The Mask and Mirror

I'm sinking in the roses
Falling down to fade away
The velvet blade of apathy
Makes the crush so bittersweet

And I, I could have died last night
But I heard the voice of a smaller god
And I, I could have died last night
But I heard the voice of a smaller god

(Darling Violetta, A Smaller God)

Chapter 9

For a moment, Erik seemed almost to lean longingly into her touch, but it could have been her imagination, as an instant later, he had wrenched himself away, harsh ragged breaths filling the space between them. "What is this?" he rasped. "Ever you think up new ways to torture me?" His eyes were so dark they crackled at the edges like blistering coals.

His anger was unnerving. Since returning to this place, Christine had told herself that she did not fear Erik anymore, and, for a time, had believed it to be true. He had been submissive, and wretched and imploring. He had awoken her compassion. Had he deliberately made it appear so, to lower her guard? If so, he had succeeded. He was a magician, after all, a master of illusion. Had he not always been able to manipulate her as he wished, play her as expertly as any instrument tuned to his skilled hands?

How could she have forgotten how dangerous he was? Hadn't she always told herself, never, never be fooled by him?

She watched him now with a new wariness; a large graceful figure in his elegant dress-shirt, skin several shades darker than the ivory material. Coiffed hair dark as night brushed his collar. Clad in black, tightly buttoned, a gentleman of silk and lace, but his frame was wild and wary, shuddering with something between fury and desire. It did not seem possible that one man could hold such simmering and potent feeling. It frightened her. Raoul never looked like this. Raoul never looked as though he were on the verge of losing all self-control. But then Raoul would never hurt her, either.

Could she honestly say the same about Erik?

Christine's hands curled into fists in a subconscious defensive motion. She wanted to run from the burning hunger in his gaze, yet she remained rooted to the ground. No one could look with such an expression in their eyes unless they were insane. Unmasked, his face was half-angel, half-demon, and for the first time, she did not know which half disturbed her more.

"I grow tired of these games, Christine." There was the beginning of a dangerous edge to his low voice. "Perhaps it is time I indulged in a few of my own, hmm? You would not deny your Master that, surely?"

Before she could summon a response, he had moved with the speed of a striking serpent, catching her arm within his grasp and drawing her fully against the length of his body.

Christine almost cried aloud at the shock of it. She was aware of fear somewhere, but it seemed somehow remote and distant from herself. Not as real as the sensation of being pressed so close to him, alive to heat, hardness, and that unique decadent scent that she could mistake for no other man. She closed her eyes without realising she was doing so. His hands glided across the curve of her back, a caress smooth as rippling water, yet the touch burned with unholy fire. Deprived of her outer corset, only a thin barrier of silk between them, it felt as though his fingers were on her bare skin, and all her flesh rose in response.

"I said –" The dark, arresting tones of his voice hardened – "You would not deny me that?"

A shiver coursed through her. Could she ever deny him anything?

"No." Her voice seemed to come from far away. It sounded faint, unlike her. Would you hurt me if I did?

They were entwined like lovers, but there was nothing loving in his voice. "Where is your real Erik now, my dear?" He laughed softly, but there was little amusement in it. "You are clinging to something that does not exist. The real Erik would break you in an instant." His exhalation on her neck was hot and close enough that she could almost feel the press of his lips against her skin. She drew a sharp intake of breath as his arms slid around her waist in mockery of a lover's caress. The silken material fisted in his grasp, lifting her skirts by slow inches.

"You are tense, Christine." He breathed softly in her ear, stirring the damp ringlets by her cheek. She fought down the urge the jerk her head away. "Do you still claim that you no longer fear me? For it is a poor Ghost that inspires no fear in his victims."

Twisting her body in a futile attempt to escape from his grasp – his grip was not tight, but his hold on her had never been a physical one – she dared a glance upwards, into his face.

