A/N - I wrote furiously for one sitting and nearly wrote the entire chapter. Inspiration seems to come in spirts. I didn't want to make this one too cheesy with the Christmas theme, but I was pleased how it turned out. I hope you enjoy it. I consider it a Christmas treat to all of the readers and especially those who have provided encouragment for me to keep writing. Thank you, and Merry Christmas!

'Oh Holy Night' is taken from the original French carol 'Cantique de Noel' composed by Adolphe Charles Adam (1803-1856) who also is best known for the ballet 'Giselle.' The original lyrics are a bit different, and I really like the English version.

Chapter 14

She woke up alone and in her bed. The night before seemed like a dream now. But as she rolled over in bed, Christine's eyes fixed upon an object that reminded her that it had been real. A single, blood red rose lay on her nightstand. Affixed to it was a delicate black satin ribbon. She reached out to touch the flower, but her fingers strayed upon the ribbon and she was suddenly reminded of him.

Christine rose in the light of mid morning. She hastily pulled on a forest green velvet gown. I nearly forgot, she thought. Her gaze wandered to the windows. It's Christmas Eve, and I had not even known until today. My first Christmas without Madame Giry and Meg. How I wish I could be in that small cottage now, sitting by the fire, and singing carols with Meg! Her sad gaze was drawn back to the interior of her room. She pulled back her hair loosely behind her head with a red silk ribbon and continued her toilette.

It was late in the morning when Christine finally ventured from her room. She was surprised to find the halls were lit with the light of the morning, the heave drapes having been cast aside. She walked towards the parlor in search of her breakfast as it was so meticulously set out each day. But instead of finding the small tray set before her soft chair, the room was empty. Perhaps he had gone out. She walked towards the kitchen and was fully prepared to make her own breakfast. But the dining room was opened wide, admitting the sunlight that spread throughout the halls. She could see now that a few windows lined the dining room on one side, but were normally shuttered closed with seamless wooden shutters. A soft snow was beginning to fall outside and each pane of glass was frosted.

The long table was curiously arrayed with platters of food – fresh rolls, fruits, cheeses. A steaming cup of tea had been left at the place setting she normally sat at. Her brow furrowed as she cautiously entered the room, unsure if the sight was real or not. But as she was about to sit down, Christine felt a slight breeze behind her and heard the scrape her chair against the floor as it was pulled back. She sat automatically and looked up with curious eyes as her strange tutor finished seating her. He never said a word but proceeded to the other side of the table to assume his own position.

"You laid out this breakfast?" she asked.

"You see no one else, do you?" he asked, almost jokingly, but his mouth never relaxed into a smile.

"Why?" she finally responded.

He glanced up at her for a moment and his gaze seemed to soften. "It is Christmas Eve, isn't it?"

A small smile crept across her mouth. "You knew?" she asked, not able to conceal the wonder in her voice.

He nodded softly, filling his plate with a modest amount of food. She watched as he leaned back and quietly picked at the small plate of food. His body, she did not want to admit studying it so, seemed rather thin. Although he was tall and strong in frame, he seemed slightly malnourished, as though he cared little for eating. What thoughts, what preoccupations could distract him from a proper meal?

"Why do you not eat more?" she suddenly asked.

He looked up from his plate, surprised by her question, and seemed to study her for a moment, devising an explanation. When he did not respond, she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"You don't each very much, do you?" she asked. "You should, it is unhealthy to skip so many meals."

"And when did my student suddenly become my nurse?" he asked, a deadpan expression on his face marked only by the raising of an eyebrow.

She blushed slightly, drawing back her gaze from him and felt her hands fidgeting in her lap.

"My father always urged me to finish my meals," she smiled softly at the memory, still looking down at her hands. "Did your mother not tell you the same?"

She heard his glass clink on the table and glanced up to see his demeanor suddenly altered. "She reminded me on many occasions. But it was only out of disgust that she did so. She did not truly care about my health," he replied bitterly.

