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Chapter 9

At first, there was only a void in Christine's mind. A complete absence of thought. Shock at what she saw had overtaken her, and she could only close her mouth and stare.

The side of his face that had been hidden by the mask was red and frayed, like someone had taken a carving knife and worked away at his face in an amateur, uneven manner. But it wasn't blood that made his face scarlet - it was just his skin. An entire half-face made of scar tissue.

When she at last found her voice, she whispered, "Who did that to you?"

"I was born this way," he responded, voice shaking. The tears in his eyes threatened to escape. "I have never been normal. And now you know. Now you can be honest with me and yourself - you do not care for me this way..." His voice trailed off, and a look of sudden horror passed over his expression. "I should not have shown you. Why have I shown you? Now you will demand I leave, and I will be back on the street, back in a carnival. What...what was I thinking? What was I-"

"No." Her voice was miniscule in her throat.

It surprised him into silence. "What?"

"That's not...I won't..." She swallowed, and willed her voice to be strong, clear, loud. She succeeded. "You are still my best friend, Erik. I don't want you to leave."

He appeared to be stunned - eyes wide, frozen to the spot. Searching her face.

It gave her courage. She took a deep breath and smiled. "You see? I do not think of you any differently. You are still Erik. We are still friends. I would never want that to change."

The tears in his eyes finally fell, though his expression didn't change. Christine, feeling bold, leaned into his ruined cheek and kissed it tenderly. To her lips, it didn't feel any differently. There was no strange smell, no odd heat.

The only difference was in its appearance. That was all.

As she kissed his deformation, he drew in a long, audible gasp. She pulled away, and when she did, she saw that his lower lip was trembling and more tears were falling from his eyes.

"Why?" he asked brokenly. "Why did you do that?"

"Because it's part of you. I wanted to show you that I really don't hate you. I wanted to prove it."

He shook his head. "No one has ever looked at my full face and reacted with anything except fear...or disgust...or pity...or hatred. How...what makes you so different."

"I don't know." She thought about it. "Maybe it's just that I know you so well, it doesn't bother me. Maybe that's all."

"My mother knew me." He was looking down, wide eyes on the floor. "And she didn't ever kiss me. She made me wear the mask all the time."

"Well, your mother sounds like an awful lady and I am glad she is no longer in your life."

Again, a shake of his head. "I think there's something different with you. And your father. A good different. Something...I can't explain it. A sort of lightness, a goodness, not found in other people." He met her gaze. "If there's such a thing as angels, I think I found two of them in this house."

Christine's cheeks pinked. "Oh - that's terribly kind of you to say."

"I mean no kindness by those words - only truth."

The flat seriousness in his tone, the lack of a flattering lilt, made her unable to do anything except nod her head, entirely at a loss for what to say.

He quickly wiped the tears from his face and took her hand in his. "Come with me. I want to show you something."

"What is it?"

"I've been practicing. The violin. I've been...writing a song. I want to show you."

Perplexed at the seeming randomness of this, she merely nodded and allowed him to pull her toward her bedroom door. At his room, he asked her to wait a moment, and he only went in to retrieve his violin. He grabbed hold of her hand again, and in the dimness of night, she could see that he was smiling and that he'd put on his mask again - likely so as not to frighten anyone if they awoke and came into the hallway.

"This way," he whispered, and brought her down the steps. He took her into her father's study, where Erik learned violin, and then closed the door behind them. He turned to her. "Sit."

She did so, in a chair sandwiched between two oak bookshelves. There was no desk in this study, only a music stand where Gustave practiced. Erik stood in front of it, facing her.

"Christine," he said, "from the moment you extended friendship to me, I knew that my soul belonged to you. That I would follow you anywhere, forever. My feelings about the matter are so strong, in fact, that I have written a song dedicated to you - to your heart and mind, your soul and your smile. This music is a reflection of how I feel when I am around you."

The music that he played was light made sound. It was a sunny day in the park, spent with loved ones - not a single cloud in the sky. It was a winter evening, close to Christmas, spent by the fire with a familiar book. It was the laughter of a friend, the sort of giggle fit that left one in absolute stitches, pained in the sides and stomach but begging not to be released from the bliss. It put a glow into her chest, sending tendrils of warmth to the top of her head and down to the tips of her toes.

It was love, she realized.

Love.

In every iteration of the word.

And when she closed her eyes, she knew that it didn't just come from the music. That it came from her own heart too.