Chapter 7

Due to Christine's disappearance, La Carlotta once again resumed her roll as the resident diva of the Opera Populaire. Christine returned to her position as a chorus girl, which suited her fine. She much preferred her slave girl costume to the giant hoop skirt and sparkly gems that did nothing but tangle in her hair.

Throughout the performance she felt Erik watching her every move—regardless of whether or not she was on the stage. By intermission she was filled with jittery anticipation, and since she wasn't onstage until the ballet in act two she decided to sneak away to the chapel and hope that her Angel of Music would see her tiptoe through the corridors and join her. Act one was fairly short, however La Carlotta stretched her performance, forcing the orchestra to improvise so that she could bask a little longer in the limelight.

It was the only time Christine was grateful to have Carlotta on stage.

Entering the chapel unnoticed, she pinched her cheeks and took a deep breath. It was good to have a moment alone. The dormitories were always crowded, the dressing rooms always swarming with dancers and their admirers. For years Christine thought of the chapel as he own personal solace. Even when she wasn't in the chapel alone it brought her a sense of peace.

As she sat by the stained glass window she knew she wasn't alone.

"Are you proud of me this evening?" she asked.

"You haven't sung a note," Erik answered.

His deep voice still startled her, and when Christine turned she found him dressed in black from head to toe—including his mask.

"You look rather morbid," she commented, frowning at him.

Erik made no reply. His gaze was trained on the image of a handsome angel depicted on the chapel wall.

"We cannot all be golden halos and brilliant white robes," he muttered.

Christine's brow furrowed. "I suppose not, but then perhaps we shouldn't always be so sullen and downtrodden."

Erik turned his attention to Christine, appearing thoughtful. "When one has had no joy in ones life it is difficult to appear contented—mostly because one has only known the sullen, retched stench of loneliness, the putrid, bitter truth of being downtrodden and an outcast from the rest of the world."

"That's…poignant," she responded, catching her sardonic tone far too late.

Her answer enraged him. Christine held her breath when she saw the fire in his eyes, the burning green she witnessed the night before when she removed his mask.

"Don't mock me," he said between his teeth.

"It could be worse," she said under her breath.

Erik stalked toward her. "Excuse me?"

Christine took a deep breath, summoning all of her strength. "I said it could be worse."

"How?" he demanded, towering over her.

For one brief moment Christine's ideas abandoned her. She stared up at Erik's face, her eyes trained on his. She knew he was stubborn and wanted to prove her wrong, but she refused to allow him to wallow in self-pity.

Her eyes lowered, settling on his lapels.

"My, what fine tailoring, Monsieur Opera Ghost," Christine gasped. "It appears this overcoat was made to fit you precisely. How ever do you afford such luxuries?"

He was seething when he stood upright and turned his back on her. His back was rigid, his legs stiff and straight. Both of his hands were balled into fists, and when he whirled around to face her, Christine sprang to her feet.

"You think I'm a fortunate man?" he asked, the left side of his face crimson with anger.

"Do you think I'm a fortunate woman?" Christine countered.

Erik didn't answer. He studied her at a careful distance, the color in his face slowly returning to normal as he realized she was angrier than he.

"I came to the Opera Populaire as an orphan, Monsieur Phantom. I remember my father's death with more clarity than I remember what I ate before the performance."

Erik stood speechless as she stormed toward him.

"I can still feel his hand, cold as ice, clutching mine. I can still see the listlessness in his eyes, his pallid complexion, the way his hair was dull and thinning. Looking in his eyes, at that face was like looking at a skeleton, at a man already dead who needed nothing more than his plot and prayers. You think you are alone? You think you are the only man in the world who knows what it feels like to suffer?"

"It's different," he snapped.

"Because you suffer alone and I suffer in silence? Don't tell me that you have greater reason to be angry than I do. I will not lessen the memory of my father with petty arguments concerning my melancholy and grief."

Christine turned away from Erik and heard him exhale.

"We were both still children when we came here," he whispered.

Christine chose to ignore his comment. She would need to excuse herself soon and return to the stage, and she didn't have time to discuss his past.

"Do you still think I am quite fortunate, so blessed in my life and so ignorant of the world and the trials that it holds?"

"I never thought you were ignorant," he stated. "Beautiful, talented—"

"Do not flatter me. Tell me flatly what you think. I work in a theater after all. Don't think for a moment that I cannot take criticism," Christine said, biting off her words.

Erik hesitated for so long that Christine turned to make certain he still stood in the chapel. When she saw him standing before the mural he looked smaller than she remembered, his shoulders not so proud, his arrogance removed. Somehow it made him resemble the painting, the angel she always believed he was coming to life before her eyes.

"I think that perhaps you are more mysterious than I," he answered at last, his gaze nervously flitting through the room.

Christine smiled. "Hardly," she said. She stepped closer, earning his sullen gaze. With a sigh she shook her head, sensing his remorse. "I must return before Madame finds that I'm unaccounted for. Will you still meet me following the performance?"

His eyes widened in disbelief. "You invite me still?"

Her smile turned brighter. "The mystery has not yet been unraveled," she said as she skittered toward the door and curtsied. She doubled back and tugged at his lapels, making him bend at the knee so that she could kiss him on the cheek. "Until then, Monsieur Ghost, I do hope you enjoy my exquisite work as a ballerina this evening."

"Before the end of the season you will be in the lead," he said as he watched her bolt out the door.