Author's note: Thank you so much for all the lovely feedback you gave me for the last chapter! I can't believe so many of you read and reviewed, and I'm delighted you enjoyed it. As you may have realised, we're nearing the end of the story now, but there will still be a couple more chapters after this one, which is more of a transitional chapter in some ways.

Thanks again for reading!

Chapter 22: Confrontation

A terrible cry pierced the air. It was a cry of rage and pain, and for a moment Christine could not identify the source of the noise, or comprehend the reason for it.

Then she saw Count Philippe holding the mask, and she saw Erik, doubled over, a hand pressed to the right side of his face. And then she understood.

Christine was not usually given to anger. But as she looked at Count Philippe, at the mask in his hand and the sneer upon his lips, she felt her hands clench by her sides, and heard her voice, an unfamiliar snarl.

"You," she said. "How could you?"

She flew at the Count, making a grab for the mask. But Philippe was too quick for her. With a flick of the wrist, he threw the mask into the darkness of the orchestra pit, turned, and hurried into the wings.

Christine wanted to follow him into the darkness. But a moan from Erik stopped her.

She turned to look at him. Very slowly, he straightened his back and shoulders. His eyes narrowed, became cold and strangely empty, as though the man who had just sang with such joy had gone into hiding.

She reached out to him, expecting him to bolt and wanting to keep him there. But he remained where he was, Don Juan's cloak making him a dark, forbidding shadow.

He lowered his hand from his face and whipped around to glare at the assembled company.

"So," he said, his voice an awful hiss which made Christine wince. "What do you all think? Are you all happy? Is your curiosity finally satisfied?"

The company remained very still. Although a few of the singers looked startled by Erik's appearance, Christine did not see any true shock or disgust on their faces. Erik, however, clearly saw something very different.

"Well? Is that all you can do? Stand and stare at the freak? Of course, of course. I shouldn't have expected any different. Well, go ahead and look." Erik leaned forward and stared into the nearest face, which happened to belong to Anatole Garron. Erik's lips twisted upwards in a sneer. "Well, Anatole? What do you think? Do you think I make a fine Don Juan?"

Anatole took an instinctive step backwards, a movement which seemed to fill Erik with rage. Whirling around, he faced the audience, and shouted into the darkened auditorium: "Go ahead. Look at me. Take a good look!"

Christine turned towards the wings, where Monsieur Mercier stood, transfixed and shaking.

"Bring down the curtain," she cried. "Please!"

The stage manager seemed to snap out of his trance. He began to work the ropes. The curtain fell, cutting them off from the audience.

Erik was looking at her, his mouth still wearing that dreadful sneer. "What's the matter, Miss Daae?"

"Nothing. Erik, please. Let's get you away from here…" She reached forward and laid a hand upon his arm. He flinched away from her touch.

"Perhaps you don't wish the audience to see the freak," he said. "Perhaps you're embarrassed to be seen with me. Don't worry. I quite understand."

"Erik…"

"No, no. I understand…I understand…" On the last syllable, his voice trembled. He reached inside his cloak and brought an object from a hidden pocket. "There was something I wanted to give you tonight. No point now."

He threw the object across the stage. Christine saw a glint of gold as it rolled into the wings.

A sob broke free from Erik's throat.

Then he turned and ran. He ran away from her, and from his opera company, his hand once again pressed to his face.

There was silence on the stage. The company exchanged glances, not knowing what to do.

"I always knew he was trouble," said Carlotta.

"Please, Signora. Do be quiet." This was from Madame Giry. "Erik has done nothing wrong."

Christine tried to ignore the arguments. She knew she needed to follow Erik, that this was the right thing to do, but his words echoed in her mind: There was something I wanted to give you tonight. No point now. What did that mean? And what could she do to help him, after this? She had tried everything to comfort him, to give him confidence. And now Philippe's actions had destroyed all the progress they had made together.

"Christine."

A hand beckoned to her from the wings. Christine stepped forward and saw Meg.

There was something clutched in her hand. She opened her fingers to reveal a thin gold ring.

"I think this was what he meant to give you," said Meg. A tear ran down her cheek.

"Oh, no." Christine took the ring from Meg and turned it over gently in her fingers. Her own eyes filled with tears as she realised how Erik must be feeling, what he must be thinking. "I have to find him."

Meg nodded. "I'll come with you."

"Thank you, Meg. But no. You stay here." Christine closed her fingers around the ring. "I need to do this alone."

2.

A circle of staring, leering faces. Gasps and screams.

The sound of coins hitting the stage. Plink plink plink.

Erik pressed his hands to his ears and told himself that he was no longer there. He was here, in the Opera House, the place he considered his home.

But now his home was no longer safe. There were gasps and screams here too, now, and staring faces.

Erik ran. He ran until he reached his office. He locked the door and sank to his knees, the voluminous Don Juan cloak pooling around his body, like a dark hole trying to swallow him.

He would not face the company again. He could not. And he could not remain in his apartment, either. The thought of going about his business, in the light, on the streets of Paris, was too horrible to contemplate. Anyone he passed on the street could have been in the audience for Don Juan that night. He would never be free from their stares and whispers.

But he could not imagine leaving the Opera House.

Perhaps he could stay. Stay forever. The building had cellars…five of them. Surely a person could find a dark corner down there, where they would be safe. He could make a home for himself there. He could use candles for lighting, and steal his supplies – clothes and food – from the theatre above. And even though he would never speak to Christine again, perhaps he would be able to hear her sing. Perhaps there were even places in the cellars where music could reach, where the acoustics were good…

The thought was not comforting. Instead, it made him shudder. There had been a time when becoming a recluse had seemed an attractive prospect. Now, the idea sickened him. Too much had changed. He had changed.

