The music had never come so easily before. He was a conduit, an open channel, through which the Spirit of Music flowed. He cursed his fingers for cramping and the pen for running out of ink, but he was full of a wild joy. He cursed his fingers, but they were doing what he asked of them, nailing down the essence. This was his greatest work; it was the product of years of toil and a hundred reworkings.

Had he allowed Christine to call him the Angel of Music? She was the Angel, his Muse, who inspired his greatest work with her mere presence. He looked up to see the outline of her shoulder and the spill of her muslin summer-weight skirts which pooled across the doorframe. He nearly went to her then and begged her to break her promise. In his mind, she was already breaking. In his mind, her voice rose heavenward, showering him with the faerie-dust of perfection. Thank you, my angel.

His Angel was perfection, his Angel was sweetness personified…his Angel was sitting on the floor! He had offered her no place to sit, no tea, no food, nothing to read. Erik dropped his pen and leapt to his feet.

"Christine!"

His voice rang out more loudly than intended. He saw her start and then scramble to her feet to stand in the doorway. Her brow was creased, her hands clasped in front of her, but she remained silent. You've frightened her, you brute. Erik chastised himself harshly. Go to her. Comfort her.

Christine's reverie was broken when Erik suddenly stopped his frenetic composing and barked her name. She scrambled to her feet, trying to think of what she might have done to anger him. Was it possible that he knew she had been in his house…and in his other room? She stood to face him, ready to defend her actions. He had left her alone, after all. If she was supposed to sit in a corner and translate Italian, she needed a corner in which to sit, and a book to translate. There appeared to be no anger in his body language, but his mask covered his expression. In her heart, she cursed the blank false-face he wore.

"Christine, please forgive my thoughtlessness." He offered his arm and led her towards his house. When he saw the door hanging open, he jerked them both to a stop. "Have you already been in my house?"

She nodded.

Erik's shoulders tensed. No one had violated his privacy since he had come to the Opera Populaire. Christine had been in his house. Had she seen his bedroom? He was sure his art-room door was locked, but his bedroom was not. He grabbed her shoulders and only just refrained from shaking her. "What did you see? Where did you go?" Christine shrugged out of his grip. She placed her hands lightly over her ears and shook her head, trying to indicate that he should stop yelling at her.

Erik sighed. The promise of silence had seemed like a good idea at the beginning; now it was becoming irksome. There were things in his house he did not want her to see, things that would frighten her. She didn't look frightened now, simply annoyed. She couldn't have seen too much. "Why were you sitting on the floor there, if you had already been in my parlor? Is that not where guests usually stay? In the parlor?"

Silence. An annoyed glare.

"Come along, then." He led her into the parlor and gestured towards the settee. "You must be hungry and rather bored, I suspect. Stay here, please, and do not poke your nose where it has no cause to go. Not everything down here is beautiful music and lantern light. There are dangerous and…and…unpleasant things. I am going to prepare tea and find some books with which you may amuse yourself until tomorrow. This may take a little while. Please stay here. And do not go into the building to the left. And do not try to use the boat – it's not as easy as it looks. Oh, and on your honor do not look at the score I am composing." With that final warning, he swept from the room.

Christine gave a brief, irritated nod after each command. It felt very much as though she were some pet dog. Sit, Christine. Stay, Christine. She sighed. When she could speak again, she would educate him on the treatment of guests – especially guests one has consigned to silence. Erik turned and left, his cloak swirling behind him. It occurred to her that she had never seen him without it, even when the weather was quite warm. Why do you wear a cloak in the summer months, Erik? We know about the mask; what does the cloak hide?

She tapped her foot impatiently. Erik would have to go up into the opera house to find components for a tea service. Hopefully, he would think to find dinner makings as well. The settee was much like hers, with wide, padded arms and a scrolled padded back. She leaned back against the arm and allowed herself to daydream. Erik had promised to tell her his story tomorrow. She tried to imagine what sort of tale he would tell. It would not be a happy story, of that she was certain. Sleep took her while she mulled the origins of her musical genius.

It took one full hour to gather all the necessities for a proper tea. Erik also picked books from the library and found some cold chicken and various vegetables for supper. He returned with a heavy basket over his arm, half expecting to hear Christine singing. If that were the case, he would have to take her home as per their agreement. All was silent. He carried the basket into the kitchen and set everything he would need before starting the fire in the old iron stove. When he was satisfied with the stovetop temperature, he set the kettle of lake-water on it to boil.

The tea set was so delicate he feared to touch its fragile cups and saucers. He worried that the lumps of sugar might crack the sugar bowl. Pale lantern light shone through the fine china almost as though it were spun glass. This tea set was reserved for impressing visiting dignitaries when they came to view performances. Erik only hoped it would please Christine. He arranged the fairy-like pieces on a silver tray and carried it gingerly into the parlor, where he nearly dropped it.

She was asleep, her cheek resting on one delicate hand. The lantern light spilled across her face, bathing her cream complexion with a soft luminescence. Just in time, Erik remembered he was holding the tray and set it carefully on the little coffee table. Stumbling on numb feet, he fell to his knees beside her. So beautiful, his mind gasped. He lifted his hand towards her face, longing to touch her but loath to wake her. His stomach knotted as he thought of what must happen the next day. Lightly, he allowed himself to touch her mussed curls.

Casting his voice low, he whispered, "Tomorrow, when you have learned what an unworthy thing I am, you will despise me, so tonight I will love you. I may be a monster, no more than a low creature – but I am your creature. Christine, Christine…"

His voice, as quiet as it was, pierced the light veil of sleep. At the mention of her name, Christine floated towards wakefulness but did not alter her breathing or flutter her eyelids. At first she thought she was still in a dream and willed it to continue. Never had her Angel spoken such tender words to her. Gradually, she realized that she was awake, but the tender words did not stop. If she opened her eyes, though, they would. She continued to feign sleep.

He continued, his words taking on worshipful timbre, "Your name is the prayer I speak each morning. Yours is the voice of reason that guides me. You are the true Angel of Music; I am nothing. There is little I can offer you, but everything I have I will give without reservation. I can give you the music; I can give you my heart – pathetic lump of wasted flesh that it is. If I seem harsh, it is only my foolishness and my stupid pride. I know I am a monster…but please… Love me, Christine."

Just as she was sure she could bear no more, the teakettle shrieked. She heard Erik jump to his feet, and opened her eyes with a sleepy stretch. She sat up slowly and smiled at him. If there was tenderness there, it was hidden behind the mask. He gestured at the tea tray and cleared his throat.

His voice was as clear and calm as a deep lake. "I hope you slept well. There will be tea shortly, if you want it."

A nod.

"Christine, that was a silly thing to make you promise. Speak, if you have something to say."

A fervent shake of the head. Her smile grew sharp, her eyes glinted with sincerity and more than a hint of mischief. I made a promise, those eyes seemed to say, and I will keep it.

"Whatever pleases you." Erik sighed and stomped off to the kitchen to bring the kettle.