So many times during the years – dating from the early fairs and ending Javert's life, his travels to India and his introduction to the garrot, to the slavery in Persia, the idea of taking his own life festered at the back of his mind. Nevertheless, there was always a strange determination to stay alive, if only out of spite toward those who either wanted him dead or simply out of sight.

Hearing Christine sing just now fills his heart with gratitude at not acting on the thought.

Living without her now is something he cannot begin to imagine. Not only the sound of her voice, but her passion when she sings – and, of course the beauty of her entire being. Gone is the girl whose voice initially enthralled him – although enchanting, was being suffocated by grief.

"Your voice is lovely, but timid."

"What does it matter?"

That he spoke to her through the mirror seemed not to matter. This might have been a conversation she regularly held with herself for all he knew. It was only by happenstance he heard her sing at all while using one of the passages created between the walls of the opera house. A way created for workmen to have easy access for needed repairs. His idea, actually, both for practicality and so he could travel freely throughout the Palais Garnier.

Karma, the Buddhist priest he met in India would have called their first meeting, such as it was.

"You have a gift. You can be a Prima Donna, but not with such an attitude."

"My Pappa is gone – everyone I loved is gone. I have no reason to sing…no one to sing for."

"Sing for me."

"Are you the Angel of Music?" she asked. The earlier lethargy shed with the awareness she was actually speaking with someone.

So, he was correct, her sadness was real. He could feel the excitement in her voice. His own heart was beating rapidly. Now what?

"Pappa said he would send me an Angel," she continued in explanation.

"And if I am?"

"Then I will sing for you as I sang for my Pappa."

Although just months ago, now she has surpassed both their expectation. Her interpretation of Marguerite in this small music room was breathtaking.

"How was I?" Christine asks, her face flush with excitement.

"You deserved an audience for the performance," he says. "Even your dress suited the role."

"Truly, you have no criticism?" Taking a seat next to him on the piano bench, she looks at him in anticipation.

"None. Perhaps chocolate is not the awful drink I believed it to be."

"I suspect my throat appreciated the lemon drink."

"Possibly," he says with a smile. "You sang from your heart, but with an ease and control I have never seen in you before this."

There is no denying her pleasure over his words of praise, yet still wary about their truth. "Perhaps it is this place. Perhaps it is because I was singing with you."

"I am flattered, but, you, my dear, have found the gift within you…and, if you are to be the diva I believe you can be, you must sing thus with other actors."

"I am not certain I wish to be a diva," she replies, resting her head on his shoulder as she strokes his arm. "I would be perfectly content to sing with you forever in this room."

"A voice such as yours must be shared."

"What about you…what about your voice?"

"I did sing for the public – it brought me no joy."

"Not as a free man," she argues.

"My dearest one, this face would never be accepted on the Parisian stage as a leading man."

"That is so wrong."

"There is no Mephistopheles here to make a bargain with to make my face whole – besides the price would be too high," he says. "I can only imagine what the devil's due might be."

"The price for Faust was indeed high. He did love her so," Christine says.

"Yes."

"She loved him as well."

"True."

"I love you."

"Why? I still do not understand why," he says, turning to her, only just now realizing he did not replace the barbee mask after his outburst in the kitchen. Putting his hand up to cover his face, he slides from the piano bench as he pats his pockets trying to find the flimsy piece of fabric.

"What is wrong?" she asks, following him to the door.

"My mask. I cannot find my mask."

"It must be on the kitchen table," she says. "You need not be so concerned."

"How could you bear singing with me…about love. Looking at me?"

"I just told you I loved you, silly man," she says, stroking his arm. "Let us find it, I do not want you to be so troubled."

"My uncle, he cannot see me like this." Panic rises in his voice.

"You took the thing off when he was present. Your face did not seem to bother him," she says. "From what he told us your tante…"

"Was also deformed." Of course, the entire family bore the curse. Poor girl, the wave of compassion rising in him is a strange sensation. A compatriot. Perhaps Christine is correct, being here in this house has some power over them.

At any other time he cannot imagine himself being sympathetic. When Pere Charles showed him the skin on that back of his neck, he felt nothing but a mild feeling of disgust that the older man should think his condition resembled what he lives with…has lived with his entire life.

Taking his hand, she says, "Come on, you will feel more comfortable once the mask is in place…even though the rest of us do not care what you look like." With that, they retrace their steps back to the kitchen.

