Erik persuaded her to try the rosé to celebrate the opening of La Rondine. Christine had gone down to the underground house with three huge bouquets of flowers, a large handful of fan mail, and a wide grin she couldn't keep off her lips. The flowers sat around the front room, cluttering up the few free surfaces, filling the house with a sweet smell that was beginning to border on sickly.

"You might like it," he said, holding the wine out for her approval. "If it isn't to your taste, you may dump the rest down the sink."

She eyed the bottle apprehensively but nodded. The color of the wine was pretty, at least, and she did feel the timing was appropriate. Opening night had been a huge success, and she had taken an extra bow during curtain call to accommodate all the applause that had been rained down on her. If there was ever a time to uncork a sparkly bottle of wine and toast, it was that night.

He poured only one glass of wine, and she remembered he had said earlier that anything too sweet made him sick. Instead, he served himself a healthy shot of whisky, and Christine resisted wrinkling her nose at the memory of its taste and the way it had burned her throat and belly.

After handing her the wine glass, he raised his own tumbler slightly to her in congratulations, his glowing eyes fixated on her face, piercing, unwavering, and she could feel heat creeping up her neck, a bit of embarrassment mixed with pleasure.

"You are truly limitless, my dear," he said. "I can scarcely believe how much you've accomplished so quickly. In no time at all you will truly be the most celebrated coloratura in history."

The heat had made its way to her cheeks, and she knew her face was red, a result of his flattery and persistent gaze.

"Thank you," she said, feeling stupid as soon as it came out. To cover up her inelegant reply, she took a hasty sip of the wine. It was much sweeter than what he had given her before, yet there was still a sour, slightly off-putting note, and she took a few more sips, trying to decide if she liked it or not.

He took his shot of whisky and set the tumbler aside, watching her expectantly for her review.

"I like the bubbles," she offered.

A small smile tugged at one of the corners of his lips. "I see," he said, holding out his hand. Giving a bashful little smile herself, she handed over the wine glass.

"Sorry," she said. "It's not bad, but it's not my favorite. I guess I'm not very refined."

"Nonsense," he said, setting the wine glass next to his empty tumbler. "All the better for you and your health. I also have to admit that a cold, dark cellar isn't the ideal setting for a rosé."

Christine laughed a little and then looked at the large bouquet near her, the flowers a beautiful mixture of soft, muted spring colors. She reached out and rubbed a white rose petal between her thumb and forefinger, soft and silky, using the momentary silence to brace herself for rejection as she asked, "Erik, I was wondering if you could…Would you—would you sing for me? Since I did so well tonight."

He had not sung for her since the disaster with Raoul, and she felt that she wouldn't blame him if he said no yet again. But to her surprise and happiness, he considered the question for a few moments and then nodded, walking over to the piano and sitting on the bench.

"You know Bizet?" he said, pulling off his gloves.

She shrugged. "Just Carmen," she said, taking a seat on the couch, which felt strangely far away from him and the instrument.

"You will become familiar with his other works with time," he said. "I'm sure you will enjoy this piece. It's quite grand and romantic."

He placed his fingers on the keys and played the first few notes. The aria was in French, and again she was swept away by how perfectly it suited him, his voice, the high tenor notes coming from him so effortlessly. It felt like a tragedy that she was the one performing onstage when the truly unearthly and limitless talent that existed was from him.

The piece was longing and achingly romantic, just as he had promised. The lyrics were striking, the lilting French a perfect language to accentuate the beautiful words coming from his thin, shapeless lips. Oh, nuit enchanteresse, Divin ravissement, Oh, souvenir charmant, Folle ivresse, doux rêve—Oh, enchanting night, Divine delight, Oh, charming memory, Mad intoxication, sweet dream!

After only a few moments, she couldn't stand being so far away, and she rose from the couch and walked over to the piano, needing to be closer to his sublime voice, his musician's fingers, the dark shine of his hair, the dramatic angle of his shoulders…A heat rushed up into her belly, intense, and Christine watched him, unable to look away, torn between wanting him to continue singing forever and wanting his fingers on her.

When the last notes faded away, his high tenor making goosebumps spread across her skin, she felt her knees shaking slightly. Her entire body was throbbing, insistent, demanding.

He looked up at her and frowned a little when he saw her expression. "Are you all right?" he asked.

Overwhelmed, emboldened by his voice and her success, she took a step around the piano, dragging her leg up to straddle his lap, and he leaned back in surprise.

"Christine—" he began.

She took his hand, thankfully bare, and pulled it down. "Touch me," she whispered. "Please, Erik. Please."

He pressed his trembling fingers to her, over her clothing, but she shook her head. "Touch me," she repeated, undoing the clasps of her slacks and pulling his hand to the waistband. His fingertips, cold and rough, slid over bare skin, underneath her cotton underwear, over her thatch of hair and slowly, hesitatingly, stroked the burning spot between her thighs.

