A/N—in which he gains an unexpected ally…

Kenj3732, Glacifly4POTO, mildlyholmes, Guest1, Mominator124, ArviaLee, ayeimellie, Stemwinder, Stratagem Blue, grandma paula, and garasu-no-kamen were the awesome reviewers this time around. Cyber chocolates for you all!

The Second Chance Appendix, with various reference photos, can be found here:

www. tumblr blog/ asecondchanceappendix Be sure to remove the three spaces before pasting into the browser. I am told it's only visible if you already have a Tumblr account.

Now, on to Part 3 of the story. This is a nice long chapter-I hope you like it!

The Usual Disclaimer—these characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, to Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and to Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors concerning the Paris Opera, Paris, music, religion, military history, and the French and Farsi languages are unfortunately mine, and for that, I do apologize.

Thank you for reading, and please please review.


A Second Chance

Chapter 17

Copyright 2003, 2004, 2016 by Riene

She stood in her dressing gown by the window, arms wrapped around her midsection, staring unseeing across the sleeping city. It was still very early; dawn was slowly breaking with only the faintest traces of blue and gold and pink on the horizon.

It had been a sleepless night.

She had awoken in the underground house to utter silence. No uneven pacing footsteps in the outer rooms, no music, no crackle of flames in the fireplace. Torn between relief and puzzlement, she had slipped out via the Rue Scribe entrance and returned to the apartment, half-expecting to find him there, but again, all was silence.

She'd bathed, grateful for the weekend, and forced herself to eat. In her blur of exhaustion, it was difficult to think clearly. What had she done?

The tea was cold again. Christine pushed it away with a shudder and paced the floor. There was no way to look at it logically. Trying was only making her headache worse.

On some universal, fundamental level, they belonged together. They completed each other, balancing darkness and light. No one else understood the intoxicating pull of music, of the feeling of two souls joining and soaring together when he played and she sang, or the glorious rush when he raised that velvet voice and sang with her. In those times, she barely remembered to breathe. That he desired her was obvious; that she felt .. well, what she felt in his presence she had felt with no other man.

But his temper was explosive, his moods mercurial. He was a murderer, an extortionist, a liar. He manipulated people. And yet he was the most intelligent man she'd ever known. His dark eyes, lighting with pleasure when he talked of literature, architecture, art, thrilled her. She would be cherished, adored, protected. Yet he had not spoken of his feelings since that night months ago. There was no tenderness between them, just this odd, impersonal platonic existence. Under the surface, though, she felt his tight control, the tension every time they touched, and knew that he still wanted her. She had only ever cared for three men in her life, and two were irrevocably lost. She remembered the anguish of thinking she had lost Erik, as well.

There were years of silence behind him, years in which he had traveled, but where, what had he done? Years she knew nothing of, essentially the life of a stranger. She did not, she remembered, even know his surname. This was not a secret that could be kept from Meg or Madame, and suddenly she desperately wanted their advice. Sinking onto the divan near the piano, Christine buried her face in her hands. She would have to avoid going to confession tomorrow.


He stood on the Opera roof, alternately pacing or staring down into the city below. She had agreed to marry him. She had agreed! At last, she would be his. She did not love him, he knew, but she needed him…and I need her, he thought grimly. They needed each other, and many marriages were based on far worse reasons. Perhaps in time…

For months he had dreamed of their first kiss, so paralyzing at first, so erotic afterwards…and then she was gone. He had lain in the darkness after the mob begging a non-existent god for death, and each time thoughts of Christine intruded, her gentle hands and the sweetness of her mouth, her figure warm against his, and each time his heart began to beat again, his death denied. Desire clenched his body painfully and he grasped the gilded statue, the edges scoring his palms. The sheer physical act may prove well impossible, for though there was undeniable fire between them, shame and a lifetime of humiliation froze his ardor. He could not bear to think of her horrified rejection should she behold his repulsive, scarred body.

But she had agreed…and now he could not let her go.

Pushing those thoughts firmly aside, he descended the multiple stairs and passageways, trying to focus on more mundane issues. Perhaps Nadir Khan would again be willing to serve as his intermediary in a certain matter. There were many preparations to make.

