Author's Note: Thank you for the reviews, and welcome to what is possibly the quickest ever update from me in the history of eleven years on this site!

I hope you enjoy this chapter. I admit to borrowing rather heavily from the Charles Dance Phantom - Yeston/Kopit Phantom here. This is because, in my humble opinion, the picnic scene is amazing, and Erik and Christine should go on more picnics :). But there is a serious reason for my writing this chapter, so please bear with me. Enjoy!

Chapter 17: It was years ago…

Christine's simple confidence while walking the streets of Paris astounded Erik. He was accustomed to hurrying through the crowds while keeping his head inclined downwards, in the hope that shadows would conceal his mask. But Christine strolled along quite happily, occasionally smiling and nodding at passers-by.

At a loss to imitate her social charms, Erik followed along in her wake, carrying the picnic basket and deeply regretting his choice of hat. The straw boater had seemed like a good idea at the time, as he had seen other gentlemen wearing them while walking in the park, but now it just seemed a whimsical inconvenience: the brim was not wide enough to cast a shadow over the mask.

They reached the Tuileries, and Erik tensed at the sight of the beautiful formal garden. The weather was warm and bright, and the park was crowded with couples lounging on the grass, or seated on the benches at either side of the central avenue.

"Oh, Erik, this is perfect!" Christine had found a sunny spot beside an ornamental fountain. There were several couples resting nearby, and two children were splashing each other with handfuls of water. They glanced up at Erik curiously, and his hand tightened nervously around the handle of the picnic basket.

"I don't think this is such a good idea," he began, but Christine seized his hand and led him around the fountain and into a shady avenue half-concealed by rose bushes. The scent of the pink roses was heady, intoxicating. He breathed it in and tried to relax.

"Perfect," he said, with a smile. Opening the picnic basket, he took out a large woollen rug and spread it on the lawn so it was half in shadow and half in the sun. Christine sat in the light. Instinctively, he remained in the shadows, and began to unpack the basket further.

As he placed the bread and cheese on plates, he was aware of Christine watching him and smiling.

"What's the matter?"

She lowered her eyes. "Nothing. It's just that I've never seen you in daylight before. Not properly. Not outside."

He shrugged and poured wine into her glass. "I've never felt particularly comfortable."

"But you're comfortable here, aren't you?"

He glanced around. "Yes. Well, that fountain is an architectural monstrosity, but the gardens are pleasant enough."

Christine tucked into her bread. She continued to regard him as she ate, and Erik became aware that something was expected of him.

"This is nice, isn't it?" she said, after a moment.

Ah. That was it. He was expected to make conversation.

"Yes," he said. "Very nice."

Christine nodded, and continued to eat her sandwich. Aware that eating would excuse him from talking, Erik eyed the cheese, but his stomach was turning somersaults. He went to take a sip from his glass, only to find that it was already empty. As discreetly as possible, he poured himself another, and watched Christine. She smiled between mouthfuls of food.

Erik had never found himself in this sort of situation before, but he was aware there were rules one had to follow. He knew that one of these rules was to ask the other person about themselves. There were so many things he wanted to know about Christine, but each question seemed either too personal, or too trivial.

What did people talk about when they were courting? He supposed this was a courtship now, however accidental. The Opera no longer seemed a sufficient topic of conversation.

"The weather has been good," he stated, rather more grandly than he had intended.

Christine nodded. "It's lovely, isn't it?"

A question! He must decide upon a question.

"Do you like…" Do you like what? Come on, Erik! "Do you like…poetry?"

Christine stared at him for a moment, then nodded. "Yes. Some poetry. Why do you ask?"

Why indeed? Erik reached again for his wine glass, his hand shaking. And then Christine's own hand came forward, her fingers gently brushing his wrist.

"You don't need to be nervous, you know," she said. "We can just sit here, or we can talk about the Opera."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't want you to think you have to entertain me, or impress me," she lowered her voice. "I'm happy just being with you."

He stared down at her hand, her delicate fingers against his own pale, elongated claws.

"What's this, anyway?" she said suddenly, and he looked up to see that she was staring at his hand curiously.

"What?"

"This." She stroked the ring on the little finger of his right hand. It was a silver band set with an oval of black onyx.

He smiled. "I think it's what's known as a ring, Christine."

"I know that." She glared at him, but her eyes were playful. "I've often noticed it while you've been playing the piano."

Once again, he found it very difficult to keep looking at her. "It's just a ring. Many people wear them."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I was just curious. It's a very beautiful ring."

He realised he had spoken harshly, and sighed. "Thank you. To be perfectly honest, it was a gift. Of a sort."

"Who from?"

"That's the oddest thing. I don't know. When I was younger, just before I went to work at the Opera, someone sent it to me with a note. There was no name. But the note said…" He paused, wondering if she would laugh. "The note said I could achieve anything, if I put my mind to it, and the ring, which rightfully belonged to me, was to remind me of that fact." He chuckled. "A piece of sentimental nonsense, I suppose. I meant to throw it away, but I grew attached to it, and I've worn it ever since."

"Who do you think sent it?"

He shrugged. "I have my suspicion. The only person I can really think would do such a thing is Antoinette. She was in the corps de ballet at the time and it seems like the sort of thing a sentimental little ballet rat would do."

Christine grinned. "It's certainly the sort of thing Meg would do. Have you never asked Madame Giry about it?"

