She heard the rustle of curtains – Piangi must have become tired of waiting – and looked up from the swirling designs she’d been tracing on the tabletop.
Even though the gray cloak was designed to conceal the identity of its wearer, even though the cowl was pulled down to cover the face… she still knew that the man emerging from Don Juan’s bedroom was not Sr. Piangi.
His grace, the way he moved… there was no mistaking him.
What was he doing here?
She spun to face the front of the stage; the mist still hovered there, hiding the audience behind an impenetrable silver curtain. Her eyes flew to the wings. Dark, threatening forms were lurking in the shadows – too far back for their identities to be distinguished – but she knew them all the same. Her blood ran cold as she realized that they had been waiting for an opportunity like this; they’d known Erik would arrive to watch his opera.
She could feel them gloating as they hung back - hovering behind him like vultures – impatiently waiting for the police to close in for the kill. And she was convinced it would be a kill; they would not be satisfied with his mere capture and removal from the Opera house. They wanted him out of their lives permanently: all the dangers he represented – extortion, blackmail – eliminated.
She wouldn’t let them take him.
She clenched her hands and stepped forward. “He’s mine!”
She flung her power into the wings, a cresting wave of anger and defiance. The police vanished instantly, their dutiful commitment to protecting public safety no match for her vehement attack. The managers were not as quick to leave. Their hatred made them strong; they were not willing to give up now that their enemy was within their grasp. They continued to advance, forcing their way toward their nemesis. She dug her nails into her palms and pushed them back: she would not lose him again.
They resisted her, and for a moment the three of them were perfectly matched, the managers neither advancing nor retreating. The precarious balance wavered, then broke: even both of them together couldn’t stand against her. They continued to fight, redoubling their efforts to regain the ground they had lost, but she wouldn’t let up; she would not let them touch him. “He’s mine!” she repeated, gritting her teeth and taking a step closer to the wings. She forced them from the stage, swept them into oblivion.
The danger was gone.
She unclenched her hands, letting out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She and Erik were alone. She turned and looked at him. He hadn’t moved. He was still standing in front of Don Juan’s bed, framed by the red curtains. He was facing her; he hadn’t even known about the danger in the wings. She shook her head. Why was he here? Hadn’t he thought of the risks involved? Hadn’t he guessed the managers might realize who he was? She’d known. She’d know him anywhere.
She had seemed so close to loving him before, perhaps she even had loved him – just a little. But no longer: fear had driven away any tender feelings she once might have held.
Why had Buquet chosen that moment in the flies to attack him? He’d had no choice but to defend himself. He’d never intended the death to become a public spectacle.
She’d seen the body. He’d never seen her so distraught, not even when she first saw his face.
She had run, reeling and stumbling against the people converging on the stage. He had followed her: up the stairs, up to the roof where she collapsed against the railing like a broken bird. He had not gone to her: the boy was there, he would see. Instead, he had continued ever upward, climbing the statue of Apollo to hide in its shadow, from there to watch her. And in just a few moments, with only the indifferent stars as witnesses, his heart had been torn from his body, leaving only an empty, still-breathing shell behind. Every tear from those precious, terrified eyes, every word spoken by those trembling lips had ripped him apart: pain so intense he was surprised he wasn’t bleeding.
She was afraid of him.
No. Anything but that.
He hadn’t been able to contain his anguish as black despair rose to engulf him. He had cried out to her. …And she had fled at the sound of his voice.
No. Christine, no. You know me. You know me better than anyone ever has. You know I would never hurt you. Never… I would never… Christine, come back. Christine…
Aching, his shoulders jerking from suppressed sobs, he slid from the statue and lowered himself through a trapdoor in the far corner of the roof. He couldn’t let it end like this. He had to speak to her… sing to her… anything, anything it took to erase the fear from her eyes.
The performance would continue after a short recess. He heard that announcement through the echoing expanse of twisting passages. There would be too many people around the stage now: it would be too great a risk to watch her. And he no longer had any desire to terrorize the managers who were currently occupying his box. Let them have Box 5 for the evening: Christine was his only concern.
He wrapped both arms around his middle and leaned against the passage wall. He couldn’t lose her, not now.
He would wait for her.
He had almost reached the mirror when the screaming started….
