Chapter 2

Normally, in the morning, sunlight beamed in through windows and let her know it was time to get up. As Christine cracked her eyes open, she could see little in the faded glow of an almost burnt out candle.

Of course, because she was underground.

In a floor of memories, she remembered everything from the night before. The man named Erik who had found her in the dark and taken her to his home – lair? dungeon? – across the lake, tended to her wounds, and, despite the promise of violence that hovered about him, treated her with something akin to hospitality.

She felt his shirt sliding across her skin. He had even given her something of his own to wear after she had fallen into the lake.

Sitting up, she noticed the glass of water next to the bed, and her mustard yellow handbag hanging out on the nightstand as though it had always been there. She grabbed it and rifled through. Everything seemed still there, including her money, passport, keycard for her hotel, and pills.

She wondered if he had read the prescription on the bottles – two difference ones for pain – and decided of course he had. He had given her a Percocet last night; she had felt the tell-tale loopy pull of the drug.

She popped two mints, put on a little chapstick, and that's when she noticed her cell phone. While everything else in her purse was intact, the cell phone, however, was missing a battery.

Son of a –

Her bare legs swung out of bed, meeting the chilly morning air. That is when she noticed the thick robe spread across the foot of the bed and, leaning against the wall near her, a stick with a short bar at the top, wrapped in fabric. A crutch.

Her anger about the cell phone quelled, but only a little. The robe felt warm around her, falling to her ankles, and gave her more security than just the button-down shirt, even though it was obviously his own. The embroidery on the black fabric reminded her of his cloak. She knotted it securely, tucked the crutch under her arm, and made her way to the door. She remembered him locking it before she fell asleep, but when she tried the handle, the door opened easily.

Erik sat in his large armchair, one foot upon the opposite knee, a teacup raised to his lips. A newspaper was spread across his lap. He looked more at ease than he had last night. She even saw the side of his exposed lips curl when he caught sight of her.

"You slept well?" he inquired, putting down his cup and thumbing to the next page in the paper. How… normal of him.

"I did," she said. "My medicine helped with that. Thank you so much for getting it for me. I'll take another this morning, and I can probably manage with ibuprofen after that. It… is morning, isn't it?"

"About 8 o'clock." His head tilted to the side as though giving her a studious look. "Daily opioids. Addiction or necessity? They were prescribed in your name, but I do not make assumptions. If you are addicted, I need to know."

He was so matter-of-fact about it, without judgment. She had a feeling that he had seen worse than painkiller abuse, maybe had even experienced the draw of addiction himself.

She shook her head. "I have to take them, at least for now. Usually once a day is enough, but I must have strained myself yesterday."

"Have a seat," he said, gesturing to the divan. "I am afraid there is no milk for your tea, but I do have honey."

"That sounds lovely."

He set down his paper and cup and stood at once. When he handed her a freshly poured cup, she sipped her tea; it was hot and delicious in her parched mouth. Without asking her permission – but did he often ask permission for anything? – he bent to examine her ankle.

Maybe because it was morning, he had lit more candles about the room, and she got a better look at him as he knelt before her. Along the edges of his mask, she could see the beginnings of reddened, misshapen flesh. When he spoke, that side of his lips moved and twisted in a way that wasn't natural. He did indeed cover his face for a reason.

He hadn't replaced his gloves, and his long fingers were pale against her foot.

"The swelling in your ankle has diminished," he said. "Considerably so. Perhaps the damage will heal quicker than expected. In a week, perhaps." He frowned at that and returned to his chair, his posture radiating a sudden tension.

"That's great news," she said. She pressed on, not caring that he was angry about something. "But I need to contact my mother. I usually talk to her every day, so she's probably wondering why I didn't call her after the show yesterday." Her cell phone was lighter in her palm than it should be. "I'd like my battery back, please."

