A/N: Thank you for the wonderful reviews – I'm sorry if I'm not always able to respond privately (and with my other stories too). Just know that your feedback means the world to me! :)

And now, who's ready for a night at the opera…?

XXI

.

Christine sent a fretful glance toward the mantel clock that showed only twenty-seven minutes remained until the overture would begin. She tugged on silk gloves that reached past her elbows, a perfect match in color to her evening attire. With the most modest of bustles gathered elegantly at the back and the shortest train allowed – (she had no wish for a careless foot to trod upon her skirts) – the lush crimson velvet boasted a deep neckline, leaving her shoulders bared. Perhaps a bizarre choice to have made for the season, now that the weather had taken a drastic nosedive toward glacial, but her fur wrap would keep her warm.

With nothing more to accomplish until the moment came to depart, she stared at the door and dismally wondered if perhaps the elusive Count had changed his mind. He should have returned by now, to change into evening attire befitting of the opening night of the holiday opera. Yet, as often was the case, he had not made an appearance all day.

Each forward movement of the long, scrolled hand on the clock's face caused Christine's heart to sink a little lower. When a knock came at the door, she jumped in mild alarm, so fixated on time's advance she had paid little attention to all else.

A dignified looking man stood outside in a gray frock coat that boasted two rows of brass buttons. He doffed his tall polished hat and gave her a nod of polite deference.

"Good evening, my lady. My name is Jarvis. I was instructed to drive you to the opera house, if you would be so kind as to accompany me to the carriage."

"Oh, but…" Just short of stating that she awaited her husband, Christine realized Erik must have sent this driver. Yet reminded of her frightful altercation with the well-dressed hooligan who accosted her in the alley, she raised a doubtful brow. "The Count arranged this?"

"Oui, Madame. He said I was to give you this note." He withdrew a sealed missive from within his coat and handed it over to her.

The red circle of sealing wax had been stamped with what she recognized as Erik's family coat of arms, bearing the dragon with roses entwined around it. Curious, she broke the seal and unfolded the note, recognizing her husband's looping script:

"My dear Countess,

It is with regret that I must inform you a matter of some import has prevented me from accompanying you to tonight's opera. I have arranged for a carriage to take you there, the driver of which will bear this note and goes by the name of Jarvis. Enclosed you will find a ticket to the box I have purchased for your viewing pleasure.

I remain, sincerely yours,

Erik cel Tradat

What matter of importance must he tend to this late in the evening? The only business she knew that he had in Paris related to the Opera House. She looked at the ticket enfolded within. A trickle of confusion – in trying to place something she should know – briefly supplanted the disappointment not to have him with her at tonight's performance…

Box 5

Why should that spark a distant flame of recognition?

"My lady, I would suggest that we leave soon, so I may deliver you to the theatre before the opera begins."

"What…?" Steeped in trying to resurrect forgotten memories, she shook her head slightly to clear it. "Oh. Yes, yes of course. Thank you, Jarvis."

Reassured that this man meant her no harm, Christine gathered her white fur wrap around her shoulders and slipped her ticket inside the glass-beaded reticule she wore dangling from her wrist, then followed the coachman outdoors to the waiting carriage.

Once seated, she almost changed her mind about going. It was unheard of to attend the opera by oneself, and surely would set tongues to wagging, not that she cared so much about the gossip. She was accustomed to whispers not meant for her ears and haughty glances intended for her notice. Rather it was the thought of sitting all alone that made her despondent. Yet if she must endure an evening of solitude, she would prefer it to be with an audience at the opera than to sit one more hour with her own company in the hotel suite.

With only three blocks to travel, the drive was short, Jarvis attentive in his assistance as he bid her a pleasant evening.

Lingering behind an elderly couple and their two daughters, Christine hoped to be counted as one of their party. She walked up the wide terrace of outside stairs and past two doormen stationed one on each side of the open double doors. Neither employee, both of whom she knew by name, paid her any heed, and she wondered if in her evening regalia she truly looked so changed as to go unrecognized.

