She came into the kitchen the following morning ready to take Lucy for her walk; the little dog was usually there with Mamma, but today she was nowhere in sight. She walked into the communal parlor intent on finding the pug, when she came to a halt in the doorway. There, his long body sprawled in the easy chair, was Erik with Lucy curled in his lap, nearly blending in with his suit. Black seemed to be his preferred color, and sometimes he seemed more shadow than man.

"Good morning, Christine."

She was charmed by the way he spoke her name, putting the emphasis on the first syllable, and dragging the S out in a soft hiss.

He shrugged with an elegant lift of one shoulder, and waved a thin hand at the dog. "She was quite insistent on sleeping in my lap and would not take no for an answer."

She laughed, a blush painting her cheeks red and walking over to Erik, bent over and picked up the little pug scolding her gently. "Some people don't appreciate you shedding all over their laps, Luce."

She glanced Erik's way again. "Come on out to the kitchen. Mamma is fixing breakfast, and after we've eaten we can leave. I have to call the garage about my car too."

"I have already taken care of that, Christine. I do not sleep for very long, so I took the liberty of repairing it earlier this morning. Your car is in the driveway."

"But you didn't have the keys! How did you start it?"

He shrugged. "It's not difficult if one knows how to go about it."

She was touched that he would do this for her and said so, offering to pay him for the repair, which he declined.

"Consider it an exchange of favors- your car for my tour, yes?"

She nodded and looked at him playfully. "Okay, deal. But that means, there will be no complaining or whining when you've decided the battlefield has lost its interest an hour into the tour. So get ready for a long history lesson."

Erik looked at her indignantly, but soon realized she was only joking. He was not accustomed to any form of light-heartedness coming from those dealing with him, and finding it in this slim young woman surprised him. Dimly he realized he could learn to like it, especially if it involved Christine. He eyed her slender legs in pale yellow shorts. Yes, learn to like it a lot.

After breakfast, which he refused, the two of them departed the house, and Christine got behind the wheel of her Malibu. She pulled out on to York St. joining the line of cars, and headed back into the center of town. She made her way around the small town square, or the diamond as it was known locally, and drove out the Chambersburg Pike to the first day's battle near the site of the McPherson farm.

It was getting warm and she glanced over at her passenger. "Shall I put the air on? Um, forgive me for asking," and she hesitated, "but isn't your mask uncomfortable in this heat?"

She saw him stiffen and regretted saying anything at all.

"No." He said it coldly with no room for discussion, and the tension climbed.

He realized her curiosity was normal, and perhaps she was concerned with his comfort, but having lived all of his life with the horror of his face, he was averse to discussing it with anyone. Once the mask was mentioned, it was a short leap to wanting to know what it hid.

She pulled into the rest area on McPherson's Ridge and they got out of the car.

She indicated the road in front of them. "Two divisions of the Confederate army came down the Chambersburg Pike, and were met by General John Buford's Union cavalry. This is where the three-day battle began- the most casualties of any battle fought on American soil. Fifteen thousand to be more exact."

Thus began Erik's tour and by the end of the day- he found himself falling in love.

She was knowledgeable about the battle, but more importantly, she enjoyed her subject and they had a pleasant day, something entirely new for him. The unpleasantness in the car was forgotten for the time being. They made their way slowly around the battlefield until around noon, they were on Little Round Top, site of the second day's vicious fighting, some of it hand to hand combat. They walked out on to the boulders at the edge of the hill and sat down, looking at the steep slope to their front and across to Devil's Den in the distance. It was still early in the day and there weren't too many people about.

He was thankful for that; he would never be entirely immune to their stares.

She uncapped a bottle of water and took a drink, pointing out certain landmarks to him. She gestured toward Devil's Den. "We'll be going over there in a little while. Above those boulders there's an old oak tree. It was here at the time of the battle."

She clasped her arms around her drawn up legs, nodding at the hill in the distance and the lone tree looming majestically above the giant boulders. "They're called witness trees, and there are about 200 of them scattered around the battlefield. Every year, disease or storms take more of them- to me, they're a bridge from this world all the way back to 1863. There are a few near our house on Seminary Ridge, but for some reason I like that old geezer at the Den the best."

They were both silent for a few minutes, then Christine said softly, "I used to come here a lot with my dad. I've often wondered what it was like for them- the soldiers? Many were so young. Imagine the horrible things they saw- things they probably never forgot." She paused and looked at him. "And thousands died violently, and in great pain; I wanted to think that after all that suffering, they went to someplace better. Silly, I know, but..."