His breath froze in his chest when he saw the ruined chandelier jutting from the stage. He’d known the cables were old and rotten, but hadn’t expected them to give way so soon. She could have been under it.
That knowledge pushed him beyond despair, beyond all feeling into a state of shocked numbness. It was too much to take in, too much to deal with on top of what had already happened. Everything else would come later: for the moment, he was calm, detached, emotionless. His only goal was to stay near Christine.
He found her in the midst of the confusion and followed her back to her dressing room. He watched her lock the door and sit down at her dressing table. She stared into the mirror for ages, never blinking, hardly breathing. Her gaze was vacant, her face unbelievably pale.
He tried to guess what thoughts were going through her head. Thoughts of leaving the Opera, no doubt. With bodies and chandeliers falling all around her, it would be a miracle if she chose to remain.
It was then that inspiration burst upon him. It swept over him in a flood, music of such passion, such power, such incredible sweetness that he swayed and blindly reached out one hand, steadying himself against the wall. It was so beautiful. It would heal her, heal both of them.
He burned with the need to write it down, to start working on it immediately. But he couldn’t leave her, not yet. He stood behind the mirror, music pounding in his head, pulsing in his veins, staring at her blank, perfect face, waiting for a spark of life to enter her empty eyes.
She finally stood, her movements abrupt and jerky, as if she had forgotten how to walk. She unlocked the door and opened it; Helene, her dresser, entered and he closed his eyes, turning his head to the side. He would not spy on her in that way.
There were several moments of quiet conversation, then the door opened and closed a second time. He opened his eyes. She was alone again. She stood with her back to him, both hands pressed flat against the door. She leaned forward until her forehead also rested against the door and she slowly shook her head - back and forth - over and over again. She finally straightened with a deep sigh and walked over to the candle. She glanced at the mirror, then looked down at her hands. “Pain. Is that all we can bring each other?” Her voice was very quiet. He knew she was speaking to him, even though she couldn’t know he heard. A silent “no” died on his lips as she quickly ducked her head and blew out the candle.
He placed both palms against the back of the mirror. Her words lingered in the darkness, colored by sorrow and a haunting tone of loss… but not fear. He closed his eyes and breathed a silent prayer of thanks. He had been granted a miracle: fear would not drive her from the Opera.
He didn’t move until he heard her breathing slow as sleep claimed her. Then he turned and surrendered to the music within him.
He would prove her wrong. Pain was the least of what they offered each other. What they shared was beautiful and alive. She had been blinded to that, but the music throbbing to the beat of his heart – surging with every breath he took – would call her back to that beauty, call her soul back to his.
He needed his paper and ink: he needed to capture these notes of flame and life and power before they burst him asunder with their raw intensity. He ran – very nearly flew – back to his house, a dark angel trying to contain the music of all the stars of heaven in his fragile mortal shell.
He barely noticed the passing of time. There were days, weeks where he could remember neither eating nor sleeping, but it didn’t matter. He felt no weakness. Music consumed him, sustained him.
He occasionally managed to pull himself away from the beckoning ocean-depths of his composition to take brief trips up to see her, to reassure himself that she was safe. He never spoke, never even drew close enough. Wait, he told himself. Wait until it is finished. Then she will see.
He never even noticed the subtle changes until the opera was complete.
They were engaged. It shouldn’t have been such a surprise: she was sweet and beautiful, a treasure any man would prize, and the boy – although young and a bit naïve – was neither blind nor an utter fool. It was a shock, true, but he had felt no alarm at the news; he had been certain his music would touch her, call her as it had in the past. He had never even considered the possibility that she was already lost to him.
Why had he been so blind?
Because she was the only woman who had seen his face and continued to treat him like a human being. Because he had thought that if he could love her enough, she might eventually learn to love him just a little in return. He had been clinging to impossible dreams, grasping at fantasies spun from the fragile hope and overwhelming love that hid deep inside him. He finally understood the futility of his desire the night he met her at the masquerade.
He hadn’t meant to; he had intended to wait until after she heard his opera, wait until his music sang her alive again. But he had been unable to wait any longer. He had needed to remind her then, claim her then.
A mistake. It was all a mistake. A miracle misinterpreted. He realized that the moment he spoke to her, as she stared at him with those wide, panicked eyes and fearfully shook her head. It had taken all of his control to keep his savage grief in check until he safely reached his lair, where he could allow his emotions full expression.
