I sit in my chair, glaring at Erik, who still has his mask on. I tell him I will not eat a bite until he takes it off. He stares back at me. Two can play at this game.

Unfortunately, after several long minutes of staring at a plate of food, I surrender and pick up my fork.

"Your parents?" I question.

"Nothing to tell."

I go back to glaring at him. "You've said that to every question I've asked of you. If you don't have something to tell, then find something to tell!" I plunge my fork into my bread with a little more energy than I meant to. I chew angrily, trying to get him to show some emotion.

Sadness. Anger. Anything.

He sits across from me, stiff as a statue, watching my every move from under his mask.

"Are your parents dead?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

"I am not."

I have a horrible thought: I want to ask if he killed them. I fidget, horrified by my own thought, and attempt to move to another question.

He beats me to it. "How is your ankle?" he asks, as if thankful that I am injured in order to distract from my line of questioning.

"Painful," I reply disappointedly. I had to literally drag myself to the table, hanging onto all the furniture that I passed. It is swelling and bruising under the tender wrappings. "I suppose my dancing days are over, not that I am much saddened by this."

Erik actually chuckles, and I am so surprised that I look up in shock. "I highly doubt you will be dancing down her otherwise. You are my prima donna, and you do not dance. You sing."

I feel awkward. "Yes," I reply. "I sing for you."

I continue eating, and he continues to stare at me. We both look up at the same time and our eyes meet. I look away, embarrassed for some reason. I hate how tense he is! I wish he would come sit in the chair next to me, rather than the one across from me. I want to ask why he has a table set for four when he doesn't ever expect any company. I muse silently for a moment.

"Are you happy here?" he asks.

"Yes," I lie immediately.

His golden eyes close briefly, as if he is in pain; then he opens them and says, "No, you are not."

I do not know how to tell Erik that I am both happy and unhappy in a place such as this one. Most importantly, I do not want him to grow angry again, and this makes me willing to say anything if only to sate his temper.

"I could be happy if I tried," I struggle, putting both of my hands on the wooden table. My head is reeling again, determining how to speak. Already, it sounds all wrong.

"But… you do not… try?"

I think carefully."I don't know how to be happy like this. How can I be happy with you when you are distant with me? When I try to care for you, you—you brush me away. I'm close to giving up."

His voice is hollow. "I want you to be happy."

"I want you to be happy too."

He leans forward. "Love me, Christine! Love me and I will be happy!"

"Then you must allow me to love you, Erik."

My words hang in the air, and I want to reach up and snatch them back. I do not understand why I said that. I do not love Erik. I do not want to love Erik. I pity him, and I feel compassion for him, but I cannot love a man such as he.

"Allow you?"

He is staring inquisitively at me, and I feel a rush of courage I have never experienced before. The way that Raoul grabbed me, held me to him for the smallest of moments, is still fresh in my brain. Thinking firmly of this, I stand up and go to Erik's side, limping with my painful ankle. I kneel down beside his chair, so his face is slightly higher than mine. I realize what I am going to ask him to do, and I feel a rush of disgust and excitement.

So close to him, I once again feel that desire to be closer and farther away at the same time. I am so afraid to be touched by his dead hands, but at the same time, I wonder what they would be liked if I let him try.

"Kiss me, Erik," I say, pretending with all my heart that I want this.

He swallows. His voice is strong. "No."

"Why, no?"

His eyes are terrified. He seems to not be able to look me in the face. I feel—I do not even know how I feel.

I feel rejected.

What I have done to him, he has now done to me. I feel worthless and pushed away. Is this how Erik feels?

"Why no, Erik?"

Silence.

"Erik?"

He glances down at me, his chest rising and falling. He leans down and swiftly places a quick kiss on the top of my curls, and then rises, panting as if he's run a thousand miles.

I am relieved at his choice, and pathetically, I limp back to my seat.

Picking at my food once again, my heart is thudding. I feel as though I've crossed some dangerous bridge I ought not to have crossed. Why am I so desperately seeking attention from a man whom I care nothing for? Attempting to steer back to conversation, I say, "Could we go on a carriage ride tomorrow? We used to go for walks and such."

"Of course," he answers. His voice is much lighter.

I don't believe my ears.

"Don't look at me like that, angel! Erik will take his wife up on the streets like other men. He will do it to make her happy."

"But before, you said—"

"Tomorrow will be warm out. I suggest you wear something light."

Blankly, I stare at him in wonder. Had I known that attempting to escape would inspire him to take me outdoors, I would have done it much sooner...!

I rise up, excited. For someone who has not breathed fresh air in over a month, the promise of going outside can be a wonderful change!

"Thank you, Erik," I say, and I mean it.

I sense a slight smile beneath his mask. "Anything for my wife."

When he is kind to me, I feel an incredible sense of remorse for breaking his trust when I had been trying so hard to build it up. Although I know in my heart that I had not planned that attempt at escape, it was no lie that I had deeply considered it and had been genuinely moved by the sight of Raoul again.

Raoul. It seems so long ago since I knew him, and it feels strange to have him so prominent in my thoughts again. The reason I am choosing not to think about him is because I am very seriously afraid that Erik might have killed him.

How morbid is sounds to think! It is a grief and a worry that I cannot banish, and sends me into a finely controlled panic when dwelled upon. Therefore, I will stop from thinking about it again.

Erik stands, looking down at me, stirring me from my thoughts. "Why don't you head off to bed, my dear?" he suggests, leading me up with his hands an inch away from my skin. "We have dined quite late tonight. And I want your ankle to heal."

I frown at him. He is trying to get rid of me, I am sure. "I have been sleeping all day, if you remember."

"That is true," he agrees. "I will bring you in a book to read if you are bored."

'Perhaps," I start. "Perhaps you could take me into the drawing room and… and play something for me first?"

"An excellent idea, darling," he says briskly. "Let me help you in."

He puts his arm around my waist and guides me into the drawing room. I am stunned again by his boldness. I cannot figure this man out!

He puts me on the chair next to the piano and plays me a song I do not recognize. He probably wrote it for me; he also probably designed it to induce sleepiness. Despite my ramblings of how I have slept all day, I find the music is making my eyelids grow heavy, and I think about the feelings of that tonic again. I lean back and close my eyes.

"Goodnight, Erik," I mumble, and a very very tiny part of me begins to wish that he will pick me up and carry me to my room. I am not disappointed; he ceases the music and I can feel him coming closer to me, before he picks me up very intimately, as if to not disturb my slumber.

"Goodnight, Christine," he whispers.

As he lays me upon the bed, I fear that tonight has been nothing more than a fluke, and that tomorrow he will go back to being cold and distant. I simply cannot wrap my mind around all that has happened today, and the reaction that it has created in him. "Erik?" I call blearily as he walks out the door. I sense that he pauses.

"I want to understand you because I care about you."

I cannot see his shadow, but I hope that my words touch him deeply. He stands there for a long drawn-out moment, and then leaves and closes the door tightly. I wonder absentmindedly if he is crying. It is the closest thing to "I love you" that I've ever said to him.

Too bad I don't have the courage to say anything more.

.