"Nadir," Erik breathed, his voice betraying wonder at this new side of the daroga. "I had no idea you felt so strongly about this. I am truly blessed to have you as my friend, and I appreciate your concern - but I know my own limits, and I know my own capacity for forgiveness. It is hard for me to see her, to remember ..." He passed a hand across the good side of his forehead. "...to remember everything. But believe me, Nadir - it grows less every day. I loved her deeply, true - and I cannot dismiss that. All those years ago I could not have her in any estimation. But things have changed - I am different, I have learned to let her go - and she is willing to have me teach her child, and take tea in her parlour. I am content, Nadir, I swear it." He felt dizzy speaking this way.

Nadir was clearly not convinced. "But what of her?" he asked, forgetting himself in his state of agitation. "Is she content with this arrangement? Can’t you see, Erik? She came to you in Venice - you told me long before we ever saw her at the Opera - you told me yourself that she wanted you to come back to her, to rescue her from whatever tragedy she fancied herself the prisoner of. She is manipulating you, Erik - she has lost two rich men, she is disillusioned with the world, and she wants you back again to play her Dark Angel, her mysterious protector. And she will use whatever means she must."

Erik gaped. "Nadir, where on earth did you get such a ridiculous idea?"

Throwing up his hands in exasperation with his own inability to keep a secret, Nadir resigned himself to telling Erik the truth. "I spoke to her that night at the Opera, Erik. I am sorry I kept it from you, but I did not think it wise to tell you - and when she attempted to persuade even me that she had changed, that she truly loved you, my mind was made up."

In a movement so sudden it startled the daroga, Erik reached across the table and clasped his wrist. "What are you telling me, Nadir? What did she say to you?"

Realizing that all his ravings had had quite the opposite of their desired effect, Nadir surrendered to a sensation of resignation. This was, after all, far bigger than himself; he alone could not stop whatever fate was to befall his friend at the hands of Christine Daaé, and Erik was too stubborn for him to presume to offer advice. With a sigh, he related every detail of his meeting with Christine at the Opera.

Erik sat quietly, listening patiently to the daroga’s story, calm in the knowledge that Nadir’s concern for him had brought him to keep it a secret for so long. But his calm could not be maintained as he heard what Christine had said that night; he felt as though he were plummeting headlong into the abyss of the unknown, the suspicions he had barely dared to have so suddenly and frighteningly confirmed. It had been nearly four years now since he and Christine had clashed in Venice ... if her feelings were unchanged, could he dare to doubt their sincerity?

As Erik took his leave that evening, he placed a light hand on Nadir’s shoulder. "I will take care," he said softly, "I promise you ... and I beg you, Nadir - it all happened years ago. We were both, in our own ways, children. Mistakes were made. But do not hold it against her."

Nadir clasped his friend’s hand tightly. Silently, he resolved to interfere no more, no matter how much it pained him; but his commitment to Erik’s safety was unshaken, and he said simply, "My door is open to you, my friend. Remember that."

As for Erik himself, a will of iron repressed his joy until he was hidden within the confines of a hansom; only then did he allow his heart to pound. Can she have changed so much ... as to really care for me? he mused, seemingly insensible to the jolting of the carriage over the cobblestones.

More time passed, though it did not go quickly for Christine. With each visit Erik made to her home she became more and more miserable, and she felt like an evergreen tree under the weight of a heavy snowfall: soon it could be borne no more, and she would snap. Estelle was improving at an incredible rate - Erik said that soon she would be ready to perform at recitals, or to audition for a musical conservatory if she wished to continue her studies. Christine could barely contain her tears that evening; if Estelle were to go away, what inducement would he have to come to her ever again? There was no denying that her feelings for him were undiminished; and she was convinced now that he knew of it, and, as he had told her in Venice, could not reciprocate her love. She longed to catch a glance, a turn of his voice, anything that would indicate he returned her affection. Nothing came.

