The Mask and Mirror

Your eyes see but my shadow, my heart is overflowing,
There's so much you could come to know, you're content not knowing,
Tenderly, you could see my soul.
Here in the dark, I only touch you in my dreams.
But will you ever hear my heart?
The way it calls to you as if your name was branded on the very soul of me,
It's calling like a child who's lost his way, "I'm here, please say you hear me calling",
Please say you see me, please say you hear me,
Please give my heart a home, don't leave me here all alone.

(Misha Sigal, 'Don Juan Triumphant', 1989)

Chapter 12

"I promise," said Christine.

Silence followed her words; the longest silence she had ever known, not the silence of emptiness or passivity, but a silence that was alive with consciousness, delicately honed as the point of a knife, poised with tension. It seemed to stretch into infinity in which there was nothing but herself and the dim future that loomed before her.

The ground beneath her seemed to have given way and a chasm had opened at her feet, opened its way deep into the earth. And she stood alone on the brink of it. A vast, black emptiness overcame her in an enveloping wave. And the sensation of falling –

Christine looked up from the darkness before her eyes.

"Erik," she said.

It was as though every inch of him had been blinded, charred, incinerated. There was a turbulent heat coursing through his blood and his mind a dark haze. And in the midst of the paralysis of shock, his entire body tautened as a sudden fear – terrible and resounding – pierced him like cold steel. The horror of it was a fierce globe of pain in his chest. He swayed without knowing it. Had it happened at last? Had he finally lost his mind with longing and loneliness and confinement? It has happened, at last. I am become a madman. He trembled at this hardly less than the alternative. That Christine had just promised to abandon her former life and stay with him.

Erik leaned back heavily against the dressing table without knowing it, as an unfamiliar feeling of dizziness overcame him. Even the feel of the smooth wood under his hands was fading, becoming as insubstantial as the dusky half-light surrounding them. Christine's face blurred a moment before his eyes then slowly cleared. It was the same as before, solemn, pale as marble in the flaring lamplight, framed with a coronet of dark curls that were lost in the shadows that danced across her skin. She had half-raised a hand to her bloodless lips, as though surprised by what she had just said. Erik realised he was breathing very heavily. The awareness caused him to push away from the vanity and stand upright. His shirt clung to his back with perspiration. His frame galvanised with renewed sensation. Suddenly, with unnerving speed, he had moved forwards and was leaning over her, looking intently into her face.

"Don't," he said harshly.

She stared back at him, bewildered. "What are you saying? Erik, I – I thought this was what you wanted to hear. I promised –"

"Don't. Don't promise me anything – not unless you plan on keeping it."

She lifted her head, firmly defiant. He saw that her inflexible spirit had been fired up and felt himself momentarily cowed in the face of her resolve. "I would not give you my word if I wasn't serious."

He frowned then, and Christine could almost hear him turning her words over and over in his head. Would he be convinced? Or would he once more reject her sincerity as a mere ploy? There was something infernal in that dark mind of his, something that caused him to twist good intentions into mockeries, distorting the truth into lies. Worse even than the physical embodiment of corruption was the unadulterated loathing and poisonous schemes she sensed working within for so long now, the intricacies turning over and over like cogs in some infernal machine. A cold foreboding lay icy fingers against her heart. Then, like burning coals, a light flickered in the depths of his eyes.

"Be careful, Christine," he said, a low warning in his velvet tones. "If you are merely toying with me –"

She had thought herself emotionally shattered, but still a stirring of anger rose inside her. "Toying with you –?"

"Then why?" he demanded fiercely. "Why this abrupt change? What has happened to shock you into this sudden acceptance?"

In response, Christine slowly reached into the folds of her dress and pulled out a couple of sheets of paper. She held them out, and wordlessly, Erik took them. He looked over the letters he had written months ago, his expression unreadable, the mask throwing a long shadow over his exposed profile.

"I see," he said quietly. He had not raised his voice in anger, but this deadly softness was somehow worse.

"Please – I did not wish to pry. They sort of… fell into my hands."

He looked at her a long moment. Strange how she was frozen like ice, yet his eyes could be fire. For an instant, some unnamed emotion lit his face like a brand and he seemed on the verge of saying something, but then the impulse flared and died as quickly as it had come. When he spoke, she knew it wasn't what he had been intending to say at all.

"So you read this, and – what? Didn't like what you saw?"

