Chapter 6

In order to love you,

Let me be reborn

In another self than mine!

-Romeo et Juliette, Act I

When Erik knocked on the door of Christine's practice-room the next morning, to his delight and relief she answered immediately. She hastily waved him inside and shut the door.

As always, his heart leapt when he saw her. He thought her radiant in a plain blue cotton dress, with her lovely curls half-escaping from a simple chignon. He, of course, was in the same ensemble he'd worn yesterday, his one good suit. He hoped she wouldn't notice.

He needn't have worried. Her mind was on other matters.

"Good morning," she said quietly. "Thank you for coming on time."

"Good morning."

They stood and stared at one another awkwardly.

"I wasn't sure you would come," she confessed.

"I wondered the same about you." He looked round. It was a modest little room. The small, decrepit practice piano was wedged awkwardly into a corner by the far wall.

"I'm afraid you'll be very cramped," she said apologetically, gesturing toward it.

Indeed he would be. He realized suddenly that there was an empty space near the door that would have been a much more logical place for the instrument. In fact, the room was barely functional as it was now.

He understood all at once that Christine had deliberately arranged things so she would be closer to the door than he was. The thought wounded him, he couldn't deny- she really did think the worst of him. But he could scarcely blame her, under the circumstances. He would have done the same thing in her place. He was even more distrustful than she was.

"I have managed with worse," he said simply.

As he passed the little table where she kept her music, he saw that she'd placed a knife beside her.

He nodded toward the blade as he went past. "A wise precaution," he said, "Although I fear in a confrontation it may end up up the hands of your enemy." That precise thing had happened to him once. A shiver ran through him, and he shoved the horrible memory away. He knew it would only come back to haunt him again later, but with any luck it would not be for awhile. The horrors of his past troubled him less when he was with Christine. "A pistol might be a better choice."

Christine flushed. She hadn't expected him to comment on it. "It isn't only because of today - because of this meeting. I carry one everywhere. Mère makes me. And Meg."

His heart lifted a little; perhaps Christine did not think of him quite as badly as he'd feared. Or perhaps she had merely said it to be polite. "There is no need to explain. It is a brutal world we live in."

"That is generous of you."

"No; it is practical. I am glad you take precautions to look after yourself."

Christine was looking at the knife with distaste. "I hate it," she confessed. "It breaks my heart that it is necessary to have one. I don't ever want to do violence to anyone."

"You have not needed it, I hope?" he asked.

"I have not needed to use it, thank God. But-" She paused. "There have been times when I have needed to... make someone aware that I had it."

He thought his blood would boil. "And did they leave you alone?" Who were they? Where are they? I will tear their heads from their bodies!

"Yes," Christine said. "It frightened them away. Thank God. Not every lady is so fortunate." She paused. "I should like to ask you something," she said after a moment.

"Oh?"

"A few years ago I mentioned to the Angel- I suppose it was you really- that the head scene-shifter, Buquet, had been... bothering me. Do you remember?"

He scowled. "Yes."

Christine nodded slowly. "I suppose... you did tell me to go to the police, I remember now, which I suppose ought to have struck me as an odd thing for an angel to say, though of course I did not think of it at the time; I was too determined to believe in y- in the angel. And then I said it wouldn't do any good, so you said you would make sure he did not trouble me again. You said you would 'put the fear of God in him' - I remember that. And then the next time I saw Buquet he shouted at me that I must be a witch because he'd seen a huge inferno of fire chasing after him, and then the silhouette of a man appeared out of it and said he wasn't to go near Christine Daae and her friends anymore, and he saw a horrible face coming toward him, and then everything was plunged into darkness. He said the ghost and I must be in cahoots, but I don't believe in ghosts. I knew someone must be behind it, though. Was that you?"

"Yes," he said proudly. He smiled fondly at the memory. That filthy, cowardly lecher had screamed like a banshee. It had been one of the more enjoyable moments of Erik's life.

"But how did you manage it all?" Christine asked. "I can understand it all going dark; that is simple enough; all one would have to do would be shut off the fuses-"

Erik had to hide a proud smile. You would make a very respectable Phantom yourself, Mademoiselle, should you ever decide to go into the business.

"-But a fiery inferno?" she finished. "That is beyond my feeble powers of comprehension."

"It was quite simple, really," he said, not without a hint of the theatrical. "I suspended a piece of cotton-wool from the ceiling, then soaked it in kerosene and set fire to it." He couldn't hold back a grin.

