The Mask and Mirror

I cannot let you burn me up, nor can I resist you. No mere human can stand in a fire and not be consumed.

(A S Byatt, 'Possession')

Chapter 11

At first Erik thought she was not going to answer. Not that he could blame her. Several moments passed – passed as he endured with agonising suspense (what if she would not see him? What if she was lost to him forever?) – before the door opened a fraction, and he found himself facing a mane of unruly curls and wild dark eyes.

"Christine –" he whispered entreatingly.

She stared at him through the narrow space of the door, feeling her heart inwardly shudder at the sight of his eyes molten in their blackness, the unmasked half of his face twisted with dangerous yearning and forcible restraint. His artistic hands were pressed against the doorframe; his chest rising and falling beneath the poet's shirt, and she thought only Erik could embody that unique combination of the opulent and primal…

For a moment, the righteous anger that had impelled her to write the letter quivered within her upright frame, and her fingers trembled to slam the door with haughty dismissal, but Christine stilled the impulse as one unworthy of her. So instead, she drew a steadying breath and sought to keep her voice even. "What do you want?"

"To talk to you," he said simply.

She forcibly resisted an urge – whether to obey her first impulse and close the door in his face or open it wider, she could not say. "Why?"

She was certain he had not moved; yet the sense of his closeness surrounded her. The scent of leather and incense had intensified, blending with the lushness of red roses from her bedroom. His mask pale and gleaming like bone in the dim light. It was so reminiscent of days' past that Christine was filled with horror and a strange sense of yearning. My God, nothing has changed, she thought. We are doomed to repeat this bitter cycle for eternity, drawn into one another's madness. When will it end?

There was an edge of subtle amusement beneath his seemingly mild voice. "Are you going to let me in?"

"Will I regret it if do?" she responded swiftly.

Erik frowned slightly and leaned over her, a tall, foreboding presence. What little patience his nature possessed was wearing thin. "You do realise of course that if I really wanted to come in, there is nothing you could do to stop me." He smiled with frightening intensity. "However, I thought for the sake of politeness, that I should ask first."

How thoughtful of you, Christine wryly noted. She glared at him a moment, then realising that resistance would only delay a confrontation, stepped aside, allowing him to enter. He did so, passing by like a shadow over the walls. The room seemed to grow smaller with his presence that felt as vast as the unfolding wings of a terrible angel. Christine deliberately looked away and sat rigidly on the bed. She was relieved that he remained standing. The intimacy of allowing him into the inner sanctum of her chamber had not escaped her.

Erik stood with his back to her, idly trailing his fingers along the polished mahogany surface of the desk. It was adorned with decorative ornaments, a pair of tall candleholders and several bottles of perfume that had yet to be uncorked. In a happier state of mind, Christine would have wondered what exotic scents they might unveil, coming from whatever corner of the globe Erik had roamed. They stood full of mystery and promise in the dim lamplight.

Erik turned away and dropped into a chair, crossing his long legs in an effort to master his growing tension. Christine clasped her hands together, waiting. She couldn't even summon the will to ask what he wanted. She felt drained and slightly ill, her stomach turning over and over with a nauseating rhythm. How long was it now since she had eaten? How long since she had slept? She was so tired – mortally tired. At this moment, she wanted nothing more than to lie back on the silken sheets and close her eyes; just for one blissful moment not to think, or worry, but only to inhale the subtle perfumed scent, and feel the comforting ghost of a caress on her shoulder, the tenderness of an Angel's voice (that so many nights had comforted her through the hours of darkness) –

She clenched her fists tightly. "I think you should leave."

A spasm of pain passed across Erik's face. He should have expected this. After being so forceful with her, he reflected that invading the private sanctuary of her chamber had been precisely the wrong thing to do. Did she fear that he would lose control again? Would he lose control again?

A convulsive shudder passed through his very flesh, rooting him to the chair. She looked so soft and vulnerable in her thin white gown. Her clear cheek was tinted with colour, her dark lashes cast down. The gloss of her dark curls streaked with auburn in the softly glowing light. As a man always deeply moved by beauty in all its forms, her loveliness smote his heart. In that moment, he would have done anything she asked. For how could he stand against such soul-moving beauty? To fix his eyes on something that wasn't Christine, he looked around the room he had so lovingly furnished for her, the one place in his abode that bore no traces of the disaster that had befallen his lair.

