Chapter 4

Erik decided the most wonderful feeling in the world is when you are coming home to someone waiting for you.

Twirling the delicate rose he had acquired from the ever obliging gardens just outside the caves between his long fingers, he wasted no time in ascending the winding pathway that led around the narrowest part of the underground lake. When he reached the apex of the path and had a full view of his home spread out beneath him, he stopped a moment, frozen in near debilitating joy.

A light burned inside his windows. A warm, golden light that beckoned him home like no siren song could have. His feet began to move again without conscious command. A flurry of thoughts barraged his ever active mind, but one word was his heartbeat, his salvation.

Christine.

…must offer her tea.

Christine.

….and a cushion. Damn it all, do I even own cushions?

Christine.

….never mind the cushion. I'll offer her my lap instead. My lap, my heart, my soul…

Be a gentleman. You're old enough now to know how to treat a guest. I'm trusting Christine to your care. Gérard's voice cut through his quickly accelerating fantasies and a wave of frustrated resignation washed over him. Such a bothersome thing really, a conscience. Especially when it speaks with the voice of someone you've looked up to all your life.

Meddlesome old codger... Erik lamented though he grinned fondly. He had been thinking quite a bit recently about asking the old man one last favor. It had been a long standing joke between the two men that Gérard's retirement plan consisted of a wooden coffin and very little else. Such morbid practicalities had always amused them both greatly. Like father, like son. Erik felt his heart expand and collapse a little at the thought. He knew Gérard had no idea he had guessed long ago that he was his father. His hands, his eyes, his smile. They were all reflected in the older man's physique. Erik was simply biding his time, waiting for the right opportunity to…confront him? Blackmail him? Those words seemed tainted somehow, yet Erik couldn't deny that they were accurate.

Once Gérard left the Palais Garnier for good he, Erik would be going with him whether the old man wanted it or not. There was no doubt he was discomforted by the prospect of Gérard not wanting to take him. As a child, Erik had known why. His face—it always came back to his accursed face. How ashamed he felt that in order to not be parted from his own father he had to resort to such extremes. Yet he had to be certain Gérard would cooperate and not use his retirement as an opportunity to rid himself of the burden of a son he never wanted. It was a simple enough plan—once Gérard left, Erik would go too and the Ghost that had haunted the Opera would vanish like smoke from a guttered candle. Snuffed out. Gone forever. They could find a place in the country, a little cottage where the nearest neighbor was comfortably far enough away as to not become a nuisance.

Once established, Erik would then move out and build himself a home of his own. He did not wish to be a burden upon Gérard any more than he already had been and he appreciated the fact that the poor man needed some well-deserved rest and relaxation. Erik had even considered building him a workshop, where he could tinker to his heart's content, puttering away at woodworking projects he'd never finish.

The fond smile was back again, anew. Papa…he thought, the familiar bittersweet pain etched into the simple word he kept close to his heart but never spoke aloud. His Papa…he never did finish any of the projects he began. How astoundingly different they both were. Of course, the Garnier would no doubt go to rack and ruin once they both left. He almost felt a perverse pleasure in the thought. It would serve them right! He thought darkly. No, once he, Gérard and Christine left the place for good they would be broadening their horizons beyond the gaudy trappings of the Garnier, with its corrupt, inept management and dunderheaded patrons.

Erik tightened his grip on the rose he carried. He would offer her everything. Everything he had in his power to give and even that which he would steal or beg or borrow. And she would never want for anything, ever again. Now all that was left was the asking…

If he were honest with himself, he'd known from the moment he saw her all alone on the darkened stage, unaware that she wasn't alone, her face shining with irrepressible spirit that this day was coming. The question had always been there, ripe and ready upon his lips.

Marry me.

Oh, he had tried to maintain a professional distance. He'd even managed to go a full three days in a row without dashing back to the two-way mirror in her little secret apartment beneath the stage to watch her as she slept, or brushed her hair. A gentleman? Not in the strictest sense, no. A devoted slave? Well, just because you can't see the chains doesn't mean they're not there.

Her kindness had conquered him utterly and without a fight. Compassion had flowed from her voice that first night he had heard an angel's song like honeyed wine. Intoxicating, bewitching his mind and effortlessly wiping away all the frayed, sharp edges of his mind. One madness replaced for another. Christine…

He didn't know how much longer he could hold out. He felt as though every moment he were poised on a high precipice, all his energies focused on the jump he was destined to take. Yes, Erik was defective. Erik's face had destroyed many of the things he had yearned for in life—but Erik was also impatient. Selfish, impatient and above all, defiant.