A gasping, shuddering sigh escaped her. He was cold against her heat, the contrast burning her. She somehow wanted more, but she never wanted him to stop. When two fingers suddenly slipped into her, into the place no one had ever gone, not even her own fingers, she fell backwards with a shrill cry, crashing against the piano keys, a cacophonous, ugly chord ringing through the room. Quickly, he pulled his hand away, back to his side, his eyes full of guilt.

"I shouldn't have," he rasped, not meeting her gaze. "Forgive—"

"Do that again," she said, not interested in hearing any sort of apology from him.

When he hesitated, she reached for his hand and guided it back to her.

"Please," she said. His bony, agile fingers returned, sliding all the way in, and she shuddered, a whimper escaping her, as he pulled out slightly and then re-entered her. Their panting, short breaths mingled in the space between them, the sound cutting through the tension, thick and heavy. The only thing that seemed to matter was that he never stopped touching her, never left her alone.

The bench screeched backwards and fell to the floor with a clatter as he stood, pulling her up higher on the piano, leaning closer to her, a soft groan coming from his throat as he touched her. It was lucky the lid and the music rack were closed, as she would have undoubtedly either broken them or hurt herself with the way she was seated on the music shelf.

The angle was a bit odd and clumsy, as her clothing prevented him from moving his hand freely, and they both kept accidentally pressing down random keys on the piano as they moved. Her feet would slip and crash down on an ugly chord, or he would use his other hand to adjust his position, a dissonant splash of notes cutting through the room. His breath was hot in her ear, his long fingers making her dizzy. He was whispering, his voice a low, continuous hiss.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured. "God, Christine, tell me to stop. Don't let a monster touch you like this, don't ask Erik to touch you, why do you let him touch you? Christine. Christine. Tell me to stop, please, god, you are divine, so soft and warm and wet. Let me have you, please, I must have you. Don't let me touch you. Tell me to stop!"

She came when his hand brushed up against the throbbing, sensitive spot between her legs, and she grabbed onto him, clutching his thin shoulders and burying her face in his neck, her vision swimming and her entire body trembling, her feet falling onto the keys, the loud, cacophonous notes a fitting accompaniment to her climax.

Before she could fully catch her breath and come back to herself, he stepped away from her, and she lost her balance and awkwardly tumbled off the piano's music shelf, the fall not far enough hurt herself, but just far enough that she had to bend over, very inelegantly, to stop herself from tipping over, her heart still pounding wildly in her chest and her cheeks flushed.

Still a little dizzy from what had just transpired, she looked over and saw that Erik had moved to the front room, hunched over slightly in front of one of the bookshelves, his long arms wrapped over his head, as if trying to hide from her.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice low and slightly scratchy. She was very thirsty, and her eyes were beginning to itch with tiredness. The long night of singing and what had just happened at the piano was starting to weigh on her.

When he didn't answer, she approached, using the movement to quickly button up her trousers, a slightly embarrassed warmth on her neck. Carefully, she reached out and put a hand on his back, saying cautiously, "Erik?"

Immediately, he pulled away from her, lowering his arms and shaking his head.

"You don't love me," he said hoarsely, not looking at her. "You don't love me. So why are you doing this? Why are you so cruel? You have humiliated me enough—I know what I can never have. Why do you keep mocking me?"

"What?" she whispered. "No, I—I'm not trying to humiliate you! Erik—no, I swear I would never do that."

"You say that," he said, turning to look at her at last, his hair disheveled from where his arms had been, his eyes wide and gleaming with something akin to panic. "But what else is there? You don't love me. You can never love me. So why? Why do you keep asking me to touch you?" He was by her side in just a few steps, grabbing her shoulders, shaking her, his teeth bared and his eyes glowing. With a growing sense of dread, Christine realized that his panic was turning to anger, and he was going to be cruel to her.

"Have you finally gone insane?" he hissed, his fingertips squeezing so hard that she gasped in pain. "Has Erik broken you so thoroughly that you've become a madwoman? You've seen me. You know what Erik looks like! But you asked for his fingers on you, in you, and he loves you so desperately that he will do anything you ask. But what you ask me to do makes you hate me even more! Why, Christine?" His voice was rising, becoming a shout, and he kept shaking her, making her feel like her brain was rattling around in her skull. "Why are you doing this? Why? Why?!"

"I don't know!" she cried, wrenching herself away from him, stumbling over to catch herself on his chair. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she gasped in a deep, shuddering breath, pressing her hands over her face, trying to hold back her sobs.

"I don't know," she said again into her hands, unable to look at him. "Please, Erik. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just…I'm so confused." She lowered her hands and grabbed onto the leather chair for support, still not looking at him. "I—I like when you touch me. Okay? I like being touched by you. I don't—I…It's not out of pity, and I'm not trying to trick you. I just like it. Okay?" Her face was on fire, her hands and knees shaking, and she swallowed several times, trying to bring back some moisture to her otherwise very dry mouth.