It had been a long time since she had seen him so close. She had become so accustomed to the mask that reflected candlelight off its smooth surface, hard and cold and impassive, that seeing him now – really seeing him, was a curious sensation. Stripped of that porcelain barrier, everything about him was intensely alive: the pulse beating rapidly in his throat, the twist of the cruelly sensual mouth, the flush of colour burning beneath the swarthy skin of his unscarred cheek. He was regarding her with both searing hunger and the wariness of a caged animal. Energy shuddered through every tensed muscle of his being, the suppleness and catlike agility unnerving to see in his large frame. His hands could have torn her to pieces with little effort on his part.

Christine realised hopelessly that she could not fight him any longer. He was too wild, too fierce, too ruthlessly determined to possess her. He would pursue her until she no longer had the strength or the spirit to run from him. Already, her life was overshadowed by his presence. He had stolen her childhood, blighted her future, possessed her mind and destroyed her hopes, what did it matter if he took her body too? Nothing could hurt her more than what he had already done. Perhaps then, he might be done with her and leave her some measure of peace. It would be almost a relief to give in and end this soul-destroying struggle. The horror of his face was nothing to the dull, sickening weight of despair she felt within herself. The last time he had released her had only delayed the inevitable. Let it be over, then. They would bring this tragedy, this farce to an end. As though chains were dragging her limbs down, she sank back into his hold, her head falling onto his shoulder. A bride in the clutches of Red Death, and she braced herself for his touch as one preparing for the tomb.

Erik must have been aware of her softening against him, for she could feel his dark smile along the curve of her shoulder. "You see," he murmured, and how monstrous, the soft tenderness of his voice against the passionate contortions that rendered his face something half-bestial. "Perhaps I am not as abhorrent as you think. You could learn to live with me yet."

Let him do with her as he liked. She would become a thing of stone, disappear inside. He might have her, but he wouldn't have her. That part of her would always belong to Raoul, and Erik could not touch it. He wouldn't even come close.

But however firm and unwavering her mind, her body could not remain so indifferent. The feel of his ragged inhalations at her back, the tentative touch of a gloved hand, half-upraised, leathern fingers tracing the faintest of lines across her exposed shoulder… no, these things could not be ignored so easily. Irresistible warmth stole through her, sweet and surging as an ocean of fire. How different to the last time they had been in these cellars. She had kissed him then, run her hands through his hair, pressed her body against his, and felt only the coldness of death in her heart. But now…

It was as though every part of her body was alive to his presence. Shuddering at the slight brush of his jacket against her spine as he drew an unsteady breath, feeling his lips hovering over the dip in her collarbone. Her head was gently tipped back as he threaded the dark waves of her hair through his fingers, eyes closed as though the very scent would undo him. She was aware of a sudden, treacherous desire to pull the leather gloves from his hands, to feel the burning touch of his fingers on her bare skin. Not since that fatal night had she known such maddening, irresistible confusion, that annihilating disorder of body and senses. Shadows of fear, ghosts of desire. He was barely touching her, and yet…

His lips moved against her ear, an agonised, tortured plea in his low whisper, "I have dreamed nightly of your face, your image behind every note I have ever composed... I've endured Paradises in my mind, and Hells in my body at the thought of you…"

Dear God, his voice! She could not endure it. His voice was in the music, in every corner of her mind, in every touch. Its ebbs and flows guided the very rhythms of her pulse. Enfolding her in sweet damnation. She had been lost from the moment he had taken her through the mirror and sang to her until she was half out of her senses with a longing for something beyond herself. Already, she felt herself unable to resist that magnetic force that held her spellbound.

