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Several days passed by without incident, and Christine was able to relax just a little. Erik was apparently none the wiser, and she felt this was a sign that maybe what she had done wasn't quite so bad. She knew she couldn't do it again, but it wasn't going to bring her world down around her like she had thought.

Although she was embarrassed to admit it, she replayed the kiss with Raoul in her mind every night as she went to bed. She hadn't been kissed in so many months, and the memory made her stomach flutter and her cheeks flush.

However, she felt lucky to have that thought to keep her happy, as the operas she was rehearsing were not making her very happy at all. Erik had started working through Albert Herring with her, and it didn't take long for him to realize she was less than enthused about the role.

"It isn't a particularly meaningful show," he said one morning as they practiced. "But the Opera House is long overdue for some kind of comedy. Comedies sell tickets."

"I just don't think I can pull off the comedy part," she said, frowning at her music. "I'm not a comedian."

"No," he conceded. "But you are a singer, and as such, you will sing your role. Your movements and blocking will all be taken care of. This could be an effortless success for you, Christine. I don't understand why you are being so petulant about this."

While the music and songs in Norma were beautiful in comparison, she had relatively little to learn there as well. A few times, when Erik disappeared from the house, she clumsily plunked out Clotilde's part on the piano, singing along to prove to herself that she could. Erik had said nothing about her nonexistent role in Norma, not even an offhand comment about how he knew she could have succeeded in some kind of named role, and she was hurt by his apparent lack of faith in her.

Some days later, a handful of letters were delivered to her, and to her shock and dismay, among them was a letter from Raoul. She was tempted to throw it away. She almost did, letting it hover over a rubbish bin in the women's dressing room. But after several moments, she went to the bathroom, locked herself in, and pulled out the letter, her heart beating in her throat.

Christine,

It was really nice to see you again. I wish you hadn't run away. There was a lot more I wanted to talk about.

I would normally feel bad for kissing you like that, but the problem is you tried to kiss me first. So I'm just kind of confused as to where that leaves us. I wish I understood more what's going on with you.

Maybe I'll come see one of your shows. Do you think they'd let me backstage if you gave them my name? Then I could give you some flowers or something.

It's embarrassing to admit, but this is the fourth time I've tried writing this. Hopefully it makes sense. I guess the point is that it was really nice to see you, and I'd like to see you again if you want. Just let me know, I guess.

Sincerely,

Raoul

It was short, confusing, and sweet. She didn't know what to think. He wanted to see her again, but that was impossible. It was a terrible idea. She folded up the letter, tucked it into its usual spot in her bra, and left the bathroom, deep in thought.

As she was walking across the hallway, she saw a flash of blonde hair, and her mood brightened a bit as she recognized Meg Giry walking with a few other dancers. Christine waved and walked towards her, smiling. To her shock, Meg rolled her eyes, stopping and folding her arms.

"Go ahead," Christine heard her tell the other dancers. "I'll be right there."

Christine hesitated, unsure if she wanted to approach anymore, but she was already so close that to just turn around would have been too awkward. So instead she closed the distance between her and Meg.

"Hi," Christine said. "It's nice to see you."

"Is it?" Meg said coolly, raising an eyebrow.

Christine frowned. "What does that mean?"

"Nice to see me at the Opera House," Meg said. "But nowhere else, apparently."

"Oh." She paused, feeling guilty. "I'm sorry about the closing night party. I really wanted to—"

Meg held up a hand, interrupting her. "Don't give me whatever excuse you had. You always do this. You promise to be there, to come, but you bail without a word. You never, ever answer any of my texts. God, Christine, if you really think you're too good for me, why don't you just tell me?"

Christine could feel the blood run out of her cheeks, and she spluttered, "What? No! Meg, I'm sorry if I—I'm just so busy. I really did want—"

"Whatever." Meg rolled her eyes again. "Not too good to ask me for favors, but apparently too much of a superstar diva to be seen with anyone outside of the Opera House."

"No—Meg, wait…"

But Meg had already turned around and was walking down the hallway, leaving Christine alone, devastated.