Christine looked at him with startled eyes. What bitter memory is this? What have I stumbled upon? She could tell that the subject bothered him and now was not the time to discuss it. Once again, he seemed to have withdrawn himself into a bitter reverie. But she only wanted to smooth over the sudden disruption of the moment. She could not leave the moment hanging in such a way.

"I urge you to eat," she responded softly, glancing up at the man before her, "but only because you look thin and could do with some nourishment. For your health's sake. It will not do to endure a cold winter sickly."

She felt his eyes briefly brush over her as he lifted a slice of cheese to his mouth. Christine harbored a subtle smile on her lips.

The rest of the day was spent in relaxation. Erik had foregone the plan of another lesson, noticing that Christine's mind was very far from music today. Indeed, she could only drift back into comforting memories of spending Christmas with her father. She could remember the gentle strains of his violin, of the modest Christmas tree decked out in any shiny object that could be found, and of the roaring fire that begged any chilled bones to sit near its warmth and sip the hot mulled Swedish wine. They were pleasant times. But they had long since passed. She knew that.

Christine spent the afternoon in the library, perusing through several books that she had carried from the shelves. But she was not alone in her solitude. Her tutor sat at his desk for many hours, undoubtedly working on his own business, while she read quietly beneath a blanket in the small adjacent room.

When he grew restless from his work, he would rise and wander into her sanctuary, gazing longingly out of the windows. What strange thoughts run through his mind? Why is there so much sadness in his eyes? He hides it from me, but I know it's there. When he tired of his pacing, he would finally slump down into one of the chairs near her couch and watch her as she read. She found the whole act terribly distracting, trying very hard to focus her eyes on the book in front of her, but feeling his eyes always upon her.

"I am going out for a little while," he announced suddenly.

She lowered the book onto her lap and regarded him quietly for a moment. "Where?"

"I cannot say," he replied stubbornly.

"When will you return?" she asked.

"Later this evening," he replied curtly.

He did not see the disappointment in her eyes as he rose and started to leave the room. She fidgeted with the pages for a moment, staring out the window listlessly, before returning her troubled gaze to the book.

It was late in the evening and the house was dark, when Christine finally gave up waiting for her teacher's arrival. She padded down the hall in her bare feet, carrying a single candle to the light the way. He had been strangely silent. Did I do something wrong? She remembered the night before when he had held her in his arms with such tenderness and stroked her hair. Glancing again down the darkened hall before she entered her room, Christine sighed softly before slipping through the door and climbing into bed.

Christmas Day promised a gentle snow at the least. After she had awoken, and slipped on a warm burgundy dress trimmed in white lace, Christine paused at her window and watched the snow fall. It was a pleasant day outside, but something about the holiday was missing. There was no warmth in it anymore. No joy in the ritual. She suddenly longed for familiar faces and settings. A tear coursed down her cheek, but she was too distracted to notice. She longed for more dependable company. Her strange tutor was certainly not dependable. One moment he could muster more anger then she had ever seen, the next, he could be more tender then anyone she had known, save her father. But he was so aloof. He was never around for very long, and when he was, he was so unreadable. A familiar loneliness crept into her heart.

She emerged from her room and solemnly walked down the hall. The tears had flown more freely now, and she wiped them away frequently as she walked slowly with her head bowed.

But before she passed the large drawing room, a barrier suddenly blocked her path. She glanced up, startled to find Erik standing before her. He wore his usual black suit, with a dark burgundy waistcoat and dark cravat at his throat. A strange look filled his visible features, but when he saw her tear-soaked face, his hands were suddenly upon it. He drew up her chin with his finger and used the other hand to brush away the moisture on her cheek. She looked up at him with shameful eyes.

"Why are you crying?" he asked tenderly.

She looked at him but her eyes moved down quickly. "I was. . .lonely."

He nudged her chin up again, forcing her eyes onto his. No words passed between them, but somehow, she found a strange comfort in his green eyes. Erik's hand was gentle upon her face as it slowly caressed her reddened cheeks. His finger nearly brushed over her lips, but he hesitated and pulled away. She stood there, her face flushed, trying desperately to distract herself from the moment by brushing out the folds in her gown.

