Author's Note: Thank you for all the lovely reviews, and for continuing to follow this story despite the huge gaps between updates! I hope you all enjoy this new chapter. Thanks again for reading.

Chapter Nine: The Red Scarf

1.

The auditorium was still echoing with the sound of applause, but Erik had long ago ceased to join in. Instead, before the final curtain call was over, he slipped out of Box Five and made his way to his office.

Once inside, alone and safe, Erik tore off the mask and allowed the tears to spill freely down both of his cheeks and beneath the collar of his dress shirt.

Erik knew he ought to be crying tears of happiness. Christine had triumphed, and she had succeeded in part because of his help. But instead he wept at the thought that his friendship with her might now be at an end. After such a performance, why would she wish to resume her singing lessons with him? Of course, it was quite true that many opera singers continued to study with voice teachers throughout their careers. But Erik couldn't see what else he could teach Christine, not after tonight.

He stared sadly at the piano which stood silently in the corner. Christine's sheet music was still spread out across the lid, and the score of Hannibal was open where they had left it at the end of their last lesson.

Until now, Erik had not entertained thoughts of what would happen after Christine had made her debut. He had been too happy in the world of music they had created together, content to drift from day to day in a dream world of arias and duets.

But now the dream was over, and Erik realised he was faced with a stark choice. He could sink into misery until the next time he heard her sing, when perhaps he would take comfort from her exquisite voice. Or he could aim for something more.

Erik dried his eyes and rose to his feet. Then he walked decisively over to a small wardrobe and took out the brand new opera cape and wide-brimmed felt hat which he had purchased specially for the Viscount's birthday party. He dressed silently, his hands trembling all the while.

Inspecting his reflection in the mirror, which was kept hung out of sight on the inside of the wardrobe door, Erik realised that something was missing. He thought about the men who, in his first days at the Opera, he had observed calling on their sweethearts in the dressing rooms. They always brought gifts. A box of chocolates, perhaps, or a bouquet of flowers. Erik smiled: a bouquet would be perfect. And he knew just where to find one.

He left the theatre briefly and glanced about the Place de l'Opera. Fortunately it did not take him long to spot the flower-seller who was doing splendid business near the stage door. Tonight she had more customers than usual, a group of young men who seemed greatly relieved to be able to buy gifts for the objects of their admiration at such a late hour. And Erik, who was now feeling rather reckless, was happy to share in their enthusiasm.

A moment later he was back inside the Opera House, carrying a magnificent bouquet of red roses, and heading for Christine's dressing room. Occasionally he berated himself for his foolishness, for surely Christine would reject him? And yet, despite his doubts, he kept on walking, mentally rehearsing the moment when he would present her with the roses and ask her to accompany him to the Viscount's party.

2.

After her brief conversation with Madame Giry, Christine went straight to her dressing room. It was quiet and peaceful in there, and she needed a private place in which to think.

As she changed from her costume and into a peacock blue evening gown (another temporary loan from the costume store), Christine looked at herself in the mirror. She could not quite believe she was the same Christine Daae who had been so afraid earlier that day. She smiled at her reflection, wondering what she would do next. Hopefully she would sing Elissa again, and other roles. But for now she was content.

A knock on the door startled her from her daydream. She went to open it, and was so surprised by the sight of the person standing in the doorway that she thought, for a moment, that she must be imagining things. But he was really standing there, smiling shyly, a bottle of champagne clutched in one hand.

"Raoul?" Her voice was a high-pitched gasp.

"Christine Daae, where is your red scarf?" The question was delivered in such an oddly formal tone that Christine was unsure how to respond.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Surely you remember? I rescued it for you. Ended up soaked to the skin. My governess thought I'd gone quite mad."

Christine laughed uncertainly. Although Meg had kept her informed of Raoul's regular attendance at the Opera, she had not seen him in person since that night at the bistro, when he had apparently chosen to completely ignore her. The memory troubled her, and she must have looked puzzled because Raoul frowned.

"Is there something the matter?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Nothing. It's just…you've written to me ever since our summer in Perros. I thought we were friends, but when I saw you at the bistro, you acted like you didn't know me. Why is that, Raoul?"

He looked ashamed. "I'm very sorry, Christine. But you were there with your friends and I did not wish to disturb you. And my brother was being his usual, insufferable self." He gave a forced, embarrassed laugh. "Apart from anything else, I just didn't know what to say to you. It's so many years since I've seen you in person. From your letters, I've always pictured you as Little Lotte."