She took a step closer to him (when had she stood up?), fists clenched at her sides. "You have no idea what you're saying."

"Perhaps you should explain it to me, then." He sounded wearied.

She heard her voice come as though from very far away. "I tried to leave because I felt ashamed."

"I'm sorry?" said Erik, almost politely.

Christine could hardly believe the words had left her – she had not known them to be true until the moment she uttered them. It was something else she had no wish to face now, not when she was tired, so tired…

"You felt ashamed," repeated Erik. His voice was completely devoid of expression, but in his mind he was utterly bewildered. She, who had nothing to repent, who could live every moment blessed with hope and purity of soul, her deep slumber unbroken by past sins, who could live guiltlessly as an angel made flesh… what could she know of remorse? With the white dress clinging to her girlish figure, her long hair flowing full and waving, her cheek pale and her dark eyes alight with passion; she already seemed elemental, spirit-like. He frowned, his mouth becoming a thin line.

"May I ask exactly what it was you were ashamed of?"

"I think," she said slowly. "That it was myself. For misjudging you."

He didn't say anything.

Christine shivered then, aware of a sudden chill coursing through her body. She folded her arms against her chest, realising the thin material of her gown was most likely the cause of it, although moments ago, the warmth of the room had been almost more than she could bear. She had wished away that enticing, perfume-scented atmosphere that caressed the skin like a lover's touch, but now she found herself longing for the sensory comfort it had brought. Lamps with perfumed oil cast their yellow flame dancingly over the room. This was a place of beauty, and just thinking how long it must have taken him to adorn it with those subtle touches designed purely to appeal to her own romantic tendencies touched her heart.

"I was dismissive of your feelings before. Then I read your letters, what you had said. I wasn't ready to confront it."

"And now you are?"

The scent of leather was suddenly very close, and beneath, the faint hint of incense lingering in the close air. She could feel the warmth of his dark gaze on her, both intent and inviting, and she felt herself being drawn in…

It suddenly struck her as very important that she step out of the circle of his grasp, not that he would attempt to touch her, again but if he did… Pushing aside the thought that brought with it a conflicting host of sensations, she retreated a few steps until she felt the back of her legs collide with the bed.

Erik's eyes flared at the deliberate withdrawal. Something was simmering beneath his skin – not quite anger, but not entirely removed from it either. Was it frustration? The papers had crumpled in his hand in one vicious movement and he was aware of a dry feeling of bitterness choking his throat. Is this what he would have to expect from now on? The apprehension in her eyes? Her shying away from his every movement? He would almost prefer that she abandon him forever than have her at his side and see only fear and loathing when she looked upon him. He spoke through clenched teeth. "I'm not allowing any half measures. If you do this, it has to be entirely. I won't accept anything else."

Christine saw his reaction to her drawing away. It was there, in his face that was twisted in contempt – she looked closer – or was it hurt? His attitude was defensive, scorning any pitiful attempt at tenderness, even had she wished to offer it. But he was too ungovernable, his passion too fierce. Yet still she was not immune to the surge of pity that filled her heart. He had never had anyone to care for him. And even though the years of her life had been darkened by terrible loss, Christine had never lacked for affection in her life, whether it were the warm paternal love of her father, the kindness of Mama Valerius, or the stern yet fiercely loyal devotion of Madame Giry, and of course, her constant, unfailing love for Raoul.

But her feelings for Erik… no, they could not be termed affection. For affection was a simple thing, and Erik did not – or could not – comprehend simplicity. He hated and loved with his entire being; if he fell, he fell completely; it was madness and passion and death, he would let the world burn to possess her. With such intensity, how could she hope to respond with something as prosaic as affection? And it was not merely pity, either. Nor was it remorse, nor even fear. Such words could not convey the shattering complexity of emotions that bound her to this man.

She would stay with him just long enough until this – whatever it was between them – had reached some sense of closure. Only then could she move on with Raoul, guilt free, and having no obligations to her past life. But until then, she had given her word. Perhaps in time, she would come to regret it, but for the moment there was only the calm certainty of conviction. It was done.

"I am here – for as long as you need me."

A cold something gleamed in his eyes, something rather like satisfaction. "You're certain, Christine?"

There was a pause in which she could hear the beating of her own heart.

Then –

"Yes," she said.

