Disclaimer: I am not Gaston Leroux. Nor Tim Burton. They are both male. And have facial hair. While I am female, and have none. Indeed, yes. Believe me, I should know.

Down once more to the lair. And all that jazz! That could be another catchphrase, you know! Enjoy the chappie, for it is E/C! And setting another chain of events into motion! I love chains!

Event ones, that is. Other ones are just slightly…bondy.

I can't believe I just said that.

Read the chapter, quick!

They built a woman. It was a logical choice. After all, while men wielded more obvious power…beautiful women often achieved great things, on the other hand, merely by smiling at powerful men.

Terry Pratchett, Thief of Time

Never listen to a woman's tears, Charlie Brown.

Charles Schulz's Peanuts comics

(I just had to put that one in. A point all you males would do well to remember. Darn, I've betrayed my own side. Oh, well.)

No love without trust

Christine sat on the edge of the stone platform, in a way very reminiscent of the position she had used who knew how long ago, when she had first awaited Erik's return after their shouting match. How very long ago now it did seem! Again she drummed her heels against the tapestry covered stone, her fingers curling over the ledge, as she looked out over the water. She had long given up any expectation of seeing anything, but that didn't prevent her from looking. Sometimes, it was simply a relief upon her eyes, after the vibrancy of what Erik showed her, and played for her, and encouraged her to sing.

There had been time enough since the agreement they had made back in Nadir's garden for her both to curse and to exalt in her heart her acceptance of the lessons he had laid at her feet, as an offering to placate her. Why in heaven had she made that promise, to be his pupil, in the first place? She had an idea that it had been to placate him, while she searched for some, any, way out of her predicament, to quiet his suspicions through her gradual obedience. That part at least had worked, for in some ways her captor had become her captive. She could punish him by a refusal to sing, a rejection of an occasion's lesson, leading him to – not quite plead, but certainly make many attempts to bribe her into becoming vocal once more, from playing her beautiful music that begged to be sang to, to singing himself, in an endeavour to coax her voice forth; and as her voice improved with the training he provided her with, so his desperation became all the more slightly evident when she apparently committed crimes by refusing, petulantly, to utilise it.

It pleased her in some small, probably meaningless way, to know that, however much power his voice might hold over her, her voice had its own small measure of power over him. It was almost alarming at times.

Only at times. At other times, it was almost gratifying.

But, all the same, while she appeared to have entrapped him, he most certainly still held her in his thrall. Try as she might, no matter how much she alternately obeyed and remonstrated, conversed and refused to speak alternately, she still could not overcome that obstacle in her immediate surroundings – that, while she held Erik's heart and mind easily, he most certainly held her in his power, and in his realm. No matter how hard she tried to learn the rules of this place, in the end it was he who had made them, and he who could change them at will.

And it wasn't just the rules that unnerved her. The whole situation of the lessons was beginning to make her feel uneasy. At first she had thought that she had been very clever when she had fobbed him off with her promise, but now that she had had time to experience it at length, she doubted that she had been so very clever at all. For, though she routinely delayed the lessons when she felt the time had come to wrap him a little further around her finger, the pain he felt at the scorned teachings seemed to be echoed in her own soul. Little as she liked to admit it, with her understandably biased point of view, Erik was a very good teacher, and with every ounce of tutorage her voice became better and better, clearer, stronger, more vibrant, perhaps even surpassing the days when she had been tutored back in the world of the living. Consequently, it was becoming harder and harder to refuse his offers of further fulfilment, and his quiet, pleading voice as he begged her to reconsider was echoed inside her, agreeing with him-

Oh, confound it all! I refuse to believe he's been cleverer than me this time! In this matter, I am in control. Of course I'm in control. He panders to my every need. I control him…

Meg would know what to do. If only she was here…

At the thought of Meg, she had to work hard to bite back a sob. Shameful as it was to admit, with everything else happening around her, she had been thinking of back 'upstairs' less and less; yet every time she did so it caused her more and more pain, the more time passed. To be down here, and not even know what her friends were doing, where they were, was torment enough; but to not know what they were thinking was even worse.

They had probably long since given up looking for her, their hysteria giving way to despair. The thought of what they must be suffering tore at her already tender heart, the thought that they did not even know whether she was alive or dead, and had no way of finding out the truth.

