"Erik?" Christine called timidly from the doorway.

It was several hours later, and he was hunched over the keys of his organ, still lamenting the cruel fate that had befallen him. He'd gone from hopeless despair that she would never love him, to anger that she had dared ask him about his mask, to mourning the love that he'd lost, to wondering if he could ever feel that way again. He didn't lift his head until Christine was kneeling at his feet, her small hand lightly upon his. He gasped at the contact.

She gazed up at him with such . . . Was it trust he saw in her clear blue eyes? Or was it only pity?

She lifted her other hand to his face but didn't dare touch his mask. The memory of that dreadful dream still haunted her. How she longed to tell him that things would get better! That he wouldn't have to be alone any more! She couldn't imagine her life without him in it, whatever that might mean. Even though she knew Erik wasn't an angel, she trusted that there was a reason their paths had crossed.

He had managed to help heal her heart. She wondered if she would have the strength now to heal his soul.

Mme. Valerius went over Christine's letter to her again and chuckled lightly. That girl was far more intelligent than some had been happy to believe! She kept to herself, it was true, but only because she was guarding herself from becoming too close to someone who might up and leave her as so many had before.

But, as she explained in her letter, it was time for her to grow up. The 'good genius' that had been helping her with her singing lessons had been nothing less than, for lack of a better term, a godsend, and she wanted to spend as much time with him as possible. She was certain he would show himself to her soon and give up the ruse of being the Angel of Music. He hadn't been sent down from heaven, of course, but he was so good to her that he might as well have been sent by her dearly departed father. Once he stopped pretending to be some supernatural being, there would be no going back to the way things had been before, and she wanted Maman Valerius to know this so she would not worry so much for her safety.

She also promised she would find a way to send word to her to let her know she was all right; in the meantime, could she take care of something for her? Could she discourage Raoul from seeking her out again if he happened by the flat?

Oh, it wasn't that Christine didn't like Raoul; she had fond memories of when they were children. It was just . . . she knew that it would be unseemly for a nobleman to pursue a chorus girl . . . especially if things with her good genius went the way she thought they might.

And there was the matter of the "Opera Ghost" to be concerned about. Who knew who that really was that had been extorting money from the managers for so long? With all the "accidents" that had happened, she didn't want . . . well, she didn't want to see anyone get hurt.

Mme. Valerius could understand that feeling very well.

Erik and Christine had remained in the same position for several long minutes, with him seated and her at his feet. He was loathe to break the exquisite stillness, but he knew he should stoke the dwindling flames in the fireplace. He could not let his precious soprano catch cold!

"Christine, you are shivering! Come, let us go to the settee so you can get warm," he insisted. He wrapped in her in a light blanket, despite her protests that she wasn't that cold, before turning to add a few logs to the fire.

Christine could only sigh. There had been so much she'd wanted to say to him, but, when she'd gazed into those golden orbs, she knew that any mere words she offered would not be enough to convey her meaning.

She would have to show him.

When Erik turned back around, he noticed that she was not sitting in the middle of the settee where he had placed her. She was off to one side and grinning up at him.

"You take such good care of me, Erik," she remarked fondly, even though he'd overreacted to her little shiver. She had only been overcome with emotion and his nearness! "Will you sit with me for a while?"

He crossed the room silently and perched himself on the edge of the settee. He sat there, as stiff as a board, until he felt Christine inch closer to him. Shyly, she reached for his hand again and laced her fingers with his. Once she felt him relax somewhat, she leaned against him ever so slightly.

Erik's head was swimming. Here he was, Le Mort Vivant, with this precious young woman holding his hand without fear or revulsion! He was having trouble catching his breath, and his heart was racing with nervousness. If she had any idea of the atrocities he'd committed throughout his wretched life, would she be so at ease with him?

Did he dare tell her and risk losing her forever?

Later that night, after they'd had a rather quiet supper, Christine had asked Erik to tell her a story before bed. She wanted to hear something of his life before he'd begun giving her singing lessons.

He shook his head, not to deny her request, but that she still seemed like a girl in so many ways. She still had that air of innocence that would have her ask him to stay in her bedroom without the slightest hint of impropriety on her part.

