The congregation at the Montmartre Cemetery was small.

Immediate members of the family stood in regimented rows around the looming hole in the ground as the priest blessed the unconsecrated grave. He sprinkled holy water as the smell of incense filled the air. Prayers were whispered and words of condolence were exchanged, yet Christine could not do anything to quench the pain that stung her heart in speaking with these strangers.

The service was brief, and for that, she was thankful. Through the black lace that covered her face, she watched as the men and women shuffled their way through the overcrowded graveyard, crying and hushing one another as the mournful parade trudged towards their carriages.

Only Christine stayed behind by the marked grave long after everyone had left, staring rigidly at the ground, her muscles taut. Even the first pellets of rain falling heavily against her cloak did nothing to deter her pensive mood, and still she remained as silent as the graves at her feet and completely unmoved by the reminder of death at every turn.

It was almost laughable, the pretence of the church. How righteous they were to ordain the ceremony, to guide her guardian's soul to He who had killed her. Bitterness should have been the very last thing on Christine's mind but she could not help it, nor could she help the numbness that shielded her body from tears and from the icy nip of the rain.

There she stood, as impenetrable and as stoic as the carved mausoleums that guarded the dead. She did not even flinch when a heavy hand came to rest on her shoulder, for a moment later, his voice was whispering into her ear. "You will catch your death out here."

"So be it," she replied to the musky earth.

Turning to him, she gazed into the blackness of his cloak, slowly trailing her eyes upwards until they beheld the ghastly disguise covering his features. Prosthetics and a pair of acquired spectacles stared back at her and Christine found herself wincing inwardly at the strange sight of a nose on his face.

Pain flashed in his dark eyes as he tried, unsuccessfully, to study her expression behind the veil. "I have a hansom waiting for us. Come out of the rain, Christine."

Peering behind her, she gazed at the mound of earth that barred her from her guardian, before nodding and allowing Erik to lead her through the headstones, his hand barely registering against her gloved fingers.

Her mind was blank as she was helped into the vehicle and Erik settled in beside her, fixing the brim of his wide hat as he stared at her in concern. Christine could feel him glancing at her from out of the corner of her eye, but she ignored him as if he were not even there.

"God has forsaken me," she murmured, looking out of the dirty window with sullen eyes as the cab rolled forward, "and so I will forsake him."

o0o

Entering the now empty house alone, Christine was welcomed in by a biting chill as she removed her veil and cap. Taking the cross from around her neck proved to be an easier task than she first thought and she did not waste any time in wrapping it up in her veil so it would be out of her sight.

With a sharp flick of her wrist, she bolted the door shut and began to draw the drapes, her somnolent movements slowing her body and the effectiveness of her fingers in lighting the oil lamp. As the room pulsed with the dull orange omitted from the flame, she cursed the tremor that ran through her hands.

She journeyed up the stairs as one condemned, pausing only once as she passed her guardian's room. She shifted her weight back and forth on the spot, testing herself to see if she could resist the call of the tomb-like chamber. Clenching her jaw, she tilted her head upwards in protest to her own wishes, knowing how ridiculous and morbid she was being, and continued forward to her own room.

She was not surprised to see Erik already waiting there, his long and sharp-edged limbs bent as he knelt before the hearth, stoking the fire.

Hardly sparing him a glance as she sauntered past, she pushed her dress skirts out of her way and muttered, "I wish you would use the front door like everyone else."

Without turning his head, Erik did not realise how agitated she was until he heard the loud clatter of the lamp as she set it down on her vanity table. Although her words were unjustified and harsh, he could not fault her for them, not in her state of mind. Staring into the embers, he resigned himself to her judgement—if she needed him simply as a victim to hurl insult at, then so be it.

Standing to his full height, he heard the unpleasant crack of his weary bones before he collapsed onto the chair beside him, his hands itching to be used. He did not like this feeling, of being helpless, of waiting to be told what to do when a single word from him could unleash his companion's hysterics. Remaining silent was his best option, he concluded as he allowed himself to relax into the chair and let his eye lids droop.