And as for Raoul…

I can hardly even remember his face, now.

Slowly, she stood up. She knew that she must walk carefully over to the organ stool, where even now he waited for her. One false step, and it would all come pouring out, and she would not be able to help it. She would not show her grief in front of him.

"What will you play now, Erik?" she asked, keeping her eyes steadily on the sheet music on the organ stand, and trying not to focus on the dark fabric of his nearly empty sleeve practically next to her – though with time, the sleeve had somehow seemed to become more and more bulky, along with his trouser leg, as if Erik's mortal body was finally giving up the struggle and letting his spirit form take over, and with it the illusion of wholeness rather than decay. She had not dared to test this theory out through touch, though. The alternating feeling of Erik's hand, rapidly jumping between bone and flesh, was enough to make her feel weak at the knees, in more ways than one.

"Othello and Desdemona's duet," came the soft reply. There was a pause from her right, before his beautiful voice spoke again. "Christine? Are you sure you wish to sing now?"

"Of course. Why do you ask?" she shot back, too quickly.

There was one of his macabre chuckles. "Then as the lady wishes." At once his fingers began to pound out the notes that preceded the duet, and he bent his dark head over the keys.

As she sang Desdemona, to Erik's dark, soulful Othello, she felt everything that she had repressed swelling up inside her. The sheer sadness and horror or the situation almost choked her; the knowledge that your fate was inevitable, and would end in darkness, with no hope of redemption. She sang, becoming her character. She sang to try to quell her despair and terror. She sang, to try and avoid the emotion that was threatening to split her heart, and took no notice when it seemed instead to spill out through her eyes and down over her cheeks. She sang-

"Christine!"

With a start, she realised that the music had stopped, and that through her cloudy vision she could see Erik reaching out to grasp her by the shoulders. She had half a mind to flinch away, but by that time it was too late and she already felt his grip upon her skin, pulling her closer, irresistibly.

She was shocked to find that her cloudy vision was actually caused by tears that were now dripping down onto her breast, and that, though she was still singing, she was only feebly warbling the words between her sudden sobs. It was ridiculous! She couldn't start weeping like a baby now, not after coping for so long! She at once tried to stop, to quell her gasps for air, to recall the tears she had shed, but it was impossible. Now that she had broken down for an instant, it seemed pointless to try to rebuild the façade, at least for now.

She allowed Erik to steer her over to the bench, sitting her down, let his anxious inquiries of what was wrong pass over her head. He drags me down to the underworld, she thought dryly and dimly, entombs me in this lair, and he asks me what is wrong? How much of a cretin is he?

Pressure on her cheeks made her blink to clear her vision. Well, perhaps Erik was not so much of a cretin after all. He seemed to have given up asking her questions, and was instead gently running a damp handkerchief he had spirited from nowhere across her cheeks, mopping up her tears as carefully and tenderly as a mother tends to her dirty child who needs comfort for a scraped knee. As she looked up at him through eyes that had been blurry and aching before he had cleaned them, he stroked the cloth across her chin, where an excess of salty liquid had built up to drip down further; paused, and then placed the handkerchief carefully into her hands, seeming to think that in this mood she was even less likely to let him near that particular area of her body. Then he carefully knelt down – with barely a hint of grinding bone from his knee – in front of her, and clasped her hands in his, very reminiscent of that first time in the lair.

"Well?" he asked, gently.

It was enough to set her off weeping again. Feeling ridiculous even as she had to dab at her eyes with the piece of cloth – and escaping the touch of his hands, which she was sure he had not planned – she said, brokenly, "I'm sorry, Erik." No I'm not. "It's just – I – I miss my family so. I miss them so much, and…and…and they probably think I'm d-dead!"

Erik's hands tightened on hers. "What makes you say that?"

"Because I've been missing for who knows how long!" Lord, she didn't even know how long she'd been kept down here. It could be two weeks or two months, she had no way of telling, no way of knowing, no way of measuring out time by meals or need for sleep, since her time in Erik's realm seemed to have warped her requirement for either into non-existence. "They'll have sent out search parties for me. Oh, good Lord," she murmured, the full horror of the likely situation up top beginning to swamp as it hadn't even when she had first been brought here, "they might think I was k-kidnapped! Or - or raped and murdered, and my body hid somewhere. Or…" Her last thought caught her in her throat, and she didn't dare speak it, hardly think it, because of the full weight of the horror it carried for her and for her fiancée.

