There were oysters for dinner that night-a whole dozen on the half shell, served on a majolica tray and accompanied by a dainty set of oyster forks. Christine almost laughed when she was first presented with the dish, so patently absurd was the idea of being served oysters five stories beneath the ground-but the queer, closed expression on Erik's unmasked face was enough to make her remember herself.

It was for the best; their dinners were usually quiet affairs, the one part of the day where Erik wasn't either away from the house on the lake or vexing her with his relentless critique of her voice, a habit that had only gotten worse after she had truly seen him. But dinner was different. He tried to be cordial, he really did-sharing gossip like a young girl, telling her all manner of jokes, trying to do everything his wrought corpse could do to make any of this insanity feel normal or right.

And Christine had almost started falling for it, foolish girl, beginning to believe that he was content to have her as a mere companion in his house who wanted nothing more than to treat him like a close relative-until she found the portfolio that afternoon. What she had within those pages had changed everything, every little sigh and gesture of those hands now suspect and sinful and-

"Christine?" Her fork clattered on the plate, and her hands reflexively flew into her chest.

Now that she had emboldened him by burning his masks, Christine wasn't sure which had been harder to bear: the extent of his deformities or the intensity of his expressions, which, despite his monstrousness, were uncomfortably human. In those first hours after Erik had abducted her, she had thought trying to discern the moods of someone covering their entire face would drive her mad; now, especially after the binder, she wasn't so sure.

"Are we not hungry, Christine?"

His voice was singsong, teasing, cajoling her out of her thoughts. She cautiously raised her gaze up from her lap to meet his own. Erik held a glass of wine, his malformed lips stretched into an approximation of a gentle grin. He never meant for you to see those things. Men are strange, and he is all the stranger; poor soul. He is trying.

"You've been picking at your meal like a little bird," he continued when she didn't respond, taking a long pull from his cup. While Erik still refused to eat in front of Christine, he had allowed himself to indulge in his impressive wine collection-perhaps too much to her liking. The spirits made him easy-going and indolent, but they also loosened his already wicked tongue.

"No," she replied, bracing herself, doing her best to smile and lifting her fork. "I'm hungry. I was simply distracted."

"It's not Erik's wretchedness spoiling your appetite, is it, little bird?"

This again. This baiting. I cannot bear it. "Of course not, Erik. Haven't I already said so?"

"You say a lot of things. The rub is divining which ones you actually mean, isn't it?"

"You're being mean," Christine said shortly, wrinkling her nose and grabbing her own glass of wine. It was a white, to go with the oysters, acidic and dry on her tongue, yet she now felt compelled to swallow it like water.

"Perhaps I am." Another pull of wine went to those twisted lips, drops running down into their strange divots and onto his chin. "Are oysters not to your liking, then?"

Under most circumstances, Christine would have been hard-pressed to turn her nose up at such a meal, but under the dining room's lamplight, their glistening flesh only turned her stomach.

"Not at all," she lied. A pause. The alcohol and her loneliness gave her courage. "I used to eat them all the time as a child. Perros always had such wonderful oysters-it was like plucking grapes off of a vine. Mama used to used to make them into a savory pie, before we moved to Paris and her hands began to shake."

She stopped again, shaken by the sudden longing and worry for her Mama Valerius. Erik said nothing, seemingly basking in the simplicity of Christine's small talk, that strange smile still on his face. She noticed her glass had been emptied and sheepishly poured herself another from the decanter.

"Men lined the wharf," she continued, "selling them shucked on big crates of ice, just plucked from the ocean, like daisies. If we begged Mama or the Professor hard enough, we'd get a penny and eat ourselves sick on them."

"We?" Erik inquired. The smile had slackened slightly.

"Myself and-" Christine started, the name almost dancing off the tip of her tongue. It was only by sheer, foolish luck she didn't outright say the Vicomte's name, but even still, the tiny room swelled with a new energy. Erik sank low into his seat, a long finger lazily tracing the rim of his glass. She dared not continue.

"Hmm. I don't suppose it was your father begging for pennies like some common mendicant," he said, his tone insultingly light. The energy practically crackled, and Christine could suddenly hear all of the blood thrumming through her body with a rage she barely knew or understood.

"How-how dare you talk about my father like that," she stammered, her hands clawing into the arms of her chair. "Let alone at all, considering what you've done to me." She waited for Erik to stand, to shout at her, but he remained seated, his finger still swirling around his cup.

"I have to imagine it's that little friend of yours," he continued easily, as if he hadn't noticed Christine's rebuke at all. "You know, Christine, it's always the rich who seem to be the most eager to take money from others. I'm hardly shocked." He laughed and held out his empty hand in mock supplication. "'Pennies from a poor professor, please! Pennies for a poor Vicomte-!'"

"Enough!" Christine cried, the color gone from her face, her entire body shaking. As if possessed, she stood up from the table and tossed whatever remaining wine was left in her cup into Erik's horrible face. Her aim was sloppy-some of it splashing back onto her starched dress and the damask table runner. A stilted breathing joined the throbbing in her ears; both teacher and apprentice were stuck still, dripping, shocked at one another and themselves.

"You-you have… you have no right to talk about my father or anyone like that," Christine choked out, her voice barely more than a whisper. She waited for him to respond, but he sat there with his wide yellow eyes fixed on her, silent as stone. "I'm... going to my room. To-to bathe and go to bed. Good night."

And before she either lost what remained of her nerve or he found his, she turned around and moved to exit the room. As she put a trembling hand on the brass handle, she heard Erik speak, his voice a low, poisonous hiss.

"Nana," he said. She felt the blood that had been pounding so wildly throughout her body only moments ago now leave her entirely.

"Excuse me?" She couldn't bring herself to turn around, her shoulders hunching up to her ears in anticipation, as if expecting to be struck from across the table.

"If you're going to borrow Erik's things," he continued, "he suggests you don't leave them lying open on the floor so cavalierly."

Christine thought her mortification would truly be it-the very thing that actually managed to kill her in this whole melodrama-but she found one last rally of strength to open the door.

"It must have been an interesting read for you, my Nana ," he spat. "Very….. eye-opening , to say the least. Or wasn't it. Christine?"

And then it flashed before her eyes, the contents of the binder she had found earlier, so filthy and evil and strange, and his awful, awful smirk and his hands around her waist as he held her against him on Cesar and-

"And what if it wasn't?" She heard his weight shift suddenly in his chair, but no footsteps followed. "At least I'd know what it was like, instead of only having pictures to imagine!"

And before her nightmare could do anything else, Christine opened the dining room door and marched out, slamming it shut behind her with a force that belied her short stature and sickly mien.

This was Christine's second mistake.