We sat there in thick, clotting silence for a moment, she and I. The seconds seemed to stretch as though they were years. My mind searched wildly for something, anything to say, but it was as though I had been encased in granite; I could neither move nor speak, only stare and sit in anguish.

At length, she finally spoke.

"I was taught—all my life—not to be forward," she murmured, the tinge of bitterness plain in her voice. "I was told over and over by other people that my shyness suited me, suited my femininity and that it could be used as an advantage itself. But I…and perhaps this is silly, unwomanly…but I have only ever felt entirely paralyzed by that kind of thinking. I will admit that I have secretly admired the pluck and cutting wit of some of those brazen women who tread the boards – Sorelli, you know, is such a spitfire, but you should hear the things that are said about her behind her back. That she could have anyone she wanted, to be sure, but only as a…oh, pardon me, Erik…as a mistress – that no respectable man would ever take her to wife. Things like…like that. And as much as I so desperately wished to speak my mind, to say and perhaps even do whatever I wished, I didn't want to be—that. I care far too much about what others say, what they think. I didn't want to walk by and hear people whisper dreadful things about me, or hear about such things second-hand, which if you ask me, is far worse. I suppose as a consequence of it all, I…I gradually got the idea in my head that any man worth my wanting wouldn't care for me to tell my feelings plainly, at least not until he'd expressed his first. There's this strange game of cat-and-mouse that people are taught to play up there, Erik…Raoul and I played at it, like stupid children, and oh, please don't be angry, and don't stare. Nothing ever…nothing of consequence transpired between us. How could I ever truly attach myself to him, when half of me was always here, with you?"

This was too much. It was all too much. I couldn't seem to move. My mind tried to sift through all she'd told me in seemingly one breath.

I'm unsure how she took my silence, but it seemed to make her a shade nervous.

"Erik, I…when you spirited me away two months ago, I have a notion that you were—are—under the impression that it was at least marginally against my will," she said. "And although I confess that there was some small annoyance on my part at first, some lingering expression of the life I had lived until then—for the most part I was glad, and I didn't dare argue the point with you when I'd had time to think…I thought that if you knew I truly wanted to be here, that after that first shock I hadn't even minded my own disappearance from up there, that you'd think me some kind of…of…oh, I don't know what I thought."

I remembered, as if it were a peculiar dream from long ago, the impulsive fit which had driven me to, as she put it, spirit her away. I wouldn't have termed it in half so complimentary a fashion. She somehow made it sound as though I'd taken her to fairy-land. But it hadn't been nearly so magic as she made it seem. It had been rough, and rude, and sudden.

~ Two months previously ~

"Christine," I had said through her mirror as she brushed her hair in her dressing-room, forcing myself not to feel the slightest bit of regret about the hypnotic tone I lent to my voice so that she wouldn't be frightened. She'd turned her face toward the mirror in what seemed a breathless delight, a strange eagerness in her eyes that I miserably chalked up to that dreadful, preternatural power I had. The power of suggestion came so frightfully easily to me when I wanted to control other people. At various junctures in the past, with other less honorable sorts of people, it had given me an awful glee, but these days it made me feel as though I were covered in filth. I shuddered to think of what I could have made her do, had I been a more particularly vile kind of creature than merely the murdering, skulking monster I already was.

But that particular kind of violent vice was unfathomable to me – strangely terrible to me in a way that might have struck others as singularly peculiar, given my proclivities for other kinds of violence and bodily harm. Even monsters have their limits, I suppose, and this was mine; besides this, even my own brand of violence was reserved only for people who deserved it, people who were not Christine. I never would have harmed a single hair on Christine's head, not for a palace of riches or the power to rule and bewitch all of mankind. None of these things mattered to me, really, not when it came down to brass tacks – I loved her, achingly and horridly and wonderfully so and I could not imagine anything else I should have liked better than her happiness, so long as it was I who provided it.

