Christine had been studying music for many years under an obsessive teacher. She knew every contemporary composer worth knowing, could recognize most works and their creators by the first three strains of music. But this darkly enchanting piece was by no composer she could recognize, nor was it at all familiar. The style was a complete departure from the musical style currently in vogue. It held a power and an intensity that other composers would shrink from.

It folded around her; she floated in it. It bypassed thought and spoke straight to feeling. She allowed herself to give in to its velvet power, not that it left her any choice. It seemed tailored to speak directly to her. Suddenly, she realized who the composer was, and for whom this piece was written.

She watched Erik play, his powerful frame bending and swaying over the keyboard, his hands appearing to float over the keys without touching them. The music spoke to her more clearly than words. Softly, softly he touched the keys and words came to the listening girl, though there was no vocal accompaniment.

If I could, I would tell you I love you. The music picked up more power now; it flowed faster, lighter. I would lay the stars at your feet. I would shelter you. You would want for nothing, fear nothing. I would give you sunlight and moonlight. We would fly… Suddenly it was spiraling, becoming heavy, dropping into a minor key, slowing to a dirge. But there is no hope. No hope. I cannot speak. I cannot tell you. I dare not. Lightly now, yearningly, sweetly, sadly. I will speak without words, and pray that you listen.

Christine left her seat. Who was this genius sitting there, speaking to her in a language she understood better than her native tongue? She crossed to him, her heart wild in her chest. He had asked her to sit, but she could not.

When he felt her soft hand on his shoulder he closed his eyes, but did not stop playing. Vision was unnecessary to play this piece. He knew it by heart. Wishfully, in groundless hope, the music rose back to a major key. Listen to me, understand me, love me, and my joy will encompass worlds. Our joy will be the sun breaking over the horizon. Crescendo to forte, crashing back to the minor key, subsiding. But there is no hope. No hope. I cannot speak. I dare not tell you and this secret will die with me. The final chord rolled over them, and there was silence. He could not turn to look at her.

Only reverence for his music and a desire to hear the rest of the piece kept Christine from taking his hands in her own. Her heart had flown to him before the second movement was over. Then she saw the white of his mask shimmer in the light of the candelabra. How could she love a man whose face she had never seen? When he was an Angel, he had had no face. As her teacher, his face had not mattered, only his knowledge. Now that he had spoken to her as a lover and her heart had leaped to the siren call of his song, she had to know: eccentric nobleman, outlaw, something else?

Hope had sprung up in his heart when she touched him, but now her long silence was unnerving. Erik finally found the strength to turn and look at her. She stood so close that he could feel her body heat and hear the slight rustle of her costume as she breathed. Her hand was still on his shoulder, touching him gently. In that moment, Erik could have quietly died without complaint. It was too sweet to last. Her hand slid off his shoulder and he suddenly felt the shock of cool air on his face and head. His mask was in her hand, his hat on the floor.

Fear crumpled Christine's stomach and shot through her limbs in hot tingles. The mask dropped to the stage floor. She stepped back involuntarily, her body moving without the assistance of her brain. She hitched in a breath…

"Go on Christine, scream." His already inhuman face contorted with rage and despair; she had betrayed him. He had played his heart to her, and she repaid him by exposing him. He roughly grabbed her arms and pulled her close. "Look at it! You paid for your ticket, now see the show! A face not even a mother could love; what did I expect of a chorus girl?"

Contemptuously, he threw her from him. She landed awkwardly on the unforgiving surface of the stage. His voice broke off and he turned from the horrified face of the woman he loved.

"No compassion, no mercy. Is your damnable curiosity satisfied?" His lament echoed around the theatre and then he was gone into the shadows.

Christine stayed where she sprawled for several long minutes. The image of his warped, twisted, mottled face was etched behind her eyelids. She couldn't shut it out. No nose, her mind babbled at her, he had no nose! And his face…what demon created that face? But as she collected herself and got to her feet, she pictured that hideous face again and saw something aside from the deformity. She remembered his broken expression as he turned from her. His words rang in her mind. "What did I expect of a chorus girl? No compassion…"

"Erik," she whispered. "Angel. I'm sorry." She picked up his hat and turned it over in her hands. The mark inside labeled it as La Propriete de l'Opera Populaire.

Christine looked around the abandoned stage. She saw the candles melting onto the mat he had carefully set beneath the candelabra to protect the ebony finish of the piano. She looked long at the piano. Under Erik's touch it became a living thing, capable of speech. How it had spoken to her tonight...but she coudl not admit such thoughts, not yet. Last, she looked off into the darkness of the wings. He was gone where she could not follow.

She blew out all but one of the candles and lifted the ornate candelabra down. When she picked the heavy thing up to carry it offstage, she saw a scarlet rose, tied with black velvet, lying behind it. Its thorns were removed. He planned this, she thought, the first inkling of regret making its appearance through her numbness. He tried to make everything beautiful. For me. He always has…

The halls outside the theatre were completely silent. It was the first hour of dawn, and no one was stirring. Denizens of the Opera house were locked up in their rooms, sleeping off the effects of too much dancing, too much eating, and -most of all- too much drinking. Christine walked the silent halls, the rose tucked in her hair, carrying the derby he had left behind, Erik's mournful voice echoing in her ears with each step. "No compassion." "No mercy."

By the time she reached her apartments, her eyes were filled with tears. She brushed them away, and scolded herself.

"What right have you to cry? Ridiculous girl! Go to your room and get some sleep. You must be on time for rehearsal tomorrow, if your performance is to be perfect."

Sleep was long in coming. His face haunted her dreams when she drifted and her imagination when she woke. Over and over, she watched him turn from her and walk away. For the first hour, she was as disturbed by the expression of abject betrayal on his face as by the horrific aspect of his disfigurement. After that hour, she barely noticed his ugliness. All she saw was his sorrow, and it broke her heart. When sleep finally came, it was to the memory of the sonata he played only for her.

The mirror mocked Christine that night and for every night of the torturous week leading up to her debut. For an hour each evening, she stood before it, calling softly for her Angel or searching futilely for the mechanism that would open the glass and admit her to Erik's world. It occurred to her that after her betrayal, he might no longer want to see her. Her face might be anathema to him. If so, he would have to tell her himself.