Chapter 36

Oh, if I could hold him and kiss him

to my heart's content,

And in his kisses perish!

- Faust, Act I

Erik had taken to leaving Christine roses as a code, hanging them at her dressing-room door or putting them in the hands of one of the ornately sculpted candle-sconces outside. A red one meant all was well and he was safe; a white one meant danger.

After the catastrophe at the ball, she spent the next three hours huddled in La Carlotta's dressing-room - well, it was her dressing-room now. Curious. It had been designated for her when she won the role of Juliette, although she didn't feel secure enough yet to start decorating it as her own.

Aside from the necessities of a dressing-table and music-stand, the only thing she had brought in was a chaise longue, (Meg's baron had been throwing it away because of a scratch on one leg so small Christine couldn't see it without a magnifying glass), upholstered in white damask.

There she sat, waiting frantically for one of Erik's roses to appear, leaping up every five minutes to see if anything had changed in the hall outside.

Even a white rose would have been welcome at a time like this; then at least she would know he was alive. But there was nothing.

At last she decided to take matters into her own hands. Taking a hurricane-lamp she kept hidden in her dressing-room in case of just such an emergency, she snuck back to her old practice-room and went through the mirror.

Down once more to the dungeons of his black despair. Down she plunged to the prison of his mind.

When she was with him, she had felt as though this corridor were full of light and music and art, with enchantment all around. Now she saw how dark and empty it was, cobwebs on the walls.

Why had a soul like him, so full of life and fire and passion, been banished here to this cold and dismal place?

At last she stopped.

There was an exact point in the tunnels, she had found, where when she sang he could hear her from the lair.

She opened her mouth and gave voice to Je Crois Entendre Encore, the most famous aria in The Pearl Fishers. It was written for the tenor, but it had her favorite melody in the whole opera, lilting and plaintive.

Her voice, clear and bright, carried through the darkness like a beam of light.

I seem to hear again

Concealed beneath the palms

Her voice, tender and sweet

like the song of a wood-dove

In the brightness of the stars

I seem to see her again

Opening her wings

In the warm evening wind

But nothing happened.

She began to grow anxious. She could not stay here all night. Anyone might come by and hear her. Worse, the chilly, muggy air would wreak havoc on her voice - not to mention the fact that she had not warmed up - and she had to perform in two days.

At the last moment of hope, she faintly heard Erik's voice - hauntingly beautiful, mysteriously well-trained - ringing out of the darkness.

Oh enchanted night

Divine ravishment

Her heart began to pound so hard she feared it would leap out of her chest. Erik… my Erik…

With all the strength she had, she ran toward the beautiful sound.

Bewitching memory

Mad intoxication, sweet, beautiful dream!

Bewitching memory! He sang, his voice reaching the climax of the song and then slowly drifting back to nothingness.

Bewitching memory…

By the time he finished, she had reached him; he was standing on the last loop of the spiral staircase, near where it opened out onto the shore of the lake.

Predictably, as soon as he saw her, he began scolding her. "Christine! You cannot sing that without first warming up! Think of what you are doing to your voice! And you ought not to be here- it is very-"

"-Erik!" she practically sobbed with relief, flinging herself into her arms. "Is that all you can say? Oh, how glad I am you are well! How frightened I was - I didn't know if-"

He all but clawed his way out of her grasp.

"Not even a kiss?" she said pleadingly.

"I dare not." His voice was heavy with sadness.

"But… how long will this go on?"

"I cannot say. We are not safe at the moment, even here."

"Why didn't you leave me any word?" she asked, remembering why she had come down here.

"It was not safe. The whole opera house is still full of guests. Which way did you come from?" he asked.

"The mirror."

"Did you close it behind you?"

"Yes!" she cried, her voice suddenly full of anger - though not at him. "Just as I always do - just as I take off my ring every morning, and burn all your notes to me, and…" Suddenly she couldn't bear it any longer. "I can't stand this," she said, breaking into sobs. "It is unnatural… This constant fear… this has been the most wretched evening! It isn't fair…" She dropped the lantern and stood with her shoulders shaking, ashamed of her outburst, feeling like a stupid fourteen-year-child, but unable to withhold her tears.

He relented, gathering her into his arms. She smelled his cologne, a faint whiff of it still clinging to him even after the madness of that night, a rich mix of leather and moss and pepper she had never been able to completely decipher. "Oh, pray don't… Poor Christine…"

She sniveled and snuffled into his jacket. She was sure she had utterly spoilt the fine fabric. But he was too forgiving to say anything.