"Why should he?" she wept into her embroidered counterpane. "He told me in Venice..." She felt she would die - if he did not love her, if all he could offer her was friendship, or if he were to stop coming. With or without him, she would die.

Erik’s sensibilities too had been heightened since his conversation with Nadir; and he was especially careful now in his interactions with Christine. He needed to examine her behavior, to determine whether he could possibly be right in thinking that the love she had professed in Venice was still alive in her heart. It took some time - he could scarcely trust himself - but in the end, her wan smiles, the sad note to her voice, the way he could feel her eyes imploring him when his back was turned convinced him where he thought he could never be convinced.

That afternoon he packed all his trunks before leaving his flat for Estelle’s lesson - a pretext, really, for the confession he planned to make once more to Christine. If she rejected him he would simply disappear and never return to Paris again; it would be easy enough to accomplish, and Nadir would just have to learn to enjoy traveling to Stockholm to see him.

It was raining when he set out, but Erik chose to walk the short distance to the de Jardin home - the cool air jolted his senses, and he needed the time to think. What could he ever say - how could he re-begin a conversation that had twice been so painfully cut short? The first time it had been at her wish, true; but his had been perhaps the crueler insistence, based in bitterness and grudge. Could a peace offering make any difference, so many years afterwards? And what could possibly be an acceptable gift?

The kitten was grey and white, and its huge amber eyes regarded Erik solemnly from beneath his cloak. He had purchased it days ago from a poor child on the street, paying far more than the animal was worth to ease the little one’s obvious hunger. Having meant it as a gift for Estelle, he had been unable to think of an excuse to present it to her. But with the nearing of her sixteenth birthday, he had tucked it under his arm as he left his flat.

But wasn’t it a dreadfully foolish undertaking? Could such a mundane gesture really endear him to Christine in the way that he was hoping? Wasn’t it just all just rubbish? He had tented the material over the little beast, to shield it from the rain. "What am I thinking?" he asked the kitten softly, but it answered only with a small mew. Reaching his deft fingers beneath the cloak, he stroked the creature’s little face; it purred loudly and cuddled closer into the crook of his arm.

"Precious," he found himself murmuring. A normal man might bring such a gift to the daughter of the woman he hoped to court ... He sighed, knowing in his heart exactly what it was he had been thinking. And he was sure the kitten had known the answer too.

The rain streamed down through the folds of Erik’s cloak as he parted it and gazed down at the kitten again. "Wish us luck," he whispered to it, trailing his fingers once more along its little upturned face.

Erik drew open the front door of Christine’s house tentatively. Someone, either the housekeeper Laura or Christine herself, was usually there to admit him; but today his knock brought no response and the rain was coming down furiously, so he permitted himself the transgression of crossing Christine’s threshold without an invitation.

Once inside, he drew aside his cloak to check on his tiny passenger. "And are you all well and dry, my little friend?" he asked softly.

"Erik? Who on earth are you talking to?"

Christine’s voice, faintly tinted with concern, still managed to startle him. "Christine ..." he fairly stammered; "I ... had thought I was alone."

He was attempting to conceal something beneath his cloak, and Christine was determined to solve the mystery. "Here, let me take that," she said, moving towards him with her hands outstretched. "You are running rivers on my floor."

He could tell her interest was not in his wet wrap, but rather in what was hidden beneath it. Still the inquisitive child! he found himself thinking before he could check it.

"Forgive me," he said as he let the cloak part. "I should have asked you first ..."

Christine’s face went bright with pleased astonishment. "Oh, how lovely," she cried, gently taking the kitten into her arms and leaving Erik to hold his own wet cloak. The little animal liked her instantly, and began to purr as she caressed it and touched its pink nose with her own. "And what were you doing hiding beneath Erik’s cloak?" she asked it in that loving, deliberate voice we usually reserve for small children.

"I brought him for Estelle," Erik replied, forcing his voice steady even though he was distracted by the sight of his beloved cradling the adorable bit of fluff. "I hope you don’t mind, I completely forgot to consult you ..."