The foyer had been gaily lit by gas lamps with no expense spared to illuminate the massive area with golden warmth to rival the daylight. Small groups of elegantly dressed theatre-goers, the women bedecked in gowns of pastels and glorious jewel-tones, the men in dignified black tails and white tie, flocked together in polite conversation, greeting one another with smiles and nods.

Once she checked in her cape at the cloak room, Christine took the middle staircase, at the top of which two more sets of stairs ascended upward, one to the east balcony and one to the west, where the wealthiest of the opera attendees had secured private boxes for the season. Stationed at the foot of each set of stairs, an usher in a resplendent red uniform with gold buttons and epaulets stood ready to answer questions and be of whatever help was required. As Christine came abreast of the usher stationed near the eastern staircase, a white-haired man of some advanced years, he finished issuing directions to a couple inquiring about their seats.

"Mademoiselle Daaé?"

Inwardly she winced before turning a smile of greeting his way as the couple moved past her and up the stairs.

"Hello, Monsieur Roget."

"It is you!" He narrowed curious eyes at her elegant attire. "I heard you left Paris several weeks ago."

"Yes, well, I'm only here visiting." She recalled what Erik told her, that the name cel Tradat which she now owned would move barriers, but she was not yet ready to share news of her wedded state with those who rarely treated her with civility. The absence of a new bridegroom could only invite speculation she had no wish to encounter. Added to that, this man was an acquaintance of La Carlotta, who in this past year had suddenly noticed Christine and turned on her with waspish little barbs to trouble her days.

"And attending the opera, so I see," he inserted with a hint of gruff disbelief, his pale blue eyes suspicious. "It is odd to find you on this side of the stage, mademoiselle." His manner became disapproving, as if scolding an errant child. "You know as well as I that these stairs lead exclusively to the box seats. I cannot allow anyone to pass who has no ticket."

She sighed, wishing she could have slipped by his notice as she had with the doormen.

"The managers would applaud your diligence, monsieur, but I assure you, I do have a ticket."

She held it up, but to her dismay, he snatched it from her gloved hand before she could lower her arm.

His brows rose to his hairline as he glanced down at the small rectangle of paper. "Box Five?"

"Yes," she said, wary of his surprise.

"Ha – and I suppose you're to be a guest of the Ghost!"

"Pardon?"

At her evident confusion, he shook his head distantly as if at a bad memory. "It was many years ago, long before you came to live here. Long before you were born. I was a strapping young lad who ran errands for the managers. We had a ghost in the theatre – the Opera Ghost, some called him. Others called him a demon and a troublemaker, though a Phantom is what he was."

He chuckled, his words sparking in Christine a memory of her own youth. Madame Giry did her best to keep little ears from hearing what they oughtn't and spreading tales, but couldn't curb the theatre children's morbid glee for sharing ghostly legends among their peers. One story that the boys especially liked to frighten the little girls with was the murderous exploits of the terrible Phantom of the Opera, who roamed the theatre over half a century ago. She had assumed it was only a ghost story, as all the rest were, but Monsieur Roget's account seemed to mark it as true. If he could be believed and wasn't only trying to unnerve her. In all likelihood, he was also once a boy who delighted in frightening the girls with fictional tales of horror.

"I really don't recall…" she started, wishing to snatch her ticket back and locate her seat.

"He issued demands to the managers. If they didn't obey, he created havoc at the rehearsals. Falling props, ghostly bellows from above, candles blowing out for no apparent reason – and when the weeks-old corpse of a chorus member was found in the third cellar, he received the blame for that too."

She couldn't repress a little shiver. "I don't see what this has to do with my ticket."

"Ah, but mademoiselle – Box Five was his private box, at least that was his command. And woe to them that didn't follow his every direction."

"Box Five?" Now she understood why upon first glancing at the ticket it had seemed familiar, being part of the once-forgotten ghost tale of her childhood. "I see…what happened to him?" she asked, uncertain she wanted to know.

"Disappeared back into Hades, some said, or whatever resting ground ghosts inhabit. Others say it was one of the disgruntled workers, unhappy with his pay and extorting the managers for more. Makes sense, as several of them were dismissed not long before the Phantom disappeared. The manager of that time was a miserly sort and often refused the Phantom's demands, much to the regret of all those involved, since they're the ones who suffered..."

