Chapter Two

Knock, knock...

It was what she'd been waiting to hear all day and it sent a shower of tingles down her spine. The sound of his firm knock on her bedroom door made her heart rise up like a glowing moon and her eyes were no doubt full of stars as she dashed to the door and pulled it open.

He had come. He had come to call, just as he promised!

She had been trying in vain to bring some kind of order to her hair. The pale strands were being particularly disobedient tonight. Finally deciding to it tie it up in a messy bun, she pressed her hands over her faded skirts. When she had opened the door however, all misgivings about her argumentative hair and faded dress vanished.

He was dressed impeccably in a charcoal back evening suit and deep, forest green cravat. His copper hair was brushed neatly back from his face, which was mostly covered by the usual mask. Tonight, rather than the flesh colored one he often favored it was black lined with silver. His mouth, which remained the only expressive part of his face left uncovered besides his eyes, curved upward into a smile. Heat flushed her cheeks. Was she wearing anything at all under those steady, intense grey eyes?

"Good evening," he said, his voice impossibly deep and yet so soft. The heat suffusing her cheeks spread like wildfire, fueling the smile that lit her face. "I present you with one officious and overly-demanding Maestro, as requested."

"You're late," she replied, trying to keep the teasing from her voice. Though she couldn't see his expression fully due to his mask, she fathomed one eyebrow quirking in bemusement as he gazed down at her.

"A thousand apologies milady. You wouldn't believe how difficult it is to find decent valet service for an honest pirate and his ship. It is most inconvenient."

"An 'honest' pirate? Is that not a contradiction in terms?" she couldn't help but ask.

"I am honestly overcome by your charm."

Shyly, her hands rose to the messy bun atop her head. "You are too kind," she said, her heart fluttering excitedly against her breast. She wondered if he could see it within the cage of her heart, wings beating wildly, for his gaze roamed from her hair, face and neck to drop to the neckline of her dress for an instant.

"Not kind, no," he replied and though his voice was measured she felt something shift between them. He was leaning toward her, bending his impossibly tall frame down until his lips brushed her ear. "Close your eyes," he whispered to her. Her eyes drifted shut, his nearness like a heady enchantment she couldn't resist. There was a rustling of cloth and his gloved fingertips were encasing hers, drawing them around something thin and cool to the touch.

Her eyes flew open. Her butterfly pin lay in her palms, and she felt joy burst within her at the sight. Her mother's pin was very old, handed down from mother to daughter for generations but it was one of the only family keepsakes she had. Now, staring at it glittering in her hands she saw it transformed. The stones that formed the butterfly's wings, most of which had been missing now shone brightly. The two tiny diamonds that were the butterfly's eyes twinkled at her, as though communicating a private secret, whispers passed down through the ages meant just for her…and someday she hoped, her own daughter.

She was so lost in her astonishment she hadn't uttered a word for nearly a full minute until she sensed her Maestro shifting almost imperceptibly on his feet. He was nervous. It was enough to draw her out of her memories, memories of watching her mother placing the pin so delicately into her thick, chocolate curls. Her mother's hair had been Christine's favorite thing in the world. So soft, rich and dark. Nothing like her own gold strands that refused to obey even the slightest suggestion.

"I hope you do not mind…I know you did not ask me to, but I had the necessary supplies at my disposal and it is truly an exquisite piece. The craftsmanship is to be commended, it is no simple task to work with such pliable metals on such a delicate scale with such precise detail—"

Her arms were around him, her head coming to rest against the silky finery of his dress jacket, which could not compare to the feel of his heartbeat beneath her cheek, a heart that she knew without question held the most generous, gentle soul she'd even known.

She felt him stiffen as she knew he would, but this time a small sound escaped his lips and she smiled into his chest. He wanted her touch, she knew it in her bones. And if she had to touch him and hug him a thousand times a day until he was used to such affections, like an injured animal learning to trust again, she would gladly. She felt his fingers curl around her sides, barely brushing, but it felt like they had scaled the mighty pyramids themselves.

"Thank you," she breathed into his chest, and his response was a shuddering sigh. How was it possible she mused, that a man as physically sizable as her Maestro, broad and exuding the unconscious power of a lion be so affected by such simple touches? Needing to see his beloved face, his kind grey eyes, she drew back and felt his fingers brush her cheek. Her heart skipped—had he been about to stroke her hair?

