Erik

I have never harmed a woman with my hands.

But words? Oh, words are my weapon of choice. And they are so much more effective against women; a man will forget a cruel comment that a woman will not only memorize, but use against herself.

I did not want to hurt Christine. And yet, I did. So I accomplished the only thing I could: I left. Which, I realized, probably still hurt her. Sometimes, I wonder if women—or perhaps just one woman—are not all addicted to pain in their hearts. Else, why would they keep coming back for men to hurt them more?

She was crying. Again. I cursed the whim that had driven me to design this house so that every sound in it flooded to my coffin-room.

I heard another noise, then; my bell. Bloody Persian. How could I have forgotten that Nadir had checked on me nightly since the chandelier fell? He was hovering; I despise hovering. I think he blamed himself for being gone from Paris that night . . . as if, my old friend, you could possibly have stopped me. You did not see me then; you do not understand that I would only have killed you, as well.

He was at the Rue Scribe entrance; instead of opening the door that would allow him into the foyer, I pulled the lever that would take him straight to me. If he was confused when the side door opened, he gave no sign. Nadir clearly read the anger on my face, however, and was silent just long enough for another of those tiny hiccoughs Christine makes when she is desperately trying to stop weeping echo through the room.

"Erik," the daroga said flatly, "who else is in this house with us?"

I motioned irritably to the music room. "She's being unreasonable," I muttered.

He understood immediately. "Oh, Erik, no. Not again." Nadir strode toward the door that led deeper into the house; when he found it locked, he turned and glared at me. He did not bother to keep his voice down. "You must let me through, Erik. You cannot keep her here by force; how many times must I say that to you before you will understand it?"

"That door was not locked for you, daroga." It hurt, that he still thought—after everything he had seen—that I would force any woman to be with me. Nadir just looked at me. "I locked it so that I would not be tempted to shout at her, or worse." My voice was very quiet; I knew that the trick which carried sound to this room worked both ways. Anywhere Christine was in my home, she could hear me from here.

What his answer would have been I cannot tell, for at that moment Christine's voice whispered, "Erik?"

In an even tone, I replied, "Yes, dear?"

"I . . . I'm cold . . ." Of course she was cold. I had not bothered to light any fires; I preferred, lately, to sit in the chilly darkness.

"One moment." I stood and ungently slipped past Nadir. Unlocking the door, I went in search of my pale young sylph.

Christine

I had not moved from the music-room; I shivered as Erik opened the door and quietly entered. He had with him enough wood to start a respectable blaze—and the Persian I had often seen around the Opera House. I should have been curious, but all I could feel at that moment was a cold misery. It startled me when, instead of immediately lighting the fire, Erik simply laid the wood in the grate and then came close to me. His long, quick fingers touched my wrist and my neck. "You're freezing," he murmured. The concern in his voice made me squeeze my eyes shut against the confusion he seemed determined to inspire in my heart. Perhaps he took my closed eyes as permission; whether he did or not, I was quickly in his arms, gathered against his chest. He was warm and solid and I unashamedly buried my face in exposed skin of his throat. There was such a comfort in being held like this; he could have lit the fire, he could have wrapped me in his cloak, but to simply be held warm against his heart . . .

It felt like heaven.

Behind Erik, the newly lit fire began to throw light and heat into the room; the Persian must have started it. Despite my fingers insistently tangled in his lapels, Erik pulled away from me. He took my unresisting hand and led me to the cozy armchair which was closest to the fire; almost before I knew it, I was settled down into the chair with Erik's familiar warm black cloak over me.

At any other time, I would have been grateful for that cloak; I loved it. But Erik's cloak was a poor excuse indeed for Erik's arms.

I may have drifted, for a few moments, in and out of sleep; when I focused, Erik and the Persian were sitting on the couch talking in low but sharp tones. Raising my head, I watched them; Erik seemed to be arguing something, but he broke off when he saw my renewed interest. "You should rest, Christine," he told me quietly. "Your room is as it always was—there is a fire there and you will be warm." I wanted to argue, wanted to ask who the strange companion with him was, but I could not hide my own weariness.

Rising, I walked to them and touched Erik's face. "Good night," I murmured, turning to leave the room.

"One moment," Erik's voice made me pause and turn back to him. He indicated the Persian with one gloved hand. "If you would be so good as to assure my guest that I have not kidnapped you from your room and that you are staying with me out of choice?"

"You did kidnap me from my room," I replied, "but I am here because I wish to be." Sweeping them both an extravagant curtsey—I'm afraid I was getting a little giddy with sleepiness—I left them by the fire.

Erik

I scowled after her. That was hardly reassuring enough for one, like Nadir, who has seen me control men with the mere sound of my voice; surprisingly, he seemed to take what she had said in good faith. When I queried him, my old friend answered, "If you were controlling her, she would not have disagreed with you."

"Unless I made her disagree with me to trick you."

Nadir's mouth twisted in a smile. "Did you?" I shook my head. "I am willing to trust you on this, for now, Erik. And if you wouldn't mind, it is growing late. I must return."

"Don't let me keep you," I grumbled, "you're here at your insistence, not mine."

He left, and I sat alone watching the fire for a few moments. Christine's question—why did you ask me here?—was echoing through my mind, and I could not find an answer. I knew I still loved her, still wanted her with me, but how was I going to prevent her disappearance from becoming a sensation?

I ought to stop taking her away on opening nights. It's becoming something of a bad habit.

There were a few things, however, that I could do, and I set about them with a slight grin on my features.

I watched as he opened the note; I could hardly resist. I had left it on her vanity, along with a red rose petal, and waited behind the mirror. As I had predicted he would, the lovesick young Vicomte entered Christine's room about an hour after I had taken her from it. He called her name and frowned when he received no answer; stepping fully into the room, he looked around for his dear little Lotte, but she was nowhere to be seen.

He spotted the note and reached for it, obviously hoping it was from her, but his hand slowed as he recognized my particular seal and handwriting. He proved unable to resist prying; I think he was rather shocked when he found that my little message was for him.

Monsieur le Vicomte

One day, perhaps, you and I will learn not to make her choose.

O.G.

Delicious.

A/N: Please read and review!