Erik ran towards the lake, his feet lightly floating over the stone flagging. From the shore he could see the little boat floating towards him from the center of the lake. When it bumped against the dock, he peered over the edge at Christine who lay on the bed he had made for her, quiet and still as death. Lying in state in her little boat, her lovely face gleaming and dead pale, like the Lady of Shallott.

"Christine?" She did not stir, did not answer. "Please wake, Christine…"

Her lips were blue, her chest did not rise. Her chest…there was blood…she'd been shot! Screams tore themselves from Erik's throat, her name echoed in his ears. He could not stop calling her name, as though he could wake her up. Wake up…

And then the corpse moved its blue lips and spoke,

"Erik. My Angel. It's alright, I am here."

Erik's eyes snapped open. At first he thought her dead face hovered over him, but then his sense of place and time returned to him. He was still in his coffin. Christine, very much alive, was bending over him. She was holding his hand in both of hers and patting it, calling his name repeatedly, trying to wake him from his nightmare. The lantern that normally hung over the organ lit the black room. Relief stole the strength from Erik's limbs. He could not even be embarrassed that she had seen him in the coffin. Her expression was worried, not twisted in contempt. She had not disappeared. Most importantly, she was not dead. He would rather she spat in his face and called him a monster a thousand times than see her still, pale, dead face.

Erik slowly sat up, trying desperately to shake off the chilling effects of the dream. Christine stopped patting his hand, but did not let go. He was so cold! She wrapped his long thin hand in both of hers, gently chafing it to warm it.

"You were screaming in your sleep. You worried me." Her voice was still pitched low, soothing.

"I'm sorry I woke you." Erik stood, drawing her up with him. He allowed himself to caress her creased brow in an attempt to smooth away the worried look. Quickly, he donned his mask and cloak, silently marveling that she could look directly at him with such gentle concern and even hold his hand while his cursed face was visible. That she could tolerate it was no reason to force her to look upon it. Now he needed to get her out of his bedroom and away from his coffin.

He scooped up the lantern and very gently escorted Christine from the room. He led her to the kitchen where he pulled bread and butter from the cabinets. He could tell from the look in her eye that neither of them would get any more sleep this night. She looked worried, yes, but she also looked frightened – and the familiar curiosity underlay both worry and fear.

Christine watched Erik go through the mundanities of slicing and serving bread and butter. How could he behave so normally? He had just screamed her awake while sleeping in a coffin, and now he was serving bread and butter – and building a fire in the stove to put the kettle on. He had put on his mask and cloak the way some gentlemen would put on their shoes of a morning. She'd felt a twinge of regret mingled with the reflexive relief as he hid himself beneath papier-mâché and sable. His face was a horror, but it was becoming a beloved horror. At least he was not hustling her back to her apartment for breaking her promise of silence.

They sat, silently munching bread. Erik studied Christine while Christine immersed herself in the complexities of the leaf-and-rose pattern of the china saucer. Her silence lasted while he boiled water and steeped the tea. She did not look up or speak until he poured her cup and calmly asked if she would care for sugar or cream.

"What happened in your nightmare?" Christine stirred her tea, watching the clouds of cream gradually turn the black liquid a pale brown.

"It was nothing." Don't ask me, Christine. Please.

"You were screaming my name. You were calling for me." She would not look at him. The image of his body lying in a coffin assaulted her memory.

"I am sorry I disturbed you. I am unaccustomed to overnight guests."

"Why do you sleep in a coffin?" Christine never changed her tone of voice, never looked up.

Erik sat back in his seat. She would give him no peace until he satisfied her curiosity. Sunlight was filtering through the grate, bouncing off the water; faint natural light graced the complex architecture which supported the immense opera house. There were chores to be done before the day could begin. She would just have to amuse herself for a couple of hours.

"You could not possibly under…" Her brow creased, her mouth tightened – clearly, he was heading down a dangerous path. Her curiosity was insatiable; she would not be put off or dismissed. "I see that delaying until this evening is useless. I promised you my story, as wretched a thing as it is, and I will fulfill my promise. Allow me time to douse and fill the lanterns and take care of a few other necessities. Since you have broken your silence at last," here he glared at her with mock-severity, "you may go to the organ and warm up that delightful instrument of yours. I will join you as soon as I may."

Christine heard the unspoken command. Don't wander around. She made use of the water-closet and freshened up with the water in the basin. Once she felt more herself, she went to the organ and sat down, instantly regretting declining the chapel organist's invitation for lessons. Straightening, she began to run through her breathing exercises, lip trills, consonant and vowel production. She ran through her scales absentmindedly, before launching into the pitch exercises, which were her favorites. Pitch exercises allowed her to free her voice and her imagination. She sang wordlessly for the sheer joy of producing beautiful sound.

