"Chr-Christine . . . cher- cherishes Erik's face?" he finally managed to stammer.

"Of course I do! How could I not, when I -," she stopped herself, unable to utter the words. 'No. Not now. Not yet.'

"Did you get a good look?" he whispered.

"What?" she squeaked, confused.

"Last night, in the dim light of the fireplace, did you. Get. A good look. At my. Face?" he repeated, trying to keep the anger and resentment out of his voice. He had the sneaking suspicion that she didn't really know what he looked like, that she only had a vague impression of his true appearance.

She opened her mouth to affirm that she had, but then she realised that, without sufficient lighting, all she had was a blurry image in her mind, at best. "I - I thought -," she gulped. "Are you terribly angry at me?" she fought back the tears that were threatening to break free once again.

"Tell me if you truly saw me, Christine," he commanded.

"It was - it was so dark. I - I - I wanted to see because . . ." her fear cut off her voice.

"You wanted to see because?" he prompted.

"Be - because . . . I . . . because I am a foolish girl who . . . I wanted to see the face of the man who possesses such an immense . . . intellect . . . and such a heavenly voice!" she choked out.

"And what did you see when your wretched curiosity made you take leave of your senses?" he snarled.

"I saw . . . that your nose . . . isn't entirely there . . . and . . . your face is gaunt and thin. And your eyes . . . your eyes are deep-set," she admitted in a dreamy tone.

"You can speak of my features with such . . . You can speak like that of this?' he hissed as he removed his mask again.

She sniffled and drank in every aspect he had laid bare. She made her way forward, her eyes two pools of adoration. Being with him, alone together in this room, she felt something stirring within her that she could not name. She only knew that she wanted to caress his cheek.

He stood, unmoving, as she inched closer to him. She had not screamed, fainted, or become ill at the sight of him. But, he would not allow himself to believe that she . . . Surely, she could never . . . Not if she knew the truth about him and his past.

At last, her hands were upon his face. His skin was so cold to her touch. She had expected that after what she had felt last night, but she had foolishly hoped that he might be warm after the way she had held him for all those hours. She gazed up at him, her eyes opened and clear, and attempted to memorise every last detail.

She could understand how someone might see him and claim that he had a great hole where his nose never grew, why his skin was described as yellow parchment.

A thought struck her. 'That is how the Opera Ghost is described by the stagehands. Is Erik the Opera Ghost? Do I dare to ask him? Or should I wait for him to bring up such a subject?'

He remained stiff and emotionless the entire time her hands probed his face. She had betrayed him, and he didn't know if he'd be able to forgive her. He only knew that he did not want to send her away. She didn't seem to want to be sent away, so what did it matter? She might learn to look past this and see the man behind the mask.

Christine knew that she would have to make amends for having betrayed his trust. She had guessed that he would be upset to know that she had seen his face without his permission, but the damage was done, and now he had unmasked himself to let her see him.

It was a bit of a shock, of course, but nothing so horrid as to give her nightmares. His skin was red in a few places; she surmised that it was from wearing the mask for so many hours while in her presence. He would simply have to stop wearing it around her, then!

"Erik? Your skin . . ." she began.

"Yes, it is as cold as a corpse's, is it not?" he sneered at her.

"Your mask . . ." she continued softly, ignoring his snide remark. "It rubs against your skin, doesn't it? You must stop wearing it while we are at home," she declared with finality.

"Chr- Christine wishes for Erik not to wear his mask?" He grasped her hands, still upon his face. He planted petal soft kisses upon those sainted fingertips before daring to look directly into her eyes. "You truly are not disgusted by me?"

She blinked in disbelief. "How - how could you think . . . I could never be disgusted by you! You are my Erik, and I love you."

"Oh, Christine!" he wailed. "You know not what it means to love me! You don't know . . . There are parts of my past . . . I made you love the Angel of Music. I - I took advantage of you . . . used your favourite story to - to manipulate you . . . I abducted you and brought you here . . . made you dependent upon me . . . How can you claim to love me?"

*slinks back down to the secret chamber in the fifth cellar to hide from the angry mob*