me, you have never hurt me." Her voice softened. "For a man who has spent his life solving problems with violence, I find that fairly incredible. And it isn't right, but it is human, Erik, for worry and fear to turn to anger when they are released. I certainly would have been upset if you had come home so much later than you had told me you would."

I touched her cheek in wonder. "I don't—" deserve you.

"Don't say it," Christine warned. I had to laugh; she looked so absolutely beautiful, her eyes flashing and tearstains still marking her cheeks, her hair in disarray, her expression one of utter fierceness.

"Know how I ever lived without you," I completed my thought. I let my gaze bore into her eyes. "I love you. Please forgive me; I was so worried about you getting hurt, about you leaving, that I couldn't think."

She nodded and leaned forward, pressing her lips briefly to mine. "I forgive you, beloved. Good night." I reluctantly released her, my mind still amazed at the pure and awesome faith of her love, and watched as she closed the door between us.

Erik

Betwixt the little dramas that made up our life there were rehearsals and performances at opera houses throughout Venice, but those seemed almost to belong to another world. We were wholly entranced with each other; after a year of separation, to be able to walk into the next room and actually hold Christine was heavenly. I even began to compose again, as she found out one late night about a week after her saucy and utterly disarming demand that I kiss her good morning—and, as I discovered, any other time either she or I wished.

It was the Friday evening after a gala performance; she did not get home until very late indeed. I shadowed her, as I always did when she walked home after dark and sometimes in daylight; if anything happened to her on her way home, I don't think I could have forgiven myself. Christine was thoroughly exhausted. Her weariness was evident to my sharp eyes in the way she moved slowly across the living room, in the stiffness she displayed when she sunk into the couch. I managed to get a little food and water down her throat before she waved away my fussing, insisting she was merely tired. "Come on, little one," I murmured to her in Persian as I lifted her into my arms. I knew that she would not be willing to move of her own free will, and I was even less willing to allow her to rest on the couch when she was so utterly spent. It was not without a bit of trepidation that I carried her into her room, but I knew that my concern for her was overshadowing any other desires I might have, even if she had not been half-asleep. She protested when I settled her into the covers and made to leave her; with a sigh, I knelt by Christine's bedside and began to sing a quiet old Swedish lullaby.

She was fully asleep in moments. I felt a tender smile tug at my lips as I looked down at her. Her dark hair and pale skin seemed almost ethereal in the moonlight. Christine had managed to stand long enough to remove her dress and allow me to loosen her corset, so I was assured of her comfort as I quietly closed the door behind me. I myself was not tired; my eight hour slumber of that first night seemed to have been a unique occurrence, and since then I had reverted to my normal hour or three of sleep without feeling any side effects. My piano was calling to me as I stepped out of her room; I missed the organ, but there was no chance of fitting one into this apartment. I was surprised that I had managed to get the piano inside. Sitting down on the bench, I pulled out a new piece I had begun with Christine in mind and began to quietly compose. This was a melody for the Christine I was gradually beginning to unravel; the girl who I could still make blush at will, but who could also sashay up to me and demand a kiss or two. She was the woman whose hands were equally capable of slapping me (when I well deserved it) or easing the worry lines in my forehead; she sang like an angel, she did pirouettes in my kitchen when she was happy, she looked otherworldly as she slept in moonlight . . . I loved her more every moment. I thought I had known love when we lived in the illusory world of the Opera Populaire, but what I felt for her now went beyond even that consuming emotion.

I played the finished piece through twice, as softly as possible, and was satisfied. It was only when I stopped playing and started to put the music away that I noticed the slim figure in white hovering behind me. "What was that, Erik?" She queried softly, her hand reaching out to touch the score. "It was beautiful . . ."

You should be asleep. I bit my tongue on that sharp, worried thought; she looked so peaceful standing beside me. "Forgive me for waking you," I murmured instead. She shook her head and did not take her eyes off the music. "Do you . . . like it?" I asked quietly. At her nod of assent, I motioned for her to sit beside me. "Then I will play it for you."

I went through the song twice; she began to hum along midway through the second round. It was as I had intended it to be: absolutely perfect for her voice. When I finished, Christine sighed and leaned her head against my shoulder. "You wrote that for me," she stated. It was not a question.

"Yes." I did not feel the need to elaborate; she knew she had long ago become the inspiration for much of my music. I was a little startled, though perhaps I should not have been, at her next words.

"It is of the new me—the stronger me. This is not written for a child, but a woman."

I nodded and gently lifted her back into my arms as I stood. "A woman, more deeply loved than she ever was, but who should be in bed."

"All right, Erik," she spoke against my shirt. She still had enough energy to put a teasing lilt into her voice when she continued, "I will be a good girl and stay there this time, I promise."

