Author's Note: Thank you for the lovely reviews for the last chapter, and thank you to everyone who is still reading this story! It has become a slightly more complex story than I had originally intended, and it has certainly gone in a slightly unexpected direction! I hope you're all still enjoying it, and, as ever, I'm grateful for any feedback.

Chapter Twelve: In a Foreign Tongue

1.

"You didn't hear it from me, but Monsieur Carriere's back."

Christine stared at Meg, who was unable to hide a grin. Erik had been absent from the Opera for over a week, and they were all starting to tire of the behaviour of Count Philippe, who seemed to think he had a right to lead the rehearsals. She quickly beckoned Meg into the prompt corner, so they would not be overheard.

"Since when?"

"This morning. Mama's in his office now."

"Is he - " Christine hesitated, looking away shyly. "Is he alright?"

Meg shrugged, a rather clumsy gesture for such a graceful dancer. "Who knows? He looked well enough, but you know Erik. It's so very hard to tell."

Christine knew what Meg meant. Generally speaking, Erik was very good at concealing his emotions. She suspected that she was one of the few people to have seen him weep (even, occasionally, at a particularly poignant passage of opera). Given their recent parting, the thought did not exactly cheer her.

"Is he back to stay?" She dreaded Meg's answer.

"I don't know. Don't tell anyone, but Mama went to see him last week, and he was having real doubts about his future at the Opera."

Christine suddenly felt very cold. "But this is terrible! He can't go."

"And he is not," said a voice. The girls jumped.

"Mama!" Meg gasped. "You startled us! Is Monsieur Carriere really staying?"

Madame Giry nodded, smiling indulgently at Meg. "Yes. But I think he would appreciate it if you would not gossip about him quite yet." She turned to Christine. "My dear, he wishes to see you."

"But surely I'm the last person he would want to see?"

The ballet mistress raised an eyebrow. "Nonsense. Why do you say that? Now please hurry. He doesn't appreciate being kept waiting."

Christine gave Meg an uncertain glance and made to leave the wings.

"Miss Daae?" Madame Giry's voice caused her to pause. "I can assure you, he's just as nervous and sorry as you are. Do be patient with him."

Surprised, Christine nodded. Slightly reassured, she made her way to Erik's office.

She knocked hesitantly, and was greeted with a wary "Come in."

Erik was seated behind his desk. As she entered, he automatically lifted a hand to his mask, as if to hide his face from her once again. But he fought the gesture, threaded his fingers together, and regarded her thoughtfully.

"Good morning, Mademoiselle Daae," he said. "I trust I find you well?"

She was so startled by his formality that it took her a moment to reply.

"Very well, thank you." She paused. "How are you?"

"Perfectly well, thank you." His voice was empty of emotion, and Christine knew immediately that she did not believe him. He looked tired and ill, his face almost as pale as his mask. A dark shadow hung from his eye. He looked as though he had not seen the sunlight in a week, and she felt a wave of pity when she realised this was most likely the case. Poor Erik! She could not bear to think of him hiding in his apartment, like a recluse.

She swallowed nervously. "Erik, I…"

He held up a hand to silence her. "Won't you sit down?"

She obeyed, sitting in an armchair opposite him, the vast desk between them.

"Erik, I hope you know how very sorry I am…"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "Please don't. I know you're sorry. I'm sorry too. Please can we just leave it at that?"

Christine stared at her hands, which were neatly folded on the desk to prevent her from fidgeting. "I hurt your feelings. I'm not quite sure how, but I clearly did."

"You didn't hurt me." He smiled wistfully. "In fact, you made me see sense."

"What do you mean?"

He sighed. "I've had a great deal of time to think this last week. I've been trying to remember why I first came to the Opera, and why I accepted the position of director. Music is everything to me, Christine. That is why I am here, and that is why I wished to teach you." He pushed a newspaper towards her. "I suppose you've seen this?"

Christine looked down at the paper and blushed. It was the review she had received from O.G. in Le Epoque, two days after the gala.

"I'm sure he's over exaggerating," she said.

He gave a short laugh. "You're too modest."

"He says I'm the greatest singer in Europe. That can't be true."

"O. G.'s expressions border on the theatrical, but I believe his sentiments are genuine enough." Erik frowned. "I've had so many bad reviews from O.G. in the past, that now I've finally read a positive one, I'm starting to think he may have been right all along. About everything."

"But he wrote terrible things about you."

"He commented on my lack of musical education and the fact that I try too hard to pander to the tastes of powerful patrons. I only accepted Il Muto because Count Philippe asked me to, and I can't quite believe that I've been so weak."

"But the Count's your most faithful patron."

"The Opera should be more important than his patronage." Erik almost growled, and Christine shivered. She wasn't quite sure where this conversation was going, or what it had to do with her. "What do you make of Il Muto?"

Caught off guard by the question, Christine hesitated. "Rehearsals have been difficult without you."

Erik looked almost grateful, but then his eyes grew cold again. "It's a disaster. A musical travesty. An awful piece of derivative nonsense. And if it wasn't already too late, I would cancel the whole wretched thing."