Their eyes met and she beamed at him like the sun. "I wish Mama could see it," taking a step back and holding it up to him, she asked shyly, "would you help me? I have no glass. Would you be my mirror?"

"Of course," he granted, although she could hear his beautiful voice scrape against his vocal chords. So affected! She was determined now more than ever to give him more touches and as often as she could, proper or not.

He took the pin from her and gently slid it into the bun atop her head, his expression one of the utmost serious concentration. When his hand fell away, he studied her for a moment pensively.

"Does my mirror approve?" she asked, the hint of teasing playfulness in her voice. He didn't reply, but brought his hand back to drift across her cheek, his fingertips gently pulling a few loose strands of her hair out from behind her ear.

"There must be at least one imperfection," he finally replied, his fingertips lingering on the pale strands he wound around her face. The air between them was quickly becoming magnetized and before she knew it he was pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, barely a brush of his lips.

"There," he murmured against her skin. "Now I can almost believe you belong down here, with us mortals."

"Am I suitably imperfect?" she queried, voice breathless with humble pleasure at his compliment.

"Oh yes. Perfectly," he replied, his lips still pressed lightly against her forehead. Christine reveled in his rare display of physical contact. She closed her eyes and savoured it, committing every sensation to memory. His lips felt so soft, and she couldn't feel the mask's cool edge which allowed her to imagine he was kissing her without its encumbrance. He smelled of candle smoke and violin varnish. To most, it would have been faintly acrid—but to her, it smelled like home.

Unconsciously taking a step towards him again, she thought for one dizzying moment that he would take her in his arms and they would both be engulfed by the force of the storm brewing between them. Lightning and thunder, wave after wave of sensation pounding against all resistance…

But he was stepping back. She opened her eyes and his expression was dark with something that both excited and troubled her.

Wordlessly, he offered her a gloved hand.

She took it and silently he had led her to their music room. A few candelabras were placed on various surfaces, giving the familiar space an unearthly golden glow. It was a beautiful glade of wooden tables and discarded props, with its worn divan and in the center an aged piano.

Leading her to the divan, he bent at the waist as he guided her to sit.

"For you," was all he said.

Walking back to the piano, his tall broad frame so full of grace and confidence, he had procured a black case from the bench. Watching his back curiously, Christine saw him put a shining flute to his mouth and a few clear, bell-like notes hit the air. The beginning of a warm-up scale. She was delighted, anticipation racing through her. He had told her once before he could play many instruments other than the piano—it was thrilling to think he might share them with her. Conscious thought was wiped away as he turned to face her and begun to play in earnest. Haunting notes flowed from his lips, stirring the air and gliding towards her with every breath, ensnaring her, drawing her in.

Beautiful…

She was drawn headlong into memories of her homeland and of her Papa. Of tiny stone cottages, buffeted by the salty sea air. Men in felt caps, fiddles tucked under their chin. Her Papa playing an old folk melody for a group of spellbound children, while she sang words of love and love lost. Of fairies and trolls. If she closed her eyes, she could still feel their little hands tugging at her skirts, begging for just one more song…

"I can teach you the words, if you wish," he was saying gently. "It is an old Irish tune, a folk song. It has always been one of my favorites."

Christine opened her eyes to see her Maestro standing by the piano, flute in his large hands. He was staring at her with an intensity she had never seen before. How strangely he was acting tonight! She reveled in it, secretly catching every look and touch and locking them away inside her heart. She couldn't help but wonder though, why was he acting differently? It was as though he were not consciously aware of the way he absently stroked the flute in his hands, his chest rising and falling rapidly, licking his lips every now and then, his every muscle poised as though ready to capture her against him at any moment.

Had her impulsive embrace truly breached the wall of propriety he had staunchly refused to cross until now?

You weren't playing games, Christine. I was, and a dangerous one…

Her Maestro had never spoken a falsehood to her; could breaking down the barriers between them truly be so dangerous?

"I was a fool to think anything could blemish your perfection. You are breathtakingly beautiful," he said, breaking through her thoughts and turning her apprehension into pure warmth. Unexpected. Impulsive. His affection was as changeable and impossible to anticipate as a summer storm.

A shy smile shaped her mouth but she held his gaze resolutely. "As are you," she said softly.

He said nothing and turned from her then busying himself with putting the flute back into its case, breaking the spell.

