They sat in silence, each nervous and unsure, neither knowing what to say or do. Christine wrestled with her plan, not knowing if she could follow through. Finally, she found the will to speak.

"You said I may do what I will. Did you mean with impunity?"

"Christine, you are being most mysterious." He sighed. What game was she trying to play with him? "Certainly. Whatever you want to do. With impunity."

Her little hand rose towards his face, slowly this time. Erik watched her warily, wanting nothing more than to push her from the bench, but forced himself to sit still. He had promised, "whatever you want…with impunity." If that meant she tortured both of them, which appeared to be her intention, then so be it.

For her part, Christine was struggling with her memory of his face. It had frightened her terribly only one week before, and she knew that if she showed the least fear or disgust it would ruin her chance to earn his trust. She touched the white plaster gingerly, and then traced the edge around to its ties. She brought the image of what lay beneath up in her mind, but held his eyes with hers, wanting to focus on their singular beauty. Slowly, she untied the knot and began to lower the mask.

His hands stopped her. He gently arrested her movement, trying to give her a chance to reverse her insane decision. "Christine, there is no need to frighten yourself – or do you not remember…"

"I remember well enough; I remember a silly little girl jumping at vapors. Leave me be." It was the first time she had dared give him a command. It stunned him into submission. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see her face wrinkle in disgust or blanch in fear.

"Please, Angel, look at me." Christine knew that if he did not watch, he would not believe.

Why wouldn't she simply do it and have it over with? Erik opened his unwilling eyes, and looked into hers, resigned to watching again as she was repulsed by him. The torments of his life never ceased to nettle him. He masqueraded for years as the Angel of Music while living in a private Hell. Now, his Hell continued to haunt him.

The mask was off. Christine set it gently on the edge of the oak table. She studied his face, forcing herself to be comfortable with what she saw. She cringed inwardly, imagining the life thrust on him by a simple mischance of birth. It was no wonder that he had made his home deep beneath the ground; no society would ever accept him no matter how beautiful his music or how keen his mind. All because his face was not beautiful to look upon. They would never know Erik.

She realized her luck; of all people in all the theatre, he had chosen her as his protégé. She had the privilege of knowing him. Now, if she did not destroy the tender feelings he had towards her, she would have the privilege of befriending him, being trusted by him. She could make music with him. Her hand rose towards his face, making Erik flinch. When he flinched, sadness creased her delicate brow. Did he think she would hurt him? She laid her hand on his cheek, heedless of the rough, twisted feel of his flesh.

Erik struggled to read her changing expressions. At first it was easy. As she lowered the mask, he could see her steeling herself to look at the horror beneath. Once she set his mask aside, however, none of the revulsion he expected to see appeared in her face. There was a look of deep concentration, as though she were memorizing his features, followed by a softening that spoke of affection and sadness. Impossible. Wake up, Erik. This is the strangest dream you've ever... Then her hand was coming at his face. He flinched, not consciously believing she would hurt him, but unable to help it.

The same lack of feeling that prevented his mother's slap and Herroux' punishments from stinging also kept him from feeling the warmth of her touch. For that, more than anything else, he cursed his face. She was the picture of innocence and beauty; he could not tear his eyes away. On impulse, Erik dared to let himself place his hand over hers.

In the sweet dreams he allowed himself as he wrote his music he never imagined this; that she would touch him, and let him touch her, of her own free will. Now he could dream without guilt. Still, he could not accept that his fate should change so suddenly from despised to beloved. It was too much of a leap. He had to give her a chance to take it all back before he believed.

His voice was hoarse and strained, so different from his usual dulcet tones, that he startled himself. "Christine, you don't have to…I don't see how you can even bear to…"

"Is this all, Erik? Is this what we were both so frightened of?" She lightly touched his lips with her fingertips before lowering her hands. Her earnest eyes searched his; he felt that more than his mask was removed.

"It is not enough?" bitterly.

"When I look at you, I hear your music. Your face is…" she winced at the word she must use, but flattering lies would only destroy what she had built, "terrible. But it is only one note on the keyboard. How many times have great composers…how many times have you used dissonance to perfect a piece?" As she spoke the words they became true. The distortion had become just a part of him, a part she could accept.

Erik heard truth in her voice and saw compassion in her eyes. He felt himself shaking his head in denial, even as his spirit soared. It was too much to take in. He had spent his entire life convincing himself that he would always be a thing apart from the rest of humanity, that he was a horrific monster. Now, this girl…

He took both her hands and kissed her palms reverently, his tears dropping on her wrists. He was aware that she knew he was weeping; it hardly seemed to matter. Having seen his face, all else diminished. He wept as he had in childhood: silently, without moving, only tears streaming from his eyes.