She looked outward, beyond Gettysburg to the distant Blue Ridge Mountains. "Hauntings have become a brisk business in Gettysburg." She chuckled. "Ghost tours practically on every corner now. But some people claim to see ghost lights; uh, orbs of light, supposedly the souls of the dead in the pictures they've taken here on the battlefield. I kind of hope they are- I would hate to think that when we die, life just stops- the same way a curtain descends on the last act of the show. The finality of it- the lights go out, then- nothing."

He was quite aware of the suffering of human beings. After all, he had been the instrument of much of their pain and torment. As for the souls of the dead, well...

Erik wanted to put his hand over hers, but he couldn't bear to have her pull away; instead he settled for a slight smile. "The light never goes completely out, Christine. There is a ghost light, and in some cases, their very own resident ghost." He shrugged. "Who knows? We may be at this very moment surrounded by spirits of the departed." If that is the case, then you are a haunted man indeed, my friend.

"Of course there is," she said, and smiled back at him. "I forgot the light on the stage. So maybe there is more for us, after all." To his great surprise, she reached over and squeezed his hand gently. "Spirits, huh? This place must be getting to you. It has that effect on lots of people, you know."

He stared at her hand resting lightly on his and said nothing. He was afraid to move and lose her touch, but she pulled away first and capped her water bottle. Disappointed, he stood up and hesitantly offered his hand to her. She immediately grasped it, and he pulled her to her feet. She looked up at him, her hand still held lightly in his cool one.

"You've been a great student today, Erik, but I think you know a lot more about American history than you let on. Anyway, you're a marvelous listener."

He couldn't help a slight smirk. He knew the battle of Gettysburg forward and backward, but she had been a charming instructor, and he enjoyed her enthusiasm. Enjoyed her."Kudos to my teacher. She has led me to excel."

He smiled faintly, his thin lips and bony chin nearly indistinguishable from the rubber mask, but not quite. He looked once more at Devil's Den. "Your war is an excellent example of man's viciousness- something of which I am more than familiar."

He turned and headed for the car, Christine following slowly behind. She could readily believe in his battles with cruelty, and again she was curious about his face. She ended their tour of the battlefield at the site of Pickett's Charge, and he studied it carefully, unease his primary emotion. The site was large with a gorgeous field of fire- one lone rifleman could cause a lot of damage, thus security for visiting dignitaries would be a virtual nightmare. A half an hour later he was more than ready to call it a day. He had enjoyed his time with her, and was in no hurry to see it end, but this section of the military park was crowded with more people, and he was never comfortable in close proximity to so many. Christine noticed his grim silence and guessed correctly that he was becoming uptight.

"The visitor's center isn't very far from here, and I wondered if you might be interested in seeing the cyclorama painting of Pickett's Charge?" She had his interest now she could see. "It was painted in 1883 by a countryman of yours; it's really a wonderful work of art. Care to see it, Erik? It's housed in the visitor's center."

He opened the car door for her, then moved to the passenger side and got in. "Yes, I would like to see this painting, Christine, very much so."

She thought it odd the way he perked up after she mentioned the painting. It seemed only a few minutes ago that he'd had enough for the day. Christine drove over to Baltimore St. where the visitor center was located, found a place to park and they went inside. It wasn't busy at all, much to his relief, and he gave her the money to buy tickets for the exhibit. He enjoyed art, and was much taken with the work of Paul Philippoteaux and his ambitious rendition of the famous engagement.

"Did you know that your French president is a direct descendant of Philippoteaux? And there's talk of him coming to this year's anniversary of Pickett's Charge?" Christine asked him.

Erik said nothing, but continued observing the 360 degree painting that took up much of the large, circular room. He looked thoughtfully around, noting the room's size and the absence of windows; the fact that it could hold a large group of people. Easier to manage and more secure than an event held outdoors.

"Erik?"

Nothing.

"Hey, Erik? Did you hear me?"

He still didn't look at her, but finally turned, and with a hint of trepidation, spoke words she wasn't expecting- words he'd had no intention of saying. "Will you have dinner with me?"

She was all set to politely decline, but what came out of her mouth was, "Yeah, I'd like that."

They left the visitor's center and headed back to the house.

"Seven o'clock, Christine. My apartment." With a last look, he unlocked his car and got in.

