His hands were on her face, fingers tracing her cheekbones and her hairline none too gently. They were no longer cold, his hands, but very warm.

"I was stupid to leave," she gasped, trying to remain calm, although his dreadful, twisted skin, with the gleaming red muscle showing through its pleats—and that horrid, huge, pumping cyst on the side of his head—were almost more than she could bear up close. She didn't mind it, really—it was only that it was so near, as though it were being forced upon her yet again. "Stupid to give you my ring, only I was so angry about what you had done, and so weary, and R—he was half-dead, and I couldn't bear it."

"You nearly killed me," he said between his teeth. "When I thought you had come back to me—to stay—but you merely dropped your ring in my hands and pulled yourself away from my pleas, with hardly a backward glance."

"I heard you calling after me," she whispered. "I didn't dare look back. So burned was it into my memory that I heard you calling every night in my dreams."

"I tasted your lips in mine," he murmured, and she felt her face flush scarlet.

He drew back a little, his hand absently smoothing back the pitiful, greyed remnants of his hair. He suddenly seemed to remember he was no longer wearing a wig, or a mask for that matter, and his expression changed. He seemed far more uncomfortable. Exposed.

"What do you mean to do?" she asked. He sank into a small couch that she recognized from the old grotto. She wanted to ask him how it—and how he, for that matter—came to be here, but didn't dare. It seemed too ordinary, too familiar. Besides, to bring up how he came to be here would naturally bring up more…uncomfortable conversation.

"Go," he said in response to her question, "far away from here. Perhaps not entirely out of France, for no doubt I might have a difficult time leaving the country—gendarmes must be posted at borders and at ports to make sure a fellow of my description does not effect an escape. It may not be so, but I have a fresh interest in prolonging my life, rather than prematurely ending it on the gallows, and I would prefer not to risk it."

She felt a little ill, imagining him being sent to the gallows.

"That being, of course, for the reason that I intend to make you my wife," he said. It was a flat, bland statement, as though he had just told her he was going to make some tea.

Christine felt a little frozen, even though her cheeks were hot. Her foot brushed against something hard. "Oh!" she gasped, catching sight of it.

"I've just remembered—" she said clumsily, because she really had, but also to thankfully turn the conversation elsewhere, "Meg Giry found this. I can't believe I carried it with me all the way, but it fit in my reticule, which I somehow managed to keep with me, even when—" She was stammering. "At any rate…" She dug it out of her bag—she couldn't believe that it hadn't fallen out or broken to pieces, during her blundering journey—and showed it to him.

His face was expressionless.

"I thought," she said in embarrassment, "I thought you might…want it. It isn't that I want you to wear it particularly, only I thought it would make you feel…more…comfortable."

"Ah," he said. "I confess…" His voice was soft. "I am glad to see it. I thought I had lost it, and had nothing to make another like it. Aside from that, I had no wish to try—before you came. It seemed an unnecessary expenditure of energy and time, owing to my singular circumstance." He arose from the couch, and slid the mask slowly from her hands.

The passing of his mask reminded her eerily of that first morning in the other grotto, the first time she had seen him for what he really was. She felt embarrassed, and turned away so he wouldn't see her face.

"Meg gave it to me, when she saw me…up there," she said, glancing back at him. He looked somehow larger with it, more imposing. Christine felt her legs tremble a little.

"Does she know?" he asked sharply.

"No," said Christine. "A suspicion…an idea, perhaps. But no knowledge or certainty."

"It does not matter, at any rate," he said. "We will be at the other end of the country by the morrow, at the latest."

"You mean to leave to-night, then?"

"I do. If you wish to gather anything from your flat, I will oblige you."

"Thank you," she said dully. "And…I must write a few letters, explaining my absence." Noticing his incredulous glance, she quickly added, "I will be sure to frame them in such a way as to dispel any suspicion of my having gone off with you."

"I never knew you to tell a very good lie," he said, and then amended darkly, "except for your sordid little performance in Don Juan."

Christine's cheeks were hot with embarrassment. "How did I lie?" she asked.

"You sufficiently lowered my guard," he said, "to the point that I had no inkling of your real intentions. You were the bait for their trap, and do you want to know the worst of it? I knew perfectly well your role in their scheme, knew it well, and yet I allowed myself to be drawn into your spell nonetheless. I somehow became blinded to everything but you."

