Unmasqued

"But I would not love myself. I find the greatest joy in my music, and he has helped me to find this joy. Please understand, Raoul… It is a joy, a freedom… a special beauty that I have not experienced since Papa died. I do not wish to talk on it further, Raoul. You cannot change my mind, and it really will not make for a friendly dinner if we are arguing." She smiled at him, and saw his acquiescence. "So, yes, I will join you for dinner if he does not mind… but perhaps just the two of us?" she added, thinking of the uncomfortable way Philippe had looked at her the night before.

"I will call the carriage and be back for you right away," Raoul told her, a bit reluctantly. "And I will make arrangements for just the two of us to dine."

When he released her and strode away, Christine turned and found herself face-to-face with Madame Giry. "You are playing very dangerously, Christine," she told her.

"No… no, I do not know what you mean."

"He will not be pleased with your delay tonight, and he will be most especially displeased that you have been flirting with the vicomte, of all people. If he should find out it is Raoul de Chagny who has caught your attention…" She pressed her lips together. "I have warned you… Take care that you do not anger him or you may very well lose him. You saw Carlotta's disgrace tonight. Make no mistake: Though she brought her own destruction upon herself, he helped to manifest it. And listen to me carefully: You must not tell the vicomte or his brother anything of him, do you understand?"

But she already had. Christine's saliva dried in her throat. "I will heed your advice, Madame Giry. I do not wish to do anything to lose mon ange."

"Very good. Now, into your dressing room. He will come to you soon."

But even after Christine had entered the room and changed from her costume into a lace-trimmed dressing gown, Erik did not made his presence known. She sat on a quilted seat in the center of the room, watching herself in the mirror as her face grew graver and more worried while the moments ticked on.

A pounding on her door distracted her momentarily; she cracked it open to find an impatient Raoul waiting for her. "Come, Christine, the horses are becoming restless, and so am I."

Christine cast a glance behind her. The room felt empty; perhaps Erik was angry and was not going to come to her tonight.

"All right… give me one more moment to change into street clothes and to get my cloak." She closed the door and started toward the small wardrobe that held her meager collection of street clothes.

But before she had even pulled the doors wide, she felt the air in the room move.

"Erik!" she cried, relief sweeping through her.

She knew his presence; though he had yet to announce himself any other way, she sensed him. The five lamps sputtered, then were doused, leaving only one burning low.

But then, there was nothing. Silence… harsh and empty.

"Erik? Angel?" Christine called.

The shadows grew tall, crisscrossing the room, as the half-moon of light left by the single lamp sputtered. The air chilled, moved, and shifted, sending the hair at the back of her neck on edge and her nipples tightening.

"Where are you?"

"Christine? What is it?" Raoul's voice came through the dressing room door, accompanied by his pounding fists. The doorknob jiggled in vain. "Unlock the door, Christine!"

But she had not locked it.

"Erik? Are you there?" she called again, her voice rising. "Angel?"

"Christine!" Raoul shouted, pounding harder, shoving at the door.

"Christinnnnne…" her name came at last, on a breath that swept through her.

"Erik. You are there! Where are you?"

"Christine! Open the door!" Raoul had resorted to kicking at it, if the low, dull thuds were any indication. "Are you all right? Say something!"

"Christinnnne. . step to the mirror."

At once, lust surged through her body at the memory of her bare flesh against the cold, silver looking glass. The teasing and the pleasure he'd given her… the rising, pounding orgasm he'd brought her to…

But when she came near the glass, she saw that the mirror was moving… and suddenly, strong arms were pulling her, tugging her into what had been solid, imposing glass, which had somehow melted away. Into the mirror.

She was encloaked in something heavy and black; it smelled like damp wool and sandalwood… and then the dressing room and the mirror were behind her and she looked up for the first time into the face of the Angel of Music.

It was shadowed; half was dark and hidden… The other half bore an eye that gleamed, not with gentleness and caring, but with fury and determination. Half the mouth was not shadowed; it was formed as sensually as she had imagined, with full, defined lips that curled angrily above a set jaw.