She watched him leave, and wondered to herself why she had agreed to have dinner with him. He was a complete stranger to her. Last night something altogether weird had taken place in the Walmart parking lot, but she wasn't sure what. The loud-mouthed jackass changed his tune when Reauchard arrived on the scene. In fact, he busted his gut getting away, and that was after he apologized to her. Still, he let the man leave. If in fact he did anything at all. Perhaps she was the one overreacting. Today for the most part had been enjoyable. Erik was an interesting and attentive companion. Aside from the tense moments over the mention of his mask, it had been a nice day. For now, she wouldn't worry too much about why she said yes to his dinner invitation; she would however admit to herself, that she liked his company and leave it at that. She arrived home, and for the rest of the afternoon she helped Mamma with the day to day running of the old Victorian.

She was just about to go take a quick shower when the back door opened and Raoul stepped inside. "Hey, where you been all day? Mamma said you were out with that freaky tenant of yours. Where to?"

He was smiling, but it didn't reach his eyes- he was annoyed. "Not that I need to tell you where I've been Raoul de Chagny, but it's no secret."

She paused and pushed her hair back. She told him about the tour and spending the day with Erik, but she didn't have to confess how much she enjoyed it. Raoul sighed and shook his head.

"You know nothing about this guy, Chris. Why do you want to spend so much time with him?"

"If we thought he was dangerous, do you think Mamma and I would let him stay here? He asked me if I knew someone who could show him the battlefield and I volunteered. No harm, no foul, Ray." She was getting upset with him; it wasn't any of his damned business who she went out with and quite honestly, he was starting to sound jealous.

He saw the signs of her growing resentment, and took a deep breath smiling again, this time a shade warmer. "Okay, okay. Sorry for steppin" on your toes. I'll behave. How bout the Pub for some grub? You, me, and some cold beers. Come on, what do you say, Chris?"

She wasn't sure what to say; telling him about her dinner plans with Erik didn't seem like a good idea, but Elizabeth saved the day. "Christine promised to help me around here, Raoul. It's going to be another late supper for us." Mamma indicated the package of pork chops sitting on the drain board. "I'm not as cool- isn't that what you kids say?- as Christine, but you're welcome to keep an old lady company for dinner," and she hid a smile when he quickly glanced at his watch.

"Hey, would you look at the time! Thanks for the offer, but I gotta run. Phil's got me doing some stuff for him." He looked at Christine and turned to leave. "Maybe I'll see you tomorrow. I've got to talk to you about something. I'll call, okay?"

After he left, Elizabeth laughed. "That's one way of getting rid of him. Dinner with someone older than thirty would do something awful to his male psyche, wouldn't it?"

Christine chuckled. "He loves you, you know that! But yeah, he thinks you'll talk about nothing but knitting and gardening, and he's afraid of falling asleep over the chops." She turned and looked curiously at the older woman. "What did you want done?"

Elizabeth laughed and said, "Even if I had work for you, how are you going to do it, when you'll be eating dinner with Mr. Reauchard this evening?"

"How did you know that?"

Mamma took a bag of green beans out of the fridge and put them in a bowl. "Because I spoke with him a while ago, and he told me he invited you. That was nice of you today. He was very appreciative."

"Oh."

"Christine, it's fine. Run along and get ready. I don't suppose if it was me having dinner with Mr. Reauchard, I'd want to keep him waiting very long."

She left the kitchen and dashed to the bathroom. It was nearly 6:30 already; she hurriedly showered, and decided on a paisley pencil skirt, black tights, and a mulberry shirt. She blow dried her fly-away curls, dabbed on a little perfume and she was ready. She was nearly out of breath, but right on time. She arrived at his door and knocked lightly, nervous and not really sure why.

He opened the door and greeted her with a quirk of the lips. "Christine. Please, come in."

She handed him a container filled with cookies and walked inside the attic apartment.

"Uh, I hope you like gingerbread, Erik. Mamma insisted I bring them."

"Thank you. Please, have a seat."

She sniffed appreciatively at the wonderful smells in the room, realizing all of sudden how hungry she was- she hadn't eaten since breakfast. She sat down on the small couch near the table and watched him. He had removed his suit jacket, and had the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled to the elbows. He was so thin the shirt was nearly too large for his frame. He went back to the kitchen area and uncorked a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, then turned to the stove.

"Erik, can I help with anything? Everything smells wonderful."

He shook his head, filling their plates with chicken and mushroom crepes and placing them on the table, along with a salad and a crusty baguette. He motioned Christine over to the table.

"Mademoiselle, if you will have a seat, s'il te plait."

