Erik heard Christine's call no more than he had heard her whispered apology. Desperate to overwhelm the pain of his protégé's betrayal, he had confined himself in his personal torture chamber; the same room he had built to do penance for Thomas' murder. It consisted of nothing but highly polished reflective surfaces; floor, ceiling, and walls were made of mirrors and broken pieces of mirrors he had scavenged or stolen. He rarely used this room; when he did, he felt madness reaching for him.

Now he entered it, not for penance, but to remind himself of truth. Without mask, cape, or hat, every detail that confined him to a solitary life underground was reflected back at him a thousand times in the lanterns' light. Looking into the ruin that nature had given him in place of a face, he thought of Christine's horror. Her reaction had been no more extreme than his own the first time he saw himself in the black, glassy waters of the lake.

When he felt her hand on his shoulder, he was stupid enough to believe that she had heard his meaning and accepted him. He thought he had moved her with his pathetic offering. Instead, she had merely been poised to betray him. His reasoning broke off there. Hadn't he thought to let her judge him as she would? Could he, in all fairness, be angry at her for what she did? She judged me. She exposed me for the monster I am. Hadn't his actions then proven him to be nothing more? What would he have done to any other man who laid rough hands on Nils Daae's daughter?

"I would kill him," he snarled to the hundreds of reflections. "They would never find the pieces."

It was an animalistic sound, the words forcing themselves through his gnashing teeth. The implications of that statement chilled Erik. Should he then kill himself? But Christine abhorred killing. Even when the screech-owl tried to steal her debut as Margeurite, Christine had asked Erik to spare the wretched woman. He had accused her of being without compassion or mercy, but she had shown both to her only enemy. If she rejected him, it was clearly not because she lacked the capacity for tender feeling; it was because she had judged him for the monster he was.

He sat on the cold, polished floor and pressed his face to his knees. It would have been better if he had never heard her sing. Then her voice might have perished with her father. After a few years with the Opera Populaire's voice coaches, and a few years wildness with the ballet corps girls, she would not have been any more prodigious than Carlotta. Instead, under his tutelage and guidance, she had become sublime. She would take Paris by... His head snapped up and his eyes opened wide. In only four days, she would make her debut. All of Paris would be forced to recognize her genius.

And she would have to do it alone.

He could not return to her, not now that she'd seen his face. He imagined her running back to her room, feeling fortunate to have escaped the nightmare behind her. She would probably tell Meg Giry and Mme Giry about the terrible truth of her "Angel." He hoped she would not tell the boy - that would be humiliation beyond bearing.

No, he could not return to her, but he could watch her triumph. Box 5 would be held for him, as always. He would not miss her debut.

One hour before the production went up, Christine paced before the mirror. Two days before, she'd finally given up trying to find the lever. She no longer called for her Angel; he had abandoned her – and rightly so. Now, the mirror acted as her teacher. She corrected her posture, practiced her expressions, and tested her gestures. She needed to be in the dressing room, getting made up and dressed for the role but she was too nervous to walk down the hall alone.

It was not performing that frightened her, nor the prospect of taking the lead role. It was that Erik would be listening. He might not show himself, but she was quite sure that he would not allow himself to miss the culmination of eight years of work. He might hate her for what she had done to him, but he would come to see his student perform. She was counting on that. It was her only chance to apologize. If she could not make him understand, he would be lost to her forever.

A knock at the door broke her reverie. Meg's concerned voice floated into the room. "Christine? Christine! The director's panicking looking for you. You better get to the dressing room."

"Wait, Meg." She ran and opened the door. "Will you walk with me?"

"Of course I will. Hurry though; I have to get my dancers in line!"

As they hurried down the back corridors, Meg started to giggle, "Look at us, Christine. You are the diva, and I'm the lead dancer…but we haven't learned to walk down the hall like proper ladies yet."

"Shhhhh, Meg! If we make too much noise, your mother will skin us!"

Meg deposited Christine into the anxious hands of M. Reyeurre who began to scold and cosset her by turns. Christine was such a joy to work with, especially after La Carlotta. He hated to speak harshly to her, but 45 minutes before curtain was cutting her arrival far too close. "Christine, Christine. How could you worry me so? Get in there! Madame Lirel still has to do your makeup, and Madame Courvier has to get you into the costume for the first act. Are you all right? You look so pale! You aren't sick, now are you? Have you warmed up? Are you nervous? Do you have your dedication? We haven't had a new diva in so long, I hope the orchestra remembers to wait. "

Christine nodded and shook her head in turn as the wiry little man hurried her to the make up table. She barely heard his questions. In her mind, she was becoming Margeurite, spinning at her wheel. Poor innocent maiden, she thought, destroyed for the sake of a demon's amusement. She only emerged from her meditation when Mme Lirel tried to take the dried rose from her hair.

"It's a good luck charm, if you please, Madame." All divas had their peculiarities. If this one only wanted a dead flower in her coiffure, Mme Lirel would consider herself very lucky.

Christine stood just offstage, watching the set crew rush to place the last items neatly in their places. She heard the crowd taking their seats, coughing and rustling their programs. It sounded like a sold out house. She imagined someone in every seat but the legendary Box five. He would be there, listening. And he had promised her, "After your triumphant debut, I will take you to see my home." He had never broken a promise before, and she intended to remind him of that. She had to see him, even if he was furious with her. She had to see him one last time, so that she could tell him…

"Miss Daae! Your cue!"

She walked gracefully downstage, and stared into the audience. This being her first debut, Christine was allowed to dedicate her performance to one person. The audience knew the sad story of Miss Daae, whose father had died, leaving her an orphan in the opera house, and who had become the youngest person ever to land a lead role. She was even dating the younger brother of Phillippe deChagny! They expected her to dedicate her performance to her father, or to Raoul, or to the managers who had kindly let her live in the opera until she could earn her keep. Instead, they heard,

"Without this person, I would never be standing before you now. I have been immeasurably fortunate to know him. He gave my voice wings and taught it to fly. I dedicate this performance … all my performances … to Erik. Thank you." She left the stage as though she had said nothing unusual.

Murmurs ran through the crowd like the sound of leaves in an autumn wind. Who was this Erik? Why had she given him no last name? They had never heard of an Erik before. Maybe she was referring to the younger deChagny by a pet name. It hardly seemed likely. This would be gossip for weeks to come.

Only three people knew precisely to whom Christine had dedicated her performance. Two of them flinched in horror. Dedicating one's performance to a Ghost could hardly be good luck! The other was on his knees in the apparently empty Box five, unable to draw breath. Christine had made her dedication to him. To him! His rose, the one he had never gotten to give her, was in her hair. The message could not have been clearer if she had spoken it plainly.

She did not despise him, still wanted him as her teacher, even though she had seen … him. For days he believed that the voice he heard faintly calling him was just another of the voices from his past tormenting his solitude. Now he knew that she had been calling him. But…how could it be? The curtains opened for the first act, and he saw Christine in the 'window' of the set at Margeurite's spinning wheel. It was a dream made real. He watched with delight as her voice filled the theatre and the audience, to a person, fell under her spell of starlight and silver.

Christine's performance would cause more talk than her mysterious dedication. Not in living memory had a voice like hers been heard. The audience smiled and wept at her whim. She gave them the spirit of Margeurite. When her bow came, every person in the audience rose to his or her feet, applauding wildly. A veritable flood of flowers landed at her feet. She heard them calling to her, "La Daae, bravissima!" "Exquisite!" "Bravissima!" They were hers. Long ago, her father had told her that she would be a great lady of the stage. Erik had promised her the same thing. Their sweetest dreams were coming true. She exited stage left long before their cheers died away.