It was when he heard the faint rustle of clothing, however, that his eyes reluctantly opened and he rolled his head to the side only to gasp at what he saw there. On the floor lay Christine's dress, along with her hairpins, and his eyes trailed up just in time to see her petticoats swishing from side to side and her attention being drawn to her camisole before she disappeared behind the screen next to her armoire.

Erik sat back rigidly, his fingers tightening around the armrests as Christine mechanically set to work removing the frivolous and wet layers from her body in the quest for freedom. For the entire day she had smiled when necessary, conversed with relatives who were not her own and stood stoically, striving to keep her emotions from slipping or showing. She had been the epitome of control, and she hated it. The air was stagnant and her breath came in short rasps as she frantically groped at the laces on her corset, fighting the suffocating material with all her might. In her distress, however, her hands searched blindly and in vain until she let out a frustrated cry and strode around the screen.

Lost in a blur of hazy annoyance, Christine managed to miss the look of horror that shone in Erik's eyes as she approached him.

Gulping, he looked away before dragging his gaze back to her. Her dressing gown had always succeeded in covering her body until it looked like a single bulging mass, but never had he seen her looking so... indecent before. To see the intricacies of what females did for beauty startled him, but no more so than the shapely curve of her stocking clad legs, which disappeared beneath her thick chemise. With all the curiosity of a young boy, he could not stop himself from looking. He had never seen a woman's legs this close before.

Turning to stand with her back to him, Christine sighed and gestured towards her hindrance. "Help me," she pleaded.

It took him a while for his displaced mind to make sense of her words, and even longer for him to understand what she was asking of him. Becoming more flustered by the second, Erik reached up with trembling fingers and began to unlace her corset, making sure his skin did not accidentally brush up against anything other than the laces.

Once he was finished, he felt the muscles in his arms begin to tense as he awkwardly held the edges of the corset, and when Christine made no move to reach up to it herself, he cleared his throat.

Demurely, she peered over her shoulder, eyes veiled and lips parted. "Let go," she commanded in a gentle, yet assertive voice, dulled satisfaction overcoming her as the corset slid down her body before landing with a quiet thud on the floor.

Turning slowly to face Erik, her closeness almost stifling him, she made no move to retreat or attempt to loosen the chemise from around her body, simply choosing to stand there passively as she watched his eyes fill with her and the way the material now clung to her curves. Her hair, which hung in wet tendrils over her shoulders, dripped down her chest, dampening her chemise ever so slightly and infusing Erik's body with an incorrigible heat. His hands fisted at his knees as this consuming yet uncomfortable sensation came over him.

A frown shortly appeared on Christine's brow, the creases accentuated by the fire, casting long and ugly shadows across her face. But it was not her face with which she was concerned. It was his. Biting her lip, she observed the ridiculous prosthetic mask he was still wearing. It was horrid and she despised it. She even thought it uglier than his true face.

Softening her gaze, her fingers began to flutter around his features, trying to find the seams that would give away their falsity. However, after several moments of searching, she could find no lines that indicated the presence of patchwork and she cursed his handiwork.

Lowering her hands, she asked him kindly if he would remove it. His deliberations and protestations began and ended with the sight of her smile and soon his hands were rising to his face, carefully shedding himself of the eye glasses and the smaller pieces—fuller cheeks, a larger forehead, his nose... Morbidly, Christine watched him remove every one of them, a thrilling, yet unwholesome sense of curiosity filling her over the thought of him peeling the skin from his face at her request.

Once he had safely placed them on the small table to his right, Christine murmured her gratitude before she slowly walked forward and boldly settled herself between his legs, cupping the back of his head with her hands as she brought him close to her body. Nestled against her torso, Erik struggled to comprehend what was happening before she moulded herself to him, holding him close.

His hands did not move from his knees.

Closing her eyes, Christine yearned for his touch, craving it all the more in light of her emptiness; her loneliness. Propriety nearly had her ripping herself away from his body, but the tantalising brush of his thighs against her legs was too powerful to ignore.