Her hands trembled a little. "I hardly knew what I did," she whispered. "When I pulled the mask from your face, it was a wild, desperate act. The moment I had done so, I felt so low that I wanted to die."

"Silly, isn't it, the spike and spiral of our feelings?" he asked blandly. "Fleeting and brief, such treacherous emotion. In those few moments when you wanted to die, I wanted to kill you. It is perhaps a moot confession to make now, but it is interesting to note how quickly certain outbursts of feeling can be contained, how quickly they may fade."

She shuddered.

"All my rage, therefore, which I fought to contain, became centered on your valiant rescuer." His voice was heavy with sarcasm.

"Let's not talk about it any more, please," she whispered.

"Very well," he said smoothly. "But tell me—did he suspect the reason for your breaking off the engagement?"

"I don't believe so," she said. "I didn't dare let him think it, for fear of what he might do."

"Humph!" he said, and she thought she detected a trace of disappointment. "Well—before we make the journey to your flat, we ought to make a rapid journey to my old dwelling-place. I need to retrieve a few odds and ends of my own. If you would be so good as to accompany me—"

She hesitantly took his outstretched hand, which was quite cold again, and followed him wordlessly.

She planned out the letters in her mind.

Dear Raoul,

I cannot begin to describe my feelings. This ought to be said in person, but I am afraid that if I speak with you face-to-face, I might lose my resolve. You are my dearest friend—believe this. Never doubt it. I have realized, however, that we could never be happy together. The childish romance which began all this is long past. We have flirted with Cupid, and it was lovely, in its way, while it lasted; I have come to the realization, however, that while I do now and will always cherish and love you, it is as my friend only, not in the way of husbands and wives, or lovers. It pains me to say this, dear, especially in a letter, but it must be said. Know that I am well and happy, and that you mustn't lose a wink of sleep over me. You will never want for admirers, Raoul, and you will find some-one who will make you very happy. Please do not try to find me. I do not want to be found. Be assured that I am in safe hands, and I am content.

I remain your affectionate friend,

Christine

--

Dear Meg,

You mustn't worry for me. I am well. I am happy. Do not trouble yourself another moment over me, for there is nothing to fear. I love you. I hope someday to come to Paris again, but for now, I must escape the ghosts of the past. They haunt me too vividly for me to linger.

God keep you,

Christine

She was not entirely sure whether she was happy or not. Happiness implied cheer. She was certainly not full of that. It was, perhaps, a quiet kind of satisfaction, more than anything else. It was tentative, struggling. Her mind still fought against the idea of her current position, even while her heart awkwardly, tremblingly embraced it.

It pained her beyond words to see the ruin of the old grotto, his organ utterly destroyed, his fine things slashed to ribbons or smashed to pieces, bearing burn-marks from torches. More than a few charred, scattered bits of music littered the damp floor.

"Did they do this?" she whispered. "Or—" She didn't continue with Did you? She felt too embarrassed, fearing that he might have.

He didn't answer. He didn't seem particularly bothered by the chaotic destruction of his home, which led her to believe that either he had done it himself, or he had returned before this, after it had been destroyed by the angry mob. Either way, he had clearly had sufficient time to grieve over his losses, whether self-inflicted or no.

He knelt down on the dirty, wet floor and slid a loose stone from the wall. There was a little hollow from which he withdrew a small safe. After fiddling with the dial, the little door swung open and he took out a substantial amount of bills. "My little stash, for emergencies," he said smoothly, and tossed the safe onto the floor after tucking the bills into his pocket. "I daresay that while I'm here, I might as well hunt for some clean clothes. My appearance is disreputable enough without looking like a vagabond from the streets."

Christine stood awkwardly in the middle of his ruined home. He paid her little heed. When he had finally found a fresh suit of clothes, he excused himself and went into the same small cavern in which she had put on her wedding-dress. He drew the curtain across the opening, and it was some time before he emerged.

She felt dreadfully awkward, being here and reliving that horrible night over and over in her mind a thousand times. He came from behind the curtain looking far better. He had, it seemed, even found one of his wigs. She was a little shocked at the difference in his appearance, although she knew it ought not to have surprised her. He looked vastly refreshed, and seemed once again to be a little more like the debonair host he had been the first time she had laid eyes on him.

"Ah!" he said with a considerable amount of pleasure, and plucked up his wide-brimmed hat from a dusty corner. He brushed it off, and settled it comfortably on his head.