From behind the near wall, a brief and disharmonic cacophony of musicians simultaneously readying their instruments could be heard above the melee of muffled discussions in the foyer.

"Well, I wouldn't let it concern you overly much. It all happened a long time ago," he concluded, though Christine sensed it was Monsieur Roget's wish to cause nothing but mischief. He handed her back her ticket, yet when she tried to take it, he did not let go, keeping a firm grip on it. "But should you see a shadow looming near, beware mademoiselle, for ghosts, well, they never die, do they?"

Oh, really! A haunted box? She lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes. "I wasn't aware a ghost could cast a shadow."

He gave a little shrug. "Who's to tell? No one's ever seen the Phantom."

She tugged hard on her ticket, snatching it from his grip, having had enough. As she ascended the marble stairs, she heard him say mockingly after her, "Have a pleasant evening, mademoiselle."

She was almost grateful that Erik wasn't present to hear the absurdity of the staff; he might rethink his decision to become patron to this establishment. Of course, had he been with her, Monsieur Roget might not have been quite so informative with his presumed experience.

Did the gentlemen of her acquaintance think her so gullible as to believe such farfetched nonsense? She had come no closer to believing in the existence of vampyres; she certainly didn't believe in ghosts!

Once she did believe in an angel, and he was no more than a man. There must be a logical explanation for the shenanigans that took place decades ago inside this theatre. An ex member of the crew seemed more likely than a vaporous bit of substance floating around the rafters…

She almost giggled at the image her mind conjured and hesitated only briefly before pulling aside the red velvet drape that concealed the private box selected for her use. The gas lamp on the back of the flocked wall had been dimmed to its lowest flame, but the gas lamps in the main part of the theatre below and the chandelier above brightened the box adequately enough that she could see to move to one of three chairs, upholstered in red velvet, a shade lighter than her gown.

She inhaled a shocked breath before taking the middle chair, astounded to see on the seat next to it a red rose in half bloom and wrapped around its stem, a ribbon of black silk. Beneath it sat a long black velvet box...

Not the ghost of the opera…no, of course not.

Pushing such a foolish notion aside, her real concern was that she had been so immersed in thoughts of phantoms that she somehow found her way into the wrong box. It was quickly relieved when she hurried to look at the small gold plaque affixed near the curtain that proclaimed this was indeed Box Five…and in that knowledge, she knew the gift must be for her and who it was from.

She returned to her seat and curiously picked up the rose, inhaling its sweet aroma and fingering its petals of velvet a moment before laying it aside to open the box.

Gasping softly to see the shimmer of rubies and diamonds, with fingers that trembled Christine lifted a necklace by its festooned double chains of gold and admired its exquisite composition. Round rubies and diamonds formed graceful bows and flowers on each chain, identical to either side, at five points connecting the two chains together and forming four elegant loops. The largest ruby, in the shape of a teardrop, was surrounded by tiny diamonds and dangled from the center. Undoubtedly of great expense, it was stunning, and she could scarcely believe this luxury was meant for her.

Certainly they could not be made of paste – the jewels were too vivid, too clear – and she doubted the Count would accept anything less than authenticity in anything he possessed.

But why? Why had he given her such a gift when he desired only polite companionship? Nor did the lovely red rose suggest any form of distance…

"The jewels would look even lovelier cascading around your neck than they do dangling from your fingertips."

At the first syllables of that dark velvet voice, Christine broke from her puzzled inspection and spun around in her seat in stunned surprise. He stood in shadow, the light that edged his tall silhouette from behind doused as he moved further into the box and let the curtain drop back into place.

"Erik!"

His name left her lips, as natural as breath, and by the slight inclination of his head toward her he was pleased to hear it.

"You did expect me?" he said in mild amusement. "That was the arrangement, to attend the opera together."

"But your note – you wrote that you couldn't come."

"I wrote that I couldn't accompany you," he corrected, "not that I wouldn't endeavor to make an appearance once my business was concluded."