He glared at her. What had she done wrong now? "I cannot have people snooping about my labyrinth, which is what would surely happen were you to tell anyone about this place." She tried to protest, but he held up a hand to silence her. "I have traps spread throughout, especially in the paths leading back to the opera's lowest levels. You are lucky enough to have stumbled across a staircase I had previously disabled, thinking it permanently closed. Otherwise…" he shrugged, a slight lifting and falling of his broad shoulders.

She swallowed a gulp of tea past the lump forming in her throat. "All I want to do is let her know I'm safe. If it's 8 o'clock in the morning here, then it's about 2 a.m. there. I know she was going out last night, so she should just be going home. That's all I want to say to her, I promise."

"How do you even know you would have signal this far underground?" He picked up his newspaper again as though he was about to continue reading. His voice was glib, his eyes glittering.

"You can let me try!"

"My dear-"

"Let me try!" Her sudden cry echoed about the chamber. She gulped down deep breaths, trying to force the air into her lungs and steady her rapidly beating heart. She was at once highly aware of her predicament, wearing this man's shirt and robe, dependent upon him for food and water, trapped beyond the lake and god-knows what kind of traps he had set. She clenched the useless shell of her phone.

What kind of man was he?

Her panic attack consumed her in its familiar, deadly grip. She had gotten them ever since her diagnosis and they hadn't diminished even in the years afterward. She struggled to suck in enough air, feeling light-headed, the room starting to spin. Her chest ached, reminding her that she had yet to take any medicine this morning. A high-pitched humming began in her ears.

Her fingers sought to grab something to steady her, and they blindly found the lapels of his shirt. Erik had moved to sit beside her on the divan. His hands came up to cup her shoulders. When she tried to shrug him off, he instead captured her face, his long fingers cool against her inflamed cheeks.

"Look at me, Christine."

His voice was light but commanding, and she found herself doing as he asked. His golden eyes were steady.

"Breathe."

Despite her better judgment, she liked the way her name sounded on his lips. In the haze of her dizziness, she stared at his mouth as he said again, "Breathe, Christine."

Oh, the softness of her first syllable combined with the crispness of the second. He made her name sound like music.

Gradually, so slowly, she regained the ability to draw breath in a steady stream. The roaring in her ears faded, her vision clearing. She became aware that he was stroking her temples with his thumbs, a measured, careful circle of skin against skin. The cool touch felt heavenly.

"I need to call my mama," she whispered. "Please."

He sighed. His fingers left her face and pressed her teacup into her palm. "Finish your tea."

She did as he requested, strength slowly returning to her body. When she finished, he replaced the cup with the heavier weight of her battery.

"Two minutes," he said. "Tell her you are safe. Say nothing of where you are."

"T-thank you." Trembling, she put the battery back into her cell phone and booted it up. Within moments, she was dialing her mom's home number. It rang twice before relief washed over her as her mother's familiar cheerful voice answered.

"Hello?"

Christine cleared her throat. "Hey, Mama!"

"Christine! There you are, hon. I wondered where you'd gone." Her mom's voice had the overly cheerful edge of two drinks too many.

"I'm okay," Christine said, glancing at Erik. The man had stayed sitting next to her, no doubt able to hear both sides of the conversation. "I finished my last day at the opera yesterday. I was so tired I just passed right out."

"You doing good? Eating enough?"

Her stomach rumbled in answer. She hadn't eaten anything since a quick bite from a vending machine after the show yesterday. "I'm good, Mama. I'm going to spend the next few days touring the city. I thought I might check out the Louvre and Notre Dame." All of that had been her original plan, before.

She could practically hear her mother shaking her head. "You be safe, Chrissy. Watch your purse. I can't wait to see you again. A week from today!"

"Yeah, Mama. A week." Christine felt sick.

"I've got your flight itinerary all printed out and ready to go. I'm so happy you'll have some time before school starts back. My list keeps growing."

Her mom kept a to-do list for everything, including a permanent one on her fridge of everything her and Christine would do together on Christine's school breaks. Christine went to Boston University, and the two hour drive from there to her mom in her hometown in Connecticut was enough to keep them apart.