Christine glanced at herself, briefly, in the mirror. She sighed. "Little Lotte. It's such a long time since anyone's called me that."

"I still thought of you as the girl who loved chocolates and ghost stories more than anything else." Raoul shrugged. "It sounds ridiculous, I suppose."

Christine smiled. "Not at all. If it's any comfort, I always thought of you as the little boy who went into the sea to rescue my scarf."

"But now we've both grown up," Raoul's voice was wistful. "You're a star of the opera. What does one say to a star of the opera?"

"A simple hello would suffice."

"I've been very silly, haven't I?" Raoul laughed and held out his hand. "Hello, Christine, I'm Raoul. Do you remember me?"

"Hello, Raoul. Of course I remember you."

"And I should think so, too," said Raoul, in a mockingly serious tone. Christine shook his hand, and the formality of the gesture made her laugh.

"It really is good to see you," she said, squeezing his hand affectionately. "And I suppose I should say 'happy birthday.'"

Raoul sighed. "Oh God, don't remind me. This entire place has gone mad, and all because I'm a year older. It makes no sense."

There was the sound of laughter from the passageway outside. Raoul glanced over his shoulder, eyeing the open door.

"Oh, no," he said.

"What is it?"

"Christine, do you mind if I stay here? It'll only be for a few minutes."

"No, of course I don't mind."

Raoul went to close the door.

"Thank you," he said, looking at her with relief.

Christine eyed him curiously. "Are you hiding from someone?"

Raoul grimaced. "Yes. My brother. I've just seen one of his friends in the corridor. Some duke or other. Philippe wants me to spend my birthday surrounded by his aristocratic cronies. It was exactly the same last year, and the year before. Only this time the setting is rather grander."

"I take it you're not looking forward to your birthday party, then?"

"Not exactly," Raoul said. He gave a weary sigh. "I'm sorry, Christine. You must think me terribly ungrateful, and I suppose I am. My brother thinks a party at the Opera will make me happy, and I know he has gone to a lot of trouble. But he doesn't understand, you see. He doesn't realise that I come to the Opera for different reasons than he. He thinks the Opera House is a sort of gentlemen's club where one goes to meet with friends and drink champagne in the foyers. But I come here to listen. And you cannot imagine my delight when I heard you."

Taken aback, Christine uttered an embarrassed burst of laughter. "I wasn't that good, Raoul."

Oh, but I was, she thought. And I want him to say that I was, but I really have no idea why.

Raoul bowed low and kissed her on the hand. "You were, Christine. You cannot know how divine your voice is… I could never have imagined such a glorious sound. I wanted to find you and offer you my congratulations. I heard you sing when we were children and your voice was lovely then, but I had no idea you could sing like that."

Christine was sure she was blushing. "Thank you, Raoul. You flatter me. But I'm touched. Thank you."

Raoul was quiet for a moment, looking down at the floor. Christine could remember how shy he had been as a boy. Apparently, despite his confident words of praise, that old shyness was still there.

"Are you invited to the party?" Raoul asked suddenly.

"I don't know," said Christine, smiling at the strangeness of the question, for surely Raoul knew who had been invited to his own party? "Am I? I was under the impression that everyone in the Opera House was invited."

"Well, can I officially invite you? As a proper guest of mine? I would love you to sit at our table. It would be nice to have the company of someone I actually know and…" Raoul hesitated, and gave a rather gawkish smile. "It would be nice to have a true friend as my special guest," he hesitated, looking her in the eyes as if searching for an answer there. "I'll understand if you don't want to, but I would love to have the chance to talk with you properly."

Christine was silent. She knew she should feel stunned: for most female performers at the Opera House, this would be the fulfilment of a dream. A personal invitation from the Vicomte de Chagny! Meg would be beside herself when she found out. But when Christine looked at Raoul, she did not see the most eligible bachelor in Paris, but a boy who had once rescued her scarf from the sea. She looked at Raoul and saw happy memories.

"I would love to," she said. "But will your brother mind?"

"My brother has invited every crashing bore within a twenty mile radius. I don't think he really has a right to protest. I'm twenty-one now. I think I deserve some say in who attends my birthday party. And besides, it's not as if he doesn't know you," Raoul's eyes glittered mischievously. "Did he make a good singing teacher?"

"He taught me all the most common flaws which a singer should avoid."

Raoul laughed. "Yes, I expect he did."

There was a knock at the door.

"I hope that's not Philippe," said Raoul.

Another knock, more insistent, and then a familiar voice called out: "Miss Daae, are you there?"