Although she tried to fight it, she was crying by the time she got back to the room next to the alleyway. The last thing she wanted was for Erik to overwhelm her with questions, but that was exactly what he did.

"Why are you crying?" he demanded. "What happened? Who did this to you? Was it Guidicelli?"

Christine shook her head, feeling miserable. "It's—it's nothing."

"It isn't 'nothing.' Who did this? Tell me!"

All she wanted was to go cry pathetically in her bedroom. She didn't want to tell Erik that her friend was mean to her, because he wouldn't understand, and she would have to explain everything to him, including the fact that he was mostly responsible for Meg's behavior. It was because of him that she couldn't go anywhere, do anything with anyone.

And she was hesitant to tell him in case he got angry at Meg for making her cry. She wasn't sure what he would do in response.

"I just—" She took a deep breath, wiping her face, trying to swallow back her tears. "I just miss my dad a lot today. That's all."

He paused, his agitation vanishing almost instantly. "I see," he said quietly. "Perhaps you would like to visit him again soon."

She shrugged. "Yeah," she said. "Can we—can we go home now?"

If he wasn't convinced by her lie, he said nothing about it and led her down wordlessly. She sniffled and hiccoughed softly behind him, feeling pathetic.

Erik told her to go lie down and rest before dinner, and she didn't need telling twice, heading straight for the bedroom. When she lay down on the bed, something poked her sharply in the breast, and she yelped a little, quickly pulling it out. She had almost forgotten about Raoul's letter. Uncaring of the fact that only an unlocked door was between her and Erik, she unfolded the letter and read it again, comforted by his words. Raoul still wanted to see her, even if Meg did not. He didn't think Christine was too good for him. He understood that things were complicated, even if he didn't understand why.

She rolled to her side, running her fingers over his name. He had stereotypical handwriting for a man: angular, a little messy, and he didn't put dots over the Is. She had never noticed that before. That night, knowing it was risky but too sad to care, she slept with the letter underneath her pillow.

Her fight with Meg left her morose for a few days, which did nothing to improve her attitude towards the operas she was rehearsing. She hated the thought of being laughed at onstage for Albert Herring, even though laughter was the point of the opera. And no one would even notice her in Norma, tucked in with the rest of the small chorus, hidden for half the show.

Her obvious lack of enthusiasm did not sway Erik, who continued to demand that she rehearse rigorously. One afternoon, she was going over her part as Emmie for what felt like the millionth time, and she glared at the music.

"I hate this," she said flatly. "The lines, the song. This is stupid."

"Opera is stupid," Erik replied coolly. "I'm afraid these won't be the last 'stupid' lines you sing in your career."

"I don't want to sing about picnic food," Christine said, resisting the urge to fold her arms. "This is…it's embarrassing."

"There cannot be a limitless supply of Normas in the world," he said. "Silly shows like this are performed all the time, all over the world. It's part of the business of doing opera."

"Well, I'm not even really singing in Norma anyway," she said, glowering. "What's the point?"

She could tell he was getting annoyed by her petty attitude, but he forced his voice to stay calm as he said through clenched teeth, "You need the experience. I've told you this before. You could learn a great deal from both of these roles if you would stop whining about them."

"What am I supposed to learn from playing Emmie?" she said, huffing. "She's basically a little girl!"

He glared at her. "A very apt role for you, I would say."

Her cheeks flushed. "I am not a little girl," she said sharply.

"Aren't you?"

Months ago, she wouldn't have dreamed of speaking to him this way, of behaving like this around him. But she didn't care at that point. He had everything he wanted. What else could he do to her? Scream some more?

She turned around and stomped away from the piano without another word, knowing it was a mistake, knowing he would not stand being insulted. It took him only a few seconds to catch up with her, grabbing her arm and dragging her back around to face him.

"Don't walk away from me like that," he hissed. "You are acting like a spoiled diva. I'm not training you to become another Carlotta Guidicelli, you stupid girl."

"Stop calling me stupid!" she said, pulling on her arm that was still in his vice-like grip. "Stop yanking me around!"