"That dress becomes you," he said in a strained voice. "You look very. . .lovely."

She looked up at him and smiled shyly.

"Come," he suddenly announced, extending his hand.

She hesitated before sliding her slender hand into his, which was uncharacteristically ungloved. His hand was warm and his grasp comforting. She glanced at his hand, noticing how large and masculine it looked compared to her own. Even with the grace of his musician's hands, he still had the strength and size that befitted a man in his prime.

He led her into the drawing room. A pleasing fire was already stirring in the fireplace. A few windows had been opened to admit the light. But the most stunning sight of all was the large Christmas tree that stood to one end of the room. It was quite tall, well over both their heads. Around it was strung lovely garlands and arranged on its branches were many ornaments of every color and shape imaginable.

One thing was missing. The angel. Christine noticed the bare sprig at the top of the tree. She glanced at Erik for a moment and smiled.

"You did this. . .for me?" she asked.

He nearly smiled, but it was a faint smile that graced his lips. "Yes," he replied.

"Thank you," she breathed, "so much! No one has ever done anything like this for me before. Except for. . ."

A long silence fell upon the room. Christine gazed up at the top of the tree again. "There is no angel," she said faintly.

"There never was," she almost heard him say, but it was a muted whisper. But he turned to her and gestured at a small box on a nearby table.

Christine drew close to it and carefully opened the small wooden box. Inside the velvet lined box rested a lovely angel. Its wings were of the softest white feathers, and its long tunic made from the purest of silks. She looked back at the man who remained always in the shadows. Her eyes were more alive now then they had ever been before. There was a healthy gleam in their depths.

She drew the small figurine carefully from the box, cradling it in her slender hands as she admired the handiwork. "Where did you get this? It's exquisite!"

"I made it," he replied.

Christine glanced up at him in surprise. "You made this? It is so beautiful. I've only seen such work in the shop windows of the cities. But even this far exceeds anything I've ever seen."

"Would you like to put it on the tree?" he asked.

Christine stepped beside him, still enthralled by the craftsmanship of the angel. Erik quickly slid a chair over to the tree. She felt his hands at her waist as he helped her up onto the chair and then steadied her as she hung precariously over the tree. But she did not fear his touch now. She felt safer in his grasp then she ever had before. Perhaps it was because of his good spirits. Once she had aligned the ornament properly, Christine glanced down at him and smiled broadly.

"It's beautiful," she remarked, staring up at the angel in awe.

But she did not notice the heavy gaze that had fallen upon her. She did not notice the soft sigh that fell from his lips as he gazed upon her. My God, she is so beautiful. Does she even know. . .

"What's wrong," she asked, having looked down upon him once again, her lovely doe eyes fixed softly upon him.

"Would you sing?" he suddenly asked, helping her down from the chair.

"Of course," she replied, "what shall I sing?"

"Sing a carol. I am afraid to say that I don't know many."

She looked at him with trouble in her eyes. He is my teacher, and he does not even know a carol.

"Alright," she replied.

She remembered a lovely one in particular and remembered singing it with Madame Giry and Meg, though she had to admit that the enthusiasm to sing was never quite there. But now, something had changed. She felt she had to sing this one. That it carried some unknown meaning that had to be delivered to the listener.

She suddenly remembered the words of Sister Catherine.

Perhaps you were meant to be there. There is much we do not know about life. But God directs our lives unseen. Perhaps you were there for a reason. If not to cure yourself of this pain you carry, then to bring this man out into the grace of God.

Christine suddenly found the inspiration to sing. The words flowed from her like never before. The highs were so incredibly beautiful that she found herself weeping because of the sheer beauty of the song.

Oh holy night!
The stars are brightly shining
It is the night of the dear Savior's birth!
Long lay the world in sin and error pining
Till he appear'd and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn!

Fall on your knees
Oh hear the angel voices
Oh night divine
Oh night when Christ was born
Oh night divine
Oh night divine

Led by the light of Faith serenely beaming
With glowing hearts by His cradle we stand
So led by light of a star sweetly gleaming
Here come the wise men from Orient land
The King of Kings lay thus in lowly manger
In all our trials born to be our friend.

