Author's Note: Thanks again for reading and reviewing! A couple of you said that you enjoyed the glimpse into Erik's past. I'm glad you enjoyed it, because there'll probably be another past section slightly later in the story. But for now, we're back to the present. I hope you enjoy, and thanks again for reading!

Chapter Fourteen: A Warning from the Count

Christine felt light-headed. She had only consumed one glass of wine before concluding that this was quite enough for her. She was weary from the events of the day, but Raoul's company and talk of the old times had at least lifted her spirits. She was pleased that he had chosen the familiar surroundings of the Café de l'Opera, rather than a stuffier, more expensive establishment. They had ordered ratatouille and red wine and a delicious lemon sorbet for dessert, and despite everything, Christine found herself enjoying the meal and laughing a great deal.

As the evening progressed, the conversation had moved from their days at Perros Guirec to other matters, and Raoul was now talking enthusiastically about ships and all things nautical, and his plans to sail around the world.

"I'm bored with Paris," he sighed. "I can't wait to travel again."

Christine looked at him, one eyebrow raised quizzically, and then returned to her sorbet. "I had no idea that it was possible to be bored with Paris."

"That's what my brother says. He thinks it's rather odd, I'm sure. I'm convinced he would stay here all the time if the estate didn't demand his attention. He doesn't understand my need for travel."

"He isn't fond of the sea?"

Raoul laughed. "Far from it. He gets seasick. And besides, he's in love with the Opera. Not the music, you understand. But the theatricality and the architecture and the social life of the Opera. And La Sorelli. Although he would never marry her."

Christine felt suddenly uncomfortable. She laid down her dessert fork.

"Don't you find that sad?" asked Raoul softly.

"Very."

"When I fall in love, I'm going to marry. Convention be damned."

He seemed to be waiting for her reply, and when she said nothing, he sighed and refilled his wine glass. Christine had no idea what to say to such a remark, and instead found herself listening to the music drifting from the front of the café. Someone was playing the piano with a limited amount of skill, and she thought suddenly of Erik. If he were here, he would be making some dry comment about the quality of music in Parisian bistros.

"What's the matter, Christine?"

Raoul's voice startled her from her reverie, and she found that the viscount was gazing at her with an expression of concern on his handsome face.

"Nothing. I'm quite all right."

"You're crying."

She had not realised it, but Raoul was correct. She dropped her gaze to the table, suddenly unable to look at him, but a moment later she found that he was waving a white handkerchief in her face. She gave a strained laugh and took it, dabbing her eyes.

"Thank you."

"I apologise," the viscount said. "I've been talking about myself for too long. What is it, Christine? It's Carriere, isn't it? You mustn't let him upset you."

"Yes," Christine sniffed. "It is Monsieur Carriere, but not in the way you think. It's ridiculous, but…" she paused, and shook her head. "I'm so sorry, Raoul. I've spoiled the evening."

"Nonsense, Lotte." He reached for her hand across the tablecloth. "You don't have to go to England, you know. If Philippe won't speak to Monsieur Carriere, I'll talk to him myself."

"It's not about England. Not really." She breathed deeply, wondering if she should confide such a thing in Raoul. "Do you remember your birthday gala, when you came to see me, and Erik interrupted us?"

Raoul winced. "I'm hardly likely to forget it."

"He told me he loved me."

The viscount was silent for a long time. Christine, awaiting a response, began to feel nervous.

"Raoul?"

"Do you love him back?" His tone was uncharacteristically sharp.

Christine played anxiously with her fork. "He's never far from my thoughts. Things…little things, like the music playing in the next room…they remind me of him. I catch myself wondering what he would think. But it's so difficult. He's convinced himself that he's unacceptable, that he'll find rejection wherever he goes." She sighed. "Sometimes I think I just pity him, but then he'll say something or do something which makes me question my feelings. Perhaps I do love him, but I'm afraid, because he's so different from anyone else I've ever met."

The words escaped from her in a rush, and it was a relief to finally share her confusion with another person. She looked at Raoul gratefully, but saw that he had gone quite pale. He rose to his feet abruptly.

"Raoul? What is it?"

