Chapter 3

The world had shattered and was blown away around her, leaving a new one in its place.

Erik.

She lost count of how many times she'd repeated those two syllables in her head then aloud, testing them on her tongue and marveling at the power they evoked within her.

He had a name. He had a father and a mother who had loved him dearly and without limit. His mother had adored him and he had lost her, too. Just like she had lost her dear Mama and Papa. Heart pounding in her ears, she wiped her cheeks and was surprised to find them wet. She had felt curiously numb after M. Carrière had left her, trying to assimilate everything he had revealed to her.

Now, all the emotions that had been held in suspension while she attentively listened to every detail M. Carrière had imparted to her were bursting forth.

His face. Oh, my dear child you cannot know the horror of his face! But his mother saw nothing but beauty in it. She loved him beyond anything else on earth. She used to sing to him constantly. And he hardly ever cried. He was such a happy baby…

When she died, he refused to leave her side. It was one of the only times I'd ever seen him truly cry. He was inconsolable. It took him days, months, to stop. When I brought him here, to the Palais Garnier, he would cry and cry, calling for her. That's how the story of the opera ghost began—and I encouraged it for his own protection. The fewer who knew about Erik the better. He was never meant for the world above…he has a remarkable genius, of that there was never any doubt. He's run this opera house for the past fifteen years, and I have been proud to carry out his vision. From the orchestral selections, to the lowliest prop. All of it was Erik's doing.

But he can never live in the world above, in your world. You must understand this. The world would never accept his affliction and it would break his heart. It would destroy him. If you care about him and I believe that you do, you will leave this place as soon as you can.

Do not give him false hope, I beg you.

Christine brought a hand to her mouth—where just a night before she had felt his warmth—and took a deep breath that threatened tears. His eyes…that look in his grey eyes when he had avoided her questions regarding his true identity…it made sense now. She had recognized that look, for it was the same one that had stared back at her from every mirror she encountered for months after her Papa's death.

Dead. As though a part of herself had died and was being buried with him. Gasping with the power of her grief for him, she clenched her eyes shut. He had been so undone, so frantic when he had swept her off her feet and rescued her from the stage after her horrible debut. Someone had finally drawn the curtain, but at that point she hadn't cared anymore.

She'd let him down.

Her Maestro, all the hard work and effort he had put into her voice, encouraging her, saying how proud he was of her…their kisses, her promise that she was going to sing for him that night. That she would bare her soul for him, and him alone.

He is not meant for your world…do not give him false hope. Leave him, or it will destroy you both. I beg you…

His arms around her had been like an anchor, and she had buried her head into his chest not caring where he was taking her. The screams and boos had died away, but she still felt violated. Tainted, unclean. Their beautiful music, her promise had been crushed. She felt as though they had both suffered a physical attack. He had murmured soft words of comfort to her the entire way down into his underground home. He had sounded just as devastated as she felt, but she could see him strain for a hold on his control for her sake. When he had given her something to drink, suggesting gently that it would help her sleep she'd taken it without question. She trusted him so…

It had begun to work almost immediately. She didn't remember how she got there, but she recalled the softness of a feather mattress and pillow. He'd laid her gently down and she had gripped his white linen shirt between her fingers, her limbs feeling heavy and listless but determined.

Stay…

She remembered his warmth. His arms folding around her, one large hand stroking her arm while the other brushed against her head soothingly. His lips against her temple, speaking words she tried in vain to remember exactly. Whatever they had been, she had never felt so loved or so safe. Not since she'd had a family. It had been so long since she'd felt so complete. Standing from the chair she hadn't vacated since M. Carrière had left her, she walked over to one of the windows lining the far wall of the little parlor of Erik's home. Leaning on the sill, a cool breeze gusted off the lake and curled against her face like a caress. It felt soothing, yet why did her heart beat wildly as though she were still in his arms? She knew the answer almost instantly.

He had done something last night, something that he had never done before and the mere memory of it left her feeling breathless, as though his mouth was ghosting over every inch of her skin.