"That sounds fantastic," Christine said.

She could sense her time was up; she desperately wanted to tell her mother the truth, that she was hurt and unable – for various reasons – to travel like she'd planned. But she kept her mouth shut. With all this talk of travel, she had suddenly become aware of the chilling fact that Erik had likely seen her passport. That meant he knew her home address. She had luckily changed it from her mom's address when she decided to move away permanently, but she doubted Erik would have difficulty tracking down her previous address. She didn't want to endanger her mother in any way.

"All right, hon, well, you take care. I've gotta get in bed. Clients want to see houses tomorrow. Love you, Chrissie!"

"Love you, too, Mama."

Christine ended the phone call and didn't protest when Erik took the phone from her. She knew she wasn't likely to get another chance to call, not anytime soon. She hadn't noticed any electricity down here, so the battery would die within the day anyway.

"Thanks, Erik," she told the man still sitting next to her on the divan. "I feel better after talking to her."

"You are welcome," he said, rising. "Now, lest I make you a liar to your own mother, there is breakfast in my small excuse for a kitchen. Bread and cheese will have to do for now."

She didn't tell him that he had already made her a liar. She knew she wouldn't be traveling anytime soon. But lying to her mother didn't make her feel as bad as she thought it might. Deep down, she knew she was lying to keep her mom safe.

"Thanks. I'm definitely famished."

Sure enough, there was a platter of bread, crusty but fresh, and a variety of cheeses laid out on a small platter. She sat down to start eating, and she noticed Erik attaching his cloak to his throat.

"I have to leave for a while," he told her, placing his wide-brimmed hat upon his head. As he pulled on his gloves with practiced ease, he looked every bit the imposing figure she had first met. "You may explore any chambers unlocked to you as freely as you wish. You are my guest, not my prisoner, Christine."

"I'll do that," she said, between mouthfuls of bread.

She prided herself on the fact that she hadn't snorted at his last comment. Did he think she was really that naïve? If she asked to leave right now, if her ankle healed by tomorrow, she highly doubted he would be willing to let her leave so early. She quickly pushed down the wondering thought of whether or not he would let her leave after the full week.

"Breakfast is rather meager, but I will return in the later afternoon with better fare for you to eat."

She didn't argue. He was leaving? For hours? She relished the thought of having some time to herself, and especially having time to check out his unusual residence without him hovering over her.

"I recommend you rest that injury of yours, Christine. Use the crutch, when you must."

"I will," she promised.

He bowed his head at her, tipping his hat. And then he was gone, fading into the darkness. He didn't take the boat, so he must have another way of accessing this place.

She glanced around, feeling the silence settle around her. He had left plenty of candles lit, so the shadows beyond the light didn't seem quite so oppressive. Time to snoop, she thought.

She started with her bedroom, but there really wasn't anything of interest in there. Besides her dirty clothes from yesterday, folded and laying in the bottom, the armoire was empty. The nightstand held candles and her purse and nothing else. The rest of the room contained her bed, a rug, and a small wooden chair.

A search of the bathroom revealed nothing new either.

Beyond both of those rooms, she found a door, but a tentative test of the handle revealed that it was locked. Erik's own bedroom, then?

The small kitchen was nearly empty as well, containing mostly bottles of red wine and brandy, with little to eat. He wasn't kidding when he said he rarely ate. He was such an odd man, so different from anyone she had ever met before. His mannerisms could be so formal, so gentile, and yet he had an aura of threat about him that both terrified and thrilled her.

Christine went back to the living area and explored the bookshelves. She found a plethora of different kinds of books: a small amount of fiction, mostly classics or poetry, and a large amount of nonfiction on a variety of topics. She didn't spend too much time looking over the titles before she selected a book on Shakespeare; at least she could start with something with which she was familiar.

She read for quite a while until her eyes began to droop. She replaced the book, headed to the bedroom, and stretched out on the bed. After a little thought, she took a Percocet and let the drug pull her under.