"You're being insufferable," he spit, though he did relinquish her arm, practically throwing it back towards her. "Perhaps I was wrong. You don't have the temperament or patience for greatness. You are nothing but a coddled, spoiled child."

The tears that sprang to her eyes were angry, bitter, and she ran to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her as loudly as she could. She was tempted to open and slam it again a few more times for good measure, but she didn't want him following her, so she settled with giving the door a couple hard kicks. Then she grabbed a piece of paper and the pen from their respective hiding places and went to the bathroom, slamming the door shut and locking it. Crouched on the floor, she scribbled a reply.

Raoul,

I want to see you again. Can we meet again next Sunday afternoon? Please come.

Love,

Christine

The letter was mailed off the very next day, before she gave herself time to calm down and convince herself not to send it. Now the challenge was to find a way to get out of the house on Sunday.

She knew she would have to apologize and grovel to Erik, but the thought was horrible. She was still angry that he had called her a spoiled child—a stupid girl. He didn't understand what it was like to perform in front of thousands of people. He didn't understand the vulnerability that came with it. She wanted people to see her as a mature, capable performer, not as a silly side character to be laughed at.

But as Sunday drew closer and it was obvious that Erik was not going to break first, she had to swallow her pride. Not that she had much in the first place. But she had to see Raoul again. He was now the only person in the world who really cared about her.

One evening, she approached him. "I made biscuits for you," she said softly, putting the small plate down on a sideboard that was buried underneath scores and books. "If you want them."

"How very generous," he said dryly, not sparing her a glance, instead concentrating on rosining his violin bow.

She stood there, wanting to snatch the bow out of his hands and hit him with it. Instead she took a deep breath. "I'm sorry for what I said the other day," she said. "You're right. I'm being impatient. I was disappointed that I didn't get assigned Clotilde in Norma, and—"

"Clotilde?" he said, interrupting her, his voice sounding incredulous and amused at the same time. "Christine, my dear, you are an incredible singer, but you are twenty-one years old. That role is still some years away from you."

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from retorting, feeling humiliated. "Right," she said shortly. "Like I said, I was being impatient. I'm sorry."

She could tell that he had raised a sparse eyebrow behind his mask as he looked at her, apparently bemused.

"You will do well as Emmie," he said. "It's not what you want, I understand. But I would like you to trust me in this. I've always taken care of you, haven't I?"

He'd said that to her before. Not trusting herself to speak, she simply nodded.

He went back to his bow. "Thank you for the peace offering," he then said, the slightest hint of sarcasm in his voice. "It's appreciated."

Christine waited until she had turned around to roll her eyes.

The next evening, she felt the mood was right to broach the subject. She had asked him to play the violin for her, and he had agreed. Although she hated herself for it, his playing softened her towards him. How could she be angry when he played with such aching sincerity and when he played only for her? He drew such beautiful music from the strings, and during his performance, all thoughts of her scheme had disappeared. He was so musical—he was music.

But the song ended, and the chill of the underground house set back in. It was starting to get cold, a sign of the changing weather aboveground.

She watched him from the couch as he put the instrument away. She was struck again at how dark it was, so different from her father's gleaming chestnut brown violin.

"I wonder what I should do with my father's violin," she said. "It feels wrong to just keep it in a closet."

"You still have no interest in learning to play, I assume," Erik said, adjusting the bow tension before hanging it up.

"Not really," Christine said. "I don't think I could…you know, handle it. It feels too personal."

"His violin is welcome here," Erik said. He stepped out of the alcove and looked at her. "I won't play it if you don't wish me to. But if you would feel better having it near, I can at least maintain it."

She nodded. "Yeah, I think that would be really nice." After a few seconds of hesitation, she said, "Can I—can I go visit him? Alone?"

"Alone?" he repeated, frowning.

"I'd like to see him again before it gets too cold," she said. "And pick up his violin from the apartment. It's not far to the cemetery from here, there's a bus that goes straight to it. I've ridden it dozens of times."

He shook his head. "You needn't take the bus. I am happy to take you."

