It was several weeks before the Vicomte came for me. During those weeks, I had made myself quite comfortable in my new apartment. I spent most of the hours going for walks to the park where I sat under the trees for shade, watched ducks in the pond, wrote, and sketched. More often than not I was alone, but sometimes young couples would come to sit by the pond as well, usually on the opposite bank. The day the Vicomte would be coming for me was one of those days.

I watched the boy tease the girl; I watched her laugh and pretend to be angry, flushing red. I watched the boy take the girl into his arms and kiss her, both of them rolling onto the grass, laughing and kissing and touching one another, happy and safe. Perhaps they ran to the park to escape pressures of the outside world.

I recalled the one time I dared to take Christine to a similar park at night. I remembered how we spoke of illusions, and of the night… and how close she had been to grasping my outstretched hand… before that wretched boy showed up. There had been love in her eyes when I spoke to her- I had been so sure of it! What a fool I must have been! She left me that very same night, going with Raoul as if he had saved her from my company. How I had ever thought she loved me was a mystery. Still, it was a very convincing look that used to consume those blue eyes.

The boy and girl across the lake clearly did not think anyone would be in the park watching them this late in the evening. Their actions indicated that they believed themselves to be alone, as he began to take off her dress. I felt a burning jealousy in knowing that they could find solace in one another. The world that two lovers shared was one I felt barred from once more. I hurried off, shaking, ignoring the tears steaming down my fake cheek.

Back at my apartment, I began to play violin almost violently, not allowing myself to fit painful thoughts in-between the measures. My fingers bled for the first time since I was just a boy, causing me to stop abruptly. I stared at the torn calluses and began to cry again, despite myself. I collapsed onto the bed and stared at the ceiling, my chest heaving as I sobbed.

I cursed myself and my weakness, trying to get a hold of myself, but it was impossible. It took me several minutes to calm down enough to walk to the mirror and wipe away my tears. I stared at the reflection; normal face or not, we all look pathetically ugly when we cry. I swore and turned away.

Sitting on the edge of the bed and rubbing my eyes, I tried to sort things out in my head. What on Earth was I doing? Why had I offered my assistance to Raoul? I was most certainly not ready to deal with any of this; I couldn't see Christine. I couldn't trust myself not to turn into the Opera Ghost again, not to do something stupid like try to force her to love me. I couldn't trust myself not to lose my will to live once more and actually go through with it this time. What was I doing this for?

Partly revenge, said a voice in my head, I wanted her to see me now. I wanted her to want me; I wanted her to feel the loss I had. I wanted to hurt them both. But a gentler part admitted, hesitantly, that it still had hope that Christine would have missed me. It dreamed that my new mask would perhaps change everything. The logical side of me scolded me for even considering taking Christine back, should such events occur. But as it often had when I was trying to convince myself that it was all right to delve deeper into my obsessions with the girl, perhaps the meekest part of my mind whispered, "You only want to see her… you only want to look at her, hear her voice… is that so wrong?" No. No, it wasn't.

I curled up with my pillow like a child, staring at the wall, feeling cold suddenly, but a bit better. I got up to close the window and perhaps grab another blanket when there was a knock at the door. I peeked through the eyehole and saw the pompous ex-Patron of the Opera Populaire standing in the hall, checking his watch. I let out a sigh to calm my fury, and then opened the door.

"Ah, Monsieur Delacroix," the boy said with a forced smile, obviously a bit put off by my expression.

I cursed myself for not naming myself something more well-thought-out than my birth name, but no bother. It wasn't as if Christine had known me as anything but The Angel of Music or Erik, nor had Raoul known me as anything other than the Phantom of the Opera.

Raoul held out his hand. I shook it stiffly. "I was about to go to sleep, Monsieur. What do you want?"

Raoul shrugged. "It's only early evening. I was in the area, so I thought I'd see if you'd be willing to come with me to discuss some of the construction plans over dinner at my manor."

With his wife, no doubt. I felt a flutter of nerves, and a voice in the back of my mind (strangely similar to the stern Madame Giry's) screamed, "No, Erik! Back out now, before it's too late!"

I gave the Vicomte a cold smile. "I'd be delighted."