Just before she had fallen asleep, a deep, dreamless sleep she had heard the most beautiful sound imaginable. He had sung to her, a deep melodious song that had solidified two important revelations even in her hazy, lethargic mind. Firstly, if her voice was truly sent from heaven, than his was the wings on which it flew. Secondly, she was irrevocably in love with him. She loved his kindness and his laugh. She loved the way his eyes reflected every emotion that was hidden behind the mask.

The mask is necessary, my dear. I wish to remain anonymous…

He had been so reluctant to speak of it and now she knew why. He was disfigured. Deep, powerful emotions stirred within her. She did not care about his face—how could anything so skin deep detract her from loving his mind, his actions, his soul? Wiping her cheeks again, she straightened her skirts and brushed the messy blonde waves from her face. He had left her some hours before, promising to return as swiftly as he was able.

I must make preparations, my little bird. I am unused to having company...you must forgive my absence, but I will return to you before you miss me. I promise.

She would not divulge what M. Carrière had told her about his past. She wanted to hear it from his own lips, when he was ready and they'd had a chance to talk. To spend time together and hopefully, to build upon the trust they shared. She would make him see that he could trust her with his heart. She felt as though she were groping in the pitch dark, yet she couldn't let go of the one consuming reality that kept her bound to a seemingly untenable situation.

I love him.

Turning from the window, she made her way back to the bedroom he had so sweetly laid her in the night before and began to make up the bedclothes. Heat saturated her cheeks as she tidied up the room. She just needed time. M. Carrière had promised faithfully that he would respect her decision to stay with Erik for a little while longer. She appreciated his candor and his efforts to protect their privacy—and her reputation. How could she ever repay him?

Leave. I beg you.

Her heart sank at the memory of the older man's plea, and impulsively she stopped fluffing the feather pillow she held and brought it to her chest, hugging it tight and breathing in the scent of him. Impossible. She couldn't leave her Maestro—Erik, now. He needed her and she needed him.

Reckless…

She had fallen asleep in his arms, in this bed. It seemed too wonderful, too dreamlike to be true. But she could still hear his voice brushing against her temple, his fingers stroking her arm. He had kissed the top of her head and the palm of her hand. His mouth had been warm and slightly moist. If she had been able and the sleeping draft he'd prepared for her hadn't worked so well, she no doubt would have sought that mouth with all the hunger and want his sensuous, gentle song had woken in her.

Would he have responded to her touch and melted into her embrace? Or would he have fallen back into the role of consummate gentleman and refrained? Burying her face into the pillow, she breathed deeply and felt her body hum with delightful sensations as his scent surrounded her.

What would her gentle Maestro do if she were to listen to her heart and express her feelings with her hands and mouth, pressing herself against him until there was no more emptiness between them, his given name on her lips demanding, begging him to succumb to the cravings she could no longer withstand?

He had forgone his cravat last night. For the first time, he had looked dishevelled, untidy and undone. His soft linen shirt had practically hung from his muscular shoulders, unbuttoned and careless. He hadn't even noticed. She had been his sole focus, his only thought. How it made her ache to think of it. How she had wanted to run her fingers through his coppery hair, see those grey eyes always so intent, so measured darken to ebony pools of desire as they always did when he was trying to resist his impulses.

Her debut had been a disaster…but she would still sing for only him, hidden away beneath the world and so enticingly, seductively alone.

Replacing the pillow and smoothing the bed covers one last time, she noticed her hands were trembling. A thought had flitted across her mind and it left her feeling light-headed and yet completely unabashed.

He says I should beware his desires…perhaps it is he who should be worried about mine…

Crossing over to the small vanity tucked in a corner of the room, she busied herself for a few moments trying to freshen up. He had promised to be back soon and she couldn't help the fluttering of her heart and stomach at the thought of surprising him with a good morning kiss.