"Here it is," she says, dropping his hand to pick up the swatch of black fabric, holding it out to him.

Once secured, he sighs. How did this happen? How could he not know his face was not covered. Never did he want her to see him so exposed…and Pere Charles. No matter about the tante…Emilie – who from all appearances was much beloved. He was named for her…Emile, not Erik. His mother did not even tell him his real name. Probably because of the woman's own cursed visage. What a bizarre opera this would make.

"Do you feel better now?" Christine asks.

With a nod, he says, "I am unused to tolerance, much less acceptance."

"And love?"

"Yes…and love. I believe I have mentioned that."

Slipping her arms around him, she presses her head against his chest. "I am glad we came here."

Erik grunts. "I am still unsure about my own feelings on the matter."

"Why?"

"The upheaval. I hardly recognize myself. It is quite uncomfortable," he sighs. "You believe in God. Correct?"

Pulling away so she can look at his eyes, she says, "Yes."

"Even when there is pain or something happens that is hurtful to you or someone else?"

"I think life is like school. When I would question why we could not settle anywhere…why we left Sweden at all, Pappa would say he believed playing the violin was God's plan for him."

"Why would God have a plan for him or anyone for that matter?"

Christine laughs lightly. "Precisely the question I asked him," she says, walking to the counter and the pitcher of lemonade. "Would you care for another glass? I am parched."

Nodding at the offer of the refreshment, he sits down at the table. "And what did he tell you?"

"When your Mama died, something inside me died as well."

"His mood was particularly fine that evening. We had just finished performing at a fair. I was becoming more confident and the crowd was particularly welcoming and generous."

"I have no doubt."

"Our funds were such we were able to stay at an inn – a situation not always possible."

"The reason why you were obliged to save his life."

"Yes, I suppose so. He did the best he could," she says, turning her eyes away from him. She hoped the discussion about her taking the life of the robber could be put to rest. Talking about how they often had to sleep outside reopened the discussion and the wound.

Pappa did protect her. He was always careful to find some sort of shelter when they could not afford to stay in an inn or hostel. Even so, she was always just a little angry at God's plan for him…and her. Erik need not know this, he was dealing with his own feelings of anger…certainly greater than what she suffered.

"I am certain he did."

Christine realizes Erik is just being polite, his tone holds a bit of sarcasm she now recognizes when he does not truly believe what he is saying. A concession to her, she supposes. He sounds really upset about how things were for her with Pappa. This is why she did not want to discuss her early life. It was disrespectful to think about her father so.

"Anyway, we had enough for the inn and a meal with some to spare for the next town," she says calmly, in an attempt to quell the rage coming to life inside her. "I asked him then if we could settle down."

"What happened then?"

"We went to Paris."

"A very expensive place to live for vagabonds – even on the street."

Bristling, her response is curt. "In addition to the extra funds, Pappa made acquaintance with a patron…for both of us. : Professor Valerius. I was sponsored to be trained at the Conservatory."

"Ah, I wondered at how you arrived there."

"The Professor took care of both of us – Pappa was invited to play at different cafes…Paris offered him many opportunities." Adding…"We did not have to live on the street…as you suggest."

Tempering his tone, Erik says, "Then he got sick?"

"Both he and the Professor took ill…then the Professor's wife…Mother Valerius, a few months later."

"All three? No wonder you were in such despair when we first met." All sarcasm abandoned, he opens his arms to her.

After setting their drinks down on the table, she sits on his lap. "I truly believed you were the Angel of Music."

"And now?"

"And now I know you are an angel."

"You flatter me, but I am glad you think so," Erik says, taking her hands in his, pressing his lips against her fingers. "You are the angel…"

The bell announcing someone at the front door rings.

"Nadir and Adele I suspect," he says, releasing her hands allowing her to get up, then rises himself. "I wonder where Pere Charles and Mme. Marchand are."

"We can welcome them," Christine says.

"Yes, but where shall we put the busybodies?"

"Erik!" she chastises him with her tone. "We can put them in the sitting room until Pere Charles comes back from wherever he has gone to."

"I still do not understand why they are even here."

"You can ask them," she laughs. "No doubt M. Khan will have a good reason."

"He will have a reason – whether it is good or not will be a matter of discussion, I am certain."

The bell rings again.

"Come, let us welcome them before the bell falls off the wall."