I smiled as I tucked her in once more. Leaning down to kiss her nose, I told her, "And I will attempt to let you sleep, and not lure you awake with music I should have known you could not ignore. Agreed?"

"Mmm." She was already asleep.

Christine

Erik had insisted that she not live with him as a student, so despite the warmth and openness growing up between them, Christine found herself strangely hesitant to ask for his help. She was to sing a particularly difficult solo in her next performance, and while she felt that she was doing fairly well at it, she had found within herself a drive to excel; if she was to sing, Christine wanted to know that she had sung her best.

Perhaps it was not overly strange, after all, that she was reluctant to bring up the subject of a singing lesson. It was, in fact, very simple; Christine did not want to go back to being just Erik's student. She couldn't go back; not after the last two and a half weeks of falling slowly and surely more deeply in love with him. To not be able to curl up against him on the couch and watch the moon rise in peaceful silence; to not feel his eyes watching her as she learned to cook, to not see the occasional invitation in those eyes that simply meant hold me—these were things that Christine feared. Irrationally feared, perhaps, but fear is powerful whether rational or not.

Finally, a few days before the opening night, Christine gathered up her courage and sat next to Erik as he was absently playing the piano. He turned to look at her, his fingers silencing the keys. She felt herself shrinking a little under that even appraisal; then, to her surprise, he smiled. "I thought you had been tiptoeing around something for a few days now. Come," he touched her mouth, "spit it out. What is it you want?"

Christine groaned and pressed her face into his shoulder. "Am I really so transparent?"

"Yes."

She scowled up at him, but found she couldn't hold the expression. It melted into a smile, then she forced herself to become serious. "Erik, would you . . . I'm singing Tivette in La Console on Friday and the last solo is . . ."

"Not where you would like it to be?" He asked gently. Christine nodded; Erik sighed as though an understanding had entered his mind. "And you did not want to ask because—"

"Because I did not want to become just your student again." There; she had admitted it.

He kissed her forehead and murmured huskily, "My dear girl, you never need fear that. I had wondered why you did not ask—but no matter. Are you ready to begin?" Christine smiled and briefly kissed him before she stood. Erik began to play the score from memory and nodded at her; opening her mouth, she sang for him.

Erik

She was wonderful as Tivette, of course—so full of an innocent fire, a pure young woman with the passion of Aphrodite. I never saw a bit of better casting.

Unfortunately, there were others who felt the same way. La Console ran for a week; in that time, I noticed the Baron de Riviet becoming increasingly interested in this beautiful young soprano with an angel's voice. I gritted my teeth and bit my tongue; my jealousy had driven us apart before, and I could not bear to separate from her now, only a few days before I asked her for her final decision. Still, I had an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, and especially those last few days of the performance I was averse to allowing her to walk home alone.

The final evening performance went off splendidly, or so I was told; for I was not attending that night. I had intended to meet her in her dressing room after the performance, but I was delayed by our landlord. He had to choose the precise moment I was leaving to come and complain about our music, my mask, and the rent; in irritation, I ended up paying him double what we owed him just to get him to go away. I hurried to the opera house to find it empty; the performance must have ended on time, for once. Cursing quietly, I glanced up at the sky. It was still light; there was a chance I could find her along our ordinary route home.

I do not know what made me stop and ask that particular old woman if she had seen a young girl pass by. Perhaps she reminded me, just a little, of a more aged Madame Giry; perhaps it was simply a prompting of fate or heaven. Regardless, I did ask, and my heart seemed to shatter when she leaned in close and whispered that she had seen such a young lady, with a cloud of dark hair just as I described, but that she had been stopped and then pulled away by a tall, overbearing man with thick black hair. The woman, looking around to see that we were not being overheard, added that she did not think the girl had gone with him willingly; she described the Baron—for I knew it was him—putting an arm around the young woman and dragging her down a side street. I asked which street; I hope I remembered to thank her before I started to run.

If there is a Heaven, it set its blessing upon us that night. I heard them before I saw them; a trained soprano knows how to attract attention. Christine's cries ended as abruptly as they had begun and I found myself on the rooftops, moving towards where the sound had come from. When I looked down, what I saw froze my blood in my veins.

He was holding her close—far, far too close—and leering at her as he pulled her toward the end of the lonely alley. I could see the bruises, finger-print sized, forming on her neck and arms where he had held her and shook her to shut her up. I only hoped he hadn't hit her. He still had one hand in his pocket and I knew he was carrying a pistol; he had no intention for her to sing anywhere else, ever. I may well have remained there, hanging on the roof stairway frozen in horror, had I not had a clear view of Christine's face. I could see those perfect, beautiful red lips—the lips I loved to kiss, to touch, to watch—forming a word. A name. Over and over again, I could see her whispering Erik.

