The mist covering the lake makes the lantern's light virtually useless in the darkness of the fifth cellar. Erik sings softly, listening for rebounding echoes to guide him to the brick arch and tunnel leading to his home.

That he knows the water as well as he did the stairs they walked down from the opera house, tells her this a habit. A routine as natural as anyone else going about their daily life, but in the dark…beneath a very large building…with not another soul around.

This place is reminiscent of the times Pappa regaled her with stories of fairies and goblins and the occasional witch. There were many nights they spent in the woods with no inn nearby or if the night sky was clear without the threat of heavy weather. The hoot of owls or the rustling of leaves signaling the movement of a night animal would always bring on some tale.

"Now gnomes could be very good friends to humans. They do like their treasure and guard it carefully but prefer to keep company with their own kind."

"What of the trolls, Pappa?"

"Ah, they must be avoided…although most will avoid you or any other being. Trolls have been known to eat people, so we must be careful when crossing bridges for that is where they like to hide."

The stories always ended with Gustave Daae chuckling, easing any fear he saw in her eyes. "Morning will come, min lilla,* and with it, the light. Besides, the angels will always protect you, because of your goodness."

This is different, though. They are not outdoors. There is no sense of life here.

The lake is not a real lake, there are no woods or trees or lapping waves on a sandy shore. The sound of the angel singing, resonating against walls of brick is eerie, unnatural. She understands what he is doing. There are no stars to guide him as he uses the pole to press them forward. Although she suspects that, like Pappa, he could find his way outside using the heavens as a guide. Here, though, his voice is the only means to find the way to wherever they are going.

The question forming in her mind is why would an angel need to know the underpinnings of the opera house? Whenever a question arose during this journey, she becomes distracted by his voice. Much as what began happening in her dreams since the day he first made his presence known in the dressing room.

The priests at the Madeleine Church talked about possession in their sermons. Was she possessed? Fearing more teasing about walking around in a cloud, actually believing in the angels depicted in the statues and stained glass windows that lined the walls of the immense cathedral, she keeps such ideas to herself.

"We only go to Mass because Madame Giry insists."

"If God is so good, why do we have to struggle to live."

"I am always hungry. The only good thing about Sundays are the croissants and cheese we are treated to after church."

"But there are angels," she insisted. "My pappa told me so."

"A dreamer just like you."

"You are such a child, Christine."

"I am twenty and one years old. I am not a child. I have seen much of the world."

"You have seen backroads and fairgrounds."

"You actually believe in angels and fairies and woodland creatures."

"Wake up, angels do not exist. There are some nice humans, but mostly what we meet are not very nice."

"Why would an angel take notice of you anyway?"

But one has…the Angel of Music has taken notice she wanted to scream at them.

The singing stops as the boat touches against a low wall. Once the skiff is secured on a small landing, Erik helps her onto the narrow walk.

"Do not move until I tell you. The water is not a friendly place," he cautions as he unlatches the door built seamlessly into the macadam. Applying pressure to a small indentation, a panel opens revealing a small foyer. Taking her hand once again, he guides her into the house. Closing the door behind them, he turns on a small electric wall lamp creating a path of light into the music room.

"Wait here," he says, removing his cape and hat, hanging them on a rack inside the door. The chamber itself is black as pitch – the light from the entry reveals only enough illumination for her to see Erik to make his way to the organ smoothing his hair as he walks.

"Where are we?" Brow furrowed, squinting her blue eyes trying to adjust to the darkness.

The Angel of Music is nothing like any of the creatures Pappa told her lived beneath the earth. He is not a small, gnarly creature who hoarded stolen jewels. He most certainly seems to avoid others, but she doubts he would want to eat her. So, neither gnome nor troll.

What a silly thought. All her thoughts since coming through the mirror have been strange, unreal. There is a dreamlike quality to all of this. Pinching the skin of her arm, she hisses. Would she feel pain in a dream? Lately her dreams were more real than the days spent in the theater.

"My home."

"You live here?"

"Yes." Taking a packet of matches from a pocket in his waistcoat, he lights the nine candles on each of the two candelabra stands on either side of the organ, along with the three candles in a smaller candelabrum set the organ itself. "There, that is better."

"There is still only darkness."

"Do you think so," he asks. "What do you see?"

