We went back to the house on the lake soon after that. It was strange to live like that, just the four of us. Several months passed, just this way, ideally in my mind, but Christine once again didn't seem happy. I kept my distance from her after the night in the cellars, determined to not appear needy. I spent most of my days cooped up in my room and most my nights attending the opera or wandering the parks and forests. I always loved the outside at night.

The Opera was performing Faust, my favorite opera, and was raking in it fair share of money. I would not have Il Muto, or any garbage like that when I was running the place. I wanted to ask Christine about playing the role of Marguerite; it was an awkward thing to ask, really, there were memories attached to Faust that would be recalled. But I didn't want any of the current sopranos getting the part.

Surprisingly, it was she who approached me that night. She knocked on the door of my room just as I was getting dressed to go out, and I opened it, after buttoning my shirt all the way. I had failed to notice how obviously pregnant she had become, perhaps because I hadn't seen much of her, and when I had, I never stared long, out of fear.

"Oh Erik." She fell into my arms and kept a tight hold on me for several minutes, speaking, muffled, into my chest, "are you avoiding me?"

I sighed and lightly pushed her away. "Perhaps a little. Should I not be?"

She looked hurt. "If you want to avoid me, then I suppose you should."

I hesitated. "Christine, this is all very foolish. We need to figure out what our relationship is going to be, before we go any further with anything. You must keep in mind, that Raoul is still you're husband, and may be coming back, and I am still a murderer who is a great deal older than you."

She sighed, as if not wanting to keep this is mind at all.

"I hate the way everything is. I can't just…just be. I have to follow these rules."

"Everyone does, Christine."

"Not you, Erik."

Her eyes were bright with adoration, "you don't care, you're better than all that…you do what you want, you live in a world of pure passion and love. I envy you."

I laughed. "You make me out to be either a saint or a monster. It's always black and white with you, isn't it? I'm either the problem or the solution."

She didn't seem t hear this. She looked up at me. "You are tall."

"I am aware of that."

"Can I come with you, wherever you're going? Please Erik? I won't cause trouble. I want to be with you."

I shrugged. "I suppose. Wear a warm coat. We're going for a long walk."

We walked around the lake, to a grove of trees that was on the opposite bank. It was cold, late November, and I saw her shivering. I almost would have thought she was exaggerating it. Finally I said, "Do you want to return?"

"No."

"Do you want my coat?"

No answer. I draped it around her shoulders anyway, and she looked at me in the way that she always used to, that made me feel more like her father than lover. I was never sure I liked this.

We sat down under a tree. The moonlight was shining on the water, and everything was a deep blue hue. I turned away from her and removed my mask, massaging my face. Sometimes the scabs still itched in a strange way.

"Erik," she said, "Are you going to try to make another mask like…like that one you had?"

I laughed bitterly. "Do you want me to?"

There was a long pause. I didn't realize that she was crying until she spoke.

"I'm horrible."

I didn't reply at first. Finally, I asked, "Why?"

"Because I do want you to."

"So?"

"So it shouldn't matter to me what your face is like."

I shrugged. "No, I suppose it shouldn't. But it matters to every other woman, so why should you be any different."

"You make me feel even worse Erik."

"I'm honestly not trying to."

I put my white mask back on and turned to face her. "Did you think I was handsome?"

Even though it was dark, I saw her blush.

"Very."

I wasn't sure what that made me feel. All I could think to do was talk. So I did.

"You know, in certain tribes it's believed that making love to someone in a mask isn't making love to them at all. That it doesn't count. Its strange, but it seems true to me, and it always has. Why does a face matter so much? I'll never understand. Do you feel that way, Christine? Does it count if someone is hiding their face?"

She was crying silent tears again. "Do you want me to be honest?"

"Yes."

She choked back a sob, and said, "I wouldn't want to if you weren't wearing one."

I began to cry this time. I knew this, in my heart, all along. But it was painful to hear out loud. "Of course you wouldn't. No one would. I'm repulsive, I'm sure that I'm not something you'd want to see when…well."

She covered her face in her hands. "I'm sorry Erik. I'm so sorry…"

"It isn't your fault, my dear."

I let the weight of this conversation soak in as I watched the clouds shift, blocking out the moon.

I had no clue where to go from here. My mind, normally full of plots and ideas, had reached a blank at long last.

I didn't know what to do.