The room was fashioned as a boudoir, containing a looking-glass and a tapestry portraying the classical lovers Hero and Leander, hung with blue velvet and gold damask. A dressing table of carved wood was abundantly and luxuriously filled with an array of beautiful items. The lavish and antiquated décor combined with the subtle fragrance of incense created a sensual ambience that was hardly helping his internal struggle. One of the walls had been covered in heavy draperies to conceal the fact there were no windows, giving the impression the room was shrouded in perpetual evening. The low sconces and candles provided the sole light, casting a dusky hue on the roses he had made a point of renewing as frequently as possible. Christine herself, dressed in virginal white, her skirts spread softly around her as she reclined on the bed, could almost have been a maiden waiting for her suitor with mingled anticipation and desire.

A desire that was not for him.

He closed his eyes, breathing hard. A soul burnt by the fire of unrequited passion. The rich, enticing scent of the room invaded his senses. It had been a long time since he had written any original music, but he could imagine what he might compose to this. Something dark and seductive, the lingering strains of violins entwining in the disturbingly alluring air. A girl, a lover, a secret passion –

Erik ignored the tremors that sought to shake his body apart and spread his hands over his black-clad knees, trying to hold them steady.

"I need your help," he said finally.

Silence.

Christine looked across at his bowed head – and beneath the mask caught an alarming glimpse of dead flesh, barely hidden by the thick hair that had been swept back over his high brow. She felt that familiar sense of horror and revulsion, but far stronger was the surge of intense pity that filled her. Even after his recent actions had driven almost all compassion from her heart – no, she could not lie. She still cared.

And that was why she needed to be gone from this place.

It is dangerous for me to be in his presence. I don't think my soul will survive it.

"I don't think I can," she said haltingly.

Erik's hands clenched the arms of the chair. Beneath his gloves, the knuckles were white to the bone.

"I see," he said icily.

Christine wrapped her arms around herself in a poor attempt to shield her body from the terrible coldness that seemed to emanate from his dangerously immobile form. She wanted to leave, but the ability to get up and walk the few paces to the door seemed a distant dream. She had no more control over her body in his presence than her mind did under his music. Frustration burned within her, combined with a sense of fury at her own helplessness. Why must he insist on pursuing her so relentlessly? Did he derive a sense of sadistic pleasure from this?

It was too much. His possessiveness, his cruelty, his fiercely single-minded determination that she would succumb, because in this place his word was law, and he demanded that the world bow to his whims.

"So is that it?" he finally snapped, his dark brows contracted in a tight line. "You won't even hear what I have to say?"

"How can I?" she responded emotionlessly. "Every time I open up to you, you draw away. You say you want my affection and understanding, yet whenever I offer it, all I receive in return is icy words and scorn."

The darkness in the room seemed to gather around the man before her, settling over his heavy shoulders like a cloak of foreboding. There was something feline about him, even when seated with such stillness. Then his gaze met hers – and his eyes were burning with passionate emotion. His voice was a soft caress against her ears, mysterious as an incantation.

"What would you prefer from me, Christine?"

"I want to see you, Erik. Not these walls or barriers. I can't…" She sighed, looking up at him through the curtain of heavy curls that had fallen over her face. "You don't understand what these last months have been like. I am exhausted by everyone putting on a front; of the superficiality – people doing and saying things that are insincere. Please, let us be open with one another. No more hiding."

Erik took an unsteady breath.

In that small entreating speech, Christine had unconsciously exposed to him what he felt was her most admirable quality. Since he had first set eyes on her, he saw that her transparent and artless nature set her apart from the other girls in the Opera Populaire, who were characterised by petty rivalries and jealousies, always seeking to promote themselves in their small world. Christine had never descended to such levels simply because to do so would be utterly foreign to her truthful and gentle nature. Was it any wonder she had such distaste for the shallow world that awaited her, for all its luxuries? Your place is not there - it is here. In my realm, my palace, this shrine of music. This is where your soul belongs.

She was watching him intently, trying to discern a reaction from his deliberately averted face. Could there ever be anything between them that didn't end in bitterness? Instead of continuing this destructive pattern of resentment and hurt that their encounters invariably resulted in, she met his defensive stance with her clear, candid look. They neither of them were above reproach. "When I said I was sorry earlier, I meant I'm sorry for hurting you."