It was too late; the tiniest spark of love she might have felt for him had long ago been extinguished. He had just been deluding himself; her words in the dressing room had not been the sign he had taken them for. She was truly – deathly – afraid of him. His opera was far too late.
But it would serve one purpose, at least. It would give him the chance to spend one last moment with her.
He wouldn’t hold her. When he’d had hope that she might learn to love him, he would have done anything to keep her close. But his hope was gone. He would go to her one last time – in disguise, so she would not be frightened. He would touch her, sing with her… and treasure those few moments for the rest of his bleak existence.
And now she was here, so close to him. He had to let her go. He would not frighten her. She must never know how desperately he wanted to touch her, hold her. The music would help him; it would lead him. He only hoped the last song would begin soon; now that the moment was upon him, he was beginning to fear that he wouldn’t be able to go through with it.
She noticed movement at the corner of her eye and spun to her left… but no one hid there. The mist was moving. It crept in, swallowing the edges of the stage, enclosing them in a seamless world of silver. Music began to play – softly at first – swelling and building and blending perfectly with Erik’s voice as he began to sing.
It was the seduction song from the final act. He had come for her. Slowly, he stepped around the table and came gliding toward her.
She stayed where she was, watching him approach. She could tell him that she knew who he was; she could tell him that she loved him… and she would, in time. But not now, she wouldn’t break the seductive spell his velvet voice was weaving around them.
“I have brought you.” He slowly circled her and she turned, keeping him in sight.
“That our passions may fuse and merge.” She backed away from him, her eyes never leaving his cowled face as she moved toward the table.
“In your mind you’ve already succumbed to me.” She turned her back to him and stepped close to the table, her skirt brushing against the edge. She pressed her fingertips against the tabletop, listening to him move up behind her.
“Dropped all your defenses, completely succumbed to me.” He was directly behind her, his voice low and silky. She wanted to lean back against him, feel his arms wrap around her… but she couldn’t do that. He had written this opera, written this very scene. It was only right that he see it played out to its proper conclusion.
She leaned forward and reached out her right hand, closing her fingers around an apple. His hand covered hers. She could feel the edge of the cowl brushing against the back of her neck.
“Now you are here with me,” he whispered, his palm slowly stroking up her arm. She closed her eyes, a tiny sigh escaping her lips. “No second thoughts. You’ve decided.” His hand reached her shoulder and turned her to face him. “Decided.” She opened her eyes very slowly, feeling something brush against her fingers. His touch lifted from her shoulder. She looked down to see him gently freeing the apple from her hand, loosening her fingers and removing the fruit from her grasp. He leaned forward and she held her breath, hoping he would reach for her… but he reached past her, carefully placing the apple back on the table.
“Past the point of no return.” She carefully turned her head to look at him. The cowl was only inches away from her lips. He was still leaning over her, his hand pressed flat against the table. Slowly, she edged to her right, out from under his hovering presence. He straightened as she moved away.
“No backward glances.” She abruptly spun away and his hand darted out, catching her wrist and spinning her back to face him.
“The games we’ve played till now are at an end.” He raised his free hand and touched the skin below her right ear, dragging his knuckles along the line of her jaw. His fingers came to rest beneath her chin, tipping her head up. She wished she could see his face, see in his eyes the emotions haunting his words.
“Past all thought of if or when.” His hand dropped from her chin, his hold on her wrist tightening as he backed up, pulling her after him as they rounded the corner of the table. They approached the bench on opposite sides; their clasped hands stretched above it. She turned - putting her back to him - and his fingers slid away from her wrist.
“No use resisting.” She felt his hands touch her shoulders as she sank down onto the bench.
“Abandon thought and let the dream descend.” She raised her arms – lazily, languidly – brushing the backs of her fingers along the sides of her throat, up over her jaw and cheekbones, finally raising her arms above her head, her fingers spread, her hands open. His touch lifted from her shoulders. She felt his palms brushing against the backs of her hands, hovering over her skin. She bent her wrists back and twined her fingers with his, then curled her hands into loose fists, gently trapping his fingers between hers.
“What raging fire shall flood the soul?” She lowered her hands, pulling his down as well, brushing his knuckles down her temples, her cheeks.
