"Better now?" Erik asks Christine as he drapes his cape over her shoulders. The heavy cloak grazes the floor, but he is relieved her shivering has stopped. Once they were on the stone stairs leading down from the backstage area to the fifth cellar, it became obvious her dressing gown, although made from heavy silk, was no match for the chill of the stairway. After the shooting, all he could think of was to get her away from the scene – the sight of her former friend…lover lying dead – her clothing did not occur to him.

"Yes. I am fine. I just need to walk slowly so as not to trip," she replies, lifting the cape in one hand, keeping her other hand in his. "I am more concerned about you."

How many times over the past few years has he made this journey without a thought as to whether or not the stairs would be slippery from the moisture coming up from the lake? Every step was etched into his brain – the small chips and larger cracks caused by the settling of the building – where water might settle.

At Erik's suggestion, Charles made certain only the finest equipment was installed to maintain the cistern everyone came to call "the lake" to keep both the water clean and the air fresh. Nevertheless, water is water and Buquet's death was attributed to the slippery floor, which was a reasonable assumption, if not the actual case.

Despite his caution, there is always the possibility of an accident – much like when Buquet saw him. Buquet not only being dead but acknowledged as the Opera Ghost has freed him from being hunted and hated.

The flyman's obsession always puzzled him. Granted, he made his job more difficult, but were the pranks so terrible as to incite the man to want to kill him? Ironically, the vicomte turned out to be the greater enemy to both of them. Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny. Arrogant young noble.

"Be careful on the next few steps," he cautions her, "the edges are somewhat worn."

As with their last foray down this route, he worries about the possibility of her making a misstep – turning an ankle or falling. The sweet girl needs no more grief. Tonight his own ankle is a concern, still aching, reminds him of his insecurity and foolish behavior.

What if he had been seriously injured? Bad enough Christine found him as she had. Raoul's digging his fingers into the wound Christine so meticulously stitched up broke aggravated the wound. Tying his handkerchief over the bandaging, he was able to stanch the new bleeding. Now the entire embarrassing incident will have to be relived.

Even with that, none of his physical pain truly bothers him, his body having suffered worse over the years. All that matters is she be safe. The idea de Chagny would actually kill her was something he never considered. Thus, while relieved he was not the actual purveyor of his death, any sense of remorse comes from how the young man ruined Christine's evening…her success. Making a night of celebration into one of fear, horror and, he suspects, a future of nightmares and sorrowful memories.

Rage flares in his gut recalling how wonderful she was on stage tonight. A perfect performance of a song turning a mediocre opera into a masterpiece for an appreciative audience. The boy child deserved to die for that reason if no other.

How dare he force himself on her again. How dare he threaten her life because she wished to be with him.. Odd as that may seem. The idea is still confusing to him. If he is being totally honest, were their positions reversed, he might have behaved in the same way. Worse possibly – but to murder her? Never. Christine awakened a conscience in him, however, these past two weeks. While taking another person's life was never something he relished or sought to do, in the past, due to circumstances often necessary to save his own life. Until any thought of killing became untenable.

"What does he want now?"

"One of his mistresses was found with a workman. Or so it was relayed to me."

"No more. I can indulge him no longer."

"That is not surprising," the daroga said, closing and locking the door of the spacious apartment behind him. "He will kill you then."

"I frankly do not care. The palace is completed," Erik sighed. "This is no life."

"I think it is time for you to escape."

"Now?"

"When better?" Nadir said. "I have a plan."

A small draft of air on his face reminds him his new mask was lying on the floor somewhere in the dressing room.

Had the entire scene played out in front of so many people with only the vicomte showing any revulsion? Nadir would not care – he knew him better than anyone else. Adele…her first sight of him was without a mask. Christine…ah, Christine…a few brief glances, even without wearing a mask in her presence, he makes it a point to keep his head turned away. Perhaps her silence now is a delayed reaction. "Are you certain you are alright? You are so quiet."

"The stairs do concern me what with these silly slippers. I must admit they have quite taken all my attention. I do not suppose the workmen wear such flimsy material when they walk about down here."

"You are not upset about tonight?"

"Oh, I am very upset. If I tried to express how many ways I am upset, I think I would lose count," she says, squeezing tighter to his hand. "So, for the moment, I am focusing all my attention on following you to the boat. There will be time enough to sort things out."

The truth is the events of the evening continue to revolve through her mind – beginning with the moments before the show and all the silly business about purlicues to her performance then Raoul's abrupt entry into her dressing room. The fight between him and Erik was terrifying.

A small slip brings her attention back to the present situation. If she stumbles, the chances are both of them will fall. Even though she walked this route once before, she has no recollection of that journey. There is nothing familiar here. There are any number of times before Erik revealed himself as human when she felt as if she was in a trance of some sort. That night was one of them. His ability to calm her with his voice was something she found comforting.

Tonight, however, except for the whisky he served to calm her panic, she felt no attempt on his part to soothe her.

"You are not singing to me tonight as you do when I am upset…or as you did that first time."

"I thought it more important for us to be alert. Would you wish me to?" he asks.

"No, I think this is fine…the quiet."

"I am sorry," he says.

"For what?"

"That he died. That you had to see him die…at least in such a violent way."

"He brought that on himself. The man who died tonight was not the boy I knew."

"Oh?"

"The Raoul at Perros was sweet and kind – lonely for friendship."

"I can understand that."

Christine stops walking, forcing Erik to turn around and look back at her. "Loneliness. A cruel family, Those things can create a person who strikes out."

"You are not speaking of the young man."

"I am speaking of both of you," she says, nudging him to start walking again.

"What is the difference then – why did you come with me now – you could have stayed with Nadir and Adele?"

"Besides learning to care for you as a man instead of an angel?"

"Yes."

"I suppose the fact he was willing to kill me and you fought to protect me."

"Not a small thing, I agree."

"You also stopped when I asked you to not hurt him."

"As simple as that?"

"Not simple at all…as you told your friend, you did not strangle him because I asked you not to, even though you believed I was wrong. You made a rough joke, but I understood – you did not want me to blame myself for his death." Squeezing his hand again, she says, "How is your other hand?"

"The stitches opened up during the fight."

"Your ankle?"

"Sore – thus, our slow progress."

"First order of business then when we get home – restitch the wound and get your leg elevated and on ice."

"Home?"

"Home – away from the ugliness of this night," she says. "Tomorrow we will discuss what to do next. I do not think I wish to sing Hannibal again."

"Bad luck?"

"I would say so," she snorts. "The opera itself is also quite terrible."

"Clever girl," Erik responds with a chuckle, dropping her hand. "Here we are."

"Oh, thank goodness," she exclaims, releasing the cape, opening her arms as her feet settle on the flat landing. "I can breathe again."

Erik attaches the lantern to the skiff. Turning back to her, "You are actually happy?"

Walking up to him, she wraps her arms around his waist, lifting her face up. "I am." Standing on tiptoe, she kisses him.

Erik gently presses his hands on her shoulders, breaking away, he touches his fingers to his lips.

"Come," she says, holding his hand as she steps into the boat. "Let us go."

"Home?"

"Yes, home."

"Home it is then."