Erik sighed, reluctantly feeling some of the frustration leave his body. It wasn't Christine he was angry at. It was himself. His weakness, his indecision, his damned insecurity. "Just being around you hurts me, Christine. I'm quite used to it. Don't think I blame you –" he continued hastily as she opened her mouth to speak – "I don't. I'm quite aware this is my own personal hell I have to carry with me."

He was shocked when bewilderment and hurt betrayed itself in a flash across her transparent features. "Is that what loving me is to you? Hell?"

"I didn't mean –"

"Yes, you did. I understand. I – I suppose I haven't exactly made things easy for you. I have tried, Erik, but it's hard." Her voice had sunk to a whisper. "So hard." A sigh fell from her as her fingers toyed distractedly with the sheer material of her skirts. She seemed troubled with some inner preoccupation and appeared to be measuring her words carefully. "What I wrote before, in that letter – that I wished I had never met you – it was cruel of me."

"The truth is often cruel. There is no need to comfort me, Christine. I am fully aware I destroyed your life. Betrayed and deceived you – why should you forgive me for that? I know full well that I don't deserve it."

She looked at him pityingly. "Forgiveness has nothing do with whether or not we deserve it, Erik. To forgive someone is to free yourself of resentment and anger as much as saving the person who has wronged you. There is no greater act of compassion."

Erik looked away, unable to meet her soul-piercing eyes. His reflection flickered in the mirror, a phantom in candlelight. Showing him for what he was, a creature fated to hide in the shadows. His jaw clenched with stubborn anger. He could not endure it! Beneath the skin, he was burning with resentment at her noble and generous words. He wouldn't have her forgiveness. His heart told him he was not worthy of it, and he could not bear it – a mere platitude given only to elevate herself and grind him more deeply into the dust! Every word wounded him deeper, cut him more fully.

And yet… he needed her goodness, for without it, there was nothing standing between him and the darkness that threatened to consume him. She was purity itself. At times like this, it was hard to believe she was not all angel.

And so he had to ask. He had to know.

"And me?" he said, in a low voice. "Do you forgive me?"

"I already have," she said gently.

Christine started when he rose to his feet. In several easy steps, he had covered the distance between them. There was something rawly sensual in the movement, graceful and full of menace. Unconsciously, she stood also, wishing to lessen the disparity in height. She had always been taller than the other dancers at the Corps du Ballet but Erik still somehow managed to tower over her. Perhaps it was the sheer force of his nature that always made him appear such a large, domineering presence.

It was only when she became conscious of their closeness did Christine realise she should instead have tried to place some distance between them. Now she was able to clearly see the fine texture of his shirt, the dusky light illuminating the opalescent material, the contrast it drew from the golden hue of his skin above the collar. She needed only to reach out a few inches and she would be touching him –

"Christine…"

Two points of light gleamed in his dark eyes. She could almost feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against hers, half-convinced she felt the wild beat of his heart, fast and fevered. So different to the ivory stillness of his mask that shielded those forbidden desires beneath a veneer of gentlemanly formality. She could hear his breathing, almost imagine she felt the warmth of it against her lips; for why should the air be so heavy and oppressive when his house was usually so cold?

"I have a request for you."

Her shoulders immediately stiffened, brought up by the cold practicality of his voice. The same invisible, controlling force parted her lips, prompting her to ask, a little fearfully:

"And if I refuse?"

Erik looked almost grimly satisfied she had asked this, as though she were behaving just as he had anticipated. A slow, cruel smile coursed over his features. His voice was so soft she almost felt it brush against her skin like the fragrant musk of perfume that hung heavy in the room. She shivered slightly, running a hand up her arm to soothe the ripple of rising flesh.

"That's really the test then, isn't it? To see just how much you want to help me."

Christine couldn't move. Again, she heard herself speak as though with unnatural slowness. "What is it you're asking of me?"

His posture, which had formally been languorous – almost dismissive – was now tense and poised, trembling within the restraints of his powerful form as though he had reached the threshold of his sanity. He glowered, violent and passionate. Christine sensed his tightly imposed control was about to break, even if she hadn't been close enough to feel the trammels of emotion that tore through his large frame. Her heart thudded with apprehension. She looked up into his face – and when she saw his expression, almost wished she hadn't. Through the pallor the porcelain mask threw over his face, his eyes seemed to flash a terrible fire. Even before he had revealed himself to her as merely a man rather than the angel she had so fervently believed in, his stern demeanour had always filled her with a kind of fearful awe that was only heightened by seeing him in the flesh. Pride battled with humility in the fierce workings of his muscles as he seemed to struggle internally with himself.

