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It took a day or two of thinking to work out a plan. Christine didn't want to rush everything in her haste to respond and somehow slip up. Her performances were still sensational, her happiness over the letter and the possibility of communicating with Raoul again turning singing into a joy once more. She had even seen a handful of people in the audience standing when she took her bows.

The ending of the opera was drawing near. There would be a week-long break, and then rehearsals would start for two new shows. She was nervous at the thought of spending so long with Erik, no performances to break up the monotony and the endless hours in the underground house. With a touch of desperation, she thought that if she replied to Raoul before the opera closed, she would have something to look forward to. The hope of another letter from him would keep her strong through the week.

To her surprise, Mr. Reyer asked her to meet with him one afternoon before the performance. She asked Erik what it was about, but he was tightlipped, giving her nothing but a knowing half smile that annoyed her to no end.

"You will have to wait and see," he said.

She had been to Mr. Reyer's office only once before, and it looked the exact same: cramped, windowless, a piano overflowing with scores and books. Mr. Reyer gestured to the rickety chair across his desk, and she sat down nervously.

"Miss Daae," he said. "I just wanted to tell you how happy I am about your recent performances. You have been exceptional, and I'm very glad you've been able to handle this role so maturely and with such limited experience."

"Thank you," Christine said, unable to help herself from smiling slightly.

"I'd like to talk to you about our upcoming shows," he said. "We'll be doing Albert Herring and Norma. Are you familiar with them?"

"Norma, yes," she said, her heart fluttering at the thought. It was one of her favorites, lush and grand and so dramatic. "But I don't know the other."

"It's a fun little comedic opera," Mr. Reyer said. "We'd like you to sing as Emmie. She's a minor character, but I think you'll do very well."

"Oh," Christine said. "Thank you! I mean—yes, I would love that." She hesitated for just a moment. "And Norma?"

Mr. Reyer gave a slight wave of his hand, the gesture somewhat dismissive. "You'll join the chorus for that one. We've already assigned the roles. But I know you will do well as Emmie. I'll let Mr. Gabriel and the managers know you've accepted."

Christine thanked him, hoping she sounded gracious, and left, heading backstage. She tried not to feel disappointed. Of course she had never expected in her wildest dreams to sing as Norma, not at her age and with hardly any experience. But there were other parts in Norma that she could have been assigned. Clotilde was a soubrette role, wasn't it? Wasn't she good enough for that at least?

Those feelings were slightly embarrassing. She didn't want to be like Carlotta Guidicelli, expecting and demanding everything. She wanted to earn the parts. Still, Erik had always said that she needed to work her way up to leading roles. Wasn't joining the chorus taking a step backward?

After the performance, once they were back in the underground house, she carefully broached the subject with Erik.

"Mr. Reyer offered me a small role in one of the upcoming operas," she said. "Albert Herring."

He nodded. "The show is forgettable, but you will do well. I'm pleased with the decision."

She played with the hem of her shirt and said, trying to sound unaffected, "And I'm just in the chorus for Norma."

If she expected him to fly into an indignant rage, demand to know why Reyer would even think about relegating her to such a ridiculous position, and promise her that he would fix it, she was mistaken. He simply nodded again.

"Yes, that is also a wise choice," he said. "I'm sure you will still progress a great deal."

"Yeah," she said vaguely, a trickle of disappointment creeping into her belly. So Erik had known about the casting, and he agreed with it. She wanted to ask why, but she didn't want to seem ungrateful or whiny. So instead she bid him goodnight, going back to the bedroom to fish out Raoul's letter and read it in the bathroom for what was probably the hundredth time. She had to get a reply to him. And soon.

It wasn't until the day of closing night that she was able to put her plan into action. Erik had gone out for the morning, finally leaving her alone in the house, and she used the few short hours to rifle through and find a large stack of blank paper and a pen. She took only five sheets of paper, not wanting him to notice anything missing. She pulled out one, hid the rest underneath her underwear, and locked herself in the bathroom, finally able to write the reply she had been thinking about for days. She wrote in French, thinking that it might be a deterrent to…anyone else who tried to read it.

Raoul,

Getting your letter meant more to me than you'll ever know. I know it probably seems like I've dropped off the face of the earth, but I promise I'm still here. I wish I could just tell security to let you backstage after the show, but things are very complicated, and I can't say too much in this letter.

Please know that I'm healthy and safe. I have loved performing. It's meant so much to me. I think my dad is proud of me. I still miss him so much. I hope you enjoyed the show when you watched it, even though I know it's not exactly your cup of tea :)

I don't know how you got your letter to me, but there might be an easier way. If you send mail addressed to me at the Opera House, I will get it with the rest of my fan mail.

