She stepped into the dressing room and leaned against the door, smiling to herself and humming the Jewel Song. Her singing stopped abruptly when she saw the still body of Mme Courvier slumped in a chair. She went to check on the limp woman, when a dark form emerged from the costume closet. She hitched in a breath to scream, but the shadowy man placed a gentle hand over her mouth and whispered, "Ether, Christine. What kind of monster do you think I am?"

Slowly, testing her intent to scream, he lowered his hand from her mouth. He touched something in the closet, and she heard a panel slide open. How many secret passages did this theatre hold, she wondered. He ducked into the passageway, beckoning to her. Christine followed him, realizing he was following through with his promise. Once she was in, he lit a candle, revealing a passageway only wide enough for one person. "Stay close to me. There will be dangerous places, and I wouldn't dream of seeing you hurt."

Erik was following through on his promise. After her triumphant debut, he was taking her to see his home.

The passageways seemed to wind on forever. Now and then they would emerge into some back hallway, descend a few stairs, and enter another passageway. Eventually they wound up on the basement stairs, descending quickly. He would stop occasionally to move a wire, or touch a lever or button. "Alarm," he would quietly inform her. Or, more often, "Trap." She realized that anyone attempting to enter his demesnes uninvited would likely wind up badly injured – or dead.

If the traps and alarms impressed her, the labyrinth of brick and stone walls amazed her. How long had he been down here? Listening to his voice made her believe he was in his twenties, but the elaborate decoration and the excellence of the masonry suggested something else. "How old are…"

"Shhh," he interrupted. Just look."

She looked. They emerged from the tangle of walls into the softly lit, cavernous underpinnings of the Opera Populaire. She gazed around in silent wonder. Lanterns hung everywhere, casting soft light at odd angles through hanging fabrics of myriad colors, giving the huge space a dreamlike atmosphere. Christine could see the Erik's complex of buildings rising like a desert island in the middle of the lake. Erik led her to the stone edge of the dock. He retrieved a pole from an archway and used it to pull a small boat from behind a niche in the stone.

"Would you like to go there?" Erik barely dared to hope. That her slippered foot would soon sanctify the threshold of his sanctuary seemed beyond imagination.

"Oh, could I?" she spun to face him. "Please?"

"I am at your service. This is the ferry to my home." he offered her his hand, expecting hesitation, but there was none.

She accepted his assistance into the rocking boat, and sat down, holding on to the sides. A push of the pole sent them floating across the expanse of water. After carefully tethering the boat to his dock, he helped her step onto the ancient foundation stones. He said nothing, allowing her to look around, slowly taking in the masterpiece that was his home.

"Did you build all this yourself?" she asked.

"Yes. I doubt anyone else even knows there is a level below the basements. Which is a good thing for me." He paused to reflect. "And for them."

"It's amazing. So you live there," she pointed at the little house, "but what is that?" She indicated the strange walls of the mirror-room.

"That is something I'd rather not talk about. And this time, please respect my wishes."

Christine blushed and dropped her head. They would have to talk about what she had done, but not now, not yet. The sight of the house reminded her that she still wore layer upon layer of heavy theatre make-up. I must look clownish, standing here with this paint all over me. "Is there a place where I can wash my face?"

"Of course. Wait here, and I will bring what you need." Erik disappeared into the cottage, reappearing shortly with a soft cloth and soap. The soap came from the supply closets of the servants' quarters; it was course and harsh – perfect for make-up removal. Christine went about the difficult job of scraping off the layers of stage makeup that made her face visible during the opera, but looked garish from close up. She rinsed and folded the cloth, returning it to him as unstained as possible.

Erik watched her ablutions in a bubble of unreality. She was really here, now, with him. Dreams rarely scrubbed their faces pink with lye soap. He almost laughed with pleasure when she handed him the cloth. He now possessed something she had touched.

"If you have done with washing, there is something I've been excited to show you. I think you'll be pleased." He led her to his music room and opened the door with a flourish.

"A pipe organ? How did you get a pipe organ down here?"

"Piece by piece," he couldn't keep the pride from his voice. "And it took years to figure out how to build it, never mind learning to play."

"You built this? That's…would you play it for me?"

"Sit down over there," he gestured to the chair on the other side of the oak desk. "And please stay there, this time."

"Angel…"

He cut her off curtly. "I am no Angel."

With practiced ease, Erik stoked the steam-engine bellows. He sat down to his beloved organ, his foot to the pedal, his long fingers on the keys. For his beloved audience of one, he played the music he had written in his years of solitude. If he had made the piano speak, the pipe organ seemed to simply be a piece of him. Christine found herself flowing into the music again. It played her emotions, swinging her from childlike glee to the deepest depression. She lost track of time and place. Against his directive, she stood, but only so she could breathe more deeply. As it always had, his music called to her. It drew song from her like water from a well. Her voice joined the organ's rich tones in a wordless harmony. When the last notes faded away, Christine walked to where Erik sat; enchanted with the way her voice complimented and completed his music.

Feeling bold, she dared to touch his hand. He stared at her small hand on his for a few minutes unable to decide whether to leave it there or pull away.

"For the other night…" she began.

"Christine, do not..." Erik didn't want to talk about it. He wanted to pretend nothing had happened. He wanted to feel her fingers entwined with his and pretend that he was like any other man sitting with his ladylove. But she would continue.

"For the other night, I am sorry. I only wanted to see the face of the man who spoke love to me with the piano; the man who was making me..." now she could not finish. He would not believe her, anyway - she would have to show him. "Erik, I would like to do something, and I would ask you, as a lady to a gentleman, to trust me."

He gaped at her. Trust her? After what she had done, she was lucky he hadn't… But no, her eyes were beseeching, her scent intoxicating. Whatever she asked, he would do. "Do what you will, Christine. I no longer have any power over you."

Christine uttered a short laugh. "How little you know."