Truly He taught us to love one another
His law is love and His gospel is peace
Chains shall He break for the slave is our brother
And in His name all oppression shall cease
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,
Let all within us praise His holy name.

The song ended and so filled with a feeling of warmth and comfort, she found herself turning to see her teacher's reaction. What she saw was so unexpected. A single tear had left his eye and traveled down the pale skin of his cheek. Never before had he shown that much emotion. But as the tear slid from his eye, she suddenly felt such pity in her heart that she leaned towards him and gently lifted her hand to his face. He almost flinched away from her touch, as though an insignificant creature like herself had the capability to harm him, but slowly relaxed when her fingertip touched his cheek. She delicately brushed the tear away and slowly withdrew her hand.

"My singing could not have been that bad," she muttered, a smile hiding within her eyes.

"Far from it," he replied, brushing the back of his hand across the exposed flesh of his face. "You sang like an angel."

"Ah, but there is no such thing," she said mockingly, raising an eyebrow in amusement. "Isn't that what you said?"

"None that I believe in," he replied bitterly, turning sharply from her.

She felt disappointment at his sudden change. For once, she thought she had peered through his cold exterior and witnessed a spark of life beyond, but he had quickly shut the door. Her hand, still hovering where he had once been, fell limply by her side in defeat.

"Then tell me," she asked, trying to sound as civil as possible, "if you do not believe in such beings, do you believe in God?"

He had turned his back on her. But he turned his head to the side in reply. "What God is there that has brought such a ruined creature into being and scorned him at every turn?"

"I don't know what you speak of or what you have seen. . .or done," she replied softly, "but I know that he does not scorn you."

He did not reply.

"I do not scorn you," she added.

"You would," he replied. "You don't know it now, but you would."

He turned and left. But she did not fall apart. She could not. The feeling of warmth still permeated the room, comforted her, and gave her strength. There was only sympathy in her heart now. Christine lingered there, gazing at the tree, and looking upon the angel. After she had warmed her feet by the fire and sipped a cup of mulled tea to soothe her mind, she finally decided to break the silence.

Christine made her way down the corridor with purpose in her step. She took the unfamiliar path that she had only taken once before. Up the winding stairs she strode, careful not to creak the stairs as she passed by. When she reached the top, she glanced around timidly for any sign of him. The door to his room was ajar, and she could hear him moving about within. Christine pressed herself against the wall just outside his room. Should I go in? Should I speak with him? I probably shouldn't be here.

She finally made up her mind and slowly entered the darkened room. The small anteroom was just as she had left it a while back. But the fireplace was dead. No warm light permeated the room and infused the small couch with any warmth. Her steps grew more cautious as she passed through the room and dared to enter the forbidden territory beyond. His room. She had never seen it before. The darkness was so palpable now and she suddenly grew fearful.

A clatter sounded at the far end of the room, and a large room it seemed to be, even in the darkness. She slowly continued her journey. As she neared the far side of the room, she could see his form perched over a table. A few heavily curtained windows permitted only enough light to make out shapes and shadows. Christine inched closer and closer. Her feet were beginning to take reluctant steps, afraid of what lay before them. She passed by the looming shape of a large canopied bed and felt the wooden posts for support in the dark.

She was nearly there. I'm nearly there! She could see now that he sat hunched over in a chair at a small desk. His suit jacket had been thrown aside, the cravat torn from his neck. He wore his white lawn shirt, sloppily untucked from his dress pants. She heard him sigh heavily and some inaudible groan passed his lips. Her hand lingered above his heaving shoulder. The fingers curled fearfully. All she could hear was his unsteady breathing. It reminded her of some fearsome creature who was only a hairsbreadth away from attacking her. Should I provoke him? Will he go mad and harm me? But I must speak with him!