“What rich desire unlocks its door?” Tilting her head back, she closed her eyes and slowly drew his hands down the sides of her throat.
“What sweet seduction lies before us?” The line was sung directly into her ear as he leaned down, their clasped hands skimming the air mere inches from the satin of her bodice. Once past all questionable areas, she drew her arms in, bringing their hands close enough that his fingers brushed against her ribs. She slid their hands together until they met in the center of her stomach.
“Past the point of no return.” She let go of his right hand and slid her left hand across her stomach. He leaned over her left shoulder as she pulled his arm around her waist. She felt him shift against her back; his fingers tightened as he slowly lowered himself onto the bench beside her.
“The final threshold.” The back of his right hand touched her throat – brushing her hair to one side – then his palm curved around her neck.
“What warm, unspoken secrets will we learn?” He gently disentangled his left hand from her grasp and moved his hand down her side, over her hip, and lightly – ever so lightly, barely brushing the fabric of her skirt – down her thigh.
“Beyond the point of no return?” She raised her right hand and touched the back of his hand as it hovered over the hem of her skirt. She pressed down gently and he lowered his hand, his fingers carefully closing around her knee. Her fingertips lingered for a moment, then slid over his wrist, up the sleeve of his robe, finally coming to rest on his shoulder. She twisted to face him more directly: she was lifting her hand to touch his throat when he abruptly snatched his hands back and jerked away from her, sliding to the very end of the bench.
She stared at him in blank surprise. Why had he pulled away? She knew he hadn’t wanted to stop: his voice, his hands had told her how he felt. So why? Suddenly, she understood. He’d been afraid she would touch his face, afraid she would realize who he was. But she already knew. There was no need for hiding.
The music was still playing, the notes circling, repeating… waiting for her to sing her part of the duet. She looked at his rigid back. He was so uncertain, so blind to her true feelings… but she would change that.
She stood up and propped her left foot on the end of the bench. Leaning forward, she crossed her forearms and rested them on her knee. Softly, seductively, she sang to him, "You have brought me to that moment where words run dry, to that moment where speech disappears into silence, silence…."
Straightening, she lowered her foot to the floor and swayed gently as she sang the next line, almost to herself, "I have come here, hardly knowing the reason why." She took three quick steps forward, bringing her to his shoulder as she sang, "In my mind, I’ve already imagined our bodies entwining defenseless and silent." At those words, his shoulders hunched forward as if he was trying to protect himself from a physical blow. His hands clenched convulsively, grasping at the fabric that covered his knees. She heard his soft moan as he bowed his head. He huddled in on himself, slowly rocking backward and forward, trying to control the longing and despair and desire that twisted and burned within him, threatening to overwhelm him.
Why had he done this?
She rested one hand lightly on his shoulder. He jerked at her touch, his entire body going rigid. She heard the hiss of his indrawn breath.
He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t....
She pulled her hand away from his shoulder and moved to stand in front of him. His head was still bowed, his hands clenched into bloodless fists on his knees. Her voice barely above a whisper, she sang, "And now I am here with you; no second thoughts. I’ve decided." She put one hand on each of his shoulders and waited until he raised his head. She couldn’t see his eyes beneath the cowl, but she could feel them fixed on her face. Staring at him intensely, she whispered, "Decided," and pushed him backward. He didn’t resist as she leaned forward, pressing him down against the bench. Her elbows locked, she braced herself above him for a few seconds, then pulled back. He made no move to sit up. His hands were at his sides, clutching the edges of the bench. His arms were trembling.
What was she doing?
Hitching up her skirt slightly, she stepped forward, swinging one leg up and over to straddle the bench. She bent down and braced her hands against his chest, then slowly lowered herself until she was sitting on his stomach. Her right hand was splayed over his heart; she could feel it pound beneath her palm.
She had to see his face.
Her left hand closed over the edge of the cowl. She hesitated for a moment, then threw it back. He looked up at her, his eyes full of uncertainty, confusion, and a barely restrained desire that made something deep inside her clench in response. She let the cowl drop and pulled her hand back, holding it a few inches above his mouth. His eyes flicked from her face to her hand and back.
