Her fingers were cold and moist, and they sought back behind her, brushing over the top of his head as her left hand had done… and then slid down over his temples, and touched something smooth and unexpected where his forehead would be—lifeless, cool, and yielding. Not flesh, not hair—

He shifted away from her touch, grabbing her hands and pulling them down behind her, between them, trapping them at the base of her spine, where the folds of his cloak billowed about. "Your boldness surprises me, Christine."

"Why can I not see you?"

"When it is time." Something hot and warm, faintly moist, touched her neck and sent shivers down to the base of her belly; she tried to turn toward him, but his hands gripped her wrists too tightly. "When it is time," he repeated, his mouth against her delicate shoulder. "Now… you sing for me tonight. And if you please me, you shall be rewarded with my devotion."

And then he was gone.

The lights fluttered back to life, and Christine was alone in her room. The only sign of what had occurred was the streak of fingerprints on the mirror… and a glistening trail of moisture along her neck.

The sea of faces, the heat from the hooded gas lamps at the edge of the stage, the strange constriction of the heavy costume… the blur of light and sound and the deep breaths that she needed to take… the mosaic of sensations swam in Christine's mind as she sang. She felt the music tear from her body as if released by some pent-up energy. She heard the reverberation as the clear, high notes swelled and filled the stage alcove. And then she drew in her last breath and expelled the last note, and the sea of rapt faces turned into a mass of thunderous applause, cheers, shouts.

L'Ange de Musique would be pleased.

And over the shouts and whistles, she heard it, deep in her heart… "Brava… bravissima …"

And in the wings of the stage, she saw Madame Giry, nodding and beaming with clear, studying eyes.