Erik

Christine is troubled.

I am a receptive person, and that is the power that feeds my lust to manipulate. God has not given me many of His blessings, but I understand why, because for His benefit I have used none of them. Intuition, for example. My intentions are far different from His. With my intuition I sense emotions; with my intuition I use people. Above most every other emotion, though, I can sense fear. I trained myself to recognise it years ago, when Madeleine's fear of me first became evident. And what I am sensing from Christine now is fear.

"Child, you will never sing properly until you learn to relax."

"I'm sorry, Master," she breathes, and she tries in vain to easy herself, which results in nothing but a stance more rigid and an aura more anxious than before.

I sigh, exasperated. "You will tell me what is wrong, Christine, or we'll never get anything done today."

Her face falls as she hears my impatience, and she nods obediently. "Well," she begins, "I think I'm scared of ghosts."

That's it? My face breaks into a grin. "Is that all?"

She hears the smile through my question, and her face hardens in indignation. "You would be too, if you discovered that there was a ghost very well haunting your house!"

I force the smile from my lips, and though inside I am still laughing, my voice adopts an authoritative tone. "Christine, respect me."

Again she falters. "Forgive me, Angel."

"Now," I encourage. "Why do ghosts frighten you?"

She shrugs her shoulders slightly, her eyes cast downward. "Meg told me storeys about the Phantom of the Opera."

My name. My title. So Christine has finally become indirectly acquainted with the other half of my soul. I have made a conscious effort for the past two years not to cause havoc in Christine's presence; I have never wanted to cause her to fright. Of course it is unavoidable, as she has discovered the existence of the Phantom by a means other than my own doing. I don't know what to think of that, but it fills me with—amusement. And regret. And anger at that regret. But mostly, for now, hearing the wonder in her voice…amusement.

"I didn't want to believe her, but I was so curious! I went to Madame Giry to ask her about it, and she said that he was real, but that if I talked about him too loudly he would get me someday."

I chuckle. "She told you that?"

Christine pauses. "Well, Meg said that she said he'd get Joseph Buquet one day because he talks about him, so I suppose that if I talk about him as well, he may get me one day too. That's what frightens me a little."

My hands grip the violin a bit, and my lips forme a smirk around my set jaw and clenched teeth. Madeleine knows me too well if she knows of my loathing toward Buquet…the pig. "Then I suppose Buquet should learn to hold his tongue."

"Oh," says Christine quietly. She quivers a bit. "Then do you think he will come after us for talking about him?"

"Oh, Christine," I chide lightly, "you have nothing to fear. Don't you believe in me? I will always protect you."

She visibly brightens at this. "Really?"

"Yes. But I can assure you, child, even without my protection you would be safe from the Phantom. Are you frightened of me?"

"Why no," she insists, puzzled.

"Am I any different from a ghost?"

She thinks about this for a moment. "I suppose not, in some ways…but you're a friendly spirit."

I wonder if I am about to completely destroy the image I've worked years to maintain. Do I want to soothe her fears so much that I would risk that? "The Phantom of the Opera should be thought of in a similar manner. As long as you don't hurt him, he will not hurt you. Buquet should fear him not because he talks about him, but because of the things he says about him."

Christine seems to absorb this new information, and I can see the evident relief that settles over her features. "I'm glad." Her face looks distant. "The other ballet girls say Madame Giry knows him."

My curiosity has been piqued throughout the whole conversation, and is heightened even more at this. "Did you enquire her about this claim?"

"I did," she replies, "but she didn't tell me very much. I don't think she was in a very happy mood, otherwise. When I saw her she was nearly crying! She also said that it was acceptable to be sad, which I think is entirely—"

"Madeleine was crying?" I demand, and then realise the stupidity of that action. "Why, I mean to ask, was your mistress crying?"

"She wasn't crying, but she was almost—how do you know her name's Madeleine?" Christine demands.

I pause. Something is terribly wrong, if she was near tears, and that is what caused my outburst. The last time I saw her cry was when she left with—no, it is pointlessly obtuse to think of that day, and of her distastefully moustache'd beau. But what sort of travesty causes her to want to cry now? "I know a great deal more than you might guess," I say gently. "I am your teacher, Christine, and I watch over you…but I watch over Madame Giry as well."

"Do you?" she enquires, her face filling with curiosity, and a measure of possessiveness, which for a moment stuns me. "Do you teach her to sing like an Angel too?"

"Absolutely not," I assure, smiling darkly at the thought, and the memories of the few, short-lived lessons in which I did try to teach her. "You alone, Christine. I only look after her to keep her safe."

"Does she know that you're there? Because sometimes I think she doesn't even believe in the Angel of Music."

How will I answer this? What exactly have my genius antics gotten me into now? "She knows I protect her," I say carefully, and truthfully, "but she does not know that I am the Angel of Music."

"Well why don't you tell her!" exclaims Christine. "Because then she would certainly stop asking me questions about you all of the time." She lowers her voice. "Actually, I think I almost gave our secret away…but it was because she wouldn't stop asking so many questions!"

I close my eyes and exhale slowly, releasing my irritation. Has it come to this already? "What did she ask…and what did you say?"

Christine's face, once again, falls, and I am struck at how greatly my words affect her mood. "Do not be angry, Angel!" she pleads. "I didn't tell her!"

"I know, Christine. I only want to know what was said."

She knits her brow and blinks several times. "She asked me if the Angel had come yet, and if he spoke to me. And she asked me why I never spoke of you or Father anymore. I tried to tell her that you hadn't come, but I felt so horrible lying…oh, I just wish she'd never asked at all! She told me to tell her the truth. I think she knew I wasn't being honest…but if she doesn't even believe in you, then she shouldn't have thought I was being dishonest in the first place!"