"It is the truth, my dear," he spoke finally, ignoring her statement. "I fear that someday your beauty will be my ruin."

She opened her mouth to reply, but she felt a thread of hurt curl around her heart. Had she not dreamt last night of his voice, his touch? The memory of his gaze, utterly focused on her mouth had produced some of the most vivid and consuming fantasies she'd ever experienced. His kiss to her forehead…she could still feel its brand on her skin. His barest touches were like a cry of longing she could feel herself opening up to more and more, each heavy with suggestion and undiscovered promise. Never, except in her dreams had she ever considered that one day she would meet someone like her Maestro. Coming to the Opera house had been her Papa's dream for her, that one day she would shine beneath the spotlight sing for thousands. It had been her wish as well, to raise up the sound of her soul and share it with nature, with the earth and everything that grew from its majesty.

Tomorrow, she would get her chance to prove she deserved the honor. She would sing as the infamous Marguerite in Faust. Yet even her debut failed to elicit the force of emotion that her Maestro's gift and his gentle kiss had elicited.

"Your restraint will be mine," she said gently but clearly, unable to contain the words. They had a surprising effect; he turned to face her, eyes strangely bright. Her words had wounded him. She could sense it. His expression moved her from her perch on the divan and within a few steps, she was standing so close she could see the pulse flutter at his throat.

She was treading into unknown waters, she knew. She was testing his resolve, but she couldn't help herself. She needed him to understand that in the endless months spent in his company she had become irrevocably tangled up in him—and in this moment she wanted more than anything to be his. She wanted to know his name. Where he grew up and where he lived. What songs his mother had sung to him.

She wanted to be his girl, his sweetheart. They would chase the loneliness away together, united by trust. And she wanted that trust so badly.

He didn't retreat as she approached him, though she saw his fists clench at his sides. She didn't stop. They were caught in each others gravity and neither could break away. Rising on her toes, she tilted her head toward him until they were breathing the same air, mere inches from each other.

Her gaze swept over his masked face, to all the places that were bared. They felt like treasures, the soft looking skin of his throat, his smoothly shaven chin, his ears which she noted tenderly were an ever-deepening shade of crimson. His hair, like burnt copper in the candlelight's glow.

When she reached his eyes her heart thudded almost painfully against her breast, astonished at what she found.

Tears clearly burned there, shining as he looked down at her with an expression she couldn't begin to decipher. He was too close, too encompassing for her to understand what had moved him so. Had her words been too harsh? She made the smallest retreat, beginning to pull back with a concerned query on her lips. Then, his hands were sliding behind her head and there was no more time for thought as he leaned forward and caught her mouth with his. Trembling at first, as though pressure could be fatal and then hard, devouring, his hands encasing the back of her head and holding her to him. The onslaught was devastating, heat searing past skin and bone until it felt as though he was beating beneath her very skin.

For a full moment, she was too stunned to respond. A sound escaped her and he replied by slanting his mouth more fully across hers. Christine felt as though some part of her soul was rising from the ashes, shining and restored. Instinctively, her hands wound their way around his neck, pulling him closer. Within seconds of her unspoken encouragement, she was swept flush against his chest and his mouth had opened with a deep, carnal sound followed by his tongue which pushed past the seam of her lips in one stroke, taking, tasting.

It was quickly becoming too consuming, too forceful. His mask pressed painfully into her skin, but he seemed lost to all but the need to crush her against him. Yet she couldn't draw back. Her hands moved from his neck to his face, fingertips pressed against his cheeks, wishing that she felt flesh and not porcelain. Her instincts continuing to battle between the need to gentle him and stoke his ferocity, she felt him groan against her. He was unraveling, and she cursed her body as the need for air become more than a vague inclination and more of a necessity. Another sound escaped her, sounding both breathless and distressed.

Instantly, she felt him tear his mouth from hers but instead of retreating he folded her into his embrace, head dropping to rest upon her shoulder. Her blood still sang with the startling reality of his affection, and the feel him still pressed so intimately against her. Unable to resist, she arched further into the wall of his body wanting more. His hands slid from her back to grip her waist, his breath hot against her neck as he turned his head to nuzzle her, words tumbling from him, most incomprehensible but a few surviving his agitation.

"…keep you…Christine, please let me, oh my darling, my heart, Christine…"

His lips moved against her throat and her head fell back unresisting, eager for their touch.

