Author's Note:

Hello all! Long time, no see!

I've been suffering from writer's block for a while; not entirely happy with this, but as it's taken me about three months to finish I thought I'd post it anyway. I wanted to write something involving the Opera House a bit more, as I realised a dream of mine back in February and went to Paris for a couple of days; naturally, while I was there I couldn't miss visiting the Palais Garnier. It is a truly incredible place, completely magical.

But enough of my rambling. I hope you enjoy this piece of complete and utter fluff. :)

SUMMER SON

The chill of the cellars turned Christine's skin to gooseflesh as she descended the stairs, making her wish she had thought to cover her light cotton dress with a shawl; she had forgotten how sudden the change in temperature could be so far beneath the Opera House. Briskly rubbing her forearms as best she could while carrying the large wicker basket she had brought from home, she hurried down the remaining steps, heart beating a little quicker in anticipation as she neared the lake shore, her mind's eye conjuring the black and gold gondola that would be bobbing in the water by the little rocky jetty and the imposing figure standing in its bows, hand outstretched to help her aboard. Even though such eccentricities should have become commonplace after so long, there was still a thrill of excitement that ran through her as she opened the mirror and made the descent into Erik's subterranean world.

She stopped short when she realised that the dock was empty and there was no boat disturbing the obsidian water of the lake, no sign even of a craft approaching through the mist that hovered above its surface. Christine frowned, mentally checking through the days of the week and assuring herself that she had indeed arrived upon the right date; when she last saw her tutor he had cordially invited her to take tea with him after her voice lesson on Sunday afternoon and it was very definitely Sunday now for there was no rehearsal and she had been to mass that morning. Erik was never late, especially where her lessons were concerned, and though she had made her way to his home alone many times in the past it was most unusual for him to forget a promise he had made to meet her.

What if something had happened to him? Worry began to twist deep in her stomach and almost without thinking she hitched up her skirts and gingerly stepped onto the narrow path that led round the perimeter of the lake. Several times her shoes skidded on the damp, slimy surface and she had to catch hold of the equally slippery rock to try and stop herself toppling into the water; she had no idea how deep it was but Erik always warned her to be careful around the shore in case she fell. At one point her right foot slid so far ahead that she almost performed an involuntary split, nearly losing the basket over her arm as she struggled to right herself; once her breathing and heart-rate had returned to normal she thought in amusement that Meg would be extremely annoyed to learn that she was not the only one capable of such a difficult movement.

Music was audible as she neared the underground house, notes weaving their way through the still air with the consummate skill of the accomplished musician Erik was, and Christine knew immediately the reason he had forgotten their lesson before the beautiful tune abruptly descended into a cacophonous muddle that made her wince, accompanied by some choice words, both in French and at least two languages she was rather thankful she didn't understand. There was silence for a few moments, followed by another passage of trilling from the organ before Erik apparently slammed his hands down on the keys, the horrendously discordant noise making her jump. Though relieved he was all right, she could not help wondering whether, despite his invitation, it would be wise to remain, especially when he was very probably in a foul mood, frustrated in his composing; he was hardly likely to be receptive to the plans she had in mind for the afternoon.

Briefly Christine considered turning and retracing her steps to the surface but before she could move more than a pace she stopped and resolutely faced the hidden door once more, scolding herself for being such a coward. If he had indeed reached an impasse in his work there was every chance he would be grateful for the distraction and a smile found its way onto her face as she remembered that, though he might try to cling to his megrims on point of principle, poor spirits did not remain with him for long when they were together.

"Erik, it's me!" she called brightly as she entered the house. In contrast to her tone the lights in the hallway were dim, and it felt chilly, if possible even colder than the cavern outside. As usual it appeared that he had been so caught up with whatever inspiration had struck this time that such things as light, heat and most probably food had been completely forgotten. Christine would not have been at all surprised to learn that he had not even been to sleep, a suspicion that was confirmed when the music room door finally opened and the infamous Opera Ghost stood on the threshold: his clothes, usually so pristine, were crumpled, his tie undone and jacket and waistcoat missing; there were inky fingerprints on his mask, his hair stood up on end thanks to too much attention from distracted fingers and she could see the dark shadow that hung from his one visible eye. Startled, Erik regarded her for a long moment before belated awareness of his dishevelled state dawned and he flushed in embarrassment; desperately he tucked in his rumpled shirt and attempted to smooth his hair, awkwardly clearing his throat.