It was Erik's voice. Surprised, Christine went to open the door, and gasped at the sight of the vast, imposing shadow which suddenly towered over her.

Erik was dressed more elegantly than she had ever seen him. He wore full evening wear, the exquisitely tailored suit flattering his tall frame. Over the suit he wore an ankle length black cloak, the collar decorated with tiny jet beads which glinted like diamonds. And on his head there was the most outrageously fashionable hat she had ever seen, a wide-brimmed black fedora which cast a shadow over his masked face. The idea that anyone could consider him ugly suddenly seemed utterly ridiculous. He looked magnificent.

Magnificent, but at the same time terribly self-conscious. With shaking hands, he removed his hat. Then he bowed, thrusting a large bouquet of red roses towards her.

"For the new leading lady," he said, smiling in a clumsy, lopsided manner.

"Thank you," said Christine, taking the flowers from his outstretched hand.

"That was astounding," said Erik, in a breathless voice which sounded so different from his usual, commanding tones. "I've never heard or seen anything like it. It was simply beautiful, Mademoiselle. You should be very proud…" He paused, and Christine realised he was looking over her shoulder at Raoul. His eyes widened in surprise. "Good evening, Monsieur le Vicomte."

"Good evening, Monsieur Carriere," said Raoul, giving Erik a brief, formal bow.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Christine noticed that Erik was regarding Raoul with an odd expression on his face. He looked almost suspicious. It occurred to Christine that he would doubtless be wondering what Raoul was doing in her dressing room, and she felt embarrassed, although she was not quite sure why. She felt as though part of her old life as a poor country girl had suddenly been thrown into sharp relief in front of Erik. This, of course, was nonsense. Raoul was an aristocrat, and her friendship with him was no reason to be ashamed. She tried to gather her wits.

"Monsieur de Chagny has come to congratulate me," she said, her voice shaking slightly.

Erik raised his visible eyebrow. "I see."

"We're going to the party," said Raoul, looking at Erik as if he were daring him to object.

"Raoul's birthday party," Christine added, fearing that Erik would misunderstand. "Everyone else is going."

"But I've invited her personally," said Raoul, looking at Christine pleadingly.

"Have you indeed?" said Erik, his stare still fixed on Raoul. "Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I need to speak to Mademoiselle Daae on urgent business."

"You do?" said Christine, looking at him in confusion.

"I'm afraid so," said Erik. He turned to Raoul. "Your brother is waiting for you in the Grand Foyer, Monsieur le Vicomte. He seems most eager to introduce you to the cream of Parisian society. Perhaps you should go and put him out of his misery."

Raoul seemed to shrink under Erik's icy gaze.

"All right," he said. "I suppose opera business is far more important. Good night, Christine."

"Wait," said Christine. "Why don't we all go to the party together? We could discuss this urgent business in the Grand Foyer, couldn't we?"

"I'm sorry, my dear," Erik said. "But it's private business."

Raoul looked at Christine sadly. "Another time, Lotte?"

Defeated, Christine nodded. "Another time."

When Raoul had gone, Christine turned to Erik. Her initial pleasure at seeing him had vanished, and she found herself rounding on him in anger.

"Why did you do that?"

"Do what?" said Erik innocently.

"You embarrassed him. You drove him away."

"I did no such thing," said Erik. "And I'm sorry if you see it that way."

"I don't see why you had to make him go away just so we can talk," Christine looked at Erik, her eyes narrowing. "What is this urgent business?"

Erik was silent. He adjusted the collar of his cloak, turned his hat round and round in his hands. Christine realised that he was nervous, that he could not look her in the eye.

"Erik?"

"Yes?"

"There is no urgent business, is there?"

He looked up at her, and she was surprised to see that his unmasked cheek had turned bright pink. At first she thought he had been weeping, but then she realised that he was blushing.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

He remained silent for a moment, a strangely lost expression on his face. Then, quite suddenly, he began to laugh.

"Erik?"

The sound of Erik's laughter echoed around the dressing room. When it finally subsided, Christine could see tears shining on his visible cheek.

"Oh, Christine," he said, wiping his eyes. "I'm so sorry. I feel ridiculous. I am ridiculous." He looked down at the fedora in his hand. "This hat is completely ridiculous."

Christine looked at the hat, unsure whether it would be wise to argue with him.

"Why do you feel ridiculous?" she said at last.

"Because I thought – absurd notion – that if I put on a new hat and cloak and came to your dressing room with a bunch of flowers, you might accompany me to the party. But I know now that I was wrong, and that your answer would have been no. Forgive me, Christine. I shall take my leave of you."