"Past the point of no return – no going back now: our passion-play has now, at last, begun." She touched two fingers to his parted lips and left them there, feeling his warm breath wash over her skin. "Past all thought of right or wrong – one final question: how long should we two wait before we’re one?" Her voice faltered on the last note as she felt his hands hesitantly touch her waist.
She stared down into his stormy eyes: they bored into her, questioning, demanding an answer. His jaw was clenched, his lips pressed tightly together beneath her fingertips.
She pulled her hand away from his mouth and braced it beside his head, her fingers curling around the edge of the bench. She leaned forward until their faces were mere inches apart, his golden-brown eyes filling her field of vision. "No more waiting, Erik," she breathed, lowering her lips to his.
He froze for a second, his entire body going rigid, his mouth unresponsive beneath hers. Then his lips softened and returned her pressure, gently at first, but with increasing force. His hands tightened on her waist as she shifted forward, pressing her stomach against his chest, trying to get as close to him as she could. His mouth was hot and devouring, stealing her breath, stealing all thought. Her world narrowed to this one kiss, to the need to return pressure for pressure, heat for heat. His touch, his scent, his taste flooded her senses, rolling over her in a deep, drowning wave of pleasure.
She had to stop before she lost herself completely.
Unwilling, unable to pull away from him, she slid her lips to the edge of his mouth, then kissed her way down the side of his face, ending with her forehead pressed against the surface of the bench. Her heart slammed against her ribs and she couldn’t catch her breath. She closed her eyes. She could hear his rapid, ragged breathing, could feel his chest heave beneath her. For a moment she couldn’t move, overwhelmed by the intensity of the kiss they had shared. She finally summoned up enough energy to sit up, raising her head until she could look into his eyes. "I love you, Erik," she whispered, a smile trembling at the edges of her lips.
His hands rose to cup her face as she leaned down to kiss him again. It was slower this time: gentle, lingering, hinting at things to come.
Their lips clung together as she slowly pulled back; his head lifted to follow her, his mouth reluctant to release hers. She smiled against his lips and dipped her head, kissing him deeply before finally pulling away and sitting up. She raised her hands and touched his: they were still cradling her face.
She closed her fingers around his wrists and turned her head, placing a kiss on first one palm, then the other. His fingers twitched and she heard his breath catch.
Releasing his hands, she bent her head and stared into his eyes as her fingers found the clasp at the base of his throat. Never looking away from his burning gaze, she explored the clasp with her fingertips, finally discovering the catch and releasing it. Lowering her eyes, she pulled the cloak open and rested her hands on the lapels of his jacket. Her gaze traveled down the row of tiny black buttons in the center of his shirt.
She slid her hands beneath the edge of his jacket. Only the thinnest fabric separated their skin; she pressed her palms flat against his chest, soaking in the heat of him. They were so close, and not yet close enough. Deliberately, she pulled her hands back and began to unbutton his shirt.
She was only on the third button when she felt his hands wrap around her ankles. Gasping, her eyes flew to his. His gaze was dark and full of desire, but at the same time questioning, wordlessly asking her permission to proceed. She swallowed past a throat gone suddenly tight and nodded jerkily, her eyes fluttering shut and her hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt as his palms inched over the top of her boots and touched her skin. His hands stroked upward, curving around the backs of her legs. She gasped softly, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. Sparks of sensation raced over her skin, sensitizing every nerve in anticipation of his touch.
It became increasingly difficult for her to breathe as his hands edged upward; her gasps turned into open-mouthed pants for air. She never knew she could feel so much.
She bit her lip to hold back a moan when his fingers lightly brushed against the backs of her knees. She had never guessed that part of her skin could be so sensitive. His hands lingered there for a moment, his fingers rubbing circles into her skin. She bowed her head and twisted her hands in his shirt, trying to somehow ease the tension that was coiling tighter and tighter within her.
His hands finally edged past her knees and she released her death-grip on his shirt collar and blindly dug her fingers into his shoulders, needing something solid to hold onto.
She couldn’t take much more of this, she thought hazily, feeling her heart battering against her ribcage as if trying to break free of her chest, hearing the blood thundering in her ears. His touch was either going to kill her or drive her out of her mind... and she didn’t want him to stop.
When his hands were halfway up her thighs, they abruptly stilled, his fingers clenching, digging into her skin. She moaned softly, her fingers flexing against his shoulders. Suddenly, his hands reversed their direction, quickly skimming down her legs, then his touch was gone.