"No, no, it’s perfectly fine," Christine smiled, already in love with the animal herself. She returned him to Erik’s arms, one tiny butterfly beating its wings in her heart - Erik truly loves my little Estelle. As soon as she caught the thought, however, she reprimanded herself; he might love the child without loving her as well.

"You simply must give him to her right away," she forced herself to say cheerfully. "I cannot wait to see her face!" With that, she hurried to call Estelle to the foyer.

Perhaps an hour later, Erik called an end to the rather half-hearted lesson that was transpiring in the music room.

"Very well done, Mademoiselle de Jardin. But I can see your heart is elsewhere today ..." He graced her with one of his rare smiles as she turned an inquisitive look his way. "I am sure your new kitten is restless to be played with." Estelle started to demur, embarrassed that she had allowed herself to be distracted during one of Erik’s precious lessons, but he closed the music book. "Go," he said softly, "we can continue next time." The absent-minded pupil needed no further encouragement; she fairly flew from the piano stool and, gathering the kitten into her arms, dashed to her room with the precious cargo.

Christine, who was sitting quietly by, looked up from her sewing to smile lovingly at Estelle’s departure. Despite Estelle’s usual seriousness, during her joyous outbursts her sash still flapped, along with that loose cascade of brown curls to which her childhood braids had given way. Her little girl was growing up ... but Christine’s smile disappeared as she realized that she was now alone with Erik. Bending back over her needle, she hoped frantically that, because her profile was hidden by the wings of her armchair, he had forgotten her presence.

But he had not; it was, in fact, why he had sent Estelle from the room. Finding himself alone with her again after all these years was arresting, and every nerve in his body tingled. The old urge to flee welled beneath his sternum, but he put it down; his trunks were packed, but - the very inconvenience of it all! He did not wish to leave Paris, and he suspected she would not have him go. But how to find out? Finally, he resolved to try their ancient language, the tie between them that neither time nor distance had been able to destroy.

Having a care not to crease his trousers, he took Estelle’s place at the piano and began to play, his fingers coaxing soothing tones from the keys. He did not speak or turn towards Christine, but in a few moments he sensed her relax. Soon he heard her embroidery hoop slip unheeded to the floorboards.

His words were unexpected. "Christine - will you sing for me?"

She caught her breath, her nervousness returning. "What?" she stammered.

"Sing for me," he repeated, his tone encouraging, enticing.

Rising, she allowed herself to drift towards the piano; but when she reached it, and he raised his eyes to burn into hers, her resolve crumbled. "I can’t."

"You’re only out of practice," he replied lightly, and his fingers changed their tune to one of the simple old vocal exercises. "You remember ..."

"Erik, please," she interrupted him suddenly; his fingers paused and he looked at her questioningly. She looked down at her hands, folded them weakly before her. "I have lost the voice of the Angel of Music."

He rose and closed the key cover. Realizing that a music lesson was too reminiscent of the old manipulation, he moved to a chair near her sewing table. "But you have been Estelle’s Angel of Music." She shook her head bashfully; but he insisted, sliding one hand over the shiny surface of the piano wood. "You began her on her road, after all."

His praise warmed her, and she returned to sit in the chair near him. Taking up her sewing again, she tried to form a reply. "It is all your teaching that has made her playing good ..." She trailed off; too many thoughts, too many feelings rushed in her mind. A silence descended in which she made several very poor stitches, her fingers working sullenly under his watchful gaze.

Finally he spoke again. "She is a lovely child." Casting for something to say to ease the tension, he said, "You have done so well by her."

"I could not do otherwise," she replied, relieved at the benign and easy-for-her subject of Estelle. "We are as close to family as each of us has now."

"Nadir told me she has a mother," he prompted quietly.

Christine set her lips. "A selfish, spoiled woman," she retorted. "She has never been a mother to Estelle; I have been the nearest thing since she was seven years old."

