Author's Note: This was buried in some old drafts and I thought I'd see if anyone liked it, then I'd continue it. The following chapter has also been written, but I'll gage interest first before I add a new story to my never-ending list. It also works okay as a one-piece :)

It was a small thing, really, very plain. No dash of white or red could be found on him- if it was a him. Christine decided that it was.

She stood at the edge of the underground lake, the glass bowl growing leaden in her arms. She adjusted the cotton fabric over it. Beyond her, the inky waters dissolved into the air, into that immense darkness.

The steady sound of rowing echoed over the water, followed by the burnt glow of a lantern. A dark figure appeared inside the gently rocking boat.

The side grated against the stone bank. Erik stepped out of the vessel and assisted Christine inside with a hand white and rigid as bone. She held tight to her gift.

"What is that, my dear?" he asked as he sat down across from her and took up the oars.

She smiled, adjusting the floral cotton over the bowl. "You'll see when we arrive."

He pushed off into the lake. They rocked for a moment before the boat steadied.

"Did you have a nice day?" she asked.

"I worked," he replied proudly.

"Not too hard, I trust?"

"Not too hard, no..."

He fell silent for a moment. Christine waited patiently for him to continue.

"How was your day?" he asked.

"Wonderful. I had a lovely time."

"Time?" he questioned skeptically.

She brightened. "I went to the fair."

One of the oars slipped from Erik's hands and splashed into the water. He cursed under his breath.

"Old joints," he muttered, straining for the floating oar. "Forgive me. Continue."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, quite."

"Well..." she replied while subtly wiping a few droplets of lake water from her cheek, "I thought it would be good for me to have a moment to myself, what with this new production and all... I would have liked to take you with me, but I knew that would be impossible, and you don't seem to like that sort of thing. You like the quiet."

He averted his eyes. She continued.

"To be honest, I was a too afraid of being pick-pocketed to enjoy myself at first, but eventually I found my way into a few tents. There was a magician in one, but I fear you've ruined me for any usual magic, so I hardly enjoyed myself there. He had a rather adorable little rabbit, though, that disappeared into a hidden compartment in the table, like you've shown me.

"But the next place was this woman covered in butterflies. It was very odd. To be honest, I didn't know what it was meant to be. She simply wore them on her dress and arms. I almost thought they were decoration when I entered until I saw one flutter away. I sat down with this little family for a while. They had bought their son one of those wooden swords to play with," she smiled to herself. "They deeply regretted their purchase. He kept tapping his sister's back to upset her, and eventually they all left this poor butterfly woman's tent with two wailing children.

"After that, though, I had my palm read, which is more fun with others, of course, but still. The woman told me I would have a long life, but full of trials, which seemed a bit odd to say. Then she told me about my past, all about my father, and the opera house, all about me, very simply, but plainly. It was rather remarkable."

"They are very gifted," he whispered, "with deceit."

"Deceit?"

He waved his hand. "Nothing. Is there anything more you did?"

"Not exactly. I had a bit of sweets, then started to leave when a gentleman grabbed me- he wanted to win a prize for me. I think he'd had a bit of brandy, and his accent was faintly English. There were a lot of other men with him, all swaying a bit. That must have been why he was so bold. It frightened me a little, but we were with lots of people, so I didn't fear too much. Being from the opera and all, though, one can never be too careful with gentlemen."

"I expect he failed?"

She smiled. "A few times, but he was very determined, you see. It was one of those cup games, with the ball inside? And he did win, after maybe nine attempts. I tried to get away after the first, but they were so adamant and I didn't want to upset him. But he gave me this, then, well, tried to make off with me, I suppose- but I managed to slip away. It helps to be short sometimes."

"Do not go out alone again," he said softly, but with warning. "Surrounded by others or not, any young woman should be accompanied, especially someone of your... status."

"I know that," she sighed in irritation. "You don't have to tell me such things- I've been dealing with it since I set foot in Paris. There was simply no one else for me to bring."

"Then do not go."