"Now Erik is himself again," he said. "Or at least a facsimile of his old self." Facsimile or no, there was a fresh confidence emanating from him.

"You really mean to come with me," he said. It was a statement, but almost a question. "You really mean to remain by my side—"

She nodded dumbly. There was no backing out now, at any rate. She could not possibly refuse him, after all this. Could she?

"To the upper world, then," he said, taking her hand again--she limply accepted his grasp. "We shall have to be very careful, my dear."

They were indeed careful to avoid being seen together, when she went back to her flat to pack, and to write her letters—neither of them were foolish enough to assume that the sight of Christine Daaé in the company of a tall, strange-looking man in a mask would escape suspicion or scrutiny. He hid carefully in the shadows and in back alleyways while he followed her. She spied him standing as still as a statue in the darkness by her flat.

She had planned out the letters thoroughly in her mind, and wrote them quickly at her dressing-table.

She was sorely tempted, after this had been done, to go and tell him the whole thing was off, that she had changed her mind. There was a strange fear in her bones. Perhaps she had been wrong in all of this, after everything. There was still time to tear up the letters before posting them. Perhaps she could go back to Raoul, try to love him the way she had imagined herself loving him before the strange realization that she never could. Perhaps she could rebuild her old life, in spite of everything.

She knew, however, that it was impossible. She could not do it. But could she really bind herself to the man waiting downstairs next to the door of her flat? Could she willingly face the unknown, give herself up to him utterly? Could she forsake her old life entirely, give up all her old friends, her home, for a murderous madman? There was no doubt that he was murderous, but was he really mad, after all, or was he merely given to emotional extremes, uncontrollable fits of temper? Could she risk herself in this manner, no matter what the cause of his broiling rages?

More importantly, could she bear being with him always? She had drawn him out of the dark hole in the belly of the Opera, given him a sense of purpose, but now that this was done, could she not simply tell him she wished to remain his lifelong friend?

No. That was impossible, too. The Kiss had been one thing, that blind, searching act made in desperation to save Raoul's life, but they had shared awkward lover's kisses in the dim blue light only hours past, kisses and embraces that she could not willingly banish from her thoughts. Besides, there was no telling what he might do, to what lengths he might now go, if she dared to tell him it was off, that she had changed her mind. The consequences of that were frightening to contemplate.

Aside from that, she felt an odd little sensation while she was packing, a strange sense of freedom, of wickedness. The aftermath of the disaster, spending it with Raoul at his aunt's house, had made her feel stifled, suffocated. Despite her fears, despite her consternation, she felt a strange, fluttering certainty that this path was the right one if—oh, if only—she could muster the courage to follow it.

She went into her surrogate mother's bedroom, having finished filling her large valise with all she could neatly fit inside. "I am going away, Mamma," she said to Mme. Valerius, who sat in her chair absently darning a stocking. "Will you be all right, with Marie looking after you?"

"Oh, perfectly well," sighed the old woman, who was, as some would put it, "not all there." "But you only just came to the flat again to-day for the first time in days! I thought you would stay with me for a long time. Why are you going away, dear? Will you be back quite soon?"

"Perhaps," she said. "Could you tell Marie to post these letters for me tomorrow? I must take a holiday, Mamma. A very long holiday. Someday I'll be back. And of course I will write to you." She didn't want to alarm the poor woman, who had been so kind and was in such a fragile mental state, but she knew she could not write—at least not for a very long time—and it was probable that she would not, in fact, be back.

"Oh, I don't blame you, dear, with all those goings-on," said Mme. Valerius. "I declare, I heard something of a scandal, but you wouldn't have done anything scandalous. You told me, I think, that it had something to do with the Angel. But why—"

"Yes, Mamma. Don't ask me to tell any more, please. If Raoul de Chagny comes to see you—tell him that I have gone away, that I am safe, that you are assured of my happiness."

"Are you going away with the Angel?" asked the old woman sleepily.

"No, Mamma," said Christine. It was, really, quite true, for he was anything but the being both she and her surrogate mother had originally thought him to be. "The Angel is gone."

"Pity," sighed Mme. Valerius. "Well, dear, the best of luck. You are a good girl."

"Thank you, Mamma," Christine said, and kissed her gently on the cheek.

