Chapter 5

His numbed legs managed to carry him all the way down the hall, through his parlor and into his bedroom before they betrayed him. Closing the door, he leaned back against it heavily. Each step away from her had been agony, yet he had desperately needed to leave her presence before he had been unable to control the emotions at war within his heart, and she saw the full impact of her power over him. Before she had a chance to answer his untimely confession.

Marry me.

He had not intended to ask her so soon, in that manner. Not as a question, nor demand. A statement, a truth that if she rejected would surely strike him down more effectively than any blade or bullet. Perhaps that would be not such a horrible death—to die by the hand that sustains you.

He leaned his head back against the door. Lips parting, he mouthed I love you, I love you…over and over until he felt he had enough strength to stand on his own again. He staggered slightly, as though he truly were intoxicated. His hand wandered to his mouth where he still felt the heat and sweet pressure where her lips had touched him.

She kissed me. She kissed me again and I did not awaken, it was not a dream!

He doubted that anything could ever eclipse the memory of her standing in the dress he had designed for her, eyes bright, face glowing with happiness. And she was looking at him! She had been awaiting his return, cooked for him, turned his lonely seldom used kitchen into something so vital he didn't know how he'd ever be able to enter it again without her presence.

Home…the realization had shattered him, leaving him bereft of any pretenses that he could ever survive without her. She is my home. Where ever her feet grace is where I belong. Oh, my Christine…forgive me, for now more than ever I cannot ever let you go.

His hand reached out, gripping the edge of his dressing table. A sea of masks of every colour, shape and expression stared blankly at him, and for the first time in his life none seemed to suit his current mood. None of them seemed right. Their painted faces seemed now a mockery of life, expressions frozen in a multitude of insincere smiles and austere, intimidating grimaces. How childish, how ridiculous they all were now that he felt for the first time in his life like he, Erik, was wanted. The tiny glimmer of hope that she could possibly wish to have him, the embers that he had tended so obsessively since their first meeting were now a blazing inferno.

Everything was ashes, and yet never had his life felt so lush and green. He had always been so ridiculously organized—planning for the future had always seemed necessary. Prudent. He was meticulous in all things, even things that deep down he didn't believe would ever come to pass.

Never had he truly believed that there would be anyone in his future; in his darker moments of which there were many, he had frequently imagined Gérard disappearing from his life without a trace. It was inevitable, he had surmised.

It was his fate to be alone, in this dark place that no amount of candlelight could suffuse. Just he, shrouded in the shadows with his music. More often than not, the melodramatic gravity of his situation made him laugh and cry in equal turns.

But then—heaven help him—then, he had met her.

Hands shaking so badly he could barely untie the straps, he reached up and removed the mask from his face. Placing it on the dressing table to become one of the sea of others that continued to gaze impassively at him, he let out a relieved sigh. With her image conjured in his mind, freedom, vast and never ending stretched out before him, tantalizing and seductive. Without effort, she had unwittingly charmed him out of his most closely guarded, shameful belief—that though he had always longed to one day leave the theatre with Gérard, not as his burden but as his son, to seek out the sunlight and live in the world above—at his very core he was a coward who preferred being alone. Forever hidden, forever masked; chained to his miserable fate by distorted flesh and bone.

For I am darkness itself, aren't I?

His own words, spoken so long ago it seemed now and with such finality were a farce. His worship of solitude was a lie. He couldn't deny that now. Not with her kiss still burning upon his lips like a shining brand. She had breached the defenses he had so carefully crafted effortlessly, and now the dam had broken within his heart and all his wants and desires were pouring forth in an unstoppable torrent.

He wanted to see his father free of the burdens of city life, of a career that made him turn always to drink and never to the son who longed for his company and true confidences. The thought of having to resort to underhanded means to securing his father's continued presence in his life was repugnant to him. He wanted Gérard to love him as a son and not as a burden, to accept him without shame.