She had never truly attended to her appearance in a dedicated way, preferring mostly to let nature and a healthy sense of proper hygiene guide her routine ablutions. Now, she felt a keen urge to impress, to entice. It made her feel excited and sinful at the same time. Brushing out her hair with her fingers, she turned to see a beautiful silk gown the shade of heavy cream, laid out carefully on a small chair beside the wardrobe.

Please, make yourself comfortable while I am indisposed. There are fresh clothes in the wardrobe and help yourself to anything you like in the kitchen. Forgive my lack of refinements, I fear my bachelor's ways must be quite shocking to you. I do not even own a proper tablecloth…

She had felt like she wanted to cry. Here he was, offering to share everything he owned and he was still worried it was not enough. She hadn't had the time to tell him that she had never owned a proper tablecloth either. She and her Papa moved around the country far too often to even have a table worth burdening themselves with.

Suddenly, a wonderful thought struck her. Quickly divesting herself of her Marguerite costume she sighed in relief as she replaced it with the flowing white gown laid across the chair—had Erik laid it out for her in the hopes she would choose it? She would not disappoint him then. Adjusting it as best she could without aid, she glanced at herself once more in the mirror. Her hair flowed down her back, unbound and wild looking. She had not been able to do up all the lacings of the dress by herself so she looked quite risqué, the neckline scooping low across her breasts and revealing the tops of her shoulders.

It was more skin than she had ever revealed to anyone, and it was all for him. For the way he made her feel and what she wanted to express. This side of herself, she was quickly discovering, was both foreign and the most exhilarating transformation she could have ever imagined. Without a mother or guardian to confess to, she had no anchor, no frame of reference. She was flying blind and it was thrilling. It was like singing, when she bore her soul into every note. Untrained, unhindered. He, Erik had taught her to master her passion. To perfect her technique through practice and opening her mind to new experiences. How simple the comparison seemed—her body was an instrument and secretly, wickedly, she wanted him to play it to perfection. Smiling at her reflection in an almost giddy excitement she turned and hurried from the room, feet bare as she padded along in her eagerness to prepare things for his return.

Finding the kitchen, she took in the sparsely furnished room with only one small birch table and two chairs. Plain. No signs of life or companionship. Just an empty table and two chairs. Her heart constricted at the lonely sight—had he ever hoped for someone to share a meal with?

Reaching for a linen apron that hung pristine and untouched by the small stove, Christine put her plan into action with bold determination.

He would have someone tonight.

Philippe de Chagney hated having to decline an invitation to play cards.

It was not unusual for him to spend a few days in a gambling frenzy, lost to every other nuance of life such as eating and maintaining track of where he was and who he was with. Nothing else mattered but the cards. Nothing else existed but the rush of adrenaline when he knew his rival had bought his bluff and was about to lose a great deal of money and pride.

The steady supply of alcohol and women that mingled together in between these moments of blessed clarity were nothing but distractions, an outlet for his boundless, inexhaustible restless energy.

Women…Philippe's hand gripped the silver handle of his polished walking stick more tightly as he bounced and rattled within the carriage he'd ordered some hours before to take him directly to Paris—to the Palais Garnier. His stomach roiled with displeasure at the early hour, and his eyes watered heavily at the morning sunshine that insisted on hitting him directly in his bleary eyes. He had drunk far too much the night before for such early excursions, but it could not be helped.

It all came down to the pathetic truth that she was the only true friend he had ever had.

Reaching over to jerk down the sunshade, he reveled in the relief that darkness brought with it. Closing his eyes against another wave of nausea, he let his mind wander over the disturbing conversation he'd had with a calm yet weary sounding M. Carrière earlier that morning.

Please, Monsieur Viscomte. Do not worry yourself—I have it on good authority that Mademoiselle Daaé is quite well. She is simply resting and does not wish to be disturbed. There is much to do in preparation for the new Opera. I will make sure to pass along your regards.

