Christine stood by the parlour, the open door in sight as she nervously ran her hands over the creases in her dress. How long had it been since she had laid eyes on him? How long had it been since she had spared him a thought? Her cruelty towards him would be something she would always try to atone for and she was certain that one glimpse of him would bring back the rush of unwanted emotions that had plagued her the night before. Her dreamless sleep had seen her tossing and turning, her hands clutching at her sheets and pillows in vain, trying to find some semblance of restfulness. The circles under her eyes were her burden, a dark reminder of her guilt, and it was that very same guilt that now had her fidgeting at the side of the door.

Why on earth had she agreed to this meeting in the first place? What good would it do to either of them? Perhaps, in another time, she would have welcomed him with open arms, if only things had not changed between Erik and herself—Erik! Immediately, she berated herself for sounding as though she regretted their union. Of course not, she loved him, and she was all the more guilt-stricken that she had to remind herself of the fact.

As she toyed with the edges of her camisole sleeves, her fingers coated in a light layer of perspiration which rubbed unpleasantly against the material, she found herself delirious with the decision to leave. Christine turned on the spot and began her spontaneous desertion until the sound of a floorboard creaking—an innocent sound if ever she heard one—reached her ears and she was forced to come to a standstill.

The sound, which she briefly thought about passing off as the mark of an old house, only cemented her to the moment and to the realisation of what she was about to do. He was in there, her friend was in that very room, and she had dared to think about forsaking him. Swallowing thickly, she whirled around and slowly entered the parlour, choosing to quietly linger at the threshold to study the man whose back was to her.

And... there was no rush of emotion, no sudden weight coming down to press on her shoulders. There was only warm familiarity.

From behind, he appeared quite unassuming—his dark red morning coat was pressed and neatly fitted as his gentile hands held the hat that he then proceeded to tap against the back of his legs. He was staring at the painting on the wall—a piece by John Constable which her guardian had acquired some decades ago—with all the merit of a refined critic. A smile found its way to her lips.

"I hope I have not kept you waiting, Monsieur le Vicomte," she said, almost faltering when he spun around and smiled at her in return. "Raoul."

"Not at all!" he replied cheerfully, curling his fingers in the air before wrapping them safely around the brim of his hat as though he had intended to reach out to her. "Christine."

Her memory had served her well for he looked just as she remembered. He was as youthful as ever and his sleeked blonde locks often fought against its combed back position with apparent practice. Only one change altered her perceived image of him and that was the small moustache which now framed his boyish grin. And that grin only grew wider across his handsome features as she approached.

"Please, will you not sit?" she said politely, gesturing to the chair while not missing the odd look he gave her for the rigid tone of formality. "Will you have some tea?" she asked as he took a seat on the chair opposite the settee in which she sat.

"Tea?" he said, catching her eye after it had strayed. "Ah, yes... yes, I think I will have some, if that is all right."

"I shall see to it, then." Rising, she quickly padded across the floor, pausing at the doorway to call back, "Oh, please make yourself comfortable."

With her departure came the deep sigh that left Raoul's body. Settling into his seat, he peered about the room before peeling off his gloves and plopping them into his upturned hat, which now lay on his lap.

How well Christine had looked, he thought to himself, barely able to contain the smile on his face. Time had not melted away her beauty, nor had it altered her sweet disposition. If only she knew how he had all but run himself into the ground these past months, searching for her, fighting for her freedom... and here she was, liberated, and he could only wonder... how?

When the sounds of her skirts wafting from side to side neared, Raoul quickly ran a hand through his hair and courteously stood when she came into view. As his nerves grew with the shy smile she offered him, he suddenly felt quite the bashful boy again, his freckles having not yet faded and his eagerness to impress the young Swedish girl only in its infancy.

"The tea will be along shortly," she told him, sitting down.

As Raoul studied her, he felt compelled to speak after he tried and failed to see the appeal in the colours of the carpet.

"Was the journey here terribly chilly?" she suddenly asked before he could open his mouth.

Raoul regarded her with a look of bewilderment as a short nervous laugh escaped him at her surprisingly formal etiquette. "No, fairly warm for this time of year, I would say."

Lightly humming in agreement, Christine nodded and continued, "And your family, are they well? Your sisters, and your brother?"

Her behaviour baffled him. Why did she address him as a stranger? "My sisters have fitted into married life quite well, so much so that I seldom see them. Though, I would not exactly call that a loss," he answered with a chuckle. "But Philippe is..." His pause was brief but the curious nature of his next words had Christine frowning. "He is perhaps too foolhardy these days."