Christine's mouth was a perfect O of horror. "Kerosene? Why, you might have burnt down the whole Opéra!"

"I took care," he said.

"Even so, you surely endangered yourself. Why did you go to so much trouble to help me?"

"I despise men who prey on those more vulnerable than themselves," he said. "It has become rather a habit of mine to cause them trouble."

"I see. Well," Christine said slowly, "I cannot say I condone your methods, but Buquet has left me and Meg very much alone since then, which is a blessing-"

"-Good. I am glad to hear it."

"Thank you." A small smile appeared on her lovely face. "And you must admit, it is very funny. I shall never forget the look on his face when he saw me." Her shoulders began to shake.

Suddenly the two of them were convulsed with mirth. Christine's laugh rang through the room, as sweet and clear as a bell. It was one of the loveliest sounds Erik had ever heard - whether it was as lovely as her singing was a beautiful riddle he didn't think he'd ever be able to solve - and the thought that he had brought it about was almost too marvelous to comprehend.

She and I have laughed together, he thought in a joyous daze. I should not wish for more happiness than this. Surely I am flying too close to the sun as it is. Surely there can be nothing better than this. Certainly not for me.

"And what about the dreadful face?" Christine said suddenly, as though in response to this thought.

He froze, his laughter banished instantly. Yes, what about it? "Er- What?"

"He said he saw the most horrible face coming toward him. At the time I didn't think anything of it - angels in real life sound quite terrifying, you know; not at all like the sweet little children in paintings-"

"-In real life?"

"In the Scriptures," she said, as though it were obvious.

"-Ah, quite," he said.

"Don't you believe they are true?"

He must stay on her good side, he reminded himself. "Naturally," he said through clenched teeth.

"Yes," she said. "So you see, it seemed quite natural to me that the angel should be able to frighten people with his face. But knowing what I know now, it seems... peculiar."

Erik swallowed. "Er - another mask."

Christine looked puzzled. "He said it was very lifelike."

"That imbecile is always drunk. And he is no stranger to opium and cocaine and God knows what else. I shudder to think what his tormented imagination could fabricate. It would be better not to contemplate it." Erik turned away and pretending to be looking at the music, his mirth from a moment ago entirely evaporated. "I should not stand about talking all day. Now, you said the Countess' aria from Act III is what you were asked to prepare for the audition?" he asked.

"Oh... Yes." Christine looked surprised by the sudden turn in the conversation.

"Good. It should present no problem for you," he said. "On the whole, the music lacks innovation."

She smiled at the way he dismissed one of the most popular operas of the day. "It isn't my favorite, I confess."

"What possessed the director? It drives me mad to think of you wasting your time on this insipid nonsense when you could be singing Juliette or Ophelia." Erik shook his head

"Perhaps someday I shall," Christine ventured, then flushed, looking as though she had said something very ambitious - which in fact, she had.

He smiled. "Do not blush. You are quite right. Now, let us begin."

"Thank you. I have two copies of the music," she said, moving toward a folder on her dressing-table. "Monsieur Reyer lent me-"

"-Oh," he said stupidly, looking down at the booklet of music he was holding.

"Do you have a copy too? Where did you get it?" Christine glanced down at his copy. It was obviously handwritten. She looked up at him in amazement. "Did you write all this out?"

He inclined his head.

"But... that must have taken you a great deal of time!"

He shrugged.

"Thank you," she said breathlessly. And then, a few moments later, "Where did you copy it from? It has not been released publicly that I know of. Do you still work at the opera?"

"Ah- no," he said. "But I, ah, attended rehearsal a few days ago. And then I copied it down later."

"Do you mean to say you copied the whole aria from memory after hearing it only once?" Christine snatched the manuscript from him, without even realizing it. "And the orchestration too?"

"Yes," he said, bewildered by her look of amazement.

Her eyes flew over the lines of music, comparing his version with the original. "But this is utterly remarkable! These are identical! Even down to the quarter-beat." Suddenly she looked up. Her gaze fixed on him. "Wait. Do you mean to say you copied just the aria from memory-" She paused as though afraid to hear the answer- "...Or all of Act III?"

"The opera," he said.

"The whole opera?"

He nodded.

"Great Heavens!" Christine flung her hands out in astonishment. Several sheets of music flew out of her hands and fluttered down around her like enormous white leaves. She didn't notice. She was staring at Erik, her mouth open. "How- how is such a thing possible? Are you sure you are a mortal?"