"Tell me," she murmured, her voice breathless and almost unrecognizable to her own ears. She couldn't stop. His mouth was destroying the patience and restraint she had known for all the months she had slowly, irredeemably been falling in love with a masked man.

"Please, tell me who you are. I want to know everything—I want to say your name, your given name…how can Maestro ever suffice?"

When I want to be so much more to you…she was about to add, but she felt him freeze in her arms before she could finish. Confused, she tried to meet his gaze but he was already drawing himself up to his full height and pulling back. Sorrow swelled with her; he was slipping away.

With the impending distance growing between them, she gazed up into his face desperately. He wasn't looking at her, desolate grey eyes staring steadily beyond her to the opposite wall.

"What is it?" she breathed. "Please, tell me why you hide yourself. I know you wish to tell someone, I can see it in your eyes…I wouldn't tell another soul, I promise!"

"Christine—" his tone was wary and warning.

"Are you married?"

His gaze locked with hers, incredulous. "No!" he breathed, aghast. "My heavens you couldn't possibly think I could—!"

"I don't know what to think," she countered, but she knew in her heart she had only said it to reach him, to compel him to look at her, to listen. The pain in his eyes was tangible and it hurt her to see it, but she couldn't keep blindly accepting his affections, his gifts without knowing about the man giving them. It wasn't that she wanted to hurt him, she wanted him; she wanted his trust.

"For all I know you could have a dozen wives, one for each day of the week," she said flippantly, loving the way his eyes widened with horror. She imagined if his mask had not been present that his eyebrows would have shot into his hairline. "You could be a disposed prince from a distant land, last of his line and tragically hunted by those that seek to usurp your throne…"

His disbelieving laugh only encouraged her unmerciful imaginings.

"You could be a baker, or a candlestick maker. With your genius you could be a traveling renaissance man, like da Vinci, leaving a trail of cathedrals and priceless works of art in your wake."

"You had me at baker, mon petite. How I wish I could approach a bag of flour without it turning to ash."

"You could be an angel."

His laughter faded and he regarded her with something not unlike fear. All teasing gone from his voice, he took a moment before he replied. "No. I am not an angel. Even in your ignorance, you construct such admirable identities for me, I feel I would do anything to be worthy of even one."

Her eyebrow arched. "So…you would like a dozen wives, then?"

His ears turned a most charming shade of crimson. "No—! That is, I did not mean…of course, I would like a wife…" he looked so utterly lost, floundering and stuttering. It was incredible, she had never thought him capable of being so embarrassed. She couldn't help her teasing. It was too tempting to indulge in his unguarded reactions, for she was so used to him always being in control. Perhaps if he lost a little of that mystique, he would realize there could be so much more between them. They could grow and evolve. They could love.

"Oh, I see. Just a wife," she replied, feigning a surreptitious understanding. It wasn't wasted on him and within seconds she felt his hands come to rest upon her shoulders.

"Just one," he said, and the earnest seriousness in his voice sobered her playfulness.

"And she would be lovely," Christine surmised wistfully, unable to staunch the coil of hurt that lashed through her at the idea of a nameless, faceless woman putting her delicate hand in his, their silhouettes melding into one as he bent to kiss her. His hand beneath her chin, tilting her head to meet his gaze broke her from such cruel images.

"No," he said, and his eyes roamed over her face tenderly. Her hands lifted to rest lightly on his chest, her fingers curling into his jacket. "No? Why ever not? Every man wants a lovely wife."

He smiled, a slow smile that filled her with a sense of yearning so acute she found herself rendered near breathless at the sight. "Loveliness is born from imperfections. Those errant details that make something truly spectacular. Your chin is set with a slightly crooked angle, see?" his fingers traced her chin lightly. "Most would see this as a flaw, yet it allows you to shape your mouth in a specific shape to allow the maximum amount of air to flow into your throat and past your vocal chords. It is part of who you are—and part of the reason why you can bring a man to his knees with the singular splendor of your voice. I do not want perfection, or loveliness…I want so much more…"

Her cheeks were burning beneath his touch, her mind foggy as he drew nearer, bending towards her incrementally as though not fully aware of his actions. "You need to go back to your room," he said, but his voice held no conviction and he sounded as dazed as she felt. His mouth was so close, all she had to do was tilt her head forward a fraction and she would feel the warmth of his lips again.