Without fully knowing why, whether it was to offer comfort or confirmation, Christine reached out in an entreating gesture, her hand enclosing the hardened muscle of his arm that seemed very firm and solid, very there in a way she had long been unable to admit to herself. At times she could still hardly persuade herself he was real; so long had he been an angelic spirit created by her own mind, a result of a child's loneliness and the need for a companion and guide. But now – very recently – he had become more and more substantial; the disembodied voice corporealising into a living and breathing man. A man of dark hair, coarse burnt-gold skin and eyes black as onyx. The heavy presence of his frame, the tension in the hands, the murderous ability; no, she could not have imagined those. And always, the realisation that beneath the mask was a misshapen, scarred and twisted profile – a seeming outer prelude to what lay within the diabolical mind.

He would not have been a handsome man even without the deformity – for the word handsome implied something ornamental, where everything had its moderation and symmetry and broke no boundaries. And to aesthetic standards, Erik's face was too intensely mobile for propriety and too irregular for beauty; the heaviness of his brows, large strong nose and sensual mouth contrasted inharmoniously with the slanting eyes and deep-set cheekbones. If there was anything striking about him, it was in the predatory grace he embodied. It was a magnificent ferocious quality that Erik possessed; the savagery and precision of finely-honed danger, the terrifying disregard for limits. A person could try and tame such a creature, at the price of being potentially torn to pieces.

Is this what she had let herself in for?

Erik held himself very still. Just when he had thought the dream of her touching him of her own volition had gone forever, now she was here at his side, holding him, her sweet face raised to his. He could not begin to imagine how such a thing were possible. Could concentrate on nothing else but her hand, white and soft as satin, resting lightly on his arm. It moved him more deeply than had she clung to him in passion. He looked at her. Clothed in white, her soft dark hair falling loosely over her shoulders. The simple grace and gentleness of her movements. Her beautiful, sad face and the soft clear eyes pierced his heart.

"You are truly serious about this, aren't you?" he murmured wonderingly.

"How could you doubt it?"

"Because of what I did. Because of what you did."

"That doesn't matter to me. It is in the past. For better or for worse – I am here."

"Why?" His voice was very low.

"Because even if you were standing on the brink of Hell itself, I believe I would do everything I could to bring you back. I will be at your side, for as long as it takes."

"Why?" he demanded again. With sudden urgency, he caught her arms. His dark eyes flashed fire. "I want a reason, Christine – the real reason why you won't leave."

"Because –!" She exhaled in tearful frustration. "I care for you, Erik! Is that what you want to hear? I worry about you, I – I cannot just leave you without knowing you are alright. I won't simply abandon you to misery; my heart couldn't bear it." Her voice softened with sudden tenderness. "Do you really need me to tell you that?"

"You left me before," Erik reminded her, hating the cruelty with which he did so. "Twice."

He felt her trembling in his hold, the pulse beating in her fragile wrists. She looked up at him; hurt flashing through her tear-dashed eyes. "And in all that time, I never once stopped thinking about you! Erik, from the moment my father died, you became the most precious thing in my life. And even after everything that has happened, I could never stop feeling for you, or worrying about you, or wanting you to find peace. So, if you want to sneer or laugh or disbelieve me -"

"No," he said. "I want you to remember what you just said to me."

"And what is this, Erik?" Her voice was barely a whisper.

Erik looked intently into her face, and in that deep, concentrated gaze, it seemed he glimpsed her soul through her eyes. Trusting, uncertain, fearful; the traces of past suffering evident in the tight press of her lips, the convulsive movement of her slender fingers that struck him painfully with their haunting vulnerability. Yet she had not drawn away. And a sudden glow stole through him, warm and vital, filling his heart with a surge of longing so intense it struck him as physical pain. His grip firm and solid on her beloved form, he spoke in soft and earnest tones.

"It's the moment you gave me hope."

"Oh God," Christine whispered. She pulled away from him, pressing her shaking hands against her face. She had paled to the lips. "Erik, please don't do this to me – to yourself. I cannot promise you anything. I will do everything I can to help you, but I don't want to hurt you by making you believe –"

"Believe that over the choice of returning to your lover or remaining with me, you chose me?"

"I chose to help you. And I will – with all my heart. But it will never be anything more. What I offer might not mean much to you –"

"It means everything in the world."

Perhaps it was courting peril to say it, but her conscience wouldn't be satisfied until this one matter was made clear between them. "But I'm not going to lie to you. If Raoul does find me, I cannot stay with you."