He was delighted to have impressed her but bewildered by her amazement. Couldn't everyone do that? It had never occurred to him to think otherwise. "You could do the same," he said. He found he was shuffling his feet. As the Phantom, he was all bombast and swagger, but with her, he was as awkward as a shy child.

"Forgive me, but no, you are mistaken." Christine shook her head in disbelief. "I have been around musicians all my life, and not a one of them can do what you've done here. I am, I suppose, reasonably competent in harmonic dictation-"

"-Oh, more than competent-"

"-Thank you," she said. "But I could never copy down an hour-long, multi-instrumental piece from memory! I suppose it must just come naturally to you?"

"I suppose it does, yes." He had never thought about it before.

She stifled an astonished laugh. "Perhaps you are some sort of supernatural being after all."

"I rather doubt that."

"Did you come out of the womb writing music?" she asked. "How old were you when you started to learn?"

"I do not know precisely," Erik said. "My birth did cause considerable consternation for other reasons, though," he added almost without realizing it.

He froze.

It had become too easy to talk with her. The freedom of being able to address her as one human being to another was intoxicating. It was dangerous. He would have to be careful.

If he hadn't already ruined everything just now. If she asked him what he meant, it was all over. If she found out about his face, she would never want to see him again.

"Oh," Christine said. She was peering at him as though trying to work out a difficult puzzle. "I am sorry," she said at last, her voice gentle.

She looked as though she were choosing her next words with care. He waited for her to ask what he meant, as though waiting for a blow.

But then she didn't. Angelic Christine. Merciful Christine.

"Well," she said simply instead, "You have an extraordinary gift."

"I am honored," he said, dazzled by her praise - and by her kindness. There was a pause. "Now, then, let me hear what you have done with the aria so far, if you please."

They plunged into the task of studying the piece. Erik was glad. They may be at odds in all other ways, but in this respect they shared the same wishes, the same purpose and ambitions. For these few precious moments, there was nothing but them and the music. They were in a world of their own.

He might have gone on forever, had he not eventually happened to glance up and see the clock on her dressing-table.

"Is... is that right?" he said.

"What is the matter?" Christine said, looking up. "The clock? It has always kept good time."

"Then you ought to have a short étirement and then... be done for the day," he said with enormous reluctance. He wanted to stay here singing with her like this forever, but her voice was too precious to risk. "Any more and you may overtax your voice. Not to mention, it is nearly time for rehearsal."

She looked at him in astonishment. "How long has it been?"

"Nearly three hours," he said, scarcely able to believe it. The time had flown by. Even three hours with her hardly seemed enough.

Every hour of every day of his life - only that could be enough...

"Good Heavens," she said. "A very short three hours."

His heart swelled with happiness.

"I did not intend to keep you here so long," she said.

He winced. Was that really an apology, or was she trying to get rid of him? "I do not mind," he said.

"That is very kind of you." Christine poured herself a glass of water. "I fear I shall never be ready. I wish..." She paused.

"Yes?" he said.

"I don't like to ask..."

"Pray go on."

She returned his smile. "I think I would feel more comfortable if I could have another lesson before the audition?"

He was so delighted he scarcely heard anything she said next. He was dimly aware of snatches of phrases like "if you do not mind..." and "would not wish to impose!" and "you have already done such a great deal".

He managed to begin, "That would be..." and then found he was at a loss for a suitably subdued adjective. He could only think of words like 'Wonderful! Marvelous! Delightful! "...Beneficial," he said at last. He tried to appear indifferent, but he felt like leaping for joy. She wanted to see him again, and he had not even had to suggest it. It had been her idea. "Tomorrow at the same time, then?"

"Yes," she said. "Thank you very much indeed." She moved to the door.

Already his heart began to sink. The next twenty hours stretched before him like a void.

Then, however, she suddenly stopped. "Oh- I should tell you- please be careful."

"Oh?" he said.

"They have not caught the Phantom, you know."

"Ah."

"Yes," she said. "He keeps managing to get in and out, and no-one knows how. Indeed, I do not think the managers will ever even ask the police to look for him - they don't want the bad publicity." She scowled. "He may be dangerous."

"Dangerous?" he said.

"We have no way of knowing. It is possible it is quite harmless; perhaps he is merely a disgruntled musician or something of the kind and wants to impose his artistic will on the Opéra."

Erik had to hide a smile. 'Impose his artistic will'. He relished the sound of that phrase. He would have to write it down.