Or maybe they think I ran away.

"I doubt it," Erik said quietly. Her head jerked up, half thinking he was referring to her last thought – she wouldn't put it past him to be able to read minds, on top of everything else – but it seemed that he seemed to be trying to reassure her. "Time moves differently here, Christine – it is much faster, outside the time of the living. From my guess, it is most likely the morning after the night we met."

You've blundered, Erik, was her first thought, almost dreamy in sudden euphoria.

Even as he spoke, his eyes suddenly fixed on hers in alarm, and she knew that he realised with a shock that he had made a mistake, even as she forced herself to say, calmly, trying to quell her excitement and emotion "So, the masquerade ball is tonight…"

"What of it?" he asked harshly, obviously trying to cover up his horror at his uncharacteristic error.

She met his gaze again, taking her eyes off the candlestick just behind him. "Erik-"

"No." His voice had gone flat, stripped of all timbre or music quality, as he abruptly stood up, dropping her hand as if she was suddenly the one who was rancid, not him.

"You didn't even know what I was going to say."

"I did know. And the answer is no, Christine. Do you think I would be such a fool as to allow you to go back up there? To attend this pitiful masquerade? To throw yourself at him once again? And to never come back?"

It was as bad as she had feared, but she had to at least try. "Erik, please-"

"No." Erik stamped over to the edge of the platform, looking out over the water, with a glare enough to turn it to ice in an instant; his skeletal hand flexing and closing, as it often seemed to do when he was emotional.

She thought swiftly, trying to think of a compromise. "Erik, listen. No, please, listen," she said hastily, as he turned to glare at her in turn, his yellow eyes glowing with sudden fire. "If I promise, I promise, that I would spend only the evening up there – just one night – and come straight back to the wood, or at least as quickly as I could, would you let me? Just to see my friends and family, just to let them know that I'm all right, that I'm safe? If I promised?"

For a moment he said nothing, as he processed this. His face gave no hint of what he was thinking; even the fire in his eyes seemed to have gone down as he thought.

Please, please, please oh please oh please…

Finally he spoke, more quietly. "But what regard would you give to a promise made to a dead man? Surely it would not matter, one of those part of the negotiation being deceased and therefore invalid? I am sorry, Christine, but I would not trust you to keep your word, especially in your situation."

Damn you, Erik! Damn you! she raged silently, as her hopes fractured and cracked and disintegrated. But she only stood up, placing the handkerchief carefully down upon the bench with all the composure she could muster, before turning and making her way down the steps and away from him.

"Some have said there can be no love where there is no trust, Erik," she shot back over her shoulder.

She waited until she reached the roses, after threading her way through various parts of the lair she was by now familiar with, before stopping and hugging herself to prevent herself from screaming out loud with frustration. How could Erik? How could he? He knew the situation above ground, he knew her desires, and yet he wouldn't even let her see those she loved, to reassure them, to comfort them, tell them that she was all right, promise them that she would escape, for them…

If he loves me as much as he says, why does he refuse me this?

She traced her fingers over the rose petals. They brought her little or no comfort, but she needed something, anything, to do, to distract herself…

No. I won't be distracted. He will not refuse me this.

Turning on her heel, she stalked back the way she had come, until she reached the edge of the water and the organ once again. Erik was sitting on the bench, but still looking out over the water, straight-backed and tall as ever, his eyes distant. In his skeletal hand, he held the handkerchief.

She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say a word Erik said mildly, without even looking at her, "I assent."

"What?" She hadn't been expecting this.

"I assent," he repeated. "I will take you up to the surface. I will even take you to the mansion, to attend your ball, so that you may see your companions."

Even as she internally rejoiced, she was alert for any catches. "There are conditions, I presume?"

He smirked down at her. "But of course. You must not tell anyone certain details of where you have been, or what has happened to you in the time that you are away. Aloofness shall be your watchword. And, of course," he added, standing up swiftly, "I shall accompany you."

"What?"

He smiled down at her shock. "Come, come, Christine, do you really think I would let you go up alone? With no protection? Why – anything could happen to you."

She gained enough control over her voice to shoot back, "Do you not think I will arouse suspicion in my elders by arriving with another man, let alone what Raoul will think?"