"Forgive me," she said, trying to turn away so he wouldn't see her red-faced and puffy-eyed. "I know it isn't your fault… not any of it… you mustn't think I blame you…"

"I never thought that," he said gently.

"Please do not blame yourself…"

He laughed sadly. "I fear I always will."

"Did anyone see you come down here?" she asked.

"I do not think so."

"Thank God," she said. Then, "We cannot continue on in this way for the next two months! We can't."

He sighed. "It is late…"

"-It is New Years'!" she cried.

"And tomorrow you have rehearsal - and your audition for The Marriage of Figaro is coming up in two days."

"Yes, I am well aware of it," she said impatiently - she hated auditions.

"-I trust Pauline has prepared you well enough." He spoke rather contemptuously of Pauline Viardot-García these days, though before he had always admired the great mezzo's career. Though it was absurd, a part of him was still jealous and resentful that she had taken Christine from him as a student. It was necessary, of course - it would have been much to risky for him to meet with her several times a week for lessons. But her voice had always been his responsibility, and he was jealous for that responsibility. "But I will not allow to you spoil it by being ill-rested."

The word 'allow' set her teeth on edge. "Hang Marriage of Figaro," she said. "I don't care if I get it."

"Christine! This is Mozart we are talking of!"

She stared at him for a moment with a mixture of exasperation and affection. Must he always be so obtuse? Did he really not understand?

She seized him and kissed him and suddenly Mozart was insignificant.

She poured all her emotion into that kiss, all her strength, and he responded.

This was different than all the times before. Erik's mouth was hungry on hers. She could feel his desperation, his fright, his yearning.

It all spilled over, the giddy fear of that night, the elation at seeing he was alive and well, even the dim memory of how happy they'd been earlier at the party.

He pressed her up against the wall.

She blinked in amazement, too surprised to lose herself in the kiss as she usually did, though she was far from objecting.

She let her arms go about his neck and they sank to the floor, his weight on top of her. She closed her eyes blissfully.

Suddenly he seemed to recall the world around them. He blanched, and sprang back. "Christine… I am sorry…"

Somewhat disgruntled by this, she cocked her head to one side. "You have done nothing you need apologize for, mon cœur," she said, reaching out and cradling his cheek in her hand.

She tried to pull him toward her to kiss him again, but he pulled away.

"I nearly lost you tonight," she whispered. She hardly knew what she was saying; she heard her words and they astonished her. "We shouldn't keep waiting… shouldn't waste this moment…"

"Not like this," he said. "This… this is not right."

He rose to his feet, smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of his trousers, which somehow were still immaculately pressed despite all his struggles that evening - only by the smell of his sweat could she have guessed that he had done anything other than sit at home quietly and read a book.

In his lamplit silhouette, she could just see that his lips were trembling.

He helped her to her feet and she shook out the folds in her skirt, suddenly unable to meet his eyes, though that was ridiculous.

At last, she forced herself to look up. She had to say something. To kiss like that and then not say anything was absurd. "I wish you would kiss me like that more often," she said. "At least once a week, I think."

He looked at her in surprise.

"Just for special occasions, perhaps, then?" she suggested sweetly.

He didn't seem to notice. "Allow me to escort you back upstairs," he said.

"Might I at least spend the night here, since I have come all this way?"

He stared at her. "Here? In the grotto?"

It was curious, he thought. Before all of this, before their love, before their engagement and all they had endured together, if for some reason she had ever asked him that, he would have leapt at the chance to spend the night with her, and hang the consequences. But now everything was different. Now, he loved her. He cared that she be safe, that she not be caught with him. "Certainly n-"

"-I really would feel so much more at ease if I knew someone were watching over you."

"I thank you for that, but it is out of the question," he said.

She sighed sadly to herself. All she could think about was being near to him, kissing him, touching him, holding him. But it was clear no more of that was at hand.

"Come, we must return." He held out his hand.

Since she had already resolved to spend the night in her dressing-room - she kept a nightdress and a toothbrush and other such necessities there for just such a purpose, unbeknownst to him; he knew everything else that went on in the Opéra but had promised that her dressing-room was for her alone and he would not go near it without her invitation - she complied. "Very well."

"I suppose I cannot accompany you home," he said, as they slowly trudged up the endless rounds of stairs.

"Certainly not," she said at once. "It would be most unsafe. I am sure the police are still waiting outside."

