CHAPTER THREE

Christine kept her word and stayed all day behind the protective curtain of her room. She found a pen and paper and wrote pretend letters to Meg and Madame Giry. She got as far as writing Raoul's name on a sheet of paper, but then stopped. She'd said to him all there was to say. Whether he believed her was another matter, but she'd made her own truths clear.

And then she heard Erik begin to sing. She'd never heard another voice like his. He knew the nuance of every note and made them ring with passion and beauty. His voice called to her, wrapping her in a golden web. That part of what she'd said was also true – they were bound together.

She parted the curtain and went to find him, not approaching, just sinking down onto the red sofa to recline and listen.

He was dressed in his usual formal attire this time, and for that she stopped to give a silent word of thanks. Her world needed no further complications and having any sort of feeling for him beyond gratitude and pity would definitely be a complication.

"I thought that might bring you out," he said when he'd finished playing. "It's nearly dinner time. I don't want you to starve."

"I told you I was just tired," she repeated. "I feel much better now."

He finally turned to her. "I'm glad. And I'm sorry for my actions earlier. You've offered me friendship, and it's more than I deserve. I don't want you to ever feel uncomfortable or afraid of me. You've no reason to fear me, Christine."

She sighed, giving only brief credence to the idea that it was herself she feared. "I don't fear you, Erik."

"Why not?" he asked, seeming genuinely puzzled. "I'm keeping you a prisoner. I've forced you to abandon your life as a Vicountess. I threatened your lover's life and your own."

"Tell me something," she said. "Did you kill Piangi?"

He snorted. "That oaf? Someone should put him out of his misery of having to hang on Carlotta's every word, but that someone wasn't me. I knocked him unconscious and put a noose around his neck to add some distraction to our escape. But no, I didn't kill him. That fool has never done anything but his best, sorry as his best is."

"What about Joseph Buquet?" she pursued. "Is what they say true? Did you hang him? No one believes he committed suicide."

There was a long silence. "I'm not your Angel, Christine. I do what I have to do to protect myself. That lecher was intent on finding me out. He'd seen me once too often, and he let curiosity get the better of his good judgment. He'd become convinced I wasn't a ghost, and he thought to be the hero by finding me out." He looked at her. "I can't be found out, Christine. I have no life outside this opera house. There is no sanctuary, nowhere else for me to run. I won't be subject to the cruelty of the outside world again, no matter what I have to do to stop it."

She pondered this while he rose and returned with a plate of roasted chicken and rice.

"I think I'll eat in my room, if you don't mind," she said as he handed the plate to her.

He remained silent. "Within these halls you are free to do as you like. I won't stop you. Go if you wish."

She didn't know what she wished, but she needed space – to be out of his all-encompassing presence. She did eat, but her heart wasn't in it. She was too busy analyzing her feelings about what he'd said of Mr. Buquet. Could she truly view it as self defense? She could certainly see why he would call it that. His life had been lived in reverse – paying tenfold as a child for the crimes he'd commit as a man. She wondered idly if she could bring balance back. Would emotion and caring light some flicker in him of respect for humankind? Perhaps she should try. Perhaps it was her moral duty?

That thought comforted her. It made her feelings for him into something right instead of something wrong. It answered the question of how she could bear a murderer as a friend. Now she'd found something besides music for them to build on.

But why did she want to build something with him? To ease the burden of her confinement? To try to twist his tortured soul back into something resembling that of a man? She thought these were all fine answers and she vowed to start tomorrow trying to be a better influence on him. He thought to bring her down into his darkness; perhaps she could bring him a little light.

In the morning, she put on the brightest dress she could find – a pale pink satin creation. She would try to be beautiful for him in every way. She knew he craved beauty in a life he viewed as vile.

She noticed his eyes rove over the exposed skin at her neck and collarbone, but he said nothing, merely turned back to his piano.

"Are you ready to begin?" he asked.

She crossed the space between them and came to stand beside the piano. On this side, she faced his mask, and she wondered again at the sudden desire she had to remove it. As soon as the thought entered her head, she remembered the disastrous result the last time she had removed his mask. No, she thought, if it came off again in her presence it would have to be by his own hand.