Had he not denied himself long enough? Had he not hidden behind the finely crafted guise of Maestro for too long? Maestro would never have allowed things to have escalated the way they did the night before her debut. The night he had discovered the truth—that although he may never see an ethereal Garden of Eden awaiting those without sin—he had seen and tasted heaven, and it was in the rosebud pink of her cheeks and the eager softness of her mouth.

How could he deny wanting to capture that for his own? To protect it with all the strength and ingenuity his body and mind possessed? And wasn't it the right thing to do, the chivalrous thing to do, to offer her everything he had in exchange for her affections?

A weed, a black tendril of misgiving began to thread it way through his logic.

She has not seen your face.

The old argument, that ever-present and undeniable reality was like a mortal blow.

She would never want you if she knew.

Something like a growl escaped him, his body suddenly seizing with potent vexation. No. She would take me still. She would give me a chance to love. My Christine is different, kind, the very embodiment of compassion. She is strong. She would not abandon me for something that is beyond my control…

How he hated the part of himself that laughed, cruelly and with mocking pity.

She would run. She would scream. Perhaps that is what you wish. To hear her pretty screams…

"No…!" he felt his strength leave him in a rush, staggering a little on the narrow path as his mind taunted him with images of past memories, memories where again and again it had been proven that no fellow human being could ever see him as anything but a monster.

Their wide eyes, always filled with horror and disgust…

Hands reaching for him, grabbing him like claws and bringing pain, always pain…

The screams…Oh God, please make them stop screaming—!"

Something soft was in his fist, something velvety and it immediately replaced the nightmarish memories with a clear vision of her smiling eyes; her laugh as she reached out to place a warm hand on his arm affectionately; her flushed cheeks and soft voice, deep with desire and whispering to him; her kiss, like the petals of a rose in bloom.

He looked down at his fist and saw the rose he'd plucked for her had been crushed in his vice-like grip. A laugh escaped him. He was always getting tears and laughter mixed up. They were always mingling together as though one emotion could not exist without the other. Laughter and tears. Sadness and joy. Fear and love.

Gazing down the result of his loss of control, he gently cradled the crushed flower as though it were a baby bird. "I am sorry," he repeated over and over.

"I am so sorry. Forgive me."

The flower merely looked beautiful and broken. A horrible thought occurred to him—that this poor thing had been dying the moment he had picked it, unthinking and callously. "I should have left you be," he whispered to it. Unable to abandon it, he tucked it carefully into his pocket. A wave of self-loathing was approaching within his mind, but before it capsized his sanity a bell-like, sweet voice calmed the oncoming storm.

These hands are my kingdom. They create worlds for me, where there is no suffering, no loneliness, only music…I can feel your music and it is so beautiful!

Salvation came at the mere memory of her earnest, imploring eyes and he could breathe again.

She is waiting for you. She is waiting for you to come home. She has left a light on. She is waiting…

He would not dwell on the past, or his fears any longer tonight. The simple truth was that Christine was with him now, waiting for him to come home to her. It had been so long since he'd had any true hope of redemption. Now, it was waiting for him just beyond the light that shone like a beacon from his window.

Let anyone tell him he could not make her his. Just let them try.

Gérard was discovering much to his displeasure that he did not like having to share his bourbon.

However, he was also of the opinion that when a member of the elite aristocracy shows up unexpectedly at your office in the early morning hours, it doesn't pay to be stingy. Two crystal tumblers of amber liquid now sat between the two men, who sipped them appreciatively and gazed at one another with polite belligerence.

The young Viscomte broke the silence, his shrewd gaze piercing. "I realize you don't have to tell me anything, Monsieur. Yet I like you, Gérard. I feel that there is much more to you than meets the eye. Thus said, I feel I can confide to you that this…interest in my friend's whereabouts is unfamiliar territory for me. I am not usually one to interfere. I don't usually care. Live and let live, I always say."

The Viscomte smiled but there was no joy behind the expression, only jaded irony.

"Let me speak plainly. I may be a cad and a bounder, but I am a rich one which is the most dangerous combination of all. So I ask you again and I implore you to be truthful. Where is Christine, and who is her masked savior?"

