Chapter Two. Enjoy!

The letter was crumpled and dated for April 18th, 1881, nearly five years ago. In fact, just a few days after I'd left the Opera for good. What was the matter with the postal system these days? Just the other week Raoul had received the receipt for a purchase of a new carriage he'd bought well over a year ago.

In the dim light of the candle, the words, fairly faded enough already, were nearly impossible to read by now. But I would always recognise my Angel's writing, the childish scrawl of a man who'd learned to read and write by himself.

It read as such:

April 18th, 1881.

To my dear Christine,

What to say to you at this time? I know you already resent receiving this letter, but, alas, I must write it all the same.

I cannot apologise enough. I understand you will scoff at that. It was a silly thing to write. But still, the agony I'm experiencing compels me too write at least a short letter of apology:

I am truly sorry for both deceiving and detaining you. You cannot even begin to imagine my remorse when I remember your face, which was always so gentle and cheery, turning bitter and disgusted during our last hours.

Oh, Christine! What can I say? I can never apologise enough for what I did. Yet, does it matter a dot? No matter what I write, I forbid you to remember your lessons with any sort of happiness, in the knowledge that I was deceiving you all along.

Sweet Christine, who was always so good and lovely: you will never leave my heart. Wherever I am, your music will sing to me. But I beg you, forget mine, for I cannot bear to think of your beautiful voice tainted by that of Death himself.

I wish you every joy in your marriage. The Vicomte, despite my first prejudices, is most worthy of you. It brings me overwhelming comfort to know you will live out your years, which I pray will be many, in each other's company. Your children will be Angels, beautiful Angels, perfect in every way that I never was. Look after them, my sweet. And never, pray promise me - promise your poor, unhappy Erik - tell them of your horrid Angel of Death. Do not taint them with my memory.

Ah, Chrissy, my good sweet girl. Remember me not, even in your dreams forget me. I will die soon, and then you will finally be rid of your Demon of Music.

I am, again, truly sorry for your troubles.

Sincerely,
Your loyal Erik.

I folded the letter into thirds once more, only now noticing the splashes of tears on the paper. My cheeks were indeed damp with sorrow, but a quick brush over the paper revealed that these ones had dried long ago.

Oh, poor, unhappy Erik! Poor, unfortunate creature.

I held the letter for a few minutes, rereading it over and over until I could hear Erik's voice begging for mercy, his pleas growing louder and louder. I looked at the tear stains and suddenly I could hear his crying as he folded it into thirds, put it into an envelope and sealed it.

I hurried from the bed to the dresser, finding a pen, ink pot and some paper. I couldn't leave it like this! It was bad enough the letter was five years late! He could be dead by now.

He probably already was.

I brushed away a shiver and dipped the pen.

February 22nd, 1886

To my loyal Erik,

You are not forgotten. If you are still alive, if you still love me as you confessed you did, then be silent no more. I have enclosed my address for you, should you accept to reply.

Your letter, I should explain, arrived just today. I can only blame it on the postal service. It brought tears to my eyes and soul to read your words.

Sincerely,

You dear Christine.

(Vicomtess de Changy.)

"Christine!" I jumped at the sound, turning back to the door. Raoul closed it behind him and walked over to me, placing the candle he was holding next to mine. I turned the letter over, as not to let him see what I'd written. "You promised you'd rest!"

He took the pen from my hand and set it down next to the ink pot, which he capped. Taking my arm with a kind firmness, he pulled me slowly to my feet and brought me back to bed.

"I need to go and see Mama Valerius tomorrow," I whispered as he tucked me into bed, the sheets around my chin. Raoul climbed in beside me with a tired sigh, his arms circling around my torso. He pressed a kiss to my neck and rested his face there. "It's why I was writing that letter. She needs me at her bedside."

"If it's what you must do, so be it," he whispered back, stroking the back of my hand. "I shall go with you—"

"No!" He froze at how quickly I'd answered and propped himself up on his elbow behind me. "No, Caitlin will be all I require."

"Well, promise me you'll wear your warm dress," he sighed, laying back down. "I don't want you to catch your death of cold."

"I promise."

Raoul kissed my neck again and snuggled against me. Soon, his breaths turned to shallow little snores. But I remained wide awake. I'd lied to my beloved husband, a lie so terrible and deep in our past that I couldn't imagine what would happen if the truth emerged.

A pair of stars outside kept me awake for another two hours, shining down on me, knowing my secret. They knew where I'd be tomorrow. They'd follow and watch, muttering amongst themselves in the heavens as I betrayed the promise I'd made never to see or talk of Erik again.

Poor, unhappy Erik. And poor, unknowing Raoul.