Below the fifth cellar, Erik removed the chamois skin bag from its hiding place and brought it to his kitchen table, drawing the candelabra near. Inside multiple smaller bags nestled together, tightly wrapped and laced shut, a fortune in glittering stones. He rolled one between his fingers, remembering the day the vizier had escorted him to the shah's treasure chamber and stood by while he had chosen his reward. It had been among his first inklings that he was not meant to live, for no one touched the shah's personal wealth. With this knowledge he had made his choices carefully, items small enough to secrete but valuable enough to take, a fortune in jewels, leaving behind the larger, gaudier items, the heavier pieces. The vizier had watched him with glittering eyes, noting exactly which selections were made, preparing his report. Erik had not waited, returning only briefly to his rooms. His escape plan had long since been prepared. It was the Daroga who had been captured, who had paid the price.

Erik shook his head. That debt had been repaid many times over, and many times it had increased. Tonight was not the night for regrets about the past. Tonight would be about the future.

Finally his restless fingers found the bag he searched for. He unwound the strip of silk carefully; it would never do to chip the stones. Finally, a series of sapphires emerged from the wrappings. He selected and rejected several before choosing an oval stone, a deeper blue than her eyes. Set on a gold band and flanked by diamonds, it would be suitable for his bride, a link between his past and future. He began to pen a note for Nadir.


"I am sorry, Erik," the Persian's voice was quiet. "I am not sure what else to do, where else to inquire. The rules of the state and the tenets of the faith are both clear. Without some documentation, you simply don't exist as far as the Church or civil government are concerned, and they will not assist in any legally binding ceremony."

Erik stood with his back to the Persian, facing the underground lake, the message crushed within his clenched fist.

"Is that it, then? No other option?" The bitterness seeped through his voice.

"Some other church, perhaps, Erik?"

He gave a short, harsh laugh. "No. Her faith is important to her. And I would not offer her anything less than a true legal ceremony. She deserves that…she has given up much already. And for what? A deformed monster who can never be seen with her." His tone was filled with self-loathing.

"She cares about you, Erik. She came back for you, she has defended you, befriended you. She cares for you. Do not throw that aside as if it were nothing."

"And if her boy had lived? Do not delude yourself, Nadir. I do not. She has simply…settled for me. Her second choice. And yet I would lick crumbs from her very fingers."

Nadir was silent, turning over words in his mind and discarding them, only to be interrupted again.

"I turned my back on God years ago. And now He has had his revenge, once more."

"Allah is not that cruel, Erik." He paused. "Could there be some record in the village of your birth, perchance? A doctor or midwife, a priest who might have kept some documentation? I do not know how those things are done in your country."

He heard the masked man's sudden intake of breath. "Yes…perhaps so, Nadir. There was someone." Something that might be called hope flared in those golden eyes.


Two days' hard riding brought him to the outskirts of a village whose existence he had all but exorcised from his mind. It lay quiet and sleepy in the bright morning sunshine, grey-blue slate roofs darkened from last night's shower, flowers brightening window boxes and gardens, but he had no eyes for the picturesque beauty. He paused only moments there, staring silently at the vines growing over the ruins of nightmares, before turning away, the bitter taste of bile rising in his throat. Had he known what further violence would enter his life in those next months, would he have chosen differently? Erik shook his head, forcing away the memories, and rode on toward a barely remembered location, his goal.

The village church was a place of peace and beauty in the late spring sunshine. He passed through the lych gate, resolutely turning his head from the graveyard beyond. He had been less than nothing to them…therefore they were nothing to him, now. The sunshine was hot across his back, the trickle of perspiration made his scarred shoulders itch. The dim cool interior of the building would be welcome.

Rising from his knees, midmorning prayers completed, Father Julien genuflected toward the altar once more before turning to the nave. The soft light across the walls flickered, but only empty pews met his eyes. Frowning, he peered outside the transept windows. A tall bay horse was tethered outside the fence, reaching with interest toward the rosebushes.

"I am looking for Father Mansard."

The voice was eerily quiet, but somehow echoing inside the small space. Father Julien spun, seeking the speaker. He stood against the back wall, a tall man wrapped in a stained traveling cloak, the cowl pulled up over his head. The man put out a hand, as if to allay the priest's fears. "I mean no harm, I merely seek to speak with him, if he is still alive."

