Note: Slightly suggestive chapter.

Chapter 8

Carlotta was still on stage when the audience began filing out. She was knee-deep in roses, bowing and attempting to appear humble while the rest of the cast stood off-stage and waited for her moment of orgasmic self-appreciation to come to an end.

There was no one to see Christine sneak away to the lounge (pirouettes always seemed to tangle her hair) and then to the chapel. She had a feeling no one would care even if they did see her.

La Carlotta's entourage groveled, awaiting commands from their precious diva. Meg and the rest of the ballerinas were already half-naked en route to the dressing room, while the actors and actresses were fighting over bottles stolen from the cellar. Ann Giry had her own hiding place to disappear to for a while—following a disaster beyond imagination that involved livestock, two ballerinas and the stage.

That was the first thing Christine wanted to discuss when she walked into the chapel and sat with a heavy sigh, waiting for Erik to arrive.

How could he be late, she wondered? He didn't need to remove layers of makeup, wiggle out of uncomfortable costumes, change his shoes or powder his nose. He merely had to walk from his box to the chapel.

A little twinge of fear soon blossomed, bursting into her belly. What if someone had seen him? What if she had him so flustered, so beside himself that he couldn't think? What if he forgot the world around him as his thoughts were consumed only by his lovely little songbird? What if he was blinded by her memory and walked—in a daze—through the crowd.

Oh, this was dreadful!

"When did I become so full of myself?" Christine whispered, slapping her cheek to right herself.

Just then Erik arrived, muttering to himself as he slammed the door. The moment he saw Christine sitting by the stained glass window he stood a little straighter.

"I thought you would arrive before I did," Christine said.

Erik cleared his throat. "My apologies. I didn't make it to my box after the intermission."

"Then you missed the incident?"

Erik's eyes narrowed. "There was no incident."

"Yes, as a matter of fact, there was?"

Erik's lips parted. "Well, I had nothing to do with it. If La Carlotta croaked like a toad it's because she doesn't take care of her voice."

"Wh—what are you talking about?"

"Excuse me?"

"I was referring to the incident with the horse. What are you referring to?"

Erik paused. "Why don't you tell me what happened with the horse? Are you prepared, Mademoiselle Christine?"

Christine blinked. "For what, may I ask?" They hadn't discussed leaving…had they?

Erik hesitated. "Did you wish to remain in the chapel?"

Christine leaned forward to tie her ballet shoe. Her forethought extended only to the meeting place and not to whether or not they would stay in the chapel or leave. All she knew for certain was that she was starving.

"Did you have other plans for me this evening?" she asked as she checked her other shoe. "Quiet honestly, my head has simply been throbbing all night long. Perhaps I should lie down for a while with a damp rag over my head. Or a bath would be wonderful." She sighed and shrugged. "Or dinner. Yes, most definitely dinner. Do you know what I've had a taste for?"

Erik made no reply, and when she glanced up he quickly met her eye.

"Monsieur?"

Erik swallowed visibly, his gaze faltering. The left side of his face reddened slightly, and Christine took note of the change in his appearance—especially when he continued to stare at her, his hands clasped before him.

"Monsieur?" Christine questioned a third time. She glanced down and saw that her neckline was distracting him as she bent forward to tie her shoe.

"Dinner," he recommended hoarsely. "I have a bottle of wine prepared."

"Did you want me to go down with you?"

He looked shocked. "Pardon me?"

"To your apartments," Christine clarified. "Is that where we are headed?"

It took a moment for her words to register. At last he sighed and swallowed again. "Yes. Yes, to my apartments. Down with me."

Now it was Christine's turn to give him a curious look. "Are you feeling ill?"

"Not at all," he said. "I merely didn't hear you when you spoke." He offered his arm and Christine stood, accepting it. "What would you like for dinner, my dear?" he finally asked.

Christine squeezed his arm. "It's been ages since I've had a nice, plump sausage."

He stopped, his free hand grasping the wall momentarily. "Yes, of course. Now what happened with the horse?"

Christine grinned. "Well, it's really quite ridiculous."