Hopefully this reply gets to you in the mail. I'll try my best. It's crazy, but I still remember your address. Unless you've moved. Hopefully not!

I wish I could explain more. I know this is probably really weird. I know you're wondering why I don't just call or text you. I wish I could, but this is the best way for now. I really hope to get another letter from you soon.

Love,

Christine

She folded the letter up, scribbled his address on the blank side, and pressed a kiss to it. For a moment, she thought about spritzing it with some perfume, but that seemed a little too…melodramatic. Instead, she tucked it into her bra, put the pen back in its exact spot on the piano, and began to prepare herself for the final performance.

When Erik asked what she had done with her morning, she said she had made herself a nice breakfast and had read a few chapters of a book. It seemed to satisfy him.

"You will be marvelous tonight," he said sometime later, as they stood in the small room that led to the alleyway. "You have done so well. I have been…very pleased with your performances."

"It's all thanks to you," she said, trying to keep him happy and in a good mood. "I'll do my best tonight."

To her surprise, he hesitantly reached out and gently stroked her arm. "Yes. I will be watching."

Christine readied herself as quickly as possible, not wasting any time chatting with the other performers. She was out of the dressing room in record time while trying to act casual and not run. As she passed a male dancer, she stopped him and asked if he had seen Meg Giry anywhere. He pointed her to a rehearsal room, and she said a quick thanks and made her way there. Meg was going over a few steps with a handful of other dancers, and Christine watched, impatiently, for several minutes before Meg spotted her in the mirror.

"Hi!" Meg said, smiling widely as she approached. "Good to see you again."

"Yeah," Christine said. "I heard you were back here, I just wanted to say hello."

Meg smiled. "So does this mean you're coming tonight? To the party?"

"I'd really like to go," Christine assured her, trying not to wince at the lie. "I'm going to try to be there!"

They chatted for a few more minutes, and Christine did her best not to hurry the conversation along. However, when a soft bell sounded throughout the rehearsal room that signified the show would start in fifteen minutes, she couldn't wait any longer.

"Hey, Meg? Do you…uh, would you come with me really quick? I need to ask you something."

Meg nodded, looking a bit confused, but followed her out of the room, down the hall, and to a women's bathroom.

"Need a tampon?" Meg asked.

"Heh." Christine laughed nervously. "Not now. Just a favor."

"A bathroom favor?"

"Oh. Yeah. I know this is kind of weird. But…uh. I just wanted to ask you in private. Because…well. It's kind of awkward, but I've been getting some fan mail. I don't want people getting jealous or angry about it. But I wanted to answer one of the letters I got. It was so sweet. I have the answer here." Christine held out the paper with Raoul's address written on the front. "I was wondering if you could mail it for me. I just…I don't really have the time. It would mean the world to me if you could mail it. Please. Please."

Meg looked confused, an eyebrow raised suspiciously, but she took the letter. "All right? I guess superstars don't have time to mail a letter."

"It's stupid," Christine said. "I know. But you would be helping me out so much."

"You know you can just ask the mail room here to post letters, right?" Meg said. "Not that I mind, but just so you know."

"Oh." Christine blinked. "I had no idea about that. I guess if that's so—uh, if you're busy…"

"I don't mind," Meg said again. "Really. Just letting you know for the future if you need something else mailed."

Christine smiled a little. "Thank you so, so much. And the address is written right on the front. It's…" She hesitated. "I mean, it's kind of private…"

"I won't read it," Meg said. "Promise."

There was no way to know for sure that Meg wouldn't read it, but Christine was too impatient to wait and try to send it a different way. Besides, she was relatively confident that Meg did not speak French, and hopefully she would be too uninterested to try to translate anything. Christine gave her a hug, thanking her several more times, until another bell rang through, signaling five minutes until the curtain would rise. She jumped in surprise.

"I have to go," she said quickly. "Thank you. Thank you, Meg. This means so much to me. Please mail it as soon as you can. I promise I'll return the favor. I just don't have time—"

"Oh my god, Christine, just go," Meg said, rolling her eyes a little. "I'm just posting a letter for you, not performing brain surgery."

Christine thanked her one last time and ran to the wings, ignoring the scowls from a stage manager who had been frantically searching for her.

Her last performance was perfection. The thought of Raoul receiving her letter, of writing her back, made her practically glow with happiness. The applause was thunderous, and she gave a little wave of thanks to the handful of people who had stood for her. It was exactly what she had imagined whenever she had dreamed of performing.

