Erik was morose and quiet the day she returned aboveground for rehearsals. Christine did her best to act as if it was any other day, but she couldn't stop herself from smiling as she spread jam on her toast. People, music, sunshine, fresh air…and maybe a letter.

The week spent underground had not been bad. In fact, if she was being honest with herself, she had mostly enjoyed it. But she missed rehearsing and performing, and she was ready to get a break from Erik. He confused her. She hated him—hated what he had done to her, what he was doing to her. She hated that he had hurt Mr. Khan and had caused him to leave. But there had been so many moments over the past week in which he had made her laugh, smile, think. He had been thoughtful. He had been kind to her. And the music he had made for her had been as beautiful as ever.

She wanted to go back to rehearsals and put everything in perspective. It was easy to get caught up in Erik and his world if that was all she had. But other people and other problems helped clear the fog from her head.

"I wish you weren't so divine," Erik said solemnly as they stood in the small, dark room that led to the alleyway. "As much as I wish to keep you with me, you belong on the stage, and the world needs to hear you."

She shook her head. "I'll be back right after rehearsals. It's only a few hours."

"It is too long," he said, his voice grim, and she felt a faint urge to roll her eyes. He sounded like some angsty teenager.

"I'll see you soon," she said, moving toward the door.

"Christine." He took her fingers in his own, and she stopped, turning back to him. After a momentary pause, he said, "This week spent with you was…well. I can only hope you enjoyed my company as much as I enjoyed yours."

"Uh, yeah," she said, feeling stupid and inelegant in her reply. "I had a nice time too, Erik."

"Did you?" he pressed, his eyes glowing earnestly in the dark room.

"I did," she said, surprising herself with the truth.

Her answer obviously pleased him, and he pressed her fingers gently before letting go.

"I'll see you after rehearsals," she said, opening the door. She gave him one last look before stepping outside. To her disappointment, the sky was overcast, and the air was filled with the distinctive smell that promised an imminent rainstorm. She made it inside the Opera House before the skies opened, and she hurried through the halls and to the administrative wing, looking around curiously. After asking a passing office worker for directions, she eventually found a small office, two tiny desks facing each other, carts full of packages and letters scattered all around.

A short, balding man at the desk peered up at her when she entered.

"I'm here to see if there's any mail for me," she said nervously. "Christine Daae?"

The man stood and rifled through several carts, muttering to himself. As the man's back was turned to her, she reached over and picked up a cheap ballpoint pen from the desk, slipping it into her pocket. Christine wasn't sure if she wanted him to have something for her or not. A little nagging voice in her head was telling her to turn around and leave, but she stood there, waiting.

After another minute, he pulled out a handful of envelopes and wordlessly thrust them out to her.

"Thank you," she said, taking them and leaving the office quickly. In the hallway, she looked at the envelopes. Two letters with unfamiliar handwriting. And one letter…

She crumpled it up in her hand and went to the nearest restroom, locking herself in a stall and opening the letter with shaking fingers, her breathing ragged.

Christine,

This really is strange. I kind of feel like I'm in some spy movie, but I don't really know why. Are you sure you can't just tell me why you're not using your phone? Is it some method for performing? I just haven't written physical letters in so long. I think my French spelling has gone to shit, and sorry if my handwriting is just as bad.

I was so happy to get your letter, though. Really happy to hear that you're healthy and safe. I guess I'm doing okay, too. Just busy with work, as usual. My parents are leaving in a few days after a long visit. It's been torture.

I guess I'll just have to wait for your next reply to come. I really wish I could just see you and you could tell me what's going on. I do recognize your handwriting, though, so at least I know it's the real you and not some weirdo pretending to be you. Maybe we could meet up one afternoon for coffee and you could explain a bit more why we're acting like it's 1850?

Hope to hear from you,

Raoul

The letter thrilled her. She gave a small spin in the stall, cracked her shin against the toilet, and gasped in pain, clutching her leg. Then she kissed the letter, folded it up, placed it in her bra, and hurriedly made her way through the Opera House to join the rest of the cast for rehearsals.

"Wow, you must be excited for the new show," one of the women said to her as Christine settled in to sing. "You've got the biggest grin on your face."

Christine laughed. "Yep. Just excited I guess."

Her excitement, however, was soon dampened when she was handed her score for Albert Herring. She looked over her music, her lines, and felt a creeping embarrassment come over her. As she continued to read the character description and flip through the score, humiliation set in. She wondered why Erik hadn't rehearsed this with her at all beforehand, why he hadn't even shown her the music. Maybe he didn't know Albert Herring himself. The role was awful.

Luckily, they spent the rehearsal on Norma, though that did nothing to improve her mood. Christine could see some of the lines for Clotilde, the soubrette role, and she glowered silently.