He turned slightly, as if sensing something, and she could not do anything but stand rigidly where she was. But what she saw startled her. For the side of his head that first fell into her view was the masked side. Only now, there was no white porcelain mask concealing half of his face. There was only a blazing eye burning like the depths of hell. She gasped, not realizing she had, and found herself stumbling backwards. Erik was faster. He shot up from his chair and approached her in the dark like some terrifying predator.

"Is this what you wanted to see? I have given you so much, and this is how you repay me?" he snarled.

"N-no!" she protested, stumbling backwards once more.

"You never could turn your gaze away from it, could you? You had to see what monster lies beneath!"

"I-I. . .that's not. . ."

"Look, foolish girl!" he screamed, thrusting open one of the heavy curtains and allowing daylight to spill in.

The light spread across the room, lighting the dark bedspread on the large bed and running across the floor like an infection. She did not want to look. She did not want to enrage him any further. But when she continued to lower her gaze, refusing to look, she felt his hand roughly jerk up her chin.

"Look at what you have wanted to see!" he boomed.

She yelped at his touch and obeyed. Her eyes fastened upon his face. Indeed, what a shocking face, she thought. The exposed half was the same as she had seen it before, so utterly beautiful in its shape and form, but so coldly handsome that it filled her with fear. The other was marred in the opposite way. Gone were the chiseled features of a master craftsman. Instead, the flesh on the other side was twisted and wrecked. His eye was sunken in but still shone with the same intensity as the other. And the nose, so elegantly shaped on one side, disappeared and melted into his features on the other.

His hand was upon her arm now, jerking her towards him, thrusting his face into her field of vision so it was all she saw.

"How does this please you now?" he growled, his hot breath searing the flesh of her cheek as she struggled to turn away.

She trembled in his grasp.

"Well? Speak! You, sneaking Pandora! Speak!"

"I-I'm sorry," she whimpered softly.

"Sorry?" he snarled, "is that all?"

"I'm s-sorry for what you have had to endure," she cried softly.

"And how do you know what I've had to endure, child. How?"

"I see the pain in your eyes and it tells me everything. I see it whenever I sing for you," she cried.

He let go of her arm. The anger that so utterly enraged him was beginning to disappear. Defeat slowly began to creep into his heart. She knows, oh God, she knows! She has seen my face and will never be free of its horror!

Erik heard her weeping silently beside him. How could he have turned on his young student, his ward. ..his angel, when he had promised her no harm? He was angry at his own stupidity. He could not bear to see the mark of his touch on her arm tomorrow. A hand was laid on his own arm. The muscles tensed under the contact, but when he felt the finger of her hand softly caress him, his demeanor slackened.

Her other hand sought out his features like a reluctant child studying the face of a stranger. Soft, slender fingers ghosted across the unmarked side of his face. They traveled along his jaw in tenderness before slipping across the other side. But before she could touch the marred flesh, before she could offer the only kindness she could think of, she felt his hand clutch at hers. His fingers tightened firmly, but gently, around hers.

"No," she heard him said, his voice husky.

She dropped her hand away in response and watched quietly as he found his mask upon the desk and hastily replaced it. He stood there for a while, the strength and authority returning to his body, before turning slightly to regard her.

"Leave me," he said softly.

She looked at him like a scorned child, her eyes wide with sadness and regret. She fought an inward battle but soon gave up when she saw the urgency in his eyes. Christine turned from him and ran out the door. She nearly tripped as she hurried down the stairs, grabbing onto the wooden railing for support, before nearly collapsing at the bottom. Her chest heaved with emotion. But she pulled herself up and found the safety of her own room.

Only when the door was closed behind her did she sink against it and cry out.

It was not until late in the evening, as Christmas was drawing to a close, when she finally emerged from her room. She opened the door slowly, peering outside into the darkened hall. She did not really expect anyone to be there. But as she slowly crept out, something grabbed her ankle and she nearly shrieked in terror. Glancing down, she saw him sitting on the floor beside her door, resting his back against the wall. Her hand drew up to her heart as the fright began to pass.

"What are you. . ."

"Christine," he said her name with that heavenly voice. He quickly rose from his spot. She could tell he had been sitting there for quite some time as he groaned with the movement.