Like hell you will…had been his only thought. Carrière was hiding something, of that he was certain. He'd dealt with enough liars and cheats to know the difference; he had lied enough himself to know when the truth was being neglected, warped or conveniently unspoken. Carrier was hiding something. Usually, this fact would have not bothered Philippe. He was used to surrounding himself with liars on a fairly regular basis. Such an admission might have humbled some men, but not he. He was an arrogant, reckless youth with a selfish and rebellious nature. His pursuits were simple; drink, women, and of course, gambling with no thought of responsibility or accountability. Money was to be treated like wine—indulged in, and pissed away. It was a crude yet accurate analogy that he had been taught since infancy.

And if anything, Philippe was his father's son.

So why then, we he bouncing down a country lane headed towards Paris early on a Saturday morning when he should have been sleeping in until noon after a hard nights pleasures?

Christine.

Her name conjured up an image he held close to his heart at all times, despite his protestations against becoming too attached to anything in this life. Everything was in a constant state of decay and never permanent; that is why one must grasp everything in their reach while they still can. Leaning his head back against the cushioned headrest, the jostling and bumpy ride began to smooth out and his stomach began to feel relief. They must be close to Paris now, with its beautiful paved roads.

Closing his eyes, he indulged in the image her name brought into his mind. A small, beautiful little girl with wild golden hair the color of sunbeams at sunset and sparkling sea-blue eyes. A soft, sweet dove. At least, on the surface. He knew all too well of her spirit and vigor. He had lost to her at wrestling too often to doubt her strength of will and uncanny ability to turn every notion and presumption he had ever been taught about women on its head—and he loved her for it.

She was her own spirit, unique and precious. She was his little partner in crime, his best and only friend. It had been years since their forced separation and he had managed to forget the agonizing sting of losing his only friend—another lie he fueled by copious amounts of frivolity and alcohol—when he had seen her again at the Bistro. How beautiful she had looked! Like an angel sent from heaven, yet she had looked so different from the little girl he had known. He knew that after she and her father had been ordered from his family estate, life had more than likely been hard for her. Her father, a good and kind man was near penniless. Still, as he had gazed in astonished wonder at her on the stage, amidst bawdy patrons and jealous divas, she had shone with a light he had only ever glimpsed of in the stained glass windows of churches he hardly ever attended anymore. As a boy, he'd always believed it was God who shone the light that made the Saints and Angels glow in their glass like beacons from heaven. Alive with light.

Surely, this enchanting creature was his Christine but what had happened to create this glow inside her? What had turned on the light inside her that now burned for all to see?

He had sat in stunned supplication, tears burning in his eyes for the first time in what felt like ages. He was only a man of one and twenty, yet lately he had begun to feel so much older. Tired. Lonely. Wretched. Helpless…but her voice, her voice! It could stir the heart of even the most venal sinner!

Hope, unlike anything he had ever felt had washed over him, absolving him with its sacred forgiveness. Understanding. He had known she had a gift from the time she was a little girl and would sing at concerts and country fairs with her father's accompanying violin. But this! This was something different—her gift had become more than pretty notes.

She was a goddess on earth.

Philippe smiled bitterly. A pure vessel for heaven and his childhood friend. That still had not stopped him accosting her after the performance and trying desperately to seek an audience alone with her. Old habits die hard.

She had been thrilled, genuinely happy to see him. Her eyes shone with memories and fondness. Fondness, not desire. She had seemed distracted, saying that she needed to get back to the Opera house immediately. He had relented, realizing that she was not going to fall prey to his smiles and compliments. Really, he should have known better. A beautiful, achingly desirable woman she had become…but this was still Christine. Giving her a ride home in his carriage, they had spent the whole ride laughing and reliving old adventures—and during that time something that even rivaled his near religious experience listening to her voice occurred—he realized that he felt more alive sitting and talking with her like two long-lost twins than all the fleshly rendezvous he had ever perused. He was glad she had rejected his suggestion that they find somewhere more private to renew their acquaintance.

And in that one short evening, Philippe knew he would forever owe his life to this woman, for she made him remember that within his heart there still lived a little boy who would forever be a knight to her pirate, protecting her honor and wiping the blood away from her every scraped knee.