"No, don't go. Please." She took a step towards him. "Why are you so certain that I would say no? What have I done, Erik?"

Refusing to look at her, he merely shook his head. "It's not your fault, Christine. If you accompanied me tonight, I would embarrass you. I understand."

"Why would I be embarrassed?"

"Because…" He paused, and uttered a gulping sound, as if he was swallowing tears. "Because I know you would not wish to be seen in the company of a man who is so…so…"

"Sit down," she said, leading him towards a chaise lounge, and noticing his look of surprise when she almost pushed him into it. "And if you tell me you're ugly one more time, I may be obliged to agree with you."

For a moment, he looked hurt. But then his lips twitched upwards into the tiniest of smiles. "You're joking," he said.

"Yes, I'm joking." Christine resisted an urge to roll her eyes. "Listen to me, Erik. Not only have you taught me to sing, but you gave me the courage to go out on that stage tonight and share my voice with other people. You helped me conquer my fears, and now I want you to be able to do the same thing."

He eyed her warily. "What do you mean?"

"We're going to the party. We need only go for a short time, if you wish."

He twisted his hands together nervously, and once again she was struck by how such a large, intimidating man could appear so vulnerable, so frail. He was much taller and broader than she, and a great deal stronger, no doubt. But Christine had the oddest impression that one cruel word, one unkind phrase, would be enough to shatter his fragile self confidence to pieces. He was like one of the great marble statues in the Opera's entrance foyer, but instead of marble, he was glass.

And he was shaking so hard.

"You really are scared, aren't you?" she said.

He laughed harshly. "Of course not."

"But you are. You're trembling. Why are you so afraid? Surely it's no different from going to the bistro?"

"You don't understand, Christine. How can you? You're…" he broke off, turning away from her. "You're beautiful. No, don't laugh. You are. You can't possibly know what it's like. For all these years I've done everything in my power to lead a normal life, but I'm not normal, Christine. This…" he indicated his mask. "This isn't normal. This is monstrous. I'm not like…" he paused, and his next words were so soft that she struggled to hear them. "I'm not like the Vicomte."

"Oh, Erik." Reaching forward, Christine laid a hand tenderly on his arm. He flinched away.

"Don't patronise me," he hissed, curling his arm around his chest as if he wished to protect himself from some real or imagined pain. "I'm tired of everyone patronising me. Carlotta, Philippe de Chagny… I don't want to be patronised by you too. I want to be normal, and if I can't be normal, if I can't have the things which other people have, then I would rather be left alone," he covered his face with his hands. "Just go, Christine. Leave me alone. Please."

Christine stared at the figure in the chair, so elegant moments before, now as crumpled and sad as a wilted flower.

"I'm not going anywhere," she said.

"Why?"

"Well, for a start, this is my dressing room."

He raised his head and stared at her in disbelief. She smiled. "But mainly I'm not leaving because you're my friend and I want to help. Will you let me help, Erik? You say I could never understand, but you won't let me try. Every time I try to get close to you, you shrink away. You seem to think you repel me, but I don't find you ugly or repulsive."

"You would think differently if you saw my face."

She gave him an exasperated frown. "Perhaps it's time you showed it to me. Then you'd know that I could never, ever be repulsed by you."

He looked up at her, and she saw the anger in his eyes, and the fear. Somehow, the fear was far worse.

"You wish to see my face," he said harshly.

She took a step backwards. For the first time, the power in that beautiful voice had unnerved her. He spoke as if she had made some terrible, unthinkable request.

"I can't force you to show me," she said, trying to hide her nervousness from him. "But perhaps it would help me to understand."

He was silent for a moment, and she realised that he was staring at his own reflection in the dressing room mirror. His face – the part which she could see – was as blank as his white mask. But his eyes were filled with apprehension.

"I can't show you," he said.

"Why not? Surely I wouldn't be the first? Surely you've shown your face to others before?"

"This is different. I know, Christine, that you're only human, and it's human nature to recoil from ugliness. If I saw the slightest flicker of disgust in your eyes, I just don't think I could cope with it."

"Why?" she asked, suddenly afraid. "Why am I different? Why would my reaction hurt you so much?"

"Because…" He trailed off. "Because…"

"Yes?"

"Because, Christine, I…" he stopped again, as if the words would not come to him, and it was a startling thing to hear such a powerful voice struck silent. He looked at her wretchedly, helplessly.

"What are you trying to say, Erik?"

He was quiet for a moment, averting his gaze from her. When he finally spoke, his words were soft and strangled by tears.

"Because I love you."