A very long silence followed. Then he said, his voice unbearably quiet, "But you don't love me."

Guilt twisted her stomach, a knowledge that she would hurt him when she wouldn't be able to answer the way he wanted her to, and she tried to soften the blow as much as she could by replying, "I don't know. I'm confused. You—you've hurt me so much. But you've also done so much for me. I don't know."

Another long silence pressed over them, and she finally looked over to see him standing there, long arms hanging limply by his side, his hair still mussed, a look of horrible, forlorn sadness in his eyes as he watched her.

"I'm thirsty," she finally said, wrapping her arms around her stomach. "Could you please get me some water?"

Wordlessly, he disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a tall glass of cool water. His hands were still bare, and their fingers brushed as she took it from him with a murmured thanks. The water was wonderful in her dry, stale mouth, and she drank it all.

"Could I have some more?" she said softly. "Please."

He did as she requested, taking her empty glass and coming back with it full. She again drank the entire glass and set it onto the bookshelf, in front of a book about Chinese mythology and another in what she could only assume to be Russian.

"You speak Russian?" she asked, running her finger along the spine of the book.

"Yes," he said.

She shook her head. "I feel like I don't know anything about you."

He was quiet for a moment before saying, "I love you. That's the only good thing about me and the only thing you should know."

The comment nearly made her roll her eyes, but she didn't want to start arguing again. Instead, she walked over to the sofa and sank down into the corner, leaning her head on the armrest and watching him. The huge flower bouquets around the front room felt too large, almost oppressive and threatening in their celebratory cheeriness. She wished she hadn't brought them down.

When he stepped in front of his chair, obviously intending to sit down as well, she stopped him, patting the space next to her on the sofa, saying, "Sit next to me. Please?"

Slowly, he stepped closer, looking at her the entire time, as if expecting her to change her mind and order him away. He sank down onto the sofa, his weight always surprisingly-heavy for how thin he was, and she leaned over and ran her hands through his hair, straightening it and smoothing it back over the ties of his mask. His hair was thin and very soft.

As she pulled back, she saw that he had that same sadness in his eyes, a look of intense anguish and heartbreak, and it almost made her want to hug him in comfort.

Instead she whispered stupidly, "Don't be sad."

He gave no indication that she had spoken, that he had even heard what she said, simply watching her with that haunted expression. After a while of silence, he said, "Is it true? Don't lie—for god's sake, don't lie. I swear I won't be angry as long as you tell me the truth, no matter what it is."

"Is what true?"

"That you…" She could see him swallow and nervously shift his weight on the sofa. Then he said, "That you actually enjoy it. My touch."

It was her turn to squirm a little in embarrassment, but she nodded, feeling her face grow warm again. "I—it's true. I wasn't lying."

He didn't reply, looking away instead, and she sat there, watching him, tucked into the corner of the sofa, warm and comfortable, her head resting on the armest. The watch on her wrist ticked away the minutes, and they sat there in silence for so long that her eyes eventually closed and she drifted off into sleep.

When she woke again several hours later, a blanket was draped over her, and he was gone.

The spring was cold, wet, and gray, and Christine longed for the warmth of summer, blue skies and fresh breezes. Ugly brown mud and slush clung to the sidewalks and streets, and a gloomy overcast sky made her fantasize about a tropical beach getaway, blue skies and endless ocean, a hot sun and white sand. Not that she had ever been to a place like that—or been on any vacation at all, really. But the fantasy was a nice way to cope from the bleak, ugly, monotonous gray of the city's spring.

One drizzly, overcast morning, Mr. Reyer offered her the role of Mariana in Wagner's Das Liebesverbot, the upcoming German opera that Erik had hinted about.

"It's another comedy," Mr. Reyer said. "And since you did so well in the last one, I think you'll shine here."

Christine complained about it that evening. "I'm not good at comedies," she said. "And I'm even worse at German. Can't you ask Mr. Reyer to change the show to something else?"

Erik was completely unsympathetic. "The decisions for what shows to perform are made well in advance," he said, rolling his eyes at her whining. "I'm not about to tell Reyer to throw away months and months of work. The lineup isn't decided just for your pleasure, you know. Besides, the only way you will improve your weaknesses is to continue practicing them."

He returned his attention to polishing the violin in his hands. Christine had been touched to return home and see him maintaining her father's violin, just as he had promised. The polish had a woody, citrusy smell, and she could see that it had slightly stained his fingertips. She hadn't wanted to become emotional at seeing her father's instrument, so she had chosen to complain instead.

"Has Mr. Reyer talked to you about my new contract?" she then asked, leaning on the piano to watch him work.