To her shock, Erik was waiting for her with a bouquet of late summer flowers. It was so surprising that she nearly expected him to snatch them away in some kind of cruel joke. Instead, he pressed them into her arms, murmuring how pleased he was with her performance, how she had exceeded all expectations, including his own, and how she would become even more magnificent with each new role.

She stuttered a thanks, the sweet smell of the flowers filling up the small, dank room, and she clutched them to her chest as she followed him down.

When they entered the house, he shut the door behind them and gestured to the sofa. "Sit," he said. After a moment, he added, "Please."

She did so, still holding the flowers, a little pink one tickling her chin. He stood in front of her, looking at her so closely and piercingly that she ducked behind the bouquet just a bit, feeling exposed.

"Christine, I…" he began. Then he straightened his jacket a little and tried again. "I can't emphasize enough how pleased I am with you. You've worked very hard and have been patient as I've pushed you, perhaps sometimes harder than I should have. You should be very proud of yourself."

The praise made her practically glow. She couldn't help but smile and give a bashful thanks, which seemed to please Erik even more.

"There will be reviews in the papers," he said, looking excited at the prospect. "They will mention you. They can't not mention you, not after these past few weeks. And other companies will start to try to poach you, I'm sure of it. There is so much more waiting for you. This is just the smallest taste of what awaits."

For one selfish, surly moment, she wanted to ask if 'so much more' included additional shows in the chorus, but she felt guilty for even thinking that. Instead she nodded.

"I know it's late," he continued. "You would probably like to rest. But…I would like to sing for you. If you'd let me. Would you like that?"

Would she like that? That was like asking if she wanted her father back or if she wanted to live aboveground again. To hear his indescribable, perfect voice again, after what felt like a lifetime, would be the only reward she needed after her last performance.

"Yes!" she said immediately. "Please, Erik. Yes, I would love that."

His eyes glowed, and he went over to the piano, sitting. He waited for a few seconds before bringing his long hands up and pressing down the first few chords.

The French suited his voice perfectly. Nadir had told her that he had been born in France, but she had never heard him speak it, and it was like unveiling another shade of the most beautiful color, velvety, smooth, rich.

However, Christine couldn't help but tense for just a moment, wondering if he had somehow intercepted the letter and had read her note scribbled in French and was toying with her. But if he had, he would not have showered her with praise or given her flowers. He would be screaming at her instead of singing.

And his singing. It felt like she was a wounded little thing, and his voice picked her up and cradled her, nursed her back to health. The lyrics were beautiful, mournful, and she never wanted the song to end. The final few lines were so melancholic, so full of longing, that she felt herself tearing up, and for an insane moment, she wanted to rush over to him and assure him that she was real, she was not just a dream like the song proclaimed.

When it was over, a hushed silence fell over them, and she felt several tears slipping down her cheeks and into the flowers. Then she gave a little gasp and wiped them away.

"That was…" she whispered. "Thank you, Erik. That was so beautiful. Did you write that?"

"No," he said, standing. "Just a popular little piece by Fauré. Perhaps you can learn it as well if you like it so much."

"God, I would never be able to do it justice the way you just did," she said.

"Nonsense," he said. "It's not so difficult. I can teach it to you while you have a reprieve from rehearsals this week."

She nodded, almost absentmindedly, too busy trying to savor the last wisps of his music and his voice that lingered in the air.

"Would you ever play something for me that you composed?" she then asked. She was only familiar with one piece—the one that had been plagiarized and published under a different name. Erik probably had dozens of other pieces hidden away, just as beautiful.

"No," he said, his response sharp and quick. "My music is not meant to be heard."

"Oh," she said quietly, disappointed. Maybe the world didn't deserve to hear his music. Maybe it wouldn't understand. But wasn't she different? Wasn't she the one he had chosen? Wasn't she his wife?

He hesitated and then said, "I only meant that my music is—it is not beautiful like Fauré's. It's quite…well, it's like me, I suppose. Not meant to be enjoyed by pretty things like you."

She frowned. "But your stolen piece—the one Nadir told me about. It's so beautiful. One of the most beautiful pieces of music I've ever heard."

His jaw tightened. "I don't want to discuss this any further," he said stiffly. "Tonight is for you. I want you to enjoy your success."

'Enjoying her success' apparently meant going to bed, lonely and silent. There was nothing else for her to do. It wasn't as if she would be allowed to go to the closing night party. She lay there, staring into the dark ceiling, the audience from the evening swimming into her mind, applauding, cheering for her. The memory made her smile, almost sheepishly, and blush.