Gérard set his glass down on his desk and prepared to deflect the younger man with years of expert practice. The Viscomte, however, was far more observant than he had given him credit for.

"Please, Monsieur," he began before Gérard had a chance to speak. It caught the older man quite off guard—his voice bore a startling resemblance to the earnest, sincere tone he had heard Erik use not an hour before. "I only wish to ascertain her safety. She is…well, she is the only person left on this earth whom I consider as close to me as family. I need to make sure. I owe that much to her and her father."

"You knew them well?" Gérard asked, sincerely intrigued. The Viscomte nodded and this time his smile seemed genuine, almost shy. My word…he thought to himself, how our lives do change us into what we are, not what we might have been.

"I did know them well. They lived on my estate for a time, when I was a boy. I was fortunate enough to become a close family friend. It meant more to me than I can ever put into words. Especially after…" the Viscomte eyed his tumbler, and then tossed back the remaining liquor in one gulp. "…after my elder brother left home to serve his country." His eyes locked onto Gérard, and he seemed to appraise the older man intently.

"Christine's guardian angel. Is he a military man do you know? I only ask because when the police asked for my account of the night in question, I told them what I'd seen and that I suspected it wasn't a planned diversion. One would almost believe a man with such agility and strength could be specially trained. A soldier. A spy. A criminal. The possibilities are endless, and I assure you the Gendarmes are very interested in what my suspicions are."

Gérard felt the floor disappear beneath him. When he met the Viscomte's eyes, the truth of the situation was clearly written in his impassive face.

Cards on the table. Royal flush, and you know I'm not bluffing.

"That's one of the few benefits of position, I suppose." The Viscomte continued softly. "One's word, for the moment at least, can quite conceivably be considered as good as law."

There was nothing more to be done. Gérard knew the young man was acting out of compassion and sincere worry, but if he did not assuage him of Erik's good intentions of his character—than this lonely, cynical young man would no doubt bring the whole Paris police force down upon them. It was too risky. He had to let him in on the secret.

God forgive me…he thought as he gave a deep sigh. So many of Erik's secrets are no longer his to keep anymore. Well, he would deal with that fallout when the time came. "He is not military. Nor is he a spy, or criminal. He is the true manager of the Palais Garnier, a composer and an intellectual prodigy. He has no title, nor any family connections to recommend him. He is my dearest friend, and his name is Erik Gérard Carrière," he said, watching the Viscomte carefully. "And I would be forever in your debt if you do not repeat what I am about to tell you."

The Viscomte nodded sharply and without hesitation. "You have my word. From what little I have gathered, their relationship does not appear to be…conventional in any regard. All I wish to know is the character of the man who has so entranced my friend."

You have no idea…Gérard thought drolly as he sat back in his chair. He couldn't deny that being able to tell another soul about his son made him feel a little lighter. But Erik's safety was always his priority—he would never forget that lesson again.

"That, my dear Viscomte," he said, sliding the entire decanter of bourbon between them with meaning, "is going to take some time."

Christine loved surprises. When she had been a little girl, one of her favourite things to do was delight her father and mother with gifts of pebbles and wildflowers, caterpillars and seashells. She knew now of course that such gifts were merely clutter that her parents treated like precious gems and jewels. They had encouraged her love of giving from an early age. So it was with a light, joyful heart that she had transformed Erik's tiny kitchen into a cozy, welcoming embrace that smelt of baked onion soup and cloud biscuits. She had managed to procure candles and even scavenged some little purple flowers that she put in a mug with some water and placed tenderly at the center of the table.

Divesting herself of the apron and hanging it back up beside the stove, she had been unconsciously pacing the kitchen and arranging, then rearranging cutlery, soup bowls, the mug of flowers…

She heard his footfalls in the parlor and her entire being seemed to quiver like a tuning fork, anticipation and nervous excitement racing each other in equal measure through her veins. Smoothing out the silk of her skirt, she suddenly felt as though her choice of attire was possibly a rash and devastating mistake. What if he thought it too inappropriate? What if the soup was too salty?

A wild giggle escaped her, cheeks burning. How ridiculous this was, worrying about a dress and soup when not two days ago she had only owned two patched and frayed garments to her name!