What a queer thing to have said, she thought. "What ever do you mean?"

"Nothing, nothing," he said, waving it off before regarding her with such tenderness that she almost forced herself to look away. "I am glad to see you looking so well, Christine."

"And I, you," she replied honestly.

"Christine," he then said fervently, unable to contain his inquisitiveness any longer. Leaning forward, he eyed her. "I have tried for months to send word to you. It was as if you had simply vanished! When I was informed of your residence here, my mind was simply brimming with questions, as you can imagine."

Shifting uncomfortably in her seat, Christine lowered her gaze and focused on the miniscule loose thread at the hem of her dress. "My letter..."

"Yes, I know," Raoul reinstated, "but I did not want to give up altogether. Though you broke our engagement, I still longed to see you again, and now you sit before me as if nothing had ever occurred... Christine, how? What happened between the night we parted and now? How ever did you escape?"

"I did not escape, Raoul. I went freely."

His mind was a whirl as it attempted to process this new information. "He allowed you to simply leave? Why? I did not think him so merciful," he mused bitterly, remembering the scorching heat of that accursed torture chamber. Ever since that night he had avoided any such dalliances with mirrors. His brother had thought it nonsensical, but every so often Raoul would wake up in the middle of the night, his body encased in sweat as though he could still feel the chamber's heat burning at his skin.

"You forget that he never truly intended for me to stay with him," she replied. "He released me, if you recall, he released both of us—"

"And you returned to him."

"Yes."

Raoul was simply speechless. Why did she act so nonchalant in the midst of her liberation? Should she not have been rejoicing? Tilting his head, he sighed. What exactly had happen between her and that fiend that made her appear so timid and withdrawn now? Before his mind could conjure scenarios he had only ever seen in his nightmares, he was stricken when his eyes happened to trail downwards to rest on her hand. He could not recall a time when he had been more offended and disheartened by an otherwise insignificant object than this very moment.

"You are married?"

Following his gaze, Christine seemed to momentarily blanch before relaxing, raising her fingers on her other hand to lightly stroke the surface of the ring. "No, I am not married."

"But you wear a ring." And then, as harsh and as sudden as a strike to the cheek, the realisation dawned on him. Abhorrence filled his entire being as he watched her touch the ring with such gentle reverence. "It's his ring, isn't it?"

The hurt in his eyes was evident without Christine needing to look at him. His voice now trembled as the unspoken truth branded him more fiercely and more severely than any physical wound ever could. Shaking his head in disbelief, he covered his mouth with his fingers to keep from snatching at her hand.

"Why?" was the only thing he could manage to utter before a light knock on the door announced the arrival of the tea. Mme Martin kept her eyes down and away from the pair of youths as she passed them and set the tray down on the small table next to the settee. Christine watched her closely, determined to remain neutral and not to provide her with anything she might relay to her fellow nurses outside of this room.

"Thank you, Madame," she said briskly, the smile falling from her face as soon as the older woman had turned her back.

Leaning over to the tray as soon as the door had closed, Christine took the liberty of pouring the hot liquid into her own cup before pouring again into a second one. "You take one spoonful of sugar, if I remember correctly?" she directed at Raoul, who could only stare at her with indignity brimming in his eyes of blue.

With his cup and saucer held steadily in her hand, Christine rose and walked the short distance separating them, holding the beverage out as if it were an offering of peace. Raoul's fingers came up to hold the little saucer with ease, but as Christine made to pull away he quickly grasped her hand.

"You must know," he whispered ardently. "You must know I still care for you—"

"Raoul, please—"

"No," he interrupted, releasing her hand. "I will not see you wasting away here! I do not even care that you wear another man's ring on your finger! I love you!"

"Don't say that, please," she protested weakly, wrapping her arms around her trembling figure as she glanced between the door and the wall—anywhere but his eyes. "I am not wasting away, I am tending to Mamma."

"Yes," he murmured solemnly, recollecting the information about her situation. He must have seemed quite the fool to her. "Madame Giry informed me of her condition. Please forgive me, Christine. I profess love to you whilst your guardian lays bedridden upstairs! What must you think of me?"

"All is forgiven, Raoul," she answered rigidly, focusing on the incessant and irritating thudding of her heart. It was at this moment—albeit brief but there nonetheless—that she had wished for time to reverse; that she had never agreed to receive him.

"I worry for you."

"Hmm?" His voice drew her out of her thoughts and, with a sweep of her hand over her loose curls, she turned to face him. "How so?"