He wanted a wife so badly, his whole body ached with unbidden images and desires that flooded his mind; a small, cozy home with a wild rose garden. A dog and a cat, curled up at their feet by the hearth. He had always admired dogs with their wagging tails, and cats with their soft fur and effortless grace. Strolls in the park at sunset; picnics in the park, beneath the warm sunshine and a vast, endless blue sky above. The sounds of sweet laughter, images of little ones, their precious ones, chasing each other and singing their beloved nursery rhymes…

The images of their little faces, shining with love as they gazed up at him shimmered unbidden on the tail end of his fevered imaginings. Like an oasis embedded in the cold void of his loneliness, those voices called to him. Husband. Papa.

How he yearned to be worthy of such titles.

The mere shadow of that thought—of what it would mean to be gifted with such paradise, his lovely rose by his side, eyes shining, hair like spun-gold and so very soft…

It was a dream he had longed for since childhood. Family.

He had lied to her. They didn't have time. Time was nothing but grains of sand that were slipping through his fingers the longer he was near her. He yearned for that life, he was burning for it. I must…I need…his frantic gaze fell upon the only thing that could possibly help him express the wild urgency he was feeling. Breathing in the free air, finding it soothing against his bare face instead of unwelcome, he groped for the violin case tucked beneath the dressing table.

Without pause, he drew it from its crushed velvet pillow and embraced the instrument fully, his hands finding some stability again as he drew his bow across the strings, unburdening himself, pouring forth all his love, fear, madness and hope into a melody that flowed effortlessly from his soul.

Music, sudden and evocative reached Christine's ears and she felt her heart stir with delight. Erik was playing the violin. Curious and unable to resist, she left her spot by the window where she had been lost in thought and followed the irresistible sound like a leaf caught in the wind. It was unlike any melody she had ever heard for it followed no logical sequence, no predictable progression. It was pure emotion, raw and untempered.

Exquisite.

Erik...

She was drawn to his music, to him as naturally as water flows to the sea.

Her feet lead her to his closed door, wave upon wave of mesmerising sound washing over her with such power her hand was on doorknob and turning it before she had time to register what she was doing. The room was dimly lit by a few stuttering candles yet he seemed illuminated, standing in the center of the room. She first saw his broad back swaying as he cradled the violin like a living, breathing creature against him, then the side of his face—his face.

The world stopped, and all that remained was her thundering heart and him. His eyes must be closed. It had only been a glimpse, a flash of something she barely had time to register as he unconsciously swayed toward her, completely unaware that she was in the room. Darkened flesh, waxy and startling— and then it was gone, his broad back all she saw once more.

Tearing her eyes from his tall figure, they fell upon the black mask he had been wearing earlier, now abandoned on the dressing table. He wore no mask. Slowly she reached for it, not knowing why but motivated by irresistible instinct. Realization that she had wandered unwittingly into a private moment spurred her, for she understood that for all his seemingly flippant acceptance of his past and its irrelevance, it was with them in this very room, prowling in wait, threatening to swallow them both.

His face child...I cannot describe to you the horror of his face.

Fear was a tangible being, and its hackles were raised threateningly. It suffused the air around them, which before had held only the beautiful sounds of his genius. Genius...she thought, despite the rapid beat of her heart advising her of just how dangerous and steep a fall could be awaiting her.

I must warn you, my dear. He has a temper. He is, at his core, the kindest, and gentlest of men. But experience can be a cruel teacher. If you were to see him, to see his true face...I do not know what would happen. Living alone this long, in this isolation...it has been necessary, but it has also made him unpredictable. That is why you must leave. He may seem in control, but I'm afraid in many ways he is like a frightened, wounded animal. He would never hurt anyone purposefully, but he has suffered so much...you are the first person he has ever reached out to...if you were to recoil, or reject him...it could be his utter ruin...

The air seemed heavy in her lungs. Even in the wake of Gérard's ominous warning, despite the goosebumps that tickled her skin, one truth wiped away all else.

He is so much more than a face.

Tentatively, with her heart fluttering wildly in her chest she took a determined step forward, the floorboards beneath her feet giving a soft creak.

The beast snarled, snapping its ravenous jaws; an off key note hit the air with a lingering squeal.