"Christine," he said, now looking anywhere but at her, "I, er... I wasn't expecting you."

Christine blinked. "You asked me here, don't you remember?"

His eyebrow shot upwards so far it almost met his hairline. "I did? When did I... no, wait, let me think..." She watched as the cogs in his brain obviously turned furiously. It was interesting, for she had never seen him quite so flustered before; he always tried to maintain the facade of lofty and unflappable Phantom in her presence, but Christine much preferred it when the metaphorical mask slipped and he allowed her to see the man beneath. Obviously uncomfortable, he scratched the back of his neck; raising a rather sheepish gaze to meet her enquiring one he asked, "Christine... what day is it today?"

"I'm sorry, my dear," Erik said a little while later when they were seated in his parlour and he had tidied himself up a bit. With his jacket replaced and his mask cleaned off he looked more like her debonair voice teacher. "I did not mean to forget."

Christine smiled over the rim of her teacup. "It's all right, I forgive you. I like it when you let yourself be human."

An affronted look settled on his face and she tried not to giggle. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," he replied, but she caught his lips twitching and knew he wasn't really annoyed. He gave her a sidelong glance as he replaced his own cup on the table. "Are you going to tell me what is in the basket or must I guess?"

"Well..." she began, taking a deep breath and crossing her fingers behind her back, "There is some bread, and cheese, and a bottle of wine... plates, glasses and a corkscrew... oh, and a blanket."

Erik's expression, the half of it she could see at any rate, was perplexed. "Christine, there is food here, and I have wine if you wish, though the hour is probably a little early. I even have crockery and glassware, and I do not think I am short of blankets. Why should you feel the need to carry such things around with you?"

"It was just a silly idea, but as it's such a warm and sunny afternoon I thought that we might..." Christine trailed off, suddenly realising the impracticalities of her idea. She had barely even considered it when the beautiful June day had prompted her to fill the basket before she left; after all, the vast majority of people would never have to take such obstacles into consideration, but now she actually stopped to think she could see what a preposterous thought it really was.

"Christine?" Erik asked, a concerned frown touching the part of his forehead that was not concealed by the mask. "What was this idea?"

She shook her head. "It's nothing; forget I ever mentioned it."

"It obviously matters to you or you would not have brought it up in the first place," he said, quite reasonably. "What did you wish us to do?"

"I thought... I thought that we might... have a picnic. I'm sorry," Christine said quickly, before he could open his mouth, "It was silly and insensitive of me even to suggest it. I know you wouldn't want to go out in daylight and be surrounded by dozens of people, even if we hailed a cab and found a secluded spot in the Tuileries, or the Bois. I'm just being foolish; please, pay it no heed."

He was silent for a long time, and she found herself unable to meet his gaze, her fingers playing with the fringe on the cushion that lay on the sofa at her side. The minutes dragged on and still he did not speak; worried that she might have angered him, Christine finally chanced a peek, and her mouth almost fell open when she saw his face. He was watching her in wonderment, eyes gleaming in the lamplight with what must have incredibly been unshed tears, a strange crooked smile touching his misshapen lips.

"You... you wished to go on a ...picnic... with me?" he asked softly. "You would walk out in the light, amongst all those people, with me at your side?"

"Of course," Christine replied without hesitation."Why should I not?"

"Would you not be ashamed of this?" He waved a hand towards his mask, lip curling in disgust. "Would you not be ashamed of the laughter, the pointing fingers that would follow us wherever we went?"

"Erik," she said, reaching out to take hold of that hand, drawing it away from his face; he jumped and tried to pull free but she held on tight. "I could never be ashamed of you. I am proud to be able to call you my friend."

He bowed his head, and she could feel his hand trembling in hers, reminding her how vulnerable he really was, beneath the apparent confidence and commanding aura. "You are very kind to Erik," he murmured. "Far kinder than he deserves."

"Don't say such things, please," Christine begged.

Gently he squeezed her fingers and carefully removed his hand from her grasp. When he looked up that lopsided little smile was back. "I... I have never been on a picnic," he admitted. "What exactly does one do?"

She returned his smile, relief flooding through her, and turned to the basket. "I'll show you," she said, lifting the lid and reaching for the blanket, feeling her earlier enthusiasm return. "We can have one here, on the floor. It doesn't matter that we're indoors, not really."

Erik watched her with interest. "Are picnics meant to be taken al fresco, then?"