The moment Christine departed through the door, she felt his long, cool hand on hers. "H-hello," she stammered, feeling dreadfully shy, and a little panicked. There didn't seem to be anyone else about on the quiet little street, and she drew into the shadows with him. Oh, God, I cannot do this, I can't, I can't. The words, however, would not come to her lips, and other words took their place.

"I told Mamma good-bye," she said, feeling his breath against her face. It was still cold outside, even as the first hints of spring were beginning to venture forth.

"You bound up your hair again," he said.

"Oh…yes," she replied, touching it absently. "So no-one would instantly recognize me. Everyone is used to seeing it let down."

He took the valise from her, and she awkwardly took his arm. They walked through the next alleyway, carefully stepping around a sleeping inebriate with an empty bottle clutched in his hand.

He—Erik—why must I keep reminding myself? she thought, although it wasn't hard to fathom why—seemed far more relaxed than he had when they had departed the Opera. His confidence was clearly building.

"We'll have to hail a hansom," he said. "When we are quite clear of Paris, we can stop in some town and take the train without quite so keen a fear of recognition."

"What will we do for money?"

"I do have a bank account, you know," he said with a little annoyance. "Besides the cash which I retrieved from its hiding-place, there is a substantial amount gathering interest in the aforementioned fiduciary vault."

She almost told him then—almost brought the words to her lips, that she could not flee with him, that there must be some alternative, but the words died in her throat, and the moment slipped away.

They hailed a cab—Erik's large hat was tilted conspicuously over his gleaming white mask—and climbed inside, after he had told the driver where to go.

Christine felt unbearably sleepy.

"I am afraid," she whispered, "afraid of going to a place which I do not know. And…I am afraid that someone will see you, and know you. Or know me." And, she thought but did not dare to say, I am afraid of you.

"We are traveling to a fairly remote vicinity," he said. "The chances are slim of recognition. As for where we are traveling…you need not fear. We will make a new life together, you and I."

Strangely reassured for the moment, she slowly, timidly laid her head on his shoulder, and he stiffened a little. After a long moment, his arm snaked around her, slowly and uncertainly.

There was silence for a while, but for the clatter of wheels and hooves on the pavement beneath them. She slid her fingers very lightly, almost experimentally, over the back of his hand, and he shivered.

"You ought not to have worn it," she said suddenly, referring to his mask. "What if some-one had seen, and gone for the gendarmes?"

"Old habits are hard-pressed to die within an aging man's breast," he said. "And no-one saw."

"Merely having your hat pulled down, without the mask, would surely be disguise enough," she said. "Anyone who happened to catch a glimpse of you beneath it might only think you had been injured in war. But this—" She straightened, reached up her fingers and touched the cold, smooth porcelain. She felt suddenly ill with that shadow-memory again, and was overcome for a moment. "This," she whispered, "might cause you to be instantly recognized. Hundreds of people saw you onstage that night." She felt ill again, suddenly, with guilt. She hadn't meant to bring that up again.

"Wearing it," he said flatly, "gives me a measure of comfort that you, who have surely not lacked for beauty a day in your life, could never possibly understand."

Embarrassment flooded her. His arm slipped away. He pulled his hat down a little again over his mask and looked out the window, apparently ignoring her.

She struggled for a moment, his name still not coming easily to her lips. "Erik," she said finally, and he turned to look at her. "Yes?" he asked, his voice soft.

"It's late," she said. "No train will be going at this hour…even when we're clear of Paris, it will be far too early in the morning to—"

"We can stay overnight," he said. "In fact, I planned upon it when I instructed the driver on where to go." A cold little knot began forming inside her chest. "Overnight?" she asked faintly.

He glanced at her.

Her cheeks flamed. "I—I didn't—I was only thinking that there might be danger in staying overnight, if someone were to recognize you—" This was not, in fact, the reason her voice had sounded so weakly. She was plagued by scenario after scenario, all of which concerned having to share the same room, or worse, the same bed.

Her words and his, from days before, echoed in her mind over and over.

Have you gorged yourself at last in your lust for blood? Am I now to be prey to your lust for flesh?

That fate which condemns me to wallow in blood—has also denied me the joys of the flesh.

"The town we are stopping in is, as I said, appropriately remote," he replied, thankfully breaking her thoughts. "There is little to no chance of being identified. I promise you."