"But I've had so little fun of late!" she offered. "I needed an escape from these grueling rehearsals for an afternoon."

"There are better ways... But what was your prize?"

"I'll show you in a moment. I'm making a present of it to you."

"Oh," he breathed.

"I hope it will make my absences less miserable... For a time, that is."

The boat eased up onto the shore, and Erik assisted her out onto the slick stone. She waited at the door for him while he tied up the boat, and then they went into the house together. She flicked on the electric lights with a little smile.

Erik took her cloak and hung it next to his near the front door, on little gold pegs. As he removed his gloves, she went to set the bowl on the dining table, adjusting it just so. Erik reached into his waistcoat for his pocket watch.

"Was I late?" he inquired, staring at it in distaste.

"Not at all. I must have been early."

"But you waited?" he insisted as he snapped the watch shut.

"Not for long," she replied earnestly.

"You waited, though. You shouldn't need to wait."

"It takes you time. If it makes you happy, I'll try to be a little bit late next time to make up for it... Were you busy?"

He gestured to the piano with his spindly fingers outstretched.

"It keeps me occupied," he stated.

"Of course. A very good occupation, too."

A smile ghosted over his frail lips. "Very good, yes..."

He wandered over to the dining room table and took the edge of the cotton fabric covering the bowl between his fingers. Christine smiled and patted the top.

"Is it a vase?" he asked.

"No," she replied, stifling a laugh. "It would be a rather round vase, don't you think? Go on, see."

He pulled off the fabric to reveal a glass bowl with blue pebbles at the bottom and a little plant in the center. Christine's mouth opened in shock.

"Where did he go?" she said.

"Who?" Erik inquired.

"The goldfish... That was my gift to you. I-I made certain he was inside, I did, oh, you don't think he managed to get into the lake? But how?"

"No... I don't know," he said with a wry smile.

She caught it, and smiled back. "Oh, I see. I ought to be able to tell by now... Where are you hiding your gift?"

"Place the fabric over the bowl," he advised, setting her hand on it.

She did so with a little flourish.

"There," she said. "Now?"

He pulled off the fabric, and there was the tiny goldfish, swimming around in perfect contentment.

"You really do like to tease," she said playfully. "I'll never know how you do such things... Well? Do you like it?"

His amusement faded swiftly. He turned to take a good look at the little creature, suddenly realizing its value. She had given him a gift. His hollow features were devoid of expression, unable to react to this knew understanding.

Christine's heart thudded nervously.

"Do you not like it?" she asked. "If so, I can-"

"I like it," he replied in a quiet voice, quite enthralled by the little creature.

"Oh, good," she said in relief. "I thought it might help while I'm away, too. I can't bear the thought of you spending so many days without company. Once this opera is over, I hope to have a much smaller role in the next, then I can visit far more often."

"Smaller role?" he inquired in a low voice. "You think they will give you a smaller role?"

"Well," she replied, nervously entwining her hands about her wrists, "Carlotta is more well-known, and I feel like Violetta would fit her better than me."

"You will do splendidly as Violetta."

"You act as if you have decided for me. I have no authority on the matter, and the fact is, I cannot bear having all that attention. I would much rather have smaller roles."

"You cannot return to the chorus, my dear," he crooned. "Not now."

"Not the chorus. You're right, they might not place me back there now, but just some smaller roles-"

"For a gifted soprano, that is unheard of," he said with a hint of anger.

She fell silent, then looked up at him with a bit of curiosity.

"Do you want me to be famous?" she inquired.

He shrugged, tapping his fingertips over the surface of the dining table. His eyes swept over the little goldfish, then back to Christine.

"Do you?" she asked again.

"It is not what I want," he replied with a simple flourish of his hand, "but what you want. You have already astonished Paris, and if you wish to stop there... I suppose you may."

"I like a more quiet living, like you."

A hint of fire sparked in his eyes.

"I do not like a quiet living," he retorted sharply. "It is a necessity is all."

"Of course... yes, of course, forgive me. I suppose it is not so quiet here when you play, either."