Whatever reply she might have given stuck in her throat as he moved out of the shadows and into the pale yellow light that illumined the front of their box. He still wore his cloak, and he shed it once he drew near, tossing it to one of the chairs.

Dressed to the nines in black tails and white tie, he wore a black waistcoat, the cut of his clothes tailored to perfection and complementing his tall, lean form, with his ebony hair pulled back in its usual short queue. A pair of black kidskin gloves snugly clad his hands as they often did. But what so abruptly seized her attention was the mask he had chosen to wear this night.

Of gleaming white porcelain, it had been fashioned to cover a little over a fourth of his face, curving from the right side of his brow to inches below the cheekbone, leaving his jaw and the other half of his face completely exposed. And though it was rude, Christine could not help but take her first good look at this man who was now her husband. He took the seat to her right, closest to the stage, giving her an uninterrupted view of his left side.

This part of his face was without defect of any kind. Above his lean jaw that held the barest hint of shadow, his cheekbone was set high and his nose straight to the bridge where it met the edge of the mask. His forehead was gently sloped, not too high or too wide, his brow a thick black line over his darkly lashed golden eye. His skin was so pale as to be almost white.

He fairly robbed her of breath…

"You are staring," he said, not looking in her direction, his attention on the closed stage curtain.

"Oh," she said softly, "Pardon. But under the circumstances, can you blame me?"

"That depends. Do you approve of the alteration?"

"Oh, yes, most definitely."

Her enthused response earned her the twist of a half smile and his full attention. He glanced down at the jewels still draped from her hands.

"The necklace does not please you?"

"Oh - but it does! It is quite lovely, as is the rose."

He nodded once in satisfied acknowledgement. "Is it not customary to wear such a piece around one's neck?" he teased lightly.

"Oh, yes – if you would, please." Before she could lose courage, Christine pushed the jewels into his hand and turned away from him, presenting him with her back, her long curls, which she usually wore down, swept up and pinned atop her head.

His hesitation was unnerving and she filled the thick silence with words. "It is very kind of you to present me with so beautiful a gift, and I am grateful. But why did you?"

"Why?" His question came so soft, as almost not to be heard. "Did you not tell me that yesterday marked the anniversary of your birth?"

"Yes, but – you have given me so much already."

The trickle of the cool stones set in gold cascaded across her skin from collarbone to just above her bosom as he brought the necklace over her head and around her neck to fasten it.

"As my Countess, that is something to which you must grow accustomed. I do not lack for wealth; it is my privilege to spend it on you."

His leather-clad fingertips moved from the clasp to brush against the side of her neck, making her shiver at the sudden wave of warmth his action provoked. Faintly she felt his breath at her nape, reminding her of that mystical night in the fog - when suddenly the orchestra blazed to life and the globes of the gas lamps all around were dimmed.

He drew back and she pivoted around in her seat, half in regret at the interruption and wondering if he might have extended the moment beyond a touch.

Did he truly wish only for simple friendship, when his actions frequently contradicted such resolve? Or perhaps that is what he believed she wanted.

The idea bore consideration and she thought back to the morning of his proposal…

A light overture began as below their box tardy attendees hastened to their seats. Soon the curtains opened, whisking one to each side and revealing the players onstage as the first of three acts began. The opéra-comique was designed as a light bit of nonsense for the holiday season, to generate laughter through clever lines and bawdy actions and not entice awe through music and singing, with more recitatives than arias. The tale told of a quarrelsome pair, a gamekeeper and his young wife, and the wealthy baron who took continual advantage of their frequent sparring to come between them with his little intrigues that soon put the whole village in an uproar.

Throughout the first act, though she never looked away from the stage and he never once moved to touch her, Christine felt Erik with every fiber of her soul. Sitting so close, though no part of their bodies touched save for her skirts against his trouser leg, she felt expectant for what he would not allow and flustered for the same reason.

Once the intermission arrived, she spoke the first thing that came to mind, hoping to break the wretched tension, hoping he could not read into her thoughts as he so often did…

"Meg did well. She does so love to dance."