Father Julien took a step forward, puzzled. "I am sorry, my son. Father Mansard passed away nearly twenty years ago."

The tall man turned toward the door, his visible fist clenched. "Then I am sorry to disturb you."

"Wait. Perhaps I can be of some service?" Father Julien inquired, intrigued somewhat by this mysterious visitor.

"I doubt it." The voice was bitter, resigned.

Father Julien walked forward, trying to get a glimpse of the man's face, but the stranger turned away. "Tell me what you need, my son."

"I seek parish records, from long ago, that I doubt even exist. A birth record."

Father Julien nodded. "Come with me, then. The parish records are kept in my office." Silently, the tall man followed him.

The priest's office was a small cluttered chamber off the hallway between the church proper and the parish hall. He removed a stack of books from a chair and motioned his guest to be seated. After an uncomfortable pause, the stranger did. The young priest turned to the bookshelves, then back to the silent man. "A birth record. For what year, sir? And for what name?"

The stranger's almost skeletal hands clenched. "I am not certain," he said quietly. "Perhaps forty to fifty years ago. The name would be Erik…Rouillard."

The priest eyed his mysterious guest again. "There is a Madeleine Rouillard who lies in the churchyard, with her husband Charles," he said carefully.

"Yes." The visitor rose again to his feet, restlessly pacing, hands locked behind his back.

Father Julien opened a glass door and began running an ink-stained finger across the worn leather spines of the tall shelved books. Pulling a heavy volume down he carefully laid it on the desk, turning the yellowed pages gently and frowning at the faded ink.

"Mmm." He rose and replaced the volume, withdrawing another. His guest stared out the mullion window, tension rising off him like smoke.

"I doubt you will find any records." The man's voice was harsh. "The birth was at home."

Father Julien leaned back in his seat. "Surely the mother would have made the birth official."

A short bark, perhaps meant to be a laugh, came from the cowl. "No, I do not think so."

"Perhaps a baptismal certificate, then? A record of church attendance?"

Another short, harsh laugh. "No."

Julien leaned forward, brown eyes intent, interlocking his fingers on the desk. "Perhaps you should tell me what it is you truly seek, then I might know how to assist you."

For a long moment there was silence, then the tall figure turned, his long pale hands rising to lower the cowl, and Father Julien inhaled sharply. One half of the man's face was striking, an austere pale face of finely molded bones and taut skin, dark hair combed back over a high forehead. The other half was covered by a mask, the only visible parts a thin mouth, twisting in scars to the covered side, and tormented dark eyes.

"You are Erik, I presume," Father Julien said quietly, and the man nodded once.

"I am." There was a short, bleak pause. "I wish to…to marry. And I am told that I must have some documentation of myself, to prove my identity. I had hoped to find something here, among these records. It would be the only place."

Julien nodded. "That is so. The Republic demands identification papers now. I take it you have none."

His visitor sighed wearily. "No. I have never needed such things before."

"Could someone vouch for you?"

"No. There is no one. I have no family. Father Mansard would remember me, but he is long gone, you say."

Julien frowned. "Perhaps a family record, a Bible?"

Again, that short, bitter laugh. "No. There was a fire, not long after I…left. All was lost."

"I am sorry, my son. I would help you if I could."

The dark eyes turned to him, boring into his soul, a look he would never forget. The man rose silently and nodded once. "I thank you for your time."

Julien also rose. "I will continue to research this. Should I find anything, anything at all…how shall I contact you?"

"The Paris papers."

In a moment he was gone, leaving the puzzled young priest to wonder, and think of the depictions of a fallen angel.


He was there, sitting at the dining table as she emerged from the bedroom, still tying the belt of her rose colored dressing gown. Christine stopped in surprise; it was the first time she'd seen Erik in the flat and one of the rare times she'd seen him during the day. Early morning sunlight streamed in from the open windows, turning his skin ivory pale. She had the impression he had just replaced the mask as she entered. Behind it, his face looked drawn and weary.

Swiftly Christine crossed the room to sit beside him. "Good morning, Erik."

He passed a hand over his hair, and she noted he was attired only in trousers, braces, and a white shirt. "Good morning, my dear," he replied, tilting his head gingerly. "I fear I fell asleep last night on the divan in the study. I offer my apologies, I had not intended to pass the night here."