"I can tell you love the child," he reassured her.

"With all my heart," she answered fiercely.

The devotion warmed his soul, and he cautiously allowed affection for this new committed Christine to stir in his heart. "Where is she now - the mother ..."

Sighing, she put down her sewing. "Married to Raoul."

He fairly gawked. "What?"

Looking at him, she found herself unable to suppress a laugh. "It is ridiculous, isn’t it?" She smiled wistfully. "But she will do quite well for him - she is beautiful, cruel and a driven socialite."

He could not manage a reply. "I ... forgive me, but I am shocked."

"Imagine my reaction when I found them together," she replied wryly.

"You did?"

"While she and Gerome ... Monsieur de Jardin ... were still married."

The picture began to focus, and a new and terrible thought occurred to him. This man left her all his money ... this man she calls ‘Gerome’ ... He steadied his voice. "So that was the cause of their estrangement."

"Monsieur de Jardin was furious."

"I see ... but you stayed on afterwards ... to help with the child?"

Christine dipped her head. "I did not have anywhere else to go. And besides, Estelle was too dear to me by then to even think of leaving."

"And her father ..."

A pause. Christine had heard this insinuation before, of course; it had been Babette de Jardin’s favorite battle cry, and she had learned to steel her heart to it. But she had never thought that Erik might make it ... She flushed from shame and leaned towards him. "Please, Erik, you mustn’t think that. It never was that way ... Gerome did ask me once, but I could not consent. I did not care for him, only for his daughter ... so I stayed with her, and he was a friend to me, and when he died he left me the money for both of our comforts. This," she gestured distractedly to her fine surroundings, clearly upset, "this is no mistress’ pension, I swear to you."

The fierceness of her reaction took him by surprise; he leaned in, too, sympathetically. "Someone has accused you of that?"

"His wife," she replied feverishly, swept up in her emotion, "but it was never true. He did try to make me love him ... he wanted me as his wife, and as Estelle’s mother; but he always knew I could not." She raised her eyes to meet Erik’s. "He knew I could not, because when he asked me I told him that my heart belonged only to you."

The fervor of that moment surprised them both into silence. Finally she pressed her hands to her face and murmured through them, "Forgive me, Erik - I know it is wrong of me. Please, go if you think you must; I will think of something to tell Estelle."

But he reached out and took one of her hands from her face, caressed the back of it with his thumb. Her inadvertent confession had supplied him with all the boldness he needed. "Why would I go?"

She blanched. "Because of what you said in Venice ... I am so sorry, Erik. I will never say it again; please say you will stay on as Estelle’s teacher. Your friendship means so much ... to both of us."

"But Venice was nearly four years ago, Christine. I am sorry for how I behaved then - I was striking out blindly. I was angry with myself for loving you still, when I told myself I had forgotten you." How easily the words slipped out ...

... But she did not seem to hear them! "No, you had every right to be angry with me; I treated you so meanly. I am so ashamed to think of my selfishness ... of how I thought only of myself and how it hurt you ..." Tears began to spill from her beautiful eyes.

He rose and drew her with him; he touched his free fingers lightly to her cheek. "This cannot be Christine," he whispered, amazed and in love with her. "You have her face and her eyes - but these are not her tears."

"No, Erik," she cried, lacing her fingers tightly with his, transforming his loose hold on her hand to a pleading union. "They are the tears of a woman who has done years of penance, grieving for the loss of your love."

He pulled her to him, not caring any longer for the consequences; he only cared that her words were making him ache to hold her.

She exploded into tears as he enfolded her in his arms. "Oh, Erik, I was so cruel - but I have changed, I have grown up, and I love you so much ..." Placing her hands on his chest, she pushed herself out of his embrace. "Please, to not torment me - I know you mean to comfort me, but it causes me too much pain."