"Your guardian has live-in nurses, does she not?" he inquired, narrowing his eyes in concern when she nodded. "I thought as much. Their salaries cannot be cheap, I imagine. With their income dwindling the money from this household, what will you have to live on after... after your guardian is gone?" Forward was the last thing he had wanted to be, but his fear for her well-being outranked all else.

"I do not think that any concern of yours," she replied unfeelingly, flashes of their once strong fondness for one another brandishing her mind. "Our affairs are our own."

"Please," he quietly begged, his eyes never leaving hers as he leaned forward and reached for her hand, gently this time, determined to crack the mirror of her façade, to see through this indifferent persona, this cold creature that she was being. Yes, he knew. He had seen her on stage too often not to know when she was performing, and this was his very own private performance. "Please," he repeated, squeezing her hand. "Let me take care of you."

"What exactly are you suggesting?"

"Christine." The words rolled off of his tongue as naturally as his lungs drew in air, "Marry me." A gasp escaped her and he quickly continued, not allowing her a moment to object. "I know it is impromptu and it is not an appropriate time to ask, but you would never need worry about financial problems. I can give you a household of your own, away from all of this, and I will love and care for you as I always have... if you would do me the honour of accepting me as your husband."

But she was already shaking her head. "Raoul, I cannot."

Releasing her hand slowly, he peered down awkwardly into his full teacup. "There is someone else."

"Yes," was all she said, but it was enough for his heart to break.

"May I ask whom?" He took a sip of the tea, not even able to taste its strong flavour on his tongue, before he set it down to the side and waited for the answer which never came. Instead, he found himself gazing up into two guilty eyes and his stomach twisted in disgust. "No," he whispered.

"Yes," she proclaimed, clasping her hands together and bringing them to her chest. "I am in love with him."

"No, no, no," Raoul repeated over and over again, wanting the monotonous repetitive words to drown out her confession. "No, you couldn't possibly be!"

It was all Christine could do to keep from weeping in front of him. Biting the inside of her mouth, she smiled sadly. "Would loving him be so terrible?"

"Yes!" he exclaimed, snapping his head up sharply before lowering it again, bringing his hand up to rub his eyes wearily. "I apologise for my outbursts and if I have offended you, but you cannot allow me to sit idly by and listen to this nonsense."

"Nonsense?" she echoed, a subdued rage tingling at the tips of her fingers. "You have the audacity to label my feelings as nonsense?"

At the sound of her tone, Raoul lowered his head in regret. "You know I did not mean it like that, Christine, but you must understand that I am finding this very hard to believe... Has he truly turned you against me?" he wondered aloud.

Her annoyed sigh reached his ears and managed to make his insides churn with remorse. How was it that the simplest airs of femininity were able to crush a man so quickly?

"I am not against you, Raoul," she reassured him with the tiredness of one who had heard the same accusation time and time again. "I was never against you."

Though they did only a little to calm his wounded heart, her words were not enough for him. "I do not understand your allegiance to him," he murmured, drooping his head forward to cradle it between his hands. "Your loyalties have always baffled me."

Defiantly, she raised her chin to the air. Though she could not blame him in his lack of knowledge on this subject, she was not about to ignore it entirely. "I do not find it so baffling, and I do not expect you to understand."

But how would he ever be able to understand the reasoning behind her actions? He would not, she concluded, for how could he when she was not certain of it herself? The only thing of the utmost importance to her was for Raoul not to find out the truth about the false rumours surrounding Erik. He must not find out that the Opera Ghost still lived! And so, it was with the deepest regard for her lover's safety that she whispered, "He is dead, Raoul."

The lie had slipped from her parted lips as sombrely as a grieving widow's sigh, and as Raoul raised his head to look at her, suspicion clouded his eyes.

"What?" he breathed. "Dead? How? When? This can't be true, I... Are you quite certain? Did you see it with your own eyes?"

He searched for answers in the trembling of her lips and the way she now bowed her head as though in mourning. "Why are you being so cruel?" she asked him, false tears springing to her eyes.

"I do not mean to be!" he cried quickly, not knowing if his attempts at comfort would induce hatred or acceptance from her. "I apologise. I just need to ascertain what you saw and how you know. There could always be a chance that he fooled you," he added as the cogs in his mind began to turn.

"Oh, I am quite certain of his death," Christine told him, gazing down at her ring before looking up to stare at him directly, "for you see, I buried him. Shortly before I moved in here, I laid the Opera Ghost to rest, Raoul. Do not speak of trickery and illusion where death is concerned."