"Well, that is the general idea, but we can have just as much fun down here. It's the company that is more important than the ambience." Standing up, Christine began to shake out the blanket, but he stopped her before she could lay it on the rug.

"Wait," he said, and she recognised the enigmatic expression that had replaced his shy smile. "I think I have a better idea."

Christine shook her head. "No."

"No?" Erik looked surprised, and then his mouth twitched in annoyance. "Christine, I always dress this way when I go upstairs. I have... standards to maintain."

"I know, and you look very dashing," she told him, "but I think you may be just a little over-dressed for a picnic, especially when it is so warm outside."

He glanced down at himself, at his immaculate suit, polished shoes and long cashmere cloak decorated with jet beads, the ensemble finished off with the wide-brimmed black fedora that was rakishly tilted to cast a shadow over his mask, and then back at her. "Precisely what does one wear to a picnic?" he asked, and almost jumped a foot in the air when she stepped towards him and reached up to remove his hat, laying it gently down on the sofa. "Christine - "

"You won't need the cloak, either," she said, fingers aiming for the laces but he beat her to it, untying them after a moment's hesitation and letting the heavy fabric fall; with reflexes she could only admire he deftly caught it before it could hit the floor, winding it over his arm. "That's better, but you still look too formal..."

Erik raised an eyebrow and cleared his throat, moving a pace or two away in evident anticipation of another assault upon his clothing. Putting the cloak down, he folded his hands behind his back. "I can assure you, my dear, that I am not removing anything else."

Christine couldn't suppress a giggle, which she quickly hid behind her hand. "That's not what I meant. Don't you have any other clothes? Something a little more... relaxed?"

"My Chinese robe?" His visible cheek flushed in embarrassment. "I hardly think that suitable attire either."

"Probably not," she conceded, and an awkward silence fell between them, one that was only broken when Erik, shoulders slumping in defeat, gathered up his cloak and hat and turned towards his bedroom.

"Well, thank you, Christine, it was a nice idea," he said quietly, his sigh so soft she barely heard it. "I'll take up no more of your time today; you should enjoy the sunshine. I'm sure the Vicomte will be more than happy to share the contents of that little basket with you."

"Erik, wait!" Christine cried, fairly leaping across the room to catch hold of his arm before he could disappear. His disappointment was obvious, and she knew that if she allowed herself to just give up and leave him he would spend the rest of the day holed up with either piano or organ, writing mournful tunes that would make her heart break. She couldn't do that to him; why shouldn't he be allowed to walk in the sun and feel its warmth on his face just like any other man? He turned, startled by her touch on his sleeve, and this time she smiled at him in genuine affection rather than amusement. "We'll find you something to wear," she said, adding when he looked sceptical, "And I promise not to compromise your dignity."

For several seconds she held her breath, convinced he would refuse, but then he nodded and relief flooded through her. Releasing him she stepped back slightly and offered him her hand; Erik regarded it almost as though he had no idea what to do with it despite all the times he had helped her in and out of the boat or taken her hand to lead her through the maze of tunnels beneath the theatre, before hesitantly putting his long, cold fingers into hers.

"Very well, my dear. It would seem I am in your hands."

"I'm sure we'll find something in here," Christine said, leading a reluctant Erik, gallantly carrying the picnic basket, towards the Populaire's wardrobe department. Normally the domain of the formidable Madame Michon, today it was deserted, half-finished tutus hanging on a rail next to the work tables and a roll of beautiful red figured velvet lying to one side just waiting to be transformed into a sumptuous gown. The brilliant afternoon sun streamed through the large windows, essential for the seamstresses to work by, and she caught Erik blinking in the glare; immediately she felt guilty, for after so long living in darkness she should have guessed that his eyes would not be as used to sunlight as her own. Quickly she weaved her way through the room with him following obediently behind, his hand still clasped tightly in hers, until they reached the costume store, a number of smaller spaces, little more than glorified cupboards, that held garb from many of the Opera's past productions.

As she turned up the gas jet in the bracket that hung just inside the door, Erik looked unconvinced and glancing around Christine could see why: it was unlikely that he would feel comfortable outside in a suit of armour or medieval jerkin. He said nothing, however, and after a few minutes of looking through the costumes she caught him examining a fur-lined Tudor robe with interest and had to stifle a smile. His love of fine clothing was obvious and she sometimes wondered whether, had his circumstances been different, he might have taken to the stage; she could just see him as the Primo Uomo in one of Verdi's grand operas, perhaps Macbeth or Nabucco. He certainly had the bearing, and that his voice would have dazzled Paris went without saying. Feeling a pang of regret for what might have been, Christine mentally shook herself and continued her search.