He wanted Christine.

Reaching into his pocket, he searched for the ring, and remembered too late that it was not there; all he found was an empty velvet box. He had thrown the ring away, and perhaps his impulse had been correct. Perhaps it was too soon, and he had made foolish assumptions about their relationship. If he left now, went to another city, another country even, perhaps he would save her any embarrassment. She could continue her career at the Opera without being tainted by her involvement with someone who looked like him.

An insistent voice whispered at him from a corner of his mind: But she does not care what you look like, or what other people think. How many times does she have to tell you this, Erik, before you can bring yourself to believe her?

Amidst the dark memories of his unmasking, he recalled the joy he had felt in her presence. He saw her smile upon the stage that night, the encouragement in her eyes as he sang, felt the warmth of his hand in hers as they took their bows together.

And he knew that if he left now, he would be betraying both Christine, and himself.

He heard a noise behind him, the sound of the door handle turning.

He quickly got to his feet, smoothed the wrinkles from his waistcoat, and said, softly: "Christine."

"Ah," said a voice. "I'm afraid not."

Erik spun around.

Count Philippe was standing in the doorway.

Erik had expected to feel anger, but now he just felt tired.

"What do you want?" he asked. "Haven't you done enough?"

"I'm here to make sure that my actions tonight had the desired effect," said Philippe. "I think it is best for everyone concerned if you leave the Opera, don't you?"

"Perhaps," said Erik. "But I'm not going anywhere."

Philippe's eyes widened. "But everyone saw."

Erik shrugged. "You'll forgive me if I'm a little beyond caring."

"I don't believe you."

"Believe what you wish. It is no concern of mine."

"Fine." Philippe withdrew an envelope from his pocket and held it out to Erik. "20,000 francs. My gift to you. Take it. Start a new life elsewhere, away from the Opera. Take your little ingénue, if she'll go with you. I don't care."

Erik drew back, away from the proffered envelope. "I don't want your money. And you do not frighten me."

"I don't think you have much choice," said Philippe. "I warned you about the Minister of Fine Arts, did I not? Well, I'm sure he is rather unimpressed by your display onstage, the way you insulted both your company and the audience. You were quite unable to control yourself, Erik. And then there was Piangi's accident. Who's to say that you weren't responsible? Surely you would take any chance you could get to sing with Miss Daae. Everyone knows how much you admire and esteem her."

"You wish to blackmail me."

"You make it sound so sordid. Consider this a gentlemen's agreement. Not that you're in any way a gentleman."

"Fine," said Erik. "Blackmail me. But leave Christine out of this."

"On the contrary. If you don't accept my offer, I'll make sure your little Miss Daae never appears on stage again. No other opera house will hire her. Do you understand?"

"What?"

"I suppose you think that being an actress, no one will care about her reputation. Well, you'll be surprised. I have a lot of influence, Erik. A great deal." He glanced down at Erik's desk, where there was a folded newspaper, the edition featuring the review of Christine's performance in Hannibal. "I see you kept this. Have you ever wondered about the identity of O.G., Erik? Did you not think that he's been right under your nose all this time?"

Erik stared at him. "You."

"Who else?"

"But why?"

"It was in my interests to give the Opera some positive publicity. I am its patron, after all. And sometimes you needed my encouragement."

Erik's hands curled into fists. "Positive publicity? Encouragement? You called Hannibal a mediocre spectacle. You called me an amateur eccentric."

Philippe shrugged. "Sometimes you needed reminding of your place. And sometimes I had to give you a push towards making the right decision. But the majority of my reviews were positive. Now let's see." Philippe turned the pages of the newspaper. "Ah, here we are. A very positive review of Miss Daae, if I do say so myself. But critics are fickle creatures. Perhaps O.G. saw Christine in Don Juan, and was rather unimpressed. Perhaps he will be forced to admit that he was wrong about her."

Erik sank into his desk chair and covered his face with his hands. "What do you want with me, Philippe? I find it rather hard to believe that this is all about Il Muto."

"I want someone who will run the Opera in accordance with my wishes. I've given you far too many chances, Erik. A certain amount of power was a small price to pay for everything I've done for you over the years. But you wouldn't have it, would you? So arrogant, for an amateur and a fake. I don't think you appreciate how fortunate you are. I'm bound by duty. To my title. To my estate, and my family. You can do as you please. Go where you please. Marry your protégée, if she'll have you. I wish I had such freedom." He turned away. "I've often thought…had our places been reversed…"

A laugh of disbelief escaped from Erik's throat.

Philippe stared at him, but the smile had vanished and he looked hurt.

"What the hell are you laughing at? Haven't you heard a word I've just said?"

"Do you honestly wish you could exchange your life for mine? Live with this face?" Erik shook his head in wonder.

"Of course not."

"Well, then. You'll forgive me if I find your words rather hollow." Erik rose to his feet. "And now I think you should go."

"I'm not leaving until you give me your word." All trace of vulnerability had vanished from the Count's face. "I mean it, Erik. If you don't resign, I'll ruin her."

Erik flinched at the words. He thought of Christine, of how she had given him the confidence to stand up to Philippe and take control of the Opera. She would not want him to give in to blackmail. And yet he could not let Philippe destroy her career.

He had no choice. He would have to resign.

He was prevented from answering by a knock upon the door. And Christine's voice called out softly: "Erik?"

Philippe smiled. "It seems we have a guest."