For three mornings in a row, Christine padded down the silent pre-dawn hallways to the stage. Each morning, Erik materialized from the wings, sat down at the piano, and rehearsed her audition piece. Her flaws were few when she began; after the second night, they were non-existent. Her voice had never been so like spun silver. Every nuance of the piece was drawn out, picked apart, and perfected.

After her date with Raoul, Erik carefully kept himself at a distance from her. It was painful to be so near her and yet be completely unable to reach her. He could no longer allow her within arm's reach and moved agilely away when it seemed she would come too close. His speech was so formal it felt strained. He was trying futilely to crush the blossoming tenderness he felt towards her. The beautiful opera he was composing had suddenly developed a dark counterpoint. Bitter strains and discords worked their poisonous way into arias that were once pure and sweet.

He watched Christine standing by the piano, smiling and singing to the empty stage. She was entirely innocent of his pain. He took great care to let her see nothing but his desire to teach her, no matter how brutally his heart fought his mind. A mere two lessons left him weak from the struggle and he understood that some compromise between his heart and mind would have to be reached.

I know her as I know this opera. Every curve of her lips, every lifting of her eyebrow speaks to me. For eight years I have taught her. She must have learned something of me. Let us see how well she hears me. After the Masquerade, we shall see.

Christine noticed her Angel's formality and felt his coldness. She thought it must have something to do with her dinner date. It made no sense! She had acted with perfect decorum; how could he be upset with her? Maybe he was concerned that she would allow her relationship with Raoul to interfere with her music.

"Angel, are you angry with me?"

"No." He repeated the phrase they were working on. "Watch your key transition. You are trying to transpose."

"I am not letting anything interfere with my music, I promise." She studied him, trying to read his thoughts from his posture and tone.

"Of course not. Now, please get back to said music. You audition in two days."

"I'm to take tea with him in the parlor tomorrow after Mass." She watched his shoulders tense at the mere mention of her suitor. So, that was the problem.

"I need more consonant sounds. You are allowing your Ts and Ds to dissolve." His words came like ice.

"Mme Giry and Meg will both be there. I promise you that I am acting in every way a Lady. Nothing untoward has happened or will happen."

He sighed, gave up trying to make her concentrate, and closed the piano. Why must she continually throw her courtship in his …face… "Christine, you have never disappointed me with your deportment. I trust you to behave as you ought with the boy. I do not, however, trust that you will be able to sing with perfection if you do not practice. Just let us get through this piece one time tonight, and you may go."

"Do you live in the basements?" This non sequitur, delivered dead pan and with no deliberation, threw Erik completely.

"You…how…" he tried to frame his thoughts coherently. "Why are you asking me this?"

"You've been a guest in my home. I don't even know where yours is. You carry a scent of cellars and you seem always to be nearby. You are a man, not an Angel who lives in heaven, or a Ghost who doesn't live at all, so I want to know: do you live in the basements?"

Pictures of the faerie-land he had painstakingly constructed over the years flashed through his mind. The hanging fabrics, the soft lantern lights shining off the rippling waters of the lake; all of these things designed to please his aesthetic tastes. Basements were cold, dark, dreary places where spiders and rats joined forgotten oddments.

He felt that he could answer her truthfully without giving himself away. "No. I do not live in the basements. If you wish to see my home, practice this piece. Audition and win the role of Margeurite. After your triumphant debut, I will take you to see my home. Agreed?"

The deal seemed fair enough. Christine nodded and turned to the piano, reassured that he was not angry with her, and once again ready to practice. Erik could have bitten off his own tongue. Why had he promised to take her to his home? He thought of all the traps and alarms he had set in the passageways, of the elaborate labyrinth he had built to steer any intruders away. All of that effort, and now he had promised to bring an outsider right to the heart of his sanctuary. Surely this changeling girl had bewitched him!