"Ah!" she exclaimed a few minutes later, triumphantly brandishing her spoils. "Now this is just what we need!"

Erik's eyebrow flicked upwards and he tried to back away as she eagerly held the cream linen jacket up against him to check the size. It had been worn by one of the tenors in the chorus for La Traviata, the one who was particularly tall and thin; while he might not be quite as tall and thin as Erik, Christine reasoned that the jacket should at least fit without looking too much as though it had been made for someone else. "And is this what fashionable gentlemen wear when taking their ladies on picnics?" the Phantom asked lightly, eyeing the light-coloured fabric with suspicion. "Is it not a little... conspicuous?"

"It will be much cooler than the jacket you're wearing," Christine told him. "You'll be glad of it in the sun. That is, I presume we are going outside?" Belatedly it struck her that his 'idea' might not involve leaving the Opera at all. Visions of him laying the blanket out on the stage before a painted backdrop of a sylvan glade swam across her mind's eye.

"Of course; I promised you something better than my cellars, did I not?" He still did not appear enamoured of the jacket but he did at least slip off his own and try it on; it was a little short in the sleeves and broad in the shoulders but otherwise, Christine was glad to see, it fit him rather well. She straightened the collar and smoothed out the lapels, idly wishing that she could persuade him to try the rest of the suit; still, it was a victory to have come this far and she did not want to frighten him off. "Well?" he asked, a little shyly, unable to meet her gaze. "How does it look?"

"Very elegant," she said, glancing at the racks of costumes that surrounded them. "It just needs... aha!" Spying a panama hat on a shelf she snatched it up, dropping it onto his head and tilting it to the exact same angle he usually wore his fedora. "There. Perfect."

"You... you're sure?"

Smiling, Christine took him by the hand once more and led him back into the workroom, where there was a full-length mirror. She noticed sadly that he shied away from the reflection of his own face, but it was not long before he was turning this way and that, tugging at the sleeves of the jacket and adjusting the hat until he was happy. "What do you think?" she asked him, and he frowned.

"It's very... different," he admitted. "It will take a little getting used to."

"Then it's a day for new experiences, isn't it?" She picked up the picnic basket, abandoned on one of the work tables, and regarded him expectantly. "Now, are you going to tell me where you're taking me?"

"The roof! Of course, why didn't I think of that?"

Erik smiled slightly as he shifted the basket to his left hand, offering the right to help her out onto the leads. "I'm sure it would have occurred to you sooner or later. Be careful just here; it is very easy to slip."

"Thank you." Taking a tighter grip on her skirts and grasping his hand like a lifeline Christine tentatively took a step onto the rooftop; with barely an effort she found herself lifted upwards so that she was standing beside him, her vision filled with sloping green copper for what seemed like miles. She glanced at Erik and was momentarily surprised to see him shielding his eyes against the sunlight that bounced from the metal. Of course, its glare was so much stronger out here than it had been filtering through the windows of the costume store, and the visible side of his face was screwed up in evident discomfort in the shadow cast by the brim of his hat. "Are you all right?" she asked, gently touching his arm.

"Yes, I... I'd forgotten how bright it was." He laughed slightly. "It's so long since I was last outside in daylight."

"If it's too painful for you we can go back inside. I don't want you to hurt yourself on my account."

"No, no, I promised you a picnic and a picnic we shall have. I will adjust." Erik hefted the basket and gestured towards a narrow flight of stairs that led from the door through which they had emerged. "Shall we?"

"Do you come up here often?" she enquired, following him up the steps. At this height the dizzying drop into the Place de l'Opera below was terrifyingly obvious and even though they were well away from the edge she concentrated on where she was putting her feet. Eventually they reached the summit and Paris was laid out before them, the huge gilded figures of Music and Poetry that crowned the south facade gleaming brightly in the sunlight as they stood in the shadow of the great statue of Apollo.

"Sometimes, when I need air. It can occasionally get a little claustrophobic in the cellars," he admitted, pausing to admire the view before setting down the basket and removing the blanket, shaking it out as Christine had done earlier and laying it upon the stone with a flourish.

She knelt to unpack the rather plain fare and wished they had thought to bring some cushions for the ground was rather unforgiving. To distract herself she asked, "Have you never been here during the day? Not even when the Opera is closed and you are free to roam?"