Erik could hear the blood beating in his ears. Why was this so hard? He had come here to speak, but now his tongue seemed dry and heavy in his mouth, he, who had always used his voice to exert his will on others, to wield an unassailable power over lesser men, was rendered to a frail shadow. His mastery fled in her presence. Coming to see her had seemed an inevitable thing such a short time ago; something governed and decided by a force stronger than himself. But seeing her now; so altered, so reproachful, so saddened… could he go through with this?

He swallowed hard, forcing down the stirrings of pity that threatened to banish his resolve. What other choice did he have? If he did not speak now, he never would, and the regret would haunt him forever.

"I ask for so little. Just to be in your life, to see you, speak to you. I know –" He clenched his jaw and forced the words out, dark and bitter – "I know you do not – cannot – love me. Just do not leave me again." He closed his eyes, resisting the urge to add, "Please."

Erik leaned away from her slightly, not wishing to appear too imposing after their recent altercation, the guilt of which still consumed him. He would show gentleness, humility and courtesy. But there were limits to how low he would abase himself, not yet reduced to the degradation of falling to his knees and begging for her favour. He had always been governed by pride, even from his earliest years; never allowing his mother to see him cry or betraying any emotion when she struck him or locked him away in that cold attic room so she didn't have to look upon his face. It was pride that had allowed him to endure those hours of isolation where he would sit either absorbed in music or indulge himself with imagining how one day, he would make the world suffer for its crimes against him. He mentally called upon that grim resolve now. Christine would never know how close he was to weeping at her feet. She must never know. Perhaps he had already said too much. Was he achieving anything other than providing her with another weapon to use against him? What did he hope to gain by stripping his soul before her eyes, except for more ridicule and grief?

But he needed her here. He needed her to convince him he was still alive.

He hung on her response like a condemned man. If she laughed now, he would kill her. First her, and then himself.

But Christine did not laugh. Instead, she sighed, turning away as she walked the length of the boudoir, her face lost in thought. She moved with a natural grace, an artistic effect in the simplicity of her white dress falling in ample and shining folds from her narrow waist. How could she remain so calm when he was dying inside for her? But when she turned to face him, his savage thoughts faded before her solemn, abstracted eyes.

"You wouldn't let me go," she said half-wonderingly. "After Don Juan, when you knew how I really felt towards you, you stole me away. I even left you for another life and it wasn't enough. You found me again. I have tried to escape, and still you won't leave me alone."

"No." He set his jaw. "And I never will. But this is different. I am giving you the chance to come to me instead. Willingly, and of your own free choice. No deceptions or force."

She seemed to take a moment to collect herself before saying, in tones of deliberate calm: "Even if I didn't love Raoul, leaving him would rob him of his happiness, his reputation in the eyes of the world, a fiancée he loves and for whom he has defied convention, and all this should come about from my own wilful actions. Do you think I could knowingly cause such pain?"

Raoul. Always Raoul. For a moment, Erik was filled with such blinding hatred that it almost choked him with its intensity. The flames of jealousy in his heart climbing higher, ever higher. Worse than any torture his diabolical mind could ever devise, this clawing envy that had taken root inside his heart and couldn't be cut out. He buried his hands deep in his pockets, so Christine wouldn't see his fists clenching and unclenching convulsively. He half-wished the damned Vicomte here, just to have the chance to tighten the rope around his neck once more. Or perhaps trap him in the Hall of Mirrors, to see if bright light and burning heat could succeed where the Siren had failed. His mind went back to the night he had given up Christine for good. He remembered Raoul; half-drowned and defeated, tied helplessly to the portcullis with tears streaming down dirt-blackened cheeks, unable to do a thing for the woman he claimed to love. Erik sneered inwardly. Chagny hadn't cut such a dashing figure then, had he? If only Christine could see that. But still there, still unshakably present was that calm, implacable resolve that no threats, persuasion or pleading could ever hope to break.

Christine felt every muscle in her body tighten with tension as his eyes became hooded, fire flickering within the dark irises. He had moved forward again, and she saw the gloved hands were clenched at his sides.