His hair swept over her as he lowered his head, coarse dark locks caressing the translucent skin of her throat. His hand hovering over her breasts that were covered with only the finest layer of silk. Did he feel her heart beating beneath that fragile sheath of space between them? What of the air quivering in her lungs, the burning heat searing her marbled brow? Gloved fingers slid downwards, moving over the contours of her body as though conducting a soundless melody, the expression on his face akin as to when lost in the searing beauty of his music. Christine felt herself close to fainting. The muted candlelight dimmed before her eyes; there was only this languorous cadenza of touch, gliding in time to the slow throb of heat in her blood. Bolder now, his fingers pierced deeper into the folds of her moist gown, between her legs –

A low cry escaped her. And suddenly, the spell of enchantment was broken. Some unbreachable boundary had been crossed. No longer a dark angel, the action had rendered him a man again. A man who wanted what could never be his.

With every ounce of self-will she possessed, Christine brought her hands to his chest and pushed him away, hard.

"Enough!" she said.

Taken by surprise, Erik staggered backwards ungracefully. He threw out a hand against the side of the organ to steady himself, chest heaving with shock. He stared up at her, his expression dark and unreadable.

"Don't," she said in tight voice, "Lay your hands on me again."

One shaking hand pressed against her mouth, then all at once, the fire in her died. The face that turned to his was the one he first met grieving for a father: lost, lonely, afraid. The one look pierced his heart more fully than any words or striking him had yet done. He felt his legs buckle under him, and he slid to his knees. Emotion crashed over him like a tidal wave. What the hell had he done? Her figure swayed before him in a haze of half-light.

"Oh my God," he rasped. "Christine – I –"

She took a step closer to him. Her eyes flashed lightning. "On your feet," she said coldly. Stunned, bewildered, he obeyed unthinkingly. He rose unsteadily, a tightness crushing his throat, his chest, his limbs. What had she done to him? He leaned back heavily on the organ, trying to recover himself. He coughed and tried to swallow. "Christine, please –" his voice was hoarse.

Levelling her gaze at him, he noticed now that her eyes were shining. Her voice shook with the tremors that convulsed her slight frame. "I offered you pity and this is how you repay me. I thought things might be different. But I see now you are determined to be the agent of your own misery – and mine. " Her eyes flashed with a latent spirit that flared within her. "My God! When I read –" she broke off and continued bitterly – "But you won't change, you never will. But perhaps I have. I am not your creature anymore, Erik! I am not the naive child you can corrupt or entice with beautiful lies." Her face was empty, emotionless. "I am not anything anymore. You've seen to that."

Something choked in her throat then, she turned and fled to her room, locking the door as she finally felt the long held-back tears stream down her cheeks.

She had not cried since he captured her.

The storm of tears had passed and she lay in the richly furnished room, aware of nothing but an aching well of emptiness. Her fingers clenched and unclenched the silken sheets beneath her. It was hard to breathe in here. She stared up at the swirling dust motes that caught the shadowy half-light and vaguely wondered how long it had been since she had seen sunlight. It felt as though she had lived many lives since his carriage had found her.

With a sigh, Christine sat upright, pushing her hands through the wild disorder of her hair. She didn't need a mirror to know how she must look: tear-stained, hollow-eyed and exhausted. She stared down at her hands. Her knuckles had blossomed in blue-black bruises; there were red crescents in her tender palms where the nails had dug into her skin, one of her nails had been torn from struggling with the portcullis that morning. Erik had not given her any of these injuries directly but he may as well have done.

Erik... It was the sound of a violin that had disturbed her. Tentatively, she drew closer to the door, feeling the musical vibrations through the barrier of wood. Erik was playing, playing as he had done at her father's grave, so reminiscent of the days when his melodies had passed through the walls of her dressing room, surrounding her with their trembling, potent sound… Oh, that music! Deep and melancholic and painful. Even her dear father had never played with such mastery nor with such exquisite feeling. She recalled the weeks and months when she had nightly pressed her hands to the cool surface of the mirror, praying for the voice to come, feeling herself unable to live until she heard the music and the Angel once more. The enchanted violin, the angelic tones serenading her with such a sweet sadness... Christine put a hand to her cheek and pulled it away damp with tears. Such terrible, mournful longing! If Erik felt even a shred of what was poured into those awful notes, then his heart must truly have been breaking…!