But she'd been getting ready for the boy, that night, getting ready for him to come fetch her and cart her off to yet another unbearable dinner engagement in some unfamiliar venue with food she couldn't pronounce, and a bill for which she would not have dared ask the total – a total that he would cavalierly pay by discreet cheque as though it were only a few sous from his pocket. She had told me of this, haltingly, during our last lesson. It made her uncomfortable, this hobnobbing with the rich. I could see that. It had dazzled her at first, oh, of course it had, but it was wearing on her now. She was of more simple stock, not given to airs or overwhelming finery. Like any girl in her position, of course, she certainly did not mind a bit of extravagance now and again, provided there was some thought behind it. I had overheard her remark on this to him, just once, and it had given me a sick pleasure to see his expression, as though her words were an iron glove and he had been backhanded across his insipidly pretty face. It made my blood boil, to see that face. Women fawned over faces like that – why didn't he pursue more willing prey and leave my little dove in her dovecote, snug and protected? He liked to think he knew her, but he knew her very little.

"Raoul, it's lovely, this necklace, and it might look very well on one of your sisters…it's a bit much for me, you see. I can't imagine wearing it. Oh, it's not that I'm ungrateful, don't think that! You can take it back if you like, instead. It's only…dear, it's only that I do wish sometimes that you would ask me what I like, instead of trying to decide it for me."

And he had, the great buffoon, he had frequently assumed that his tastes and those of his kin were suitable for my little northern songbird, who might have made even a flour sack look fit for a queen and needed no gaudy adornment to enhance her lovely features. On the occasions I bought her jewelry after she was in my house, I made sure to buy things catering more to her tastes…small precious pendants on thin gold chains, a little sapphire broach which was lovely but practical, a pair of very modest earrings.

At any rate, it was this seemingly blatant disregard for her feelings on the part of her would-be Adonis that had spurred me to that particular moment on that particular evening when I took her away.

"Christine, haven't I told you it isn't good for you to be hanging about with the Vicomte?" I had said in the Voice.

"You have," she'd said in that strange, dreamy voice – how I almost loathed the effect my voice had on people at that moment, almost loathed the power it gave me. I would have given away that power in an instant for an ordinary face, the most plain and ordinary in the world, not even a handsome face; even plain and ordinary would have been far more appealing than the visage I would bear until the end of my days.

"Why do you go to him, child, time after time? Why do you accept his thoughtless gifts?"

"Because he claims to love me, I suppose," she'd said, a small frown creasing her beautiful brow. "I can't seem to deny him much of anything, really – he is such an old friend, Angel," and I'd realized then that the Voice had made her temporarily regress back to that time months before she'd known my name, before she'd known I was flesh instead of spirit. Part of me bitterly missed those days, her sweet trust, her unmitigated joy at my unseen presence, the feeling of safety as I hid behind an invisible cloak of utter anonymity. But that time had long been relegated to the annals of memory, other than the strange, bittersweet effect my hypnotic tones seemed to have upon her now.

What I said next had been born of sheer impulse, a frenzied stab in the dark at an unknowable foe. "If he asked you to marry him," I queried in the Voice, "would you accept?"

A look of dread had crossed her face. "I—oh, that had not occurred to me. Or it had—but…oh, dear. I don't…Angel, I don't think I want to marry him. But how could I refuse, if he asked me? Everyone would think me out of my head for refusing him. And I might not see him ever again. He might be angry, too angry even to speak to me, and I couldn't bear that. I do wish I knew what to do."

Impulse had seized me again. There was a shadow of doubt in her mind. She did not belong to him, not utterly. If I did not act, I might lose her forever, and I could not have borne that, not when there was a ghost of a chance I could make her mine.

I had stepped out from behind the mirror, motioned for her to come with me. She had risen like a sleepwalker, come with me without complaint or question.

I had bidden her, in that dreamlike state, to write a note to the Vicomte, saying that she had changed her mind about to-night, and about a great many other things; she was going on holiday and needed time to think, and she would leave no forwarding address.

And then we had gone, she and I, down to my house, leaving no other trace of her sudden departure. I confess I hadn't thought the matter through as well as I should have; impulse leaves little room for sense. All I could think about was her—her small frame so close by as I hummed in the Voice to keep her docile and unafraid, the fresh, clean scent of her hair, and that eager look she'd had when I'd spoken to her in her dressing-room, along with the glimmer of discontent in her voice when she'd spoken of him. I'd thought of all these things over and over as we made our way down to my house, and once we had gotten inside, I'd had a little more time to think as I released my vocal hold on her.

