Erik's inner battle showed in his eyes. Christine followed his internal debate, pleased to see that there was no immediate refusal.

In an attempt to sway the conflict in her favor, she promised, "I will sit silently in a corner, translate Italian and drink weak tea. I won't be a bit of trouble, I promise. Please!"

The "please" undid him. She had chosen him; he could not very well deny her first request, could he?

"Very well. See that you remain silent until tomorrow evening. Not a word. If one word – one syllable - touches your lips within my hearing (and my hearing is excellent, Christine) I shall bring you back here to your rooms." How ironic, he thought, my favorite sound in all the world and I am banning it. Who am I testing: Christine or myself?

"Yes. Silence. I promise." She sounded sincere.

Without another word, Erik pulled Christine through the mirror chamber and into the dark corridors beyond. He had not brought a candle with him; he had not expected to bring the lady home. He guided her carefully over the wires and levers and barbs. Why had he ever created the stupid things? No one but a couple of silly children had ever ventured beneath the basements. A dark grin twitched on his lips as the memories of "haunting" those children came to him. They had run home to Mme Giry with tales of a Ghost; Mme Giry scolded them soundly for wandering in the basements and sent them to the dormitories without tea or supper.

Christine was true to her promise. Not a sound did she utter as her guide pulled her along the twisting hallways. Erik mused over what this must be like for her. His eyes were attuned to the gloom by years of living in darkness. Even without a candle, the tiny beams of light that infiltrated the corridor through miniscule cracks in the walls were enough to light his way by day. At night, he could traverse his haunts by memory. But Christine's eyes were used to light. If he let go of her arm, she would be instantly lost.

This innocent child thought she wanted to choose him, to choose the darkness. He studied her unfocused eyes, squinting desperately to see anything in the gloom. She had promised not to speak to him until the following evening. If he let loose her hand now, would she immediately break her promise? Would she call for him? Or would she trust him...

Christine's hand was suddenly empty. There was no sound, no light. She held her breath, and heard only the pounding of her heart; heavy and panicked. Groping out to both sides, she found one wall and pressed against it. Now what, Christine? she asked herself. If you try to make it back on your own, you will only fall prey to the traps.

Erik had let her go. Why? Was this a punishment for calling to him and interrupting his work? His name almost burst from her lips in a high, frightened cry; but a single thought, like an illuminating flash of lightning stopped her voice. Was he merely testing her? If this was a test, it was a cruel one. But her Angel of Music had been cruel on occasion, if the cruelty would teach her something. Cruel, he had been, but never once had she come to actual harm. Trust him, she thought. Find the lesson. Silently, fearfully, she clung to the wall in the blackness, waiting.

Brave girl, Erik thought. Guilt pinched him sharply. She chooses you, rejects wealth and beauty, and this is how you repay her? Take her hand, fool. Glad that Christine could not see his shamed expression, Erik wrapped his long fingers gently around her upper arm. He wanted to justify his behavior with some babbled lies about 'disabling a trap', but wisely held his peace.

When the soft glow of the foundations finally came into view, Christine breathed a sigh of relief. Just as the dark, tight passageways oppressed her, the soaring arches and glowing lanterns of Erik's subterranean palace lifted her spirit. The beatific calm that suffused her eased the anxious lines from her face and relaxed her rigid muscles. This place was home to her, though she had only been here once before.

In accordance with her promise, Christine only smiled her thanks when Erik assisted her into and out of the little boat. Once her feet were firmly on dry ground, Erik stalked off to his composing studio and continued his work. That Christine was so close, that she had rejected the debonair boy in his favor, inspired the music in his mind. Her warm, clean smell clung to his shirt. Looking back over his composition, Erik found several places in the score that would have to be changed; notes of bitterness and anger had no place in this part of the work.

Left abruptly to her own devices, Christine surveyed the stone island. It was impossible not to admire Erik's craftsmanship. The curved walls of his sound-room loomed to her right. Sounds of scratching pen and shuffling paper whispered within. As much as she desired his company, she knew she would not be welcome there now. She turned away to consider her options. To her left was the odd cylindrical building he had warned her never to mention. Directly in front of her was his home. The little cottage looked like a house any rural French carpenter might build. She could already "see" its interior in her imagination. She turned the knob and walked in.

This was Erik's rendering of a "typical" cottage home. Immediately to her left was a little sitting room, which was stunningly like her own parlor. Cunningly disguised lanterns with low-cut wicks dimly lighted it, as in every room. She blinked several times. It was, in fact, a near perfect replica of her parlor as it had been before her father died. The settee, the coffee table, the mantelpiece – everything was in place. Only the mirror was missing.