She remembered him seated at the organ; grieving, pleading, eyes haunted with an irrevocable sadness.

She remembered him trembling with passion, white-hot fire where his hands touched her, his smouldering looks.

Christine buried her face in her hands, feeling the thudding of her pulse in her ears. It was not enough to drown out the deadly enchantment of his music. Was he possessed by the Devil to play with such captivating grace? His music had seemed heaven-sent, yet it only drew her down, deeper and deeper beneath the earth. Awakening emotions within her that she would never dare utter. Every tortured sensation she was feeling all came from him. He had said that he loved her. She gave a bitter, choking laugh. Love! Was this love, this passion so violent and fierce in spirit? This cruel and agonising pursuit, this endless, suffocating possession?

Christine thought suddenly of Raoul and felt her heart would break. Oh, how she missed him! Dear Raoul, her beloved, her heart's delight, whom she would never stop adoring. His image rose in the wistful depths of her mind; the tall, lean figure characterised by its unconscious ease and confidence, gold-streaked hair and sea-blue eyes, his smile filled with such open warmth and sincerity. It carried her back to those days of bliss and calm certainty. She was filled with sudden, intense longing. He had fought so hard for her, even now must be trying tirelessly to find her; she couldn't possibly leave him. The very idea was unthinkable. She could no more imagine an existence without Raoul than she could cut off her own hand without pain. It was only to save his life that she had agreed to sacrifice herself in marriage to a man she feared. But now Raoul's life was no longer at stake. It was her own.

He wasn't like the other noblemen that populated the Opera, chasing after pretty chorus girls merely to seduce them for one night's pleasure. No, Raoul had wanted her for who she was, he had loved her for herself. He had known her since childhood and remained unfailingly constant. He had defied years of absence, social barriers and a fiend who had sought to possess her. Was there ever more evidence of a truer love? Further still, he sought to marry her and give her a life of happiness and comfort.

Dearest Raoul, who loved and knew her – had known her since she was an impoverished child living on Scandinavian folk tales and her father's music. There was no question of his affection being sincere. But could the same be said of Erik? He professed to love her. But was it really Christine he was in love with? Or had the loneliness and misery of his existence driven him half-mad, rendering her a mere symbol on which to outpour his deluded longings? She sighed, her head in her hands. Was it merely an ideal he adored, one she could never aspire to? The thought of living up to his high expectation of her was exhausting. She had faults enough, she knew; the desperate naivety of believing him to be an Angel had proven that beyond all doubt.

Christine whirled around, shaking her head in frustration. She was being ridiculous! It was Raoul's emotions she should be agonising over, not Erik's.

Then an awful doubt began to steal its way into her heart. Did Raoul truly know her, deep down? Had he ever known her the way Erik did? For it was not merely music Erik had brought to her on those sacred nights. He had been her confidant, her tutor, the invisible guardian she had confided the deepest secrets of her heart to beneath the cover of darkness. He had awoken her from the deepest despair and allowed her heart to soar to the loftiest of heights. She had whispered her fears in his presence, prayed to him of her deepest hopes, and cried tears of sorrow and joy before the mirror where she had tried to discern his elusive, heavenly form. She had lain her trembling soul in his hands (your soul is a beautiful thing, child) and he had twisted and distorted it to his own maddened image.

Yet it was not merely his intimate knowledge of her soul she feared. Just the memory of being in his arms, the heavy masculine scent of him surrounding her, his hands on her skin, was enough to send the blood rushing through her veins with a shameful warmth. Christine had been raised ever mindful of what was moral and respectable, and there was an awful sense of impropriety that the remembrance should cause her anything other than revulsion and outrage. Would Raoul be appalled to learn of the depth of desire that lingered beneath her calm exterior? Christine was hardly to know that fervently – though secretly – wishing her encounters with her fiancé could go beyond a kiss was the natural state of approaching womanhood. Society still deemed such sentiments among women to be immodest.