The viscount turned away from her. "I think I should escort you home. It's getting late."

"I'm sorry. I have spoiled things."

"Not at all." He smiled weakly. "I'll fetch our cloaks."

Shortly afterwards, they walked beneath the green and white striped awning of the café and out onto the Place de l'Opera, together but saying nothing. Occasionally Christine would glance at Raoul, but the young man seemed deeply subdued, his mouth pressed into a fine, hard line. Every now and then she heard him sigh.

She tried to find something to say to him, but they reached her home far too soon.

"I'm sorry, Raoul," she said again, as they paused on her doorstep.

"You have nothing to apologise for, Lotte." He took her hand. "But I think you should speak to Monsieur Carriere. He is clearly very dear to you."

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly.

"Perhaps I will see you at the Opera," he said. And then, with the slightest of bows, he turned away.

She watched him leave. The satin of his tall hat gleamed in the lamplight. He was dressed like the elegant aristocrat whom he was, and yet she could not help but notice the sad stoop of his shoulders.

The next morning, Christine headed to the Opera House. She had hardly slept the previous night; her thoughts kept returning to her conversation with Raoul, and his advice that she should speak to Erik.

She had decided to act upon Raoul's advice, but even now, as she neared the stage door, she still had no idea what she was going to say. What if he simply dismissed her again?

She knew her best chance of success lay in speaking to him alone in his office, without the distractions provided by the rest of the opera company.

In truth, she had no idea whether she was still welcome at the Opera House. There were no rehearsals to attend, and she had no real excuse for being here. She was afraid that Jean-Claude, the stage doorman, would stop her. Much to her relief he merely nodded at her in greeting, as he did every morning, and smiled at her in a wistful way. She wondered if he had heard about her predicament.

In fact, her progress to Erik's office went unhindered by anyone. The corridors were empty and eerily quiet. Even Madame Giry, who was always in attendance early, was absent. Christine shuddered involuntarily, and then wondered why.

Reaching Erik's office, she raised her hand to knock, and then hesitated.

She had heard a voice from within. A raised, angry voice, whose words she could not quite make out.

And then Erik's voice: "Will you please calm down, Monsieur le Comte?"

So it was Count Philippe in there. Christine was not usually given to eavesdropping. But her need to speak to Erik, coupled with a natural curiosity, caused her to move an inch closer to the door.

"How dare you speak to me that way," Count Philippe was saying. "How can you treat me like this, after all I've done for you?"

There was a long, tense pause, and then Erik spoke again.

"I am grateful for your help and patronage. But I'm the artistic director, and I must make the final decision, however difficult."

"Artistic director?" Philippe was bellowing in a distinctly un-aristocratic fashion. "You would never have become anything of the sort if it wasn't for me! You would never have set foot inside the Opera House!"

"That is a rather arrogant assumption, Monsieur le Comte." Erik's voice was low and dangerous, almost a growl.

"If it wasn't for me, you would still be at the cabarets," snapped Philippe. "But…oh, wait! I found you a place at the cabarets, too, didn't I? If it wasn't for me, you would still be performing in the sideshows."

Christine tried to stifle a gasp. And she was sure she heard Erik gasp as well. The sound was sharp and painful, as if he had been dealt a physical blow.

When he spoke again, his voice was harsh and strangled. "I think you should leave my theatre."

"Very well." The Count's reply was oddly calm. "But I promise you this, Erik. You can't hide behind that mask forever. One day, the whole company will know what you are. Then we'll see if they're willing to take instruction from a circus freak."

Christine was so appalled by Philippe's words that she barely heard the footsteps. She had just enough time to throw herself away from the door before the Count emerged from the office.

He stopped short when he saw her. His face was flushed, and his cold blue eyes regarded her sharply for a moment. Then, as if suddenly recalling social convention, he lifted his hat in greeting.

"Mademoiselle Daae," he said.

Christine could barely manage a nod before he turned away and marched down the corridor.

She waited until he was out of sight, and then opened the office door, realising too late that she had forgotten to knock.

Erik was seated at his desk, his face buried in his hands. His shoulders were hunched, and he was visibly shaking. Taking a tentative step towards him, she heard him sigh.

