A fortnight went by; then three weeks, and I began to worry about the next monthly women's meeting. I was concerned that the Creole madwoman would come again while Christine was gone. I decided that there was nothing for it; I would go under the Opera House, and stay there until I was positive that Christine had returned from the meeting. I enjoyed my short time in my old home, it was safe and I knew I could be good there. I went home around midnight and looked in on my sleeping angel. I was invigorated from my walk home; I went into my drawing room to sit with a brandy, thinking it would relax me sufficiently for sleep. I closed the door and, setting the brandy down, decided to read. Across the room, something about my coffin drew my attention; I peered at it in the soft light.

The Creole was lying in it.

I raced over and knelt next to the coffin and shook her. She was warm and soft—not dead, not even unconscious, I was sure of it. Just playing dead; whatever sort of game she was playing, I wanted no part of it.

"What the blazes are you doing, woman? What are you doing? Open your eyes, will you? Listen to me! Christine is sleeping just down the hallway, you must leave here. Please! Oh, god!" I sat back on my haunches in despair. She would not answer. She would not respond; she would not leave.

"Fine, then. If you wish to stay here, do so. I am going to bed, and if you are here in the morning, let Christine find you. You're a madwoman. A madwoman!" I shook her again; this time I looked at her sufficiently to realize that her dress was again open to her waist. She lay there, playing dead; I touched her. She remained as if dead for my groping, even when I slid my hands under her skirts. She was most definitely not dead below the waist. It may seem a sick fantasy, but it ignited me nonetheless.

I handled her roughly. I wanted to see her flinch or even cry out. She remained still, but I was able to read her well. The only response I provoked in her was pleasure. She struggled to maintain the charade of lifelessness as my hands abused her.

"I'll make you scream, you devil slut," I threatened. Frustrated, I looked to the Creole for some sign that I was provoking her. At last her face had changed; she wore a strange, knowing smile.

Suddenly, I felt trapped and controlled, powerless to either help myself or resist her. I flew into a murderous rage and snatched the bitch from my coffin. She gasped; I believe it hurt her back, but I didn't care. I had her by the throat, half choking her as we scuffled. She did not show any fear; she clawed my face, wrists, throat; tore my shirt. She managed to get sufficient leverage to land a glancing blow with her knee. I swore and threw her away from me as I had the fop; this knocked the wind from her sufficiently that I had a moment to fall to my knees and groan. She was quicker to her feet and flew at me with a shriek. She succeeded in knocking me over, but it was no trouble for me to roll onto her and subdue her. I held her throat in one hand, and her bony wrists in the other as I dragged her to her feet.

"You mad, demonic bitch," I hissed. Her eyes blazed, but not with anger. This Creole fiend frightened me; I've never seen anyone so utterly mad…and I've known my share of nutters.

"Erik, what are you doing?" Behind me, Christine's sleepy voice, uncomprehending. I wheeled around just as I was, never releasing my grip on the bitch.

"No, Angel, no," I soothed. "You're dreaming, it's a bad dream, but you're safe and warm in your own bed." It was worth a try; sometimes I could mesmerize her with my voice.

"Josette? Erik, let her go; what are you doing?" I saw confusion and horror, anger and pain play across Christine's face as she came fully awake and scanned the scene before her.

"Christine, look at me: see my face, my wrists? Look at my shirt, Darling. I can't let her go, or she'll go for me again."

"No she won't. Let her go," Christine intoned with an eerie calm. "Get out of this house, Josette." Christine stood holding the door open, staring blankly at an empty space on the floor; waiting. The bitch did not go for me again when I freed her; she collected herself slowly, painfully and left. When she was sure the Creole had gone, Christine turned back toward the bedroom, looking very, very tired. I rushed after her.

"Christine—"

"No, Erik, I'm going to sleep now. If you want to speak with me, you can do so in the morning."

I sent word to Jules that I would not be in to work, and that if some crisis should occur, he should send for me immediately. I brought coffee upstairs; I could not face my Persian friend. I tried to read; couldn't. I tried to compose my thoughts, think of what I would say to her; also useless. Too soon there came a knock on my door. Christine held a steaming mug of coffee and refused to step into the room. She looked pale and small and seemed reluctant to look into my eyes.