"To be completely honest, I've never dared. Imagine how awkward it would be if I was wrong. Imagine Antoinette's face."

Christine laughed. "It would be fun to solve the mystery."

"Fun? In what way?"

"Well, aren't you even a tiny bit curious as to where it came from?"

"Not really. Delving into the past can be a dangerous thing, Christine. Don't think I haven't considered it. I just prefer to believe that it was someone who genuinely cared for me, and not some kind of joke."

Her laughter died, and she looked suddenly very sad. "Why should it be a joke? I think it's far more likely to be genuine."

"You always look for the good in people, don't you?" He smiled fondly. "It can be quite tiring at times. But you must know that the world has taught me to look at things rather differently."

She was silent, a blush touching her cheeks. Then, still without a word, she rose to her feet and dusted the breadcrumbs and blades of grass from her skirt.

"What's the matter?" He asked, bewildered by the gesture. "Have I offended you?"

"Yes, actually, you have, a little." She gathered her red shawl around her shoulders. "I'm getting rather tired of you being so patronising."

He stood up, placing his hands on his hips. "I'm not patronising. I'm merely stating a fact."

"And how would you know?" Her eyes were almost blazing. "Sometimes, Erik, you speak to me as if I'm little more than a child, but I did have a life before I arrived at the Opera. And I've known hardship, just like you. When I was very young, my mother died, and my father lost everything, including our house. In an attempt to get by, we travelled the country together. He played the violin, and I sang. My father was a very great violinist, but sometimes people would shoo us away, as if our music meant nothing, or as if we were common thieves." She passed a hand over her eyes, and Erik had the unnerving feeling that she was about to cry. "But for every person who rejected us, there was always someone else who was kind, who paid my father to play at a wedding or village fete, who gave us food, or a place to stay. So just because you choose to view the whole of humanity with cynical eyes, it doesn't mean that I have to, and it certainly doesn't mean that you're correct in your assessment."

She stopped, panting, her hands clenched into loose fists by her sides. Erik could only stare at her.

"I'm so sorry, Christine," he said softly. "I didn't know."

"You didn't know, because you never asked me," she said. "For someone who professes to care about me, you show very little interest in who I am beyond my ability to sing your operas."

He shook his head. "That's not true. Please don't be angry with me, Christine. I've…" he paused, his face suddenly feeling very hot beneath the mask. "I've never done this before."

She looked at him quizzically, the anger dissipating slightly. "What are you talking about?"

"Do I really have to say it? Isn't it obvious? Can't you see what a blundering fool I am? I've never courted a woman, Christine. I've never taken a woman to a restaurant, to the theatre, or on a picnic before." He sighed. "The truth is I'm frightened. I don't know how to ask you about yourself, because I'm afraid of prying and being rude. So if I've failed some sort of test, I'm very sorry. I meant no offence."

They were now standing several feet apart, the picnic rug and basket between them. Erik lifted a hand to his cheek and realised that it was wet with tears. He waited for her judgement, waited for her to gather her things and walk away. But instead she sank down upon the rug, and patted the material beside her. He hesitated for a moment, and then sat down himself.

"You must think me pathetic," he muttered.

"Not at all." She smiled at him wistfully. "I only wish you'd told me."

"I thought it was obvious. What sort of lady would wish to sit across from a face like mine at the dinner table?" He paused, and saw that she had raised her eyebrows. "I'm sorry. You see what I mean? That came out all wrong."

"It's all right," she said, taking his hand and squeezing it gently. "I'm sorry I lost my temper. I only want you to know that I understand. My father should have been a renowned violinist, playing in the great concert halls of the world. But instead he did what he had to do in order to survive. And I know you did the same."

Feeling his chest constrict with fear, Erik pulled his hand away. "What do you mean?"

"I know about the sideshow." Her eyes were sympathetic, and it was suddenly painfully clear that she felt sorry for him.

"Oh God." He buried his face in his hands. Of course he had suspected that she had overheard his conversation with Philippe, and yet the fact that she had not mentioned it since had made him dare to hope that he was wrong.

"I heard Philippe threaten to tell the company the truth."

The fear was very real now, and he was trembling.

"I told you at the time. He was bitter about Il Muto. He was lying." He could not keep the note of desperation out of his voice.

"But it is true, isn't it? That's why you fled that night at the bistro. That's what you meant when you said people were only interested in seeing your face." The sympathy in her eyes was almost unbearable to look at, but he forced himself to hold her gaze. He did not want her to see the extent of his shame. "And I heard Carlotta call you a singing gargoyle."

Those two words, spoken for the second time in one day, were enough to make something inside him break. He found he no longer had the will to lie to her, to keep secrets.

"I was very young. I had no choice. There was nothing else I could do…"

"I know," she said, taking his hand again. "I understand. There's no reason to be ashamed."

"But I am." His body convulsed in a sob. "And if you had seen me, if you had been there, you would be ashamed, too. You certainly wouldn't wish to be seen with me now."

"I could never be ashamed of you," she said gently, reaching up to tuck a lock of hair under the brim of his straw hat. "I've told you a little about my life, Erik. Would you please tell me about yours? Then there'll be no more secrets, and I can prove to you that I'm not ashamed."

He sighed, and looked up at her. Tears were sliding down his cheeks, but he tried to smile. "Very well." He took a deep breath. "It was years ago…"