"No, it is not..."

He gestured for her to sit down and went to prepare dinner. She remained put for a moment, amusing herself with a bit of lint on her sleeve, before wandering over to the harp in the corner. It was almost as beautiful in appearance as the music Erik could pull from its silver strings. The wood was nearly black, which was in sharp contrast to its gold leaves and pale etchings.

She sat down at it, but cast a glance back to be sure Erik was not returning any time soon. Oil began to pop, so she was certain her curiosity would go unnoticed.

It seemed like a piano, the harp. He had only played it for her a few times, mostly during her captivity, as she had become anxious often and the music soothed her. His hands moved with such ease over the strings, quite like water, so that she could hardly observe exactly how the music was made. He also liked to impress her, which often meant playing fast enough that his fingers were a blur, yet the expression in his hollowed features was never strained. It astounded her.

The harp appeared quite simple, though. She was able to locate and recognize a few chords with her right hand. The left, however, refused to find anything at the same time, and so she decided to simply play with her right. In her twenty minutes, she managed to find a few C major melodies, which, of course, was very simple once she discovered which strings were which. The issue was, however, that she did not know how to make notes sharp or flat. She thought it must have something to do with the pedals, but she didn't want to harm the instrument by accident, so she kept to the normal strings.

She was rather deeply involved with finding another melody when she felt the breath of a hand upon her shoulder, and she leapt up out of her seat.

"Oh!" she cried. "Erik, I-"

"Would you like to play a real piece?" he offered, his hand unfurling towards her.

She blinked. "A real piece?"

"Yes... if you don't mind some assistance."

"Not at all."

She sat back down, and he placed himself behind her, his legs to the side to avoid any impropriety. Even so, Christine found that she had become a bit nervous by their closeness. It gathered in the pit of her stomach in a rather odd sort of bubbly warmth.

"Do you mind if I place my hands on yours?" he asked. "It will be easier."

"Not at all," she breathed.

The same bubbly warmth formed in his stomach, too, though he did not comprehend it as anything other than nerves. He reached out his arms around her, collecting her hands in his. It was almost too much for to bear, surrounding her like this, making music like this.

He guided her fingers to the proper chords, very slowly, but she did not resist his correction. As her hands became more confident beneath his, he continued the line. She remembered very easily, but only with his guidance for placement. It was a wretched instrument to learn, however beautiful the music was. He had only needed a year to learn it, and another for mastery.

"Lovely," he said softly as he released her hands, and his foot from the pedal.

She gave a shrill little laugh, and nearly clapped her hand over her mouth at it. Why was she acting so odd? And there was a giddiness in her throat. Yes, a giddiness***. It could not be described any other way.

He glanced back over towards the kitchen with an air of melancholy.

"Our food is cold now," he said. "Excuse me-"

"No, wait," she insisted, grabbing his wrist.

He turned back sharply with surprise. "Is something wrong?"

"Could I spend the night here?"

He blinked rather stupidly for a moment, before nodding. "If that is what you wish."

"I don't want to go."

His neck jerked sharply in what must have been another nod. Christine watched him disappear into the kitchen before she sat back down at the table and threw her head into her hands.

Why had she said that? Erik was so impressionable that he could assume she meant she never wanted to leave, when she certainly did, just not yet.

Lately, she had been thinking often of her future. It was obvious to her, from the ring on her finger to Erik's murmurings, that she would eventually not be able to leave. Not leaving Erik, however, did not seem so terrible, but leaving the earth for this little hole in the ground, that was the terrifying end.

Perhaps she could simply accept his unspoken proposal and ask to look at houses aboveground, then be quite secure, but this was a risk, too. Here was where he felt safe. Moreover, if he knew how she felt, that she was only truly herself with him, that when she left she missed him as much as he missed her, he might become even more desperate to keep her at his side.

It was such a delicate balance. She wanted to be free, and yet wanted to be with Erik, who she knew wanted to marry her. Marriage, in and of itself, would take all chance of freedom.