"Christine, let me up."
It took her a moment to realize that he speaking to her; it took even longer to recognize the import of his request. For him to get up, she would have to stand up.... Her eyes flew open and she blinked down at him in disbelief. He expected her to stand? After the way he had just touched her? He stared up at her, his expression indecipherable.
“Let me up,” he repeated quietly.
Nodding dazedly, she pulled her feet beneath her. Leaning forward, she braced her arms to take most of her weight as she shakily stood. His hands closed around her elbows, supporting her as she straightened. Grateful for his strength, she fisted her hands in the sleeves of his jacket and carefully swung her leg over the bench. When she was reasonably sure of her balance, she pulled her hands back and he let her go.
He sat up quickly, the cloak falling from his shoulders as he did so. He stood, towering above her for a moment, then bent and scooped her into his arms. She wrapped her arms around his neck and cupped his cheek in her right hand, turning his face toward her as she claimed his lips in a fierce kiss. He kissed her hungrily in response, then tore his mouth away and strode toward the bed at the edge of the stage. She noted his direction and felt a thrill of excitement. Pressing her face against his throat, she nudged his collar out of the way and covered his skin with open-mouthed kisses.
She felt him lowering her, felt the softness of the mattress against her back. She loosened her hold on his neck as his arms slid away from her waist. He straightened and took a step back.
She scrambled to her knees and faced him as he stood at the end of the bed. Reaching out one hand, she caught hold of the edge of his jacket and pulled him forward until his legs were touching the mattress. "Don’t move," she whispered, smiling up at him. His faint answering smile disappeared in a soundless gasp as she carefully unfastened the buttons on his jacket, her hands rubbing against his stomach with each breath he took.
Straightening, she let go of his jacket and raised her arms to grasp his shirt collar. With both hands, she pulled aside the material above the last fastened button and pressed her lips to his skin. She unfastened that button, then smoothed the material away as she kissed her way down to the next. She was reaching for it when his hands closed around her wrists.
She pulled her head back just far enough that she could see his face. She frowned at him gently, not welcoming the interruption in this most pleasant task of undressing him. He swallowed hard but said nothing; after a moment, she lowered her head and gently brushed her lips against his chest. He took a deep shuddering breath: his fingers tightened for a brief moment, then loosened and slid away from her wrists. She slowly pushed the button through its buttonhole and pulled the fabric aside. She dipped her head and pressed her mouth against him in a long lingering kiss: muscles clenched beneath her lips as she quickly unfastened the last three buttons.
Gripping the lapels of his jacket, she straightened, pulling herself up until her eyes were level with his. She slid both hands up to his jacket collar and pushed it off his shoulders, pulling it down his arms until the fabric bunched around his elbows. His arms slid behind his back, his shoulders flexing as he pulled his arms free of the sleeves and dropped the jacket to the floor.
She drew her hands back, letting them come to rest on either side of his waist. Her right palm curved around his side; her fingers gathered up the material of his shirt until the heel of her hand pressed against his skin. Her left hand slid up his chest, catching the collar of his shirt and pushing it off his right shoulder.
She leaned forward and kissed his jaw, his throat, his collarbone. She felt him bend over her, felt his lips against the top of her head. She closed her eyes and turned her face to the side, pressing her left cheek against his shoulder.
Her right hand was still clutching the edge of his shirt; she unclenched her fingers and slid her hand under his shirt, her palm sliding over his warm skin, across his back. Her arm tightened around his waist as she pressed against him, molding her body to his. Her left hand released his collar as her arm wrapped around his shoulders.
His left arm rose, reaching across her back. She heard the ping of one cufflink hitting the floor, then another. She felt the muscles in his back and shoulder flex as he pulled his right arm from the shirtsleeve. Lifting her left arm, she let the weight of the fabric pull the shirt from his back. It still hung from his left shoulder; she pushed it off, raising her right hand to tug at the collar, pulling it over his elbow, over his wrist, and tossing it to fall where it may.
Then both of his hands were on her back, his fingers tracing her skin just above the edge of her dress. She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, reveling in the spicy-salty-sweet scent of him. He found the laces at her back and tugged; she felt them loosen, felt the cool air on her skin. He pulled the laces through their tiny loops, slowly tracing a tantalizing path down her spine. She shivered beneath his touch and pressed even closer to him, tilting her head up to plant an urgent kiss on the underside of his jaw.
