Christine and Erik stood silent and watched as Phillippe joined the priest and carried his brother from the room. When the door closed, Christine locked it and leaned her forehead against it; savoring the cool, smooth wood against her hot skin. She closed her eyes and pressed her fists against the door until the beveled wood bit painfully into her knuckles. That physical pain was preferable to what lay behind her. If she turned around, she would have to see the blasted mirror, the glass sprayed across the floor, the dark stain on the reclining couch, and Erik. She needed more strength before she could face all that destruction and before she could begin to consider how Erik's life had been upended.

Long ago, when she was only a little girl, her Angel of Music had warned her never to let her social entanglements interfere with her music. Now her 'social entanglement' had cost Erik his home and very nearly taken his life. In her memory, she saw Raoul convulsing on the couch and tasted bile rising in the back of her throat.

Phillippe had charged Erik with responsibility for Raoul's death. Christine knew the truth. She was the murderer – not Erik. If only she'd had the courage to tell Raoul plainly that she was not interested in his suit long ago. If she'd done that, he might be laughing with some winsome countess's daughter behind her fan right now, instead of dead in his brother's arms.

Christine forced herself to acknowledge that she was the calm and untouched center this maelstrom swirled around. She had enjoyed Raoul's attentions, even if she had not liked the man, himself. She had never been plain with him, even though there was no question that she might marry him. She'd been too busy enjoying the attentions of a wealth, handsome young man.

Worse, she had exposed Erik's secrets by calling to him before it was time, knowing he would come. She had stayed with him long enough to cause concern to the entire opera house, twice. She had expected him to answer to her every whimper - and he had. This horrendous mess was entirely her fault.

At first, all Erik could do was fight to regain his breath. The confrontation with the Vicompte had gone better than he had imagined it could. He had come to the surface, stood before other people, and was still alive to recount the experience. All it had cost him was his home. Where he would go, what he would do: these were insignificant questions when held up next to the fact that he and Christine were still alive and relatively unharmed.

This thought directed his gaze to where she leaned heavily against the door, her eyes closed and her hands fisted. Her stance spoke of the heavy weight of grief and anger. He remembered with a blaze of proud joy the moment she claimed him as hers, saying out loud that she loved him in front of all those people. She wasn't ashamed of him as his mother had been; she did not hide her friendship with him as Leslie had. She stood by him throughout the entire ordeal, never wavering in her devotion.

Erik walked over and stood behind her. Countless times she had touched him tenderly to comfort him; now he wanted to comfort her and found himself hesitant. Never, in all the time since he had been revealed as a flesh-and-blood man, had he dared initiate physical contact. It felt like sacrilege to even consider laying his imperfect hands on her seraphic perfection. His hand hovered over her mussed curls for several long seconds before it finally descended in a loving caress. It was bliss to touch her, no matter the circumstances.

"Christine, are you…" he was not sure what he wanted to ask her. Of course she was not alright. She had just watched her suitor die an agonizing death in her parlor. But what else could he say?

She spoke softly and flatly without turning around or lifting her head

"I killed him, Erik, and I've betrayed you. How can you stand to touch me? You've lost everything, been driven out of your beautiful home, and it's my fault."

"Your fault? You set no traps, you did not summon your suitor to your 'rescue'." He laughed his gentle, rich laugh. "And I haven't lost everything. Unless the Vicompte was wrong."

"What?" She could not follow his logic.

"He was under the assumption that you would be leaving with me." Erik's smile deepened. He firmly turned her away from the door. "And I believe it was you who asked that I let you come with me, wherever I go, correct?"

"What good will that do us? I'll go with you, Angel, if you still want me, but where? Where will we live? What will we do for money? We could sell my father's violin. We could…maybe… find that ring and sell it. Other than that, I have nothing – I haven't even got a home or family to return to. And you…" Her voice trailed off. Erik had family still living. She had heard of the Vallieres; there were tales that they occasionally attended the opera. Erik could not return to them, though. Officially, he was dead. "You would probably find a place to make your own. If I came with you, I would be nothing but a burden and a bother."

Christine's questions were legitimate. If he left the opera, and she followed him, they would have to go somewhere – survive somehow. He would survive – he always did. But she had never known a life of want. No sooner had he begun to seriously consider these sobering questions, than he began to laugh secretively.

"Christine, I have something to show you. Come with me."

Taking her hand in his, he pulled her once more into the passageways. As they walked, he hummed excitedly to himself. Christine cast the occasional disbelieving glance in his direction. How could he be so happy? She flailed around in her mind, trying to think of some way the two of them could survive expulsion from the Opera Populaire. Without money, family, or friends outside the opera house, the picture looked very bleak to her. Erik was entirely unacquainted with the outside world; that was the only explanation for his levity. Or maybe the blood loss from his wound, the encounter with Raoul, and the confrontation with the police had completely unmoored his tenuous hold on reality.

With bubbling glee, Erik limped through the hallways, crossed the maze, and poled the boat across the lake. He helped Christine out, his eyes twinkling, and led her into his house, down the hallway, finally coming to a stop at the locked door.

"Wait here." As he walked jauntily into his bedroom, Christine could have sworn she heard him giggle.

"Erik, what is going on?" Her voice held just an edge of annoyance.

He reappeared smiling, waving an iron key under her nose.

"Go ahead, open it." He thrust the key into her hand and gestured to the door.