"I don't want to leave you," she said, shivering as he involuntarily brushed the tip of his porcelain-covered nose against her cheek.

"You must," he breathed, his mouth pressing against hers with the barest of pressure. Skin against skin, gentle friction that seared her senses and set her blood aflame. "Please, Christine…" the sadness in his voice was so achingly strong she couldn't help but press her mouth to his, hoping beyond hope that any relief she was capable of would flow from her touch, that he would feel her love. And it was love; she knew it was. How could it not be when his touch, his mouth were what stood between her and the cavernous, lonely abyss that had been her heart before she knew him?

"Go," he whispered, an urgent command in his tone, gentle yet unyielding. "For tonight, go. You must rest. Do not dally."

"But—" she began to protest, only to be silenced by the firm, sure pressure of his mouth. A true kiss, as though she were locked in an eternal sleep and he was trying to rouse her soul. She didn't recall who broke away first, yet when they did he whispered two words into her lips that she couldn't argue with.

"Trust me," he implored, the words spoken into her flesh and resounding within her body until they beat along with her every breath. "Go."

She was drifting away from him, and she felt the anchor between them grow taut. When his hands found hers and brought them to his lips one last time, she couldn't help but ask.

"Will you promise to tell me something of yourself? Anything…it can be anything you wish."

"I promise. It would seem that pirate or no, there is very little on this earth I could ever deny you. Sleep well, my dear."

Their fingertips drifted apart, caught in opposing currents that carried them further away from each other. She turned and made for the door, glancing back as her hand curled around the knob.

"Only when I dream of you," she said honestly, and saw his tall frame seem to flicker like the stuttering of a flame. The sight of his stricken face, masked or no, was clear. A small, knowing smile touched her lips.

Not tonight…but sometime soon she was not going to let him push her away. And on that night, he would have no choice but to surrender to her desires.

"Tomorrow, I sing for you and no one else. Goodnight, my angel," she said softly, slipping out the door and closing it quietly before he could react to her chosen endearment. For to her, it was more than pretty words.

It was truth.

Erik gazed at the closed door for what could have been minutes, or hours. Time had dissolved with her sweet declaration.

Goodnight, my angel...

Raising a hand to his lips, he tore his glove off to feel the part of his body that was the envy of all else—his eyes slid shut in euphoria, and a sound that contained all his barely restrained fervor escaped him in a low moan.

Would his body ever know a moment's peace now that the memory of her taste still lingered on his tongue?

As if in reply, his muscles tensed and it took all the power in his being as well as some borrowed from whatever deity he could invoke to not fly after her, tearing the door from its hinges and sweeping her up into his arms, into his bed…

His bed. His home. The kingdom he had built that housed all his dreams, all his secret longings. How empty it now seemed! She had been alarmingly close to the truth when she had so innocently suggested he could be a hunted prince. Hunted yes, he amended swiftly. Prince? The thought was made all the more painful as he recalled how she had tilted her face toward him, eyes full of playful innocence.

No, not a prince.

A monster…

If only her kiss could have transformed him. If only he didn't have to hide his shameful identity from her, he could have told her everything that was in his heart to say.

I want you. I want you for my wife. You are the muse of my being, my reason for drawing breath. I want to hold you, taste you, every part of you until we forget where one ends and the other begins. For this was the way it was meant to be! I was made for you…

His fist came down on the piano lid, sudden and violent.

A monster…a monster was created for you like in a nightmare. Oh Christine, my beloved, forgive me…! Forgive that I am a man unworthy of you and yet I desire beyond reason…

He regretted his loss of control immediately, and pressed his palm flat against the piano's wood as though in apology. No one, and nothing should have to suffer for his own shortcomings. These should have been the most glorious, wondrous moments of his life and yet all he could think about was how he was going to deal with her insatiable curiosity. How was he ever going to be able to keep his promise to her when even the smallest revelation about his true identity would undoubtedly cause him to lose her forever?

Tomorrow, I sing for you…

Possessive desire so potent it made him grasp the edge of the piano for stability swept through his limbs. For him, for him!

Gathering himself together he picked up the flute case from the piano bench, intent on making sure his love had reached her room safely. He would always make sure she was safe. It had only been the obvious (and for the moment) debilitating evidence of his desire for her that had made him unable to accompany her back to her room as he usually did.

