Soon after their strange show and tell, Erik led Cassandra back up to the surface. They spoke little, both trying to understand the mystery of the other. Before she went back through the mirror to her dressing room, she turned to face him.
"May I come back?" she asked timidly. He looked into her eyes and nodded. She smiled a little.
"But you can not wear the makeup around me," he told her. She bit her lip a little and looked troubled. The makeup, however superficial it may seem, helped her look normal. That was the problem though, she realized. It was her mask.
"Will you not wear the mask around me?" she asked quietly, looking at his face, but avoiding his eyes. When she did look at them, they were large and, almost, frightened. She locked gaze with him. He pursed his lips, then exhaled in some kind of confusion. "You must go," he said softly, avoiding her request. She smiled a little at him before turning to return to her world.
The next day went by without event. Her concert was unremarkable, except for her recognition of an odd shadow in the number 5 box. She smiled lightly in that general direction before beginning her sonata. It was three movements, the first grand and lively, the second a sweet largo, the third a lively upbeat jig. She couldn't help but smile during the jig, almost wanting to dance along with the music she was playing. Instead, she stood and played in the traditional manner, not so much as tapping her foot.
After her concert and before the opera was set to begin, the theatre's managers came to visit. Without so many words, they wondered if she really would be interested in buying the opera from them. It seemed they wanted to get back into their scrap metal business, away from divas and chandeliers and phantoms. Back to basics, they kept saying. Cassandra promised to think on it, that she needed to speak with her other managers and see if she could find one to keep it for her, but she was interested. A week, she could tell them in a week. They seemed satisfied with this reply and left without a word on the performance.
After caring for her violin, she went quietly to her room in the dorms, passing an array of ballerinas in various degrees on undress.
Cassandra smelled that scent of spice and musk and ink and water. Looking around subtly, she looked straight up and caught sight of his cape whipping out of sight in the rigging. She smiled a little before returning to the present and navigating around the crowd to her room.
She put her violin away and proceeded to write a letter to her managers, asking for advice on the opera house. Before she had signed her name, she heard a knock. Opening the door, there was no one. When she turned, she saw one of her walls opening up and Erik was there.
"Erik, how are you?" she asked with a large smile on her face. He avoided her gaze at first, then, looked in her eyes.
"I came to speak with you concerning the theatre." She was surprised he knew, as she hadn't told him and was sure the managers didn't converse with him regularly. She indicated a chair in the corner which he pulled towards her desk where she sat.
"You should buy the theatre," he started out, looking at his hands.
"But, my resources are limited, I need to be sure it is a move that would bring in money, not waste it." He stared at his hands through the conversation. She carefully reached over and touched one of his hands with concern. He looked up quickly. "Are you alright," she asked gently. He went up to rub his eyes in tired, but his finger caught his mask and he cursed as it came off. Scrambling to replace it, Cassandra touched his arm. He looked at her and she at him, reaching out to calm him and reassure him. She smiled to show it was alright and took the mask to place it on her desk.
"Why do you wish for me to own the opera house?" she asked outright. He seemed startled by her forwardness.
"I think you would run it better than those buffoons down there," he replied honestly.
"Ah, but I would not be running it," she replied with a small smile. "I would have a manager come in to take care of it for me, just as I do my other investments." He seemed troubled by this news. She pursed her lips and tried to understand him. He was an enigma, that much was certain. "Why do you stay here?" she asked quietly.
"Why do you pester me with questions relentlessly?" he snapped. She scowled.
"Because I wish to understand you and you don't seem the kind to forfeit information readily," she snapped back. He seemed amazed that she was able to play his game without cringing or crying, as most did.
"I live here because I can," was all he answered.
"I've heard rumors…about you, before we met," she began cautiously. This was indeed something that had been bothering her since their first encounter. How was it that someone so seemingly human could be portrayed by others as such a monster? He seemed to close off immediately and rose to leave, taking his mask off her desk to replace it.
"I see you are the same as the rest, and so I will leave you to your devices. Purchase the house if you wish, but remember that I am part of the bargain."
"Erik," she started in surprise. He didn't turn to look behind as he hurried back through the door in the wall.
Cassandra huffed in aggravation and went back to her letter. She signed it hastily and sealed, hurrying out of her room to try to make the evening post. Weaving through the maze of halls backstage of the opera house, she stopped abruptly when she heard an interesting conversation around the corner. She wasn't one to eavesdrop, but this seemed a situation that demanded her attention.
"He let them go, told them to go to the surface, and that's when we found them coming out," a young and gentle voice told.
"He let them go," an older voice continued, the voice of Madam Giry, "because he loves her. He now lives in misery at what he lost."
"She made her choice, he made one as well. I wish it had ended better for him, but she can not be what he needs."
"He wanted her to be his dreams, but she is only what she is. You are better to not dwell on how it could have been, but don't forget him. He is brilliant, no matter what others may say, and needs a partner. I fear without one, he will only strike out again."
"I feel for those he strikes," the young woman said quietly. Cassandra was fairly certain it was Madame Giry's ballerina daughter, Meg. The pair walked together down the hall and Cassandra hurried to deliver her letter, not sure what to take from the discussion. Could they be talking about Erik? Should she ask Madame Giry about him? Or Meg?