"Even so," she said, struggling a little, "I think perhaps—" She could think of nothing to say, however, and fell silent.

"If you have another alternative, I would of course be delighted to hear it," he said smoothly. She shook her head, and mutely looked out the window.

After a moment, she had the strange feeling that his eyes were on her, and she reflexively turned to test the impulse. As soon as she caught his stare, he turned nonchalantly away to look out of his own window, but for that briefest instant when her eyes found his, there was hardly any mistaking that his gaze had been hot with desire. His fingers tightened a little on his knee, although he himself moved no other muscle. She stared at the back of his head for a few long moments, her eyes tracing his broad shoulders, his long arms.

That fate which condemns me to wallow in blood…has also denied me the joys of the flesh.

She remembered the way his hands had traced her face in the dismal cavern, this very night. He had wanted her then, she was sure of it. Why had he done nothing?

He still did not move from looking out of his window. His back was to her, but the fingers on his knee began to drum rapidly, almost nervously. She heard him humming softly, absently, some tune she did not recognize. It was not contented humming, but awkward humming, as though he were trying to occupy his thoughts.

He shot a hooded glance at her, and she saw again that desperate longing, some severe inner struggle. He seemed about to speak, but abruptly looked away once more.

Christine slowly reached out and touched his sleeve, feeling herself quiver, almost shrink. He stopped humming, and looked at her again. His pale face seemed flushed.

"Christine," he said huskily, and took her hand in both of his, pressing his lips to her knuckles fervently. Like a man possessed, he placed kisses all over her hand and her wrist. He pressed his cheek to her arm, his breath coming in short gasps. She was frozen, and not at all sure what she ought to do now.

"Erik, I—" she began, but was at a loss of what to say. He let go of her abruptly, and leaned back. "Forgive me," he said. "I don't quite know what came over me—" He turned away again, his chest heaving. His fingers returned to his knee, and slowly dug into it like claws. He did not look at her again for a long time.

They arrived in the town of Éperon at a quarter to midnight. Erik paid the driver and gingerly helped Christine out of the hansom after retrieving her valise. "If you'd rather we go on…" he said suddenly, as she clambered out, and she paused for an instant. "No," she said finally. "I'm tired. I must rest sometime, and I shan't be able to sleep in a clattering, bouncing cab."

"Very well," he said, and she thought she felt his hand tremble almost imperceptibly under hers. "I know of an obliging inn not far."

"You've been here before?"

"Once," he said, "Long ago."

They walked to what looked to Christine to be the most ramshackle inn she had ever seen. The sign was so faded that she could hardly read the words Le Chat Blanc. Erik knocked on the door, and a wizened oldster answered, blinking his eyes blearily.

"Closed," he said, and nearly shut the door, but Erik put his foot in it. "We require lodging," he said. "We will pay handsomely."

"Eh?" said the old man, his face pricking up a little. "How much?"

Erik handed him the money, and the old man licked his lips. "That'll get ye the suite upstairs," he said. "T'aint occupied, 'cept for a few roaches, perhaps."

Christine blanched, and the old man cackled. "Yer pretty young lady's not used to this type o' lodging, I'll wager," he said.

Erik wordlessly took Christine by the hand and led her inside. "Which room?" he asked flatly.

"One farthest to the left," said the wrinkled proprietor. "Pleasant dreams to ye. Will ye have a bite before ye retire?"

Christine stopped, suddenly feeling all too keenly that she had not eaten since that morning. Her stomach rumbled, and the old man laughed. "Hungry, I see," he said. "Well, we've bread and cheese, at least, though I daresay I won't be able to get the missis to cook anything fancier for ye 'til the morning."

"That would be fine," Christine said quickly. "If you would be so kind…"

"You've a funny accent," said the old man.

"I'm from Sweden," said Christine, her face flushing.

"Sweden, eh!" said the old man, and hobbled to the kitchen. He brought back a loaf of bread and a large hunk of white cheese, both of which looked surprisingly good.

Christine sat at the table and tore into the bread, ignoring Erik's raised eyebrow. It was, strangely, becoming easier and easier to think of him by his name. She broke off a piece of cheese and stuffed it into her mouth, and then she suddenly felt embarrassed.

"I am so hungry," she said. "I haven't eaten since this morning. I'm not usually such a pig at table. You must excuse me…"

Erik smiled faintly and tore off a little piece of bread for himself.

