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Christine is four months pregnant when she sees his face in her mirror and screams, throwing her hairbrush at his confused countenance and shattering glass.
“That’s bad luck,” he remarks, self-consciously trying to tuck a lock of his blond hair behind his ear, to cover the healing scar at his temple. “Even I know that much.”
“Why are you haunting me?” she asks helplessly, automatically pressing a hand to the rise of her belly. The best thing about the opera is that round stomachs are never questioned. Everyone in this new company simply thinks she enjoys her pasta too much.
“I’m not dead, Christine. I thought I would but...my family healed me, took care of me,” he explains. She remembers the rats and tries not to shudder. “And I learned that you ran off to Italy, to this...tiny hovel that’s beneath your talents…”
“I took the job that was offered to me. Raoul wanted to protect me but I need to perform. He understood.” She rests a hand for a minute on the rise of her belly. “Have you come back for me, then, my love? For us?”
“I am a thing of the shadows,” he says. “And you’ll have to live with them to be mine. But I won’t shirk my duties to this child, or let it die among the human rabble. Will you come with me, Christine?”
He extends his hand. But she turns in her seat, and shakes her head.
“Will you come into the light with me?” she asks, and extends her own hand.
He shakes his head, laughs, and takes a step forward.