"I am a miserable wretch. What kind of man makes his bride-to-be go traipsing all over the city by herself at four o'clock in the morning…" He trailed off. His footsteps had come to a halt, and he stood staring sadly at the floor.

"Don't think of it," she said gently. She did not tell him of her plan to sleep there. No doubt he would have had a torrent of choice words upon the subject.

"Take a cab," he said sternly, reaching into his pocket and pressing a two-franc piece into her hand.

"No - thank you - I have money-"

"-I insist," he said.

"But-"

"-Don't argue." He looked into her eyes with infinite gentleness.

"Thank you," she said, tucking it into one of the pockets sewn into her gown (it was the first time in her life having a gown made personally for her, aside from costumes, and she had insisted it have pockets). She would use it for a cab at some point, she told herself to assuage her guilt - just not tonight as he thought.

"I shall be extremely angry if I hear that you have done otherwise." He strove for a stern look but couldn't quite find it.

"Why would I?" she hedged.

"I know you have a strange idea of what constitutes adventure."

"Marrying masked men, do you mean?"

"Am I an adventure to you, Christine?" he said, looking at her uncertainly.

"Why, of course you are. Every moment with you is exciting."

"I do not want to be an adventure," he said.

"What do you mean?" she asked in surprise.

"I want to be… I am not sure I have quite the right words… home to you. Your home, Christine. That is what you are to me, Christine."

Her heart seemed to seize for a moment. It was quite the most unashamedly romantic thing he had ever said to her, perhaps that she had ever heard. "You are that as well, my darling. Never forget it."

Upon hearing this, his heart seemed to swell up in his chest. It was some time before he could speak.

At last, before ushering her back through the mirror, he pressed a brief kiss to her lips.

"I will see you again!" he sang softly, stealing a snatch of song from The Pearl Fishers.

Somehow, for a moment, the music made her believe it was true. She instantly rejoined with Leïla's reply. "I will wait for you!"

As it happened, they were able to see each other again very soon.

Christine was cast as Susanna, the female lead in The Marriage of Figaro. She didn't particularly care for the role - singing Mozart was bliss, of course, but she did not feel bright and energetic enough to do justice to such a vivacious, sprightly heroine - but it did mean that La Carlotta's dressing-room was officially assigned to her, and that was delightful. At last she and Erik had a place they could meet that was all their own.

Even better, he had somehow contrived to install a speaking-tube that led between there and his lair. She could speak to him whenever she pleased. It was almost dangerous - having him so close was too easy; it made her incautious.

"I think we should meet to discuss your audition," he said one evening, his voice strange and metallic through the network of tubes, though still beloved to her.

"For La Fille du Regiment?" she said. This was the next production the Opéra Populaire was putting on. "I have already prepared with Pauline."

"No - the Kunlinga Opera," he said. "You cannot prepare for that with Pauline. She does not know you are moving to Sweden. You have not told her. Have you?"

"No, of course not. I'm much too scared of her," Christine joked.

That audition was still two months away, and she already had a portfolio ready, but she held her tongue. Any excuse to see him.

At a few minutes before nine o'clock on a cold Sunday night in late January, she waited for him.

Normally their lessons had always been at eight o'clock in the mornings, before anyone was there. But her voice was warmer at night, and now that she had this room they didn't need to be so cautious. Besides, on a Sunday night no-one would be there, anyway.

She wore a gown far too splendid for any music lesson - a stunning emerald-green number with a waterfall skirt. Erik had bought it for her, shortly after the first printing of Joseph Prosper's Serenata for a Mademoiselle sold out across the country.

She adored it. It made her look quite more of a woman than she was used to looking, in her usual cheap cotton florals. The color brought out the warmth in her brown eyes and perfectly complimented the auburn in her hair.

She also spent a considerably longer time than usual arranging her hair - normally, when she had the chance to go a whole day without spending hours in front of the dressing-mirror, she let it go almost wild, and fortunately Erik liked it like that. But tonight she wanted to do something a little more.

She knew it would be obvious that she had dressed up for him on purpose, and she didn't care. She wanted him to know he was worth making an effort for. Besides, whenever he came to see her he was always splendidly turned out. It was only right that she return the courtesy.

Precisely on the hour, she heard a knock and then the beautiful voice she loved so much. "Mon rêve? Are you there?"

"Erik!" After pausing to pat her hair into place and smooth her skirt - though he unfailingly said she was beautiful, she still wasn't to the point where she could see him without worrying whether she looked perfect - she ran to the door.

"Not there," came his voice from somewhere behind her. "The mirror."

She whirled round.