He wanted to laugh at her misunderstanding; his heart was lost in a swirling sea of love, and her still-naïve objections almost delighted him. "Christine - do you think I have stopped loving you for even one moment in the last ten years?"

She stared at him, surprise stopping her tears. "Erik .. can you still love me, after all my selfishness?"

He answered her by returning his hands to her cheeks, brushing away the tears with the pads of his thumbs. "Christine," he whispered, his voice too choked for any other words.

She flung herself back into his arms and clung to him, weeping into his shirtfront; she wept away the years of heartache and hugged him tightly, wordlessly promising to never again take his love for granted. His own tears subsided into a frenzy of tender gestures; he stroked her shoulders, pulled her close, vowed his love a thousand times in whispers pressed into the waves of her hair. And when her sobbing was ended she lifted her face to be kissed, just as a daisy lifts its petals to the sun after rain.

He came undone at the touch of her lips, and his hands moved everywhere - her cheek, her waist, the nape of her neck. Soon his lips were following suit, and he kissed her fingertips, her forehead, the smooth sweep of skin his lips touched when he buried his face in her shoulder.

She was laughing at his energy; but her fingers brushed the mask, and she whispered urgently in his ear, "Erik - please, let me see you."

He pulled back, looked down into her eyes. "No, Christine; you cannot want that."

"But I do," she insisted, running a fingertip along his lower lip. "I’ve spent my whole life loving your ghost - please let me spend the rest of it loving your face."

He set his chin as if to lock in a sob, but she held him tightly with one arm as she raised the other hand gently to his face. She let the mask fall to the floor beside her sewing and cupped a soft palm on either cheek, staring straight into his eyes which brimmed with tears. "This is what I want, Erik," she swore with her voice and her eyes and her hands. "You are what I want."

He closed his eyes and let her words seep into his heart like water into desert soil; and when they touched and soothed the most wounded parts of his soul, he took her gently back into his arms. Their embrace had long ago melted into a tender kiss when Estelle suddenly returned to the room.

They heard her small feet thud to a surprised stop just inside the door, and as they turned to stare at her, embarrassed, she drew in a sharp breath. Erik lunged for the mask, but Christine stayed him with a hand on his arm. Hurrying to Estelle, she grabbed the young lady’s hands and leaned confidingly towards her.

"Estelle," she said gravely, "I have been untruthful with you, and I am sorry for that. Erik and I have known each other for a long time, nearly since before you were born."

"I knew you must have," she answered softly, her eyes fixed over Christine’s shoulder on Erik’s exposed face. "There was always some secret you were both trying to hide ..."

"Darling," Christine shook her vaguely until the girl met her gaze. "He may not be a handsome prince, but I love him so very much. You should not be afraid of him."

Estelle slipped out of Christine’s grasp and moved cautiously towards Erik, who felt frozen to the carpet with anxiety. A small distance from him she stopped, her eyes seeming to search the ruin of his face for her kind and gentle teacher. "Erik?" she finally whispered.

"Estelle," he answered, raising his right hand to his face. "I am sorry you have had to see this. I will continue to wear the mask for you."

But the young lady took his wrist in her nimble fingers and drew his hand away to look deeply into his face. "No," she finally said, "I don’t want you to. I’m not afraid - it’s just so ... so sad and beautiful, I shall need some time to grow used to it. Is that all right?"

Tears rose in his eyes and Christine could see that as he touched the girl’s chin, his expression was brimming with joy. "Yes, child," he managed, "that is just fine."

Estelle tripped back to Christine and, taking her hand, led her to Erik’s side. The two watched in wonder as she joined their hands and then drew back to observe the tableau she had created.

Finally, she smiled. "Oh, Mam’selle Anna," she breathed teasingly. "Now I understand about the Angel of Music."

Erik and Christine stared at each other for a moment, then burst into joyous laughter. But when Christine turned to embrace her adopted daughter, they realized she had slipped from the room and shut the door quietly behind her, leaving them to celebrate their reunion together.