Christine was shocked. She had known Erik did not care for Count Philippe's music (she was not overly keen herself), but the bitterness in his words surprised her.

"I will allow the Count to pursue his vanity project." Erik's voice had grown weary. He sighed again. "What I cannot allow is for your talent to be corrupted by it."

Christine stared at him, her heart racing. "What do you mean?"

Erik suddenly sat up straight behind the desk. He looked every inch the commanding impresario, business-like and formal.

"I will not allow you to sing the role of the Countess," he said simply.

She gasped. She could hardly believe what Erik was saying. "But I've learned the role. I want to sing it."

"I'm afraid that's no longer possible."

"So you wish for me to return to the chorus?" Christine tried not to raise her voice. She was not given to displays of anger, but it was a struggle for her to remain calm. "After all the work we've done together? I can't believe you would ask such a thing of me, Erik."

He folded his arms defensively.

"I'd be grateful if you would address me as Monsieur Carriere."

"Very well. Your behaviour is ridiculous, Monsieur Carriere."

Erik rubbed a hand over his forehead in a weary gesture. She noticed that his skin was shining with sweat, and she wondered again if he was unwell.

"Miss Daae, I do not intend for you to return to the chorus. Far from it. I simply do not wish for you to waste your talent on such a badly written role. Do you wish to damage your reputation?"

Christine suppressed the urge to laugh. "This is not about my talent, or my reputation! This is because you don't feel able to work with me because I've seen your face. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. After all, they did warn me. I've heard the rumours that you fired anyone who saw your face, or who dared to comment upon your face. And I never believed them, but it seems they were true."

"Miss Daae, will you please be calm?"

"Erik, will you please stop talking to me in such a patronising fashion? How many times do I have to apologise? How many times do I have to tell you that your face does not bother me?" She paused, and slumped back in the chair, suddenly feeling very near to tears. "I don't know what I can say to reassure you. If you wish to continue in the belief that everyone will reject you because of your face, then I suppose there's nothing I can say to convince you otherwise. But please, do not punish me for it."

Erik looked momentarily startled. He stared at her open-mouthed, and for one brief, triumphant moment, Christine thought that he must finally believe her, and would reconsider. But then Erik regained his composure, and rose to his feet. Turning his back to her, he stared out of the window, which could not have afforded him a particularly fine view, as the curtains were half closed.

"I have received a letter from the director of Covent Garden. I know him personally, and he is a very good man. He wishes to stage a production of Faust in two month's time. He requires French speakers, as he intends to stage the opera in the original language. You know the score, I suppose?"

Christine ignored the question. "London. You wish for me to go to London?"

"Of course you know the score. It will be a great opportunity to further your career, Miss Daae."

Christine was forced to wipe tears from her eyes. "But I don't want to go to London. My career…my home…is here." She shook her head. "I can't believe this. I can't believe you would do this. And after you said you loved me."

Flinching, Erik turned to look at her, and she realised that, although he was trying very hard to conceal his emotions, his eyes were impossibly sad.

"Believe me, you must take advantage of this opportunity. Performing for a different audience, in a country which is not your own, is a great thing for a singer. You would have to go quite soon, of course. Next week at the latest. But I would ensure that everything was ready for you." He smiled sadly. "Covent Garden is a fine opera house. You will be quite safe, and feel quite at home. And it will only be for a few months, until Il Muto is over."

"And then I can return?"

Erik was silent for a moment, apparently considering the matter.

"Yes," he said at last. "You can return. And perhaps then we shall have something worthy of your voice."

Christine was silent for a moment, considering. She was angry with Erik. She had never given him any indication that she wished to travel, and the thought that he had made such plans without her knowledge annoyed her. And yet, he seemed to offer her no alternative.

"I don't know what to say."

Erik took a step towards her and held out a hand. For a moment, Christine was convinced that he was going to caress her cheek, but then he withdrew his hand with a sigh.

"I'm doing this for the best reasons, Christine. Please trust me."

Christine stared at him for a moment. "I would, except you won't trust me."

He looked at her sadly, and turned away again. "Thank you, Miss Daae. You may go."

2.

Meg was in tears. "But you won't leave, will you? You can't go to London! I'll miss you!"

Christine gave her friend a hug. "It's only for a few months, Meg," she soothed. "I'll be back before you have time to miss me. And besides, it might even be exciting."

She was trying so hard to convince herself, but inside she was terrified, and Meg clearly knew it.

"But they don't even speak French there," said the little ballerina, with obvious horror. "If you have to go, then I'm going with you."

"Oh, no, you're not," said Madame Giry darkly.

The company were gathered at the front of the stalls, where a tearful Christine had been forced to tell them the news. The atmosphere was sombre, and Christine derived some comfort from the disapproval of her colleagues when they learned of Erik's plan, but it was not quite enough.

"I can't believe he's doing this," said Monsieur Reyer, shaking his head sadly. "Miss Daae has learned the score. This could set us back weeks."

"He shall not do this, because I will not permit it!" said Count Philippe, jumping to his feet. "Who does he think he is? I'm going to speak to him at once…"

"I will speak to him," said Madame Giry, rising and picking up her rehearsal cane. "You will only succeed in getting him all worked up."