"I want to go alone," she said pleadingly. "On Sunday, when we would usually go to church together. I can go to the apartment afterward and get the violin. Please. It's important to me. You wouldn't understand. I came right back when I promised last time, didn't I?"

He looked unsure, skeptical. "You did," he admitted. "But the cemetery is much farther away. I don't want anything happening to you."

"You don't want me to be a little girl but you treat me like one," she said, looking away from him. "Nothing would happen. I can ride a bus by myself."

Erik was silent for several long moments. "I will think about it," he then said.

She shrugged, trying to act as if she didn't care either way. "Fine." Inside, though, a small flare of hope and excitement lit in her belly. He wasn't telling her no outright. He was going to think about it. He had done the exact same thing last time and had let her go.

It took another two days for him to give her permission to go alone. She resisted jumping up and down happily, instead saying softly, "Thank you, Erik. This means a lot to me."

"You should not feel trapped down here," he said. "But you will be careful, won't you? And you will return to me before dark."

"Yes. Of course." She smiled at him, but he did not smile back, instead looking at her seriously.

"I want you to go straight to the cemetery," he said. "You are not—"

"Erik, we've been over this a hundred times," she interrupted. "I understand. I'll be back here before dark."

He paused for a moment, and then to her surprise, he reached out and took a few of her curls in his fingers, stroking them. "You are a good wife. You will come back to me."

Sunday afternoon was cool and bright. Christine had been nervous all morning, somewhat suspicious that her plan had worked at all. While Erik had let her live apart and in her old apartment before that night with Mr. Khan, she knew that her attempted escape and their…marriage had changed things. He was now reluctant to let her go anywhere alone at all, and she couldn't help but understand why. She was doing exactly what he was afraid of.

Raoul was waiting by the apartment, and she smiled shyly when she saw him.

"Hey," he said, straightening out of his slouch. "Hi."

"Hi," she replied, feeling her cheeks go a little red. "Come inside."

He followed her in, his hands in his pockets, looking a little uncomfortable.

"So, your retreat thing is still going on, then?" he asked. She nodded, going over to open a window and air out the musty room.

"It's a lot of work," she said, turning to him. "But I really love it."

"I guess if you're happy," he said, looking around the front room. "It doesn't look like you spend a lot of time here."

"Yeah, I'm sleeping at the Opera House a lot these days," she said, hoping she sounded casual, unaffected. "It's easier most nights." She glanced at the couch. "Would you like to sit down?"

They made some small talk about his work, and she told him about the upcoming operas, though she didn't bother mentioning her disappointment in both of her roles. Then he told her about how he and a friend had gone hiking and had gotten lost for hours. As he spoke, Christine found herself, almost unconsciously, scooting closer to him. By the time his story was over, her knee was pressed up against his leg, and she was resting a hand on his forearm.

"So are you able to do anything besides sing these days?" he asked, glancing down at her hand. "It doesn't really seem like it. I think it would be too much of a good thing for me."

She laughed a little. "Well—I'm doing this. Seeing you."

He smiled at her, and she leaned over, pressing her lips against his.

She was a little ashamed to admit it, but she knew that the best way to avoid being questioned any further was to keep his mouth occupied with something else. She let him kiss her as much as he wanted, filling up the void that had gnawed at her for months. All those lonely days and nights, not a kind word spoken to her, no warm arms to hug her. And when he kissed her, she was able to convince herself that everything was okay. Yes, she was stupid, she was doing something very bad. But he felt so wonderful. She couldn't resist. She reached for him as well, feeling the muscles of his shoulder, his soft blond hair.

Soon, he pulled her up onto his lap, and she straddled him, gasping as his hands went to her backside, squeezing.

He pulled away, letting his hands fall. "Is it too much?" he asked. "I remember before…you, uh…didn't like this."

She remembered too. But that felt like a different lifetime. Although the touching scared her a bit, it was also thrilling. She wasn't a little girl. She didn't want to be a child anymore.

"It's fine," she whispered, brushing his hair from his forehead. "It's…good."

