To my dear, wonderful, talented, good, sweet, dear Christine!

That first line had been scribbled out, but I managed to make most of it out beneath the ink. This new letter had arrived just this morning, a full week after my visit to 'Mama Valerius'. Raoul was still none the wiser that I'd been back to my dressing room, and Caitlin was keeping silent on pain of losing her job if she so much as uttered a word of Paris. I'd waited patiently for a response, but slowly, over the course of the past two days, my hope had been wearing thin.

Why would he reply? After five years, no less! Why did I even want him to? Surely that was adultery of the heart somehow! But he did, and when Caitlin presented me with my post this morning, my heart soared.

But then Christopher spilled his milk all down his front and that needed to be attended to.

The actual first line read, and continued, as such:

April 20th, 1886

To Christine,

I have no words. Under what spell have you entranced me? Even after two days, I am still not able to speak. My precious cat has grown rather annoyed with me now and has taken to flouncing away whenever I enter a room, as she thinks I'm purposefully ignoring her when she catches me staring into the void of desolate loneliness and—

What am I saying? I'm doing this all wrong. Forgive me, Christine!

I'd given up hope that you'd ever reply. I should never have expected it in the first place, I'm not sure why I did... Oh forgive me, this letter sounds dreadfully weepy and dreary, don't you agree?

I couldn't help but giggle at that, imagining him sitting at his desk, scratching his head and writing whatever came to mind first. This was perhaps his twentieth draft and the rubbish bin might well be overflowing with balls of paper by now. I turned the gaslamp down just a touch as someone passed in the corridor, curling up under the covers of my bed like a naughty boarding schoolgirl reading after bedtime. Erik's writing, though rushed and childish, was beautiful all the same, written in his finest black ink.

You must forgive me for the stain on the bottom of the page. The cat knocked my hand as I was writing. I am now attempting to think of how to weave words together, put them on the paper and stroke this creature's back all at the same time, for which I am certain she will never show her gratitude.

I saw you in the tunnels the other day. Oh, forgive me, that was rather blunt, was it not? I beg your pardon for not staying or calling to you: the shock of seeing you in person caused my flight from the quarters, not disrespect or rudeness, though I can claim to be the opposite of neither. For so long, I have seen you everywhere: in your dressing room, in your bedroom here where Ayesha (the cat) has made her new living place, the stage, everywhere.

Oh dear, I've done it again, haven't I? If those years we shared didn't frighten you away for good as I'd believed for so long, this letter - if one may call this mess of literature a letter - certainly shall!

I have enclosed the address to which you must send your replies - if you are not utterly repulsed by me by now -, if any. My dear friend - I trust you remember the old Daroga? - or his servant will deliver them to me and post my replies to you, in the hopes they will not be so late this time.

If I may be so bold to enquire after your general wellbeing and family?

Your ever faithful
Erik.

The stain was indeed there, with a little arrow pointing to it that read: Blasted feline fiend!

I giggled to myself, touching the splash of dried ink, unable to help but imagine Erik fanning the sheet up and down, trying to dry it before he could smudge it with his thin hand as Ayesha watched on from his desk, an evil and amused glint to her slit eyes.

The door creaked open slightly. I froze beneath the sheets, my back to it, and watched as the light of the candles outside seeped into the room, illuminating the far wall and curtains. It closed just as quietly. I laboured my breath slightly and closed my eyes, hiding the letter under my pillow as carefully as I could. The bed sank behind me and the sheets rustled as Raoul swung his feet up into bed and pulled them around himself.

He reached over to quench the gaslamp and fell back into place behind me, shuffling slightly then sighing, his arms draped around my torso as he did every night. He kissed my neck softly, as not to 'wake' me and whispered a hushed 'Je t'aime', before dozing off within a few minutes.

But an hour later, with him snoring quietly by my ear, I was still feeling the rushes of glee Erik's letter had brought me. As gently as I could, I slipped out of Raoul's arms and sat on the edge of the bed, trying not to let it creak too loudly when I stood, my nightgown falling past my knees. I leaned back down and kissed his forehead, tucking the covers back around his chin.

He mumbled something in his sleep and the traces of a smile appeared on the furthest corners of his lips. I took a moment to admire him, my wonderful husband, whose golden hair fell around his face in floppy locks and painted his pillow with new patterns. The smooth planes of his cheeks and straight nose caught the faint half-moonlight that managed to seep through the thin curtains, turning his mustache a pale silver.

I smiled and took the gaslamp from the bedside table, carrying it across the room to the little writing desk I'd had installed when I was pregnant and couldn't walk very far, but bored enough to wish to write to various acquaintances.

It had been Raoul's idea to write to them in particular.

Still, it had its uses. I sat at the desk and lit the gaslamp slightly, enough to let me find some paper, ink and a pen amongst my diary jottings.

I reread Erik's letter and smiled, knowing already what I would write.