But Erik, who deliberately withdrew from society, was bound by no such conventions. He was ruled entirely by his passions. There had been a heady rush of intoxication throughout that performance of Don Juan Triumphant at the thought of surrendering entirely to the arms that held her so tightly with no thought of restraint. The sensation had been terrifying… and strangely thrilling. Even now when she closed her eyes, Christine could recall his heavy body pressed against hers, transferring a searing wave of longing heat, as they stood entwined. Large, almost predatory hands guiding her slim white fingers across her waist, ragged breathing ghosting the back of her neck, sending shivers across her exposed flesh. He had unlocked a pillar of fire within her slender frame that months of decorum and civilised society had done little to subdue. Ever since coming here, she had been secretly terrified of his stirring that buried emotion that raged and thirsted and annihilated. It was life and death, madness and clarity, desperation and release. The feeling had slumbered uneasily. She terribly feared he had awoken it again.

Oh, to be with Raoul once more! What had she let herself in for? Every passing minute here seized her with new apprehensions. She never knew if she would be facing madman, victim or seducer.

She wanted him out. Out of her life, out of her thoughts, but still he forced his way back in, poisoning her prospect of happiness. Her peace was utterly destroyed. Every hour she passed here, moment by moment, prolonged this youth-killing dependence on him. She should have let Raoul kill him that night. The memory returned to her like a dream; Raoul's fair hair wild and disordered, filled with snow, his bloodless face fixed on the man lying before him, sword upraised. But the outcome was very different. The sword flashed in the moonlight, ice-like, before descending in a shimmering arc. The snow stained with red, red blood. She felt an almost blessed relief that rushed into her heart when she imagined those dark eyes forever closed, unable to haunt her anymore.

A moment later she had brought her hands to her mouth as she choked in horror. What was he turning her into?

He has possessed my soul and I cannot break free of him. So why could she not hate him?

She knew why.

With shaking hands, Christine pulled out the batch of dampened letters from the folds of her dress. The paper was beginning to curl and the ink had smudged, but the words were still legible. She stared down at the elegant slanting hand, the earnest pleas that had wrenched her heart. The intensity of her gaze could have burned a hole in the paper. This was the one part of him that was human; that betrayed there was still a man beneath the outer facade of loathing and lust. While these papers remained, she could never wish him dead. Her grip tightened as she was filled with a maddened desire to tear the letters to shreds.

Why Erik, she screamed in a silent agony of hysteria as she sank to her knees, why do you do this? Why do you torment me like this? Why, why, why –

The darkness receded and sensation had begun to return. Inch by slow inch, Erik lowered the violin from his heaving chest, half-wondering that the strings had not split asunder in his mad frenzy of playing. He did not know how long he had been lost in the music, shaking with the wild trammels of emotion. It returned to him in a disordered confusion of images and sensations, his temples shooting with violent pains, as though all the bolts of hell had been directed upon it. Erik lay the instrument reverently to one side, waiting for his rapid heart rate to slow. God, what wouldn't he give for it to stop beating altogether, and thus give him some blessed relief. He stared unmoving at the score sheets that littered the floor, damp and stained with footprints. He could still see her now; the pale face beneath the cloud of dark hair, the shaking of that increasingly fragile body. Even his playing had not banished the sound of her from his memory, sobbing as though her heart would break.

When all he had ever wanted was to protect her.

What have I done? What have I done?