He seemed to wince at the barb of her beloved's name, but the grin quickly returned. "Oh, I should not worry, my dear – after all, no one will recognise you. You shall be in disguise! Won't that be thrilling?"

He had tricked her. How? He had tricked her, taken all the weight out her purpose in going back up. How was she supposed to approach her companions when they wouldn't even be able to realise who she was, let alone convince them of what had happened to her? "But – but how will I be able to tell them what has happened? How will they believe me?"

"That, I believe, is your problem, my dear." He strode down the steps, and catching up her hand dragged after him, all bewildered. "Now, come – I am sure you will wish to see your costume."

She had no words to protest as he led her swiftly, stumbling, up the flight of steps to his bedchamber. Instinctively she pulled back – what possible reason could he have for taking her there, unless to his bed, perhaps? Oh, God, no – but instead he turned at the last minute and pulled her up another little flight of steps she had somehow failed to notice, to a small alcove set in the wall, covered with a velvet curtain. Flashing a half smile at her over his shoulder, he pulled the curtain aside.

After staring at just what was positioned just inside the alcove what seemed like hours, or even days, she found the words to speak. "Erik…"

"Yes?"

"It's a wedding dress."

"You are indeed perceptive, Christine."

"You want me to wear this to the masquerade."

"Yes."

Too many implications were screaming in her head for her to make much sense of it all, but one statement surfaced. "I can't wear it."

"And why not?" Controversially, he did not sound annoyed at all now, but rather amused.

"Erik, I cannot wear a wedding dress to a masquerade held by my fiancée's family; not when I am already attending it with another…man. Surely even you can understand that?" Even as she spoke, she felt a pang at her heart. It was the most beautiful dress she had even seen, after all, even lovelier than the rose pink gown she had left behind in the mansion. The grey silk seemed to call out to her somehow, begging to be stroked, touched caressed, slipped on over bare skin, and then leisurely stripped off in the secrecy of the marriage boudoir.

But to wear it…that she could not do. Not like this.

"Surprisingly enough, yes, I do, Christine." Erik elbowed himself upright off the wall, where he had been leaning to gage her reaction. "If it distresses you that much, I will make some alterations to your outfit."

"Of what sort?" she asked, fearfully. Already she was shrinking away from the dress on the mysteriously shrouded dummy, away from the dead flowers it carried, and away from the one who, it appeared, had created them.

"A beneficial sort. Now, leave me in peace for a while. Then I shall don my costume, and we shall both go up to the ball together!" Now that Erik was becoming used to the idea, he seemed to be almost fired with it, like an enthusiastic little boy. Already he seemed more than eager to alter his creations, so that he might prove their worth, so that he might gain an entrance back into life.

What have I done? she asked herself. To distract that question, she asked tentatively, "What will you be going to the ball as, then, Erik?"

Erik paused in his lifting of the veil off the head of the dummy. "Well…let us just say, my dear, that whatever it is, I shall not need to wear a mask with my costume."

He let the veil fall to the ground as he spoke, and pulled the curtain to, giving her only a glimpse of the bare, lifeless head of the dummy, that nevertheless seemed to stare at her eyeless.

And finish! All right, I can apologise now. I've just been soooo busy! I hate school work! It impinges on my valuable writing time, if that is the right word. Oh, curses to it all!

Ah, that's better. I've been waiting to write that for ages.

This scene pretty much speaks for itself. Lots of you have wanted those down below to meet those up above for a while now, and Victor had got Emily (the Corpse Bride) to take him back up to the top long before this. Soon we shall have the masquerade chapter – and I promise you, it shall be a long chapter.

Off the subject for a moment, extra brownie points to anyone who can spot the link of one prop in this chapter to another part of the chapter!

Off the subject for another moment; Erik's knee scraping is a tribute to my own knees. The bones in them seem to click together whenever I kneel down. Also my hip clicks as well, when I move it in an odd way. And my neck.

I swear I'm going to get arthritis in later life.

I can't wait for the masquerade chapter, when I get to show all the characters costumes. Christine's was a flash of genius on my part. I can't tell you what it is, but I'll give you a hint – it's not going to be a black domino.

Is there anything else? Oh yes; sorry again for taking so long, all my lovely and faithful reviewers!

Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!