"Someone might see me; there are too many people within this building whose eyes are eager to seek out that which should remain hidden," he countered, hovering on the edge of the blanket, evidently unsure what to do next. Christine smiled and moved over to make room for him, settling herself as comfortably as possible; hesitantly he dropped to his knees beside her and winced as they made contact with the stone. "I should have brought another rug," he muttered ruefully as he sat down, before adding in continuation of his previous train of thought, "Besides, I am a creature of the night. I have... never had the inclination before."

"Are you not worried about being seen now? I would not like you to put yourself in danger for the sake of my silly whims, Erik," Christine told him seriously. "We can go back inside if - "

He smiled again, that slow, upward twist to the one side of his mouth she could see that she realised she was coming to like more and more. "It is Sunday, the curious are at home and up here the only spies are the birds," he said. "I am willing to risk detection, just this once... for you and you alone."

She met his gaze and the intensity of those mismatched eyes suddenly caused her mouth to go dry and her heart to thump so loudly she thought he must be able to hear it. In the sunlight she would finally see the flecks of gold in the dark, dark pool that was his left eye, could count every one of his lashes, see the way the distortion of his right cheek dragged down the lid on that side through the hole in his mask. It was a strange sensation, and for a long moment it was almost as though she was a fly caught in a web, unable to move or escape from those strange, hypnotic lights. When eventually Erik glanced away, a rather startled expression on his face as though something equally unsettling had happened to him, she was ashamed to find it was a relief; although she was aware of his affection for her he had never looked at her in quite that way before and it was doing strange things to her insides. Unsure of what she could say in response she lowered her eyes to the bottle of wine at the bottom of the picnic basket, grabbing for it almost in desperation. "Um... could you open this?" she asked, scrabbling for the corkscrew and annoyed at how high-pitched her voice sounded.

Erik appeared equally grateful for something mundane upon which to concentrate, and took the bottle readily, removing the cork with practised ease. As he dextrously poured the wine into the tumblers she had brought Christine felt a flush of embarrassment that she had no proper wine glasses but he made no comment, raising his drink in a solemn salute. She did the same with a self-conscious smile and a murmured "Santé."

They sat in not-quite-companionable silence for a while, Erik leaning against the stone plinth that supported the looming statue above them and taking advantage of the shade it offered while Christine slowly drank her wine, fanning herself with her free hand and secretly wishing for a parasol. Neither was inclined to speak, their moment of startling connection apparently killing all desire for further conversation; Erik kept his face deliberately averted as though he were afraid of looking directly at her, something Christine found she disliked for it presented her with nothing more than his mask and a small portion of his chin. The porcelain was cold and lifeless without the other side of his face to animate it.

As the sun moved across the sky Christine found herself shrinking further and further into the diminishing patch of shelter, which meant she had no choice but to move closer to Erik, whose posture swiftly changed from feigned nonchalance to complete discomfort; though he tried not to show it Christine could tell from the way his fingers clenched the stem of his empty wine glass that he was very far from relaxed in such close proximity to her. Once or twice she thought she heard him catch his breath as though from shock or pain, but when she glanced up his expression was as calm and enigmatic as ever. In a moment of impulse she thought it might be nice to snuggle into his shoulder and rest her head there but she knew such an action would only startle and confuse him even more.

"It's so quiet up here," she remarked eventually, desperate to break the heavy silence between them. "It almost seems as though there could be no one in the world but you and I."

He did finally look at her then, and there was a wistful, hopeful light in his eyes that she didn't think she'd ever seen before. His lips parted and he seemed about to say something important but before he could speak his gaze dropped to her hands and his face crumpled in consternation. "Christine, your skin -!" he exclaimed, making her jump; he grabbed hold of her wrist in order to more closely examine whatever it was that had disturbed him, and it was only then that she realised the itching and slight discomfort she had been feeling was due to a sunburn across the back of her hand. "Why did you not say something?"

"It's all right, Erik, I've just been exposed to the sun a little too long, that's all," she assured him.

"One should never be blasé about burns," he insisted. "This could have become very nasty."

"I'll put a cold compress on it and it will be fine." Christine tried to take back her hand but he was holding on tight. "Erik, really, it will be perfectly well in a day or two."

It seemed that he was not going to let the subject drop, and she wasn't sure whether to feel amused or irritated. She settled for the former, reminding herself that he was only concerned because he cared. "I should have thought of this before I foolishly brought you up here," he snapped. "No lady should be exposed to the glare of the sun in such a fashion."