Erik kicked the organ stool with a vicious movement, aware of a savage sense of pleasure as it flew across the room, thudding into one of the bookshelves with a resounding, violent clarity of noise. If Christine had heard it, there was no evidence forthcoming from the room with the locked door. Feeling a surge of aggression that could only purge itself through the violence of destruction, he made his way haphazardly through the dwelling, searching for more things to break, to fracture, to splinter. Rifling through what was left of his possessions; books, sketches, models, it wasn't enough, he needed something more, something bigger…

Charging down the stone steps in a crazed movement, Erik came to the shores of the lake and stopped with a dizzying suddenness. The one reflection was all it took, the glimpse of decaying flesh clinging to withered bone. To see the monster staring back at him with all the hellfire of Lucifer in his eyes, the madness of rage distorting the features until even the darkness would fear it. A broken sound escaped him and he staggered back up the steps, groping blindly for the mask. What had he done? What had he done to deserve this face? How dare God inflict this curse upon him and then abandon him as though ashamed of his own creation? Father! A blind, foolish parent who had no idea of the sheer hopelessness, the agony that came from denying him everything; even to walk in the sunlight! He could perhaps have borne it had he been denied human emotions, as he was denied a human face. But no, the real torment came in loving. He loved, that was the agony of it. And worse still, he lusted.

He could still recall the feel of her in his arms. The perfect curve of her slender waist, tantalising against the silken fabric of her shift, russet curls that demanded he entwine his hands in them, porcelain skin he would defy any power in heaven or hell to taste…

Erik almost moaned aloud, but forcibly prevented himself, biting down hard on the leather of his tightly clenched hand. It was not until he had held her in his arms that he realised just how much restraint he had truly imposed upon himself. It took all his power not to be driven mad by her white shoulders, or bewitching scent, or that touch of grace that was as sensual as it was shy – or the knowledge that her surrender would lead to paradise. Oh, he wanted her heart. But he could not deny that he wanted her body. And the cruellest thing of all, he could almost imagine that he felt her surrender – just for a moment. The sheer madness of this idea brought him back to reality. Was there no end to his self-delusion? The feel of her frenetic heartbeat, the shuddering breaths – these were all symptoms of fear, not desire. And had she not cast him from her with the power of a Fury and commanded that he never touch her again?

He could not help but recall with admiration the fire and animation that the touch of anger had brought to her features. God in heaven! Was there ever such a woman? She was invincible – against all his entreaties, against all his threats – she was absolutely invincible. She was almost lovelier in anger than in repose. Oh, what music he would compose for her! Something to immortalize, an opera that would endure as long as love itself. She was his music. Her voice was his will, her body his instrument –

Not anymore.

The bitter realisation withered his glorious dreams to ash. The memory of her grieving face struck him anew and Erik bowed over, almost buried under the weight of crippling remorse. What madness had induced him to touch her? After the fateful night of Don Juan, he had vowed that he would never lay a hand on her unwilling form, whether in anger or desire. Whatever he had said before, whatever cold or taunting remarks he may have chosen to inflict, he had never violated the personal boundaries of her body, always respecting the sanctuary of her innocence. And now he had destroyed that, too. Was it any wonder Christine had reacted the way she did? The locked door that lay between them was a resounding message that she didn't want him anywhere near her. This final deathblow hurt him more than anything. Even these last hours, knowing she was utterly in the power of a madman, she had slept at peace in the swan bed, not even going to her bedroom to retire. Whether consciously or not, she had trusted him not to touch her.

And he had broken that precious bond; one of the only things that had given him cause for hope.

God, why had he been such a damned fool? None but the vilest of fiends could have wounded such a tender soul.

Erik had always known there was something blackened and corrupt inside him. He had discovered the cruelty of life too early; the greed, the selfishness, the violence. He had seen the very worst of existence, as he expected to see it. His ceaseless search for beauty had been tainted by his experiences among the living, and so he had retreated – to literature, to music, to art, burying himself in those things that endured – leaving the outside world far behind. As a detached bystander who could observe humanity without ever fully regarding himself as one of them, Erik had witnessed the basest of human nature. He had seen enough of the cruelty of men as to be sickened by it. They had turned on him with vicious names (Devil's Child, Living Corpse). For all their self-serving actions, he saw the fiendish pleasure people took in uniting against a common enemy. And if these refined, cultured individuals could show such inherent cruelty, what hope was there for him? It made the wickedness of his actions not only justifiable, but inevitable. He had learned that the world was not governed by angels.

