The fabulously funny Cleolinda Jones allowed me to borrow a phrase of hers for this chapter. Go visit her at Cleolinda dot com and check her out! I marked her five-words with an .

Rose23

Christine returned to the dancers lounge to find Madame popping the cork on a bottle of wine. Wisely, she approached with caution, as Madame Giry had her cane near.

"You've returned," Madame said, sounding slightly surprised.

Christine's eyes widened. "I haven't been gone," she lied, blinking to feign innocence.

Madame Giry tipped back the bottle. "And this is only my first drink of the day," she muttered under her breath. "I hear you went for a walk last night."

"Excuse me?"

Madame rolled her eyes. "To the park."

"Ah. Yes. Last night."

"Last night," Madame Giry reflected. "And then?"

Christine bit her bottom lip. "And then…"

"You both returned…"

"We returned…"

Madame placed the bottle on the couch beside her and sat back. "He has taken you to that secret place?"

"Well, yes…" Christine continued cautiously. "To the seat of sweet music's throne."

"Ah, yes," Madame said, tossing her head back. "I remember sweet music's throne."

Christine wrinkled her nose. "I meant his organ."

Madame cocked a brow. "Yes, precisely. His organ," she sighed.

"No, no, I mean the one that he plays."

Madame shrugged. "Don't judge him, Christine. He's very lonely."

"How is it that you know him?" Christine asked in hopes of changing the subject.

Madame's eyes narrowed. "It was a very long time ago…"

-o-

With Christine gone, Erik removed his monkey with cymbals from the bedside and used it as a weight to hold the fabric as he cut. For weeks, he had been contemplating attending the Bal Masque. He'd spent hours planning his costume and deciding how he would present his work to the two fools who ran his theater.

Threats had always worked in the past, garnering not only adequate funds that allowed him to live as he chose, but also guaranteeing his privacy and a high level of respect from those who lived above him.

"No one would ever respect this," Erik muttered as he set his mask aside, fingers brushing past his cheek. The mask was a part of him, but Erik needed a better view of the fabric he was cutting than a mask allowed.

As he moved around his work table, he stepped on one of the velvet coverings shielding his view of the floor-length mirror. The fabric fell as he glanced up, finding his clean-shaven face staring back. As quickly as he had looked up, he turned away and paused, still holding scissors in one hand.

Separation from the world had made scissors and a reflection a terrible combination. In his darkest, loneliest hours, Erik had considered many possibilities for his own fate. Everything he did seemed to be in vain, as no matter how fine his clothes, how neat his hair, there was never anything available that could hide him completely. The ruse of the theater merely worked on the stage, he realized. Eventually the dancers exchanged their costumes and makeup for who they were underneath. Erik only wished there were a man underneath to show Christine, someone dignified and tangible beneath the monster.

"Fear," he said under his breath as he met his reflection once more. His shoulders were slumped, his posture hinting at the wretch that occupied his soul. Wisely, he placed the scissors on the table, preventing an unfortunate accident.

Swallowing hard, he neared the mirror, not once looking away from his own desperate, pleading gaze. "Into love."

Was it a mistake to allow her to leave again? Each time she was allowed her freedom he risked losing her, of having her look into another man's eyes and know her choice. But if he forced her to stay with him, he feared she would either grow to resent him or attempt to escape. She deserved better than to be forced into darkness, he knew. His actions were for the best, no matter how much it hurt him.

Erik touched his cheek where Christine had rested her hand. There was no fear in her eyes, no hesitation on her part. He thought of Christine for a long while until a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Reaching for the scissors, he held out the fabric and cut along the chalk lines.

Potential, she had said. Christine saw what no one else had ever seen, what he'd never found in himself.

Cutting the last piece of fabric, Erik held up the blood red material. The death's head was stored away in one of the many boxes. In three days time he would have the costume completed. Already the power he anticipated excited him. How he loved the freedom of walking among others, their faces masked as his own was bringing no apprehension. If he so desired, it was possible that none would know who he was or suspect his treachery.

"Triumph," he said to himself. Placing the fabric down, Erik decided to pay another opera house resident a visit.

-o-

"And those are the seventy-two reasons why I say a woman should always take a Turkish man as a lover," Madame Giry concluded.