Finally, after a breathless eternity, his hands reached her waist. He slowly pulled back and she lifted her head from his shoulder, raising her lips to meet his in a long, melting kiss. His hands slipped from her waist; her arms slid limply from his back. Only their lips connected them, a contact so electric, so alive she felt sure they would fuse together, pour themselves into each other until there was no difference between her body and his. Gradually, he eased away: she fought to open her eyes, heavy-lidded, drunk from the pleasure of his touch. She blinked up into golden eyes: soft and dark and infinitely tender.
“I love you, Erik,” she whispered. She ducked her head and raised one hand to wipe at the corners of her eyes as her vision suddenly blurred.
He pressed a brief kiss against her forehead. She smiled faintly and looked up. Tendrils of mist drifted in front of her face, obscuring her view of Erik for a moment. She waved her hand, fanning the mist away.
She saw Erik, saw his lips move: I love you, Christine. Mist came between them again, but not before she saw the anguished hopelessness that entered his eyes.
He was backing away. He was leaving her.
No. No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening; she couldn’t lose him again. Not now, not like this.
"Erik!" she screamed, lunging for him. Silver rose up to fill her vision, hiding him from her sight.
Where was he? Where was he?
She couldn’t reach him.
“Erik!” she screamed again, panic-stricken, as the mist thickened, smothering her.
She awoke with a start.
Her sheets were wound around her so tightly she could barely move. She slowly extricated herself from the suffocating tangle, then drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. Burning, aching for the touch of hands she could still feel against her skin, she rocked back and forth, all coherent thought buried beneath her roiling, chaotic emotions.
She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe.
She gasped for air, drawing it in with deep, frantic, sucking gulps.
It wasn’t enough.
She wanted to scream into the darkness: rage at wakefulness, at reality for tearing him away from her. How could she have found something that beautiful, felt something that beautiful, only to have it ripped away on the tail of a dream? She wanted to lash out at someone, hurt whoever had taken him away: force them to bring him back. She wanted to recapture the magic of him: wrap it around herself - if only for a few moments longer - revel in a love more precious than anything she had ever known before.
It washed over her again, memory sending hot and cold shivers racing up and down her spine, culminating in a thrilling, sensual chill that spread across her entire body, sliding out over her skin. She shuddered violently and reflexively tightened her arms around her legs.
It had just been a dream. A glorious, terrible, beautiful dream. She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her teeth, trapping a high-pitched whimper in the back of her throat. “Erik.” She mouthed his name silently as a tear trickled from beneath her lashes.
No. She sat up abruptly and scrubbed at her eyes. She couldn’t cry. She couldn’t fall apart.
She had to set things right. She had to… she had to… she had to find Erik, that was what she had to do. She needed to see him; she needed to talk to him now. Not in the morning, not when - if - he finally decided to visit her again, now.
It wasn’t too late. It couldn’t be too late.
She rubbed her fingertips over the warm smoothness of the gold engagement band circling her ring finger. She slowly twisted it around and around, a talisman against the cold fear in the pit of her stomach.
This was Erik’s ring. He had put it there himself. He hadn’t forsaken her.
The masquerade was not a dream’s shadow-memory: that had really happened, as had the chandelier, the rooftop, the months of loneliness…. It was only the end – the dizzyingly intense ending that still had her heart racing… it was the end that had never happened. She had never known the touch of his lips while awake, never an embrace, never… a warm flush spread over her face and she pressed her knees together.
That was what she wanted. She wanted his touch. She wanted what she had dreamed and more. Much more.
She wanted Erik.
She loved him. She had to find him.
Her legs a bit unsteady, she determinedly climbed out of bed and pulled on a dressing gown. Crossing to the far wall, she felt for the catch that would release the mirror from its base. Finding it at last, she pressed up while leaning her shoulder against the left edge of the mirror. Slowly it turned and she squeezed through the opening, not waiting for it to swing open the whole way.
It was dark. She would need a candle. Darting back through the open mirror, she scrambled for a box of matches and a candleholder. Finding them at last, she lit the candle with trembling hands, then pushed the mirror open again and stepped through.
