Unmasqued

month of each other, if you can believe the fate of it.' Madame sighed, and beneath their bodices, Christine felt the press of her breasts against her own.

The strangeness of being breast to breast, bare collarbone to bare collarbone, reminded her all too much of Delia and her plump little hands on Christine's nipples, and she moved away. 'Why does the comte hate Erik so?'

'I do not know all of it, only that the two were often together when they were young men, and that the comte and his friends would allow Erik to come with them when they went out in the evenings, only his face had to be covered, and he must do what they ordered. He lived with ridicule and castigation by them and by the entire household. He slept in the corner of the stables and was brought slop from the kitchens.'

'But why would Erik go with him?' Christine's heart squeezed in her chest as she thought of the terrified, repugnant young boy he must have been, how he must have tried to be normal.

'Because his father ordered it. Because he required Erik to be Philippe's shadow, to follow after him and to clean up any untidiness the young comte might have left in his wake. And Philippe resented Erik's presence, of course, and so he created increasingly foul and disturbing predicaments for his half brother to attend to.'

Christine was shaking her head. 'I do not understand, madame.'

The older woman gave the gust of an exasperated sigh. 'I am not speaking of the messes of a young boy when he tears his trousers, or steals off to ride his father's best horse without permission and causes the beast to strain his leg-although that is how it perhaps started. Philippe has always been a man who likes his pleasure, and fine expensive things at any cost. Even as a young man, before the age of twenty, he took what he wanted and left behind what he did not.'

'And the old comte required Erik to clean it up?'

'Indeed. To dispose of the young girls his brother deflowered, or injured, or worse. To pay for the damages wrought by him and his friends when they had drunk too much wine and cavorted throughout Paris or here in the town of Chagny. To hide the evidence or to provide another scapegoat for the crimes. Even to try and force him to ravage the girls that Philippe liked to play with. He thought it great fun to watch them scream and cry when he threatened to let Erik touch them. And Erik had little choice in the matter if he wished to live at all.'

And at last it all became clear to Christine. 'As he has done now, at the Opera House. Erik is the scapegoat, not only for his brother, but for anything terrible that happened at the Opera House.'

'At last you understand. He has spent his last ten years in hiding because he has been so often implicated in the comte's actions. He dares not show his face, not only because of its hideousness, but also because he is held to blame for much of what Philippe de Chagny has done.'

'His face is not hideous!' Christine cried, louder than was prudent. 'It is not. It is not.' She was sobbing again; perhaps she would never see Erik again. Perhaps she might never touch that beautiful mouth, nor feel the raggedness of his deformed skin, nor the comfort of his embrace. She could not bear the thought of it.

She could not bear the thought of his pain, his never-ending pain.

'It is not so hideous as Erik has been taught to believe, Christine, that is true… but you see it now with real love, and nothing will naysay your opinion.' All trace of annoyance was gone from Madame Giry's voice now, and it sounded kinder than it ever had. 'Perhaps I have misjudged you. Perhaps you are worthy of the love of a great man like Erik de Chagny. He is a brilliant musician, you know, for even though Amelie was with him such a short time, she recognized his talent and encouraged it. If only she had not died so young, and he had not been made to live with the comte, and then to hide away.' She sighed. 'If only.'

Christine sucked back her sobs and straightened from the huddle she'd slipped into with her tears. 'How long has he-'

'Shhh.' Madame stiffened, and she slapped her fingers over Christine's lips again. They sat in silence for a moment, and Christine felt her companion strain as though listening for something, but Christine herself heard nothing. 'I must go; I have been here long enough,' Madame said at last, her words barely audible, with none of the whistling hiss of a whisper. 'Do what you must to stay in Raoul's good graces. He is your only chance.'

'My only chance-,' Christine started, but the other woman clapped her palm over her mouth, shaking her head so vehemently that Christine saw it in the dim light.

With one last abrupt shake of her head, Madame shifted away from Christine and moved to a door opposite the one that led to the corridor. She opened it and slipped into what Christine thought was a closet.

But by the time she reached the door, which had closed after Madame, and she figured out how to open it- there was a clever little latch that needed to be moved just so-Madame was gone. The closet was empty, and it was too dark to know how and where she'd disappeared.

Christine closed the door and turned back to her bed, weary, aching, and disconsolate.

And feeling very much alone.

Chapter Nineteen

Philippe pulled away from the tiny hole and turned to look at his companion. 'So our guest has had a guest,' he said. 'Do you recognize her?'

'Ah, si, indeed,' replied La Carlotta in her affected Spanish accent. 'It is as you suspected, the ballet mistress Madame Giry.'

'The woman did not think I noticed her earlier this evening, when she was doing her duties in the upper chambers… but it is rare that I forget a face, even when it belongs to a new servant of my household. Although,' he added, mostly to himself, for Carlotta did not need to know much of him, 'it seemed that I did not recall my first meeting with Miss Daae, those years ago at the seashore, for I needed my brother to remind me of it.'

Philippe placed his eye back at the peephole and felt the shuffle next to him as Carlotta did the same, peering through a different opening well concealed among the brocadelike wallpapering near the ceiling.

The ballet mistress, whom he had perhaps laid eyes on once or twice during his visits to the backstage lounges at the Opera House, had disappeared into the closet, where, obviously, she had made use of the hidden passageway. This was after she had had a whispered, inaudible conversation with Christine. It was to Philippe's great annoyance that, not only could he catch only a random phrase here and there, but elder woman did not do what she had clearly wished to do-or at least, he wanted her to wish to do-and assist the younger woman in disrobing and slipping into bed.

But now, as he peered owlishly through the largest of the peepholes, he watched in the room lit only by firelight, which gave it an orange glow, as Christine struggled out of her half-laced corset and loose gown. Her beautiful breasts-truly, he'd seen none better in all of his years-tipped and swayed gently as she unrolled her stockings over long, slender legs.

Damn Raoul for a weak-kneed boy. If not for him, for his misplaced sense of chivalry, Philippe would be in that bedchamber, assisting Miss Daae.

Philippe drew in his breath in a sharp hiss when Christine sat on the edge of the bed, just perfectly across from where his eyehole was, her thighs spread in a most unladylike manner, bathed no doubt by the warmth of the fire. He could see everything he'd imagined-her sex, wide but shadowed in the low light, at last open to his view-her breasts lilting up as though offering themselves to him at his elevated perch.

His mouth dried and even after all he'd had this night, his cock hardened. He was barely aware of the shifting and shuffling of Carlotta next to him, but he felt her breathing change when they saw Christine slip her fingers down between her parted legs. Though it was impossible, he swore he heard the gentle lap as her hand slicked through the wetness there, the shine of which was evident even in the firelight.

One hand played there, in the dark red haven he must have, as the golden orange glow of flames was cast over it; her other fingers nibbled at her breast, stroking a nipple to what had to be an iron-hard point.

Philippe licked his lips, pressed his erection against the wall in front of him. His fingers curled into the wall and he pressed his eye so close to the hole that his socket matched the opening perfectly.