"Christine?" she had never heard him sound so breathless, or sharp. His shoulders rose and fell for a silent moment, his body which had been so relaxed and swept up his music not moments before was now still and rigid as stone. Unspoken tension began to fill the room like deadly, rising water.

"It's alright," she soothed, not knowing where the calmness in her voice was borne from. Slowly, as one would a wild animal, she approached his back. Wordlessly, and with a trembling hesitancy that made her eyes sting with sorrow for him, he shifted the violin into one of his large hands, reaching out with the other blindly in a silent plea.

Please don't make me turn around, his gesture seemed to implore.

Gently, she slipped the mask into his waiting hand.

As soon as his fingers grasped it, she heard him release a short breath. Withdrawing it from her hand he pressed it to his face. Wordlessly, he moved forward to place the violin back into its case again. His movements were drained of all their usual grace, and she saw his hands trembling as he straightened, tying the straps of the black mask securely around his head. A heavy silence sat between them like a vast chasm.

Christine was the first to breach it, but he was not far behind. "Forgive me, I had no right to intrude and I—"

"Please, my dear. You have nothing to apologize for. You had every right."

She floundered for a moment, warmth spreading through her numb limbs. He still did not face her, but his voice was steady if not devoid of its usual rich vibrancy. He sounded so desolate!

"It was for you, after all."

Her cheeks burned with a heat that seemed to wash over her from head to toe.

"Your music?" she asked softly, wanting nothing more than to close the distance between them and wrap her arms around his waist, burying her face into his broad back. The thought made her heart quicken.

"Yes," he replied after a moment. "You are my muse, in so many ways. Your beauty defies description in any other way. So kind, so patient. So much stronger and far braver than I—" his voice broke, and she did take a step toward him then, intent on stealing away his distress with the tender caresses she was burning to give.

"No, please," he breathed, hoarsely. His beautiful, dulcet voice sounded broken, and as much as she wanted to mend it she respected his request and stayed where she was. After a moment, he spoke again and his voice was stronger, but there was still a childlike vulnerability she had never heard before echoing in his deep tone.

"Would you help me, my dear? I can't seem to decide on what to wear for our outing. I haven't been on many adventures, I'm afraid. I wouldn't want to be caught under-dressed."

Christine closed her eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by such a feeling of love for him that she thought she might die right there, for how does one survive such a sweet sensation? She didn't know.

Yes, I will marry you.

"Of course, Maestro," she said softly. "I will help you."

He turned to her then, still not able to meet her eye but his body relaxing enough to alleviate some of the tension that lingered in the air around them. "Thank you," he said, his voice echoing with the same chivalrous courtesy that she had always found both endearing and maddening.

Now, it touched her beyond measure.

He feels manners and decorum are all he has to distinguish himself from the beast he believes himself to be…she realized with a rush of sadness.

Turning to his dressing table, she looked with interest over the sea of masks, hats and other odd and ends that covered every inch of its surface. It was a menagerie that would have made the costume master of the Garnier weep with joy and envy. Some articles lay on the table, some hung from hooks; others sat perched atop disembodied mannequin heads. Masks of every shape, colour and expression gazed at her, frozen in time. A silk top hat that she had seen him wear once before to a performance at the Opera reclined elegantly atop a disembodied, blank faced, wooden head. He had looked so very handsome that night—and she recalled how much she had secretly wished he would take her in his arms. That was before the cursed debut of Faust however, when he was ever her respectful guardian and Maestro. Always sensible, always in control. Her gaze fell across a hat unlike the others, a boat hat made of straw and sporting a bright blue ribbon.

Reaching out, she plucked the hat from atop a smartly crafted head, whose blank face bore a beautiful porcelain mask painted in blues and peaches. The hat's jaunty tilt had caught her eye, and made her smile.

Sensible yet spontaneous.