The Count glared at her, but was silent.

"As for the rest of you, I think it's time you all went home." Madame Giry looked at Christine sympathetically. "My dear, if you wish for some company, you'd be very welcome to stay with Meg and me tonight."

Christine tried to smile. "Thank you. But I think I would rather be alone for a while."

She watched as the company filed out of the auditorium, shooting her pitying glances as they went.

"Won't you at least walk home with us?" said Meg. "Perhaps we can go to the bistro on the way."

"Thank you, Meg. But I'm fine. Honestly. You go ahead. I just want a few minutes alone."

Meg looked at Christine sadly, then scuttled up the aisle in the wake of the other ballerinas.

Christine stared out at the dark auditorium, the rows of empty seats and the great chandelier. Closing her eyes tightly, she breathed in the smell of sawdust and paint from the newly built set. She listened, but heard nothing. She wondered what the Covent Garden Opera House was like, and if it would ever be as dear to her as this theatre. Of course it would not. Again, she found herself wiping away tears.

"You don't have to go, you know."

The voice seemed to come from nowhere. It echoed around the silent auditorium, making her jump. She spun around to find a familiar face smiling at her.

"Raoul! You gave me quite a fright!"

"I'm sorry," he said hastily, when he saw her startled expression. "It's just…I saw that you were upset, and I just wanted you to know that I think Carriere has treated you appallingly. You don't have to go to London. I know Philippe still wants you to sing the Countess, despite all his histrionics. He'll speak to Carriere tomorrow."

Christine turned away, folding her arms. "I'm not sure I want to sing it anymore. Not when Erik wants me to leave." She sighed. "If only I could begin to understand him."

"I shouldn't even try." Raoul smiled. "We never had that dinner, did we?"

"No. We didn't."

"Would you care to join me at the bistro tonight?"

Christine looked at his eager, kind face. "Oh, Raoul. I'm grateful, I really am. But I fear that I would be very poor company."

"Nonsense! I would be delighted if you would join me. And then, perhaps, we can work out what you're going to do next. Or we could just reminisce about the old days." His voice was soft.

"Oh, very well," said Christine. "I would be glad of the company, if I'm honest. Thank you, Raoul."

Raoul smiled, and together they walked through the shadowy theatre. As they left, Christine fancied she heard someone cry out as if in pain, but dismissed it as the sound of the wind.

3.

Erik's office was silent, apart from the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. The sound was oppressive.

He had stayed here since Christine had gone, unable to summon either the courage to go to the auditorium, or the energy to return to his apartment. It was nearly five pm. The rehearsal would be almost over. If he only waited a few minutes more, he would be alone in the vast, empty theatre.

A voice hissed at him from somewhere inside his mind.

You fool. How could you send her away? You still love her. Admit it. And now you've driven her away, like the coward you are.

He tried to reason with the voice: It was the right thing to do. I sent her away for honourable reasons.

Nonsense! Christine was right. You drove her away because you couldn't bear to see her everyday when you knew she had looked at your face. You're a coward.

Moaning in despair, Erik covered his ears with his hands, as if the gesture could block out the thoughts that insisted upon tormenting him. He began to weep, the tears soaking the velvet cuffs of his jacket.

Coward. Coward. Coward.

There was a knock on the door. Erik let his hands fall onto his lap. Then he heard his own voice, quiet and weak and hardly recognisable, but oddly hopeful:

"Christine?"

"Erik?" The voice was not Christine's, but it was a familiar voice. "May I come in?"

Erik frowned. It was Antoinette. He could not allow her to see him like this, with his heart broken and all his strength gone.

He took a deep breath and tried to give his voice its familiar power. "I'm fine. Go home, Antoinette."

"I don't believe you." Antoinette's tone was suspicious. "Please let me in. I need to talk to you."

"I just want to be left alone."

But Antoinette was not to be discouraged. She adopted the tone which she frequently used when dealing with wayward ballet girls.

"Erik Carriere, if you don't open this door at once, I'll arrange a private party for you at the bistro, and I'll invite every theatre critic in Paris and every aristocrat bearing the name of de Chagny. And I'll make you eat snails in garlic butter. And I'll force you to listen to Monsieur Reyer play Gilbert and Sullivan arias on the piano all night long. And I'll sing."

Erik sighed. Antoinette obviously had no intention of leaving him in peace. He walked unsteadily across the room and wrenched open the door.

All trace of humour gone, Antoinette stared at him, her eyes wide with concern. "Erik, you look dreadful! What on Earth's the matter?

Erik tried to glare at her. He wanted to shout at her, to exert his authority, to insist that she leave him alone, but once again he could feel his strength ebbing away.

He grasped hold of the doorframe, trying to steady himself.

"Erik? What's wrong? Please tell me!"

Erik looked at her helplessly, and all the words of warning and accusation died on his lips.

"She's leaving," he whispered. Then he burst into tears and staggered towards the couch.

Antoinette rushed after him and caught him beneath the arms as he fainted.