"An organ. The candles. You." A mask…he wears a mask. No wonder his face seemed so unnaturally pale when she saw him in the mirror. The light of the candles reflects off the smooth porcelain. So many questions on the tip of her tongue, but before she can speak he does, challenging her with another of his questions.

"Anything else? Look at the walls."

Following his direction, she looks around her, moving slowly into the room. "They sparkle – like stars," she gasps, turning to look at him. "How?"

"Chips of coal mixed in with the coating on the walls – the edges catch the light," he says, joining her, waving his arm towards the far wall. "Is that all?"

"There is some color now – red, primarily, but gold and blue, as well." Christine walks toward the wall, touching it with her hand. "Fabric – wool but heavier than what I use when knitting."

"Rugs – hung on the walls for decoration, but also warmth," Erik says. "You are standing on one as well."

Crouching down, she brushes her hand along the heavy, yet soft weave.

"What of the wall behind you?"

Getting to her feet, she catches her breath. "Oh, I can make out more color, but organized like stacked boxes."

"Books. The room is also a library."

Laughing lightly, she says, "So you must use more light that we have now. Your eyes would hurt trying to read in the darkness." Amber eyes, almost golden – a color unique to him she suspects.

"True enough," he concedes. "For the moment, though, I would like you to recognize how much you can perceive in darkness – in the night. Think of the candles as the moon. You have already recognized the stars."

"What else?"

"Close your eyes. What do you hear?"

"Our voices, of course, I can hear you singing softly when you are not speaking, but I do not recognize the music."

"The dark inspires me, I find my own music away from the noise of the world. Does it disturb you?"

Shaking her head, she says, "No. The melody is unlike anything I have heard before, except perhaps in church."

"The minor key, I suspect," his chuckle is low and surprising.

Do angels laugh? She wonders, smiling in response. This is so unlike the way she imagined an angel might behave if one became visible. In the Bible stories they just seem to appear and disappear. And what about wings? She has so many questions.

"What of scent?"

"The candles…their smoke. Dampness – but not as strong as when we were outside the room," wrinkling her nose, she giggles slightly, opening her eyes. "Fish?"

"For my cat," Erik smiles.

"You have a cat here?"

"I do, she will make her presence known when she chooses," he says, before coming up behind her, close enough to feel his presence, but not quite touching. "Now?"

"You," she replies, turning her head as she leans into him, "I recognize the scent from the dressing room."

"Cinnamon and Myrrh, holy oils, often used for embalming the dead."

The talk of death finds her pulling away. "I am so confused. Were you dead and come to life again as an angel?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"But why live beneath the earth…I thought angels lived in heaven. Pappa never talked about angels having houses or carpets or cats – for that matter," she argues.

"Then how could angels help people on earth if they were in the sky as you propose?"

"This just seems more like a place for…"

"The dark angels – devils. You think I am a devil."

"Oh, no," she replies quickly, moving toward the organ. "You are certainly an angel – at least I think you are. I could only sing as I did tonight due to an angel's guidance."

"But?"

Christine bites her lip. "In church we are told our guardian angels protect us from evil."

"Do you find music evil?"

Shaking her head vehemently, she says, "No. I never felt closer to God than tonight. But…"

"What else did you feel?"

"My entire body was…different…full of pleasure…alive…I…I have no words."

"Some of the most beautiful music takes us to the deepest parts of our soul. In the dark, you can escape the realities of light. The Sun can be quite harsh. Darkness hides the rough edges, shall we say. God made both did he not?"

"When I pray, I close my eyes."

"Exactly, you go within yourself. Living in the dark one can pray or sing or dream without being concerned about keeping your eyes closed."

"I never thought of it that way."

"Sing now."

"What song?"

"No song. Just what you feel – the sound of what you feel – do not worry about words," he says, sitting down at the organ to watch her. "Just sing. For me."

A cadenza rises from within her – each passage growing in power. Once at the top of her range she continues throwing her arms open to fully realize the pinnacle note, one she never reached before. This is even more exhilarating than the experience on stage tonight. This is most certainly magic.

"There you see." He rises from the bench to go to her.

Clutching her throat, she gasps, "I did not know."

"But I did," Erik says, coming up next to her. "You have had quite an experience tonight."

"I am quite exhausted."

Erik catches her in his arms as she faints. "Then you shall rest."

*My little one