She looked toward her somber companion who had not once uttered a laugh throughout the performance. Almost brooding, he rapidly tapped his fingers against the scrolled armrest in a unique beat, as if composing his own production.

"The woman who plays the wife…"

"La Carlotta."

"Ah, yes. You spoke of her to me once. She is too old for the role of a young wife, and her voice does not carry well on the high notes."

Christine silently agreed but explained, "She is the lead diva and plays only the star roles."

"Indeed," he mulled to himself. "Perhaps it is time for a change."

A change? She supposed he had some influence over the managers, being as he was a new patron, but who in this theatre was good enough to step into the lead diva's shoes?

He turned to regard her where she sat with gloved hands clasped in her lap.

"Would you care for some refreshment?"

"Thank you, but…" She watched the mass exodus toward the doors. "I don't suppose you would care to join the other guests in the foyer?"

It was foolish to ask, of course, since from all she knew of the Count, he rarely socialized, if at all, and she hoped he would decline.

"No, but if you should wish to stretch your legs…"

She had no idea what he would propose, but piped up before he could finish the thought.

"Yes, I would. And I know precisely where I would like you to take me."

"Oh?" he said warily, perhaps having thought he would remain in his chair while she went off alone.

Christine had given the matter a great deal of reflection since she learned that he was her Angel of Music. There were still questions that begged to be resolved.

"I want to stand where you stood, when you gave me lessons in the chapel. I want to see the place where you hid."

x

It was a moment before Erik responded.

"I cannot see the point of such a venture. Perhaps you would rather visit your friend?"

"Meg will be much too busy with costume changes, and I would only be in the way. Please don't refuse me."

He sighed. "The way will be littered with cobwebs, the path dusty even damp. Certainly not befitting to traipse about in that evening gown and mar your lovely appearance."

It was the first he had mentioned her endeavor to look the part of his Countess, and a little coyly she asked, "You think me beautiful?"

"You know you are."

His words held a trace of warmth tempered with resignation, as if it were a bad thing. She gave him a faint smile of confusion.

"Then I am pleased I meet with your approval. This is my first opera to attend as a member of the audience and not a chorus girl peeking from the wings or behind the curtains backstage. This life of yours, it is all so new to me." She shook her head as if a bit dazed. "But I do vow to be careful with the gown. While we are here, I should really like to see this place where you met with me, as this may be my only chance."

At her childlike promise, the Count studied her curiously. What an odd girl she was, and what a stunning beauty! She seemed unaware of her admirable traits – the graceful, womanly curves adorned by the blood-red velvet gown, her eyes shining as dark as a night sky and as bright as the stars that filled it, her rosy smile and the gleaming ringlets that whispered against flushed cheeks – but he was all too aware and had been since he first sat down beside her.

Her request was simple, the gown hers to do with as she pleased; he had no true reason to refuse… and to his benefit, the damp, musty environs would surely help inhibit passions that could not be given vent to stir.

Swiftly he stood, offering his hand to assist her to her feet. "Then let us depart. We should not tarry, lest we miss the beginning of the second act, though I sense it would be no great loss."

"You do not like tonight's performance?"

"I prefer the more dramatic works."

"Yes, I remember. But then, why did you wish to come here tonight?"

"I recalled from our previous conversation that you favor these bits of comedic gibberish."

She smiled at his wry description and taking his hand, rose to stand before him. His betraying eyes were drawn to the abundant view of cleavage and her long, slender waist – lifting forcefully to the necklace at her throat that adorned flawless, creamy skin, and still higher to the vein that gently throbbed in the graceful column of her neck...

Earlier his lips almost brushed that spot, though he possessed enough control not to bite her. Not here…not now…

Never.

Christine gasped as the Count firmly pulled her by the hand he still held and set off at a rapid pace to parts unknown, grabbing his cloak as he swept by it. She clutched one hand to her skirts to lift them, hurrying her steps to keep up with his long, relentless strides. Her slippers were low-heeled, but the pinch of the new and tightly laced corset served as a reminder that she was hardly dressed for a trot through the corridors.