I had not carried the Punjab lasso for months. Another sign of Heaven's blessing—or just the devil's own luck—had it in my cloak pocket tonight. I did not remember putting it there; my fingers remembered its use.

Hiss. Snap. The sound of a lasso whizzing through the air; the jerk as it snagged firmly around Baron de Riviet's neck. His arm dropped from Christine as he turned furiously to see who had him so entangled; his right hand was lifting from its pocket, gun in hand.

Oh no, monsieur. None of that. You will not be killing me, not after you have threatened the only woman I love. Unfortunately, you have forced my hand and I—jerk­—am forced to be killing you—snap—in front of her!

He collapsed, neck broken. I dared not look at Christine; I slipped from my vantage point and removed the lasso and the pistol from his corpse. Taking a deep breath, I stood and slowly, gently held my hand out to her. She was shaking, and I worried—but then she was in my arms, clinging tightly to my and crying into my shirt. I wrapped my cloak around us both and gently rocked her, murmuring softly into her ears until she was comforted enough to quit crying. "Please," she whispered when she could speak, "please take me home."

I wanted nothing more.

Christine

Erik did not ask her to speak; he did not ask her to explain. Indeed, all he seemed to require was that she settle into the couch, eat, and rest. He returned her touch hesitantly when she reached out to him; otherwise, all seemed to be normal. Almost.

At her request, he sat by her side and stroked her hand, but he was still distant. Christine shivered; she needed him, needed the memory and the reality of his touch to brush away the Baron's harsh hands. She could only think of one reason for his reserve. "Erik?"

He was immediately attentive. "Yes, cherie?"

"Are you . . ." Christine hesitated. In a month, this was one question she had never had to ask—whether yes or no, she had always known the answer. "Are you angry with me?"

She could see the shock in his face; she was getting better at reading his emotions. Erik reached forward and gently took her face in his hands. "Christine, love, no. Why would you think such a thing?" He stroked her cheek tenderly. "I am not angry with you, not in the least, not a bit, not ever. Please, if you believe nothing else, know that."

"Then hold me," she whispered. "I need to be held, Erik, not set on a shelf for protection."

His arms were instantly around here, clasping her tightly to his side as he stroked her hair. "Beloved," Erik said lowly, "Forgive me for not understanding. I had thought that you needed space, needed . . ." His hand twitched in a dismissive gesture. "I don't know what." He raised her chin and looked down into her eyes. "Are you all right?" Christine nodded; he paused. "He did not . . . hurt you? Other than these?" Erik indicated the fingertip-shaped bruises along her arm.

She shook her head. "No, Erik, he did not hurt me. It happened so quickly—he came up and wanted to congratulate me about the show. I thought it strange that he was alone, and the next thing I knew he was dragging me through the streets. I screamed—"

"I heard you."

"I don't remember much else; everything came together too quickly."

Erik faltered for a moment, then asked evenly. "You do remember that I killed him?"

"Yes." Christine lifted her hand to stop his answer. "And . . . thank you. That sounds horrible, but he wanted to harm me—how many other girls might he have harmed in the past? The future? No, Erik. That was not murder. Thank you."

Erik

Oh, no, cherie, it was murder. I have never wanted to kill anyone as much as I wanted to kill him. I kept this thought to myself. Anytime did not seem like quite the appropriate answer, either, so I simply decided to respond to the other parts of her reply. "Yes, he wanted to harm you," I told her softly. "He was carrying a pistol; he had no desire for you to survive his . . . attentions."

"Attentions?" She frowned at me.

Blast it. I cursed in my mind, calling myself seven kinds of idiot. Surely she could not still be that innocent? And if she was, why on earth had I mentioned his intentions? Stupid, Erik. Very, very, very stupid. "Someday," I said quietly, "you will realize, even if you do not understand it, that your incredible beauty and your equally appealing innocence make you an irresistible temptation to men who prey upon others, such as the late baron." And me.

She was glaring at me. "You have not preyed upon me."

I blinked. "I am almost entirely certain," I said cautiously, eyeing her, "that I did not say anything of the sort."

"No, you didn't," Christine agreed. I was still regarding her with a raised eyebrow, so she added, "You are not the only one who can read faces, and I know the way you think."

"Apparently, I am going to have to keep a closer guard over my thoughts." I smiled at her to take any edge out of my words. "Are you sure you're feeling better?" She nodded, and I couldn't help but let a smirk slip onto my features. Leaning in a little to whisper in her ear, I murmured, "Can you tell what I'm thinking now?"

If her blush was anything to go by, that was an affirmative. Grinning, I kissed her cheek and stood. I looked down at her, her skin glowing prettily in the candlelight, and was struck by how very close I had come to losing her tonight. Dropping to my knees, I laid my head in her lap and whispered my first prayer since I was a very young boy; "Thank you, Father."