His dark eyes held chagrin and impulsively she took his thin hand. How tired must he have been? she wondered. Erik shut his eyes at the caress, covering her hand with his own for a moment. "It's fine, Erik," she said gently. "This is your flat; you are welcome here at any time."

He smiled ruefully. "I had meant to depart before you had awakened."

Christine squeezed his long fingers and released them. "You're here now…I'll make us some breakfast if you'd like. Coffee or tea?"

"Coffee, please." He leaned into his bony hands, absently massaging his forehead and temples.

"Erik, you look exhausted."

"Merely tired, my dear." His voice brooked no further comment.

He rose and followed her to lean in the doorway, watching as she prepared coffee and set out rolls, butter, and jam. God, she was lovely with the wild-rose coloring on her cheeks, the tumble of dark brown curls falling loosely down her back, unconsciously graceful as she moved between icebox, stove, and cabinets. He took the tray from her hands, setting it on the table and waiting as she poured them both coffee, feeling a pleasant tingle as her fingers brushed his while handing him the cup.

They ate in companionable silence. Christine kept her eyes averted as he awkwardly ate and drank around the mask. Suggesting he remove it would only lead to tension, and thus far the morning had been peaceful.

"What are your plans for the day?" he asked abruptly, pushing aside the cup and saucer.

"I'd thought to stay here," she said simply. "I have a private engagement tonight, though, so I must go out later."

He nodded stiffly. "If it does not disturb you, I would like to remain here as well. If you wish, I will play while you do your warm up exercises for tonight."

"I'd like that," Christine smiled. "I haven't heard you play in so long, and I will admit, I am longing to hear that new piano."

His taut face relaxed somewhat, the lines of his forehead smoothing out. "I would be pleased to play for you, " he murmured, and she smiled.

After breakfast, Erik carried a cup of coffee into his study and firmly shut the doors, allowing her privacy to bathe and dress. It was an hour later that she emerged from the bedroom, wearing a simple slate-blue day dress, with her hair still down and drying. The study doors were still closed, and she knocked softly.

"Erik?"

"You may enter."

He was seated at the worktable, an open book in his long elegant hands.

"I'm done in the bath chamber," she said awkwardly, "if you'd like a chance to bathe and change clothing." Color rose up in her cheeks and she looked away.

"Thank you, my dear. I fear I have the aroma of horse about me," he said dryly. "If it will not discommodate you, then yes, I would appreciate the chance to make myself somewhat more presentable."

"You'll need to refill the copper," she said, and rapidly retreated.


Alone in his study Erik had slipped off the mask, gingerly rubbing the area where the edges had abraded his fragile skin as he'd slept. Four days lost, and for what? He had never truly envisioned such bureaucratic nonsense. He would have to arrange false documentation.

He leaned back in the chair. The fruitless trip had had only the effect of stirring up long-suppressed memories that manifested themselves in nightmares and lost sleep. He truly had not intended to remain overnight in the flat, but the ledger and files he'd needed were here. He'd shut his eyes for just a minute.

And yet, she had not been upset, perhaps even pleased. The quiet, ordinary morning had been a glimpse of heaven, and Erik found he desired it more than ever. Their unlikely engagement would have to be discussed; surely it was in the forefront of her mind as it was his. Erik was merely grateful she had not begun with questions he could not yet answer.


Later, she was to look back on this day as the last period of tranquility for some time. She'd gone out to the markets while he bathed, allowing him privacy and removing any hint of impropriety. Actions so insignificant in the underground house were suddenly imbued with a new level of awareness, here in the flat. She'd found him shaved and dressed, seated at the piano when she returned laden with groceries. He'd risen and taken the packages from her, silently storing them away in the kitchen. It was all too domestic.

She'd tried once, over luncheon, to ask about his unexpected absence but he had altered the conversation adroitly and she realized he did not wish to discuss it. Erik could be a most taciturn man. Many times during the course of the afternoon she had turned to him with the intention of bringing up the events of the previous weekend but found him otherwise occupied. Christine bit her lip…if he would not bring up their possible engagement, nor would she.