Unlike her worn furniture, only the leather chair and the fireplace showed any signs of use. She had no way of knowing it, but this cozy family room was Erik's weak attempt at allaying his loneliness. Here, he would let his imagination summon young Christine and her father. He invented conversation between the girl and her father, imagined pieces Nils would play on his violin – imagined himself there with them.

Pulling herself away from the strange scene, she found a little kitchen to the right. It was very small, but neatly kept. She explored the cabinets and cold pantry. There was a dry loaf, a block of hard cheese, a single plate, and a single metal cup in his top cabinets. Several gallons of lamp-oil, common household tools, and sundry supplies filled the lower ones. The cold pantry held only a wooden bowl of thick onion soup from last night's dinner in the refectory and a bottle of milk from that morning's delivery. There was no butter for the bread, no salt or pepper for the soup. She thought of her own cabinets. Though she lived alone, they were filled with all the things she needed to serve a civilized tea to guests. Of course, Erik would have no guests, no visitors, no one dropping by.

There were only three doors left. The next room to the right was his washroom and water-closet. Again, this room was perfectly kept and perfectly sparse. A washcloth and towel hung beside a simple washstand. The water in the washbasin was clean and fresh. From the lake, she realized. The soap was the same harsh variety he had offered her to clean the stage makeup from her face. There were no toiletries: no combs and none of fragrant oils fashionable men used to slick their hair. She remembered his hat falling to the stage floor, revealing his thin patches of anemic hair. There was also no mirror here, not even a small hand-held one. The most extraordinary thing about this room was the flushing toilet. Many of the wealthier Parisians had begun having such devices installed in their homes. Erik would have had to install his own. She looked at the piping curiously, wondering where it led. How clean and empty everything is, she thought

Across from the water-closet, Christine opened a door into blackness. If the parlor and kitchen were meant to invoke a feeling of normalcy, this room broke the thin illusion. There was no nice lantern-light in here. From the doorway she could barely make out a rectangular object in the center of the room and something against the far wall. There may have been other shapes as well, but it was far too dark to consider exploring without a candle. Did Erik keep candles? If so, she had not found them yet.

The last room was locked. Christine rattled the handle in frustrated curiosity. Someday she would wheedle these secrets from him. For now she was forced to give up. The odd silo-shaped building rose in her memory. Erik commanded her not to ask him about it the first night she visited this place. He never directly told her to leave it alone. She walked as quietly as possible out his front door and listened for the sound of his pen before proceeding.

Her heart pounded in her ears as she reached for the handle. Mme Giry and Meg had given her a horror story to read the year before about a terrible man with the bodies of his murdered wives locked in his closets. She knew Erik had killed, and he was entirely unwilling to discuss this room. Her hand faltered, but boredom and curiosity over-ruled fear. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, opened the door and stepped in. Her slipper tapped on a slick, hard surface. She opened her eyes and gasped; not in fear, but in delighted wonder. Mirrors reflected her image from every direction. The floor and ceiling were mirrors, and hundreds of pieces of mirrored glass made up the walls. Everywhere she looked, her smiling face grinned happily back at her. She began to twirl and dance, admiring the way her skirt flared airily around her.

When the amusement of seeing a thousand dancing Christines wore off, she stood thoughtfully in the center of the room. Why had Erik built such a strange room on his island? She turned slowly, watching her reflection. What if, instead of her pretty face, it were a thousand Eriks? A thousand unmasked Eriks; a thousand ravaged faces with skin like churned, decaying meat and raw pits for noses. The thought was sobering. Suddenly, an image popped into her mind with perfect clarity. She imagined Erik standing in the midst of the mirrors without hat or mask, loathing himself. Torturing himself with every reflection. This room represented many hours of labor spent creating something that could only torment the creator. What was the purpose?

As quietly as she had entered, Christine slipped out of the room. The sound of pen scratching paper continued unabated; he knew nothing of her prying. She wanted to run to Erik, grab him by the lapels, and ask him why. He would be angry with her, though, and she would be breaking her promise. The "whys" would have to wait – at least until tomorrow. Instead of confronting him, she tiptoed to the doorway and leaned against it, watching the Angel of Music at work. There was no fear she might disturb him; he was deep within the music. He wrote furiously, painstakingly placing half notes and sixteenth notes, crescendos and decrescendos. Now and again he would hum or sing a snatch of his work. Even the tiny fragments of song were wrapped in the power of his genius. He was a Magician, weaving spells in music, and she happily let herself be enchanted.