Then in this world of disillusionment and darkness appeared Christine. There was a clearness and purity to her that he had not known existed. She remained uncorrupted in spite of being in a business where extortion, criticism and self-promotion were prerequisites to succeed. Where his illusions had long died, she was trusting and generous and sincere; qualities he had striven to believe in but never found. Yet he could never have loved her had her virtue remained untested. If her life had been one of no regrets or pain, her deep-rooted morality would have meant nothing, as it would have been a complacent compassion, and worthless. But she had endured suffering, and still maintained something of a child's vision of the world. To shatter that illusion by revealing himself as a fraud was perhaps the cruellest thing he had done to her.

And so she had fled. Into the arms of her Vicomte who had been waiting in the wings to take her from him. And she had allowed him to. Her wavering idealism had attached itself to him with such blind and loyal devotion that even now, Erik feared he would not be able to break the strength of that bond, built on a foundation laid in her childhood, before he had ever set eyes on her.

What does the time matter? I loved her before I even met her. She lived in my music long before I knew her face. I recognised her at first sight and knew it with certainty.

She was here, and she was his. Forever. He moved slowly towards her room. There was a dull roaring in his ears. He could feel the strains of Don Juan Triumphant coursing through his veins (here in the dark, I only touch you in my dreams, but will you ever hear my heart?) His feet guided him with no clear purpose, other than an instinctive need to see her. He did not know what he was going to do once he passed the threshold of her door. Whether talk gently to her as the innocent child who had once placed her trust in him, or to arouse the passions in the woman that had been lying dormant for so long. All he knew was that he could not be alone anymore. His soul was sick of it.

There was a glimmer of white through the gloom. Erik paused. A folded sheet of paper had been slid under the door. Slowly, he knelt down and picked it up with unsteady fingers, opening it with a feeling of trepidation. He trembled so much he could barely bring his gaze to the paper.

Your treatment of me has been monstrous. Since the moment I pulled the mask from your face, you have threatened me, abused me, and taken me against my will, in spite of my tears and supplications that you renounce me. Even if my heart were not engaged, how could affection hope to grow and flourish under such circumstances of terrorisation and violence? Are those the terms on which you are prepared to have me? If you really loved me, as you profess to claim, surely you would take more joy in my happiness than in my distress? A selfish love, then, that ignores all the wishes and entreaties of its object to serve its own self-interested ends. I see now that nothing I say or do will move you, and you are utterly determined to be my ruin. From this moment I shall consider you capable of any evil, and were it in my power, would fly from you as my greatest enemy.

It is all over with me. I wish now that I had never met you. My pity for you is entirely at an end. Do with me what you will. It is for you to decide whether it be on your conscience.

If Erik had needed any further proof of how deeply he had hurt her, he held it in his hand now. It was there, written bold and clear before his eyes. Would she ever forgive him for this? He knew that he was evil, that he did not deserve to be loved, and yet he yearned for it with a fierce hunger. My existence is nothing without you. Again, how bitterly he regretted wounding her! He could feel it all; her confusion, her anger, her pain. He knew because he was the cause of everything she had suffered. He had been both her angel and her tormenter. Her joy, her sorrow, her secret passions. Everything she was came from him. He had made her. She was bound to him and he could never let her go.

It was no longer a matter of choice. It went beyond reason, or his own dark impulses, or any rational feeling he could give a name to. There were simply some forces that were impossible to escape. People and poets speak of falling in love. But one does not fall in love. We hurtle into it, all fire and fury, leaving nothing but destruction and wreckage in the path behind us.

He hesitated a moment, then knocked tentatively on her door.