His footsteps drew closer, and she raised a shining face to the doorway. How love does feel like a sort of madness! She mused as her mind raced with anticipation.

She'd planned it all to perfection—she would call out to him in welcome and meet him in the doorway. She would curtsey and spin for his amusement in the first new dress she had owned since childhood and then bestow him with a sweet kiss on the cheek.

She would rein in her wild impulses for once and they would share a civilized meal. She would allow him time to adjust to her presence in his home and would not rush things. No, they needed to move slowly or else she might burst with all she had learned about him over the past day.

At least, taking it slow was the plan until she heard him mere feet from the kitchen, his boots making gentle thuds on the wooden flooring.

Christine held her breath. He was in the doorway, seeming to dwarf the room with his broad shoulders and long, lean frame. His shirt was partially untucked. He still hadn't laced up his collar from the night before, and the skin of his throat and collar bone looked pale gold against the stark white linen. She noticed the beginnings of dark stubble around his mouth and chin—just a faint shadow that made him look tousled and wild. He had black smudges on his hands, one of which gripped the door frame. His eyes raked over her, from the top of her head to her toes and back again.

Christine's heart stuttered against her ribs. He looked dirty, scruffy and uncivilized. She had never wanted to kiss him more than she did at that moment, when his unguarded eyes finally locked with hers. Their grey depths were lit from within by pure adoration and she basked in its glow.

"You are beautiful," she said unthinkingly before he could speak.

Well, at least she had tried to control herself for a few successful moments.

His mouth spread into a wider grin, an expression she had rarely if ever seen him give and that made her burn with curiosity. Her Maestro had always been so controlled. Not humorless by any means, but so painfully guarded. Was she at last seeing glimpses of Erik beneath the surface?

"I believe you have already claimed that word utterly, my dear."

His voice was quiet and soft, almost reverent. Yes, he may look different from the man she had come to know as Maestro with his unshaven face and unkempt appearance. He looked more human, more fallible and slightly unpredictable. But that voice—there was no doubt that this was the man who had been her friend and mentor. Her hope and love. I love him. It was too much. Before she knew it her bare feet had carried her across the room and into his arms. Her lips found his without preamble, and she could have sworn she felt him stagger backward a step under her tender assault. But he did not let her go.

He was swift to recover, his hands tangling in her loose hair and cradling the back of her head, desperation clear in how forcefully he held her against him. He was much more confident than he had ever been. She wondered if their escape from the debut, sleeping in each others arms and comforting each other from the wounds of rejection and humiliation may have finally overcome some of the walls of propriety that had stood in their way for too long.

And then she didn't care about anything except his mouth.

She sighed blissfully into his lips, her hands wandering of their own accord up the length of his arms to spread across his shoulders, feeling the taut muscles shudder and stretch beneath her palms. He seemed electrified, sensitive to her every touch and movement. Her gentle ministrations drew a deep, soft moan from him. She felt her feet leave the floor, and suddenly the edge of the cedar counter bumped against her back. His body was flush against her in an instant, the long length of him towering over her—the physical breadth of his chest and arms effectively caging her. His mouth was warm and moist, large hands cupping her face, thumbs stroking her cheeks as he parted his lips and spoke into her mouth.

"Christine…"

There was nothing she would not do for that honeyed, dark voice…how she wanted to say his name! But she refrained, wanting to give him the dignity of choosing to confide in her. A soft sound escaped her throat instead, which only seemed to ignite his body further, his hold becoming fierce as he moved his mouth against hers. They were pressed so close, she could feel his heat, the sharp angle of his hipbone, the hard planes of his torso and stomach—vaguely she realized that the hardness against her belly couldn't be his hipbone…

Oh holy virgin…He caught her bottom lip between his teeth gently, his hands guiding her head back as he began to trail hot kisses across her jaw and neck.

She fought for breath, pure fire consuming the air around them as he worked his mouth against the sensitive skin of her throat. Her hands were wandering from his broad shoulders down between their bodies to his chest, then to his stomach, tugging at his linen shirt and untucking it completely. God, what his mouth was doing to her! She needed skin, to seek out his bare flesh with fevered hands. After a few seconds she had succeeded in slipping one hand beneath his shirt, her fingertips feeling like slivers of ice against the scorching heat radiating from his taut belly.