She'd snapped to attention for a moment and then slumped like a discarded marionette, and when she'd realized where she was, she had gone frantic for a moment. "You must take me back!" she'd demanded. "I don't care if this is only for a few days, I have to see him—have to explain—Erik, this isn't like the old days when I was a nobody, there are things that need to be done! We'd made dinner plans for this evening, he and I, and I have to tell him I can't – and the auditions for the new production of Faustus will begin in the morning! What will they think when I don't turn up? My god, my career…"

I had almost given it up right then and there. But something held me back. "I shall explain to the managers that you have gone away on a holiday for your health, just as you have explained in a note to that boy," I had said in a voice that was far more calm than I'd felt. "Any roles you could have filled will go to others for the moment. Oh, obviously none of them have your talent; even so, the public is apt to be forgetful - but I shall make sure you are not forgotten. The managers will not refuse you employment when you return. They will have me to answer to if they dare to try."

"How…how long shall I be here, Erik?" she had asked, and it had seemed to me that a strange tone had suddenly crept into her voice, mixed with the panic of before, a note of… longing? (I had, of course, dismissed this at the time as being utterly absurd.)

"As long as it takes to focus yourself on your task—you need not trouble your head about the boy," I'd said. "Your voice is all that matters, and I expect you to care for it. You have been neglecting it of late."

The flush that appeared on her face might have been pretty but for the sour expression she bore along with it. "Oh, Erik, I don't understand you at all," she had spat out. "You want me to care for my voice and yet you intend to keep me away from the stage?"

My nerve had nearly failed me, but I had pressed on. "From everyone, in point of fact," I had said rather firmly.

A slight shriek had risen from her lips, quickly stifled by the press of her own hand. Her cheeks had gone white, and her next sentence, when her hand finally lowered, was flat and lifeless. "This is it, then," she said. "No good-byes to anyone up there. No chance to leave my old life with some degree of dignity. You mean to keep me here indefinitely. Don't you." It was not a question.

I had not answered her. I hadn't dared. My mind had not progressed to that point…up until that moment I had been half-believing my own lies of returning her to the stage, to her life, but the truth was that I had no desire to let her return at all. The realization stunned me into silence—a coward's silence.

So I had turned away, silently, like the cur I was, and she had fled to her room and slammed shut the door with all the fury of a harpy from Hell's depths.

Now she and I were here in my sitting-room, two long months later, and she was saying things to me which made little sense, things that made my skin tingle and grow hot and cold at intervals. Would I ever understand her?

Her hand, her smooth, pale hand fluttered to where it was very nearly touching mine. I couldn't seem to breathe properly. It was difficult to remember how to speak.

And then she really did touch me, and I couldn't move. Her hand moved even closer to my hand; her littlest finger brushed the skin of mine, and it was as though I'd been given an electric shock. I felt a sharp, sudden sensation race through my blood.

But this was no deadly current. This was something unknowable and delicious and utterly stupefying to me.

Her little finger hesitantly—oh, so hesitantly—began to move a little against the side of my hand, a caress so light it might have been hardly noticeable to an ordinary person. But I—who had been touched so very little in my life, and almost never gently—I noticed everything.

The sensation of her finger caressing my hand was something I would be hard-pressed to explain in mere words. There was something in her caress, something which was not merely pity. There was…dared I think it?...there seemed to be a certain level of care in her touch. She cared for me…at least a little…and it was difficult to wrap my head around, but she had at the very least implied as much, hadn't she?

Oh, those words. "How could I ever truly attach myself to him, when half of me was always here, with you?"

My own fingers stirred, with a will of their own, and without quite knowing what I was doing, I found myself sliding my fingers through hers, her hand and my hand gently entwined.

I heard her give a little gasp, and I shuddered, almost losing every ounce of nerve; my eyes flicked up in panic to meet hers, terrified of what I would find there. But her hand didn't move, didn't falter, didn't rip away from mine. And her face…my God, the expression on her face, some mixture of shock and delight.

Oh, I wanted to do terribly immoral things to her…I wanted to descend on her with my mouth, crushing and binding her to me, moving her body against mine in a frantic rhythm. I wanted to imprint myself upon her, make her mine, mine, in every way imaginable.