"But, if that is true..." Huffing, Raoul promised himself to think through all of this when he returned home. He would surely give himself a migraine otherwise. "I am sorry for your loss," he said civilly, desperate not to face the wrath of the woman he loved and not wanting to think that he was completely heartless. But the words that next came from his mouth were spawned in a fit of jealousy, a momentarily lapse in control. "How can you mourn him? Do you not see what he has done to you, and is still doing to you? Even in death he still haunts you! You are allowing a man to control you from beyond the grave! And you have allowed yourself to continue wearing his ring!"

"It was his final request," she said, frowning in her vulnerability, her mouth agape at his words. "It was the least I could do to honour him."

Resigned, Raoul nodded his head and began to rise. Though he would never accept the revelations that he had learnt today, he would do all in his power to see that Christine did not suffer because of them. "Perhaps it would be best if I were to leave," he said gently, offering her an apologetic smile. "I can see that I am only causing you distress."

"No, no, please," she suddenly cried, also rising to her feet, her arms outstretched. Raoul raised his eyebrow at her behaviour; what had possessed her all of a sudden? He did not believe that he had done anything to merit an invitation to stay. Sensing his reluctance, she spoke again, "Will you not speak to Mamma, at least? To say goodbye. I am certain that she will be happy to see you again."

Christine could see that he was fighting the urge to remain in her presence, but at the sadness which then passed over him, he agreed and slowly followed her up the stairs.

At his first glance at the old woman, Raoul almost stopped in his tracks. He was not accustomed to seeing such frailty in illness. Having been cosseted by his elder sisters, he had grown up unaware of the realities of such conditions, and their protectiveness had merely served as a shielding blanket around his body. Though he would never rebuke his upbringing, he was immediately struck at how ignorant he was. It took a heavy dose of his will not to stare.

Like a mother encouraging her child's first steps, Christine urged him forward until he sat down on the bedside chair, smiling reassuringly as he occasionally looked back over his shoulder. From afar, she watched him get reacquainted with her guardian and as tender words were exchanged, she noticed her friend relaxing.

A gleam shone in Raoul's eyes as he eased Christine into the conversation with tales of their adventures together when they were children, simultaneously delighting her and Mamma Valérius, who never tired of hearing such lovely stories of the boisterous youths. Reminiscing had made them nostalgic and they more than once caught one another's eye to share in the other's smiles, their earlier arguments suddenly forgotten.

It was not long, however, before Mamma Valérius began to tire and, ever respectful, Raoul bid his last farewell to the woman before giving Christine a moment alone with her. Once she returned to the hall where he waited, she escorted him silently to the front door, picking up his hat and gloves on the way.

Christine watched as he pulled on his gloves and readjusted his coat for the sharp breeze he was to expect on the other side of the door. Nervously fiddling with his hat between his fingers, Raoul commented, "By hearing Madame Valérius speak, one would never have guessed she was sick."

At this, Christine chuckled and replied, "Yes, she does not seem to have lost her tongue to the illness." A forced noise of contentment echoed between them as the smile then slipped from her face. "I apologise for how I have behaved towards you this past year, Raoul. I have been unfair to you."

"No, no," he protested lightly. "I... do not pretend to understand all that has happened, but I must face that it has, indeed, happened. Will you promise me something, however, Christine?"

"What?"

"If you are ever in any trouble, be it financial or otherwise, will you call on me to help you?" he asked, hope shining through his features. "I would not ignore you in your hour of need and, if what you say really is true, I think you will be in need of a friend soon. If you allow me to be, I will be that friend, Christine."

As the man before her—the man whom she had deserted and neglected—stood offering her nothing but his support and friendship, she felt compelled to accept it without hesitation.

Smiling, Christine thanked him and said, "Come, let us part as old friends."

Quickly catching her hand, Raoul bent down slowly, keeping his eyes locked with hers as he kissed her knuckles. Her breath caught at the unexpected gesture as he held her hand prisoner, asking, "May I see you again? Perhaps we can meet without provoking one another," he added with a chuckle. "Shall we make it a challenge?"

"I..." Startled, she pulled her hand away and stood awkwardly for a moment. "I do not know."

"But you will write me if you need help, yes?" When she nodded, he was pleased. "Good day, then," he said, straightening and tipping his hat towards her before placing it on his head, "Christine."

When the door shut behind him, she wrapped her arms around her waist and denied herself the secret pleasure of watching him walk down the street, choosing instead to retire to the parlour to finish the tea. She found it to be cold.