Instead, she'd spent the afternoon reading, replying to correspondence, and listening as he sat at the piano. He'd played Mozart at her request, and variations on other classical pieces, and some of what she suspected were his own compositions. Their early dinner was a light and simple meal, and then he'd insisted on playing while she did her vocal warm-ups, despite his aching fingers, listening critically to the embellishments, timing, and pitch of her songs. They'd ridden together back to the Opera, where he promptly turned to vanish into the shadows. She'd put out an arm to detain him.

"Erik, about…" her voice trailed off at his tight expression.

"Please. Not now. Let me have this one perfect day." Slowly she nodded.

"I enjoyed today, Erik," she said softly. Her luminous blue eyes searched his face, and he raised her hand to his scarred lips.

For a moment, a longing so intense it caused Christine to catch her breath was revealed in his dark eyes. "Thank you, my dear," he replied quietly. "As did I."


He'd stood hidden in the shadows as the carriage drove away, taking her to a private concert at some wealthy Parisian's supper-party before unlocking the gate at the Rue Scribe entrance. Erik felt the tension ease from his shoulders as the welcoming darkness of the tunnels enveloped him like a familiar cloak. The air was stale with the thick sharp scents of the subterranean lake, moss, soil, and wet stone. He frowned, displeased at the contrast with the air above and wondered briefly if it clung to him. Christine had once mentioned the "smell of death." He secured the passage behind him, resetting the wire traps, and continued on to the underground house

For some weeks he'd been aware of the tension and worried, furtive looks amongst the crew and technicians, and the low whispered comments. In his younger days he had not been averse to a certain malicious teasing in his official role as Opera Ghost, and it was not long before every misplaced prop, knotted ribbon, and missing powder puff had been blamed on him. He had never stolen, though, and the missing money from the strongbox worried him. There was something wrong in his Opera House. He had simply been too preoccupied with other matters recently to attend to matters here.

He rarely entered the main cavern near the old portcullis. This entrance had been thoroughly blocked off last winter, and the room had received the vast majority of the mob's rage. Averting his eyes from the remains of the pipe organ, Erik dragged the broken throne back into position.

Perhaps it was some natural confluence of the caverns and arches or serendipitous construction, but this one spot in his underground world channeled sound from above. With the throne, a relic from an opera in times long past, positioned properly, he could sit at the apex and hear whispers and echoes of things in the vast building above him.

Closing his eyes, he assembled a list of recent misfortunes that could not be dismissed as mere accidents. The pivoting step, the missing money, the vandalized flyers and damaged artwork, the cut rope on the sandbag, missing props and costume pieces, the deliberately rearranged orchestral music, Christine's viciously slashed costume...

There were few enough differences between last autumn and this summer. With few exceptions, the cast, crew, technicians, and hands were the same. With very…few exceptions. His eyes narrowed. Perhaps a certain tenor needed more careful observing.


The following evening, Erik changed garments rapidly, discarding grey coat and trousers for his more formal evening wear, inserting cufflinks and adjusting the white tie to perfection. Perhaps Box Five remained unsold, but if it might no longer be his, other areas of the theater afforded a view of the stage. Settling the heavy cloak about his thin shoulders, Erik made his way back upstairs. Zamora was on its final weekend run, and he had every intention on superintending the performances.

The past week had been intensely frustrating. It had seemed a simple matter, to marry quickly at La Madeleine, perhaps, and join her at the apartment. But like all things in his wretched life, it had proven impossible. The dream, once seemingly within his grasp at last, and the bitter frustration was more painful than ever.

The early evening performance had gone nearly flawlessly, save for the occasional interruptions of thunder from the storm outside. The heavy downpour showed no sign of easing any time soon, and every cab in the city seemed occupied. Unwilling to wait longer, Christine accepted Erik's invitation and followed him down to the underground house. They'd had a light meal and retired to the library music room. Christine had gone to sit before the fire, a book held limply in her fingers as she listened.

The music pulled her in, as it always did. She wondered sometimes if he truly had any idea how mesmerizing the notes were, the fluid sound and song that flowed so effortlessly from his hands. He'd played Chopin at first, and then drifted into his own compositions, as he was wont to do. Long graceful hands stroked the keys like a lover's caress and she shivered. His face, normally so austere and controlled, reflected the moods of the music, the swell and ebb of song, the lighter, the mournful. Her gaze softened. Only here would he relax, lines smoothing from his face, revealing the depth of his feelings.