This was why he was now traveling through the sleepy streets of Paris at such an ungodly hour. He knew Carrière was lying about her whereabouts—he didn't believe for one moment that the masked man who had rescued her from the stage the night of her disastrous debut was planned.

He was grateful to the stranger.

If it couldn't have been he himself who had swept her from that disaster, he was glad she seemed to have another dedicated to her welfare. Yet he had to be sure. Who was this man, who rumor had named the infamous Opera Ghost? Not a ghost, obviously—even from Philippe's seat in the third box he had seen how physically hulking and intimidating this man was. He had lunged onto the stage like a black-cloaked panther, dwarfing the remaining actors in comparison and moving with such unconscious power and grace Philippe had wondered whether he was possibly military trained. Philippe recognized the confidence, the expediency of movement from his elder brother. His beloved Pierre. The responsible one. The one who should have been heir. The one who died in battle, far away from home and from those who adored him.

The carriage ground to a halt and Philippe exited it gratefully, breathing in the cold morning air and relishing its chill. He still nursed a malady from the night before, but he had forced himself to stop drinking at a reasonable hour so that he would not sleep the morning away. No. He wouldn't be so selfish, not when his friend needed him.

Friend.

The word was like disinfectant on a raw wound. It stung, and then felt better than any amount of debauchery could have. Walking stick in hand, he made his way up the grand staircase with the full intent to seek out M. Carrière and demand the whereabouts of Christine Daaé and the identity of her mysterious guardian angel.

Oh my little Christine…he thought grimly. I do hope your angel is benign and not a madman as rumor claims…

For that, Philippe promised himself, would just not do.

Erik had just finished rigging a significant amount of gunpowder when he heard familiar footfalls echoing from the secret entrance to the caves.

"Gérard," he called out in greeting. "To what do I owe the honor of two visits in as many days?"

The older man approached him warily and Erik knew before he spoke one word that he hadn't slept well, which undoubtedly meant that the bourbon decanter on his desk was severely depleted.

"How is she, Erik?" he asked without preamble.

Not in the mood for polite conversation, I see. Erik thought. Very well. I can appreciate that.

"Safe."

Gérard came to a stop in front of him and leaned heavily against the uneven stone wall. "That's not what I asked. I asked you how she was."

Erik straightened a little, head tilting to one side as he assessed his guardian more closely. "You don't look well, Gérard. Perhaps all those stairs leading down to my catacombs are becoming too tiresome. I could construct you a slide, if you wish. Might be fun."

A tiny snort and a half-smile at that. It wasn't a laugh by any stretch, but Erik still felt a flush of pride at its emergence.

"My God, Erik. Only you could tease me at a time like this. Sometimes, I feel that you will be the end of me."

Erik's brow quirked. "Oh come now, old sport. Don't be so dramatic!"

"Says the man holding a keg of gunpowder," Gérard nodded to the barrel in Erik's hands.

"Ah," Erik replied grimly, shifting the heavy barrel in his hands as though it were a mere box of cigars. "I can see where this might seem a little extreme."

It was Gérard's turn to quirk a querying brow. "A little?"

Erik turned without comment and began to set about his work again. He was almost finished. There was just one more fuse that needed connecting. Then all would be well—she would be safe from the terrors of the world above.

"You never answered my question, Erik. How is Christine?"

Gérard noted how the girl's name was like a stimulant to his son. At the mention of it, he straightened and his entire posture radiated with protective intensity. Despite the current predicament, Gérard couldn't help the swell of pride at his son's physical beauty. He was dressed only in his breeches and boots, a flowing linen shirt rolled up at the sleeves and revealing ropes of muscle that stretched into broad, well-defined shoulders. He was a sight to behold. Though his face might be heinous indeed, he had a grace and poise Gérard had never himself possessed. When Erik spoke, his voice was low and resonant. Like the velvet of night. How had he ever helped produce such a force of nature? Sometimes, it left Gérard speechless.

"I've told you the only thing that need concern you for the moment. She is safe, with me."

