The performance was over, and Erik made his way to the lonely dressing room at the end of the hallway. He could here the mad crush of people outside Carlotta's dressing room, but he knew from experience that would not be the case where he was headed. He had long been in the habit of spying on the pretty girls in the chorus or the corps de ballet. It was one of the advantages of being the Opera Ghost. His old favorite was La Sorelli; he might not have thought she deserved her position, but she was a very well put together woman. That had changed the minute he had laid eyes on Christine Daaé a little over a year ago. There was something about the serious Swedish girl that spoke to him in a way the others did not. When he reflected upon his feelings, he decided that it had something to do with her innate kindness. Even before he knew how much attention she paid to the Opera's lesser staff members, to the little girls learning to dance, to the horses in the Opera's stables, he could simply tell that she had a kind heart. It was written all over her lovely features, and in her voice whenever she spoke. He liked to think she would even be kind to him, if they had cause to meet.

She was a good girl. He'd seen her with the Vicomte de Chagny a few times, but whatever was happening between the two of them did not appear to the be the same sort of thing that happened between, say, the Vicomte's older brother and Sorelli. Whatever intentions the young man had appeared to be completely honorable. Erik would have been jealous, but what was the point? He knew the boy would be leaving on an Arctic expedition soon, if he hadn't already left. Besides, he learned long ago that love and affection were things beyond his grasp. So, he had watched them kiss, listened to her breathy sighs, and filed it away for his later use.

His only negative thought about Christine was that her voice was a tragic mediocrity. She could have been great. The sheer potential was there, enough so that she had managed to get herself out of the chorus and into smaller roles. Oh, but he knew that she could do so much more if she only had proper guidance. He had long wished there were a way to teach her – to help her find the voice he knew was lurking inside. He was convinced that if he could, he would transform her into one of the greatest singers the world had ever known. Then, she would be so grateful, that perhaps she would be willing to overlook his many abnormalities... He stopped himself from that line of thought. It only made him sad to think about these things that would never be. At least she had her own dressing room, where he could watch her without being distracted by the inane chatter of the other girls. That would have to be enough.

He arrived before she did and peered through the tiny convenient hole in the wall into her room. The opera had begun showing Faust again, and she had been a lackluster Siebel, more so tonight than usual. The only truly redeeming thing about her performance was how adorable she looked in her boy's clothes. When she finally entered with her maid, he took a moment to appreciate how her costume showed off the lower half of her body in a way that women's clothing never could. She certainly could never pass for a boy in the real world. She plopped herself down in front of her vanity in a movement that seemed atypically unladylike. She wiped the grease paint from her face, as the maid fussed with her dark blonde hair. The two chatted amiably about nothing in particular. Without her stage makeup, he thought she looked very tired. Her face lacked its usual color. Once she was fully dressed, Christine asked to be left alone.

She opened her purse, and pulled out a plain gold band which she slipped onto her hand. That was a new development – or at least one he hadn't noticed before. It was a thin ring, and if he hadn't seen her put it on or take it off before, it was possible it had escaped him. He did not pay much attention to her hands. For the first time, he felt a twinge of jealousy over this woman to whom he had never spoken.

She turned to examine herself in the full-length mirror, and broke into tears. He'd seen her cry before; it made her eyes look more intensely blue. She was still quietly mourning her father, but this was different. These were not a few silent tears that stopped almost as soon as they started. She sobbed until she was gasping for air,and crumpled up on the floor. She picked her head up, and then slammed it into the floorboards. Again and again she repeated this action. She was going to seriously harm herself if she did not stop, and have a very nasty bruise even if she did.

He knew what had to be done. He mastered his nerves, and threw his voice, commanding and strong into the room. "Christine Daaé! Stop that at once!" She sat up, startled out of her tears. She was clearly both frightened and embarrassed. Erik fought the urge to laugh at the expression on her face. Instead he continued speaking, "You'll hurt yourself, you foolish woman." And it was done. He'd just given Christine a brush with the Opera Ghost, another story to be added to the tales of Box Five, the apparition in gentlemen's clothing, and the scene shifter's death at Debienne and Poligny's retirement gala. It might even help these new managers to fall in line – and he certainly needed the help. He didn't like resorting to outright theft for his salary. If things continued as they were, he would soon be required to do something drastic. Christine wasn't some flighty 15-year-old ballet girl, or an eccentric box keeper to be dismissed out of hand, or even someone who had a reputation for gossip; maybe she would be seen as a more credible witness.

"I – I'm sorry," she sputtered, nearly jumping to her feet.

He couldn't stop himself from laughing this time, but it was not unkind. "It wasn't my head you were banging against the floor, child."

It was hard to tell with her face red from crying and her bruising forehead, but he believed she was blushing. A warm, tingling feeling spread through Erik's chest; he was not used to making women blush. Even in her current state, he found her painfully attractive.

"Who are you? Where are you?" she inquired, looking around the room.

"I think you know," he replied, waiting with anticipation for her embarrassment to turn into fear.

He was not disappointed. She went from red to pale. Her eyes grew wide and she began to tremble. "It can't be. Why now?" Her voice was shaky. "Why after all this time? How do I know this isn't someone playing a trick?"

Had she been waiting for the Opera Ghost to speak to her? Surely she knew that speaking to the performers was not his usual modus operandi. What an odd girl... "Why not now? I've never seen you in danger of hurting yourself before. And," he threw his voice at her from a different direction, "It is not a trick." Then, directly into her ear, he whispered, "Could a mortal man do this?"

Her mouth was now gaping open; she appeared to stop breathing for a moment. Then she collected herself. "What about when Father died?" she questioned. "Why didn't he send you then? No, I can't believe you... But your voice..." She trailed off. He did not answer immediately, because he realized that whatever she thought he was, it was not the Opera Ghost.

Finally, he responded, "Believe or disbelieve whatever you would like. It does not change what I am."

She wrinkled her forehead, and then appeared to think better of it, pressing a hand against it and then quickly pulling it away. "So you've come to teach me to sing?"

He could not believe what he had just heard. Here was his opportunity. "If that is what you wish," he replied. If only he'd known she'd been waiting for a disembodied voice to teach her, he would have approached her months ago.

She nodded. "If you are who you say you are, then sing something for me, or play something. A beautiful speaking voice alone proves nothing."

Erik smiled widely beneath his mask. She'd complimented him. Even though his voice was not warmed up, he knew his limits, and he knew that he was a far better singer than anyone who had ever graced the Opera's stage. He launched into "Salut! Demeure chaste et pure" because Faust was in his head. Besides, he thought, let her compare Fonta's rendition to his. There was no contest. By the end of the unaccompanied cavatina, she was kneeling in front of the mirror with her eyes closed, looking for all the world as if she were having a deep religious experience.

He let her sit for a moment, before saying, "So, do you wish to have lessons?"

"Yes," she answered without hesitation.

"Since you have no rehearsal tomorrow, and it is very late, meet me here at 11:00. Usually, we will begin earlier."

She rose unsteadily on her feet. "I will be here."

"Goodnight, Christine," he said softly.

Before exiting the room, she turned and looked around with a furrowed brow. She shook her head, and closed the door behind her.

What had he just done? He was torn between laughing giddily and vomiting with nervousness. Erik's fantasies had always been just that. Now that one of them was the smallest bit closer to becoming reality, he wasn't sure he could handle it. It felt like someone had just taken a sledgehammer to a wall inside of him, and who knew what would be released from the other side. It was wonderful and dangerous.