This would be her life. Afternoons spent in music or books, evenings by the fire or walks in the city, some place he would not be the focus of curious stares and whispers. Meals together in quiet conversation, evening performances. His dark eyes raised to her face, uncomfortable, feeling the weight of her intent gaze and she smiled softly at him. Erik made no answer, but the look of quiet adoration tinged with sadness made her heart twist.

He'd discarded the formal dark jacket at some point, sitting at the bench in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. He was much farther from the fire than she, but never seemed to notice the cold. Pulled by the forlorn melody she rose, coming to stand slightly behind him, reading the music and wondering if words accompanied the melody, words she might reflect back to him as he played. She did not see him shut his eyes as her hand fell to his shoulder, as she leaned forward in the candlelight to view the ivory page on the stand. No words, after all, save those he might have whispered in his mind. She was so close, her warmth crossing the still air to his body, the faint floral scent of soap or perfume permeating his senses. Idly, her hand stroked the back of his head, her fingers caressing his hair and kneading gentle patterns on his skin, and abruptly it was too much. Heat and longing so intense it was nearly suffocating blurred his vision and forced the air from his lungs. He seized her hand, breaking off from the music. Did she truly have no idea how her simple touch affected him?

"Enough," he grated. "I am only a man, Christine…I cannot bear it when you touch me."

Stung, she pulled her hand away from his icy grip. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean… I thought… What do you want me to do, Erik!"

He rose suddenly from the bench, catching her hand, pulling her up against him, and moved slowly forward, pressing her back against the wall, his eyes boring into hers.

"Do, Christine? You can't begin to know."

She stared into his burning eyes, overwhelmed at his nearness, his overpowering strength and height. The mingled scents of sandalwood and smoke, the faint dry scent of Eastern spices filled her senses. His face was so close she could see the bruised flesh around his eyes, the edges of mask flexing slightly with his harsh breathing.

"What would you do, Christine?" he whispered. "Could you possibly…" His hand rose, a pale blur in the firelight, and touched her hair, caressed the curve of her jaw, her throat, her breast, a lover's caress, the faintest of touches. The heat from his body enveloped her; her senses swam. His lips brushed her jawline, her throat.

And just as suddenly she was released, nearly falling, as he whirled away. She heard rapid footsteps, the front door slam, her ears barely catching his final words.

"Lock your door tonight, Christine!"


Driven by demons and near breaking, Erik stumbled to the lake, wading in the first few feet before dropping to his knees, the cloak trailing behind him and spreading out like a giant black stain upon the darker water. White hot images rose up to sear his mind, Christine lying pliant and willing under him, of him forcing her, taking her there in the music room, her arms around him, muffled cries of pleasure in his ears. Memories of the little Sultana and her satin skin and rounded body, of her exquisite tortures pushed them aside. He tore the mask from his face and scooped handful after handful of icy water on his skin, on his head, gasping for air, his damaged hands aching to the bones.

How long he knelt there in the frigid waters, fighting for control over his starved and traitorous body, he did not know. Eventually, Erik staggered to his feet and stared blindly toward the hidden entrance. "Forgive me," he whispered.

There were other, safer places where one might spend a night in hiding, places prepared long ago in the eventuality his home was ever compromised. He wrapped the sodden cloak about him and stumbled toward shore. Retrieving a bottle from a storeroom in the upper levels, Erik sought merciful oblivion.


Alone in her chamber, Christine drew a shaking breath and slid the bolts shut on the heavy door. The skin on her wrist was already beginning to bruise and swell. She ran cold water into the basin and lowered her hand into it. She had always known, on some level, that he desired her, but Erik usually wore the mask of a gentleman so well it was easy to overlook. She raised trembling fingers to her face, shaken. The days might be filled with music and books, but the nights would be spent with this man at her side, in her bed. Could you possibly…he had asked. She had been kissed by men before, but none ignited this intense response from a mere touch. Could she what? The pale image in the mirror stared at her with dilated eyes and spots of high color on her cheeks. Christine stared back, knowing she would not even have tried to stop him.


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