How long she slept, she wasn't sure, but when she woke up, she felt much more refreshed than earlier. After a little more cheese and bread, and a big glass of water from the tap, she felt ready to explore the large instrument in the living room.

At some point, Erik had cleaned up the mess of papers that had been strewn about the piano. They lay in several piles, and while she didn't dare touch them, she did take a close look at the top sheets. As she had supposed, they were music compositions, all written in red ink. Christine could read music – she'd taken orchestra in high school to learn the violin like her father, and her mother had let her take piano lessons. But Erik's compositions were too difficult for her to try playing. Some of it was smooth and carefully written, while other portions were hard to decipher and scratched in jagged lines as though his pen couldn't keep pace with his mind.

She looked more closely at the piano. It was unlike any other piano she had seen; large in size, it reminded her more of a pipe organ at a church. With one finger, she tentatively pressed one key – the sound pinged, sending a shiver up her spine. What a lovely sound, unlike anything she had heard before.

She spread her fingers into a chord and hit the keys with one resounding blast of notes. This instrument was perfectly tuned, and somehow, Erik had made the acoustics acceptable in this cavern, at least from where she stood next to the piano.

Feeling bolder, she scooted onto the small bench and placed both hands upon the keys. The ivories were clean and free of dust, obviously an instrument that Erik loved. She spread her fingers, thought for a moment, and began to play. Beethoven drifted out of the piano, a bit eerier than even Fur Elise normally sounded. She stopped mid-bar, caught a new melody in her head, and began to play again. This time, the upbeat Mozart combined with the piano's somber notes made her laugh out loud.

Her laughter caught in the large chamber and flew out in all directions, much like a stage reverberated sound. That took her aback because she wouldn't have expected her unused voice to sound that good.

She considered for a moment, then, deciding, she started to play an old church hymn. Her father had taken her to mass when she was little, but when he died, she and her mother had stopped going altogether. Christine still remembered the songs, though; it was always the music that stuck with her the most.

She played half the song, humming along, before stopping to think. Overall, she preferred more modern songs, and her tongue rubbed the roof of her mouth as she considered actually singing something.

Then, she caught a different melody in her head, and began to play Demi Lovato's "Skyscraper." Her voice rose up, a little shaky at first. She didn't often sing, for a variety of reasons, but she gave it a try anyway.

"Skies are crying, I am watching
Catching tear drops in my hands
Only silence as it's ending
Like we never had a chance
Do you have to make me feel like
There's nothing left of me?"

Feeling bolder, she raised her head, opened her mouth wider, and took in a deeper breath.

"You can take everything I have
You can break everything I am
Like I'm made of glass
Like I'm made of paper
Go on and try to tear me down
I will be rising from the ground
Like a skyscraper
Like a skyscraper."

Oh, she was in the moment. It had been years since she had sung like this, but the past 24 hours caught up with her and fueled her rusty voice.

"As the smoke clears, I awaken
And untangle you from me-"

And that's when she saw him, Erik, standing at the edge of the large chamber, wearing his cloak and hat as though he had just returned. She managed to cut off a scream caused by his abrupt presence. Both of his eyes were wide, glowing in the dimmer light beyond the living room. His lips were slightly parted, his gloved hands hung limply at his sides, and his shoulders were a rigid line under his heavy cloak.

"You sing," he said, almost too softly for her to hear.

She scooted to the edge of the bench and grabbed her crutch. Adrenaline flooded her veins, making her movements shaky. She had been caught messing with something that was obviously dear to him – and worse yet, he had heard her belting out the mess that was her singing.

"I'm so sorry," she said. Did she ever stop apologizing to him? "I was curious to see what your piano sounded like and got carried away. I-I didn't touch any of your music."

He swept off both his hat and cloak in quick, smooth motions, his eyes never leaving hers. "Stay there," he ordered. He pulled off his gloves, his hands flashing white in the candlelight as he held them up in a placating gesture, like he was afraid of startling a cat. "Do that again."