Christine furrowed her brow and cautiously backed away toward the lounge door.

"Quite fascinating," she said. "Thank you, Madame."

Before Madame Giry could continue, Christine burst down the hall. The last she heard was Madame shouting that she'd forgotten reason # 73.

"Next time!" Christine shouted over her shoulder.

Rounding the corner, she ran directly—and literally—into the Vicomte de Chagny, who tossed his hair urgently.

"Christine," he said with a nod. "You've been avoiding me."

"Honestly, I have not."

"You can be honest with me, Little Lotte."

"I am being honest with you, as I just said. And, may I remind you, Vicomte, I have to see you first in order to avoid you," she pointed out.

Raoul appeared frustrated. "I'm concerned, Christine."

"What reason do you have to be concerned, my dear brother?"

"I haven't seen you in years and now it feels as though I shall never see you again. It seems you are always away. It pains me deeply, as now that I know you are here, I plan to take full advantage of my position as patron."

Christine cocked her head to the side. "Why sir, may I ask what position you are referring to? Aside from a box for performances, I see little else you are entitled."

"I am entitled to every position...with a certain, lovely someone."

"Will you start from the bottom and work your way up?" Christine asked.

"Nothing would please me more, if she would allow it," Raoul replied smoothly.

Christine smiled. "Good. Then you may begin with maid's duties and clean the sheets Meg soiled."

Before Raoul could reply, Christine turned on her heel and marched away. The sound of his voice followed her to her room where she promptly locked her door.

-o-

If there were one thing Erik knew for sure it was that Madame Ann Giry could be a surly drunk if she substituted brandy for wine.

He approached her mirror with caution.

"Do not disturb!" she howled. "Return to your rehearsals!"

"I'm not one of your dancers," Erik grumbled as he slid the mirror open and stepped inside. He walked across the room, locked the lounge door, and seated himself opposite Madame.

"Must you shout?" Madame snapped.

"My voice is barely above a whisper."

Madame held up the empty bottle. "This is causing an echo," she said, sounding quite miserable.

"Then put it down."

She shrugged. "It's empty now. What's the point?" Before she allowed Erik to answer, Madame stretched out on the couch. "I was rather hoping you would pay me a visit."

"Is that so?" By her position on the couch, Erik had reservations about staying another moment.

"Yes, I wanted to urge you to be cautious. There are boundless rumors surrounding Christine's disappearance."

"Do you honestly think rumors concern me?" he rumbled.

"They should."

Erik made no reply. He studied the arm of his chair and gritted his teeth, knowing Madame was correct. He was standing on a very fine line, one he'd often considered but never dared to cross.

"Why now?" Madame questioned at last.

"Pardon me?"

"For years you were content with being her teacher."

"I've never been content," Erik muttered. Barely tolerable was an apt description of how he felt.

Madame folded her hands. "Very well. For years you were virtually unnoticed, but now you're daring to be seen."

"I'm not daring anyone," Erik muttered.

"Monsieur Lefevre gave you twenty thousand francs a month, no questions asked. Firmin and Andre will do the same…with a polite reminder, of course," she said with a sly smile.

"Money doesn't interest me."

Erik felt Madame Giry staring at him and knew what she would say.

"When did you know of the new patron?" she asked, keeping her voice low.

Erik glanced at her before looking away again. "Not nearly soon enough."

If he had known weeks ago that a young and handsome man from Christine's past would appear again, he wouldn't have spirited her away that night. Precision was key. It was the architect in him that demanded careful execution, which he had not done. His thoughtless actions had risked everything far too soon, but a desperate animal forced into a corner would do anything to escape its fate. Taking Christine away was the only answer.

"I've warned him twice not to occupy your box."

"He's an aristocrat," Erik shrugged. "Their heads tend to be thicker than most."

"Perhaps that is true. Should our paths not cross for many months, I leave you with a single warning."

"Save your warnings. This is my theater," Erik growled defensively.

"No matter how great your illusions, you and I both know that you cannot always be everywhere at once."

"And what of it?"

"You must be always on your guard," Madame said as she rose to her feet. "Now more than ever."

"Would you like to say something more cryptic?" Erik asked as he rose and made his way to the mirror.

The lounge door closed, only an empty bottle left where the ballet instructor had stood moments ago.