Pulling him back enough to meet him face to face, she gently tilted his head up, her eyes dark and unwavering as she stared down at him, lost to the feeling of his breath against her skin. A hefty blush stained her cheeks at this. A year ago, she would have found dizzying displeasure in the very thought of such brazen conduct. The mere notion of a man's hands upon her skin was almost repulsive, but now... now, things were different. Over the last year, she had matured and had changed. Yes, she was much changed. It was the reason why she was now leaning her head over his, her mouth but a breath away from his mouth.

"Kiss me."

"What?" he rasped, the word landing harshly, yet pleasantly on her chin.

"Kiss me," she whispered before lowering her lips to his.

Erik bit back a moan of submission as his hands flew out to his sides, unprepared for her bold actions. A mutual shyness had always lurked beneath their affection for one another. It had always been present, from every kiss to every brush of their fingers. But something was different now, he could sense it in the intoxicating way she threaded her hands into his hair and the confident way in which she pressed herself to him. She surrounded him—her light breath, the faint scent of earth and rain upon her skin, her warmth—and before he could think, he was wrapping his arms tightly around her waist, drawing her ever nearer.

Grasping his cheeks gently, Christine deepened their kiss, pulling him to his feet in the process, before sliding her hands down to wind her fingers into his lapels.

Her touch was suffocating and yet he craved it hopelessly like an addict looking for the bliss that poured from the tip of a needle. She was just as sharp as the little instrument, but she was a much sweeter drug, more so than any he had tasted before. He knew then that one day he would die from her.

Tearing himself away, he stepped back, staring at the floor as he soothed his breathing. He would have fled to the other side of the room were it not for one of Christine's arms snaking back around his neck. Yes, the woman would most assuredly be the death of him.

"Christine, I... I should not... You said..." His mumbled and garbled words amused her in a strange way. It was almost endearing to know what he was thinking, to know the power she held over him. "A gentleman would not..."

Closing her eyes, she leaned in closer to him, her lips teasing the skin beneath his ear as she whispered, "But you, Monsieur, are no gentleman."

This pitiful truth was all the encouragement he needed to grasp her firmly and kiss her with such intensity that it took her breath away. Pulling her roughly against him, he clumsily ran his hands down her back before settling at her shapely hips, decades of suppressed desire and inexperience both hindering and driving his touches.

How little he knew of women, let alone how to please one. But, oh, how eager he was to learn! And how eager he was to make her happy! Would she forgive him his nervous touches? Would she not care that he did not know how to please her?

His tremulous fingers bunched the material at her pelvis, his heart thudding as loudly as a drum at the promise of flesh beneath it. Though curious and ardent in his emotions, his hands did not stray, did not seek to remove her layers or move them any more than through the occasional rolling of his fingers, outlining the curve of her hips beneath.

Standing on heavy legs and feeling as though she would fall to the floor in a heap, Christine anchored herself to him, winding her arms around his neck as she kissed him again, pushing herself closer in a need to be held and loved. In her haste, however, she did not even register her own feet moving until the hard, sculpted bed post collided with her back.

Erik's mouth—a mouth she had once thought undesirable in every way—soon made its way down her neck, kissing languidly at her throat and collarbone. Sliding aching fingers into his sparse hair, Christine held his mouth in place with one hand, while the other clutched the bed post supporting her, gripping it tightly as her heavy head lolled to the side.

The rigid coolness behind her was a welcome change from the warmth that radiated between their bodies and, suddenly, she felt as if he was all around her. The husky scent of desire, the closeness of his body, his attentive hands, his lips—Lord in Heaven, his lips! Still tender in their revered plight, they ravaged her skin before trailing shyly down her chest and over the soft swell of her breast. Her sudden gasp piqued his curiosity and he froze, staring up at her face as virginal trembles wracked through his body. He could neither proceed nor pull away for several lengthy seconds until the feeling of her fingers against the back of his neck coaxed him from his shell.

Through her chemise, he trailed his lips across her sensitive flesh, a sinful tingle running through her as his tongue soon brushed against her hardening peak. Her mouth soon parted, soft pants coming short and fast from the back of her throat. Here he paused again, looking up and gauging her pleasing reaction. His want for her had fuelled his daring and experimental touches and though he knew nothing of what was right or appropriate, the expression on Christine's face was enough for him to continue.

