Author's Note: Thank you to all those who have read, reviewed, and followed this story since I last updated it. I really appreciate the support, and can only apologise for my long absence from this site. I've been working on some other writing projects, but it's good to be posting here again!

To recap: It is the night of the Don Juan premiere. Count Philippe is up to no good, and Erik is thinking about proposing to Christine…

Chapter 21: Don Juan Triumphant

Christine took her place in the wings earlier than was necessary; she had felt no desire to remain backstage, where an unusually tense atmosphere had settled over the company. She had experienced first night nerves during her run in Hannibal, but at least she had been able to draw some courage from the more experienced performers around her. Tonight, however, everyone seemed equally on edge.

"There you are!"

Christine turned to see Meg, dressed in her gypsy girl costume. "I've been looking for you. Mama said you'd gone back to your dressing room."

"I'm sorry," said Christine. "I couldn't stay there another minute. I'm so nervous, and I think everyone else is, too."

"It's because the Minister of Fine Arts is in tonight," said Meg.

Christine tensed; Philippe had warned Erik to expect a visit from the Minister. It seemed that he had been true to his word. She wondered if the Minister had come of his own volition, or if his visit had been orchestrated by the count.

"Why is he here? Is Erik…I mean, is there a problem?"

Meg shook her head. "I don't think so. He sometimes comes to important premieres. It's one of his duties."

Christine relaxed slightly. If this was a routine visit, perhaps there was no trouble and the Minister of Fine Arts would be quite happy.

"I think they're nervous about impressing him," whispered Meg. "They say he has quite conventional tastes. I'm not sure what he'll think of Monsieur Carriere's music."

This was less reassuring. Christine turned away slightly, and Meg giggled.

"Oh, Christine, don't look so worried! You adore Erik's music. And I think your opinion matters more to him than any Minister's. We all know he wrote the opera for you."

"Meg!" Christine blushed. "Do keep your voice down. And anyway, that's not true. Erik has been working on Don Juan for years. He told me."

"But he finished it for you," said Meg. "You're his muse. It's all very romantic."

"Don't talk nonsense," said Christine. "Not everything is a grand romantic gesture. Honestly, Meg, you're obsessed."

Meg grinned. "If you say so, Christine."

Monsieur Mercier, the stage manager, hurried past them. "Five minutes, ladies."

"Goodness," said Meg. "I'd better go. I should be in the opposite wing. Good luck, Christine."

Christine smiled, and hugged her friend. "Good luck, Meg."

When Meg had gone, Christine peered between the two side flats which formed her part of the wing. She had a fairly clear view of the stage, albeit from the side. The stage set was unusually stark, lacking the elaborate details upon which the Opera House had previously prided itself. Erik had dispensed with a painted backdrop, choosing instead to use draped fabric and wooden beams to suggest the inside of Don Juan's dwelling. It was rumoured that this had led to a fairly heated debate with the chief set builder, who thought that Erik had gone quite mad, and had said so, loudly and at rather great length.

Christine wasn't entirely sure she liked the effect; the stage looked larger than usual. There was no place to hide, no danger of the performers being upstaged by the scenery.

"It is so dull," said Carlotta's voice in her ear. "Dull and dark and boring. Do people come to the Opera to see a bare stage? No, they do not."

Christine sighed. The former prima donna had continued to goad both herself and Erik throughout the remainder of the rehearsal period.

"Don't you care that we're all about to ruin our careers?"

Christine turned to Carlotta with a glare. "If you don't mind, Signora, I would appreciate a few minutes of quiet."

At that moment, the overture erupted from the orchestra pit, causing Christine to jump and Carlotta to utter a laugh.

"Quiet? With all that…that noise which he calls music?"

Determined to ignore Carlotta, Christine turned back towards the stage and listened to the overture. And she was reminded why Erik had insisted on such minimal scenery; the music was scenery enough. Christine gasped at the effect, and during a quieter moment, she heard gasps from the audience, too. The music leaped like dancing flames.

Don Juan Triumphant began with an aria in which Don Juan reflected on his desire to woo Aminta. Unfortunately, Aminta seemed utterly oblivious to the charms of Don Juan, having eyes only for Passarino, a young servant.

Piangi was in good voice. These last weeks had given Christine an insight into the tenor's true dedication to the opera. He and Erik had apparently forgiven each other for their confrontation regarding Carlotta. Piangi had spent any break in rehearsal studying the music, and on several occasions he had stayed at the Opera House late, working with Erik to perfect passages of the score. As a result, Christine looked upon him with a greater respect than she had previously, and she knew that the majority of the company felt the same way.