Her heart pounded against her chest. As he grew closer, she feared he would hear it. She settled back onto the bench. "You mean sing the song?"

"Yes. Sing the chorus again, but leave out the piano." Now that he stood before her, she could see both of his eyes clearly. They were still wide, and both shone with a fierceness unrelated to anger that she hadn't seen before.

She swallowed. What would he do if she refused? She didn't sing for anyone. "I can't. I never sing anymore. I don't know what I was thinking."

"You weren't thinking." He fisted a hand over his chest. "This drove your voice in a way I have not heard in ages. Sing for me again, Christine, that song, one more time."

His voice was still so soft. He seemed to be pleading with her with his whole body, his voice trying to convince, his posture curled inward, his arms folded against himself, his eyes all but glowing. She normally hated to sing for anyone, this she knew, but she felt the knot loosen in her throat.

"A-all right."

She faced the piano once again and tapped the key for the right note to start. "You can take everything I have, you can break-"

"No!" he cut her off. "Sing the way you did before you realized I was here."

She laughed softly despite his utter seriousness. "I told you, I can't. I don't sing in front of people anymore."

"Try."

Okay, she would try with the hope that he would give up. She sang those two lines again, but once again, he interrupted her, and she puffed a breath of exasperation. "Please let me stop. I'm just embarrassing myself."

He offered her a gloved hand, and she took it, letting him pull her to her feet. The edge of the piano gave her enough support to take the weight off her ankle. "Let me try something, my dear. If this does not work, we can stop for now."

She nodded, wary. She was already done with this, and emotions she had long since buried were making her chest tighten. Erik left her side for a moment and returned with a length of black silk. A necktie, perhaps?

He stepped behind her, drawing the silk to the front of her body and raising it to her face. "May I?"

She nodded again and tried not to tremble as he fastened the necktie around her eyes, tossing her into darkness. As his hands left the back of the blindfold, his fingers ghosted down her hair and traced the shape of her shoulders. His touch was so light she might have imagined it, but his body was a startlingly warm presence behind her.

"You can take the blindfold off at any moment," he said softly, his breath tickling her neck. "When you take a breath to sing, I want you to use your entire diaphragm." One of his hands, balled into a fist, pressed against the bottom of her ribcage for a brief moment before traveling up, without touching her, to her chin. He lifted her chin with one cool finger. "Open your mouth wide, Christine."

He left his place behind her, and she couldn't hear anything for a moment. Then, notes began to trickle out of the piano, slowly at first, then becoming more sure until she recognized that he was improvising the melody of her song. He swept across the keys, drawing the tune outward like an artist drew a sketch. The music washed over her, and he didn't seem to mind giving her time, pounding the music with greater gusto.

Christine thought about this man who stayed in a home hidden from the world. She thought about her father who had died and taken his music with him. She thought about her mother who had dealt with her husband's death by shutting away everything he had once loved. And finally, Christine thought about her battle with cancer over the past two years.

She held onto those thoughts and didn't let them go, finding her voice.

She opened her mouth and began to sing yet again. This time, he didn't interrupt her.

When she finally finished singing the song, she pulled off the blindfold and turned with some trepidation to look at Erik. The delight on his half-hidden face was palpable. Her cheeks felt hot, but inwardly, she soaked up his silent praise after so long without anyone caring to hear her sing.

He beckoned her to follow him as he fetched two bags he had left by the entrance. She was grateful that he wasn't talking about what had just happened, at least not yet, giving her time to calm herself down. In the kitchen, she watched as he unpacked groceries – some vegetables, fresh fruit, and chicken that she assumed he meant to cook tonight.

"Usually I can easily take food from the opera house's wares," he said, setting out a knife and cutting board. "However, Sundays are the only day of the week the place is silent."

He began to chop, using a large kitchen knife with exact precision. The scene seemed downright normal, his mask a stark white intrusion on his otherwise domestic actions.