Gérard hated to see him in such obvious turmoil but persisted, knowing he was rattling the cage but also realizing it needed to be done. "When will you release her? If you do not soon, they'll come looking for you. I won't be able to protect you."

Erik couldn't help a sardonic chuckle. "Surely, you jest. Since when have I ever needed protection? No, I'm afraid if someone is foolhardy enough to try and take her from me, they will find themselves parted from this life sooner than they'd no doubt like."

"This is no time for jokes, Erik. This is serious."

"I am serious."

Gérard sighed, rubbing his eyes ruefully. "At least tell me how Christine is fairing. Have you told her anything more of yourself?"

Erik hesitated for a moment, his gaze staring past Gérard and out into the darkness of the caves. When he spoke, his voice was calm and pleasant, but tense. "We have…discussed the current situation. Right now, the past is irrelevant. She agrees she is much safer where she is at the moment. She wishes to stay with me."

"For how long?"

"For as long as she wants. A day, a year. Forever."

"So she is not a prisoner?"

Erik's grey eyes found Gérard's again, and the older man felt a rush of regret at his choice of words as he noted the hurt burning there. When his son spoke however it was with the same dry humor it usually held. "My word Gérard—your opinion of me never ceases to flatter. No, she is not my prisoner. And I have told you everything you need to know for the moment, so you can leave satisfied."

"It's not what you're telling me that has me worried. It's what you're purposefully leaving out," Gérard pressed, more softly this time. He had reached out a tentative hand towards Erik's elbow, but let it drop back to his side once more. If he had noticed the gesture, Erik didn't let on.

"I'm sure I'll never grow tired of your cryptic insinuations," he said wryly, although there was a slight edge to his voice. "Tell me; are they something you gleaned from previous study or are they simply another side effect of old age that I may look forward to?"

Gérard closed his hand into a fist and refrained, barely, from bringing it down on a nearby barrel of gunpowder. "Damn it, Erik! Do you not understand the repercussions of what you've done? People saw you! Half of Paris, in fact! Do you truly think now that the Opera Ghost was seen on stage, kidnapping the infamous farm girl who would be the prima donna—?"

"She was sabotaged!" Erik growled, his anger finally spilling out and his words filled with pain and venom. "That Carlotta, jealous wretch that she is, poisoned her! She dared to defile her and those miserable sheep of an audience lapped it up, reveling in her cruelty! I should have ended it there—oh, how I wanted to! It would have been a simple matter of slicing the wrong rope and instead of the curtain falling, I could have cast Lucifer himself down upon them!"

Gérard's stomach dropped away. "What do you mean? I don't understand."

"Neither do I, heaven help me," Erik replied and the anger was temporarily drained from his voice and posture as he set the barrel he'd been holding down carefully and leaned back against the cave wall beside the older man. He took a deep, steadying sigh and once again Gérard refrained from reaching out to him. He looked so lost in that moment—like the little boy who had always asked so shyly if he could hold his hand and show him his latest composition.

Now, his tall frame was bent so his head didn't brush the low ceiling, and Gérard realized with some comfort that it was Erik who could now easily carry him like a child if needed. The thought was not unpleasant. How lonely you've become, Gérard. He thought ruefully.

"My temper," Erik was saying, despair etched in his beautiful voice. He paused to regard Gérard with steady, kind eyes. "Ah, but I don't need to remind you of my temper. When I jumped onto that stage all I could think about was saving her—God, she looked so devastated and afraid! I had to protect her, even if that meant giving up the exalted role of resident ghost. It didn't matter, it still doesn't. Only she matters. When I cut the rope to draw the curtain, to finally end the whole debacle, I was so close to reaching for the rope next to it. The rope suspending that great monstrosity of a chandelier that swung so tantalizingly over their ignorant heads. I could have done it, Gérard. I was so angry! It would have been so easy—poetic justice."