"Good evening," he said with a smile, stepping neatly through and shutting the glass again behind him with a flick of his cloak. He was immaculately attired in full evening-wear, plus hat, scarf, and gloves.

She was too glad to see him to think about her surprise for more than a moment. There would be time for questions later, but right now there were more pressing matters to attend to. She ran into his arms.

"I should not be here," he said guiltily, though he was already holding her.

"I know," she said between kisses.

"But it cannot be helped… can it, Christine?" he said, a mixture of sadness and affection in his voice.

"No." She held him tighter and rested her head against his chest, feeling the roughness of his jacket on her cheek.

"You look… quite remarkably beautiful, Christine," he whispered, and she felt a flutter of satisfied vanity, though the despair in his voice sent sadness searing through her.

When would be the time when they didn't have to say goodbye, when they didn't have to wonder when they would see each other again?

To distract herself from the thought, she stepped away and helped him off with his cloak and hat.

Though she felt she wasn't quite finished kissing him, he took his seat at the piano, tugged off his gloves and ran his long sensuous fingers over the keys. She knew better than to interrupt him when he'd turned his attention to music. Hiding a smile, she prepared herself to sing.

The time passed smoothly. She had missed them working together like this. In addition to the awe of getting to learn from his talents, it had always felt so easy, so natural. She had feared that would change now that they were a couple, that it would become awkward, but it was just as comfortable as ever. The only difference, and it was an important one, was that now she knew why he looked at her in that way he always had; now they didn't have anything to hide from one another, and she didn't have to blush when she looked at him - though his voice, so deep it seemed to go right through her, still set her heart racing every time she heard it.

It didn't take them long to decide on her portfolio. She had been prepared for an argument, and so she was pleased to find that his opinions on the matter coincided precisely with hers. Perhaps her judgment was improving. Or, perhaps, he simply wasn't as combative as before. They settled on Leila's aria from The Pearl Fishers, the 'Laughing Song' from Die Fledermaus, and 'Je Veux Vivre' from Romeo et Juliette. Conventional choices; there was a significant chance that other sopranos would be singing them that day too, but Erik, with his usual brazen assurance of her talents, was fully confident she would sing them better than anyone else.

In only one respect did he surprise her. He felt she was ready to perform Violetta Valéry's bold, defiant manifesto 'Sempre Libera!', from the first act of Verdi's La Traviata, one of her favorite pieces in the repertoire. She had been laboring over it for some time - though she had been too nervous to perform it for anyone other than her flatmate Babette, who had ears of tin - and was delighted to find that her efforts were bearing fruit at last. Her voice wasn't mature enough for the full role of Violetta yet - that wouldn't happen for a few more years; at present it was still too light and youthful to carry three hours of such weighty, dramatic music - but he assured her she could manage this one aria perfectly as long as she was careful.

Indeed, for all of them, she had the piece prepared to just how she wanted it, or at least as close to that standard as an artist could ever get.

In half an hour, they had everything resolved, and they still had the whole night ahead of them. She was glad, for a different reason than usual, that she always over-prepared for all her auditions.

But then Erik rose.

"Where are you going?" she exclaimed. "You have only just arrived."

"It grows late. You will be wanting your rest, Juliette."

"Wait." She caught him by the hand. "You have only just arrived. Sit down. You are cold. Besides, I am not Juliette anymore. Romeo et Juliette is over - don't you ever go to the opera?" she said teasingly.

"You will always be Juliette to me, Christine." He was cold- she was right - and the upstairs levels, though drafty, still felt enticingly warm compared to his lair. But still he pulled away and went over to the coat-stand where she had hung his cloak. "Besides, I need hardly remind you, I trust, that you have a more pressing concern than what you are going to sing for the Kunlinga Opera in two months."

"A more pressing concern?" she said.

"You are performing tomorrow."

"Well, I need hardly remind you, I trust, that we have a more pressing concern than that."

"And what is that, Christine?" he said.

She laughed. "That we are going to be married in two months!"

He looked at her uncertainly, unsure what she meant to convey by bring this up. "Yes, I recall," he said, smiling at the understatement. "Well?"

" 'Well'? Is that all you can say?" she laughed incredulously.

"Well, what of it?" he clarified. "What is your wish?"

"I don't know," she said, affectionately exasperated. "I don't have any sort of plan in mind. I just want you not to go. I have a bottle of wine and some food; we could-"

"-As your instructor, I cannot allow you to stay up late-"

"-You are not my instructor anymore," she teased. "I fired you, don't you remember?"