I could sing this, she thought crossly. That doesn't look so hard. I could definitely sing this!

The woman who was playing Clotilde, a pretty blonde soprano in her mid-thirties, had always been especially nice to Christine, but Christine couldn't help but steal a resentful glance at her. The blonde soprano was good, but wasn't she, Christine, more talented? Yes—she was decidedly more talented.

The selfish, egotistical thoughts made her ashamed. But that didn't stop her from stewing in self-pity for the remainder of rehearsals.

Even though she tried to greet Erik with a smile, he sensed her unhappiness immediately.

"Did something happen at rehearsals?" he asked.

She shook her head and shrugged, handing him the unopened fan mail without a word, the letter from Raoul pressed against her skin. "It was just a bad first rehearsal. But it's okay. It happens."

"Ah." He did not sound convinced, but he tucked the fan mail in his pocket and led the way down to the house without another comment, and she was grateful for that.

However, when he beckoned her over to the piano after dinner, the small bit of gratitude soured.

"I'd like to hear what you learned today," he said, pulling out his score of Norma. "And perhaps we'll work on your Italian pronunciation. It's obviously quite different from German, so we will have to see how you—" He cut himself off suddenly, frowning at her. "What is it?" he said.

"What?" she said stubbornly, knowing exactly what he was asking.

"You're upset," he said. "Something has happened."

She wanted to obstinately disagree and tell him that nothing was wrong, but that would only make him upset, and she didn't think she could stand it if he was also in a bad mood.

"No, it's nothing," she said. "I just—I wish we had rehearsed some of this beforehand. Before I started again with the company. I felt a little…stupid. Underprepared."

He blinked, looking surprised. "I see," he said. "Of course. I had thought…Well, I had assumed you would want a break from rehearsing. But you're right. We should have had you off book beforehand. Yes. Forgive me."

"It's fine," she mumbled, staring at her feet awkwardly. "Do you mind—can I go to bed early? I'm just tired from rehearsals. I don't really feel like singing right now. If that's okay."

He closed the fallboard immediately, which surprised her, and he stood, nodding.

"Of course," he said again. "I don't want to strain your voice if you are tired." Looking closely at her, he frowned again. "Are you sure nothing happened today?"

"I'm sure," she said, avoiding his gaze. "It was just a long first day back. Goodnight."

Thankfully, he didn't stop her, and she slipped into the bedroom, closing the door tightly behind her, breathing a little sigh of relief. Quickly, glancing over her shoulder to make sure he hadn't followed her, she grabbed a blank sheet of paper and went to the bathroom, locking the door securely. She pulled out the letter from Raoul, reading it over and over again. He was right: his French spelling was pretty bad, but it made her smile.

After pulling out the stolen ballpoint pen from her pocket, she began to write.

Dear Raoul,

I was so excited to get your letter. It's kind of fun though, right? Being spies? I really wish I could explain everything to you, but I just can't. Not here. I hope you can be patient with me.

I do miss you. I really regret how things ended between us. I would like to meet up if I can. Things are just so busy and complicated. Maybe you could come by my apartment on Saturday afternoon? I can't promise I'll be there, but I will try. If you come and have to wait too long for me, I understand if you leave. But please come. I will try my best to be there.

We're starting rehearsals for two new operas. I'm performing as Emmie in a show called Albert Herring. Don't waste your time coming to see it though, it's a stupid show. But you can come see Norma! Performing has been like a dream come true. I feel so lucky. Maybe I'll see you in the audience opening night? :)

I hope I will see you on Saturday.

Love,

Christine

The next day, after avoiding Erik's pestering questions for most of the morning, she left for rehearsals again, heading back to the mail office, glancing nervously over her shoulder, as if she expected Erik to come bursting out of a door. She had had a night of restless sleep, conflicted, arguing with herself. She knew this was a bad idea—a very, very bad idea. But the letters were too enticing, and the thought of seeing Raoul again had won her over.

Once again ignoring the little voice that told her to turn around, she pulled out the letter, warm from being against her skin all morning, and stepped into the office. The little balding man was there again.

"I was wondering if I can post a letter here," she said, holding it out awkwardly.

He furrowed his brow as if she had asked him to do something very difficult and time-consuming, and he sighed, turning to his computer and typing something into it.

"It's Christa, right?" he grunted.

"Christine Daae," she corrected.

"Christine Day," he mumbled, running his finger across the screen. He typed something else in and then held out his hand. "I'll make a note to deduct the postage from your paycheck."

She hesitated momentarily and then handed over the letter. Christine could only pray that Erik didn't scrutinize her paychecks. Hopefully a few missing cents would not make him suspicious.