"What can I do to help?" she asked, and he motioned to a bag of potatoes she could wash and quarter for the meal.

For a while, they worked in silence though she was aware that his eyes kept flickering to her. She tried to ignore the attention and kept her own gaze pointedly away from him. They placed the chicken in a large pan, surrounded the bird with potatoes, carrots, and long green beans. Erik poured a lemon butter sauce on top, covered the pot, and set it upon the single burner to simmer.

"Come," he said.

As she sat on the divan, he procured two wine glasses and filled them each with a dark red. He handed her what amounted to about half a glass full, no doubt because of the strong painkiller she was taking, and settled into the large armchair opposite her.

He took a sip, having to angle the glass a bit to the side to avoid his mask. She realized she had never seen him eat or drink, and she wondered if that was because of his mask. Could he eat while wearing it?

The wine was warm and tingled as she swallowed. She hadn't had a satisfying glass of wine in a while, and she relished the slightly sweet taste. Now that she had stopped moving about the kitchen, she noticed how much her ankle throbbed. Maybe she should have rested more today instead of wandering about his home as much as she had.

As though he noticed her discomfort – and really, as much as he watched her, no doubt he had – Erik set his glass aside and slid to one knee before her.

"Let me take a look," he murmured.

This time, she didn't hesitate, setting her foot upon his knee. The robe fell open about her legs, but she knew she was still decently covered up by the heavy, draping fabric. He unwrapped her ankle with careful precision and began to prod with his cold fingertips. His natural chill didn't shock her anymore. She had been close enough to him to feel his warmth, to know his body, at least, was a warm as anyone else's. Maybe, she thought, his chilly hands were a result of living below the basement for so long.

The sides of her ankle were swollen, and she knew she had overused it. Erik held her foot with both hands, seemed to hesitate, then began to press into the pockets of fluid in slow, easing circles. He was… massaging her foot? The pressure hurt, but she could see what he was trying to do.

After a while, he spoke, continuing to compress and knead her swollen ankle with cautious strokes. "Your singing moved me, Christine. You have a background in music."

Not a question, but she nodded anyway. "My father, Charles Daaé, was a violinist. Music was his greatest passion, and I guess some of that rubbed off on me. He used to travel around the world and play wherever he could get an invitation."

She paused, unsure how much she wanted to reveal. She hadn't spoken of her father in so long, but the memories kept coming. "I loved to listen to him play. He had such a way with music, like he played with his soul on the strings. That probably sounds silly to say."

"No, continue," he said softly, still massaging.

If her words kept him doing that, she would do so, happily. "I remember watching him in concert in Chicago. It was a small crowd, a few hundred, but they were fascinated, hanging onto every note he played. He taught me to love and respect music, all kinds of music."

She flipped her hair off her neck, a little flustered at telling what came next. "When he died in a car crash, on his way to play, I was eight. I didn't understand why my mother shut away everything of his. It wasn't the music that killed him – it was the truck that ran the stoplight. But she had his violin buried with him, and she gave away everything else he had collected before I could keep any of it for myself. I think I ran off with an armful of his clothes – how silly is that?"

She paused, looking down at the man before her. "I see some of my father in you and the way you played the piano. He used to encourage me to sing like you did, but when he died, my mother refused to let music back into the house. She cut off my voice lessons, and she wouldn't let me go into vocal performance in college. Playing instruments at school was the best I could do for a long time."

A little rueful laugh bubbled up. "I had to choose a degree in stage management just to be able to stay around what I love so much. I did sneak singing in here and there when I thought I could get away with it, but as you can tell, I'm very rusty."

"Yes," he said. "But the desire is still there, and that is harder to kill." He stilled his fingers and rewrapped her ankle, stealing back to his chair to sip at his wine.

"Thank you for the massage." She wiggled her foot a little. "It's already feeling better."