"I have heard of such cases before. But he is certainly a troubled soul," Christine went on. "And you see... I fear he would be jealous if he knew we have been meeting... alone together... like this."

"Jealous?"

"I am not sure how much you have heard, but he seems to be rather-" She flushed- "obsessed with me."

"Not obsessed with you," he said before he could stop himself.

She looked at him in surprise. "You have heard about it?"

"Ah... yes, a little." Damn you, Erik, you must get control of yourself!

"Well," she said. "Perhaps obsessed is not the right word - I hardly know - but he does go on about me a great deal."

Though she had no way of knowing it was him, Erik felt himself flush - not something he did very often.

"He is determined to further my career, whether I am ready for it or not," she went on.

You are ready! he wanted to cry, whether you realize it or not! But he managed to hold his tongue.

"And he does not seem to care who must be shoved aside to make it happen," she finished. "It is his idée fixe. It is as though... something happened to him when he heard me sing."

She was right, he thought. Something had happened to him.

He still remembered when he had come back from Persia and heard her sing as a grown woman for the first time. Some transformation had occurred while he was away, something astonishing.

She had always the fundamental qualities necessary for a good singer: a sense of rhythm, good pitch, a strong, clear voice, the crucial ability to work untiringly at her art for hours every day. And she'd even shown some abilities that were truly unusual - a range that surpassed four octaves, the ability to pick languages up with impressive speed and pronounce them as though she had heard them from the cradle, and an inherently commanding stage presence, all of which were gifts from the divine and could not be taught. But her voice itself had still seemed quite ordinary then, in its immature form.

This was another thing entirely. That voice had gone from the merely pleasant to the utterly transcendent. Warm and sweet and tremulously alive, but at the same time perfectly clear and bright. It had still been rough, but unquestionably a diamond. The sort of voice that came along perhaps once in a century.

When he heard it, he'd known at once he was saved. His existence had a purpose after all. God had put him on earth to nurture that voice, to mould it into what it was meant to be, and above all to protect it.

How extraordinary. When he'd first begun to teach her, he'd merely been doing it to be kind. He had not known he was training a student who might, if given the proper opportunities, turn out to be the greatest soprano of her age. It was the best thing ever to happen to him.

The only question was how anyone could hear her sing and not instantly fall irrevocably in love with her.

He realized that he had been silent for too long and Christine was waiting for him to speak. "Ah- well," he said. "One could hardly blame him for that."

She smiled uncertainly. "Ah... thank you." Then, after a pause, "Tell me, please - you work at the Opéra - you have heard some of the best singers in the world - you would know the answer to this." She paused for a long time.

"Yes?" he prompted gently.

"Is my voice really so extraordinary?" she managed at last, apprehension in her eyes. "I never had the strength to ask. Tell me truthfully. There is no point in investing so much labor and effort into it if I do not have anything exceptional to offer."

"Your voice," he said slowly, "is a Stradivarius. More than a Stradivarius; for he made many of those, but I have never heard another instrument like yours."

"You aren't saying than simply to be kind?"

"Tell me, do you think I ever say anything to be kind?"

She smiled. "No."

"Well, then."

"Thank you! Still... one can hardly agree with the Ghost's methods," she reflected. "I own I am ambitious - I long to make a career in the opera, as you know - but success at the price of hurting others is far too dearly bought." She paused. "You know, I say 'he', but I suppose it could be a woman. The handwriting does not look like a woman's. It is not refined like a lady's hand. If I had to guess I would say it looks like a lunatic's-

"-I would agree," he said, a private joke to himself.

"-but I suppose it could be disguised," she said.

"It could, yes."

"People are accusing me of being the Phantom," she said suddenly.

He swallowed. This was an unintended outcome. He must find a way to divert suspicion from her.

"You don't think it is me, do you?" she said.

"I know it is not, Christine. It could not possibly be."

"Thank you." She smiled. "Well. You will be careful?"

He hid a smile. "Do not worry. I shall take sure to keep out of his way."

She smiled. "Good. Thank you. I could not bear if anything were to happen to you because of this fixation of his."

If you only knew, Christine, he thought. It is killing me even as we speak. "You are very good," he said.

She smiled at him, and it killed him a little more. What a splendid way to die.

"Well, until tomorrow, then," she said. "Thank you again." And she was gone.

Erik walked away dizzied - and bewildered - by his success. It seemed impossible that so much was going the way he wanted.

His luck had to run out soon. The plumes on his wings were already starting to fall away.

End of Chapter 6. Thank you so much for reading!