Christine drew a sharp breath, holding her lantern high as she reached the last step to the fifth cellar. The note had been quite brief – no time, no place, no name, only that spidery, almost childish handwriting that left no possible doubt as to the identity of the sender: "I should be honored if you would join me for coffee".

Perhaps she was mad. She had to be. Perhaps the sane thing to do was run and disappear, forget about his very existence. Oh, but she couldn't do that. How was she to forget the sheer terror that had struck her, the repugnance she'd felt when she had unmasked him? How was she to forget his roars, his delirious distress, the tears that had rolled down his almost hollow cheeks? How was she to forget his care, how was she to forget his voice, those deep, mellifluous tones, wrapping themselves around her like a warm velvet shawl? It was a true wonder, an unthinkable one, that the most enchanting voice in the world could belong to this poor skeleton of a man, this creature of darkness who feared the eyes of men. For this was what he was. Not the Angel she had prayed for, nor the specter they had all feared… simply Erik. Poor, unhappy Erik. Her chest heaved at the thought, but despite his deception, despite the horror of his face, she couldn't find it in her to hate him.

The sound of dripping water drew her out of her thoughts. Christine's steps had led her to the banks of the underground lake, and her eyes soon landed on the tall, spindly figure that paced the shore like a lost soul.

Erik froze on the spot and gaped like a dead fish, his heart hammering against his ribs.

"You came!" he managed. Christine gave a faint smile. He blinked. Once. Twice. It was no dream! Oh, if Angels existed, he was looking at one! How he wished he could hold her, without making her flinch, without turning that smile into a grimace of disgust. But that wouldn't happen, and the mere fact that she had come was a small miracle in its own right.

Erik had no idea how long he'd stood gawking at her, though the unease in her voice made it clear it had been too long.

"Erik? Are you all right?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, quite all right." He gestured towards the boat. "Shall we?"

She nodded. They reached the house quickly, for Erik rowed with enthusiasm. She had come here, to meet with him, and that thought alone gave him wings. He extended a hand to help her off the boat, expecting her to refuse, and was shocked and delighted to feel her small hand land in his, light as a feather even as he pulled her up. Her hand, holding his! He led her to the drawing room, where a biscuit tin, two mismatched cups and a coffee pot had been set on the dinner table, and drew one of the chairs from under the table.

"Mademoiselle Daaé… please make yourself at home."

"Thank you Erik. This is lovely of you."

This time it was he who caught himself smiling. If she liked it she would visit again, wouldn't she? Giddy with hope, Erik didn't realize he was staring again. Oh, but Christine noticed. Again.

"Erik? Is something wrong?"

"No, I…"

I would kill for a smile of yours, your presence here soothes me and drives me mad all at once, and I would sell my soul if I had one, if there was but a chance that it would make you love me.

"You're beautiful today."

Erik instantly cursed himself. 'Today?!' He was an idiot, an absolute idiot. Thankfully, Christine didn't seem to take offense, and simply eyed him with amusement as he resisted the urge to shrink back in his chair.

"Am I?"

She gestured at her dress, as if that were the explanation.

"It's an old birthday present from Mamma Valerius."

Erik nodded in understanding.

"Ah yes, I too got one once."

Christine gave him a questioning look.

"A birthday gift," he clarified, reaching for the nearby bookshelf.

"There," he said, pulling a book from the shelf. It was an antique edition of Le Ventriloque ou l'Engastrimythe, and Erik was quite sure poor Mademoiselle Perrault had found it in Rouen, for as far as he knew there were no booksellers in the village.

"Just one? Just once?"

"Well, I did ask for a second but my mother…" An image flashed through his mind, and for a brief second he was back in Saint-Martin-de-Boscherville, his hideous reflection flinging itself at him through the upstairs mirror. "It was more than she could manage."

"What was it?"

Erik swallowed, staring at the floor.

"Two kisses. One then, and one to save."

Her hand clutched at her chest.

"Erik …"

"It's all right." It was not. He handed her the biscuit tin and started pouring coffee. "Would you like some sugar with it?"

"Yes, thank you." She grabbed a biscuit from the box and began stirring her drink. "So, tell me more about that book."

Erik gave her a wry smile, taking care not to move his lips as he spoke.

"My dear, I'm afraid there isn't more to it than the title entails."

Christine almost spat her coffee. Oh, of course there was more. It was his only birthday gift, the only reminder that someone had once seen fit to celebrate his birth. But an open expression of self-pity would assuredly ruin that lovely afternoon.

"I didn't know you could do that!" she exclaimed. "Have you ever thought of performing?"

Erik recalled his days of traveling with fairs, each detail as vivid as if it were still the day after. The clamor of the crowd. The coins raining down for him. That dreadful moment in which he would take off the mask. The humiliation of being exposed. Men and women paling. That time he'd washed vomit from the floor of his tent. No. He would not perform again. There was no need for that now. Not with the directors graciously handing him his salary on a silver platter.

"I'd rather not," he said bitterly.

Christine bit her lip and hung her head. Well, he certainly had a talent for ruining the mood.

"Oh, did I upset you? Don't be upset. There is nothing to be upset about." He paused for a moment, and headed for the piano. "There, I'll play for you. Do you like Chopin? Verdi? Yes? Would you like me to play?"

Christine nodded.

For an hour he played. Christine sang. He was happy. But all good things must come to an end.

"This was beautiful, Erik. But I have to leave. We will be rehearsing soon, and Carlotta has the flu."

"Does she now?"

Erik smirked, still bent over the keyboard. It would seem the lead 'soprano' had received his letter.

"Before I go…"

Light steps echoed behind him. Erik stiffened as a hand landed onto his back, and he turned around to see Christine standing mere inches from him. Surely this was some trick of his desperate mind, her hands were so gentle, her perfect face so close, it couldn't be real. His eyes suddenly shut tight; if he was dreaming he did not want to wake up. Before he knew it warm lips brushed against his, softy, gently, in a brief, shy caress. How? Despite his firmly shut eyelids, a single tear rolled down his cheek. Her hand dropped off his masked face, but the warmth of her breath remained as she whispered in his ear:

"One now, and one to save."