As she sat in her chair for rehearsals and pulled out her score, she thought hard on the upcoming week. Finding a way to secretly exchange letters would undoubtedly be nothing in comparison to what she would have to get Erik to agree to.

That evening, she kept giving him sideways glances, trying to build up the courage. Although he seemed like he was in a good mood, she knew one wrong word could turn him sour. And so, tugging on a curl and feeling her cheeks go slightly pink, she approached him. He looked up at her expectantly, and she felt her stomach relax, just a little, at the warm expression in his eyes.

"I wanted…I wanted to ask you a favor," she began, trying to sound confident.

"A favor?" he said. "Of course. Anything for my little diva."

Anything. Sure. She swallowed and said, "I was wanting…er, hoping to…Um, I just wondered if I could—if you would let me…"

"Come back to me when you actually know what you want," he said, waving at her dismissively, though she could tell, with relief, that he was teasing her. "Tell me, Christine. If I can give it to you, you know I will."

"I wanted to…go back to my apartment on Saturday," she finally said, noting with panic that his eyes narrowed immediately. "Just for a few hours, Erik! Not to stay, of course. I just—there are some things there…"

"'Things?'" he repeated suspiciously.

"Some stuff," she stammered. "Stuff I want to—to have with me."

"Tell me what you want, and I'll have it here tomorrow," he said.

Her cheeks were becoming a bit warmer as she said, "Well, the thing is…some of the stuff is from my dad. And I wanted—well, it feels kind of…private. Only for me, you know? You know I miss him, Erik. I just want some of him here with me."

He did not look convinced. She pressed on, wondering if it was stupid to do so: "I swear it'll just be for a few hours! I promise. I swear. And if I'm not back by a certain time, you can—can never let me leave here again. Haven't I been good? I've done everything you asked. The apartment isn't even that far, I'll still be so close. Please, Erik? Please?"

She had clasped her hands in front of her, like some little schoolgirl, uncaring how stupid she must have looked pleading with him. He did not reply, instead looking back to the piano, his thin lips twisted into an unhappy expression.

"Please, Erik?" she tried one more time.

He was silent for another moment, and then he said, "I will have to think about it."

Although she wanted to push him, make him agree right then and there, she knew it would be better to give him some space. The fact that he had not denied her outright was huge in and of itself, and she resisted letting her face crumple into disappointment, instead nodding in agreement.

"Okay," she said, letting her hands fall. "I understand. I just…I've been good, Erik. I only want to go get a few things and take a walk outside before it gets too cold. I'll be back whenever you tell me to, I'll—"

"I said I will think about it," he snapped, cutting her off.

She paused and said quietly, "Thank you." Then she left the alcove quickly, afraid he would grow angry if she hovered around, waiting for an answer.

She attempted to make herself busy and put the request out of her mind. He would most likely say no, and she did not want to face the crushing disappointment without warning, so she tried to prepare herself for it. Hoping for another answer seemed foolish. It made her feel terrible to imagine Raoul standing outside her apartment door, waiting all afternoon for her. Although she had warned him she may not be there, she worried that her no show would make Raoul upset enough to stop writing to her. That would be devastating.

For the next few days, she was on her best behavior, trying to prove to Erik how trustworthy she was, how she could keep her word. He could probably see through her instantly, his words from just a few months earlier ringing in her ear: We must work on your acting sometime, my dear. But he was gracious and said nothing about it.

Friday night, she lay in the bed and cried quietly to herself. He would never let her anywhere outside of the Opera House without his supervision. Maybe he could survive on music and solitude, but she needed more. She needed sunshine, fresh air, friendly faces, friends. She needed physical touch of some kind, warm hugs and murmured words of love.

Sometimes she wished she could be like Erik—aloof, distant, proud. But poverty had destroyed most of her pride a long time ago, had made her greedy for any sort of affection. And although she knew Erik would shower her with affection if she let him, his affection was rough and clumsy, sometimes leaving her wondering if he was just playing with her. Did he truly love her, Christine, in all her imperfections? Or did he only love an idea of her? Could he love at all?

The next morning, she glumly poked at her eggs, no longer bothering to pretend to be happy for him. Even if Erik did let her go somewhere unaccompanied at another time, how many times would she ask Raoul to be somewhere to meet her before he eventually gave up? Then Christine would have no reason to leave. There would be nothing at all outside the Opera House waiting for her.

Annoyance bubbled up in her stomach as she heard Erik's footsteps approaching. He stopped next to the table, and she hardly spared him a glance.

"Good morning," he said.

She gave a little jerk of her head in reply, not wanting to wish him a good morning as well but knowing he expected her to give some indication that he had spoken.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Mm," she grunted noncommittally, staring intently at her yellow eggs, cold and wet on the plate.

There was a moment of silence that passed between them.