He grinned almost sheepishly and then leaned back up. She fell into his embrace eagerly, feeling his hands wander from her bottom to her hips, pulling her down deeper into his lap. She was shocked to feel something hard against her, and her face turned red. Maybe it was happening too quickly…

Raoul pushed her hips back and forth, rocking her against him. The hardness rubbed against the spot between her legs. Warmth was flooding her, something tingled there. She whimpered against his lips, wanting to tell him to stop but not wanting him to ever stop. To her shock and faint satisfaction, she could tell that he was just as into it, clutching her hips tightly and groaning softly.

The heat between her legs was growing. Something pulsed deeply. She was feeling slightly dizzy. For some reason, she felt as if she would burst into tears if he stopped.

To her horror—delight?—he pulled down her shirt, exposing one pale breast, and he put his mouth on it. She had never felt anything like this. It was too much, too soon, too overwhelming. She wanted to tell him to stop ramming his hips up between her legs, stop squeezing her ass, stop swirling his tongue around her nipple, stop moaning so shamelessly. Or was that her own voice that was moaning?

She was lost in the heat, and she could only focus on the pulsing between her legs. She wanted to bear down on the hard length between his hips, because that felt more amazing than anything else.

"Jesus Christ," he rasped as he cupped her breast. "You don't know how long I've wanted to do this with you. Oh my god, you're amazing."

It happened in what felt like a second. She was gripping his shoulders, face flushed, a deep ache between her legs. He slipped a hand there, and suddenly she was somewhere else entirely, the sounds coming from her throat completely foreign to her. She had no control over it, her body responding entirely to his hand. Color burst behind her eyelids, she pressed down on his fingers, wishing it was more but unsure why.

When it finally slowed, she slouched against him, gasping against his neck. Her heart beat wildly. He was rubbing her back, as if trying to comfort her, and she didn't know if she should feel ashamed, relieved, ecstatic…She felt all of those things.

After a few moments, he shifted underneath her, and she slid off of him quickly, pulling her shirt back up, her face warm.

"Sorry," he said, his brow furrowed. "Just gotta…I'll be back…" He stood, his stance awkward, and went to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. The water was turned on, and she sat there, refusing to look at her left hand, at the ring there that was condemning her.

Seeing Raoul made her so unbelievably happy. How could that be bad? If Erik was able to do so much to hurt her without consequences, why did she have to be the "good girl" who followed all his rules?

Raoul emerged after several long minutes, his neck red, a little crooked smile pulling at his mouth. "Heh," he said. "Haven't had to do that since I was a teenager."

She frowned, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Well, now my dick usually is out of my pants when I come, so cleanup isn't such a hassle." He noticed her expression and quickly said, "Er, sorry. Sorry, that was a little crude. Uh…" He rubbed his neck, obviously feeling awkward. "You okay?"

Was she? She still felt torn. "Yeah," she said. "You?"

"Yeah," he said, sitting back down next to her. "Yes. Christine, that was…I mean, you—you…You're amazing. I didn't want to say this because I didn't want to offend you, but you're just…so different than you were when we were dating. In a good way."

She didn't bother to remind him that for much of their time dating, her father had been missing, ill, and then recently dead.

"I should go," she said quietly, ensuring that her shirt was still covering her. "I'm going to be late."

He was disappointed, she could tell. "Okay," he said. "If you say so." When she tried to stand, he took her hand and held her back momentarily. "Are you sure you're okay?" he pressed. "Was what we…was that okay?"

It really wasn't okay. She felt slightly nauseous. But remembering the feeling of his fingers pressed up between her legs also made her light-headed and warm.

"It's fine," she said, pulling her hand away. "I…" She wanted to say that she enjoyed it, that it was too much, that she never wanted to do it again, that she wanted to do it again right then. "I really have to go," she repeated stupidly.

"Maybe I'll see you again soon?" he said hopefully. She nodded vaguely, wishing she was strong enough to tell him that she could never see him again. Raoul stood with her, wrapped her up in a hug, and pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss goodbye to her lips.

She hated that she kissed him back.