"Look at him," said Carlotta. "He's so silly and pompous. What sort of Don Juan is he?"

Christine blinked in surprise. In her eyes, Piangi was hardly pompous. Offstage, the tenor was shy in much the same way as Erik could sometimes be, and the only time she had ever seen him behave in a pompous manner was when he had called Erik an 'amateur' over the dismissal of Carlotta. But since they had both re-joined the company, Piangi had seemed to keep his distance from Carlotta, something which might account for the soprano's contempt.

"I think he's wonderful," said Christine.

"Well, you do have a strange idea of what constitutes talent," said Carlotta. "We all have different tastes, I suppose."

On stage, Piangi was coming to the end of his aria. It would soon be time for Christine's first entrance. She wanted Erik with her. She wanted to be able to see him, but Box Five was angled too far away from the stage. So she waited, and hoped all would be well.

2.

"I do wish you would sit down," said Antoinette.

Erik ignored his companion and continued to stand in the darkness at the back of Box Five.

The ballet mistress rolled her eyes. "There's no need for you to hide in the shadows. They're not going to throw things at you if you sit at the front."

Erik shuddered. "I thought such crass remarks were beneath you, Madame."

Antoinette looked at Erik and winced. "I'm sorry. I forgot."

"That's all right. But I would prefer to remain here. I hope you understand."

The last note of Don Juan's aria. A beat of silence. And then, unexpectedly, wonderfully: applause. Not exactly rapturous, but not without enthusiasm. And Piangi, utterly professional, did not break character, did not smile or bow.

"See?" Antoinette turned to smile at Erik. "It's going well. Come and sit down."

Erik pulled a chair towards the rear of the box and seated himself in the shadows. Antoinette tutted, but said nothing.

Although he would not admit it, Erik was pleased with how his opera was progressing. After Philippe's words, he had predicated coolness, perhaps even hostility, from the first night audience, and he was relieved to find that this was not the case.

Christine made her first entrance. Erik smiled, relaxing a little in his chair. She was in good voice, and the audience seemed rapt. Who wouldn't be? He sighed, his smile widening as Christine sang her duet with Passarino (played by Carolus Fonta). Without thinking, Erik slipped his hand into his pocket, reassuring himself that the little velvet ring box was still there.

The remainder of the act passed without incident. Erik kept waiting for the disaster, the moment when people in the audience would jeer, or stand up and walk out.

Christine hurried offstage with Carolus. The lights darkened, the action moving to the inn, and the chorus entered, carrying trays laden with food. Erik frowned; he was not happy with this scene. It seemed somehow contrived, an excuse for empty spectacle. He would have to rework it.

An odd sound, a percussive sound, began to accompany the final verse. Erik grimaced, trying to ignore the noise, but it was repeated with some urgency. He leapt to his feet and flung open the door, ready to yell at the wretch who had dared to disturb him at such an important moment.

His anger dissolved at the sight of Monsieur Mercier, who was very pale. Erik's heart began to race at the possible significance of the stage manager abandoning his post. Surely he would only do such a thing in an emergency?

"What is it, Mercier?"

"There's been an accident."

Erik swayed, steadying himself by splaying one hand against the velvet-covered wall. "Miss Daae?"

Mercier shook his head. "Piangi."

3.

Christine left the stage amidst the warmth of applause. It was going well, and the audience, muted at first, was growing increasingly appreciative.

The next act took place in the evening, and this required changing into a new costume. Hurrying backstage with the intention of reaching her dressing room, Christine was startled by a cry. This was followed by another sound: a heavy thud. Pausing in the narrow space behind the blank backdrop, she looked around for the source of the noise.

A cool gust of air hit Christine in the face as a figure rushed past her. She caught a glimpse of a black beaded cloak and a wide brimmed hat.

"Erik?"

The shadow looked so much like him, but of course it couldn't be: Erik was in Box Five. The figure didn't stop when she spoke, but disappeared into the darkness backstage.

There was another groan. And then there was a scream, a terrible, shrill scream which rooted Christine to the spot. And suddenly people started rushing past her in the darkness, asking questions. The stage manager yelled out a command to bring the curtain down and light the stage lamps.

When the lights came up, the scene quickly fell into place. No longer frozen with fear, Christine found she could move again and hurried forward to help.