"Erik?" Christine watched his tears fall. She had never imagined her Angel of Music capable of tears. She did not understand why he should cry now. "Erik, why are you crying? I haven't hurt you, have I?"

Erik released her hands, drew his handkerchief and wiped his eyes and her wrists. Keeping his head bowed to spare her his face, he reached for his mask and replaced it before looking up.

"To the contrary. Quite to the contrary." Control was returned; once again the iron will dominated. "I apologize for my maudlin display. It is getting late. Everyone will wonder where you have disappeared to. Mme. Courvier will have waked by now. I can imagine that she has told everyone her story. She's a reliable woman and an excellent wardrobe mistress, but she does run off at the mouth. They may believe you to be kidnapped. We really should return you to your rooms." He stood and gestured towards the dock.

Christine felt her head spinning. A few seconds ago, he was crying into her hands, and now he was essentially ordering her to leave. She stayed where she was. "If I'm kidnapped, why can't I stay here awhile?"

"You will reappear as mysteriously as you disappeared. After your performance, you were overwhelmed, and went for a walk about town."

"Angel, I don't want to leave you…"

"And if you stay, they will tear every stone from the foundation trying to find you. You are the diva now, the Prima Donna. You are as precious as gold to them, you see. And when they exhausted every likely place, they would search the basements. And what would they find?"

There was no chance they would search the lowest basement without finding passages to the foundations. On their way down, his alarms and traps would be sprung. They would know someone was responsible for setting the traps. She finally gave up and plodded reluctantly to the dock.

He helped her into the boat, and pushed the craft across the black waters in silence. Christine watched the retreating shore with a wistful regret. Being in this place was like walking through a beautiful, dark dream. The tastefully extravagant decorations of the Opera house seemed gaudy in comparison. She watched Erik studiously ignoring her as he deftly steered the boat. His music was here. He was here. All the Opera Populaire could offer her was fame and fortune.

Erik tried not to think as he worked. She wanted to stay with him. She had said exactly that. Erik pondered why she would want to spend her night of triumph in a dark hole with a monster. Clearly, her eyes and mind were dazed with the brilliance of her first performance. She was not seeing or thinking clearly. That explained everything. Later she would remember touching his face and be repulsed. He imagined her frantically washing her hands. He imagined a note politely requesting that their lessons be cancelled. By the time the boat bumped the opposite shore, he was reluctant to offer her his hand.

They walked quickly through the passageways. Erik guided her carefully past dangerous areas, but did not presume to touch her again. She tried to engage him in conversation, but his answers were so short that she soon fell silent. When he let her into the small chamber behind her mirror, she stopped him with a light touch.

"I'd like to see my parlor as you see it. Wait." She looked out into her home. The gas lights on the walls lit the rooms in a gentle yellow light. She could see her parlor, part of her kitchen, and the vestibule. It looked so small and drab compared to the wonderland Erik inhabited that she felt a bit ashamed, not knowing that on countless evenings he stood here and longed to sit in the cozy warmth of her parlor.

Erik found himself falling into a daydream. The faint light filtering in through the glass illuminated Christine's silhouette. Golden curls cascaded over her shoulders, highlighting the delicate curve of shoulder and neck. He caught his hand before it caressed her.

"We cannot stand in this little closet all evening," he growled. He reached past her and opened the glass. "Go."

Christine stepped half way out of the chamber, but spun back to catch the rapidly disappearing Erik by his sleeve. "When is my next lesson?"

Her Angel sighed. "Christine, you have excellent command over the most sublime instrument I have ever heard. I've taught you everything I know. You must suffer my presence no longer."

Her blank stare irritated him. He was handing Christine her opportunity to get rid of him, to free herself, without taking the initiative. She was not a stupid girl. Why did she not take advantage of his offer?

"Suffer? Absurd." Ignoring his comments about whether she needed him, Christine decided to throw convention to the four winds, and invite Erik to tea. He would never ask her; she would have to ask him. "Please join me for tea tomorrow. At four. Here."

For a moment, it seemed he would decline the invitation. He considered it. Never in his life had he been invited to take tea with anyone. But here was his beloved, inviting him to take tea with her like a regular person.

"Thank you, Mademoiselle. I shall attend." Feeling as absurd as she labeled him, he bowed and left.

Christine sighed with exasperation and stepped into her parlor. The glass clicked shut behind her. She went to her bedroom and changed into a comfortable evening shift. As she was heading to her kitchen for tea, she was startled by the sound of a key rattling in her door.