"This one would suit you well, Maestro," she said gently, stepping forward and placing a hand on his arm. The instant her fingers made contact with his sleeve, she felt him draw in a short breath. Always so affected...she thought, feeling a rush of charged pleasure race beneath her skin. Her blood seemed to sing, drawing her closer to his side, until she felt the warm, taut muscle of his upper arm against her palm. As though in a trance, a reflexive reply to her nearness, he turned to look down at her, his grey eyes burning beneath the black mask's lifeless indifference.

Her eyes met his, and held them.

Gently, she reached up to place the boat hat on his head. He had to bend forward slightly to accommodate her, which he did without hesitation, his eyes still fixed on hers.

"There," she breathed, only now aware that they had unconsciously moved closer, so that the air between them was heavy with anticipation. Like the ebb and pull of the tide, touching him was inevitable. His grey gaze was deep and even, like a pearly sky promising rain. A certainty soaked into her very bones; she would be forever parched for his touch.

"Not too much of a dandy, you think?" he asked, a hint of humor in his voice though its deep, roughened edge betrayed him.

I love you.

Shaking her head, she let out a sigh she knew he understood, for his eyes flickered to her mouth.

"Does my mirror approve?" he murmured, bending closer to her upturned face, seeking reassurance.

Please do not fear me.

"She does," Christine whispered as his mouth found hers, knowing her words ran far deeper than mere appearances.

Gérard had to admit; Inspector Ledoux was extraordinarily thorough. In another lifetime, if he were not the keeper of so many precious secrets, he would have found it an admirable trait.

When you are trying to hide someone's very existence however, such efficiency is most inconvenient.

"How long have you been employed as company manager of the Populaire, M. Carrière?"

Gérard smiled widely, and tried to look genuinely nonplussed by the question. He knew Ledoux was informally interrogating him while his men searched the theatre. Although to be fair, perhaps the man always sounded interrogatory when trying to initiate polite conversation. He noted the inspector's serious, grim expression and wondered if he ever laughed, or told awful jokes. Or gambled. Or drank whiskey.

A feeling of inexplicable deficiency made Gérard feel inferior to the inspector's obviously responsible nature. If only he, himself had been a responsible man. Perhaps then his only son's life would not be hanging in the balance.

"Oh, about fifteen years or so," Gérard replied lightly, taking out his cigarette case and once again offering one to the inspector. Ledoux took one, with a nod of thanks.

"And in all that time, you were not concerned with the complaints of your staff regarding an intruder?" It was said softly, almost casually, yet there was no mistaking the steel flint beneath the tone. Gérard shrugged his shoulders, his expression carefully indifferent.

"The theatre is a many headed beast, Inspector. Most of these heads are filled with logic, hard-work and devotion to their art. They are also filled with superstition and gossip. It is the way of the arts, I'm afraid."

Ledoux said nothing for a moment, but took a long pull on his cigarette. "And what of Joseph Bouquet? As I understand, he was in your employment and seemed to take these…superstitions, as you say, very seriously. He even reported a few of these incidents to the gendarmes."

Gérard let out a determinedly sad, and not derisive sigh. "Ah, well. Poor Joseph. It is unfortunate and a shame, but the man's predilection for drink and a fanciful imagination are not an uncommon combination amongst stage-hands. I'm sure his sensational stories were quite entertaining, if not a waste of time."

"He was a liar, then?"

Gérard felt an unpleasant tingling sensation creep along the back of his neck.

"Was?" he repeated, gazing at the inspector with sincere confusion.

Ledoux's face was inscrutable. "Yes, was. My men just drug him up out of the Sienne early this morning. Drowned, although the exact nature of his death is still in question."

Exact nature. Dead. Reported a few incidents of an intruder. A ghost. But what ghost can render a heavy, drunken man intent on bursting into the ballet dormitories on a lark, unconscious with one blow?

Suddenly, the weight of every incident in which Erik had interfered with the unpleasant stage-hand came crashing down. Of course the Inspector was putting two and two together, and painting a very damning picture—a picture that clearly showed an unstable stalker, a trespasser, capable of…

Gérard needed to get to his office, now. If the Viscomte's generous offer of help was genuine, now was the time to find out. Ledoux was watching him carefully, and Gérard cursed himself inwardly for showing even the slightest hint of the fear that was raging inside his frantic mind.