The screams were coming from Carlotta. The groans were coming from Piangi, who was lying on the stage with his head in Carlotta's lap.

"Help!" Carlotta cried. "Help! Murder!"

"Oh, for goodness sake!" said Anatole Garron, striding over to the scene. "Piangi's alive. He's groaning. There's no murder."

"And how do you know?" said Carlotta. "My Ubaldo was attacked by an…by an assailant! Here, backstage, in broad daylight! I saw it happen."

"Are you all right, Signor?" said Christine, bending down to look at Piangi.

Piangi sat up and rubbed his head. "I think so. Someone hit me…knocked me over…"

"It wasn't in broad daylight," said Anatole to Carlotta. "It was dark."

Carlotta glared at the baritone. "It was a figure of speech."

Christine decided to intervene. "Anatole, will you fetch the doctor, please?"

Anatole hurried away.

"Who attacked you?" asked Christine.

"I don't know. I didn't see anything."

"My poor Ubaldo," crooned Carlotta.

"Please, Cara, don't make a scene. I'm fine."

Anatole returned five minutes later with the theatre doctor. He examined Piangi and asked what had happened, to which the tenor could only provide a vague answer. It was obvious that he hadn't seen his attacker. Christine thought of the man in the cloak, but she decided not to mention it, not yet. After all, she had no idea who the man was, or if he was even connected to the incident.

An authoritative voice cut through the hubbub. "What's going on here?"

"Erik!" It took all of Christine's will not to throw her arms around him. He looked down at Piangi and Carlotta with a perplexed expression. Madame Giry and Mercier were with him.

Carlotta glared at Erik. "My Ubaldo was attacked in your Opera House!"

Erik ignored her. "Are you all right, Ubaldo?"

"I think so, Signor Carriere."

"Signor Piangi has suffered a blow to the head," said the doctor. "I think he will be fine, but I'd like to keep him under observation for a while. Perhaps I can escort him back to his dressing room until I'm sure he's well enough to go home?"

Erik stared at the doctor. "Home? But we're in the middle of my opera! He's Don Juan."

"Then I'm afraid that you'll have to cancel the remainder of the performance, or find another Don Juan. You must have an understudy?"

Erik was shaking his head. "No, no. No understudy. Perhaps Carolus, but he's on as Passarino…" he covered his face with his hands. "Why didn't I prepare for this? Stupid, stupid… Mercier, will you delay the curtain, please, and make an announcement? Tell the audience that there'll be a short interval."

The nervous stage manager nodded and disappeared through the curtains. The doctor helped Piangi to his feet, and the rest of the company hung back, awaiting further instruction. Erik paced up and down.

"Perhaps…perhaps if I promoted one of the chorus members to be Passarino, and Carolus could go on as Don Juan?"

"Me?" Carolus stared at Erik in horror. "I can't do it. Not tonight. I'm sorry, Monsieur Carriere, but your music…it was difficult enough learning Passarino. I feel that I barely know Don Juan. I would be under rehearsed."

"Then what would you have me do?" Erik snapped. "Either you go on, or we cancel the rest of the performance."

There was silence for a moment as the company stared at Erik, who was still pacing and seemed completely oblivious to the attention.

"Why don't you sing it, Monsieur Carriere?"

The suggestion came from Meg. Christine couldn't help smiling; she had been thinking the same thing, but it was typical of her friend to be the quickest to speak her mind.

Erik whirled around. "I beg your pardon, Miss Giry?"

"Why don't you sing it?" said Meg. "You could sing it. We heard you at the bistro that night. And you wrote the music. You know it better than anyone."

"Meg's right," said Carolus, looking relieved. "You'd be much better."

There were various expressions of agreement from the rest of the company. Erik looked around the circle of people, his eyes widening.

"You think…you think I really…" he broke off, touching his mask in a self-conscious gesture. "Do you really think I could do it?"

"Of course. It's the obvious solution," said Madame Giry, exchanging a smile with Meg.

There were murmurs of agreement from the company. Erik looked at Christine. To those who did not know him so well, Erik's nerves would not have appeared obvious; he was too good at controlling them. But Christine could see his anxiety in the slight trembling of his hands, the hunted look in his eyes.

"I'm not sure…I think I need a few moments. Please excuse me…" And he hurried away.

Christine hesitated only a moment before she followed him. She caught up with him outside the stage door of the Opera, where he stood taking gulps of air.