"Erik – please…"

At her breathless appeal, he slowed his pace but did not look back. She wondered at his mercurial shift of mood from cordial companion to dour stranger, much as he'd behaved when she'd been lost in the fog and he practically dragged her back to Montmarte.

"Erik –"

"Silence." He turned his head aside. "I have no wish to be detected," he explained softly. She nodded and resigned herself to wait.

They stopped for no apparent reason at the gold-flocked wall, and he looked over his shoulder before running his fingertips along one edge. To her shock, there was a click and the wall became a door, swinging inward.

She peered into absolute darkness, holding back. Noting her hesitation, he grabbed a candle from a five-pronged candlestick on a nearby table and lit the wick with one of the gas lamps bracketed above it. The flame fluttered madly in its struggle to remain stable but at last weakly held fast. He handed the candle over to her, and she cupped one hand around its meager light, thankful to see it grow a little stronger and brighter. With his hand to her back, he gave her a gentle push, hurrying her inside and closing the door behind them.

The corridor behind walls was much too narrow for them to walk side by side comfortably, and he edged past her and led the way, keeping a steady pace, as she followed. Christine wondered, since she held the candle, how Erik could even see to know where he was going and not falter or stumble. The light barely glanced off his back and to the sides of each wall of stone.

She had only ever heard of these concealed corridors, but he had not been exaggerating about the wretched condition of the path, though thankfully the ground was dry. Cobwebs hung a short distance above their heads, and any that hung lower, he swatted aside before leading her further. They took a turn, the corridor widening marginally and slowly descending until it leveled out again, then walked for some time before he came to a stop and turned. He glanced at her face before opening a small trap door fastened to the wall. Even with her low heels, it was too high to see and she stood on the tips of her toes in vain to reach it. He stood very tall and the holes in the wall reached the level of his eyes.

In disappointment she scanned what she could see of their surroundings.

"I don't suppose there's something for me to stand on?"

"You will not find furnishings here," he said dryly.

"No, I didn't mean a chair…" She turned to the wall to look at the ground. "Perhaps a flat rock? After coming all this way, I do so wish to see -"

Her words were cut off as the short train of her gown was kicked aside and his large hands clamped about her waist, lifting her without effort as if they were in a ballet. In her surprise, she dropped the candle, the flame whisking out as it hit the ground and cast them into utter darkness.

"Oh," she whimpered, lowering her head and planting her palms to the wall, trying not to let old girlhood fears overtake her.

"Christine?" he urged softly when she remained frozen. "Are you alright? Did I hurt you?"

"No, I…" She pressed her fingertips harder to the stone, not wishing to relay yet another bit of childish foolishness – he already knew her fear of violent, deep water – but she saw no way around it. "The darkness...it frightens me."

At the waver of her words, she felt him draw closer, bringing his arms back slightly while stepping forward. Felt the chill of his hard body that was no match to the chill of this chamber, but somehow felt warmed by it.

"Look through the opening, Christine, so that we may return to watch the opera."

His voice was fluid silk, reassuring in its calmness, and she lifted her head and craned slightly forward, gasping to see.

Moonlight streamed in through the large stained glass window and washed the chapel in an ethereal blue-white glow, dimmer splashes of crimson, green and gold coming from those panes and pooling on the bench seat and floor. From this vantage point she could see the memorial stand of candles a short distance away, before which she once stood, sat, and knelt while her Angel told her stories and taught her…her Angel…this man who had stood here once, looking through the holes that she did, and now held her within his strong grasp.

Her breathing quickened with a sense of awed awareness that surely must be felt beneath his hands.

"Have you satisfied your curiosity?" he asked quietly.

"What…," she whispered, lightheaded, and trying to give words meaning. "…oh, yes. Yes, I have."

He lowered her feet to the ground, and she braced her hands against the wall, using it as a guide to turn and face him. It hardly mattered. Everywhere she looked was no more than pitch darkness, the peephole too small to allow for moonlight to filter into the forgotten corridor.

