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See end for Notes.

Christine was about to join her husband in the kitchen to help prepare dinner when she caught sight of a newspaper carelessly thrown on the small table beside the door, and she stopped to skim through it.

For five days, she had known nothing of what had happened in the city: four days had been spent in numb agony, the fifth – in a flurry of excitement upon their immediate wedding. It had been only yesterday that she had learnt something from the events of the outside world, when Erik couldn't stand any longer not having any food to offer her and had reluctantly left her (and the bed, she noted with a blushing smile) in order to obtain something to eat, and on his way back he had bought the latest edition of Le Petit Journal as well. The city had been still in turmoil, as she had learnt from the newspaper, of what had happened six days ago, and the authorities had been still looking for the Phantom who had disappeared after the fire. Another article had dwelt on the future fate of the burnt down theater while it also speculated on the mysterious reason behind the Phantom's sudden disappearance. It was nothing but rumour, of course – but the fact that it was still able to sell another day's worth of a newspaper when several days had passed since the actual event, suggested that her hopes were in vain – the gossips had not dwindled the slightest with the passing of time.

Le Temps, though, was probably more dignified then trying to sell its daily issues with repeated mentions of the Phantom.

She unfolded today's edition.

Only after a moment, though, the newspaper fell from her fingers and dropped to the floor with a loud rustle.

"My God..."

Only a breath of a time passed and her husband was already in the doorway.

"What happened?" Came his tight question.

"The opera house... Renovation work will start next week," she answered in a daze, trying to tear her eyes off the scandalous front page. She couldn't.

"I know." Erik's tone was careful, and it was also coming from a closer distance now – ha had come closer to her.

"Somebody donated an unearthly amount of money for the renovation," she mumbled, startled to hear her voice wavering. Then again, it was not much of a surprise after her stomach had been fluttering for moments now.

"It would seem so," he replied calmly, and when she looked up her gaze met his – apparently he had been watching her closely ever since he came into the room.

She had to swallow before her voice was finally strong enough to speak again. "They believe it was the Phantom."

"They believe a lot of things," he allowed, but his eyes left hers and began to examine closely the intricate pattern of the carpet.

Air trembled in her throat as she asked, "Was that you?"

His eyes returned to hers for a moment but then he averted them again, and a long silence passed until he replied her. "Yes."

Silence trembled in her ears, and her eyes wandered to the fallen newspaper at her feet.

Two million franks for the restoration of the opera house.

Blood pounded in her ears.

Such a bounteous grant and he didn't even tell her about it. It was certainly not something to be ashamed of and yet he seemed rather upset of having been figured out. Maybe he wanted to spare it for a later occasion – but when that later was supposed to be? If it was in the morning paper he must have made the donation last evening yet he had kept all silent about the matter. What better occasion to tell her about it then last night, before it was already printed in the paper?

He now seemed anything but satisfied with the fact that he had to confess to having been the one who had offered such a benevolent sum... Could it have been that he hadn't meant to tell her at all?

Her heart climbed to her throat.

Why not, when the truth would only work in your favour?

When she at last found her voice to speak, she asked him instead, "How did you have that much?"

"I took good care of the opera ghost's salary," he answered, shifting on his feet.

"And now you gave it all back."

"Not all of it," he corrected her softly, glancing up into her eyes before his gaze wandered to the newspaper on the ground. After a moment of silence, he continued. "Your talent is a rare gift," he told her, and her heart swelled at hearing the fondness in his voice. "It would be a shame to waste it solely on me and... you need a place to exercise it."

The room swam before her eyes and she reached back to lean against the sofa. Two million franks. She had never seen, much less had, such a huge amount of money, and according to Le Temps, the whole lot was given to the managers in cash. Even supported, her knees trembled.

Two million franks.

He had already spent an insanely high sum on their marriage... on her.

"You shouldn't have..." She began, but then the rest of the sentence got caught in her throat and her thoughts seemed to have vanished from her mind.

"Considering that all the damage happened because of me..." He made a vague gesture with his hand.

"But... the rumours about the Phantom might start again because of it."

"They would have never stopped completely, I'm afraid," he remarked dryly.

"You didn't tell me." It was rather a statement than an accusation but still he winced at her words.

"No."

"Why not? You told me about... everything else," she finished hastily, not wanting to stir any bad memories of his past.

"Yes. And beside all of those, it would have seemed as boasting, and it was not at all my intention."

"What was, then?" She asked him quietly.

His lips opened but then closed without him saying anything. He shifted on his feet and let out a deep sigh, his eyes venturing back to her face.

"You deserve a better man but you seem rather adamant to have me." His throat moved with a swallow. "So I have to be a better man for you. And I cannot if I'm trying to call your attention to it."

Oh.

Air disappeared from her lungs as warmth flooded her chest; heat gathered in her cheeks until it stung her eyes –

For you.

He wanted to be a better man for her.

Her throat tightened and the next inhale trembled in her stomach.

"I already love the man you are now," she breathed, walking up to him and resting her hands on his chest – it was rising and falling beneath her palms with his ragged breaths.

His own hand lifted to her face in turn, hovering over her cheek for a moment before he dared to cup it. "Because you are too generous in your judgement," he replied, his warm breath fanning her cheeks and tingling on her lips. His thumb brushed her skin in a reverent caress and when his eyes returned to hers after having wandered to her lips, they were filled with a bright glow whose meaning started a pleasant thrill in her stomach.

"Do you think dinner could wait a little?" She asked him, her chest trembling with the bold suggestion.

Although he uttered no words, she still got her answer when his arms wrapped around her waist only a moment sooner than his lips found hers.

Dinner was postponed considerably then, as was the search for their future home that they had planned to start after dinner.

It was put off for the next afternoon.

A few facts for all those who are interested in the everyday life of 19th century France:

Le Petit Journal was a highly popular daily Parisian newspaper. It was not as serious as Le Temps but unlike Le Temps, it was distributed in the evenings. Erik simply bought it because it was the most recent of all the available newspapers. In comparison, Le Temps was one of Paris's most important daily newspapers. It was the serious paper of record.

And if anyone is interested in the financial conditions of the era: Alain Plessis says in his work, The Rise and Fall of the Second Empire, 1852-1871, that "...perhaps the lower limit of the bourgeois categories could be drawn at the families with an annual income of 5 000 franks in Paris and 4 000 franks in the provinces." Now, Erik had four times that money every month. The total cost of building the opera house was cc. 36 million franks – for 14 years of work on a highly problematic site in highly problematic conditions: the site needed to be dried up, then there was the Franco-Prussian war with all its destruction, and subsequently, a change in political conditions, etc. The average annual profit of an entrepreneur was 31 900 franks, and the average wage of a worker made 565 franks per year. In Lille, for example, a factory worker earned 2.50 franks a day. In 1868, a cabinet maker in Paris paid an annual rent of 110 franks. The popular newspaper, Le Petit Journal, was sold for 5 centimes (1 franc=100 centimes), while a typical daily newspaper cost 15 centimes.