She couldn't help but wonder when Meg would post the letter. Hopefully Raoul would receive it and have time to write her back before the week was out. She was going to be trapped down here for a full week, and the prospect of hearing from him again made the thought bearable.

To her surprise, though, the week did not turn out to be as horrible as she had imagined. The very next afternoon, Erik asked if she would like to go on a drive. It was calm, quiet, and she was able to smile when he attempted another bad joke.

The next day, he took her to visit her father, which again touched her very deeply. She brought a handful of flowers from the bouquet Erik had given her and laid them on the grave, ignoring the fact that they were droopy (the flowers never lasted long in the underground house with no sunlight).

The time spent in the house was not so terrible, either. One afternoon, he tried to teach her how to play backgammon. She had never been a good strategist, so she had a hard time figuring out how to play well in addition to remembering all the rules and moves.

"No, Christine," he would say repeatedly, picking up her pieces and returning them to their previous spot. "That's not allowed. You cannot land on a point if my chips are there."

In the end, it was mostly Erik playing against himself, as it was probably too painful for him to watch her blunder her way through basic moves.

"Nadir and I used to spend hours playing in Tehran," he said, bearing away the last of his chips and ending the game. "He's very good. A merciless player."

She wished she could have seen them play, if only to see Erik lose at something. Instead she gave a hopeless shrug. "I'm a lost cause, I guess."

"Never," Erik said seriously, which made her blush a little.

The music they made during that week was divine. At her request, Erik sang for her a few more times, and she was even able to convince him to play the violin for her. It made her cry, though she wasn't sure why. He tried to get her back to playing the piano, but all his nitpicking critiques made practicing unappealing. They continued to fall back into their natural roles, and he would play for her, sometimes asking her to sing, sometimes letting her sit and listen. It reminded her of those first few weeks in the underground house. She had been so happy. Things had been so much simpler. There had been no ring on her finger. And Mr. Khan had visited every so often.

Despite the surface level peace, there was still an unaddressed, underlying tension, a string stretched so tightly it would snap at the slightest pressure. It was as if both of them refused to speak on what exactly their marriage meant. Erik had referred to her as his wife several times, but that was it. And she had never said anything about it out loud. She wondered if maybe Erik himself didn't really know how to navigate this new part of their strange relationship. If so, she certainly didn't feel particularly generous in helping him out. Mostly she tried to forget. She tried to convince herself that things weren't any different than before.

Two days before rehearsals were to start back up, Erik had convinced her to give backgammon another try, and she sat at the table, brow furrowed, staring intently at the white chips in front of her. He was tapping a long finger on his leg impatiently, and she knew he wanted to tell her what move to make. When she reached over to pick up a chip, he started to say something, and she looked up at him.

"I'm not going to learn if you keep doing it for me," she said. "Let me try?"

He leaned back in his chair and gave a permissive gesture with his bony hand. She moved her pieces, and he promptly hit two exposed chips, placing them on the middle of the board. He noticed her scowl.

"Bad luck," he offered.

Her "bad luck" continued, and she lost spectacularly, her pieces scattered all over various points, no rhyme or reason to their placement, some still on the middle of the board.

"Ugh, I'm so stupid," she groaned, putting her head in her hands dramatically.

"Of course that's not true," he said. "You are a beginner who just happens to be up against a very good player."

"Is there anything you aren't good at?" she said, looking up at him, feigning desperation.

"I'm a rather terrible cook," he said. "That may come as a shock to you, I know, given my track record."

She laughed, harder than she had in weeks, and when he chuckled softly as well, it made her laugh even harder. The laughter felt so good, and she beamed up at him. He looked at her, his gaze soft, warm, and for several moments, they sat there. This was the Erik she liked, and she had missed him. If he was like this more often, maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe she could be happy. Maybe she could…

She blinked, coming out of the moment, panicked by her train of thought. No—he was the Phantom. He was keeping her down here against her will. He had shot a man right in front of her. No.

"I'm tired," she said blankly. "I think I'm going to lie down for a while."

"Oh," he said, obviously a little taken back by her abrupt declaration, and he busied himself with gathering up the chips. "Of course. You should rest. Yes."

As she stood, her hip bumped against the table, knocking a few chips to the floor, and she quickly bent over to pick them up, feeling flustered. When she held out the chips to him, his long fingers gently brushed up against her palm, and she fought back a heat in her cheeks.

"Thanks for the game," she said. Without waiting for his answer, she went to the bedroom, her skin warm where he touched her, confused why it burned but didn't hurt.