"Curious, then, that you called me here in that capacity."

"You were the one who said you ought to come. Besides, I am spending the night here." She hadn't meant to tell him about it, but she was so giddy with the happiness of seeing him, and drunk on music, that she blurted it out anyway. "When you leave out the journey home, that gives us another hour and a half, at least."

He stared at her, aghast. "You cannot spend the night here!"

"Why not? There is gas, and water, and-"

"-There are any number of reasons. To name just one - there are forty barrels of gunpowder under the Opéra left over from the Siege - what if they were to explode?"

She stared at him in alarm. "Mon cœur! The danger to you! You must get rid of it!"

"How do you suggest I dispose of forty barrels of gunpowder?"

"Throw it into the lake, naturally!"

"It would have killed my fish."

"Hm. I see what you mean." She had a feeling there was more to the story than that, but the idea troubled her, and so she abandoned the argument for now. "I wish you could go and live somewhere else, somewhere better… but still be nearby. Perhaps a flat somewhere. You could afford to now, I think."

He swallowed. "As a matter of fact… there is something I would speak with you about." He took a seat on the chaise, and she came to settle beside him, glad that she had apparently managed to get him to remain awhile.

"Oh?" she said.

He traced her delicate jawline with his fingertips, framing her face with his large hands. Warmth flooded through her, and she smiled. "Yes," he said. "I have been thinking…"

"You do that so well."

He laughed. "Thank you."

"What have you been thinking of?"

"I have been considering whether I ought to move-"

"-To move?" she cried. "Where?"

"Forgive me," he said. "I did not choose my words well. Just across the city. A matter of a few miles."

"You must take care how you announce these things, mon ciel," she cried, laughing. "The last two times you said you were going to move, you told me you were going to Moscow or Vladivostok or the moon or something absurd like that. It nearly broke my heart."

He laughed sadly. "Have I not atoned for that?"

"You will not have atoned for it until you marry me, Erik!" she said, and though she was laughing still, he knew she was serious.

"I suppose I deserve that reprimand," he said.

"You do," she laughed, and kissed him, and he knew he was forgiven.

"You know," he mused at length, "that time on the roof when I said that, I never had the slightest intention of going to Moscow, or anywhere else."

"What?" she cried.

He felt secure enough in her affections now that he could admit it to her. "It would have been too painful to be separated from you so widely. I said that because I wanted to see if I could upset you."

"You are a brute!" she exclaimed, mouth open in a perfect "O" of feminine outrage.

"I own it wholeheartedly." He rose and bowed, flinging out his coattails dramatically.

She laughed. This was the Erik she knew. He had been so shy this evening - indeed, ever since the disaster at the ball - but he was coming back to her.

"Besides," he said, "if I went to the moon, Christine, I should take you with me."

Her face lit up with a smile. "Why, how romantic! Well, all is well that ends well, I suppose."

"You are too good to me," he said, smiling at her as he resumed his seat.

"I fear I shall never be good enough for you," she said, and then, before he could contradict this, "Where are you thinking of moving to?"

"I did find a rather pretty little appartement in Montmartre," he said. "It is remote enough that it would be secluded. The landlord for the building lives elsewhere and is by all accounts not very attentive. On paper, my property could be owned by some rich foreigner who never comes to the city… some scheme of that kind."

"Very clever," she said appreciatively.

"Thank you. Yes, I rather thought so. I would not be able to come out very much, of course - I would have to stay hidden during the day - and it would be smaller than what I am used to, but I think I could be quite content. It is quiet there, peaceful. I could play my music. What do you think, Christine?" He took her hands. "You like Montmartre, don't you, Christine?"

"Very much," she said. "But you are free to live where you please- you don't need my approval."

"Well, you see, Christine, I rather do, if…" He stopped.

A smile started to steal over her face. "…Erik! Do you mean it?"

He paused, hesitant, shy. "This not being able to see each other is no good at all," he said.

"I agree!" she said.

"Stolen moments here and there… it is never enough."

"No," she said.

"I should like to see you a great deal more than I do."

She almost smiled at this understatement. They were going to be married in two months' time and he was speaking to her like they were in the early, delicate stages of courting. "I would like that too!" she said, almost laughing.

"I cannot see any other solution than for me to leave the Opéra," he said. "Besides, it is safer."

"Yes, much as I like your lair, I suppose you are right."

"Then… Christine... will you…?" He trailed off, too hesitant to finish.

She beamed. "When can we go?"

"Christine!" His smile was electric.

