Author's Note: Sorry this took forever to finish! I do hope you like the second part of the story. Once again, borrowed from Leroux. His Erik shall always be my favorite.

Christine had a restless sleep. After Erik's notice of the inkwell, she was afraid that he would find the letter that was hidden within her prayer book. A letter addressed to Raoul. It was an innocent letter, but a letter that spoke of her reasons for not being at her flat (which she was sure he was going to visit, or had already visited).

Erik had not returned to the room at all during the night. She was certain that as long as she stayed in the room it became her own personal domain within his house. "Erik will never enter your room unless he knocks and Christine bides him to enter," he had told her. And he had never gone against that promise.

When morning had come, she took her bath and dressed for the breakfast that Erik would have prepared for her. Giving one last check at the prayer book beneath the pillow, she left the room and moved down the hall to the little lounge. Taking in the empty surroundings, she saw Erik was nowhere to be found. Normally Erik would leave her a letter if he would have gone out, but she remembered seeing not a one in her room.

She looked back down the hall to his room, the room that he had showed her when she was first brought to the house. Could Erik be in there? Turning down the hall, she went to the door of his room and knocked twice on the door.

"Erik," she said, waiting for a reply. There was no response. She knocked again. "Erik?" When there was no response, she reached for the handle of the door.

"Erik is awake, Christine," she heard him say, causing her to jump away from the doorknob as it was dangerous. She looked down the hall to see him, dressed in the same suit and mask, calmly leaning up against the wall.

"I'm sorry, Erik," she said, "I became worried when I couldn't find you. It was so silent in the house, and I thought—

"That I had gone out," he said, making his way to her. "Erik has been preparing breakfast, for you. Will you eat?"

She nodded. "I am hungry," she said, making her way to him. He nodded and when she approached him, they walked side by side to the small table he had set up for her, as he did for dinner.

"How was your sleep, Christine? Did your prayers help you?"

She wondered if his words were meant as an insult, but he seemed quite genuine. "My prayers are like a blanket for my thoughts, Erik. I slept well." A lie.

"Does Christine think often? Does she think…does she feel uneasy here?"

"No," Christine said, "not at all, Erik. You do everything to make me so comfortable here that I have no reason to feel uneasy." It was another lie, but she was sure that Erik could hardly tell.

"I am pleased, Christine," he said, pulling out her chair and helping her sit. "Erik hopes that the more you stay, the more you will feel at home."

"Oh?" Christine asked, intrigued. Erik began to place things on the plate he had prepared for her.

"Yes," he said, "Erik believes Christine will be quite at home here, as long as she is happy."

Placing the plate down before her, he moved to take his seat at the table. He watched her, like usual, picking up her food and eating it. She decided to make an innocent conversation with him.

"How was your sleep, Erik?"

"Erik hardly sleeps, but last night, he did sleep a little. I slept like the dead, if you would pardon my morbidity."

Christine could not forget that his bed was a black silk lined coffin. He had told her that one must be accustomed to sleeping in the place where one will soon lie. Of course, it frightened her, but it was only Erik who slept in the coffin and she had no means of visiting his room. That was, until this morning when she almost entered without permission.

"I hope that you will join me in song today Christine. You have neglected your lessons the past two days."

"Of course, Erik," she replied. She took a sip from the glass of milk that was beside her plate.

"They are to begin the opera, Faust. The story is weak at points, but the music. Oh, Christine, the music shall be divine. As long as that woman does not take the role of Marguerite," as he said this, his eyes flashed to Christine, "for that role belongs to you and you only."

"You are very kind to me, Erik, but I am –

"Do you think Erik does not know greatness? Do you think that I chose your voice to remain in the depths of the opera, wasting away on silly little stanzas?" He chuckled. "No, my dear Christine, you were meant for much greater things. Erik once promised that you will have Paris at your feet. And this is true! You will not only have them at your feet, but you will possess each of their very souls." His hands were clenched into fists, which flexed as he spoke. Christine could not take her eyes from them.

"You, you think so highly of me, Erik," she murmured, her thoughts coming back to her first performance. What he spoke of was true. She had to be blind to not see the papers that he had collected that spoke of her performance and the praise that surrounded it.

"I created you, Christine. Like your God, I can create things too!" Erik said triumphantly, gesturing to the heavens. Christine watched him, unable to form a single sentence in response. He looked back to her, stood and then came to her side.

"Erik spoke to your God last night, Christine."

"You… you prayed, Erik?"

"Erik did not pray, he asked…" he was at a loss for words, but his left hand draped over his right and removed a small ring that was around his pinky finger. "He asked the Lord to give him this one happiness." He fell to a knee in an instant, holding the ring out to Christine.