I pace slowly back and forth in the narrow corridor, glancing at Christine through the mirror. It is fascinating, really, that I can see her so clearly, but she cannot see me at all. "Do not tear yourself apart over the guilt of a simple lie. You handled the situation correctly, Christine," I whisper. "But you would do well not to mention me again."

She hangs her head, ashamed. "Of course not. Not ever again." Her small white teeth chew at her bottom lip. "But isn't it…isn't it a sin to lie?"

Sin. "A sin against whom?"

Christine scrunches her face. "Against Madame…and against God too!"

I roll my eyes and release an exasperated sigh. Must God have so much importance? "It is a protection in Madame's favour, not a sin against her. And God…." I pause, unsure how to answer. To give her the truth is to admit that her Angel wants nothing to do with his Creator. Fine by me, of course…but it will distort everything she's ever learnt of Angels, and such a contradiction will only fuel disbelief and distrust. "I will tell you this once, Christine, that you may remember it when such circumstances present themselves again: there are greater sins against God than a necessary lie that springs from good intentions."

My pupil meditates on this new divine bit for a moment, and nods importantly, though her newfound revelation does not overwhelm her shame. "I shall not forget that, not ever…and I shall never mention you to Madame again until you instruct me otherwise, Master."

"Good." I cease my pacing. I will think of this later. I have another question yet. "Why, did you say, was Madame Giry crying…or nearly crying, as you said?"

She lifts her head a bit. "I really don't know. She said that sometimes people just need to cry. And she said that it was entirely acceptable to be sad sometimes."

If those were her words, then they are easily to decipher. She was not distraught because of a sudden and specific cause at all. Those are the words of a soul that has hardened itself against pain, but knows its breaking point and will not deny that pain when said point arrives. She is hurting, and she has been hurting for a long, long time. And no doubt, at all, it has something to do with me. At once, though, I shake the thoughts from my head. No. If she is hurting, it is her own fault, and if the blasted woman wanted me to know it, she would have found a way.

I sneer at her obstinacy.

Christine's sweet soprano sweeps me out of my thoughts.

"Angel of Music, why so silent?

"I am prepared; teach me!

"If I've done something wrong, forgive me

"Turn not away, Angel!"

I bring my hand to my malformed lips at her words, so troubled and considerate in her lovely little melody…and immediately drop it, cursing myself for acquiring such a ridiculous stance. Instead of thinking on my own vulnerability when it comes to Christine, I reflect on the effectiveness of my teachings. Her lyrical capabilities have improved so quickly over the months! I am proud of myself, and I sing back to her:

"Christine, oh Christine, guiltless child!

"You've done no wrong, Angel!"

Her eyes close at the sound of my voice, and she presses her lips together in a smile, highlighting her dimples deeply.

As our lesson progresses, Christine's happiness is restored. At the same time, my own is slowly fading. For the first time since I began tutoring the little girl, my thoughts are completely astray. And not to mention, conflicted. Though the human part of me wants to hold my Madeleine and kiss away her tears, I want even more to release on her every last pent-up shred of anger she's caused—so she will know just what she has done to me, and just what she is making me do to win her love. I once thought sharing my soul with a phantom was difficult enough, but suddenly an Angel? Before, I was content that my life was a tugging match between Erik and the Phantom…now I believe that Erik is only a spectator, and the real fight is between the Demon and the Angel.

The lesson ends with Christine in a smile, and I know we have been successful once again. But once she has left the dressing room, I collapse to the cold stone floor and tear my mask from my face. Each holds the other's gaze for several moments—the mask smirks at me, and I glare at it. "I've kept you where I have wanted you for a very long time," I hiss at it. "Why are you trying to resurface?"

It does not audibly answer me, but I hear it nonetheless, the Phantom's voice, in my head, in my mind. You will need me—very soon.

My lips are pursed as my eyes follow every outline. I have several masks, but this is the one that exemplifies me, and I scarcely wear anything else. It was eight years earlier that I made a cast of my own naked face with wet plaster. All of my masks up until then had been full and not made for my face alone. But this one would conceal only the Devil's mark on my otherwise human face, and it would fit every contour perfectly—I would make sure of it. The feel of the thick plaster against my skin was suffocating, and I remember wondering if the mask would feel the same way, as it would be a second skin to me. I sent the face cast with Madame Giry to the shoemaker, and with his finest and sturdiest white leather he used the cast to mould a perfect mask for my face.

I still remember the way Madeleine's hands trembled as she handed the mask to me, and watched me fit it to my face for the first time. Her eyes hadn't left me then, and I had not been sure what to make of the foreign and new expression they held, as if she was beholding me, the Opera Ghost, for the first time. I had no thoughts to place at all. All I knew was that something had changed. I had finally found a way to show my face and hide my deformity at the same time. And I understood just how intimidating—and even appealing—the result had been the first time I looked into a mirror afterwards. Madame's strange reaction excited me. Marvelling at my reflection, I realised to what extent I needed this mask, and just how much it had become my deliverance—for when I looked in the mirror, for the first time in my life, I saw myself and I did not shudder.

"Yes, I need you," I growl at it, and dip my face into it once more.

The violin once again in my right hand, and the torch in my left, and my mask securely on my face, I retreat back down the passageway, where it will lead me into the depths of the Opera.

I am nearly to the exit of the passage, where the dressing room is no longer visible even in the torch's brilliant illumination, when suddenly Madeleine appears. Sitting on steps that wait just beyond the passage, her hands folded on her knees, her eyes staring straight ahead…an image of churning fire trapped in depths of ice, and my heart sits atop dark stone steps, within glaring distance from me.

Perhaps it is a dream—but in my dreams, Madame never feels so cold.