"That is most unfortunate," Gérard said, a bit hoarsely, and meant it. "I am sorry he died in such a manner."

Ledoux nodded. "You doubt the veracity of his accusations, M. Carrière? Accusations that to my mind, might have contributed to his death?"

Gérard made to speak, but Ledoux continued before he could. "I'll admit to you that when my sergeant first brought M. Bouquet's allegations before me, I was dubious. Very dubious. I surmised M. Bouquet's character to be that of an opportunistic deviant. Then, he mentioned something that I found most intriguing."

Nothing but silence and smoke hung in the air between the two men for a moment.

"What would you know of an underground lake beneath the opera house, M. Carrière?"

Gérard felt his heart skid to a halt. "A lake?"

"Yes," Ledoux replied, pinching the end of his cigarette between two fingers to extinguish it.

"A lake, surrounding an underground stronghold. A relic of a bygone war, but still quite serviceable and according to Bouquet, still possibly harboring an extensive arsenal."

Gunpowder and ash.

"A possibly active arsenal."

…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…

Ledoux's eyes were hard pieces of flint.

"Quite sensational, would you not agree, M. Carrière?"

His hand was warm, and Christine savoured the sensation as it engulfed her own. She wondered if he was aware that he had forgotten his gloves. The thought made her blush quite inexplicably.

There were so many things that were changing, unraveling about this man she knew so well and not at all. After she had bestowed him with the boat hat and a kiss that quickly had become so heated they both had ended up knocking over several of his carefully painted masks (the result of which had reluctantly brought them back to their senses), he had been much more light-hearted and busied himself with procuring a buttercream waistcoat and a black silk cravat.

He had then proceeded to dress himself without the benefit of a mirror, which had impressed Christine greatly, chatting all the while about the musical composition he had composed for her, and how he would be honored to share it with her on their picnic. For what was a picnic without music? Indeed, he should pack his violin right away! And should he bring his flute as well?

It had been so intimate, watching him busy himself with buttoning up his waistcoat and tie his cravat with long, nimble fingers that managed the complicated looking task with effortless, practiced ease. She had not realized how much she missed watching a man dress—her father had owned very few neckties, but she had always enjoyed watching him shave his face and tie the scrap of cloth around his neck with such grace. She thought with a pang that had her mama been there too, she could have watched her braid her hair, or apply her perfume.

An image of herself sitting before Erik's dressing table, no mirror in sight, humming to herself while she braided her hair, a little girl in her lap, gazing up at her sleepily while she watched with dreamy fascination. A little girl who had clear, crystal grey eyes the colour of bright storm clouds, just like her papa.

His hand squeezed hers gently, and broke through the sweet fantasy that left an empty ache in her heart.

"May I look now?" she inquired curiously, one eyebrow arching above her hand as she held it tightly over her eyes. When he had asked her to cover them upon leaving his home, she had felt like a child again, playing a game of hide and seek. Yet there was no hiding, and she did not have to seek him. He was right by her side, large hand swallowing hers as he led her along, admonishing her gently when she attempted to peek.

Now, she heard his rumbling chuckle at her question—one she had been repeating consistently—and it made her smile despite her impatience.

He does love to play games...

"Not yet; and no peeking," he answered sternly, though the amusement in his tone clearly indicated he knew all too well he was pushing her patience to the limit. He continued to guide her carefully, his grip on her hand firm. Every now and then he would instruct her to mind her step, and she felt his warm hand or arm sweep protectively around her waist.

Soon, she could smell something she did not expect.

"We are here," he said gently, his arm still resting around her waist. She felt him place his hand over hers, where she kept it cupped against her closed eyes. Christine's heart skipped excitedly.

She could smell leaves, and the unmistakable scent of earth. Where could they be? She did not think they had left the underground, but she could definitely smell the unmistakable scent of damp wood and thick moss. The ground beneath her feet was no longer the stone that paved the way to Erik's underground home, but soft and pliant. The air had changed too—it was not the cool breeze that swept off the lake and carried the hint of algae. It was fresh, and carried with it a sense of invigoration.