Instead, I simply sat there feeling unbearably warm, as though I were being pricked with little pins. The delicious pressure of her hand in mine felt as though it were Heaven's grace sent to drive me mad.

Slowly, oh so slowly, her other hand reached forward, palm up, fingers extended as if in a desperate plea, and I took it, wrapped my other hand around hers a trifle less tentatively than she reached for mine. The tables were beginning to turn, a little—I was becoming bolder, now that she was beginning to give me leave. I forced myself to remain calm—bolder or not, leave given or not, this was still Christine, and I refused to let myself become heady or reckless enough to frighten her. It was as though I had convinced a shy, beautiful bird to alight on my palms and eat out of my hands, and I could not risk spooking her, spoiling this.

Her gaze was fixed on me, fixed on our hands. She seemed nearly as stupefied as I was, and I felt a light giddiness that had nothing to do with wine.

Then she began to move closer—all of her—and my breath shortened and caught, and I wondered yet again if this was all some delirious thing I'd dreamed up. Shortly I'd awaken after having dozed off, and things would almost certainly be confusing again, but not like this, filled with things that made my blood pound in my ears and my thighs, and made me want to do things I'd only ever imagined and caught inadvertent, illicit glimpses of through cracks in doors.

No, shortly I should awaken from this tantalizing delirium of fantasy and things would almost certainly be quite ordinary again—no touching, her speech vague and hesitant, my demeanor abrupt and aloof, perhaps even a note from the boy slid into the seat in Box Five, saying I've discovered everything, you cad; give her up at once or I shall send the police.

I shuddered.

But for now, the vision before me held, and so did her hands in mine.

"Erik…if I ask you a question, will you promise to answer—quite honestly?" she whispered. I let out a short, nervous bark of a laugh, which startled her, but I held fast to her hands. "Ironic, perhaps, that you should ask me this, when just minutes ago you yourself had to be coaxed into answering my queries," I muttered, and her own grip on my hands tightened. Her mouth formed a tight little line. "Yes," she said, "but I did answer, didn't I? If you promise me this, in return, I shall promise to quickly and honestly answer any question you care to put to me. Any question, no matter how abrupt or strange."

A little tickling feeling of satisfaction wormed its way up my spine; I attempted to ignore this. I closed my eyes and nodded.

"You promise, then?" she asked, and I gritted my teeth. I did not like being pressed. "Yes," I growled, attempting to soften my annoyance as much as I could. Oh, we were hanging on a fragile thread, my girl and I…one wrong word from me might break the spell, might force reality back into play. I should have been lying had I said I was not utterly terrified by this possibility. Dream or no, I wanted very badly to play this sonata to its conclusion.

"Very well, then," she said, and took another breath. "Erik…I…this may seem improper, but…well, conventional proprieties have never really applied to us, have they, because after all, I've been living here in your house for a great deal of time; granted, nothing remotely untoward has ever taken place, but…"

I cleared my throat. Her face reddened. "Oh! Oh, I ought to get to the point, then. Well, I…I wonder. With everything you said before…about…about…noticing me…I wonder too, if you…if you care for me. In more than a general sense."

"Christine, you're utterly confounding me," I blurted out before I could stop myself. "Whatever do you mean, in more than a general sense? Do you mean—" I paused. Her eyes were fixed on me, wide and earnest and uncertain, and I again felt the unconscious tug of vulnerability left to me by this mask which did not conceal my features in its entirety.

I swallowed. "Do you mean—love?" Wild horses could have torn me to pieces at that moment, and it would have seemed a better fate than uttering that word aloud in Christine's presence, regarding my feelings toward her. It was more frightening than being touched.

"Y—yes," she said quickly, softly, the flush on her cheeks as crimson as ever. I was caught by the utterly disturbing and delightful thought of her pale skin flushing all over, laid bare beneath my fingers. I felt dizzy.

"Erik, you promised," she said reproachfully, and I realized that I had been silent for nearly a full minute.

"Yes," I said, "yes. I…" My mouth felt dry as cotton. I closed my eyes, opened them again, felt myself spiraling into an abyss from which I could not escape.

"Christine," I whispered, her name a prayer on my lips—what little I had of them to speak of—and it tumbled out of my mouth like water then. "I love you."