The next day, as she waited for the teapot to boil over the fire, Christine sat curled in her father's chair trying to sort herself out. Raoul was everything a young man should be and everything that a girl should want. He was very handsome, polite, refined, and able to provide for her every want. Any other girl in the Opera Populaire would give her hair to be courted by him. But Raoul was not passionate or very intelligent. He treated her like a child, and disapproved of the thing she loved most in life – performing music onstage.

Erik, on the other hand… Erik had given her music and forced her to educate herself. He awoke her passion with a word or a touch of the keyboard. His eyes burned through her, thrilling every nerve. Raoul was never at a loss for sweet words and compliments; Christine tired of his honeyed conversation almost before it began.

Erik rarely complimented her and never spoke sweetly to her, and yet she valued every moment spent with him more than gold. She thought of the rare moments when Erik's guard dropped and she was able to glimpse the man behind the cold exterior. She thought of his tears on her wrists, his light kisses on her palms. Her cheeks burned, her stomach fluttered, and her throat tightened. Then she thought of his face. No, she told herself firmly, holding his hideous image in her imagination. You can't possibly be… But she was.

"In love with him…"

She said it out loud, wonderingly, and looked towards the mirror. The words fit strangely in her mouth. Singing opera meant singing about love. Many of the greatest operas were written about love, usually tragically doomed love. She sang about love nearly every day, affecting the tones and expressions of a woman deep in its throes. Never once had she felt the emotion. Now, as she waited for Erik to arrive for tea, she found herself nearly bouncing on her tiptoes in anticipation. She paced the parlor, looking anxiously towards the mirror every few steps.

She was pacing still when Erik entered the mirror-chamber. He watched her for awhile, at once admiring her and wondering what put her in such a state. He noted her frequent glances towards the mirror. She's probably regretting making the invitation. He knocked lightly on the glass.

"Come in." She sounded far more relaxed than she looked.

He stepped out and bowed in greeting, not having the first idea of how to proceed. She gestured towards the couch. "Please have a seat. The kettle's just boiling. I'll be in with the tea set in a moment."

Erik nervously sat down, realizing that he had never done so in this room before. Christine bustled about for a moment, setting out cups and saucers, milk and sugar. Once the tea was poured and sweetened, Christine sat opposite him. She was staring at him with the same strange, anxious look she was casting at the mirror before he entered the room. He felt oddly like a mouse in a room with a hungry cat.

"Shouldn't we be making pleasant conversation?" he asked. "What do you talk about when the deChagny boy comes calling?"

Christine felt the barb hit home. They talked about nothing, but pride would not let her admit as much to her haughty Angel. "We…we just… talk. That's all." It sounded weak in her own ears. She knew it wouldn't fool Erik. He was too perceptive. Would he guess before she told him?

"Ah. You 'just talk'. What would you like to 'just talk' about?" His tone was challenging. He didn't want to be this way with her, but his bitterness seemed to have a life of its own.

She blinked. This wasn't at all what she envisioned when she invited him. She was not sure what she had envisioned, but certainly not this. If he insisted on being difficult, then she would reply with bluntness.

"Your sonata. I want to talk about the sonata you played for me the night I…"she swallowed; her throat feeling dry and sandy. "The night I took your mask off."

His formal, haughty exterior stiffened further. "It was just a piece I picked up somewhere. I don't know what you'd find to talk about in it."

Christine sighed and closed her eyes. He would not make this easy for her. She began to suspect that he could not. "I don't believe you. That was your music. I heard you speaking to me. I heard the words…"

He was no longer looking at her; his stiff posture crumbled to a hunch. "There were no words."

"Only because you could not speak them." She watched him turn away from her. Too many times her Angel had turned from her. She stood behind him, rested her forearms on his shoulders. Erik tried to shrink away, but she wrapped her arms over his chest and leaned in so that her mouth was close to his ear.

Christine's gentle arms surrounded him. The delicate sachet she wore teased his sense of smell. Then he felt her face near his, heard her breathing. She whispered, "You could not speak them, but I can. You wrote that music… for me. I think you meant for me to hear. Do you want to know what I heard, Erik?"

He opened his mouth, and made some sound. She was torturing him, and he was breaking. "There were…no…words." She felt this whisper more than she heard it.

"But there were." The brim of his hat was between them; she removed it. Now her lips were touching his ear, warm and soft. This torture was perfect and exquisite; he prayed it would not end.

"I love you." She felt a shudder wrack his thin, muscular body. "That is what you played. I heard, but I could not harmonize." Christine slid around him, keeping her arms around him for fear he would run otherwise. "I can harmonize with you now, Angel."

Now only his mask was between them; she removed it in one fluid motion. He was staring at her, hypnotized. The feeling of unreality, of waking dreams, washed through him. He willed himself to wake but she was still there, kneeling before him, her slender arms around his neck, her pretty face inches from his dreadful one – and she was not caring. One word forced its way up from the murky depths of his consciousness. "No…"

"Yes." Her voice worked magic on him. "Yes. I love you, Angel…Erik."

If he were not already sitting, he would have fallen. He opened his mouth to protest, to deny her statement. No sound emerged.

And then she kissed him.

Christine had kissed her father, her mother, Mme Giry, and other people she regarded as family. Those kisses were small things, hardly important in the grand scheme of things. Erik had never been kissed, had never kissed anyone, and had barely allowed himself to imagine kissing anyone. In his dreams, the women he kissed all died.