Pressing his lips to her breast again, she let out a shocked gasp as a sudden and compelling heat between her legs urged her on. Everything was a blur to her—carnal delights no longer seemed sinful for propriety was lost to her, just as surely as God was now lost to her. Wantonly, she pulled Erik closer, her mind straying from all coherent thought as she selfishly writhed against him, desperately seeking something to soothe the burning ache that singed her body.

And then his fingers were dragging down her sides, over her waist, her hips, lower and lower until they slipped beneath her chemise and stroked the quivering flesh of her legs. His fervent touch felt as though it could burn through the material of her stockings. Overwhelmed by his slow exploration, Christine laid her head back against the bed post as his fingers moved upwards, finding the exposed skin just above her stockings. The coolness of his hands chilled her as much as it thrilled her and his fingers tickled her skin before dipping just beneath the edge of her drawers.

She stiffened as he knelt down before her, his other hand gripping her hip as she tried to concentrate on how his mouth felt against the slight curve of her stomach. Under her drawers, his fingers traced the bare skin of her thigh before he pressed his forehead to her body.

"My God," he whispered achingly.

A ragged groan left her mouth before she frowned and cast her eyes towards the Heavens, murmuring, "There is no God."

This caught Erik's attention and he stared up at her in a mixture of want and concern, her words nearly engraving themselves into his mind—a permanent reminder of their nihilistic intimacy. Grimacing, he withdrew his hands and quickly stood up, watching as Christine seemed to gather her senses, sobering in a matter of seconds.

The woman who had spun allure into the simplest gesture had vanished and in her place stood a cynical little girl, whose modesty shone through even her most audacious of conducts. And he could only stare at her in pity.

They exchanged a knowing look, each sensing a change in the other, before she brokenly whispered, "You are all I have now," sliding her hands up to his shoulders and burying her head into the crook of his neck, submitting to the dreadful realisation that she had become dependent on him. "You would not leave me, would you? You would not leave me like all the others. You would not leave me alone."

Drawing her close to him, he held her in his stiff arms and murmured softly into her hair, "Erik will never leave you."

He felt the slightest of movements, the brief nodding of her head against his shirt, before she began to shake and cry—all those hours of suppressed emotion now finding a proper release.

"Why?" she sobbed, holding him tightly lest he be taken from her arms by some unseen force. "Why did she have to die? Everyone I love... every one of them... dead... apart from you. I will not let you leave me! You will not leave me. I will not let you be taken from me."

Hearing her troubled words and feeling her body convulsing against him, Erik gently guided her to her bed and drew back the sheets, lightly prodding her shoulders as he settled her into a laying position. Covering her up, he knelt by her side, his fingers barely touching her warm forehead as he brushed a drying curl away from her face.

"Do you think me cursed, Erik?" she asked him, nuzzling the pillow beneath her head in a tiresome fashion as her wet cheeks began to stain the white case.

"Silly girl," he whispered, allowing her to pull him closer with her little hand until he was sitting next to her shuddering body.

Needing the consolation of his presence now more than ever, Christine shuffled forward until her weary head lay in his lap, her hands splaying across his back as he hunched over her protectively. With her nose pressed up against his shirt, she inhaled deeply, fresh tears stinging her eyes as his familiar and comforting scent wrapped around her. Adoring fingers stroked her hair as her breathing steadied, the tightening in her chest finally disappearing and her grip loosening to a limp hold.

It was at that moment that she heard something, a noise, the most wondrous of sounds! At first, she thought that sleep had mercifully claimed her, for nothing could sound so heavenly and be real. But no, she was very much awake... and Erik was singing to her.

His sonorous tones filled the air and serenaded her with dulcet words that warmed her heart, easing her into a much needed slumber. When was the last time he had sung for her? When was the last time she had even heard his celestial tones in song? She could not remember. She could not remember anything now, for her mind had dulled into a state of rest, subdued by that beautiful voice.

She wanted to thank him, to throw her arms around him and weep all over again, but she had neither the strength nor the words to convey her gratitude, and so she slipped into the darkness as an angel watched over her.