"So," he finally said coldly. "You profess you wish to help me, but not enough it seems." He spread his hands wide in a mocking gesture. "When you finally decide what you do actually want, let me know," he said, voice heavy with sarcasm. "I might even live long enough to see it."

Heavy silence stretched between them. Unable to bear the accusation that pierced her like a ray of lightning, Christine turned away. It was somehow easier to look away.

"I am only trying to tell you how I feel. I won't lie to you, Erik."

"You would," said Erik darkly. "For him." He had not – would never – forget that performance of Don Juan Triumphant. She had deceived him there – deceived and betrayed him for the entire Opera House to see. Even the crime of not loving him was more easily forgiven than her outright lying to him. His love for her should have died that very night, but then – then she had kissed him with such heartfelt devotion, had willingly chosen to stay at his side –

And, fool that he was, he had released her.

She suppressed a shudder. "You don't understand. I love Raoul –"

"Do you?" he said softly. "I wonder."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

Erik looked over her a long moment, his gaze considering. When he spoke, his voice was low and contemplative. "Do you know what it is to truly love someone, Christine? To love with all the force and fire of your being?"

"More so than –" she started to reply indignantly, but broke off at the last moment, not wishing to start another violent confrontation.

Erik gave a mirthless laugh. "More so than me, you were going to say? Why, because I want you and am not afraid to admit it or to do anything in my power to possess you? Does that make my passion for you not as pure, not as holy?" His gaze had become lambent, intense and deeply serious. She shivered at the way he was looking at her, as though every word she uttered merely fuelled his ardour. His dark eyes moved over her face possessively. "Love isn't sacred, Christine. It isn't some high and selfless emotion we should all aspire to. Love is self-interested and boundless in its greed. Oh, it is personal want and desire and lust, and is careless of anyone else. It engenders envy and betrayal and secrecy. What is to be admired about that?"

Christine turned away from him slightly. It took a moment for her to speak, but when she did, there was a glow upon her cheeks, a soft fire in her eyes. "How wrong you are, Erik," she said quietly. "Love should enrich you. It is the thing we all strive towards to make us truly who we are, the finest and most noble expression of ourselves. Something that alters and changes us beyond all recognition; that makes us more fully alive than ever before. And if it doesn't do that, if it is something that corrupts and weakens you, and turns you towards darkness… then it isn't love. Love is nothing less than the divinest essence of our being. Erik, I know the life you have lived. I know that you have seen absolute evil in this world. Is it so hard to believe there can be absolute good as well?"

Christine saw that she had momentarily silenced him with the ringing force of her conviction. She thought of her father, who so often had given his child the scant food they possessed between them so she would never know hunger, the warmth of Meg Giry's friendship in those early days of loneliness, Raoul's ardent heroism and determination to save her, those eyes the divine blue of heaven… yes, that was love. That was what had given her the strength to endure all these years after so much loss, so much pain and darkness…

Erik stared wearily around the darkened room. He could have used the destruction outside as a testament to his argument, but held himself back. Instead he said, "You think I'm being too cynical, don't you? I sometimes forget your idealism. Because that's where this all started, didn't it? I destroyed your illusions. I don't intend to do that ever again, because if I did, you would end up like me – and hate me for it."

A pinnacle of silence trembled between them for an instant. She watched his profile, hunched, tense, cast in shadow. A stranger seemed to speak using her voice.

"I told you I don't hate you, Erik. I don't think I could – even if I wanted to."

"No," he said softly. "Perhaps not. But even your hatred I could endure over your indifference. To know that you felt nothing – that would be worse than death. Yes, I would take your anger, your loathing, over that." For there is a fire in you, Christine. I glimpsed it during Don Juan, I have glimpsed it even here as you cast me from you, brilliant in your fury. If there is even the faintest hope that it can rival the flames that burn in me, then yes, I will kindle it. I will take you down with me, in defiance of the whole world.

She inhaled with all of her body, as though trying to ease the weight that had settled itself over her shoulders sometime in the last twenty-four hours.

"What do you want from me, Erik?"

There was a terrible hunger in his eyes. She was unable to look away. "What do I want? I want the unthinkable. I want you to never leave me. For you to be at my side wherever I go. I want to show you things you have never even dreamed of." A deep breath. "I want you with me, Christine."