Wild hatred flared within Erik an instant; hatred the only way he knew it – the kind that was fierce and all-consuming. He could taste it on his tongue, feel it in the blood soldering in his veins. He could not despise in the cold, cruel way of others, which could be detached and calculating, could delay revenge and plan schemes with a level head and clear eye. He lacked the restraint. His emotions were all fire. The muscles of his arm tensed beneath her hand in an unacknowledged possessive response. "And I will be honest with you, then. If your Vicomte and I cross paths, I won't guarantee he will leave the encounter alive."

She pulled away from him at once.

"You underestimate him," she said.

Erik laughed quietly. "If you really believed that, my dear, you wouldn't have agreed to stay with me. You're afraid that if you leave now, I would be driven to destroy him." He shrugged carelessly; she felt her insides tighten with nervousness. "You're probably right."

"So you would kill him, then?" she said, and shivered.

"If it was a way of making you forget, then yes, I would kill him." His voice was calm and dispassionate. There was no doubt he was telling the truth. He would commit murder for her. Christine leaned forward, looking at him intently, but there was no flicker of emotion that betrayed a sense of inner recoiling at the prospect. He didn't look full of life anymore; his face was gaunt and pale, and yes, ghostlike. This room had been a boudoir of muted light and subtly preserved fragrances. Light silks and heavy velvets in rich, warm colours, the pots of onyx and ivory glowing on the vanity amid the bottles of scent and powder brushes. These remained – yet the room could have been a sepulchre for the deathly cold atmosphere that seemed to have penetrated the stone walls. She remembered with a start that in the outside world it was November, that it was probably snowing – and with an even greater sensation of surprise – that she was supposed to be getting married in five days.

Erik was watching her with an inscrutable look. "You seem surprised, Christine. Does the idea of me as a murderer still shock you? You know what I've done. What I am."

She spoke with a surety that surprised him. "I know what you can be."

Erik's eyes seemed to hold a world of knowledge and despair. "Oh, Christine," he said softly. "You have no idea what I could be, if I put my mind to it."

His words had served as a warning to make her understand, to convey that she must not set her hopes too high, and to put her on her guard to protect her from his darker impulses. They had not intended to incense her. His heavy black brows flew upward in surprise as she looked up at him with angry colour suffusing her pale features.

"You cannot frighten me. Not anymore. Believe me Erik, I know the worst of what you've done, because you did it all to me!"

"If only that were true," he muttered, half to himself.

"Why? Do you think murder and torture is the peak of your cruelty? There are far worse things to fear than death; you taught me that. The ones you killed – they got off lightly. You weren't able to construct a world of lies around them, or manipulate them into becoming slaves to your will. You didn't send their bright, beautiful world crashing down around them in pieces, so completely shattered that it leaves them wondering if there can ever be anything that's real found in life ever again –"

Erik was clenching his fists so hard that his nails tore through the leather of his gloves. He was barely aware of it, lost in the horror that reigned inside him. He bit down on his lip hard to restrain the words of useless supplication that filled his mouth and throat. In the blinding pain behind his eyes, he thought in a half dream, No. I have no right to speak. Nothing I say can atone for this. She will hold it against me forever. Her slim, upright figure was shaking uncontrollably. What she told him was nothing he hadn't already known, but knowing was different from understanding. She had trusted him, she had believed in him. And he had twisted and violated that trust, warped that precious innocence by turning an appeal for help into a means of control, turned hope into mockery.

But I only wanted to help her, he insisted.

You wanted her in your power.

To give her comfort!

To make her love you.

The truth of this could not be denied. It was confirmed in the painful accusation reflected in her dark eyes.

"Then why –" His voice cracked and broke.

"Why would I want to help you? Because I saw you change. The moment you let me go, I looked into your eyes and I saw your soul. Beneath all the cruelty and darkness and ugliness, I saw you, Erik. The man you are. The man you can be. So promise me now, no matter how terrible you might feel, no matter how dark a place the world seems, always hold on to that. Remember that moment. Never let it go."

Erik pulled the gloves from his hands; palms open upward, the drying bloodstains like copper-coloured tributaries. He looked with the indifference of a disinterested observer, only aware of the pain as a vague throbbing heat across his skin. It struck him how very vulnerable this body was, for all its deadly agility, how it was still not immune to injury. It was just as susceptible to evils as the spirit.

His voice came out rough and grating. "I've burned up, Christine. I'm nothing but empty darkness. I don't think there's any good left in me."