He poured their wine and sat down with her. Everything was delicious, and she relaxed and enjoyed herself. She speared a cherry tomato and popped it into her mouth. She watched her companion surreptitiously. "This is great, Erik. Where'd you learn to cook? Your mom teach you?" She grinned at him, but got no reaction. She cleared her throat self-consciously. "I uh...um...I just wondered because...because so many men wouldn't be caught dead in a kitchen for anything other than making a sandwich. And even then, they would rather have someone else make it. I'm impressed, that's all," she finished lamely, feeling like an ass.

She was happy when he finally acknowledged her by shrugging. No one taught me, Christine. I don't eat out very often and I live alone. It just makes sense to learn how to feed oneself and not get bored in the process." He swept a hand down his thin frame. "Not that it takes up a lot of my time, as it were. But even I must have sustenance occasionally."

He rose and put their empty plates in the sink and made coffee. "I hope you like it strong, or I can fix tea if you prefer."

She accepted the coffee, and as the night deepened, they talked as only two people getting comfortable with each other can. He poured them more wine, and showed her some magic tricks. He palmed a red rose seemingly from thin air and handed it to her. She put the flower to her nose and inhaled.

"Qu'est-ce que c'est?" (What is this?) He had reached behind her ear and with his thin, nimble fingers revealed a gold coin.

"Oh, it's beautiful!"

He handed it to her and explained what she was holding. "It is an Achaemenid Daric coin minted somewhere around 490 b.c." He swirled the wine around in his glass and took a sip, then pointed with one long finger. "The figure on the coin is a Persian king, holding his bow and arrow. The coins were introduced by Darius the Great, and used until the invasion of Alexander in 330 b.c. Alexander of course, wanted no other image but his own on the coins, so he had them melted down and re-minted. Obviously some of the pre-Alexander coins survived."

He looked at her and shrugged. "You gave me my history lesson today with so much passion for your subject- consider this my way of saying thank you."

She didn't know what to say, except to thank him in return. She looked at the gold coin in her hand, then at the man sitting across from her. "Have you been to Iran?"

"Yes," he said flatly, with no embellishment and she questioned him no further.

She already knew not to press him when it was obvious he wanted to change the subject. She was beginning to read him very well. "I will treasure this always. Thank you," she said softly.

Before she could think about it too much, she rose from her seat and went to him. She leaned down, putting her hand on the side of his neck, and kissed his cheek. It was nothing like kissing flesh. It felt odd- smooth, cool and very impersonal. Erik stiffened as she leaned down, not realizing until that moment how a simple touch could feel so nice.

Christine straightened up, her cheeks pink. "Here, Erik, let me clean up for you. It's the least I can do after that wonderful meal."

Refusing her offer, he poured more wine, and settled her on the little couch. Getting his violin, he played a few of his favorite pieces for her. Romani music he had explained to her; The Lark and Remember Bahari, were full of passion and rhythm, much like what she'd always imagined the colorful gypsies had in plenty. She could watch and listen to him play all night and never tire of it. Christine observed him as he swayed to the music, his eyes closed in concentration, not only hearing the notes in his head, but feeling them. He was definitely in his element- his clever fingers working the bow across the strings, smoothly and delicately with passion and great skill. He didn't just play the music. He felt it in his very bones.

When the impromptu concert was finished, she got up and approached him. "Wow! That was fantastic! My father would have been inspired by you. He was always looking for someone else he could talk shop with or listen to. Lots of people would love to have your talent, Erik. You must have music in your soul."

"Everyone starts life with music in their soul. The first beat we hear is the cadence of our mother's heart inside the womb." He paused and looked at her, his eyes becoming shuttered.

She impulsively reached for his hand and held it pressed between hers. "Where did you learn to play so exquisitely?"

"It was the one thing my mother did offer me- music," he said shortly. "I was given lessons on the piano and violin at an early age, and became good at both, eventually surpassing my teacher."

He gently pulled away from her, and put his violin back in its case. He raked a hand through his thin hair. "Music has been my only joy in life, Christine." This was said with no hint of self-pity; simply a statement of fact and nothing more.

She walked over and sat on the couch again, patting the space beside her. "Come and sit for a while."

He hesitated a moment then sat down, leaning forward with his arms resting on his bony knees. Christine watched him, noticing his unease. She looked at his long limbs and capable hands, sensing the melancholy in him. They talked a while longer; she asked him about his work, and he told her he was a real estate developer for French businesses trying to locate in the U.S. The lie came easily to him; not that he wanted to lie to her. Far from it, but he had no choice. She told him about her work at the Majestic Theatre and how she enjoyed singing, which led to a discussion of opera and their favorites.