He froze against her and gave a low, surprised sounding grunt that quickly degenerated into a sound she doubted ever existed before falling from his lips. It was unlike any human noise she had ever encountered, for how was it possible for someone to convey such intensity with a mere exhalation of breath?

Christine suddenly realized the magnitude of her choice to entice him—they were both coming apart at the seams. Their mingled pants filled the air, bodies stilled by the force of such deep pleasure but also locked in a checkmate of wills that could either save or condemn them both. They were so close to tumbling over the edge of sanity.

Saved or condemned…With his body pressed fully against hers, his hot breath against her neck, smooth, trembling skin beneath her fingertips Christine found it nearly impossible to tell the difference between the two outcomes. Then, the trembling beneath her fingers seemed to spread throughout his entire body and he was leaning away, hands sliding from her face to grip the counter's edge on either side of her. Her hand slid from beneath his shirt to gently stroke his cheek soothingly, for he was breathing hard and not meeting her eye.

How had things spiraled so quickly out of control? She felt drunk on wine, on him but the way he was shaking now, his ragged breathing, the sweat beading along his neck…the gravity of his reaction to their lapse in constraint struck her with horrible finality.

He was scared.

The realization was like a douse of frigid water down her spine—he looked scared, no, terrified of her!

He continued to shake and seemed for the moment, unable to move any further away from her. Christine's heart broke for him. Why did her touch frighten him so? Had she hurt him? He was breathing in short, rapid breaths through his nose now, his eyes clenched shut as though trying desperately to keep from crying out. She continued to stroke his masked cheek, her other hand coming up to gently rest against his arm comfortingly. She searched for the right thing to say, something that would help him through whatever internal battle he was waging, but the only words that made it past her lips were "I made you soup," in a soft, tentative voice.

"Marry me."

Her eyes widened. They had spoken at precisely the same time, she slightly breathless and he hoarse and raspy.

"What…?"

Again, their voices merged together in a confused duet. He opened his eyes and met her gaze.

"Maestro—?"

"Christine—?"

They both laughed breathlessly, the tension snapping like dry tinder. As his words sank further into her consciousness however, she found her mind reeling back in shock. Had he just…asked her to marry him?

"Did you just…?" she inquired as though in a dream, drawing back to gaze up into his face wonderingly.

"What kind of soup?" he quipped unexpectedly, in all mock seriousness.

"Onion, with cloud biscuits," she replied automatically, still gazing at him as though she'd never seen anything like him before. And she hadn't. He gazed at her for a moment, his grey eyes suddenly filled with such tender sadness that she ached with it.

"I've put you on the spot," he said gently, releasing his grip on the counter to catch her hands in his and draw them against his chest. "Forgive me. That was cruel. I sometimes forget myself, forget that I have not known you my whole life. There is still so much….so much you don't know about me. And I have much to learn about you. We have time," he said, bringing her hands to his lips and kissing them once, softly.

"Yes," he murmured into her skin. "We have time."

To give him credit, the Viscomte had been most generous and once they had worked their way through his bourbon decanter, had produced a flask filled with something potent and equally delightful.

Gérard needed it. After so many years of vigilant silence regarding his son and his past, his body felt as though a physical weight were being lifted off his shoulders. Without its constant oppression, he felt light-headed and slightly dizzy. Rubbing his temples, Gérard was surprised yet again by the young Viscomte as he reached across the table between them and gripped his arm, comfortingly, before releasing him and sitting back in his chair.

What a curious, multifaceted young man. He thought, realizing for not the first time how this perfect specimen of youthful vigor reminded him forcefully of another, older man who had consistently proven throughout his life that goodness was not always borne from experience but from strife. Yes, this young man and Erik had much more in common than either would probably ever have guessed.

And more importantly, what they had in common at the moment was Christine Daaé.

The two men sat in silence for a few minutes, both digesting what had been said. Finally, the Viscomte spoke. "Thank you, Gérard," he said, much more seriously than one of his age might be expected to sound. "I give you my word that I will divulge none of what you shared with me this morning."

"And what of your interviews with the police?" Gérard asked, keen to smooth out this wrinkle that could threaten everything he'd worked so hard to protect.

"I shall not be speaking with the police again," the Viscomte said with finality. "Unless, of course, you require it of me."

Gérard gazed up at the Viscomte through slightly hazy eyes. "I'm not sure I take your meaning," he said.

