I hear my door open in the middle of the night. I roll and nestle myself into my pillows, wondering if I heard correctly.

Erik's near-silent footsteps pad softly up to my bed as I realize my assumption was correct. He carries no candle, and all I can see is his distinct shadow from the corner of my squinted eye.

"Christine?" he whispers, and I stay silent, wondering what he is doing in my room during the dead of night. I hear him go next to my bedside table and sit down in my little chair. I feign sleep, curious to see what he will do, ignoring the sudden pounding of my heart.

He does nothing.

Erik is a gentleman, and I know he would not be sneaking into my room to be improper. I feel ashamed of myself, for allowing such thoughts to cross my mind. He simply sits very still in the chair and I think he might just want to watch me sleep. My heart rolls in my chest as I think of how often I jump to negative conclusions where Erik is concerned. Deciding to make my presence known, I roll onto my back and call out lazily, "Erik?"

"Erik is here, love," he says, as if not surprised at all that I am awake.

"Why are you in my room?" I ask innocently.

"Listening to you breathe," he answers calmly, without remorse. "You are so content when you sleep."

I perch myself on my elbows to see his glowing eyes in the dark. Although I can see little more than his shape, I know perfectly well that Erik has eyes like a cat and I am in my nightgown.

Ah, but...he is my husband, is he not? I repress as a shudder at the uncomfortable thought.

I ponder his response for a moment. Listening to me breathe? He likes to hear me being content. In a strange way, I find his words very beautiful. I was a fool to have bothered him.

"I am sorry I woke up, then," I say, and I lean back to my pillow.

"Christine…" he begins. I wait. "Christine," he repeats, and I detect a new flavor of nervousness to his tone, something I do not think I have ever heard before. I keep my eyes in his direction, my vision adjusting enough for me to see that he is still dressed in his dinner clothes and his mask. "You have asked me," he murmurs quietly, and I have never heard such a note of despair. "To take you outside… Christine, I will give you… your wish… if…if… would you grant me… one of mine?"

For some reason, I tug my blankets tighter around me. "What?" I whisper nervously. There cannot be an ulterior motive for him to be alone in the dark with me, can there?

"A… a kiss, Christine, oh, Christine, I'm sorry!" he moans, dropping his head into his hands. "I am so sorry, Erik must be mad to even dare… he dares to ask what he does not deserve—why? Why does he dare? Oh Christine, on my forehead for less than half a second? Please, and I will do anything you ever ask of me… I will not be greedy! I will ask for nothing else!"

Erik has ambled into my room in the middle of the night to ask for a kiss? I want to refuse him, but if he is brave enough to ask, my mind tells me I should be brave enough to acquiesce. I feel like a lost, little girl, thrust into a position that is entirely unexpected as take in the broken man before me. "Oh," I whisper anxiously. "But... You will not ask for anything more?"

"No."

"You have just given me a kiss, at dinner," I remind him pathetically.

"One more," he says steadily. "On the forehead. Just like... like when you became my wife."

I feel miserable to deny him- he could be asking for so much more.

"Come closer," I tell him, hiding my unhappiness.

"I should never ask!" he cries suddenly, rising to his feet. "I am so sorry, I should never ask for anything, for I am a bad man who deserves nothing from you—"

"Hush, Erik," I interrupt, sighing, feeling oddly impatient. "If you are so dramatic, you will receive nothing. A husband has ever right to ask his wife for a kiss, has he not? Now, are you able to look at me?"

He is unable.

"Why come all the way to ask for a kiss if you will not give me one?" I ask quietly. I feel very confused about today, and my head hurts from surprising my worries about Raoul, and now I am adding the complexities of Erik's emotions along with it.

He seems to hesitate and then comes over and sits on the very edge of the bed, as if he cannot stand to be any nearer to me. This upsets me as much as it relieves me. Very slowly, I lean my head out, my eye averted. I wait for him, but he does not move.

"You do not want me to kiss you," he says, and his voice is velvety and smooth, almost intoxicating when I am so close to the source of those lovely noises.

"I do not mind," I answer plainly.

"But that is not the same as wanting it."

I raise my eyes to look at him. "I do want you to kiss me, Erik." My throat constricts at these words. "You have been good to me." This is true. Weeks of being his wife and he has asked nothing of me, except for my presence, and my guilt overrides within me when I think of today. Erik deserves a kiss, and who am I, a simple child, to deny him thus?

Very very slowly, he leans over and lightly brushes his lips against my forehead, and they are soft and cold, like marble.

We are so close. So close to… what?

My soul stretches in agony. While I know I do not love Erik, that has not stopped me from beginning to care for him. I do not wish to hurt him intentionally. If he asks for a kiss, I see no reason why I cannot oblige simply to appease him. I did marry him, after all. That had been my decision, and my mistake for allowing him to think that I would willingly wed him. He knew I did it for Raoul... right? Didn't I?

I try to read my emotions. What exactly, am I feeling towards this monster? Why do I feel so… conflicted? Sadly, I hang my head as he draws away.

"My wish… granted." he breathes heavily, and I realize he is vainly trying to move farther away from me. "You are a good girl. A good wife. Go back to sleep."

I do not like being cast aside like that. Despite my constant rejection of Erik, I am always wounded when he does the same to me. The unfairness of this is not lost on me. Ah, I hate the way we communicate! I wish that Erik was terribly handsome and well-behaved and adjusted and able to accept me as I accept him. My skin is tingly.

Erik stands up. His mask stares down at me, blankly.

"Don't leave me," I protest.

He pauses.

"Sing to me?" I request hopefully. Even as I think of it, I am suddenly so desperate to hear it again. I am terrified that he will refuse. His voice was once my only bliss in a troubled world that I lived in, and now I should be in need of it more than ever before.

Woe to me! I am disgusted with myself! Where is Raoul, come to save me? My fiancé is out somewhere, trying to save me, while I am kissing another man! With a dreadful jolt in my stomach, I realize I do not know where Raoul is… Erik would have done anything to him when he caught me running away with him. Raoul could be dead. Erik could be all that I have left.

I push these excruciating thoughts from my head. If only he would begin to sing, I can forget about everything so easily…

He sits back down and takes a shaky breath. He brings his hands out in front of him, caressing the air, and I wonder if he is imagining me there, imagining a braver, more durable Christine, who could love him and kiss him herself, without fear. I wonder, if Raoul is dead, if I could surrender myself to Erik without constraint...

He begins to sing very, very quietly, each word perfectly articulated, each breath smooth and controlled. His voice is undeniably sweet and comforting, refreshing my soul with a golden tide. I let my eyelids flutter close, so I am allowing nothing to distract me from the splendors of his voice, pretending as though I do not have tumultuous thoughts wrapped up inside my head.

He reaches out and takes my hand, which is lying empty on the pillow beside me. He never misses a beat. Surprised, but not disappointed, I savor the feeling of my hand encased in a strong, if not warm grip. The bones of his finger are firm against mine, and the skin does not feel as dead as normal.

I pretend to already be fast asleep when I hear him start to cry.