On her part.

On his part, he knew the feelings it would stir in him. It wouldn't be proper. But, then, who was there to see them? He could simply keep his distance and sit on a chair a respectable length away from her bed.

"Ah, dear Christine, my life has been . . . the story of my life is not for your ears. Not yet, my beloved. But . . . I shall tell you a tale I heard many years ago from a woman I once knew." He proceeded to tell her of a princess whose beauty exceeded any that had ever been seen; she was gifted many jewels, even as a child. Men came from all over the empire to vie for her hand, wooing her with sonnets and extravagant offers. Alas, she was not to be swayed. Her heart was as a gem, as well, and she could feel no love.

But, one day, a man came from a far off land. He knew not the tales of men who had died of love for her. He had no inkling of the danger that might befall him if he dared approach the princess. Her other would-be suitors did not warn him that those who had failed in her challenges were put to grisly death. What did they care if there were one less among the competitors?

When the foreigner arrived at the castle gates, he was granted entry and an audience with the king and the princess. He wished only to offer his services to the court, if they be so desired.

The princess found herself intrigued by him and his exotic ways. His style of dress was like none she'd ever seen before, and his speech patterns and voice enticed her ears.

She posed a challenge to him. He would compose and sing a song for her, something that would encapsulate the entirety of the human condition.

He accepted the challenge, bowed, and proclaimed that it would be ready for her at the end of the third day hence.

What the princess had not known was that this man already had such a song. He only wanted the time so he could rest from his long journey and become accustomed to the local culture.

At the end of the third day, a guard was sent to the man's chamber within the castle. He was escorted with pomp and circumstance into the dining hall, where several instruments had been arranged, should he choose to use them.

He sat himself at the harpsichord and proceeded to play. He sang a rather simple tune about a child's love for his mother. It flowed seamlessly into a verse about falling in love for the first time and having his heart broken by the object of his affection when she decided his face was not handsome enough for her.

The princess, indeed, the entire court in attendance, was enraptured.

Though his song spoke of unbearable pain, there was still hope underneath it all. For every mistreatment he suffered, he maintained that same hope that people were good, that there were still those who saw beneath an ugly surface to find the beauty of the soul.

By the time his perfect voice faded into silence, the princess was openly weeping. Her heart now knew love. She decreed that none in her father's kingdom would ever go hungry again, and that this foreigner would be afforded anything he so desired.

All he wanted, he stated, was to be allowed to sing to her.

"That's a lovely story, Erik," Christine remarked dreamily. "Thank you for sharing it with me."

Erik took a deep breath before speaking. "Yes, I dare say it is lovely. It was my pleasure to tell it to you. Good night, Christine." He rose to return to his room.

"Erik?" she called frantically.

"Yes, my dear?"

"Won't you stay with me?"

"I . . ." How could he respond to that?

It didn't matter. She had fallen asleep by the time he'd crossed the room again. He lightly stroked the golden locks framing her serene face before rushing out to compose.

Once he was satisfied with the aria he would present to Christine later, he went to the mirror he kept in his room and pulled back the velvet drapes obscuring it. Cautiously, he removed his mask. He beheld his death's head, the sunken cheeks, the emaciated nose that looked like a gaping hole - oh, how he wished he could at least have had a nose that hadn't caved in on itself! - and the thin lips. Could he bring himself to let Christine see such a horrid sight?

Christine couldn't manage to stay asleep for long. She could just barely hear the sound of the organ, which she followed down the maze of hallways. When she came upon the door, which had been left ajar, she didn't want to intrude on Erik's privacy. She shook her head to clear it of the music that had entranced her to come all this way. 'Foolish girl,' she chided herself. 'Stop trying to force something to happen!'

She turned to go back the way she'd come, but, as she did, she caught the briefest glimpse of the mirror. She was tempted to go back for a better look, but decided that she would only see what lay beneath Erik's mask when he wanted her to, not a moment sooner.

She couldn't change the fact that she had, however briefly, seen a hint of his face reflected in the glass.

A/N: The story Erik told Christine is something I loosely based on the opera Turandot. Very loosely.