"Erik. My Erik." She kissed him. "Well?" she said, after a few moments of delicious silence. "When can we-"

"-Oh… as soon as possible, I hope!" he cried, practically rubbing his hands together with excitement. She had never seen him so animated. "I shall sign the papers and send them off tomorrow!"

She embraced him.

Then she startled herself by saying, with a smile, "Will we be living in sin, then?" she said.

He pulled away and looked at her with a quavering expression, uncertain how to react. "Well - no - not in sin, if you mean-"

"-A pity," she said.

She had intended the words as a joke, but when she saw the look in his eyes she realized she hadn't been joking at all when she said them.

Suddenly they both were quiet. The room seemed smaller around them, more intimate, as though it were pulling them together.

It was a curious thing, Christine thought, how their association carried such danger attached to it, how it would have such shame if they were ever caught, when in reality it was in every way so innocent. (People would never imagine that a being like Erik was capable of entertaining anything but the basest, the most loathsome and perverse desires.)

She didn't want it to be innocent.

If they were taking such risk all the time, then for Heaven's sake, they at least ought to have something to show for it! If they were going to put their lives on the line, then they ought to make the most of their time together. They deserved it.

She kissed him with a new fervor.

"Mon cœur?" she whispered, her eyes closed.

"Christine?"

"You were explaining something very intriguing to me after the ball earlier this month."

"Oh… I see… Well?"

"I think…" she whispered, "I think some additional clarification may be useful."

His breath caught for a moment. "Well… then I should not like to disappoint you, Christine," he said at last, whispering into her ear.

She didn't want him to think her brazen, but he was so unsure of her - or really, so unsure of his own attractions - that she had to be somewhat forward, or he would never believe she really desired him. She took his hand and slid it inside her bodice. He sucked in his breath, but did not pull it away; indeed, he pulled her closer to him.

His hand moved backwards, pressed against the curve of her back under her chemise. It was warm, firm, comforting. It felt perfectly right, as though it belonged there.

Though she liked her corset - onstage, it helped her keep track of whether she was breathing deeply enough, and offstage, when she laced it too tightly it felt like being pleasantly tipsy - she was glad she hadn't worn one today. She had all but forgotten how warm another person's hands were. It was so seldom that she actually touched his bare skin, without gloves, without anything between them.

His hand moved upwards, his fingers tracing circles on her shoulder blades. With every touch, a shiver ran through her.

Scarcely able to believe her own boldness, she reached up and started to slide off his jacket.

It caught on his biceps, and he shrugged his shoulders to help it ease off. He was clumsy, awkward, as though he had forgotten how it was to have another person take off your jacket for you. It must have been a long time, she thought. She didn't know how long. They had never spoken of past lovers.

He seemed embarrassed for it, but in reality she was glad. Whoever else there might have been in the past, she wanted him to be thinking only of her, as she was of him.

Twining her fingers into his hair, she leaned back and closed her eyes, pulling him over her, and this time he did not pull away.

His weight on her was perfect, just how she had wished it to be. She couldn't move; she didn't ever want to move again, just to lie there, feeling his lips move over her, drowning in his eyes. Nothing else in the world mattered, there was only him, the feel of him. "Erik..." she whispered.

"Christine." His hand pulled her forward, arching her back, and he bent his head and kissed the skin between her breasts. "Christine..."

She went weak with desire. This was perfect. This was bliss. "My darling..."

And then suddenly he froze, his gaze no longer on her. He looked toward the door, a frightened light in his eyes.

"Mon cœur?" she said. "Erik?"

But he seemed almost to have forgotten her altogether. His gaze was far away, as though he were forming a picture of some particular spot based on a sound he had heard - mentally scanning the area.

At last he stood so quickly she had to scramble backward. "Wait."

She felt suddenly cold. "What is it?" she said.

He re-emerged into the dressing-room and peered through the peep-hole in the door to the hallway outside. (Christine had taken the precaution of covering the keyhole with a drape a long time ago).

"Erik?" she said.

At last he turned back to her, a horrible false smiled plastered on his face. "I think, my dear, we have a guest."

END OF CHAPTER 36.

CHAPTER 37 COMING SOON! Thank you so, so much for reading! Thank you WraithSnakeZenith, Ana, Olive, ForeverReading1, Janeway, Marzz, LadyMyth, PinkDynamite, WolfShadow, Charlotte, ComicalFreaka, and WitzendWander for your lovely reviews! (If I have forgotten anyone, please yell at me and I will add you!) They honestly make my day!