The Viscomte folded both hands over the top of his walking stick, a gesture that gave Gérard the impression of finely manicured control. "I do not wish to appear cryptic. I only mean that the man you have described to me may at some point soon be in need of…assistance."

Gérard felt his back prickle indignantly. "I help him, monsieur. We have no need out outward assistance."

"In the past, I'm sure not," the Viscomte said in a measured tone. "But let me be frank. A man such as you have described; brilliant, resourceful, independent…and completely isolated from society for his entire life—cannot be expected to simply 'fit in' now that he has decided to court Christine. I worry for them both, monsieur."

"Do you?" Gérard asked tiredly. He could see the young man's point—if he were honest with himself it was no different than what he had been afraid of all along. But part of him still wished to live in a wonderful, comfortable bed of denial. He had always been of the opinion that you dealt with unpleasantness only when it occurred. Why try and prevent that which you have no hope of influencing?

"I do," the Viscomte replied, gently. He sighed, bowing his head for a brief moment as though collecting his thoughts. When he met Gérard's gaze again, the older man was astonished to see the anger that burned there. "I speak from experience, believe it or not monsieur. My elder brother was…the gentlest soul who ever existed. Kind, empathetic. He longed to be a writer. But that was not a profession that pleased my father. He insisted that Pierre enlist in the army, as an officer."

He snorted, the disgust and loathing so plainly written on his handsome face that he looked years older, embittered and hostile.

"Pierre wanted to please him. He wanted to be responsible and bring honor to the family name. So he enlisted when he was eighteen. My beloved brother left home that cursed summer—and when he came home, the last time I saw him alive—I barely recognized him. He was changed. Miserable. Broken. My parents doted on how handsome he looked in his officer's uniform, but it was I who held him as he wept in the night, delirious, living in a nightmare he couldn't escape. He was never meant to be a soldier, yet because he loved my parents and me and he wanted so badly to take care of us, he sacrificed his sanity and his soul."

Gérard glanced down at his weathered hands for a moment, while the Viscomte bowed his head again. Yet when he met the young man's gaze again, there were no tears. Only hatred.

"Your son appears to be a man of singular moral character and fortitude as well. But he is delving into unknown territory. They come from two different worlds, monsieur, and sooner rather than later those worlds are going to collide."

"I want him to be happy," Gérard said, almost to himself.

"Then you must prepare to see him fall," the Viscomte said.

Gérard closed his eyes, seeing a little boy with a strip of cloth covering his face sitting at the piano he had just acquired for him. His hands, longer than usual for one so young flew across the keys as though he had always known how to play. As though it were the most natural thing in the world for a boy of four to do.

"We are in this together, Gérard. That I can promise you." The Viscomte was saying and the anger had receded from his voice to be replaced with kindness.

Gérard could not thank him; he could not even bare in that moment to open his eyes.

"A picnic?" Christine said with a delighted smile. Her Maestro nodded enthusiastically. They had discovered some time ago that while they had been…distracted, Christine's soup had boiled over and was now the consistency of sticky mud. The smoke had begun to clear now, and they were no longer leaning out the window drawing in lungfuls of fresh air that blew across the lake. The offending soup had been disposed of by Erik, who had insisted it was still salvageable and that he would eat it regardless of how solidly soldered it was to the bottom of the pot. He would use a hammer and chisel if he had to.

Christine had laughed at that, wiping her eyes as they streamed from smoke and, if she admitted it, embarrassment. Once the disaster had been cleared away however she had flatly refused to allow her Maestro to endanger his life by eating the glop. So instead they sat down at the table to enjoy the cloud biscuits which had mercifully been baked and removed from the over earlier.

After enjoying each others presence for a time and the blissful new feeling of domesticity, her Maestro had suggested they go on an adventure.

"An adventure?" Christine had pondered aloud, her cheeks still feeling flushed and hot. She had not forgotten his proposal—was that a proposal? She hadn't had a chance to find out as the stove had caught fire and distracted them both for some frantic minutes. Afterwards, he seemed to pull back and they settled into a comfortable if not intense silence about the entire subject. The thought of his spontaneity still made her heart flutter, her mind skipping from feverish thought to feverish thought. Her Maestro, Erik, seemed to have completely relaxed in the elapsed time since their impromptu embrace, and now spoke to her with the same affectionate familiarity he always did.