Erik nodded. "I'm pleased with what they offered you. It's clear they know what you are and want you to stay."

"So I am going to be here forever," she said, putting her chin in her hands, her eyes following his hand as it moved back and forth across the body of the violin.

"I didn't say that," he replied. "We will stay here as long as it suits us. If something better comes along, we will consider it."

"Let's go somewhere warm next," she said. "I'm tired of being cold all the time. You said Iran was hot. Let's go there."

He looked up at her, and she could tell he had raised an eyebrow.

"Iran?" he said. "The revolution ruined the country for opera. I don't believe anything has been performed there since the '70s."

"We could bring it back," she said, smiling. "I could get a tan, and you could give them all opera again."

His mood visibly darkened at that. "I would never give that cursed place anything," he snapped. "They deserve to fester and rot in their ignorance and tear each other apart until they're all dead!"

Christine flinched a little as his voice rose into a shout at the end, and she said shakily, "No, I—it was just a joke, Erik. I was just teasing. I know we would never actually…" She trailed off and then shook her head. Nadir Khan had told her just a little about Erik's time in Iran, and it had sounded horrible from beginning to end. It had been a mistake to even bring it up. All she had wanted to do was to make him laugh.

With an unhappy sigh, she turned, intent on heading to the bedroom for the rest of the night, wanting to give him time and space to calm down. However, she felt his hand quickly grab her arm, stopping her.

"Christine," he said, standing, setting the violin aside. "Wait. That was not—I'm not angry at you, my dear. I shouldn't have…" He was right next to her, his hand still on her arm, his other hand pulling some curls in front of her shoulder to stroke hesitantly.

"It's okay," she said automatically, not knowing what else to say.

"No," he said. "I have promised to be gentle with you. You couldn't have known about…that part of my past."

"Mr. Khan told me that you—you were in Tehran," she tried carefully. "That you worked for the government?"

His eyes hardened, his mouth tightening into an unhappy line, and he let go of her, straightening just a little, his back becoming rigid, stiff. "Yes," he said coolly. "Something like that."

She wanted to ask for more details, but it was obvious he was not going to be volunteering any further information, so she left it at that, letting him make some excuse about having a lot of work to do and disappearing into his office. The door locked behind him.

Many hours later, when the house was quiet and still, she crept through the dark front room and knocked softly on the door. When he opened it, she took his hand and pulled him to the bedroom, where he lay on the large bed, let her straddle him, let her rock herself against the hard length between his legs.

"Erik," she whispered, breathless, taking his hand and bringing it to her exposed breast.

Their uncomfortable and emotional conversation by the piano had opened a new and strange facet of their relationship. However, it was as if it existed in a separate plane of existence, not to be spoken of or referred to outside of those dark, hushed moments between them. She could tell he wanted more clarity, real answers from her, but she had nothing else to offer, and so he took what she gave, touching her whenever she asked, wherever she asked.

It was starting to become more than just an awkward, inexperienced fumbling of hands. He was learning where to touch her and how, and she did her best to respond in kind. She could feel herself longing for something more, but the something was frightening, and there would be no going back once it was done.

Maybe it was all a mistake, she would think to herself afterwards, alone in the bed, her body tired and sated. Maybe this was ruining any chance they might have had for any sort of normalcy in their relationship. But they had never been normal, and they never would be.

He pulled her under him, his hips pressed up between her legs, his mask rubbing her cheek as he moved, hot breath in her ear. She always felt guilty that the mask stayed on. But she had never found the courage to tell him to take it off.

Afterwards, as he lay there, panting and shaking, she absentmindedly reached over to smooth back his hair, and before he could slip from the room, she asked softly, "Will you tell me about Iran? About the photos Mr. Khan sent?"

His eyes opened, his wasted chest rising and falling with his deep breaths, and he turned his head to look at her, his eyes glowing in the darkness. "No," he said. "There's nothing about it you would want to hear."

She lay there as well, curled up on her side facing him, knowing she only had a few more minutes before he left. "Would you ever tell me anything about you? Your past?"

He looked away from her then. "I don't have any pretty memories to offer you," he said. "You want some idyllic fairytale, but I have only horrors."

"I just want the truth," she said. "No matter what it is."

"No," he said again, sliding away from her and standing. "You tolerate my presence because you know nothing about what I've done. What's been done to me."

"That's not true," she said, sitting up. "I already know about your mother. I know about that professor who stole your music. I know about the drugs and—"

"Enough!" he snapped, turning to glare at her. "Make up whatever the hell you want, tell yourself any story you'd like. Don't ask me that again."

So saying, he left the room, the door shutting loudly behind him, and Christine lay back down, the bedding still rumpled from his presence. She wrapped a blanket around herself, shivering slightly. The night alone stretched out in front of her, and she knew what they had done in the bed and their conversation afterwards wouldn't be spoken of again until the next time she went to him.