"You must think me foolish to want to come here," she began and nervously laughed, more as a vain effort to quell her fear than to make conversation. "And now we have no light to lead the way, and for that I am to blame. I tend to act impulsively, even rashly, but you already know that –"

They had not even a scrap of light to see, and she gasped the last word out as with unerring precision, he laid the pads of two of his fingers gently against her lips to halt her pathetic attempt at an apology. She shivered at the touch of cool leather against her skin.

"Enough," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. She heard his coat rustle and in the next moment, the candle was placed into her hand. "Hold it upright."

"But – why? Do you carry a matchbox?"

"Always so full of questions," he said in wry amusement, a trace of affection in his tone.

In the next instant, a small blaze of fire fizzed and lit the area above her fisted hand, igniting the wick. She gasped to see his fingers wave in the end of a flourish across the top of the flame – empty of a match.

"B-but how?"

"I am many things, Christine. A musician is only one of them."

"You are a magician then? Is that how you made your voice come from all around the room when I was a child?"

His lips twisted in a smile, the lower part of his face illumined by the candle, the upper half lost in shadow, though his eyes glowed as if lit from within.

"You are a curious creature."

"I did warn you on the train."

His gaze lowered to her bare shoulders and he frowned. "You are trembling. Are you still frightened?"

"No. Only a bit cold."

He whisked his cloak from over his shoulder where he had draped it and brought it around her body, fastening the clasp at her throat. She shivered anew from the accidental brush of his gloved fingers against her bare skin. Flustered and at a loss with these feelings that surged through her and had ever since they arrived to this place, ever since he touched her tonight, since he first touched her what seemed ages ago, she stared at the flame of the candle and sought for something intelligent to say.

"I wish you would have somehow let me know you were a man then. I think, perhaps, I was more afraid that you were not. As the angel I thought you, I was often anxious that I would make a mistake and anger you."

"I can see no disadvantage in that," he countered. "I had your eternal compliance."

Her eyes snapped up to his, not amused.

"It was wicked to deceive me."

"And as you have seen by now, wicked is the composition of all that I am."

She shook her head, uncertain why he would think such a false thing when he had been to her a savior more than once. Certainly he could be cruel and act aloof and be too stubborn at times, but wicked he was not.

This merry-go-round would get them nowhere.

"I suppose I should be grateful that at least you weren't the Phantom."

"What?" He went completely motionless, though his eyes burned, alive with the question.

"The Phantom of the Opera. I was told that he haunted this theatre long before either of us was born, more than half a century ago. Ghostly tales were shared among the crew and cast about his exploits, though none have ever seen him, and he left quite suddenly as he came..." She paused in her pensive account. "Strange, but you and he share some of the same characteristics. Staying well hidden, issuing demands to be met, your preference for Box Five, not to mention arriving and leaving without warning…" She huffed a dry chuckle. "If he should have been the one to come out of the woodwork when I implored my angel to allow me to see him, I would have been frightened indeed. His acts were truly wicked."

He gave no response, only staring at her with those intense eyes of his, muddling her thoughts so that she lost control of her tongue -

"Of course, I don't really believe in ghosts, any more than I believe in vampyres."

His eyes again flared in shock, their glow impossibly growing brighter - and she reasoned it must be a trick of the light, or in this case, the darkness - then realized the words that had slipped out.

"Oh heavens – did I really just say that?" She giggled nervously. "I don't know what I was thinking to say something so bizarre. I don't read literature of that sort." She thought of her ancestor's journal, and blushed with the unintentional lie, rushing to add, "Meg does, but to me, such dreadful stories never appealed."

He continued to stare at her a moment more. "Come," his order was soft. "We must return. The second act will soon commence."

As was often his wont, he chose not to address her words but swiftly changed topic, and for once she was grateful for that irksome habit.

Whatever had made her say such a foolish thing! She certainly had not been thinking of Raoul's fabled creatures of the night at any point this evening. Indeed, since she finished her ancestor's journal, she had scarce given his tiresome ramblings another thought.

By the tiny flame of her candle, Christine followed the towering silhouette of her husband back to the door in the wall covered with thick stone on this side. He halted, putting his hand up for her to stop, and when she got no further than opening her mouth to ask the reason, he abruptly turned, putting his finger to his lips as if sensing she would speak.