"How much did you hear?" He did not look at her.

"Nothing." Reaching the desk, Christine slid into the chair opposite him. "Just some shouting."

Erik allowed his hands to fall onto the desktop. He opened his eyes and looked at her searchingly for a moment. Then he sighed again.

"Good."

They sat in silence for several minutes. Christine regarded the man before her and wondered at Count Philippe's words. She could barely believe they were true. Surely he must be lying? She could not believe that Erik, with all his power and sophistication, could ever have been what Count Philippe had suggested.

And yet…it made sense. Christine thought of what little she knew about sideshows, and shuddered. She imagined Erik baring his face before an audience, imagined the gasps and stares.

She knew, as she looked at the elegantly dressed figure behind the desk, that Erik would not have been happy in such a place. This anxious, self-conscious man would have been miserable.

Suddenly, she understood. She recalled that evening at the bistro, the beauty of his tenor voice stunning the entire company, and then the look of terror in his eyes as he had fled. What had he said to her in the alleyway?

"Nobody wants to hear a gargoyle sing. And if they do, it's only out of curiosity. They only wish to see the gargoyle's ugly face, and think to themselves how strange it is, that such an ugly creature can sing so well."

Was this what Erik had meant? Had he spent the years before his arrival at the Opera singing, unmasked, before an unsympathetic crowd?

As she thought of Erik suffering in such a way, the painful ache inside her chest was almost physical. And once again she wondered: was this love, or compassion? She wiped her eyes with a hand, and hoped that he had not seen her tears.

Erik was staring at her suspiciously.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

She shook her head. "No reason. I just…oh, Erik. I'm so sorry."

She was not entirely sure what she was apologising for. She could only think of Philippe's threat, and she felt a sudden urge to protect Erik from the Count's cruel words.

On impulse, she reached across the table and took one of his large, pale hands in her own. He stared at their joined hands in puzzlement, but did not pull away.

"Christine," he said, after a moment. "Anything that you might have heard the Count say…it's not true. He's bitter because I've cancelled Il Muto."

"I know." She smiled to give him courage, even though she could tell that he was lying.

She held his hand for a long time, until a slight smile appeared on his lips and a light returned to his dull eyes. Finally, he pulled his hand from her grasp and rose to his feet.

"I want to apologise for my behaviour yesterday," he said, inclining his head away from her slightly in apparent embarrassment. "I was…scared."

She managed a grin. "Scared of me? You know, Erik, I'm starting to think that all these big scary opera house director stories are just a front."

He looked ashamed, but then realised she was teasing him, and tried to smile.

"I hope you understand," he said. "When people have seen my face in the past, there have been those who have reacted to me in really quite hurtful ways."

The images of a sideshow flashed across Christine's mind. She shuddered, but nodded, and waited for him to continue.

"But Madame Giry says that I should trust you. And I trust her judgment. But Christine…" he paused, and looked at her sadly. "Despite appearances, I'm actually quite…how do I put this? I don't have the thickest of skins…"

"Really?" Christine raised an eyebrow. "You don't say."

"I hope that we can continue to work together," he said. "And I hope that you'll forgive me, and…stay."

Christine did not hesitate. "Of course I'll stay."

He smiled. A real, genuine, warm smile.

"Thank you. But if you do wish to travel to London…"

"Thank you, Erik. But I would much rather remain here."

He seemed to crumple with relief. "I'm so glad. But do not fear: you will not lose Faust. We now have a gap in the programme which we need to fill urgently, and I believe Faust will be perfect. And then…well, I have exciting plans."

And Erik clapped his hands together in a manner which was almost gleeful. He laughed, but there was an odd, slightly hysterical edge to his laughter. Christine stared at him. She thought he seemed far too cheerful for a man who had just been insulted and threatened. She wondered how much of his enthusiasm was feigned.

"What plans, Erik?" she asked gently.

"Ah, they can wait. We have much to discuss first."

Then, without warning, he gathered up his hat and cloak and left the office.

He obviously expected her to follow him, so she did. They walked together down the backstage corridors, until they reached the auditorium, where the company of the Paris Opera House awaited them.