Eight years passed, and Erik had never been happier. When he'd first returned to Paris, he'd had no reason to live. But now that he was a father, he'd been given a reason to live, so he lived every day of his otherwise worthless existence for Christine. His purpose now was to care for his daughter and educate her in everything he could, especially in music.

If she's anything like her mother, he'd think to himself, she'll have a beautiful singing voice some day.

Or, he'd add to himself mentally in one of his rare conceited moments, if she's anything like you, which is the more likely thing, she'll have a beautiful singing voice.

So, along with educating her in reading, writing, and mathematics, he gave her voice lessons, which was his favorite part of every day, endlessly pursuing the voice that was sure to be inside of her.

Much to his dismay, though, his young daughter could be painfully curious. It wasn't normally something that bothered him, but she constantly asked about the mask he wore.

"Father, why do you wear a mask like me?" she'd ask innocently whenever there happened to be a moment of silence between them. (For this reason, Erik tried to avoid moments of silence at all times.)

"This is not a topic of discussion, Christine," he would say sternly while sighing inwardly. "You know this already."

"Is it because you're deformed, like me?"

Knowing that it would never end unless he gave her a satisfactory enough answer, he would then sigh and reply, "Yes, ma cherie. I wear a mask for the same reason you do."

"Why do we wear masks, Father?" she'd continue.

"Deformities are not nice to look at, that's why."

"But I don't mind mine so much," she'd say, and it was then that he'd wish that he still had the optimism and unbiasedness of childhood. "I'm sure I wouldn't mind yours, either, if I could see it."

"Which you never will," he'd reply firmly.

"Why?" It was a question she'd never stop asking, he was sure.

"This conversation is over, Christine."

"Oh, but Father!" she'd exclaim, her voice almost coming out as a whine. "Why not?"

In order to end the discussion, he'd ask, "Do you want some cheese with that whine, ma cherie?"

Then she'd laugh, always finding his jokes amusing, and the conversation would end until the next time that she started it again.

But one day, conversation that was ended with humor wasn't enough for her anymore. She wanted answers, and since she'd earned her father's determination, she was going to get them no matter what.

On the day that she made this decision, she took her daily voice lesson, then, when a moment of silence came, she started the inevitable questions. This time, though, she didn't start with the question that she always did.

"Father?"

"Yes, ma cherie?"

"May I see what's under your mask?"

He stiffened, pursing his lips together for a moment before shaking his head.

"You already know my feelings about this, Christine."

"But if I could just see it once -"

But he cut her off before she could finish, rising from where he'd been sitting on the bench in front of their piano and slamming his fists down on the keys, creating a jarring discord.

"You want to see?" he roared, staring at her with uncontrollable fury in his eyes. "You want to see? Then look!"

As he shouted look, he grabbed his mask and threw it down. It landed on the floor with a soft clatter, and then she was left standing there in front of him, his bare face revealed to her for the first time.

As he stared down at her, waiting for her to be frightened or alarmed, he saw that she was making no move or gesture that would betray her fear. However, after a moment, he saw that her hands, clenched into tight fists at her side, were trembling. She was afraid, but she was trying not to show it.

"Oh, I'm sorry, angel," he whispered, getting down on his knees in front of his daughter and hugging her tightly to him, pressing his lips against her unmasked, undeformed cheek. "Forgive me... I have a truly inexcusable temper. I daresay you'll have one eventually, too."

After holding onto her for a moment more, he pulled away from her, putting his hands on her shoulders and looking into her eyes intently, grey-green meeting grey-green, smoothing her dark hair down.

"Are you all right, my dear?" he asked softly.

She nodded quietly, not saying a word in response.

"I didn't frighten you too badly, did I?" he persisted, trying to get her to talk. He hoped he hadn't somehow made her mute with terror.

"No," she said softly, shaking her head and shrugging a little. "I'm fine. I suppose I... I just didn't realize how bad it really is. I suppose it's different when you're looking at another's face. But it was like looking at my own reflection, except I was you."

"So..." He tried to choose his words carefully. "You won't ask me to do this again, will you, Christine? You won't ask me about my face again now that you know that it's exactly like yours."

She shook her head, and he saw with alarm that tears were now starting to fill her eyes.

"What's the matter, dear?" he exclaimed, looking intensely worried as he started smoothing her hair down again, which he knew she found calming. "Please tell me what's wrong."

"I-I'm not beautiful, am I, Father?" she whispered sadly, her voice shaking as a tear ran down her unmasked, undeformed cheek. "That's why my mother isn't here."

He sighed inwardly, feeling bad because he'd been scarce on details whenever his daughter asked about her mother. He'd hoped that he'd forgotten her, but she knew quite a bit about Christine deChagny. He knew that the Christine before him had cried for her mother in her sleep several times, and he couldn't help but feel that it was his fault for telling her the little she knew about the woman that had given birth to her.

"No, darling," he said gently, wondering if what he was saying was true as he pressed his lips to her forehead. "That's not it at all... and even if you're not beautiful in the classic sense of the word, you're beautiful in your own way."

"Am I?" she inquired, and he nodded and smiled at her reassuringly, causing her to smile, too. "Are you?"

"I suppose I am, yes." He paused, sighed, and then kissed her forehead again. "There. Do you feel better now?"

She nodded and smiled again.

"Very good." He rose to his feet, then extending his hand down to her. "Then come, and you and I will prepare dinner."

She took his hand, and then they walked to the kitchen together. And from that day forward, Christine never again brought up her father's face, or even her own, instead forming her own ideas about it.