She did not push him. After all, he had said that there were things about himself that she did not yet know and that they had time. She hoped that this meant he was going to open up to her about his past soon, before she grew too impatient and let something slip.

"Yes, my dear. I thought you might like to see more of my realm. We could pack a picnic—I believe I have some treats to tempt you and I have been so longing to try out my thermos and basket. You are still hungry, are you not?"

Christine's stomach answered for her with a plaintive grumble.

"Well said," he teased. Christine grinned back at him unashamedly. "A picnic would be lovely, thank you."

"Well then, let us not delay a moment longer! For what good are plans if one allows time to gobble them up? So, no time to waste!" he rose from his chair gracefully, motioning for Christine to remain seated while he strode about the kitchen, opening cupboards and placing things in a large basket he produced seemingly out of nowhere. Christine watched him fondly with her chin in her hand, loving the way he hummed and muttered to himself as he worked.

"Shall we use the crystal glasses? Oh, why not! And the red or the blue blanket?"

It was heaven.

"What do you think, my dear? Red squares, or blue flowers?"

"Oh, flowers please!" she answered, trying desperately to keep a straight face and failing miserably. The irony of watching a huge, unshaven man who radiates primal masculinity dither over which crocheted blanket to use (had he crocheted them himself?) was not lost on her.

"Yes. Yes my dove, you are quite right. I do believe the blue flowers will suit our adventure exactly. Now, I must beg your leave for a few moments while I make myself presentable again. You'll forgive my boorish appearance, for I quite forgot myself when I glimpsed you in your gown. I...am so pleased that you find it adequate."

There it was—the hitch in their best laid intentions. His voice remained polite, but his eyes…they burned.

"I love it. You shouldn't have gone to all the trouble—" she began, surprised to hear the shyness in her own voice.

"It was no trouble," he interjected gently. "It is never any trouble. I wish for nothing more than to give you beautiful things, you see."

He seemed to come back to himself after regarding her intensely for a moment, then tilted his head toward her in a gesture that she knew so well.

"I will be right back," he promised and then, was gone.

Gérard had bid the Viscomte farewell at a half-hour before noon, with the understanding that he was to call if he needed help, or aid of any kind. He also asked Gérard to pass along his regards to Christine when he next spoke with her.

Gérard had watched the young Viscomte leave the Opera House, his gate confident and sure. There was no hint of the young man who had spoken so venomously of his parents and had showed a wisdom far beyond his years. He was simply a wealthy, arrogant youth again.

How the incongruities of life never cease to amaze…Gérard thought. He had been preparing to leave his office and stop by the little café where he often ate a late lunch, when he had been startled by a sharp wrap on his door.

"Enter," he called, cautiously. No one, save the theatre manager with a complaint about this or the other ever knocked with that much gusto. He straightened reflexively, noting that indeed, Choleti had pushed the door open and was marching into the room with a look of great agitation on his face. In his wake, a grizzled, unfamiliar gentleman with a shrewd, observant air followed him into the office.

"Gentleman," Gérard offered graciously in greeting.

"Yes, well Gérard," Choleti said in a rush, as though they had already been in the middle of a conversation. "This is all becoming a bothersome mess, I can tell you."

Gérard blinked at the two men and tried to appear blameless. It wasn't difficult—technically, he had smoothed things over in time and no one was the wiser about Erik's unexpected appearance in the middle of a full performance. Why then, he wondered did he feel suddenly as though he were being placed beneath a magnifying glass? The stranger with Choleti spoke, his tone blunt and to the point. "I am Ledoux, monsieur Carrière. Inspector Ledoux of the Gendarmes."

Gérard felt a small implosion somewhere in his stomach, but ignored the discomfort expertly.

"Ah, it is a pleasure Inspector. What can I do for you? You've caught the theatre in a bit of a frenzy, I'm afraid. We are preparing for a brand new Opera, you see."

"A brand new opera we have yet to receive!" Choleti lamented to the room at large. "You promised me faithfully, Gérard. You said it would be on my desk by the end of the week—"

"I read your advertisement in the morning tribune," Ledoux continued, ignoring Choleti completely and focusing his hawk-like gaze on Gérard. "I was impressed that you were able to pull off such a publicity stunt without any critics or reporters catching wind of it. By all accounts, it was quite the spectacle, and more than a few patrons believed they were witnessing a crime, not a preview."