Christine found herself moving unsteadily backwards until she felt the giving weight of the bed beneath her. The sheets rustled softly, sliding against her skin like cool rippling waves. Her mind had become a whirlwind of swirling thoughts and sensations.

Love, Christine reflected as she stared at Erik's tense form, despite what she might have claimed so earnestly before, was not the strongest of emotions. There were far more powerful forces at work among mankind. Guilt, that could never be truly eradicated, obligation that bound one to deeds thought long done and brought no rest until the debt was paid, and compassion, that could mend hearts and turn hate to love in a matter of moments.

She found herself distantly longing for Raoul's company once more. For with him, everything had appeared so clear and simple, the years of their future life sweetly unfolding in peaceful harmony. Nothing like this. Raoul was all that she had sought and expected from him; all that was familiar and warm and comforting in her life. To be in Erik's presence was bewildering and intense and fraught with danger. Every encounter a potential for more violence, suffering or the resurrection of old emotions she had no wish to revisit. In this perilous existence that loomed before her, there was a frightening disregard for limits.

She wanted to tell Erik that what he asked of her was impossible, but she couldn't. She didn't have that right. It was her fault he was in this pitiable state. She may not have reduced him to this intentionally, but the responsibility was hers alone to bear. She felt such compassion, such pain and sorrow for his suffering that she felt her heart would bleed to death with it. If there was even the faintest chance of easing some of the misery he carried with him, she would do it without question, regardless of the consequences.

Her heart seemed to have frozen in her chest with cold realisation. It slowed the blood in her veins to a listless flow that was something like calm despair. She had felt this before, but it took a while for her to remember when and where. That first night in the Giry's attic room. The ice, the grief, the sensation of utter hopelessness. Perhaps a knowledge, a presentiment had come to her then. Now it was impossible to dismiss or ignore. There was a reason he had come back into her life, and at such a time. She could not abandon him. She was bound to him by chains stronger than reason, fortified by a resolve greater than her fear. The truth came to her easily now. She could never be free with this obligation shadowing her existence. I must make amends, the only way I can.

Was she strong enough for this? Was she truly considering this?

Erik's head was bowed slightly, he stood with deliberated stillness, and she couldn't understand it, and hated herself for not understanding. She had never felt more removed from this strange, bitter, intense man than she did at that moment. His eyes were on her; she could feel it without looking up, those fierce, furious eyes that so effectively hid the loneliness lurking beneath the cold indifference and bitter sarcasm. Christine knew that if she truly wished to, she could try and ease that sense of heart-breaking isolation he seemed to think was his fate. But was the cost too high? Was it worth the pain that trying to reach him would entail?

Not for others, perhaps.

She had no illusions when it came to the man before her. Any illusions had fled the moment she stripped the mask from his face and unveiled his whole grand deception. Beneath the mask, behind the mystical power of the mirrors and the music, she had seen the darkness that lurked within. And discovered the name of her once faceless guide. Erik. She had exposed the great tragedy of his being. A monster's visage concealed by the voice of an angel. And yet more man than anyone she had ever known, with all that entailed. She knew his flaws far outweighed his virtues. He was terrifyingly unstable, insecure, rash and impulsive, and volatile. Too often he resorted to violence, using force to achieve his ends. This, coupled with his obsessive nature, had made him a formidable adversary and an even more deadly suitor. It was possible that he was already too far fallen for her to save him.

But he can also love – blindly, deeply and with a passion that consumes. I have seen him show mercy and compassion. He was once prepared to sacrifice everything for my happiness. What does that say about me, if I cannot do the same?

She didn't love him. Of this she was sure.

Then why was she so afraid?

She had been cowardly. It was her duty to confront this, not flee from it. If she had left when that foolish impulse had taken her, it would have left everything between them unresolved, Erik wretched beyond all hope of being saved, and her to unceasing remorse. It was so easy to run. Even now, every instinct was telling her to do so, to escape before she was drawn in any deeper. Before this place could haunt her soul any more. Already she could feel it, in this very room with its sensory influence that made her so exquisitely aware of all her senses. To stay with him now, even be near him, would be opening a door she had no wish to step through, for it was a way that led to heartache and vulnerability, and other emotions she dared not name. But he needed her for a time. More even than Raoul. More than anyone she knew. She was the only one in the world who could help this man.

God help me, I hope I know what I am doing.

The right thing to do wasn't always the easy one.

So Christine looked steadily into his eyes.

"I promise," she said.