Erik noticed her enthusiasm. "If you should ever find yourself in Paris, Christine, you must visit the Opera Garnier."

"Do you go often yourself?"

He chuckled, and the sound was so rich and dark, it sent shivers up her back. "You could say that. Yes, you could say that I live there almost."

"I hope someday to make a trip to Paris, and of course I would love to see an opera while I'm there."

He didn't want the evening to end.

"This has been great, Erik. I've enjoyed myself very much."

And she had. She felt shy again around him; in the space of just minutes he tended to bring out conflicting emotions in her. His strange eyes flashed at her; in certain light conditions, they were nearly feral.

"Christine, I...I would like to see you again."

"Yes. This was nice," she said softly and smiled.

She still had reservations about him, whether it was the mask, or how little she really knew of his life, Christine wasn't sure. But he touched a chord in her that left her confused and satisfied at one and the same time. She got up from the couch and he stood as well; she felt tiny standing beside him, but with Erik near, odd as it was, she felt safe. She by no means considered him harmless; she sensed something in him that other men didn't have. Something frighteningly quick and possibly dangerous. You've been reading too many thrillers late at night, girl.

He walked with her to the door and wished her a good night.

He hesitated a moment, then slowly reached for her hand. Watching her face for any sign of fear, he brought it to his lips. She held her breath, charmed by the gesture. When he released her fingers, it tingled where his cool mouth had been. She let out her breath and wished him a pleasant evening, grinning to herself. Dangerous? Yeah- maybe, but who kisses hands anymore?

He closed the door gently and leaned against it for a moment, then walking over to the desk he removed his mask, and dropped it on the surface. He wearily rubbed his face and sighed. For 38 years he had essentially been alone; women for the most part didn't cross his path much. He had never felt before what he was feeling now for Christine Daae.

It confused him.

She wasn't afraid of him- well, not very much. Most women were intimidated by his appearance, but his cold demeanor certainly didn't help. He felt himself warming up to Christine; he had hungered for someone to care for him, even just a little. His own mother certainly hadn't. The day he left home for good was at the tender age of twelve; trying to live among the denizens of the Paris slums had not been easy. The sight of his face hadn't ingratiated him to the pick pockets or prostitutes living in the back alleys. Covering it with a piece of black cloth had been somewhat better, but they still treated him like a pariah.

Nevertheless, he had learned tricks of the trade from some of these very people; sleight of hand had served him well, and eventually he joined a traveling fair moving from town to town across a good portion of Europe, performing magic and singing to earn money. Occasionally he worked the crowds in a different way, deftly removing wallets from pockets and purses of unsuspecting fair-goers. The throngs of people had especially loved his beautiful and beguiling voice, bringing many to tears before the last note died away into silence. But the most unforgettable part of his act was the unmasking of his face, set at the very end of his song.

The sight of his skull-like visage, coupled with his heavenly voice, had shocked many and stirred others to scream in horror.

One muggy afternoon at the fair in Nijini-Novgorod, Nadir Khan had arrived with an appeal to Erik to accompany him to Iran. The Shah, having heard of Erik's feats of legerdemain wanted him to perform in his court. Erik also suspected that curiosity over his face had a large part in the Shah's wish- word had spread of the death-like nature of it. Once in Iran, the Shah had made use of his ability with the Punjab lasso, and Erik had begun his career as a political assassin.

By the time he was 22, he was dangerous and deadly, no longer working in the Middle East exclusively. Killing for a living became second nature to him and paid well. He had been able to amass a small fortune in no time at all. Morally though, he became bankrupt; killing for a living had a tendency to deaden ones emotions, and the very nature of the work, dulled the conscience, slowly making him something less than human. Hidden away deep inside though, was a kernel of decency which had never been allowed to grow.

He was highly intelligent and sensitive, with an eye for the beauty denied to him. But the better half of his personality had been tamped down far too many times, beaten out of him, and what had emerged was someone entirely different. Known as the Phantom, he was given work that others wouldn't touch. His fame spread in the underworld and also the danger of Erik becoming the hunted. He had become a liability to many of his employers- he simply knew too much.

But the time finally came for a career change, and when the opportunity presented itself, he took it. Now he needed to focus on what he was sent here to do, but things were becoming more complicated than they ever had. In the past, difficulties in his line of work were a given, but this was different; he felt protective of the girl. He was in Gettysburg for a reason, one that didn't include falling in love.

But that was exactly what he was doing.