"We will do that nightly, and after a few more days, you should be able to walk out of here." He gestured with his empty hand at the chamber, the movement choppy and filled with a quick tension. "Christine, I would like to give you singing lessons."

Her eyes widened. "Oh? I-I don't think I'm that good."

"Really, my dear, you are not that blind. You know the potential you have, you can hear it for yourself. If you had the opportunity, would you want to sing on stage?"

If she had the opportunity? Her mother had been so pissed at the mere suggestion that Christine wanted to perform in any way, singing or playing an instrument or even just acting. The stage doesn't pay bills, the stage gives you nothing back! The stage will never love you as much as you love it.

She took a large gulp of wine, enjoying the warm that spread through her. "I don't know," she answered honestly.

They didn't talk much after that. Even though he had set no timer, Erik knew when the food was ready and had her sit at the table while he prepared her a plate. She managed to eat most of it – really, it was all delicious, for a man who didn't even taste it – as he watched her and swirled his wine within his glass. She was unnerved by all this newfound attention because of her singing.

When she was done, she wiped her mouth and thanked him profusely. She already felt better with some real food in her stomach. Erik cleaned up after dinner, refusing to let her help, and shooed her away for the night. She was grateful and told him so, her belly full of warm food and wine.

She took a long bath, and while she was soaking, she heard the masked man begin to play on the strange piano. She didn't recognize the tune and guessed it was one he had written; the song was mournful, the notes long and deep. Every once in a while, he would stop – to take notes? to change something on paper? – and then begin again, the song slightly different.

She got out of the bath, dried off, and slipped on the clean shirt he had given her. He had changed songs, this one a furious pounding upon the keys that made her quickly slip into her room and close the door. He didn't come to lock her in, and she wondered if he would tonight. Her singing seemed to have both energized and bothered him, as though she had stimulated an itch that he couldn't scratch.

She knew this: she wanted to find out more about this masked stranger. She decided to make that her goal tomorrow.

The song shifted once again into a slow, low melody, and it lulled her to sleep at once.

Christine awoke sometime in the night. Her head was groggy, and she could tell from her heavy limbs that only a few hours had passed.

The music had ceased, and she heard Erik's low tenor speaking near her bedroom. "I am hardly holding her hostage, Daroga." He bit out the words, his fury obvious.

Another voice answered, this one deeper and thick with a Middle Eastern accent. She couldn't understand what the other man replied, but Erik all but growled back. "What would you have me do, you meddling old man? Carry her upon my back past the torture chamber? Over the dozen traps between here and the second passage?"

A retort from the other man that she couldn't understand.

Erik's voice was wild. "I haven't touched her!"

More murmuring, this time placating.

"Of course you would suspect me, the monster that I am!"

The other man went on for a while. Christine strained to hear Erik's replies; he had moved further away from her door. The two spoke back and forth, their voices low.

Erik spoke louder this time, and she heard his footsteps move back toward her. "Yes, well, that would make her more comfortable." He paused outside her door, then opened it slightly, throwing candle glow across the foot of her bed.

Christine kept her eyes closed, tried to keep her breathing slow and even. She didn't want him to suspect she had been listening this whole time. She heard Erik stride to stand before her, and a slight rustling told her that he was looking through her purse.

When he had found what he wanted, he paused. She could feel his gaze roam over her.

"I am going to fetch your clothing, Christine."

Her eyes flew open, but he was already gone, closing the door behind him, tossing her back into darkness.

Her clothes? What had he just grabbed? She couldn't see in the dark to check, but if he was talking about her own clothes, then had he taken her hotel keycard?

She laid there for the longest time. The two men – who was this Daroga, anyway? – spoke for a while longer until the visitor faded away as he left. Erik's home was silent, and Christine eventually drifted back off to sleep.

Enter the Daroga! I love Nadir, especially as Erik's foil, and I hope you think I treat him well in this fic. Now we've got singing and more about Christine's medical condition, which is a huge plot point. I'm eager to know what you think about the direction this is going. Please review. :)