Christine looked to make sure the proprietor was nowhere in earshot, and then said quietly, "It was odd, that he noticed my accent, but he didn't seem to notice your mask."

"Many men here have old injuries and wounds that they hide—some don't hide them at all," he said with a shrug. "I very much enjoyed my brief stay in Éperon years ago, for no-one pointed, and no-one stared. Had this not been such a dank hole in the wall, I might have stayed. But I wanted bigger and better things, and was willing to sacrifice my personal comfort for a bit more splendor and grandeur."

"Is that how you came to be at the—" Christine broke off, suddenly, not wanting to say "the Opera" for fear someone might hear, and become suspicious.

"After a fashion," he said, and his face darkened a little as he put a piece of cheese on his bread. "That story is for another time. I don't care to discuss it at this moment."

When they had cleared the plate, the old man appeared seemingly out of nowhere. "I'll take that, thank ye," he said. "Room's upstairs, farthest on the left, in case ye forgot. I'll bid ye good-night now, and many thanks again for the obliging sum. Here is a candle, to keep yer way in the dark." He handed it to Erik, turned off the gas-lamp, and retreated to what must have been his bedroom. Christine and her companion were left in awkward silence.

She said nothing as she got up from the table and he followed with her valise and the candle, but she felt as though her whole body were being pricked by pins. Please, she prayed to God, let there be more than one bed.

They trod up the stairs, which creaked as their feet met them one by one, and made their way down the little hall to the farthest room on the left. Christine turned the knob and entered, and her vision swam.

"Oh," she said faintly.

Erik went past her and put the valise on the floor. "The nearest train-station is two miles from here," he said. "We'll go in the morning. If you are too tired to walk, perhaps someone can oblige us with the use of their horse and cart."

"The bed," she said, feeling dizzy. "What about…"

"If it would make you feel more…comfortable," he said, his voice sounding a little irritated, as though he had better things to worry about, "I shall sleep on the floor."

"Oh," she said suddenly. "Oh, no. I wouldn't…he said there were roaches, and the floor is so hard…"

"Then what do you propose?" he queried, not looking at her, but rather around the room. It seemed he was trying very hard not to look at her, but she couldn't be entirely sure.

"I…I don't know," she said. "I don't want…I'm not…I'm not ready."

"Not ready?" he asked, finally looking at her incredulously. "Not ready for what?"

Was he enjoying this? Making her blush, making her say things outright instead of beating about the bush?

She shuddered. "You know what I mean," she said. "You know. Don't pretend you don't."

"Fine," he said coldly. "Do you think me a slavering hound? You can set your mind at rest. I have no designs of wresting your innocence from you to-night."

She flinched, and sat down upon the edge of the bed, self-consciously taking off her shoes in a way that she hoped would not allow him to see her stockinged feet.

…has also denied me…the joys of the flesh…

She could not get it out of her mind, the way he had looked when he had spoken those words. Had Raoul not come, she wondered if her former teacher might, indeed, have "wrested her innocence" from her on that night which seemed a year ago now. She had no doubt that it had been at least a vague intent. There had been such a hungry look on his face then, something almost greedy, something palpably single-minded.

She pushed it from her thoughts as best she could, and slid between the sheets with all her clothing on, except, of course, her shoes. "Put out the candle, please," she said, her voice muffled by the pillow. She had buried her face in it. I shall never be able to sleep.

She heard him blow it out, and the floor-boards creaked. She felt his weight on the other side of the bed, and shivered. Her body curled instinctively away from him.

Despite thinking she would never be able to sleep, she felt her eyelids droop, and a dreamy haze began to overtake her.

She awoke in the dark, feeling vaguely frightened. "Where am I?" she whispered, and then she felt his warmth beside her, and her fingers flattened against his chest. He must have taken off his jacket and waistcoat, for all she could feel was a thin cotton shirt, with his heart pumping wildly beneath her hand. Her hand slid over and felt a little sprinkling of hair coming from the opening of his shirt. He moved then, too, and she felt his body press against hers, his hands finding her waist and sliding upward until his palms cupped her bosom. "Christine," he said, the same way he had in the cab, his voice throaty, unbearably sensuous, and she pressed her mouth against his, thinking she would die of this sinful pleasure, this hidden act in the dark. "Take me," she whispered, and his hands lifted her skirt.

