Stopping to listen at her bedroom door, left ajar for Isis to have access, Erik senses no sound or movement. Content in the belief she is asleep, he continues down the hallway to the sitting room. Gathering the Bible from the bookcase before he settles into his leather chair. The little cat jumps on his lap as soon as he lifts the cover of the black leather bound tome.

"I see you have come to prevent me from reading as usual," he says, stroking the soft black fur on her back. "As I recall you took quite an interest in the contents hidden in these pages for forty years or more when Christine first discovered the Bible. Why did you not alert me to this sooner?" Of course, he is well aware the kitty would have been more than happy to disturb this book as any other had he ever thought to notice, much less read from its pages.

The presence of the lovely young woman in the next room seems a precursor now to his delving into his spiritual nature…an investigation he has happily avoided for most of his life. God, if there was such a being, turned his back on him before he was born judging from the face bestowed upon him. It was only fair, he rejects his benefactor…or so he believed. Now he is not so certain. The Almighty seems to be present in most all of his activities and relationships these past months. "Making up for lost time," he mutters to his companion.

Lifting the photograph of the beautiful woman he remembers as his mother, he studies her eyes. There appears to be a bit of humor there matched by lips turned up ever so slightly at the corners. Had she ever looked at him so directly or kindly? Most of his recollections were of her turning away. What color were they? He could not recall…did he ever know?

In a way, she did protect him from the cruelty of others, he supposes. Never allowing him to go out, prevented others from seeing what he himself did not see until he was ten.

"Maman, come! There was a monster. I killed him." If there was pain, he did not notice – nor did he acknowledge the blood streaming from his wounds. The important thing was the monster was gone. The image he confronted when walking into her bedroom, hoping to show her the drawing he made, was dead. Disappeared thanks to his efforts.

Only her rage awakened him to what actually happened.

"Look what you have done," she cried. "You have ruined my mirror…my dressing table…and look at the floor. Now I must clean you up as well. Who knows how badly you are injured? Why did God curse me? What did I do to deserve His hatred?"

Erik slams the book shut forcing the cat to jump down with a complaining yowl.

Despite the magnitude of his announcement of an unknown relative who happened to be a priest, the conversation with Christine during supper dealt with more practical matters. Both of them were raw from memories of the past. And so, they spoke of simple things unrelated to feelings or the past or what he anticipated from the upcoming meeting with his uncle.

"Who will take care of Isis?"

"Adele has taken her on the few occasions I have been away for more than a day."

"Is that so? I never saw her."

"In her office," Erik said. "Adele would gather her from Box Five."

"You left her in the auditorium?"

'I have a case for her," he laughed. "Although I am certain the little lady would be most respectful of her surroundings."

"Madame has been a good friend…to both of us."

"You sound surprised."

"You must admit, the person she shows to the world is not one of warmth."

"The world tends to run over people who are too warm, to use your term."

"I suppose so…Pappa was always being taken advantage of."

"In any event, Isis will be well cared for, so no need to worry."

All this talk of her father made him wonder how wise the idea of this trip might be. Another instance of his not being more aware of who she is and how she came to be in his life. All the talk of her father since the met was full of love and appreciation – no criticisms at all.

As far as he knew Gustave Daae was a perfect person. These little revelations of his imperfections calm him in a way he is not certain is proper. The same with the boy. How does someone with not only a distorted face, but a distorted life leading up to meeting her compete with these levels of perfection?

Perhaps starting fresh…just the two of them would make more sense. When he learned of his mother's death, he felt that period of his life could finally be put to rest. There was no hope of a reconciliation even if the thought lingered in the back of his mind.

When Christine discovered the papers and photographs in the Bible, he found himself thinking about what it might mean to have a blood relationship with another human being. Often, as now, when she retired, he sought out the papers, reading over the marriage certificate and his certificate of birth.

Emile.

It was the gypsy king who give him the name Erik. Not that a name mattered, he was called any number of names by the visitors to the exhibition, none so polite as a given name. The man discovered the initials ESR embroidered on his clothing and did not ask what they stood for, just called him Erik Sewer Rat and that was that. The irony of living next to a cistern, though not a sewer, was not lost on him. Javert was a clever man, why should he not be somewhat prescient?

In any event, the change was for the better, he supposes. Who knows if some sort of announcement might have been put out by his mother for a boy named Emile Saint-Rien. Upon his leaving her house, his only thought was she hated him and anything was better than living in that way any longer. How little he knew.

Brushing aside those thoughts, he lifts up the deed, examining it yet again. Likely the home of the grandfather he never knew. The man who taught his father and him, if indirectly, how to build. What would he find when seeing the house. Would he recognize it in some way?

The deed to the house intrigues him from a practical standpoint as well, especially now with Christine and the promise of a normal life. A home away from the city…if only for holidays, or if she is not performing. Is the house even standing? If so, who might be living there? Thirty years have passed since he left his mother's home. Why did she never mention this other house, even to the occasional visitor. Certainly not to him, but she never traveled anywhere and, outside of those occasional visitors, there was no other family he was aware of.