He brought in their meal. She watched him, his movements, how his hands glided through the air.

Would she be content as his friend for eternity? Moreover, would he? He was alone, and he had the chance to change that at his fingertips. She couldn't even imagine his desperation.

He loved her. He loved her more than anything. He would commit murder for her without a second thought. To be that loved, that treasured... she hadn't felt that way since her father died. She had been his world.

Now she was Erik's.

...

"You seem restless," he observed that night as they sat by the fire.

She had dropped two stitches in the past five minutes. He was quick to notice such telltale signs.

"I'm fine," she replied with a little shrug.

"Do you want some tea?"

"I'm really just fine."

"A bit of music?"

She folded her lips, but sighed with a little smile. "Well, I couldn't possibly say no to that... Could I make a request, though?"

"The harp?"

Her smile crept up slightly. "You know my mind well."

"Do you intend to learn it?" he offered with a tilt of his skull.

"I doubt you have the patience to teach me, especially when I have no proclivity for instruments."

"Your voice is an instrument," he replied firmly, pointing just below her chin. Her chest rose and fell. "You can play it with great finesse. And your father, as I know well, played the fiddle better than anyone in Europe."

She colored, whether at his closeness or his flattery, she knew not.

"Well, Scandinavia, I would say," she offered. "I like to romanticize."

"Still, you must have some of that gift." He gestured to the harp. "Come, I can show you where to start."

"Isn't it rather late? Perhaps tomorrow?"

He froze, then turned to face her fully, expressionless. "Tomorrow?"

"I-I have a bit of time before rehearsals."

"Oh. Yes," he replied, barely hiding his evident disappointment as his eyes trailed along the Persian rug. "I suppose you do..."

"I'll visit you after the performance on Friday," she added hastily. "I promise. And I never break my promises, do I?"

"No," he admitted without opening his mouth.

"And you have your new little friend with you! I think we ought to keep him on the table, too, so we remember to feed him when we eat."

He said something inaudible as his gaze drifted lower. She reached for his hands and clasped them in hers, pulling warmth into their cold palms.

"If you were not down here," she told him softly. "I would visit you everyday."

His eyes lifted to meet hers. The touch of her hands against his was too much for him, the image of them sitting at the harp, the sound of her voice when she said, "I don't want to go" and quite suddenly he found himself begging her, on his knees, in a great surge of breath, to kiss her hand.

Nothing but madness had prompted such a vile question from his lips, and he looked down at her satin slippers, wishing he could shove the disgusting request back up his throat.

She stared down at him, her features tightening. He glanced up just enough to see it. Ah, that must have been disgust! His eyes stung with tears. She was repulsed by his lips, those foul, papery things whose only value to her were the music that issued from them. The poor child was unable to even consider his request! Her lips had pulled together into a thin pink line, and her gaze made him want to crawl down into Hell with all the other miserable beasts of the world.

"Of course," she whispered.

His heart skipped a beat. Of course? Of course what? He had forgotten his own question in the emotion of the moment. Of course she would leave forever and never return?

Then her hands dipped down, one on top of the other, like the wings of a butterfly. They were white as cream, with a dash of freckles near the wrist.

He watched them approach his face- no, not his face, his lips, giving them just enough room that he could touch that pale surface bleached by Scandinavian night.

It was blasphemy. It was blasphemy! He had no religion except her, so he hardly knew what the word meant, until now, presented with such a pure thing as this. And yet, with a single bow of his head, he brought his lips to meet that now-blushing surface.

It was soft. Yes, soft and warm, like... like a little bird. He had held a little bird before, all covered in down, until it fluttered away, and that was this. Of course, the bird had not been so wet. Why were her hands wet?

"Oh, Erik, it's all right," she told him, kneeling down with him as he sobbed into her skirts. "It's all right."

He did not deserve another moment of her presence. He managed to send her to bed with a few words through his tears, and off she went in melancholy obedience, disappearing behind the white door with her blue eyes watering.

Perhaps she did not quite realize whom she had permitted her pure white hands.