Gérard's heart clenched painfully in his chest. Oh, my boy. My poor, poor boy. He opened his mouth to say exactly that—to offer comfort, to be the father he knew despite Erik's independence he so sorely needed. But he did not. "What stopped you?" he said, barely above a whisper. Tired. Old. Coward.

Erik looked at him then, and his face was transformed. It was as though he wore no mask, for no mask could possibly contain the look of pure wonder and rapture that illuminated every part of his body and set his eyes aflame.

"She was calling to me, Gérard. Me!" his breath hitched and he pressed a hand to his chest as though trying to keep his heart from escaping it. Gérard didn't need to ask who 'she' was. He had seen a similar look of devotion in her eyes earlier that evening, when he had divulged most of Erik's secrets. A spark of guilt ignited with him…perhaps he should have let Erik tell her of his past in his own time…

"She was lost in a sea of chaos, adrift and drowning—and she was calling for her Maestro! I realized then that she needed me. Imagine if you can! An angel needed me. And the anger, the hate I felt changed into one consuming desire to be her hero. Please…if…you would reserve judgement of such a ludicrous fancy for the moment I would be grateful. It has been a trying day and I am feeling emotionally delicate tonight."

"I'm not going to laugh at you." Gérard said, softly.

"No. I don't suppose you are. I am grateful for that small blessing at least."

"I would never laugh at you, Erik."

Silence bloomed between them, but it was not empty.

"I love her, Gérard."

"I know."

Gérard's hand did make its way to Erik's forearm this time, and he gripped it momentarily before Erik rose and began to pace, suddenly anxious.

"No. No, I don't think you do. I don't think anyone could know. I don't think God Himself would approve, if I gave a damn about such things."

"What do you mean?" Gérard prompted, worry beginning to etch its way into his voice when Erik didn't reply but kept pacing back and forth. "Erik, what is it?"

"It scares me," Erik said softly, coming to a halt with his hands folded tightly behind his back. Gérard gazed at him in astonishment. Never, since he was a child had he heard Erik say he was scared of anything. Not anymore. Not thanks to his horrible irresponsibility as a father, and the damage it caused…

"I can honestly say," Erik continued ruefully, "that there are very few things left in the world that truly frighten me. But this…Gérard…if I could only covey half of what I feel every moment…I burn with a fire that is sin itself."

Gérard sighed, unsure as to how to respond. Oh, Belladova. He is so much your son. How can I help him? Help me, my beloved. "To love is not a sin," he said after a moments pause. "It is the greatest joy in life."

Erik's shoulders sagged, his tall frame seeming to droop in defeat. Gérard's heart ached to see it.

"Perhaps that is where I am deficient," Erik said thoughtfully, a sadness he had never heard in him before, not since his mother's death, filling the space between them. "The only joy I have ever known has been music and even then it is a dark, consuming obsession. Maybe I don't know how to love any other way than with everything I am, mind, body and soul. And I would sacrifice them all without thought when it comes to her. That is what scares me. Not the fact that I love with all I possess—but the fear of what I would do for it."

"Hence the preparations I gather," Gérard said after a moment, nodding towards the gunpowder kegs. "It looks as though you are preparing for a war. Please tell me these are only to be used in case of emergency, and you're not actually planning to do any impromptu renovations."

Erik laughed, his body relaxing. Gérard felt a little eruption of joy in his heart at the sight of his son letting go of some of the torment he was carrying, if only for a moment.

"As tempting as that would be—who in their right mind thought garish, inauthentic baroque was a grand décor idea for a theatre?—these are only in case of invasion. I retain the means to trigger them and they are not going to be used unless absolutely necessary."

"I see. Well then," Gérard said, straightening his sleeves and pulling his cigarette case out of his lapel pocket. "I am trusting Christine to your care and to show yourself a gentleman and not indulge in any felonies while she's decided to remain with you. You are old enough now to know how to treat a guest."

"If you mean offering an appropriate hot beverage and the most comfortable chair in my sitting room, then I'm afraid I've been lax."

Gérard gave him a disapproving look. "Come now, Erik. You sweep a girl off her feet in front of the whole of Paris…and then don't even offer her a cup of tea or a cushion? Tsk, tsk!"