"No," she said, fighting off the overpowering conviction in his voice. "But I do."

He stared at her a long moment, before breaking out in harsh laughter, seeking refuge in irony. "So much faith," he remarked, with a lightness of tone that did not reach his eyes. "Well, we'll just have to wait and see, won't we?

Christine's legs felt unsteady beneath her. The last twenty-four hours seemed to have caught up to her in a rush. "Alright," she said faintly. "Enough of this. I – I need to be alone. Can you please leave me?"

He swept his hand outwards in an exaggerated flourishing movement. "Far be it from me to deny you anything you want Christine."

He swept from the room before she could see his face collapse with overpowering emotion.

Christine stared at the closed door for some moments, and then retreated as far from it as possible, and sank slowly to the floor by her bed. Her hands shaking, she pulled the sheet away and wrapped it around herself, but her body would not stop trembling. Her shrouded figure looked very young, lost amid the ripples of dark red silk. After all, she was only a girl of eighteen, and he was a man twice her age who was violent and terrifyingly unbalanced. And somehow she had, by her own volition, thrown herself entirely at his mercy. Her mind whirled. The room was too small, the walls closing in on her. Everything seemed unreal. She felt like she was in a dream – a horrible dream. She was exhausted. She was burning. She was sick with fear.

She closed her eyes, but the image of Erik's face was seared onto her mind like a brand. The very embodiment of love thwarted. Intent, alive with merciless intelligence; a face that would never die in her memory, even if he did. A resonance stirred in her mind, a pale echo of something that might once have been laughter. Die? No, never, never! Nothing could kill him. Not whips, not gunshots, not fire. The Opera House had burned, but he had endured.

There was a searing heat circulating through her blood. She could never remember a feeling like this, so hot and draining, as though there were not air enough to fill her lungs. The thought of opening the door crossed her mind but she dismissed it at once in the dread of encountering Erik again. She remembered how she felt when he was near, as though her body and mind were no longer own. And to feel that way forever…

Christine shuddered.

She had agreed to walk through fire once more, just as surely as she had on the night of Don Juan. But that had been to escape him, not to become further entwined in his world! She knew what his world entailed. Had been on the threshold of stepping into it. Her eyes were tightly closed, but an image danced across her lids; an image of a dark stage ringed with torches of fire, figures in red silk slipping in and out of the shadows and a darkly compelling voice wrapping itself around her, drawing her towards him…

Furious, she blinked the memory away.

He had tricked her, entranced her, seduced her –

She had been led down in the dark, by a being she could not see. But still the spell of his music was wound about her, which for a time, held fear at bay. That disembodied voice comforted her, soothed her, sang to her gently and had her half-convinced that all this was only a dream. His voice had followed her into sleep so often that reality and fantasy had entwined in her nights for months now. Therefore, surrendering herself to the illusion, she was willing to follow wherever it led her, still convinced she would awaken in her dressing room at any moment.

It was the Angel she had always known, and yet even in the hazy depths of her mind, she could see that he was becoming more real and substantial by the moment. The voice was as divine as ever, but her once incorporeal spirit was now solid! She could feel the warmth of his breath over her face, the very beat of his heart, and he was holding her – not with the spell of his music, but with real hands, gloved hands. No longer an angel, but a being of flesh!

Christine gave a cry and pulled out of his grasp. But the creature – the man, she realised faintly – continued to sing to her softly, and again that web-like veil of illusion stole over her. She felt herself floating away. Only a dream, her mind whispered. Only a dream, after all…

Sweet now, his hands enfolding her, leading her over water, the candlelight reflecting on its black surface like a night sky strewn with constellations. Her senses acted without the will of her mind and succumbed wordlessly to the enchantment, abandoning all questioning thoughts. Wonder overcame her as she found herself in an underground lair, and yet… a grand realm, palacial, with vast Gothic spaces and adorned with magnificent items. The organ dominating the centre like an imperial throne, illuminated by a thousand candles dancing and flickering before the metal pipes. Everywhere she looked, beauty. Lush red roses spilling among the shelves, petals falling over the volumes of highly stacked books. Sketches and paintings strewn across the furniture, swirling magnificent colours peering between the mirrors and inlaid gold leaf décor. Crimson draperies swaying their gauzy folds over a swan bed, parting to reveal –

A bridal gown and veil.

