Her alarm chimed at three o'clock, rousing her from a deep slumber. For a moment she puzzled over why the sun was not up yet, and then remembered her appointment on the stage. She rose and pulled on her clothes, wincing as the cold fabric chilled her skin. She plucked at her sleeves, trying to puff them perfectly. Finally, she stood in front of the mirror, trying to think of something complimentary to do with her hair. She settled on a cascading high coiffure, thankful for her natural curls which saved her time and money on curling papers. A final check assured her that she had improved on her afternoon appearance.

For the first time it dawned on her that she had not even tried to imagine what her Angel would look like. As she padded down the hallways, her imagination worked to create images, all of which failed to match the feel she had for him. Her stomach fluttered as it always did before a performance. He had left her with a warning, "If you can remain long enough." Why shouldn't she remain? Long enough for what?

The grand proscenium stage loomed before her. The curtains were drawn closed. She thought she smelled the slightest whiff of smoke. Christine slipped between the curtains to find a peculiar but compelling scene. The sets from A Midsummer Night's Dream adorned the stage in sylvan beauty. Despite (or perhaps because of) the scandalous nature of the operetta, the theatre filled almost to capacity each night.

In the middle of the stage there was a small, round breakfast table. A scarlet rose adorned a crystal vase illuminated by three candles which stood in the center of the table. A bottle of wine rested in a chilling bin to one side. Two places were set with sparkling wine glasses. A chair was pulled up to the table in front of each of the glasses. Someone had pulled the immense concert grand piano onto the stage, but she had heard of no instrumental concerts to be given which was the only reason the grand piano ever made an onstage appearance.

That was all. She was alone here in the soft glow of candlelight. If I screamed, she thought, no one would hear me beyond those heavy curtains. Not to mention the huge theatre with the doors closed. She shuddered and made herself walk to the table and sit in one of the chairs. She was a bit early and consigned herself to the wait.

Erik stood in the wings, watching her. He had never seen her consciously try to look pretty. The stage was supposed to be neutral territory between them, but she took ownership of it the moment she appeared through the curtains. She was waiting patiently for her Angel. He tried to speak and found himself without words. When had this happened? This girl with the silver voice, demure expression, and flashing eyes had somehow captured him in a cushioned trap of emotion. Now he had to follow through with his plan, had to reveal himself to her, knowing that she would run from him as she had before. She would run from him, his presence would inspire terror so that he could no longer teach her, and that would be the end of his dream.

"Angel?" she was still sitting, looking around expectantly.

Had she sensed him? He sucked in a deep breath and forced his feet to move.

"I am here, Christine. Look stage right."

Obediently, she turned to look offstage. Her chair clattered over as she sprang to her feet. She started to back away, looking for a safe exit. The figure materializing from the darkness was tall, broad shouldered and imposing. He wore a fine tuxedo, heavy Opera cape, a bowler, and…the white mask. Her feet carried her to the split in the curtain.

"Do not run." His voice sounded tired, softly despairing. It was her Angel's voice. "If you run, I shall not follow you. If you stay, we will solve your problem. Just sit and take some wine with me. You are as safe with me now as you have ever been. Please."

Her back was to the curtains. She hovered there, watching him with those piercing dark-blue eyes. Years had passed since he last met another person's gaze; hers burned him with its intensity. As he watched, though, fear turned to anger. She crossed the stage towards him, stopping a bare two yards from where he stood. To any other person, she would still have seemed a great distance away, but this was the closest Erik had been to any human being in over fifteen years.

She looked him up and down; he felt as though he were back in the cage, naked before the crowd. Of all the things he had imagined she might do, this was not among them.

"You are no Angel."

"No."

"You are the Phantom."

"Yes."

"You lied to me."

Christine struggled to hold her calm as this thing in front of her admitted that the last seven years of her life had been a complicated deception. Her father had not sent an Angel, she realized, and tasted bitter tears in her throat. She was not favored by Heaven because of her voice. Instead, she had been living an illusion created by this masked…what? Certainly not an angel. A ghost? Her memory gave her a picture of a hunched form playing Liszt's Liebestraum in the small dark room. Only a man?

The habits of seven years could not be obliterated easily, even by a revelation such as this. His existence had become a piece of her own, and even with the evidence staring her in the face, she could not reject him. She could not deny the power he held over her. She was still here, when she should have run. Run, she commanded her feet, but they would not.