"You really do have such a way with words, my dear," he said, the sarcasm practically dripping from him.

The jab was hurtful, and she wished he would leave her alone. To her immense surprise, he seemed to realize this himself. He gave a sigh and smartly tapped his fingertips once on the table. "I shouldn't have said that," he said. "I'm still becoming accustomed to dealing with young and…sensitive natures."

"I'm not a child," she found herself snapping. Childishly. Her face flushed in embarrassment.

His expression told her that he still didn't agree, which seemed to just make her more miserable.

"Of course not," he said. She poked again at her eggs, now feeling a little nauseated by the sight of them.

Just go away, she wanted to say. He had already made it clear that he wasn't going to ever let her out of here alone. Why come and gloat?

"I came to tell you that you may leave."

Her head snapped up, and she looked at him, wondering if she had misheard him.

"Today," he clarified. "To collect a few of your sentimental things."

"Oh," she said stupidly. Then she felt a wide grin stretch her lips as the realization of just what this meant flooded her. "Oh. Thank you. Thank you, Erik!"

"Just for one hour," he said, one long finger coming up for emphasis. "No longer."

"Okay," she said, willing to agree to practically any condition. "One hour."

"If you try to run—"

"I promise," she interrupted. "I swear. Only an hour. I promise, Erik." One hour would be long enough. For now.

They watched each other, and Christine resisted squirming in her seat under his intense gaze. It was as if he was trying to read her thoughts, look beyond her eyes and into her brain to find any deception. To her relief, he then left her alone.

The morning dragged, and after lunch she resisted the urge to run out the door, instead stalling for a while in the bedroom, her heartbeat thumping and her nerves jittery. She was going outside. Alone. And maybe she would see Raoul. It was all a lot to take in. Finally, when she was confident that she had her emotions under control, she went to the front room and began pulling on her shoes.

Erik left the alcove and frowned down at her.

"One hour," he said, sounding strained.

"I promise," she said.

"You are not to go—"

Again, she interrupted him. "Erik, I know the rules. I'm going straight to the apartment. I'll get some things, and I'll come back. I won't go anywhere else. I swear."

He gave a skeptical little hmm sound, but to her relief, he unlocked the door and escorted her out and into the dark tunnels. After hesitating for a moment, she gingerly took hold of his long fingers, hoping to reassure him and put him at ease. She felt his hand twitch in surprise, but then he wrapped her hand in his own, holding it tightly.

In the little dark room that led out into the alleyway, they paused for a few moments, and she felt herself begin to panic slightly, wondering if he was going to change his mind and drag her back down, or if he was going to insist on accompanying her, or if he was going to scream that he knew Raoul was there, waiting for her, and this was all a trick to see if she was really going to go through with betraying him like this.

But he didn't. He unlocked the door and then held out a set of keys.

"One hour," he said again.

"One hour," she repeated, taking the keys and putting them in her pocket. "I promise."

The door opened, and a flood of afternoon sun hit the room. Christine squinted a bit, feeling her skin prickle, as if it was yearning for more sunlight. Erik looked a little strange and forlorn standing in the corner, the light illuminating him, highlighting his grayish skin, the silver strands in his hair, bony knees underneath his slacks. Weirdly enough, the sight made her want to smile. Instead, she gave a little wave and then immediately felt stupid.

"Uh, see you soon," she said, which felt even more idiotic than the wave.

"One hour," was all he said in reply.

She couldn't stand to answer that again, so she stepped out into the alleyway, wondering if he was going to stand there the whole time, counting down the seconds until her return.

Well, joke's on him, she thought to herself, leaving the alleyway and stepping onto a bustling sidewalk. I'll be there, just like I promised.

She had to, because if she ever wanted a chance to leave again, she had to prove that she could keep her promises. That she would return. Christine always keeps her promises. He'd said that once. She wondered if either of them really believed that.

But those gloomy thoughts were soon swept away by the afternoon breeze that whistled through her curls. It felt glorious. The air was so fresh, so brisk. The autumnal smell was wonderful, something that never could have reached the underground house. The sun splashed across her face. She turned her face to it, hoping she would get sunburned, as if doing so would mean some of the sunlight would stay with her for just a bit longer.

The walk to her apartment took only a few minutes. Christine could see the building a few blocks away. And she recognized her window, small but pretty. She had spent so many hours gazing out of it, across the city, watching the roof of the Opera House. Although that time had been sad, tumultuous, she couldn't help but wish for it back. Things had felt a bit simpler then.

The building was foreign and familiar at the same time. She rode the elevator up, scarcely daring to breathe, wondering, waiting. The doors dinged open, and she saw the front door. Standing next to it, frowning as he looked at his phone—

"Raoul," she said.