When at last he opened the door, she silently welcomed the lit corridor with its clean air and the patterned rug, soft beneath her slippers.

"Why did you wait?" she asked as he took her candle, blew it out and returned it to the table. With the faintest of touches to her elbow he turned her back toward their box.

"Footsteps."

"Footsteps?"

On the corridor's carpet? And he had heard that through a door?

He had told her once that his hearing was acute, as apparently was his eyesight, but this seemed almost otherworldly…

Instantly Christine chided her active imagination, besotted with talk of ghosts and creatures undead, and resolved to concentrate fully on the light opera.

The second act proved as absurd and enjoyable as the first. Erik remained solemn, though at times when the soft laughter bubbled from her lips, she felt his stare turn upon her. Once when that occurred, she flicked her eyes his way, but he did not return her smile, and hastily she looked back to the stage.

Something obviously troubled him.

Before she could inquire at the next intermission, he stood to his feet. "You must be thirsty. I will obtain refreshment. What is your preference?"

She sensed he contrived the errand to put distance between them, but she was thirsty and still felt a chill from their trek within the walls, though she'd kept his cloak around her. "I don't suppose they have mulled wine?"

He lifted his brow in mild surprise at her answer. "You don't wish for champagne or one of the more traditional wines?"

"I would prefer something hot. But I don't suppose they serve such a common drink to distinguished guests? Backstage, it was often made available to the chorus during this time of year. Oh, well, no matter. I'll just take whatever you bring me."

Once he left, she pulled the folds of his cloak further around her and buried herself in his scent, his cologne a heady spice, exotic in nature, along with the lingering traces of candle smoke and ink. The aroma was deliciously warm…whereas he, himself, was always physically so cold. She pondered if it would be rude to ask him the reason for that as well, if he even knew it, but he was clearly still agitated and she did not wish to introduce what might be a sensitive topic.

He did not seem upset when she recalled his time as her Angel. Not until she spoke of the mythical Phantom did he appear disturbed…

But what about ancient ghosts could possibly trouble him?

So absorbed was she in the quandary of the Count, her gaze fixed upon the massive chandelier around which tiers of light chased all shadow away, that she never heard his return. She jumped a little when he suddenly appeared at her elbow.

"Again, I have frightened you." His words were matter-of-fact, neither remorseful nor satisfied. He handed her a wooden mug, and she looked at it with some confusion.

She didn't think the opera would serve liquid refreshment in anything but fine glass. As she took it, she noticed the warmth of the wood and the sweet smell of cinnamon and cloves, and gasped. "Mulled wine! But – how?" Two words she had seemed to ask endlessly, in her mind and aloud, since he first arrived.

"I had business with Madame Giry and happened across this once our meeting concluded."

She took a sip and smiled. The spiced hot wine delighted her tastebuds and warmed her inside. "Thank you," she said softly, once again touched by this thoughtfulness.

He reclaimed his seat and, much to her surprise, began an interesting discourse on the positive and negative views he had gained of the theatre, the latter often bearing one single name – Carlotta. He posed several questions based on Christine's experience there. Relieved that his earlier vexation appeared to have dissipated, she replied with all honesty, holding nothing back.

It was almost with regret that she noticed the lights again dim and the final act begin, having enjoyed their conversation so. As they watched the conclusion of the performance, she found herself sending brief glances Erik's way while his focus remained on the stage.

She had been cross with him for his deceit in masquerading as her Angel and leaving her adrift all those years ago. And yet, because he was no stranger, she felt closer to him than at any time since they met during the night of the pagan festival.

When he had fastened the necklace around her throat, his fingers lingering, her heart had beat out a strong cadence at the heated memory of the night of the ball, the edges of what she'd once thought a dream still murky…yet her body remembered…

Friendship she had extended; he had accepted.

But oh, how she yearned for more.

xXx

A/N: So - the good news is - another chapter of this will be up next week. (I had to split this one in half as it was way too long - well over 10,000 words,) - and the bad news...? What bad news? :) (see, I can be nice...)