"I did only what was necessary." Erik drew himself up stiffly, ignoring his heart's wild beat and his desire to beg her forgiveness. How dare she question him? Was her voice not sublime because of him? He had given her music, had lifted her up from grief. He had killed for her! His powerful voice overpowered the deadening effects of the thick curtains.

"Would you prefer, mademoiselle, to have been left to the mercy of the Opera Populaire's voice coaches? To have been thrust into anonymity in the ballet dancers' dormitories? I have done nothing that was not in your best interest! Would it have comforted you after your father's death to be visited by the Opera Ghost?" he spat this last, then whirled away from her and stalked to the piano.

He sat down and let his fingers play over the keys, the rich tones instantly returning his equilibrium. She was here for a reason. Let the lesson begin. The opening notes from Queen of the Night's angry aria, Der Holle Rache, from The Magic Flute swept across the stage. "Sing, Christine. Show me what this 'lie' has taught you!"

The music pounded in her mind, along with his order. The music commanded and demanded. She watched his very human hands fly over the keys, repeating the first notes over and over. Her resistance deteriorated, even though her fury and disillusionment remained. And though she now knew he was no Angel, that Voice exhorted her. "Sing!"

Her voice was cold, he had offered no warm-up, and this piece was challenging for the most accomplished vocalist. It didn't matter. She was not singing; the music was dragging the words from her mouth, infused -burning- with her anger. She sang in defiance, in disillusionment, without regard for technique or convention. Erik forced his fingers to continue their work, even as he heard his dream burst into divine reality.

Had he heard her sing before this night?

The music stopped. Her breath came in harsh gasps, he had not yet dared to breathe. He closed his eyes and smiled. She had achieved sublimity. She would be the Queen of the Night, Aida, Carmen; she would have any role that pleased her. Fearing to break the fragile magic spun by their music, he slowly rose to face her. She was standing fixed in place, cheeks flushed with emotion, one disbelieving hand lightly touching her throat. Astonishment widened her eyes and made them sparkle.

Angel of Music, he thought deliriously.

"My Angel of Music," she whispered, echoing his awed thoughts. "Whatever you may be. Forgive me for doubting you."

The wine glasses sparkled on the table while the ice melted around the bottle of fine Chardonnay. The candles were half burned; melted wax pooled on the tabletop.

Bolstered by their triumph, Erik walked sedately to Christine's side. "Mlle. Daae, would you take some wine with me?"

In a soft haze of bewilderment, Christine followed her teacher, detachedly noting the perfect synchronicity of his movements. He guided her to the table, pulled her chair out, and waited for her to sit. She watched, mesmerized, as he uncorked the bottle and poured a modest serving into each of their glasses.

He lifted his glass to her. "A toast, to the Angel of Music."

His visible lower lip curved into a sardonic smile. She lifted her glass and touched it lightly to his, then sipped the wine. As the light, sweet flavor cooled her mouth, she felt her presence of mind returning and with it, a measure of pragmatism. Yes, she could accept the truth of her Angel, but as his mask glowed a muted white in the diminishing candlelight, she had to wonder, Who is this man? She realized there were questions to be asked. For example:

"How did you send your voice into my apartment?"

Erik swallowed his mouthful of wine. That she would be curious about him was natural and healthy. He would answer some of her questions, if he could.

"I have learned certain…tricks…with my voice. Behind the mirror in your parlor, there is a small room. If…" he paused, staring sightlessly into the candle, "If you still wish to continue our lessons, I will show you a little lever that allows the glass to swing inward."

"You have watched me in my private quarters?" her feminine modesty recoiled from the thought.

"Never without alerting you to my presence, and only in your parlor, I swear." In retrospect, he was glad of his unwavering adherence to that policy.

Christine was accustomed to his reading his voice; she recognized his sincerity. She relaxed a little, feeling the second serving of wine gently warming her blood. The Opera Ghost rolled the long-stemmed wine glass between his dexterous fingers and watched the pale liquid swirl.

"Why do you wear that mask?"

The swirling stopped. His reply carried the weight of a threat, wrapped in a plea. "Never ask that question again, and all will remain harmonious between us." His tone became formal. "It is almost dawn. You should be returning to your room." He stood and bowed to her, a clear indication that their meeting was at an end. He was halfway to the wings of the stage when she called to him,

"What is your name?"

He did not stop. From the darkness beyond the stage his answered floated to her.

"Erik."