To my dear readers:

It is yet another day, and another chapter. This particular chapter put renewed interest into the story for me, as I hope it does for you. I tried to play this scene as in-character as possible for the two, but tell me if you think otherwise. I will be happy to reexamine my situations and future plans to perhaps include your suggestions. As always, your reviews are the lifeblood of my writing, so please continue to give an aye or nay for each chapter, if you would be so kind, and any other comments or suggestions you may have. I hope the best for you all today.

Your humble author,

S.R.

---

The sun rose the next morning, as it always does, but neither Erik nor Cecily were aware of it. Deep within the caverns of l'Opéra, the sun's rays could not penetrate the darkness, and Cecily woke once more in a haze of candle-lit twilight. The dusk played against her mind, and consciousness was hard to come by for a moment. When she emerged victorious from the struggle to open her eyes, they widened immediately. On a chair next to the bed was laid a dress. She sat up slowly, wary of the effects of her wound. Standing took a bit more effort, but the desire to feel the dress, to know it wasn't just her imagination, drove her to resist the nausea.

The dress was amazing; if it truly was for her, the other chorus members would envy her a week and a day. She picked it up and held it to her frame. To her great astonishment, it seemed to be precisely her size! She laughed lightly at herself. To be so impressed with frivolities such as dresses was not her usual style. What made this so special?

"Will you only hold it there, or will you actually try it on?" Erik was leaning in the doorway, smirking at her as she smiled stupidly at the frock.

"I cannot very well try it on with you standing there, lest I should be less than proper." She laughed. It was a deep laugh, not in tone but in origin. It seemed to bubble up from her very soul. Erik smirked in spite of himself. He turned from the doorway. He seemed to have guessed properly as far as her size. He admitted he knew little about the fashions of women, and had grudgingly accepted the help of a middle-aged woman whom he had wanted very badly to strangle by the time he left the shop.

He sat down at his organ, playing softly. He picked an early part of his opera, Don Juan Triumphant. The opera was still in its early stages, and some parts of it were still not set. He had decided to call the diva's role Aminta, but her character was taking its time in coming forth. He smirked again. It was as if she was shy, he thought. How absurd to think of an opera character as shy in presenting herself, particularly in the opera he was writing. Still, he made a note of it among the seemingly endless stacks of composition he was drawing from. Shyness would play well against his Don Juan.

Several minutes had passed, and he heard no noise from the bedroom. His brow wrinkled; where was she? He stood, carefully placing the papers on the bench. He made plenty of noise to ensure she knew he was coming. It would not do well to barge in on her half way through changing. That would cause too many complications. The color rose slightly in his cheeks as he remembered her previous state of undress, the feel of her body against his… He shook his head to clear it of such mental clutter. Such thoughts would only make things uncomfortable and difficult. Better to keep a purely platonic train of thought.

"Cecily? Is everything all right?" He entered slowly, receiving no response from within. She was standing at a mirror from which the covering had been removed. She was in the dress, and Erik breathed sharply. She certainly cut a magnificent figure in the gown. He shook his head again. "It fits properly then?"

Cecily turned, and Erik saw there were tears in her eyes. "Yes, it's beautiful."

"What is wrong, little one?" He crossed the room, and wiped away a tear. Yes, he could play at this kindness and compassion when fear would not work. Living beneath l'Opéra must have honed his acting skills.

She looked up at him, and the sadness melted. It was replaced by caution. She backed away a step. "Nothing, Erik. Everything is fine." She turned back to the mirror. This was so odd, and the picture the two of them presented in the mirror was the perfect image of it. The dress he had bought her was the color of the sea before a storm, if a shade or two lighter. She was nearly as tall as he, but out from behind her, his black formalwear and leather mask loomed, like the shoulder demon her mother had spoken of when she was young.

Erik noticed the strange impression the two of them made in the mirror as well. She was so damned innocent, the color and style of the dress only enhancing that feature. And he, well, he was as black as the ash of Hell, both in cloak and deed. He placed a gloved hand on her shoulder and she turned. Her eyes still held the carefulness that had been placed there a moment before. Damn! He was so confident in his act of compassion. Now, she doubted his true intentions, but there was still no fear of him behind the vigilance.

She stood there for a moment, looking at her, trying to see what was hidden in her eyes. It occurred to him that she was doing the same, and he almost flinched. Something within him demanded that he not give her the satisfaction of seeing him unnerved, and he remained stoic. Suddenly, she seemed to decide something. Before he could decipher what the decision was, she did something he would never have expected at that moment.

Raising herself up a bit, she placed her lips chastely to his left cheek. "Thank you, Erik. It is the most beautiful dress I have ever owned, or ever will own, in all likelihood. Thank you." She looked at him for only a second before scurrying from the room.

Erik stood motionless for several moments. His face burned where her lips had touched his skin. She was a temptress, as the man in the catacombs had said! He clenched his fists and cursed her silently. Her innocent seduction would drive him mad if he let it. He should kill her for this! At the same time, he wanted nothing more than to feel her lips on his skin again. He craved her touch as one craved air after being underwater for what seemed like an eternity. He wanted to feel human contact again, but not from just anyone. He wanted Cecily's hand on his face, her lips on his, their bodies entwined until it was impossible to tell where one began and the other ended.

His hand collided sharply with the stone wall. He felt the ache as the stone left small cuts in his knuckles, but no sound came from him. Damn her! She wasn't even in the room and she was seducing him by placing these thoughts in his mind. She was a sorceress, calling to him in his mind. He should kill her. For once, he was glad he did not have his Punjab lasso with him. He knew that if he had, he would have followed through on his threats.