He stood beside her for a moment. Her large, brown eyes never leaving his. She quivered, feeling the chill in the night air through her nightgown. She had only meant to sneak off to the kitchen for a snack – she was not expecting to be seen. But he stood before her, mask firmly in place, as though nothing had happened. He still had forsaken his suit jacket. The white shirt that had been hastily tucked into his pants still lay slightly unbuttoned upon his strong frame. She pulled her eyes away, cursing herself inwardly for her thoughts.

"Forgive me," he said quietly. His usual authoritative demeanor had been replaced by that of a pensive man. "I did not wish to frighten you."

"I was afraid when you grew angry with me," she said, her large eyes drifting back up to his again.

"Your arm," he gestured, "did I?"

She rubbed her arm softly where he had clutched her earlier. There was no bruise, but she could still feel his grip there somehow. "No," she said quietly. "You did not hurt me."

His hand lifted hesitantly but he finally gained the courage to draw his finger along the side of her arm, as though it were imperative that he examine it for himself. His hand snaked gently around it, lifting it slightly so he could examine it. A tremor passed through her body at his touch. Erik looked back into her eyes.

"Are you afraid of me?" he asked, his voice in nearly a low whisper.

She shook her head almost imperceptibly. I can't tell him. Not yet. Why must my body betray me with every casual touch?

"Forgive me," he said, gesturing at the mask upon his face, "for fueling your nightmares with this."

"I am not afraid," she said, this time a little louder.

Erik looked at her with a calculating gaze. Her gaze no longer wavered upon him. There was clarity, a determination, in her eyes.

"You startled me, I must admit. I did not expect to find you without the mask. It was not my intent to take it from your face. But I-I cannot lie. I have wondered what you have hidden from me."

He continued to study her and she grew restless under his scrutiny. "Will you continue under my study knowing the things that you have seen?" he asked.

Christine hesitated for a moment before replying, "Yes."

"I have something for you," he said after a long moment of silence.

She looked uncertain as he drew something from behind his back. It was a small box, wrapped in shiny, colorful paper and tied with a black satin ribbon. A smile nearly tugged at her lips when she saw the ribbon. The same kind of ribbon so affectionately tied around the rose.

"What is it?" she asked, as though she had never received a present before.

"It's your Christmas present," he said softly.

"But I. . ."

"Please, open it. I understand if you despise me. Do not feel that you have to associate this with me," he said, almost bitterly.

"No," she countered, fixing her soft eyes upon his hardened expression. "I was going to say that I have no gift to give you. You have given me so much. My music," her voice trailed off and a small smile spread across her lips as she drifted into thought. She looked up at him again. "I do not have the means to give you a gift worthy of all of the time you have spent teaching me."

Erik gazed down upon her. His eyes seemed to suddenly soften as he listened to her words. She noticed the change. His shoulders relaxed and he did not seem as imposing.

"You do not owe me anything," he said quietly. "Your voice is good enough a gift."

She smiled faintly again before returning her attention to the small box that now rested in her cupped hands. Like an eager child, she pried at the paper and reverently pulled off the lid. Her eyes widened as she beheld the gift lying in the box.

"This is beautiful," she mused.

Christine lifted a delicate silver necklace from the box. It glittered in the moonlight that streamed from the nearest windows. The chain was of a delicate silver weave. At the base were fixed three delicate diamonds. Christine had never seen such a gift before. She had always lived a modest life as a child. Her father could never afford much beyond food and shelter. Never in her wildest dreams would she have imagined getting a gift befit for a wealthy lady.

"You do not like it?" he asked, breaking her train of thought.

She had not realized, but her gaze had drifted away sadly as she thought about the past.

"No," she said, turning back to him, "no. It's not that. I have never received such a gift before. It must have been expensive. I don't want to be a burden on your finances."

"Stop," he said, seizing her hand unconsciously.

She looked down at his hand at it clasped hers. But she felt her gaze pulled up to meet his.

"You are not a burden," he said, firming his hands on hers. "I. . .wanted to give you this gift. No one else could possibly be worthy of it."