When he started to play, she rewarded him with a bright smile. His brow furrowed at her, but his mastery of the notes didn't falter. Then she began to sing, and she sang with all the emotion she could muster – all her gratitude for her Angel, all her pity for the child he had been, all her admiration for the genius he was, all the warmth she felt at the way he revered her, loved her.

When the music stopped, Erik didn't look up.

She got worried. "Were you not pleased?"

"That may have been the best I've ever heard you perform."

"Then why are you staring at the piano?"

"Because your eyes say too much. You seemed to sing for me, and I would not look at your face and have that lovely thought dashed by the distance between us." He did look up at her then. "Or do you sing for your precious viscount? Are you plagued by futile memories of him?"

She let out her breath in a huff, thinking her brilliant plan was going to be harder than she'd thought. "I've been quite surprised, really, by how little thought I've given to Raoul. He deserves a better wife than I would have made, and I'm sure he'll find one."

"Indeed. He must have women lining up to audition for the role."

She giggled. "That's probably too true."

"Did you sing for me, then?" His lyrical voice betrayed a slight quaver.

"I did."

He looked back down at the piano keys. "Why, Christine? I've given you no reason to feel anything but hate for me."

"That's not true, and you know it."

He sighed. "But your Angel is gone. He never really was. It was all a lie, Christine. A lie to be close to you and the voice that had mesmerized me."

"Didn't you say yourself that you don't believe I hate you?"

He was silent in response.

"Believe what your heart tells you, Erik. You'll get no hate from me."

"But now you know of my sins. I'm a murderer, Christine. All you know should tell you to hate me." He looked up at her. "You are innocent, and you should condemn me for the blackness on my soul."

"Whatever blackens your soul was put there by cruelty I can't imagine. How can I blame you for not recognizing right from wrong when only wrongs have ever been done to you?"

"You make excuses for me. And you pity me. I don't want your pity, Christine."

"I've seen the scars on your back, and I see the scars on your soul. You'll always have my pity. It would be a crime to give you anything less."

"Fine, then. I want more than your pity."

"I've offered you my friendship."

He sighed. "And you know I want more than your friendship." He let his gaze run the length of her body, then back to meet her gaze. "It would appall you, the things I want."

It was her turn to sigh. "Perhaps you're right. Can my friendship not be enough – for now?"

"For now?" he repeated.

She sucked in a breath. "I…I didn't mean…"

He lowered his gaze. "I know you didn't mean you could ever love me. I know that's beyond my reach. How could you ever love a monster? You are my opposite in every way. You're everything that's good and beautiful. And I'm everything that's…not."

"Then play again – and let me share beauty and goodness with you. You've got me here, all to yourself. Why won't you accept my small gift today?"

He paused to consider. "A gift for me?"

An arrow pierced her heart. "Have you never received a gift, Erik?"

He shook his head. "The world has never shown me anything but horrors."

She didn't know what to say, so she waited, and soon his hands resumed their trek across the keys. Again she poured her heart into the song – a song of thwarted love – and at the end she was shocked to see tears streaming down his face. They ran from his blue eyes down to his jaw, visible even below the edge of the mask.

Fighting down a bolt of anxiousness, she stepped forward and wiped them with the tips of her fingers. He grabbed her hands and placed light kisses on her knuckles.

"Thank you," he whispered. "You don't know how it moves me to have you sing for me – the real me, not some disembodied, illusory voice."

"You don't know how it moves me to be able to sing for the man, instead of the ever-perfect Angel."

He looked up at her. "Really? Why would you prefer my sordid imperfection?"

"Because you are real. And you're my friend."

He shook his head. "Would you leave me for a while? I feel the need to play on my own."

"Can I watch?" she asked.

He gave her a puzzled glance. "Why would you want to watch? You can hear just as well from your room."

"Because you are beautiful when you play. You play with your whole body, and it thrills me to watch your genius made flesh."

The puzzled look didn't leave him. "I…Then, of course, you may watch if you desire."

She pulled her hands from his and went to sit on the sofa. She was close enough to see him, but from across the room, she thought he could ignore her presence and lose himself in his music.

It seemed she was wrong about that. After two thirds of a symphony, he stopped playing and turned to look at her.

"Will you come stand behind me?" he asked. "Like you did before? You told me that was something friends would do."

She rose without comment and came to do his bidding. She felt him relax through the thick fabric of his black coat. Then he finished the symphony, again with his eyes closed, leaning back into her touch.