Erik was distraught. Confusion and conflicting thoughts racked his every conscious thought. Christine had been his one, his only, his angel. How could he betray her memory? To him, she had died. Raoul had killed her and taken her so he had not even a grave to tend. He had taken down all the pictures he had drawn of her in his grief. The mirrors he had broken and the wooden box on his desk were the only signs of that dreadful night. He had yet to open the box to feel and smell the soft scarf that lay in its keeping. He was in mourning.
But this new woman, she was intriguing. When she was around, he forgot his grief, he wanted to be unmasked and honest and good. He had never been that way with Christine. She was too good, too pure, to have to stand the sight of his face. This new woman even desired to see it, to feel the companionship they shared in there bruises and scars. When she had shown him her true complexion and the marks on her arms, he had almost melted with the desire to be with her forever, to have a companion that understood, not just someone that tolerated his appearance. Someone that loved him.
He had loved Christine, that much was certain, but she was gone. He had asked her not to return and, after all that had happened, he was sure she would not, especially with Raoul her warden. His blood boiled at the thought of the two of them together and he quickly pushed it out of his mind to dwell on other things.
He hadn't wanted to storm out on Cassandra earlier. She made him feel, something he had been avoiding for the past year. He thought of her now the way he had once Christine. However, rather than embracing the obsession, as he had Christine, he struggled to avoid it with Cassandra. He could not go through the loss once more, and she would leave him now. He had walked out on her without any reason at all. She was as stubborn as he and, between the two of them, they would be hard pressed to address the problem.
And the bloody opera house, it was always there. He had wanted Cassandra to buy the opera house so that she would remain in Paris, remain near him. This business of hired managers squashed that plan as soon as it was hatched and he went back to his plan of eternal solitude. No matter how he convinced himself of this, though, he heard the rhythm and melody of a violin and followed it to her.
Cassandra had made the evening post and went now to find solitude in practice. She longed to be outside, now that the stars were out, and ventured to find a way to the rooftop. It was a mild night and the roof was pleasant with no wind to blow her music about. She tuned her instrument with the ability only those playing since early childhood could. She heard the pitch in her head constantly and was comforted by it. It was this that she tuned her violin with every rehearsal. It was always perfect with the pianos and harps. An oboe had once had the audacity to argue with her until she produced a tuning fork and stunned them all with her accuracy. She smiled to herself, remembering the event.
Putting the instrument to her chin, she began playing the concerto from her first performances in Paris from memory.
"Your second movement is still too slow," came from her left. She abruptly and see Erik watching her from the side of a gargoyle.
"How do you do that?" she asked in exasperation. He shrugged and came to her side.
"Honestly, try playing it faster, and rush a bit through the eighth notes." Cassandra's brows knit together, as she did when she thought, and she brought her instrument up to try his suggestion. It was a short movement, and with his suggestions it was even shorter.
"It sounds sadder," she commented. He just stared at her. She went over to her case and took out her cleaning cloth and wiped down her instrument. She could tell no practicing would go on from here. Before putting away the cloth, he turned to look at Erik. He was watching her calmly. She took the cloth and wiped off all of her makeup so that the discolorations and abnormalities were visible on her face. Done, she turned to face him. After staring at him for a moment, he gave in and reached to remove his mask. Cassandra smiled.
"Its nice to have someone to be myself with," she commented. She untied a shawl that she had tied around her waist in case of cold and spread it like a blanket on the ground, sitting down on it. The phantom just watched. When she was settled, she looked at him, waiting to see if he would join her. He seemed to fight with himself for a moment before sitting a few feet away on the plain tiles of the roof. Cassandra looked up at the sky.
"Do you ever wonder why there are stars?" she asked. Erik just watched her. "I mean, scientist tell us what they are, but can they tell us why they are? What purpose do they serve, not really producing enough light to help…or harm," she stumbled over her words a bit, "but they are still there. Why?" She continued to stare up.
"To be beautiful," Erik replied. Cassandra lowered her head to look at him and smile. He just stared into her eyes. He was so intense it scared her at times, but she was so intrigued she couldn't be truly frightened.
"Some would say beauty is vain," Cassandra quoted, "and useless and…and biased." She seemed to be getting a little worked up, her face reflecting the battle her mind was fighting. "There is no use to beauty, but to attract the opposite sex, and once that attraction has occurred, what? A life of commitment and…and security and help and…and love…" She was crying now, her thoughts not making sense, her ramblings not understandable.
Erik was unsure how to respond. He knew this battle, he had had it himself. One struggles to downplay what one really desires most of all in an attempt to make come to terms with its eternal absence. His first instinct was to hold her, as he had wanted when he had had these realizations, but could not bring himself to give her what he had so long been denied.
It was at this moment that she looked at him. Her eyes were only a little red from her recent tears, the patches of red on her face redder now because of the salt in her tears. Browned tan spots were apparent from past burns and her neck was pale from the collars she typically wore in the daytime. But her face, its shape, its curves and contours, were beautiful. She was beautiful, no matter who told her otherwise. He knew this, but could not give her that comfort.
Before he could argue with himself more, though, she had come towards him. Only a few inches, but enough for him to notice. She faced him and never broke eye contact, never let her eyes wander to his scars as he had with her.
He slowly reached out and cupped her face gently.
"You are beautiful," he whispered. He looked down at her bare arms and touched them softly, noticing their feel and not their appearance. Cassandra reached up and touched his face as she had before. This time, though, it wasn't in recognition of his deformity, but in his beauty, for he was beautiful as well and she told him as much. Then, she slowly leaned forward and kissed his scarred cheek.