Christine looked at the ring, dumbfounded. She did not know what to say, so she continued to stare into his hopeful eyes.

"Erik knows how tradition is honored when taking a bride. One must ask the father. I assumed, since Christine speaks to her father and the Lord, Erik should speak to the Lord as well. He begged and pleaded, for the Lord to see some goodness in him, and that Christine would see that goodness and accept him."

"But of course," he chuckled, looking down at the plain gold band, "it is certainly not a ring of nobility or a ring meant for a hand as delicate as yours. Nevertheless, Erik hopes that you will… accept this." He raised his eyes to meet hers once more, waiting for an answer.

Christine was torn. "Erik…did you really…pray?"

"Praying is something Erik knows little of but assumes that he did it quite well," he replied, the band still held in his outstretched hand. The moments were dragging on, and his hand was beginning to shake. "Christine…"

What could she do? With his eyes intently upon her, any gesture or sign of dismissal would bring forth a rage that she had only seen once before. She dared not to experience that again.

"Erik," she said slowly, moving her hand to eclipse his thin one, "I…I'm afraid I must think upon it."

The look in his eyes moved her. "But, you have not dismissed me! You are contemplating accepting, yes? Oh, Christine, think upon it, consider your Erik." He stood up, tucking the ring back into the pocket of his waistcoat. "Yes, consider it, and then make your decision! Erik will wait!" He looked over to his right, his eyes widening. "Lessons, Christine! Come, we must practice!"

She was safe for the moment but she knew that eventually she must give him an answer. One that perhaps not even God would save her for.

After lessons, he announced that they were going out. He had been in high spirits after his proposal. However, she felt a twinge of dread. She never gave an answer, and she was quite sure this outing was meant for one.

"Dress warmly, Christine," he said, "we don't want your voice to be affected by the night air."

She nodded and retreated to her room. Once inside and with the door closed, she closed her eyes and whispered a silent prayer.

Please, Lord, give me strength and guidance.

Moving away from the door, she went to the closet for her cloak. Slipping the cloak over her shoulders, she gazed at her reflection in the mirror, the only mirror within the home. She looked down at her prayer book, wondering if a small prayer would be best.

It then came to her, her prayer book not only had her strength, it had her comfort as well. She picked it up and slipped the letter out from behind the last page. Quickly grabbing her pen and inkwell from the basket, she hastily scribbled Raoul's title. A plan was concocting her mind.

It was not long after that she had tucked the letter in her sleeve; she hurried from her room with her hood drawn. Erik stood at the end of the hall, cloaked and his hat drawn low to hide his mask. He unfurled his hand to her. She made sure to grab it with the arm that did not conceal the letter.

They went the way she had come, exiting out of the Rue Scribe near the stables. She watched him as he was calculating their next move. His eyes went to front of the Garnier as a brougham was approaching. With a gentle pull, he urged them to the main court. As the brougham approached, he hailed it down. The driver clambered down and opened the door for the both of them.

"The Bois," Erik said, giving the driver the money, and more. The driver tipped his hat and went to offer his hand to Christine. Erik eyed him as he offered his hand to Christine instead. Christine gave a small glance to the driver to apologize. As soon as they both were inside the carriage it started to move.

"There now," he said, gazing to Christine, "isn't this pleasant?"

"Yes," she said, "it is. Thank you, Erik."

If he offered her a smile she could not tell behind the mask. She looked out over the city, watching the night settle in. She could feel his eyes gazing at her and it seemed that her thoughts were bare to him. Did he know what she wanted to do? Did he know what she was going to say?

As she tried to focus on the faces in the night, she caught sight of one in familiar that she never thought she would see: Raoul.

He stood on the corner of the street, his eyes distant and unfocused. As soon as the brougham pulled up beside him, his eyes glanced briefly to the window. Their eyes locked. He pushed his blonde hair away from his eye s, blinking quickly, almost not believing that she was in front of him.

She wanted to scream, she wanted to say something. And yet, she could do something. She had thought about throwing the letter concealed in her sleeve out the window and to hope some passerby would read the name and deliver it. But now…

She pretended to not see him, acknowledge him. Unfortunately, he made it very clear he noticed her. He started running after the carriage. She started drawing the letter from her sleeve, brushing her fingers over the edge of the envelope.

"Christine!" He called, hoping to elicit a response from her.

Erik stirred next to her, called out for the driver to go faster. The carriage began to speed up, creating distance. Raoul could not keep up, but he kept calling her name.

"Christine!"