Erik went about his work with an Angel's voice in his ears. He hummed softly, harmonizing with her scales, singing counterpoint to her wild song. The sound of their blended voices started a fire within him. The feelings that stirred now were not innocent or pure. He remembered her lips on his, the feel of her weight in his arms, the look in her eyes when she had forced him to accept her declaration of love against his better judgement. Erik wanted to see that look again, feel her body against his, her mouth against his. Disgusting, he thought, where is your shame? He willed himself to think only of her voice and the task of filling the few remaining lamps.

After the lamps were filled, he went in search of lunch. His story would take quite some time to tell; it would not do to disappoint and starve her. Christine's voice stayed with him, even as he ascended into the Opera Populaire. Had his mind not been hazy with desire, he would have seen the prone body of a young man lying against a dead end at the beginning of the labyrinth. As it was, he could think of nothing but Christine and so missed Raoul entirely.

When he returned from foraging and put his basket in the kitchen, better than two hours had passed. Christine was silent; it was unwise to overuse one's voice. He rounded the corner and felt his mouth go dry. For a moment, reality and his nightmare meshed. She was sitting at the organ, absentmindedly running her fingers over the keys. Unlike his dream, she heard the scrape of his shoe on the stone and turned to face him, smiling.

"I thought you would never come back." She left the piano bench to shyly take his hands in hers. "Have you finished your tasks?"

Erik lifted her right hand and kissed it. "I am at your service entirely, Mademoiselle."

"Is that so, Monsieur? Then I believe you have a promise to fulfill."

Erik's smile melted away. His eyes darkened with a sorrow Christine could not fathom. "Are you sure you would not rather know me only as your Angel of Music?"

"I know you as Erik. Nothing you tell me could change that."

"Do not be so sure of that. I've seen many a socialite fall from grace when a dubious history is revealed."

Incredibly, Christine laughed. "You are hardly a socialite…"

"No. I suppose not. Before I begin, would you perform a great kindness and sing with me?"

"It would be an honor. What would you like to sing?"

"Something new." Erik looked at the neatly arranged stack of scores. His favorite was on top. "I see you've had a look at my work. Did you read through 'Le Prisonnier'?"

"I did. That is why it is on top of the stack. It is powerful; if you had not suggested it, I would have."

Erik opened a valve and stoked the little steam engine that pumped air into the bellows. Christine reflected that in the chapel an altar boy worked the pumps. Erik must be terribly clever, she thought, how long did it take him to build such a cunning device? Once the air was flowing nicely, Erik sat down and set the stops. He was moving slowly, not wanting this sweet interlude to end. Finally he struck the first chord of the aria.

"You have sung for me, Christine. Now, sing with me…" His fingers touched the keys tenderly; the haunting strains of his newest work filled the room. Erik's voice rose, weaving through the melody, low, soft, rich and full. Since the night of her father's funeral, Christine had had few opportunities to hear Erik sing. Never since then had she heard him sing to perform, to please. She was a mere untaught child at the time, and he was younger. His voice had matured. It was melted buttered toffee, it was liquid chocolate, it was silk on bare skin…it was in her mind, spreading a languid heat through her. Christine wavered on the verge of a swoon. Only the desire to hit her cue kept her from melting onto the bench next to him.

He sang, and the words came home to her. This was not some faceless, long dead composer. This was living, breathing art unfiltered by the stilted interpretation of some disconnected intermediary. She heard her Angel's voice soar, singing the lines that signaled her character's cue:

"…chained to steel and stone

this prisoner entreats thy mercy,

throws himself on thy uncertain mercy…"

Christine sipped a breath, sung back in dulcet tones;

"Pitiful creature!

The heavens have heard

your wretched cries

and sent an angel,

dark angel,

to aid you."

Then the duet, their voices blending like fiery sun and soft breeze;

Prisoner: "Dark Angel, I welcome thee,"

Dark Angel: "Only one mercy can I grant,"

Prisoner: "loose me from the earthly coil."

Dark Angel: "the blessed gift of eternal sleep."

As the last notes reverberated and faded, Christine sat beside Erik and wrapped her arm through his. Only months before, he would have turned rigid with fear at her gentle touch. In the wake of their song, he welcomed her touch and even took her hand. For a long, sacred moment, neither moved nor spoke.