She blushed slightly, looking down from his intense gaze.

"Put it on," he said.

His hand loosened from hers and she opened her palm again to find the exquisite necklace still pooled in her hand. Christine lifted the chain to her neck and fumbled with the clasp for a moment before turning her uncertain gaze to the eyes of her teacher.

"Could you. . .could you help me," she asked.

He did not say a word as he lifted the ends of the chain from her fingers and moved behind her. She lifted her long mane of curls and he nearly died as she lowered her head, her lovely long neck so perfect. So naked to his touch.

Christine stood there, her eyes closed and still clasping the hair beside her neck. She nearly trembled when the necklace slid across the skin of her throat as he took the ends and moved behind her. Each movement slid the chain across her skin. But as he fumbled with the clasp at the base if her neck, she suddenly felt his fingers brush across the skin. A shudder ran through her body. A breath caught in her throat. He must have felt it too, but he did not say anything. She could not bear to hear his heavenly voice right now, for fear of losing herself to something vague and shapeless in her mind.

Erik finally finished his task, but his movements seemed deliberately slow. He watched the slight movements in her neck as she trembled and nearly glided a finger along the skin, but her shudder forced him back. I delude myself with ideas and hopes. But what a fool I am. She has looked upon the face that no one can forget. She trembles in disgust, even though she can't admit it.

He turned her around quickly, looking down upon the gift as it hung delicately from her swan-like neck and rested on her porcelain skin. Christine looked up at him, almost shyly, and noticed the strange fire in his eyes. She drew a hand up to her skin, running her fingers over the delicate chain and its jewels. Eyes of brown returned to his. She looked so beautiful in the moonlight with the glint of the diamonds upon her skin.

Erik drew his hand up, as though entranced by the vision that lay before him. His hand gently stroked her face. He could not help but notice the gentle curves revealed by the ivory nightgown, the gentle rise and fall of her chest as he touched her face, and the uncertainty in her large glistening eyes as they looked up at him for guidance. His hand curved and he brushed the knuckles of his long fingers delicately across the soft skin of her cheek. Her eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment.

Christine stood rigidly, unsure of what to do. Erik was always sparing in his affections, but now she felt completely uncertain. His touch was so gentle, and she felt as though she would drown in this moment. But he stood there for what seemed an eternity, running his fingers along her jaw. His thumb grazed her lips and she found his gaze had suddenly fallen upon them. His attention was riveted by them. A thumb brushed across her lower lip with the softest of touches. The eyes of a madman were gone. But now, she saw that they were transfixed, utterly spellbound.

He was so close that she could feel his breath upon her skin. Her mind ached for something she could not put into words. But he continued to stroke her face, and gaze upon it as though a spell had befallen him.

She suddenly felt his other hand upon her shoulder. Through the thin fabric of her nightgown, she could feel the heat of his touch, and where the neckline ended, one finger lay across her naked skin. A tremble ran through her body.

"Are you cold?" he asked softly, his voice husky.

"Yes," she murmured.

He suddenly pulled his gaze away from her lips and regarded her with clarity. Her eyes were filled with fear, her chest heaved with breath, and her heart beat mercilessly. Erik drew away from her hastily.

"Go, Christine," he ordered her gently. "Go to bed." And when she vanished like some glorious vision behind her door, he added softly, "my love."

InThisLabyrinth - Thank you for the kind words! And yes, Beauty and Beast has been in my mind while writing this too. Not so much The Village anymore. That was more predominant in the beginning with the setting of the town. But beyond that, it had little to do with the story. And as you can relate to Christine at 13, I feel I can still relate to her at 26. : )

Amita - Oh trust me. There will be plenty of fluff moments ahead. That and angst.

Lotte Rose 37 - Yes, I was thinking about when I would do the big reveal for a while. And when you brought it up, I thought, hey, why not now. I didn't want to make the story too depressing and leave you all hanging with a big Christmas frown, so I ended on a romantic note.

Voldivoice - Smoochies will come eventually. I like to build things up slowly. . .tortuously slowly. But oh there will be lots of tension.