When Christine's lips met his, it was awkward, ill-fitting. At first, he was too shocked to move; his rational mind fought fiercely, screaming, "Impossible! Unthinkable!" But then her lips parted and he gave in to the dream. He relaxed into her embrace, as he had never permitted himself to relax before. As he relaxed, she shifted and suddenly it was right. Softness touched softness, their eyes were closed. There were no faces, no voices. There was only the warmth and taste of the other. Erik heard blood singing in his ears. His mind was all a dark blue fog: Like her eyes, he thought. His fear and bitterness became hopelessly lost in that fog. His arms enveloped her, pulling her lissome body close to his.

Her Angel held her close to him. She felt his heart pounding, his chest expanding as he breathed her in. She opened her mouth slightly and tasted him. His kiss, his embrace, matched his music –dark and passionate. She began to withdraw; his arms tightened around her for the briefest of instants before he let her go. Through the dizzy giddiness that made the world spin around her, she contemplated the small, blissful smile painted on his twisted features. If he never spoke a kind word to her, never smiled at her again, she would know the truth of his mind from this moment.

"Yes?" she asked, her tone gently teasing.

Erik nodded, unable to erase the small smile. "Yes, Christine. I…" he stopped short, unable to say more. The mask lay just inches away; its white plaster glowing. Without it, Erik felt exposed and weak. He reached for it, but her hand slipped into his before he could get to it. She knew I would try to get it back, he thought, feeling uneasy. She knew, and she does not want me to wear it. How can I make her understand? He found that he could not easily meet her eyes without it. The kiss, though exquisite, had not begun to heal the years' accumulation of loneliness, fear, and shame.

"You don't need that with me, now. Can you not see that?" He heard the hurt in Christine's voice. She did not understand what it was to be ashamed, to be reviled. It was nothing she should ever know.

"It is better that I wear it." He gently but firmly pressed past her, took his mask, and covered his repulsive face. Once the mask was firmly in place, he could look at her with a measure of his customary confidence. "You have lulled me into a sweet sleep, Christine. I will allow myself this dream."

He stood, drawing her up with him. A lock of her hair had fallen over her face. He gently tucked the wayward curl behind her ear, then stroked her cheek with reverence, as though she were one of his beloved instruments. The skin was soft and smooth; his fingers thrilled to the sensation. The thought that she had touched his own gross imperfection made his face burn, but his mask covered the flush as it covered his shame.

The fire cracked and popped behind them. Christine leaned her face into his touch, her eyes closed, her breathing light. "Are we dreaming?" She opened her eyes. "I'm more awake now than I've ever been." She stepped back, creating space between them. "Why is wearing the mask better, Erik? Why hide from one who loves you?"

"You would not understand."

"That sounds like a thing Raoul would say." Christine grumbled.

The effect on Erik was frightening. The dreamy expression dropped from his face, his eyes blackened, and his hands tightened into fists. He turned away from Christine in a weak attempt to hide his surge of ill-temper.

"Is that so." His voice was a cold condemnation. How could she compare him in any way to that useless boy?

"Yes." Inside, Christine trembled to be the target of his controlled rage. She had not seen him angry often, but when it happened, he was more Phantom than Erik. That strange, dark side seemed truly inhuman, and it occurred to her how little provocation was needed to evoke the Ghost. She could not permit him this temper tantrum over so small (in her estimation) a statement; it was unseemly. It was not lady-like to raise one's voice, she knew, nor was it very healthy for said voice.

With a controlled ferocity that spun Erik back to face her, she said, "Constantly, I am told that I would not understand this, or I'm too young to comprehend that. Or that I'm a woman – as though I did not know – and therefore incapable of thought. You gave me books to study. You grilled me on my lessons. You should know better than to tell me what I will or will not understand without giving me the opportunity first!"

Her arms were folded firmly across her chest, her eyes flashed. She was no longer trembling. The expression on Erik's face was obscured by the mask, but his posture said that he was quite taken aback. Good, she thought, let him see that you are no child.

"I might well understand…more than you think. Is it because you think me a stupid child that you have never told me your own stories?" She was leaning slightly towards her startled mentor, flushed with anger of her own. "Silly little Christine wouldn't understand?"

No one had opposed his wrath since he was a small child at Hannah's knee. Christine would not understand, of course, and it had nothing to do with her intelligence. How could he explain? He wanted his past to stay neatly buried where he left it; if she knew that the object of her love was nothing more than an escapee from a freak show, would her love be replaced by pity and contempt? But he could not bear for her to be angry with him, not so soon after she declared her love for him. Erik held his hands out in a gesture of placation.

"Christine, no…no. They…those stories…" He began to speak, but stopped when he realized the words would only come in a stammer.

Some of the sharpness left her eyes. When his aggressive posture melted into one of anxious resignation, she felt that she could likewise release her own anger. "Tell me, Erik. Why is it better that you hide from me behind that mask? Where do you come from? I've lost my heart you, but I don't even know how old you are, or your last name; how can I love you if I don't know you? " she touched his extended hands, wordlessly forgiving him for his outburst.

"It is not a very pleasant story." Erik's eyes studied her hands, the floor, the fireplace. He could not meet her sincere, innocent gaze. "And it's one that will pain me greatly in the telling. But if you insist…"

"Please, Erik?"

"…I will tell you whatever you wish to know. Only remember: No matter what my story might be, I am still the man you have known for eight years. And, I will need some time. In three nights I will come to you. Until then…goodbye." He gently kissed her hand, lingering over the petal-soft skin and her sweet scent.

"Goodbye…" but he was already through the mirror and gone.