He drew her hand away from her eyes, and when she opened them, an astonished gasp slipped past her lips.

It was a forest—a living, breathing underground forest.

Trees of all shapes and sizes tangled together, vibrant greens turned a soft glowing blue in the muted, grey light pouring down from the top of the cave's immensely high ceiling. It must be overcast above ground, and the effect was mesmerizing. Grass tickled their feet, and as her astounded gaze continued to roam upwards, she saw black silhouettes of birds circling above the tops of the canopies, their flapping wings echoing against stone walls covered in green vines and foliage. Distantly, she thought she could hear the rush of running water.

It was unspeakably beautiful. She marveled at the abundance of so much life born from the darkness of a cave, where one always pictured nothing but empty shadows. It was like something plucked out of her dreams, when she had imagined secret forests in magical realms where fairies danced and dragons sang ancient songs. She must have been squeezing his hand tightly, for as her eyes desperately tried to soak it all in, she felt him laughing quietly beside her.

"Does it please you, little bird?" he murmured, his voice just above her ear.

Christine nodded vigorously, her smile infectious as he watched her carefully.

"Tell me what you're thinking," he said softly.

"Beautiful," she replied, trying to patch together words to describe what she was feeling. "Unexpected. Like magic."

"Yes," he said, his tone quiet and thoughtful. "I completely agree—just like magic."

He reached out a tentative finger to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "It is yours to explore, my dear. I will follow wherever you go."

Immediately, and to his great amusement, she was tugging on his hand and calling for him to keep up, leading him down the grassy knoll that led towards a boarder of dense trees and moonlit shadows that danced beyond.

"How incredible!" she was murmuring aloud, eyes wide with awe. "But how? Maestro, how can all this exist under the ground? It's a miracle! Did you do this?"

His heart expanded at her easy confidence in his engineering prowess, and he linked her hand through his arm as he guided her through a thicket of silver-leafed trees that led deeper into the heart of the little forest. "I admit I've helped encourage it to grow as wild as possible, but no my dear, this forest has been here long before I was even born. Hundreds of years, I should think," he added dryly, grinning as she turned her shining eyes up to his. "Long ago, before Paris was even thought of, there were vast cities that have now turned wild and green, cold stone giving way to all kinds of life."

"But how did such a place transpire beneath the ground?" she asked, gripping his arm as they picked their way through the thick trees. Her Maestro, ever the consummate teacher, smiled at her inquisitiveness.

"It is impossible to know for certain, but there are several natural events that may account for it. Water levels rising and falling; the earth is forever shifting and changing. There are always deeper forces at work than what is glimpsed on the surface."

Christine smiled, thinking of how he himself was so much more than what the surface might present. Not for the first time, she wished she could look upon his own face, without a mask concealing it. To see his expressions unhindered, to kiss his cheeks and nose…

His skin had looked black, molded, almost like a mask itself...

She had barely caught a glimpse of it, but the image burned within her mind. She needed to show him it was alright—that she wouldn't reject him. Their time together, in his realm felt almost like a dream within a dream, and she felt desperation beginning to wind its way through her heart. What would happen when she had to return to the world above? To her employment, her responsibilities? Would she even still be employed? What if she didn't want to go back…?

Please, my dear. For Erik's sake, you must leave as soon as possible...

"…although I must admit, I am old enough to remember when some of these trees were mere wispy saplings."

Christine focused on his voice once more, his self-deprecating wit drawing her out of her numerous worries. "Are you telling me you are as ancient as you are unbearably charming?" she teased unable to resist. His laugh was delighted, and he patted her hand affectionately, inclining his head.

"Ancient maybe; as for charming, I believe that particular description could only be applied to me by you, my love."

Love.

The word, so innocently spoken resonated within her, causing her pulse to quicken and her head to spin with delight. Her surprised gaze rose to his face, but he was focused on the path ahead.