Gérard swept his hand to the chairs in front of his desk deftly, gesturing for the two men to sit. He chuckled, and procured his cigarette case. "I will be sure to pass along your praise to our choreographers. They will no doubt be tickled pink at the thought their hard work was such a success."

Choleti didn't take a seat, but continued to pace the office anxiously. Ledoux didn't sit down either, but accepted a cigarette from Gérard and consented to let him light it. "Then you do not deny that this stunt was meant to be provocative?"

"Of course not, my dear Inspector. Provocative sells tickets. Surely, you must agree that any publicity is good publicity from a theater owner's perspective."

"And yet this theater's owner," Ledoux continued evenly, nodding towards Choleti who was now rummaging through a stack of papers on one of Gérard's end tables muttering about deadlines and bank repossessions, "had no idea of your plan." The Inspector took a long, lingering drag on his cigarette, the smoke rising in thin snake-like tendrils around his weather worn face. The silence was heavy with insinuation, but Gérard persisted bravely on.

"Indeed, Inspector. It was my...initial intent to inform monsieur Choleti about the entire venture—but, alas, and this is quite to my own embarrassment—as you can see, I have yet to procure the Opera itself. I therefore thought it prudent to make it appear as though monsieur Choleti had no knowledge of the event, should it be brought forward that we would have to push our debut night to a later date."

"So you hoped to take full responsibility for the event?" Ledoux queried.

"Yes," Gérard said. "I had hoped that any embarrassment should the preview fail to entice would be laid squarely upon my doorstep. It was a novel idea, after all. A live, interactive preview for one opera during the performance of another has never been attempted before."

"You certainly made an impression," Ledoux said dryly. He nodded to Gérard and then to Choleti, who was now leaning against the far wall of the office with his head in his hands.

"I can appreciate your need to keep any unwarranted anxiety out of the equation," the inspector said plainly. Gérard beamed at him. "I am pleased you understand."

"Yes. Well, I'm afraid I am still going to have to conduct an investigation monsieur Carrière. You see, we've had several witnesses who claim that the 'actor' who jumped onto the stage and 'abducted' the lead soprano has been seen lurking around the theater before the date in question. In fact, information has been put forward to me that this man is not affiliated with the theatre in any legitimate manner, but has been trespassing and harassing certain members in your employ."

Gérard could have spat fire and given the devil himself reason to hesitate. Damn that Joseph Buquet! He knew it had to have been Buquet who gave the police an account of his near run-ins with Erik—the "Opera Ghost".

Damn it all! He had warned Erik to be careful, but his son had always kept a close eye on the drunken stagehand, citing it his civil duty to protect the delicate props from the man's ham-handed treatment. Gérard had known this excuse to be false—Erik had really been making sure that the lecherous brute didn't follow through with any of his boasts or threats against any of the the female employees. Gérard had been proud of Erik's concern, knowing that no lady caught unawares in a dark corner would ever be in danger.

He had tried to get Buquet fired on multiple occasions, but it had proven more difficult than he'd anticipated. Perhaps there was more to the stagehand than just an inability to show up on time and sober.

"Of course, Inspector," Gérard said smoothly, subtle concern in his voice. Don't come on too thick—this Inspector is a bloodhound. I must warn Erik as soon as possible. "I would be happy to cooperate fully."

Ledoux nodded curtly. "Very well. I shall begin with a search of the premises, if you'll permit. My officers are waiting downstairs."

How very organized…Gérard thought wearily. "Very good, Inspector. I shall be happy to guide you through the backstage. It can be very tricky to navigate, and we wouldn't want there to be any accidents."

Ledoux gazed at Gérard, and for a moment he seemed to be boring a hole into his very soul. Gérard didn't look away. "No," the inspector said, unblinking. "We wouldn't want that."

Choleti, oblivious to the exchanges happening under his nose gave a deeply melodramatic moan of despair.

"What am I going to tell Carlotta? You will be giving her the lead role in this new phantom opera you're promising me, correct Gérard?"

Gérard resisted the urge to roll his eyes heavenward.

Oh Erik…he thought ruefully. How I wish you were here to help your doddering old Papa…

He could really use another drink.

TBC…next chapter is the unmasking...and Ledoux discovers something that could blow the lid off of everything! Will our characters come out unscathed? I'd love to know what you think, so please review!