Erik's grin was infectious. Straightening, he inclined his head towards the older man in supplication. "Of course, you are quite right. How remiss of me."

"You'd better be quick about making up for it then."

"I have been quite busy."

"Yes," Gérard cleared his throat. "Perhaps it would be best if you left the matter of ensuring your continued privacy to me, for the moment. If you want fireworks, I can always help you arrange a display for her entertainment. Away from the Opera House."

"Now that would impress her, don't you think?" Erik said, tilting his head back in thought.

Gérard nodded, and began to retreat into the caves, already planning his next visit to make sure his son kept his word. He wanted to trust Erik—but with what he just revealed about the instability of his feelings, he thought vigilance to be the best course for everyone concerned. Perhaps they could all have supper together, and he could pretend that he was like any other father, bursting with happiness and enjoying the company of his son and his new sweetheart.

It was a hopeful thought, considering his son had no idea he was his biological father and the young lady in question was technically living illegally in the Opera House. Oh, so tired.

"Indeed it would," Gérard agreed. "And a carriage ride in the moonlight afterwards, down by the river. At night it is quite spectacular."

"I would have to borrow one of the manager's carriages." Erik considered with a hint of sly intent.

Gérard took out a cigarette from the case and tapped it lightly before placing it between his lips and lifting his shoulders in a gesture of easy dismissal. "If one were to mysteriously disappear for an hour or two, I'm sure I could come up with a plausible explanation. Joyriders. Ghosts. I have an extensive repertoire."

"Thank you." Erik said suddenly, his voice achingly gentle and sincere. Gérard said nothing but blinked a little too rapidly, and turned to leave. Erik called out after him. "I do believe this constitutes as my first heart-to-heart chat about the fairer sex."

Gérard couldn't help the wry grin that shaped his lips around his unlit cigarette. It was the exact same grin Erik had given him not moments before. How cruel fate was.

"It's about time," he answered back over his shoulder. "And all it took was kidnapping the object of your affections and threatening to blow up the Opera House."

"I never did do things in half-measures," Erik replied, his tone laden with irony. "Oh, and do be careful not to light that until you're well out of the caves. Smoking is terrible for your health, you know."

"Thank you for the concern," Gérard said, and meant it.

Upon reaching the top of the long, winding staircase that led away from Erik's home Gérard stopped for a moment and panted tiredly. Perhaps a slide wasn't such a bad idea. Lighting his cigarette, he deftly found the secret lever that opened up the wall behind the statue of Atlas, and not for the first time appreciated the poignancy of Erik choosing that particular statue to herald the entrance to his secret world.

The world on your shoulders…not a part of it, but always feeling its weight bearing down on your soul.

How poetic he was becoming in his old age—and ridiculously optimistic. How long could he keep covering up for Erik and Christine while the world above, the world that demanded answers snapped at his heels?

"Monsieur Carrière!"

Gérard resisted the urge to groan, then stopped his trek back up to his office to lean across the staircase banister and look down at the approaching, clipped footfalls. A young man was making his way toward him, a young man he had no wish to see at the moment for he was weary and wished for nothing but his desk and his bourbon. It had been a very long night.

"Why, Monsieur Viscomte! What an unexpected pleasure," he said with a practiced grace that only comes with knowing how to lie without reluctance. "I'm afraid the Opera House is closed for the day, and there will be no performances for the remainder of the week while we prepare the new score. Might I reserve you a box for our opening night?"

The Viscomte shook his head determinedly, and paused only to take off his hat and give Gérard a courteous bow. "Not at the moment, Monsieur, thank you. You know why I am here."

Gérard regarded the young man with something akin to pity. He liked Philippe. Despite his arrogance and privileged irresponsibility, he could see a good heart that remained true to friendship.

"Where is she, Gérard?" the Viscomte asked, pleadingly.

Gérard sighed.

Make that a long night, soon to be followed by an even longer morning.

TBC...please review! :)