She approached him cautiously.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes." He shuddered, and took another deep breath.

"Come inside," she said, gently tugging at his hand. He followed her without protest to one of the smaller practice rooms. Erik sank into a chair, still shivering.

"We've been here before," said Christine. "Except last time it was you offering me words of encouragement on my opening night."

Erik gave a nervous bark of laughter. "Don't be absurd. I'm not going to have an opening night."

"So you want to cancel your opera? Tell the audience to go home?"

"Of course not."

"You wanted to be a singer. When you were younger. You even auditioned for the Opera."

"Yes, and that was stupid. My going on tonight would be equally foolish."

"Why?" Christine knelt in front of him and took his hands once again. "Why would it be foolish?"

"Because…" he swallowed hard, as if repressing tears. "People who look like me don't go on the stage."

"Perhaps you can change that."

"Don't be ridiculous, Christine. It's Don Juan. I'm no Don Juan…" He paused. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Christine had been about to laugh, but she managed to assume a serious expression.

"I'm very glad," she said. "He's not the nicest of men."

A smile flickered across Erik's face, but quickly died. "Oh, Christine. You're very kind. But I can't sing for all those people."

"You sing for me."

"That's different," he looked at the floor. "You're not like the others."

"You're wrong. You heard Meg. And you saw the reaction of the company. Your company. I'm not unique in my admiration for you, Erik. Everyone here respects you, even Carlotta. I just wish you could see it." Christine sighed and got to her feet. "It's up to you. But if you don't go on tonight, I think you'll come to regret it."

Erik lifted his head and stared at her for a long moment. Then he smiled.

"That almost sounded like a threat, Miss Daae," he said.

Christine folded her arms and grinned. "Perhaps it was."

Erik slowly rose to his feet. Christine waited as he fought some internal battle, suggested by the nervous clenching of his hands. At last he closed his eyes and spoke so softly she could barely hear him.

"I'll need a few minutes to warm up."

"Of course. And you'll need Piangi's costume. I don't think the modern dress clothes are exactly appropriate."

Erik glanced down at his suit. "No. You're right. That would certainly raise a few eyebrows."

They regarded each other in silence for a moment. Then Christine leaned forward and planted a light kiss on Erik's unmasked cheek.

"Good luck, Erik," she said.

He did not speak. She squeezed his hand, and left the room before he could change his mind.

4.

People were looking at him.

Erik waited backstage, shuffling from foot to foot, feeling deeply self-conscious as his company watched him with undisguised curiosity. He had dressed as quickly as possible in a spare costume, as Piangi's was too short in the legs. Erik was so accustomed to a conventional suit that the costume felt unnatural against his skin. The one reassuring item of clothing was the voluminous cowled cloak that covered him from head to toe, leaving only his hands visible. This was the disguise Don Juan had adopted for seducing Aminta.

Erik blushed, which made him doubly glad of the cowl. In hindsight, the choice of subject matter for his opera seemed a little embarrassing, although in fairness he had never expected to be playing opposite Christine. The opera had grown from his fascination with a character who seemed to find love so easily. But the last weeks had taught him that what Don Juan knew was not love at all, and the resulting character did little to express Erik's more romantic heart. He hoped that Christine would not see Don Juan's rather fickle feelings as a reflection of his own deeper ones.

Trying to force his attention away from these thoughts, Erik listened for his cue.

"Master…"

This was a terrible idea. What if he stepped out there and sang badly? What if he made a fool of himself and let Christine down in the process?

"Master?"

He had hesitated for too long; Passarino had been obliged to repeat himself.

Somehow, he found his voice.

"Passarino. Go away, for the trap is set and waits for its prey…"

At that moment, he felt like the prey, never mind Aminta.

With shaking hands, Erik pulled open the curtains of Don Juan's hiding place. The stage lights glared through the gauze of the cowl, the brightness catching him by surprise. To cover his shock, Erik turned away and drew the curtains roughly back together. He stood with his back to the audience for a few seconds longer than was strictly necessary. Then he took a deep breath, and turned to face Christine, who was standing at the other side of the stage, next to a table laden with wax fruit.

He began to sing, his voice tremulous.

"You have come here, in pursuit of your deepest urge…"

Christine was smiling at him, ever so slightly, and enigmatically enough so that no one but Erik would know the true feelings behind her smile. She wanted him to succeed. She was trying to give him confidence.