Then, coming to a stop he gestured at something just ahead of them and slightly above their heads. "Look," he whispered, leaning forward and pulling her unconsciously against his side.

She followed his line of sight, and saw to her amazement a cluster of brightly glowing specs fluttering about the small clearing that lay before them. The specs looked like a cloud of fallen stars, or true to her fairy tales and childhood dreams, fairy folk gathering to dance on the soft bluish beams of light afforded by an invisible moon.

"Fireflies!" she exclaimed joyfully. How long had it been since she had seen fireflies? Not since she and her father had camped in the woods of Sweden, when she had been a little girl. Sensing her excitement, her Maestro led her into the little clearing and began to unpack their picnic blanket and basket, watching her all the while as she chased the floating specs of light, nearly tripping in her enthusiasm, her movements hindered by her gown. She laughed, twirling around their chosen spot.

Reaching out, Christine managed to capture one little floating spec of light and she gazed at it in fascination. The little insect rested for a moment in her open palm, as though grateful for a moment's rest. Then, she saw its gossamer wings beat furiously, and it was off, rising out of her hand and above her head, joining its fellows as they ascended higher into the sky.

Turning her head to glance at her companion, she found him settled on the picnic blanket, a crystal glass filled with sparkling liquid in his hand. He was smiling at her, and his expression held such a gentle but unwavering intensity that it made her cheeks flush with heat.

How she wanted to rush to his side, tug him to his feet and dance with him right here, in this secret place! To forget the world above! She longed for his arms, his large hands to cup her cheeks as she sought his mouth over and over, breathing his name…

His gaze beckoned her.

Wordlessly, she walked back to him and gathered her skirts as genteelly as she could while taking her place on the blanket beside him. She took the crystal glass he offered with a polite thank you, and sipped it curiously. It was delicious and sweet, the bubbles almost tickling her mouth as she took a longer sip. She heard his quiet laugh, and turned to see him watching her with tender amusement in his gaze.

"I had hoped you would like it. I have been saving that bottle for some time now. I wished someday to share it. Champagne is always best when shared, I think."

Taking in a deep, long breath of the rich, fragrant air, Christine closed her eyes and took another long sip of her champagne. She remembered in one of their earliest conversations he had asked her if she had ever had champagne. They had been speaking of their favourite things. She had said no, but that she had always wished to try it. When he had asked her why, she said it was because her father had once described it to her, and before she had ever had the chance to taste it, she had already imagined what it would be like, and that it would be one of her favourite drinks. His eyes had softened at that, and she remembered thinking at the time how strange it was that he could be so officious and serious one moment, and so gentle the next.

Bringing the glass to her lips once more, she began to hum. The taste was sweet on her lips; a warmth was spreading throughout her limbs, and she hummed a melody that had no direction or form. It was like Erik's music had been, when he had played the violin with such passion. When she had inadvertently seen what he had never wished her to see.

It was music born of the beauty surrounding them; the promise of a kiss that was always ready upon her lips; of her hope that tonight, she would gaze upon his true face.

Her voice grew stronger, and soon she was vocalizing without words, allowing the depth of her feelings to guide her through a winding melody. She had never sung like this before, never sung with this amount of unreserved intimacy before another person. When she opened her eyes, her song slowly drifting and ebbing to a close, she saw his eyes were bright behind the black mask.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

"You are so indescribably lovely," he said after a moment, his voice rough with emotion, "you leave me bereft of any notion that I am master of my own fate. And I—" he paused, swallowing hard. "I cannot deceive you any longer. How can I? From the moment I saw you tonight in that gown, I knew… I knew…" he seemed to lose himself for a moment, and Christine placed her glass down on the ground beside her and leaned toward him.

"Please, don't…" she began, but he shook his head as his gaze roamed her face with sudden hunger.

"I must," he said fiercely, his hands now clenched as though preparing himself for a physical assault. "I can no longer be a coward. I have hidden the truth long enough, hidden behind the guileless, innocent mask of Maestro when behind it I…" he brought a clenched fist to rest against his heart, as though he wanted nothing more than to rip the words from his chest. "Behind it I am no more than a beast."