Before she could give another glance out at the window, Erik pulled her against the seat. His eyes behind the mask were serious. His eyes then went to her fingers, which were trying to hide the letter.

Caught, she was caught. She could not look away from his eyes, which seemed to hold a strange sense of delight. She slowly pulled the letter out from her sleeve, laying it in her lap.

"Go on Christine," he urged her, his voice soft and humored. "Give the Vicomte your letter, the one that you're trying so desperately to hide from Erik's eyes."

How did he know the letter was for him? She was so careful, she was so sure he had not the slightest idea that a letter was even concealed. Nothing could escape Erik, unfortunately.

When she did not answer him, and the letter continued to lie in her lap, she wondered if he was going to read it. Did he not want to see what was written inside? He removed his hand from her wrist and continued to stare at her, urging her, challenging her to toss the letter out of the window.

She could not win, not throwing it out of the window or throwing it out of the window, he discovered her motive. So, with a shaky hand, she raised the letter to the window and dropped it. It was gone, lost to the streets. She slowly placed her hand in her lap, not bothering to look back into his eyes.

He was displeased with her, for they never did make it to the Bois. He treated her as if she was a child, a pet even… as if he was displeased by her actions and now it was time to punish her. She was quite afraid of what he would do. She could not fathom the thought as they returned to the Garnier and he escorted her from the carriage. His grip was tight around her wrist, but became increasingly tighter the closer they got to his home.

It seemed forever when they finally reached his house and the door closed behind her. He took his hat and removed it very slowly, along with his cloak. He discarded them on the chair casually, as if nothing ever happened. She remained rooted, waiting for him to say something. It was almost as if he had forgotten about her.

He then began to laugh, a slow laugh that got increasingly louder until it almost seemed to echo around them. She wanted to clasp her hands to her ears, to block out the sound, but she continued to stand erect. His eyes went to her. "So, what does God do to a sinner?" He pondered humorously.

She was lost for words. "He forgives them," she answered back, a twinge of fear bleeding through her words.

He seemed even more delighted by her answer. "Ah! That is where I find fault with your God." His laughter died now to a chuckle. "He forgives them, though he warns them that sinning is not something that one must do. Isn't that so?"

"You are right," she replied. "However, one can redeem themselves through prayer and acts of kindness."

His laughter started up again, he strode over to her and grabbed her wrist, flinging her into the middle of the room so that she landed upon her knees.

"This is no chapel," he said, "my house was never one for prayers, but Christine brought her prayers into my home. Surely she has no qualms with more! Come, pray Christine, pray for your Vicomte! Pray for your Erik! Pray…"

Her throat was dry. Was she sorry? No, she was not, but she was going to pray. "Please Erik," she began, shakily bringing her fingers to the hood of her cloak, drawing it down from her hair. "Please, don't hurt him."

"You're not praying!" He hissed at her. "Bring your hands together, Christine… those hands that sinned!"

She brought her hands together, pressing them against another tightly. He strode to the high backed chair that was directly in front of her and fell down in it, his gloved fingers clenching around the arm rests in a rhythm.

"You see, Christine," he said after a few moments of more silence, "Erik may pray to God, but in the end, he will always be a sinner. A demon unfit for heaven. God never listens to Erik, never has and never will." He bent forward in his chair, his face closer to her. She was so sure he was going to remove his mask. "But Christine was an angel, or so Erik believed. She was a pure child."

"Erik—

"SILENCE, CHRISTINE," he bellowed, pounding his hand on the arm of the chair. "And now your Vicomte has your letter, the letter that Christine tried to hide from Erik. Christine won't tell what was in the letter, and Erik won't ask. For he knows everything…" His lips twisted into a smile behind the mask, she was sure, she could see the crinkle in the fabric. "Erik proposed to Christine, Erik prayed to God!" He removed the ring from his pocket, twisting it between his pointer finger and thumb. "Now, Christine, Erik has a new proposal: you will accept the ring, wear it around your finger, that way, Erik will always know you mean to be faithful."

Christine looked at the simple band and then back at Erik. Before she could ask the question, Erik continued:

"If you do not wear the ring or if you lose it, then Erik will know…and, Erik knows everything. We do not want to see what will happen if Erik discovers your ring missing, no!" He chuckled. "Indeed!" He outstretched his hand, holding the ring out to her.

She took the ring and slipped it on her finger with a shaky hand. Looking back up at him, she could see that he was pleased. Still, his eyes held a curious expression.

"Please, don't hurt him," she whispered. "It was just a letter, Erik."

"And Judas betrayed Jesus with a kiss," he whispered coldly. "You are never safe from sin."