"I don't want to talk up here. Let's go to the library," she said flatly.

Christine settled on the sofa. I saw that she did not want me to sit so near, so I went to the chair opposite. I began to speak as soon as I sat.

"It's not what you think."

"How do you know what I think?" she asked, emotionless. I would have preferred her screaming, crying and slapping me. This cool, calm, numb Christine was fearsome.

"Well, it's not what it looked like, then."

"It looked like you had Josette by the throat and hands. It looked like both of you were half dressed. It looked like you were struggling together, fighting. She had scratched your face and wrists, and you were bruising her neck. That is how it looked. Is that not what it was?"

"Yes, but…" I sighed. It was going terribly wrong. "May I tell you what happened?"

She thought for an agonizing long time before she said "Yes."

"The night of your women's meeting, when we met Gaston, he gave me a cigar, and I went out to the alley to smoke it. I was nearly done when this woman approached me. She said she knew me; that she'd been at the Opera House the night of the fire, and had nearly been killed in the crush of bodies. I tried to tell her it was not me, I don't know why; I was afraid of discovery, I suppose. Apparently she had memories of the night, because she fainted. When I got her back to her feet, she regarded me strangely and left. You can ask Reza and Gaston, I summoned them when she fainted."

"Then, last month, when you met at the house and then went off to the meeting, I was at the piano, and suddenly there she was. I demanded to know what she wanted, how she'd come to be left behind. She said she wanted to learn why I disturbed her so."

Christine dropped her head and blinked rapidly several times. I waited for her to raise her head before continuing.

"I never touched her, Christine, honestly."

"But she touched you."

"Yes," I admitted.

"Tell me."

"I wish you wouldn't—"

"Yes. I know," she interrupted. She waited.

"She unbuttoned her dress and slipped it off her shoulders. I told her to go. I said anything I could think of to make her leave, to no avail. Please can I stop now?" I begged her.

"Is that all?"

"No…" I admitted.

"No." Again she waited.

I wanted desperately to look at her, to search her face and learn her reaction when I told her the rest, but I couldn't. I stared at my hands.

"She fell to her knees before me, and… touched me in various ways. Then she left me, but she threatened to return. And that is why I went down to my lair last night; because I was afraid she would come while you were out. I came home and looked in on you sleeping, then went into my room to read until I felt sleepy. I don't know how she got in, but when I went into my room, she was there, lying in my coffin. She had unbuttoned her dress again, and she lay there, pretending to be dead. She…wanted me to…use her as if she was dead."

I felt like a dog as I watched Christine struggle for self-control. I feared she might be ill.

"And did you?" she whispered finally.

"I touched her," I confessed. She bit her lip quickly.

"How did you come to be choking her, then, after—"

"I got angry, Christine! She's a madwoman; I was furious at her for tormenting me! I felt trapped, and helpless, and heartsick for betraying you. Angel, why would I ever want to betray you? How long have I waited for you? Don't you know…" my voice broke. I couldn't say anymore.

After several minutes, Christine asked softly, "Why couldn't you just run from her, Erik?" It was a good question.

"I don't know," I owned finally. She nodded. Several more minutes of silence passed.

"Perhaps you didn't want to…run, that is."

"No, Christine, that's not so. Please don't say that…" She rose and began shuffling out.

"I need more coffee," she yawned. I was surprised, to say the least, that she was leaving in the middle of this conversation.

"Christine, are you coming back?" I worried.

"Of course," she replied sleepily.

"Christine…"

"Yes, Erik," she sighed. I suppose under the circumstances my childish clinging was wearing on her.

"I love you. You still love me, don't you?"

My angel turned back to me. Drawing near, she handed me her coffee cup with a smile and lifted my mask away.

"Of course I still love you," she purred. She gave me the sweetest, tenderest kiss; it took my breath away. Then she slapped me senseless, twice; took her coffee cup and left crying.

When Christine returned, her eyes were red and puffy. She plopped down on the sofa again. I wanted to cry, but I didn't want Christine to think that I was trying to gain her sympathy.

"Christine, I'm sorry. I just wanted to say that."

She nodded. "I need some time to understand this, Erik. Don't press me."

"Alright, what do you want me to do then?" I worried.

"Just…don't press me. I'll let you know."