Christine had risen and was kneeling in front of him within a heartbeat, her hands on either side of his face.

"Never say that," she said passionately, though he kept avoiding her eyes as though her gaze were too bright, too burning to meet. Suddenly, her hands were gliding down his neck, her fingertips resting against his rapid pulse.

"Erik," she said softly. At the use of his name, his head shot up and his eyes, pale in the dim light, met hers fully. Their depths were full of incredulity and shock, then unfathomable emotion.

"I love you," she said.

Just as he had turned to stone when he had almost revealed his true face to her, so now he became deathly still, as though not even breath occurred to him. His eyes had momentarily become blank, devoid of anything except an unyielding tension that seemed ready to snap at any moment.

"Ask me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Christine felt as though the world was gone, fallen away, and all that kept them anchored was this—this moment.

"Show me. Show me your face, Erik. Please," she said gently, noting how his whole body seemed to tremble when she said his name. Then, his gaze became bright and she realized he was reaching up to untie the straps of the black mask. They fell away, and he paused a moment, holding the mask to his face and drawing in a deep breath as though about to plunge into impossibly deep waters.

Then, he lowered it.

Death.

It was a nightmare; it had to be. Erik, her Erik, her gentle, kind, passionate Erik was dead. The world swam before her eyes, his face sunken, blackened flesh distorted and twisted in decay.

Her papa's face had been sunken, just like this. His sightless eyes wouldn't close, not matter how many times she tried to gently slip them shut.

It was another nightmare, it had to be! A memory she wished would remain buried. An image she carried with her always. Her father, cold and lifeless. Not Erik, though. It couldn't be, he couldn't be…

No, no, no!

She did not recall any sound escaping her, but it must have, for whereas before he had been so still, so convincingly dead now he moved and she found her vision swimming with tears.

His eyes, his eyes…

They were beautiful. A pale bluish grey, and bright as he blinked rapidly. Blinked. He's alive. The suffocating feeling in her chest, the unbearable grief that clutched at her throat loosened. Not dead. Alive.

Reaching out, blinded by tears, Christine found his chest and pressed her palm against it. The rapid beating of his heart was enough to make her give a gasp of relief mixed with utter panic.

Why couldn't she breathe?

Then the world tilted, and she was on the ground, staring up at a figure that swam hazily just above her head.

"Forgive me," she heard him saying, his voice hoarse and thick with tears. She tried to speak, but again, the air seemed to refuse to stay in her lungs, making her unable to speak, unable to move.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" he sounded terrified, grief-stricken.

She was screaming inside her own head. Calling to him, reaching for him. I love you, I love you! But she couldn't move. Her ears buzzed, sweat beaded across her forehead, and she felt her stomach churn nauseatingly.

"I'm so sorry…"

"Erik…" But he must not have heard her, because he continued to whisper apologies, tears now falling fast down his blackened, twisted cheeks.

"My God, Christine…" his voice was utterly undone. "Please forgive me. Please. Please…"

Darkness took her against her will, and she slipped beneath its heavy curtain without a sound.

AN: Hello again, and I apologize for not posting sooner!

Thank you again to all who read, reviewed and to all who are just beginning this story now. I can't adequately express how appreciative I am! I truly hope you continue to enjoy, and although I'm trying to follow the plot-line of the series (with a lot of changes and license!) I do hope it remains different and enticing!

Just a quick note: the underground forest is something I actually found online after doing some research, and found brilliant, beautiful pictures. If you're interested, look it up! It's incredible.

Next up: How will we end up on the rooftop? Will Gérard's faith in the Viscomte prove false? What will Christine awaken to? Hope you will tune in for the next installment, and I wish you all a wonderful week!

Also, a side-note: I do not have a beta, so as much as I try and make sure my grammar and spelling are accurate (also I'm Canadian so I apologize if the "colour" and "color" switching comes up too often!) I'm sure there are things that slip through...please don't hesitate to point these errors out to me, if you like! I appreciate all feedback greatly. :)