As always, this particular chapter is accompanied by a request that my readers continue reading…

While Christine sipped tea and nibbled on soft bread and whipped butter with cinnamon, Erik sat at his organ trying to figure out what to do with her overnight. When she was begging him with sweet words and pleading eyes to bring her to his home, he had not been able to clear his foggy mind long enough to realize that he had no bed for her to sleep in, no cloth with which she might wash her face, and many secrets still to hide. Currently, he was wrestling with the lack of a bed. I shall have to take her back to her rooms, he thought gloomily. He didn't want to see the look of hurt in her eyes when he led her to the boat…

The boat! Erik raced out to the dock and eyed the boat, measuring it against his memory of her height. When they embraced, he remembered with a pleasant shiver, her head rested against his lapel. She was small enough to fit, if he removed the seat. Erik pillaged the laundry-rooms and linen closets of the lower levels and filled the boat's floor with quilts and down comforters. When finished, it would make a more than passable bed. He dragged the heavy wooden vessel to shore.

She would look charming, nestled in the bottom of the boat – a living Lady of Shalott. Now, where could he put the makeshift bed to ensure the lady's privacy while she slept? There was not enough space in his little house. It was built for only one. Sighing, he pushed and pulled until the boat-bed was lodged in his music room, its rounded bottom steadied by the heavy oak chairs. It would simply have to do.

Sweat damped his shirt and rolled under his mask. After checking to ensure that he was unobserved, he removed his mask just long enough to pat his face dry with the hem of his cloak. Her presence might inspire his music, but it also kept him wrapped in cloak, hat and mask. She might have accepted his face, but he had not.

After tomorrow, it won't matter. Erik bent to his composition again, glad that dinner would take little preparation. He had believed that her silence would give him time to concentrate on his work. Instead, he found himself busy fetching and carrying to make her comfortable. And now that the boat was a bed, they were both essentially island-bound. Erik sighed again and rubbed his aching eyes.

Christine finished her afternoon tea and wandered out to the lake. She sat watching the ripples reflect the glow from above. At first, it had seemed like a wonderful idea to have Erik carry her off to his subterranean home. It felt so much like being rescued from the stultifying swamp of conventional society. Now, she was sitting here with nothing to do, waiting for Erik to bring her books or dinner. If only she were free to sing, the time between now and tomorrow afternoon would pass much more quickly.

She noticed that the boat was gone. Erik was still here; she could hear him laboring over something in the music room. Christine decided to watch him work. She peeked around the doorframe, hoping not to disturb the composer from his work. When her eyes fell on the lavishly draped boat, a smile curved her lips and a little giggle rose in her throat. He was building a bed for her – she had not even thought of where she would sleep overnight.

Erik looked up and Christine quickly swallowed both the smile and the laugh. He did not know a pleased smile from a mocking one or an amazed laugh from a cruel one. She could tell by the wounded look in his eyes (quickly passing into anger) that he did not understand her intentions…and she had no way tell him otherwise.

The rest of the day passed slowly for both of them. After dinner, Erik bowed stiffly to Christine. "If you wish to sleep, I have done my best to make a comfortable bed for you. My composing suite is at your disposal; I will not disturb you there. Goodnight, Mademoiselle." His tone indicated that he had not yet decided to forgive her for her laughter earlier.

Christine retired to her "room" shortly after dinner, wishing only that she could explain and set his mind at ease. Curious as ever, she sifted through the sheet music scattered over the floor, table, and organ. The piece he had been working on was not here. She organized the rest of the music according to which pieces sounded best in her head. Tomorrow she would ask him to play some of them for her. Finally, fatigue overwhelmed her. The beautiful little boat-bed turned out to be quite comfortable.

Over and over, Erik replayed Christine's little smile in his mind. Was she laughing at him? At the bed he had made for her? He had torn the seat from the boat, just for her. It would have to be carefully replaced and all the linens would have to be returned. Pulling the boat from the lake and dragging it into the composing room was no small feat, either. How dare she laugh? Did she expect him to carry a feather mattress and headboard down here for her?

Erik removed his cloak, hat, and mask and settled into the coffin he used for a bed. This was less a dramatic gesture and more a practical one. Erik knew that he was likely to live out his life alone. There would be no one to care for him should he fall ill, and no one to give him a decent burial when he died. In his twentieth year, he had nearly died of pneumonia. Afterwards, he developed a morbid fear of dying and leaving his horrid corpse lying about for some servant or workman to find. That same year he had begun sleeping in the coffin.

How would Christine have reacted if he had offered her his coffin for the night? No, it would never do. So he had done the best he could with what he had on hand. And she had laughed. Erik tossed and turned, unable to sleep. After a while, he gave up on sleep and climbed out of the coffin. He could not sleep with such thoughts swirling in an unquiet mind. The lake beckoned, with its softly rippling multi-colored lights. It was here that Erik often found his peace, beside the dark lake waters. He reclined and watched the reflections dance, but the thoughts wouldn't let him be. She had laughed at him. If she laughed at that, how could he expect her not to laugh at his pathetic history?

Several hours later he sprang to his feet, determined to have this done. He ran into the composition room. Christine was already awake, sitting at the organ, brushing her fingers over the keys. Erik walked up behind her and laid a hand on her shoulder, gently turning her until she faced him fully. There was something strange about her face, it seemed unfocused or hazy – perhaps one of the lanterns was smoking with low quality oil. It was unimportant.

"Christine, sit with me. I am going to tell you everything. And you are freed from your vow of silence. I simply can wait no longer." Erik felt that his voice was coming from a great distance.

Christine took her place at the oaken table with her most studious expression firmly in place. It was the same expression she wore when studying a particularly difficult language lesson or memorizing a difficult aria. Erik savored it for a moment before beginning to speak.

In a torrent of misery, he told her everything. He described his rejection at birth, his few precious years with Hannah, and his mother's ultimate betrayal. When he spoke of the hundred francs changing hands, he chanced to look up from the tabletop. Christine's face had twisted into an expression of disgust. His breath caught in his throat.

She stood slowly and walked towards the doorway. At the last moment she spun and faced him.

"You have done nothing but lie to me since the first moment you spoke to me. First you were an Angel, then you were the Opera Ghost. After that I thought you were a man, but now you are telling me that you are… nothing. You are less than nothing! You're a freak! A thing that dragged itself in off the streets!" Her cruel words echoed around the soundshells. She turned and ran.

Erik jumped up to pursue her, but the table was in his way, and he couldn't seem to maneuver in the suddenly tiny space. By the time he forced his way out the door, panting with rage and hate and sorrow, she was gone.