None of these questions troubled him until these documents appeared. Cutting ties with his mother left him a solitary creature…bound to no one…alone in the world. And yet, why did he not know of any other family besides her?

"There are times I wish I had not discovered the Bible," Christine says, coming up behind him, pressing a kiss on the top of his head, ruffling the sparse hair on his scalp with her fingertips. "I do believe leaving your wig off and my massages are encouraging your hair to grow."

Taking her hand, he brings it to his lips – the scent of gardenia fresh on her soft skin. "You are most generous. Had I known you were still awake, I should have left this wretched head covered."

"Isis roused me. Seemed to be in a fit of pique, not her usual loving self," she laughs. "As far as your 'wretched head' – it bothers you more than me – which is not at all and I am the one who sees you." Walking around the chair she lifts the Bible from his hands and lays it on the ottoman then takes its place on his lap.

"You are not repulsed?" he asks, adjusting himself in the chair for her to be more comfortable. This is a new habit of hers, not unwelcome, but still a bit awkward for him. While he definitely enjoyed the closeness and affection, there was always a concern about his own self-control.

"Is this alright?" she asked. "I am not too heavy…I know Isis is much smaller. She always looks so happy when sitting on your lap."

"Perfectly alright…are you certain you are more comfortable on my bony legs than on the sofa?"

"Actually, your lap is most cozy, especially when I can rest my head on your shoulder," she replied. "If you relaxed a bit, I would fit even better."

"You must forgive my tension, this is quite the first time someone other than the cat sought me out for a place to relax."

Of course he could not explain the physical desire he was forcing himself to control. Whatever might she think if his desire was displayed so plainly? So far there were no incidents and he was happy their wedding date was fast approaching. Nevertheless…

"Do I act as if I am repulsed?"

"No, but…I have seen my face. I avoid looking at myself in mirrors. The only time I thank God on a regular basis – and with any sincerity – is when I shave. Miraculously I do not have a beard to deal with on the right side of my face. Which also contributes to a certain amount of baldness." The tone is droll, hoping a sense of nonchalance will distract her from the pain underlying his words. The truth is there were any number of times over the years when it would have been quite easy to just allow the razor to slip.

"You want to know if I think you are handsome?"

"No. I know the answer to that."

"On the contrary. I know you believe you are handsome when you wear your mask and wig…and you are, very. Your choice in clothing, everything suggests someone who cares about himself and how he appears."

"You think I am vain?"

"Of course you are vain," she laughs. "Why would you not be? You are talented, intelligent, well read. I suspect if you were not deformed you would be quite impossible to be around."

"So, I am supposed to see this…" waving at his face…"as a blessing – making me more socially acceptable?"

Sitting up, she looks him directly in the eye and says, "No. I think it was a cruel twist of fate and I hate how you have been treated for something you had no control over, but your rage about these things is when you become ugly. Your appearance has no effect on your relationship with M. Kahn…Nadir or Madame or Meg."

The tension building inside him as the discussion became more intense vanishes replaced by a strange emptiness. A secret revealed he is not aware he was keeping. Like lancing a boil. The rush of tears filling his eyes surprises him.

Studying the distorted version of the normal side of his face, she brushes the tears from his cheeks. Stroking his brow, she traces the mottled skin of his cheek to the misshapen lower lip. "Not handsome, but certainly not horrible."

"I had no idea…"

"When one becomes used to how someone looks – the face kind of disappears and only the person can be seen. You are you and I love all of you," she says simply.

"You have saved me…I am blessed." Despite the level of mockery in the comment, he speaks the truth. Nadir's boy never scorned him…and Charles Garnier found pleasure in his company.

"I must warn you, however, a stranger coming upon you unmasked would be taken aback, especially if you were trying to frighten him," she laughs.

"Or her…"

"Yes…or her," she laughs, kissing him lightly on the nose before resting her head on his shoulder. "Your method of courtship has been odd in many ways, but here we are."

"You almost give me faith."

"In God?"

"God…mankind."

"Is that why you sought the Bible out tonight?"

"No. I have not reached that point in my salvation as yet," he chuckles. "I thought it would be wise to take all the documents with us."

Sitting up, she says, "Speaking of which, it is getting late. I think it is time for both of us to go to bed."

"I thought you were already asleep."

"I heard you creeping past my room…then Isis arrived. I took it as a sign."

"I did not mean to disturb you."

Getting to her feet, she offers her hand. "I am glad you did. Otherwise you would be up all night and cranky on our journey."

"Sleep is often not a pleasant event for me," he says, getting to his feet. "However, after our talk, I find I am not as anxious about our trip."

"I know," she says, wrapping an arm around his waist. "I shall be happy for the time you join me in my bed so I can comfort you if the past comes back to haunt you in your sleep."

"You may rue the day," he says, drawing her close as they walk toward the hallway.

"I doubt that," she laughs as the cat runs in front of them.