Straightening himself with flute case in hand, he made his way to the door his mind already wandering unbidden to the image of his obsession shedding her layers of clothing, each dropping like the petals of a flower to reveal the smooth, creamy skin he had been blessed enough to glimpse earlier. Perhaps she would be brushing her hair…golden waves cascading down over one bare shoulder as she stroked it gracefully…

His body gave a torturous throb at the mere thought. The memory of her touch still left him so aroused that it was all he could do to stride through the darkened corridors while drawing enough oxygen back into his brain to think clearly. When he reached her door, his keen hearing picked up a soft sound floating out from beneath it. She was humming to herself.

Erik made the last few steps to her door, but just barely.

I want to speak your name. How can Maestro ever suffice…?

Knees giving way, he finally let himself slide to the ground outside her closed door, the darkness shrouding him and giving small comfort. He didn't recall how long he kept vigil outside her door, nor how long he kept pressing his lips to the wood, desperate to touch anything that had a connection or might have been gifted with traces of her.

Gérard Carrière loved his son deeply.

Despite his own shortcomings and mistakes, he had tried to raise his son to the best of his ability…at least, that is what he tried to convince himself of on a fairly regular basis. And lately, the lie was becoming harder and harder to repeat, even in his own mind. Especially in his own mind, where memories and lost chances seemed to be growing ever deeper like trees taking root.

His hands, so weathered and wrinkled looking that sometimes he barely recognized them anymore shook as he poured himself a stiff drink. He needed one badly. He had just returned from Erik's home, where a very confused and innocent girl had hung upon his every word.

Christine's debut in Faust had been a debacle of the gravest extremes. The entire theater was in uproar: the leading lady, after failing to impress the Parisian audience and cruelly jeered at, had been abducted right off the stage by a mysterious, masked man.

Gérard swallowed his bourbon in one gulp. Oh, Erik. What have you done?

Of course the poor girl's performance had been obviously sabotaged, but that wasn't the problem. The problem now was that everyone in the theater, including the half of Paris that had shown up for the debut, now knew that the Opera Ghost was a man—a man who had abducted the theater's new ingénue.

Of course, the next few days were spent in a flurry of damage control on his part. The newspapers were buzzing with the scandal, and he could only hope that the city's abnormally short attention span would soon be diverted to some other bit of juicy gossip.

The Palais Garnier, always famous for its innovation, was merely giving our fortunate audience a sneak preview of a brand new, upcoming Opera. We are so pleased that this preview provided our patrons with such excitement and unexpected enjoyment!

It had been a weak cover-up, but one he hoped would do the trick. Now all he had to do was procure a new Opera, keep the management calm, make sure Christine stayed safe and that Erik didn't bandy about like a crazed wildman.

Gérard sighed deeply. He was getting far too old for this.

He went to take another swig from his glass, realized it was empty then poured himself another generous amount from the decanter on his desk. Actually, he mused, he didn't truly think that Erik would be a problem. Not with Christine in his care. The girl's eyes had been so full of compassion when he had revealed Erik's tragic story! She cared about him deeply, there was no doubt. And he didn't doubt that her emotions were poised on the brink of love. He knew the symptoms well. It was written all over her face—a face that reminded him so painfully of his Belladova. It wasn't her features, per se but the soul that glowed behind them. Kind. Passionate. Adventurous and above all, brimming with innocent sensuality.

He understood why Erik wanted her so badly for himself—why he had tried so desperately to maintain the façade of the enigmatic teacher. His heart ached for his son, knowing that he would not likely take well to the fact that he had divulged so many of his secrets to Christine. But he'd had no choice. She needed to know, deserved to know who and what she was dealing with.

A sharp sting of guilt cut through him. He hadn't told her everything. Indeed, there were things he hadn't even told Erik himself yet. There would be time. There had to be more time.

Gérard rubbed his forehead wearily. Time…

Time to put away his bourbon and continue with the damage control. Christine had staunchly refused to leave Erik's home—not after hearing what he had to say. He only hoped that her subsequent conversation with Erik would yield positive results. If not…well, he would take things as they came. He always had, yet he couldn't ignore the feeling of dread hanging over his head, the feeling that despite his efforts things were slowly but surely spinning out of control.

Something was going to snap and give way. Gérard only hoped he was there to catch Erik when it did.

TBC