Christine suddenly remembered with a seizing of horror the words she had sung as he had drawn her through the mirror… Fate links thee to me for ever and a day…

This was to be her wedding!

The next thing she remembered was waking up in the swan bed she had been admiring before, chilled to the bone and aware of the stark reality that faced her. Her mind was now quite clear, clear and cold.

It was evident that she had fallen into the hands of a madman, a madman who had brought her here to be his bride. And no doubt this creature was the very same Opera Ghost that half the theatre feared and half treated with laughing scepticism. The Phantom she had dismissed as the mere type of superstition that haunted any such building… but she had believed in the Angel. Yet it was not anger that flooded her body – not in that moment, at least – it was grief. Christine buried her face in her hands, suppressing the heartbroken moan that rose in her throat. Her father… her beloved father gone… it had all been trickery, a vile deception. The joy she had known these months and years, all lies! The pain that pierced her heart was so deep, so intense, she felt that she had lost him all over again. Gustave Daae's spirit had not existed for a single moment. He had never been more than bones in a cemetery, long dead and cold beneath the earth.

And the Angel that had been sent to her –!

Her Angel had gone and in its place stood a tall man wearing a mask. Well-built and dark featured, but it was his eyes that held her paralyzed. Dark as obsidian, yet lit from within as though by the reflection of candlelight. Eyes filled with such tenderness and longing!

"Do not be afraid, Christine, you are in no danger."

The voice… it was his voice. Beautiful and deeply resonant with its rich tones and plunging cadences. The voice that had given her lessons in her dressing room, that had criticised, praised, commanded, comforted. She stared at him, speechlessly. Uncertain whether she wanted to strike him, to fall weeping at his feet or flee from his presence. Her gaze moved uncertainly over the white porcelain that covered half his face.

He saw at once what held her attention, and said more firmly, "You are in no danger, so long as you do not touch the mask."

So, not only had he lied to her for years, he would not even grant her the courtesy of seeing his face! Had she been less shocked, less outraged, Christine would have read the danger that lingered beneath his soft tones, taken heed of the warning that lay there. But grief hung too heavy over her heart and there was no place left for fear.

"I know my manner of bringing you here was rather… unorthodox. You must have questions."

Christine shook her head numbly, for where could she even begin? What words could ever justify this monstrous ruse, to have exploited the mind of a grieving child, giving her hope then cruelly snatching it away? She was too incensed to speak. Whoever he was, she would never forgive him for this as long as she lived.

He sighed. "Then perhaps I can play something for you?"

Her smile was strained, but somehow she nodded with all the appearance of compliance. Let him think she was content to remain here, that the opulence that surrounded her and the power of his music was sufficient to drive all else from her mind. Anger had made her reckless, and she no longer cared about the consequences of her actions.

She drew closer as the stranger seated himself at the organ. Exquisitely dressed, moving with all the grace of a gentleman, yet she could see the trembling of his gloved hands, the way he kept glancing back at her as though desperate for her approval. At any other time, the sight would have inspired her compassion, but now she felt only contempt. What madness had ever induced her to believe this was anything other than a man!

But then… he started to play.

The ringing force of the organ reverberated around the cavernous dwelling, magnified with daunting splendour. It was the temptation scene from Faust. Faust, the man who had sold his soul to the Devil, partly for love of a woman… She had heard the piece performed countless times before, but never with such magnificent and terrifying mastery. Every burning note that he struck filled her with an increasing sense of horror. The mask began to hold a grotesque fascination, rendering him as diabolical as Mephistopheles. She was drawn to her own doom, for suddenly she had to know what lay behind the mask, to see him for what he truly was, angel or devil –

His head was cast back, eyes closed, utterly lost in the infernal world of his music. With a trembling outstretched hand, hardly daring to breathe, Christine reached out and pulled the mask from his face.

The agony of what had followed she would never forget until her dying day. In a fevered state of mind and an earnest wish for oblivion, she threw herself on the bed and prayed that sleep would come and take her.

But rest was not swift in coming. Christine tossed and turned, unable to shake off the stifling heat that pressed around her. The sheets brushed uncomfortably against her skin. When black oblivion finally loomed, a towering wave of imminence, she welcomed it. And as she fell, hotter and hotter, she thought of Erik. The dark eyes and fingers like brands of fire. She longed for Raoul and the cool blue of his eyes.

His name left her dry lips in a grating whisper.

She would return to him.

So why did it feel like she had betrayed him?