Christine's eyes snapped open, and she panted, her heart pounding in a frenzy. She could feel a little wetness between her legs. "Oh," she whispered. "Oh…"

Was he asleep? She could hear his steady, even breathing, which surely indicated slumber.

She could not abide the disgrace she felt, or the delicious feeling which still lingered from that dreadfully erotic dream. Her breath came rapidly, and she sank back into her pillow.

For a long time she lay in silence, trying with all her might to ignore his presence beside her, sleeping or no, and then she heard his voice say, rather boredly, "Nightmare?"

She jumped, gasped. "My God," she said. "I thought you were asleep."

"I was," he said, "but you kicked me while you dreamt. I have been awake for at least a quarter of an hour."

"Oh," she said, her cheeks hot with embarrassment. "Forgive me."

"Don't trouble yourself about it," he said. "It was not a particularly violent kick, although it was sufficient to waken me rather rudely."

There was a long silence, in which Christine thought she would drive herself mad. The lingering effect of the dream was causing every nerve in her body to strain towards him, but her good sense implored her not to be so rash, so impulsive.

"Erik?" she whispered.

There was silence for a moment. "Yes?"

She struggled a little. "Never mind," she said. "It's nothing."

There was another silence.

"I mean to marry you," he said, "when we reach our destination. I ought to have done it in Paris—I wanted to—but the danger was too great. I apologize for the impropriety of our conditions."

She said nothing. If he had married me in Paris, she thought, to-night would have been our wedding night. She felt a little seizing panic, mixed with that strange thrill she had felt during the dream.

A strange thought came to her then. "I ought not to be asking this," she said quietly, "but it has been plaguing me, and I feel I shall go mad if I do not find out the answer this moment."

"Ask it," he said, "and then, for the love of God, sleep!"

She flinched. "Very well," she said. "It's…it's only…" She bit her lip, and wrapped her hands together, gathering strength. "In the grotto…that night, the night when…"

"Yes," he said coolly.

"Well…it seems odd, that you would talk of impropriety now, but then…that night…you were going to…to…" She couldn't continue, but she was certain her meaning was clear. "Weren't you."

She heard him hiss between his teeth, and she shrank a little. "You would do well to forget about that," he said, his voice strained. "God knows I have tried."

"Impropriety didn't seem to matter to you then," she said dryly, before she could stop herself. Good God, was she mad, to say such things?

"Confound it!" he roared, and she swiftly jumped out of bed, terrified at his outburst and chagrined at her own lack of sense. She heard him leave the bed, too, and she backed against the wall.

He lit the candle, and stood staring at her from across the room. "You know perfectly well I was not myself that night," he said between clenched teeth. "I was mad. I was desperate. I was enraged, and quite literally at the end of my tether."

She began to feel incredibly foolish for ever having brought it up at all. Her hands shook, and she grasped her fingers to steady them.

"I had every intention of plundering your purity that night," he said. "Yes. It is true."

She stood silently, her back pressed against the wall.

"Is it so unthinkable," he queried vehemently, "that I have since come to my senses, and wish to do things properly? Why would you ask me such a thing? Do you want me to take you now? Heaven help me, I will, if you wish it!" His voice was hoarse, and there was color in his cheeks.

She shrank even farther against the wall, feeling herself blanch.

"Forgive me," he said abruptly. "You are young and naïve, and I am old and foolish."

There was a long silence.

"You really ought to sleep," he said, his fingers sliding absently back and forth on the end-table, and drumming a little, as they had in the cab. "You look pale, and there are dark circles beneath your eyes."

Christine felt strikingly self-conscious. "Oh," she said dully.

"I have…much to apologize for," he said. "I had hoped you would forgive me. It galls me to say it, but I made many a wrong choice in my miserable attempts to court you, to impress you and win your love."

I was blind, she thought, but said nothing. He was right, however. He had frightened her too much.

He gave a long sigh.

She abruptly remembered something she had almost forgotten, something hazy and faint.

You denied me, turning from true beauty…

The cemetery. Visiting her father's grave.

She shuddered.

He stared at her. "Get back into the bed," he said. "You needn't worry. I shan't touch you." His voice was heavy, a little aggravated.

"Blow out the candle," she said. "Please."

He obliged her.

She slid between the sheets again, and felt the creak when he got into the bed on the other side.

It took a long time, but finally sleep overtook her once more.