And it was working. Erik raised his voice. It was odd, but it seemed to have a different quality to it, a greater richness and depth upon the stage. He had to admit that the effect was pleasing to the ear.

The duet passed with the air of a dream. Erik focused most of his attention on Christine's voice, allowing it to give strength to his own. He realised somewhere around the second verse that he was really quite a terrible actor. Although he could express the majority of his emotions in real life, especially in Christine's presence, he found that on the stage he had, by contrast, all the physical expressiveness of a plank of wood. Fortunately, Christine was experienced enough as an actress to lead him and cover his mistakes.

There were no such problems with his voice, which seemed to exist somewhere independently of his awkward person, soaring above the stage and around the auditorium. When he and Christine sang their final note together, there was applause.

Erik froze for a moment, almost hypnotised by the sound, one which he had rarely heard in his life. He had never been applauded at the freak show – the audience would throw coins to show their appreciation, and he had always known that it was not his voice they were appreciating. At the cabaret, the audiences had become bored and unresponsive when they realised he wasn't going to remove his mask. He wondered how this audience would respond if they knew who was singing. Would they be any different from the others?

He couldn't remember what Don Juan was supposed to do next. Christine, still in character, grabbed his hand and led him back through the curtains.

He found himself backstage, staring into her smiling face.

"You look petrified," she said.

"I am."

"Don't be." She squeezed his hand. "You're doing splendidly."

He rather doubted that, but another thought had occurred to him, far more urgent.

He pulled his hand away. "Christine, what happens in the last act?"

"What do you mean?"

"I'll need to perform without the hood. They'll see my mask. Perhaps Piangi will be better by then, because I should really back out at that point. For continuity's sake…"

He could see that Christine wasn't fooled. She knew he was afraid – why did she always have to see his fear? She must think him unforgivably weak. Laughable, even.

"If you feel uncomfortable, you don't have to do this," she said. "But I wouldn't worry about continuity. Did you hear the applause? I think they'll happily overlook the mask if they can hear you sing again."

Erik was unconvinced; he knew how easily a contented audience could turn towards disapproval. But it seemed too late to back out now. The performance was going well, and he would be letting his company down if he refused to return to the stage.

But he also knew there was more to it than that. Far more.

Come on, Erik, he thought. Admit it: you love singing. Why continue to deny it? Why continue to punish yourself in such an extraordinary manner?

"No one will think any less of you if you don't go back on," said Christine.

"No." Erik pulled up the cowl to reveal his masked face. "I would like to continue."

Erik wondered if there were whispers.

He could not hear anything above the music. No sharp intakes of breath, no words of dismay or disbelief, no nervous laughter. And he was unable to see the expressions on the faces of the audience. If they nudged each other, or leaned to the side to speak in a companion's ear, their actions went unseen by him, although he imagined them all.

And he knew his mask must appear starkly, vividly white in the glow of the stage lamps. He was more aware than ever before of the physical sensation of it resting against his face. The mask, which he had become so used to over the years, now felt like an unnatural second skin. His face felt hot and damp, uncomfortable. It was peculiar to suddenly become so aware of the mask's strangeness. This, he knew, could only be the result of the audience's real or imagined scrutiny.

He was onstage. And part of it was terrifying, and part of it was wonderful. It was wonderful because Christine was there, and he was able to sing with her, and be guided by her. And at the end of the third act, he knew that all he wanted to do was sing with her again.

As the curtain fell, she threw her arms around his neck.

"Erik. Well done. Well done."

Somewhere, faraway in the distance, he heard applause. The corps de ballet paraded past him, clad in red and gold, and took their bows upon the stage. The rest of the company followed.

"You should go on last, Christine," said Erik. "None of this would have happened without you."

"You should go on, too."

Erik shook his head. "I prefer to remain here."

The time had come for Christine to step onto the stage. Suddenly, with a playful laugh, she seized Erik's hand and pulled. Caught off guard, Erik stumbled from the wings. Now the audience could see him, he had no choice but to walk centre stage and take a bow.

"You little demon," he hissed. But then he laughed, because Christine was smiling and his company was applauding as well as the audience, who were treating the cast to a standing ovation.

Erik grasped Christine's hand, and they bowed together.

And then Erik glimpsed a movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned, startled, and saw a figure in a black cloak and broad brimmed hat.

Count Philippe smiled at him.

And then his hand shot out and snatched Erik's mask away.