"I promise you, I have endured worse. In Sweden we had very hot summers and I would spend all day out of doors. You should have seen me as a little girl, running around barefoot, brown as a nut," she told him with a smile.

Erik blinked slowly, as though he had forgotten that she had ever had a life outside Paris and the Opera. His thumb very lightly brushed across her knuckles, and she suppressed a shiver. "I... I have some ointment downstairs that will ease the sting," he murmured. "I learnt very quickly in the desert not to expose delicate skin to sunlight for too long."

He got to his feet and Christine rose with him, as he finally released her hand and busied himself with packing away the picnic things. A sudden gust of wind whipped around the base of Apollo and she hugged herself, wishing for that shawl once more; a moment later she felt Erik's borrowed jacket settle around her shoulders. She looked up to see him smile tightly, replacing the panama he had discarded earlier; it truly was wonderful to be able to see him properly at last, away from the candles and gas lamps and the constantly shifting shadows of the cellars. His hair was slightly lighter than hers, receding a little and shot through with reddish lights where the sun caught it, and there was the faint white line of a scar on his chin, but he was pale, too pale; she wondered when he had last truly seen daylight, and whether she would ever get to look at him as a normal man again.

"You must tell me of your time in Persia," she said as they descended once more, the darkness closing in around them like a heavy blanket.

Erik grunted. "Gladly, if you wish for nightmares." He glanced at her over his shoulder, and his eyes were hard in the lamplight as he shook his head. "There are some things that it is better not to know."

Christine would have pressed further, curious about that part of his life, but his tone made it clear that she should leave well alone and so she did. Her hand was throbbing painfully by the time they reached the house by the lake, and she was quite relieved when Erik did indeed produce a jar of some eastern-scented cream which he applied to her skin so delicately and carefully that she hardly felt his touch. To her amazement as if by some enchantment the pain faded almost instantly and she looked up at him with eyes narrowed in mock accusation.

"I think you have been lying to me all this time," she said, and mentally winced as he flinched, her words coming rather too close to the truth of their relationship. Hurrying to take back her tactlessness she added quickly, waving her injured hand, "I think that you must truly be a magician; you have made my burn disappear!"

Erik fractionally relaxed. He wrapped the jar in a handkerchief and stowed in carefully in the picnic basket. "Not magic, just the result of some intense study and a little local knowledge. It served me well many a time. Apply it twice a day until the burn has healed," he instructed. "And make sure that you stay out of the sun in the meantime."

"I will. You are a very clever man, Erik."

He flushed slightly. "It is nothing. When dealt a less-than-lucky hand by life it is necessary to live by one's wits." Turning away he made a show of folding the cream jacket and laying it over the back of the sofa, the hat perched on top. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour and he consulted his watch, nodding when it evidently agreed. Tucking the timepiece away in his waistcoat pocket he announced, "Much as I enjoy your company, my dear, it is getting a little late and I must return these clothes to the costume store before they are missed. Would you like me to escort you above stairs?"

Christine smiled. "Yes, I would like that very much."

Vanishing from the room for a few moments he returned wearing his fedora and cloak, and carrying a beautiful Indian shawl which could only have come from one of the armoires in the room he had created for her. She thanked him as he draped it around her shoulders and, picking up the picnic basket once more, he offered her his arm. Taking it, Christine impulsively stood on tiptoe, grateful for those years of ballet training, and lightly kissed his uncovered cheek; he stared at her in astonishment, his mouth hanging slightly open, and she thought for a moment that he might faint from the shock.

"Thank you, Erik," she said brightly. "Thank you for a delightful afternoon."

"You don't mean that," he told her, trying to juggle the basket and touch the spot on his face she had touched with her lips. "It was... it was awkward to say the least."

"Perhaps," Christine admitted, "But there is no one else with whom I would have wanted to share that picnic, and no one else who could possibly have picked such an incredible venue."

"I..." Erik was rarely lost for words, but just then he appeared to have no idea what to say. His visible cheek was extremely pink when he found his voice once more and said somewhat hoarsely, "Thank you, my dear Christine. It was a both a pleasure and an honour."

As he escorted her to the boat, the regal, commanding Phantom once more, Christine watched him and the little smile that kept playing around his mouth as he punted them effortlessly across the rippling black water of the lake and was glad that, for a few hours at least, she had been able to bring a little light into his darkness.