A/N: Won 4th place in the "darkphic" contest on I'm so excited and honored. This the first time I've ever written a story of this nature, and I must say that it turned out...different than I originally planned. Whether it is actually tragic or happy is up for you to decide. Therefore, enough said, let the dream begin...

Disclaimer: Canon is a mish-mash of movie, musical, and Leroux canon, therefore everything belongs to their respective creators. Mengel is all mine.

Ambrosia

By Olethros

They called her the Siren.

In the autumn dusk around the witching hour, the nobles and genteel folk would be awakened from their slumbers by song. The grouchy old women and high-necked men who would normally have pounded down the door of the de Chagny estate, demanding that he put an end to the racket, would walk out upon their balconies instead to listen to the song.

The voice was perfect beyond human imagination and the song it sang was at once horrifying, at once heart-shivering with exotic melodies that could not be named, but always beautiful. Her unseen audience would listen to her with breathless anticipation, every particle of their bodies aching for more of the sweet sound – and knowing, yet always forgetting the inevitable end of this strange night symphony.

The Vicomte de Chagny would awaken to discover his wife upon her balcony in her nightshift. He would come up to her and speak gentle words, begging that she come back inside before she caught her death of chill.

The Vicomtess de Chagny would stare at her husband with wild eyes as if he were a stranger and she would shriek and sob and wail away with the most awful sounds. Yet the Paris aristocracy hung upon every word of the Siren's song even as it bled their ears with anguish that still sounded like angel's music.

And they did think of her as an angel. In the streets the following morning, they would see her, pale and unresponsive at her husband's side. And they would intend to berate them for disturbing the peace. Then the memory of her song would return and they would say nothing, merely look at them with mixed sadness and caution.

Christine never acknowledged the looks that she drew in the streets, for she had long since learned it was best to turn them away from her mind. She held onto Raoul's arm and let him lead her like a blind person through the daylight.

Anywhere he went, she went too. And she was happy, was she not? Her husband was kind. The beautiful nighttimes would wash away the clinging stickiness of the day, when she would sing as she had never sung before. No one would ever know that it was because she was singing with her Angel at last.

It had been about five months since they had left the Opera house. Twenty weeks to be exact, each week creeping by with such negligence that they might as well have been the respective years of her life. Twenty weeks of hiding the burning tears whenever someone looked at her when they thought she could not see. Of weeping at the hopeful smile that appeared on her husband's face every night and disappeared when she turned away each time. Of waking to find herself upon their balcony with a beautiful throb in her throat.

The next day, like any other day, died away on little feet of darkness. Christine saw the darkness dancing before her eyes as she descended to the parlor, and an inexplicable feeling of dread overtook her. Her husband and another man turned their heads to look at her when she entered.

Raoul looked very pale. "Darling…meet my friend, Monsieur Mengel."

She walked towards them, fidgeting like a child with the hems of her dress. Mengel's face was smiling but the smile did not reach his dark eyes and his hair shone unnaturally beneath several layers of gel.

"Hello…"

"Monsieur Mengel is assisting me with some of my business affairs. We were just finishing up, unless he has anything else to say?"

He smiled and Christine was reminded of a rooster's gleaming eye before it captured a worm. "Oh no, monsieur, I fear that I've disturbed your evening quite enough. I shall take my leave."

Raoul was gripping the arms of his chair rather tensely as Mengel stood up and replaced his tophat. He stopped and turned.

"But not before I give your wife a refreshment as an apology." He turned and poured from a decanter upon a side table.

Christine took a step back. "Oh no, monsieur, I never take alcohol."

His smile grew all the wider. "Oh no, I would not presume madam! No, this is a light refreshing berry concoction that my wife invented. People say that it is divine."

Christine looked to Raoul in question. He had released his death grip on the arms of his chair and seemed now to be resigned and at ease. He gave a weak smile. "It is quite good, actually. I recommend it."

She looked at the glass in her hand. The liquid inside was light pink in color and small bubbles collected against the sides of the glass. Surely nothing dangerous could be such a cheery color. She took a sip.

It tasted very sweet with a faint hint of raspberries and spring. It bubbled its way up her nose and she blinked in surprise at the light feeling in her mind. But most of all, she tasted the sweetness; it was tempered with just a hint of bitter herbs so that it had none of the sugary sickness of refined syrups. She took another sip and surprisingly discovered that the glass was empty.

She looked up into Mengel's smiling face. "Well," he said, laughing, "It appears as if your wife has passed her judgment. She finds it pleasing, no?" She nodded. "Good, good." He flashed another toothy grin before he retrieved the decanter with the remaining contents and tipped his hat at both of them before taking his leave.

"An interesting acquaintance."

"Indeed."

If Christine had been paying more attention, she would have noticed how Raoul's voice was a little too flippant, too much at ease. But at that moment she forgot everything else as she put her hand back up to her mouth and fancied she could still taste the lingering sweetness.

Hours later, Christine had read herself into a drowsy slumber upon her favorite armchair. She felt herself being lifted and carried gently upstairs. The arms underneath her were secure, but the embrace was not as strong or as steady as one she remembered from her past.

Raoul laid the girl down upon the bed and tucked the sheets around her. She yawned sleepily, and he could not prevent the smile that automatically came to his lips. He might as well have been tucking in his daughter.

She opened her eyes, they were red-rimmed and sore. Unconsciously her tongue snaked out to touch her lips. "Raoul, what was that delightful drink?"

He brushed a light brown curl from her sleepy face. "Nectar. Sweet nectar of the gods. Perfectly fitting for an angel like you."

Christine laughed, trying to sound indignant as he fluffed her hair playfully. "Oh Raoul, I'm no angel. I'm just a girl…just a spoiled, selfish little girl…"

Her lip trembled, her fingers grasping at his sleeve as he bent over her to kiss the tears falling from her eyes. "Hush…"

"But—"

"Hush, Christine. You do not deserve your contempt."

As the dry, heaving sobs wracked her body, she pressed her cheek into the scratchy softness of his sleeve as his fingers cupped her face tenderly. A deep shudder ran through her and suddenly, weariness more powerful than anything she had ever felt settled over her body.

Raoul felt her go limp and he eased her down onto the pillow. He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead and then rose to go. He was almost to the door when he heard Christine speak.

"I love you." Her voice was slurred and groggy with sleep, but she smiled when she saw the look on his face. "I do." And she did.

The dark intoxication of sleep dragged her down into slumber then, and the last thing she saw were the tears winking on Raoul's face as he shut the door behind him.

An indeterminate amount of time later, she was awakened from her dreams – they were dark and filled with twisting, amorphous shapes – by the sound of voices.

"No, Mengel, this was a mistake, I cannot."

"It is done, monsieur, you cannot change it now. Please, monsieur, you must understand this is best for her."

"I cannot…I cannot!"

"You want to help her. You know this is the best way. Please…be the one of sensible words that you were this afternoon."

"I was wrong. Please, you must understand…I must wake her."

"You cannot. Only the doctors can."

Stars exploded in her vision as she heaved herself to her feet. She had heard enough. Doctors! Oh Raoul…she would have wept bitter tears if had been able, if her eyes did not currently feel like quivering gelatin. Half-blind from the vivid colors coiling in her mind, she felt her way across the familiar room before she reached the door. Out on the landing now, the voices grew in volume, but she could not decipher them, nor did she want to.

She cursed her foolishness for accepting that drink, for surely it was responsible for the ragged bursts of light like dying suns swimming in her vision, and for her legs that felt as if they were walking through thick syrup. And she still tasted the sweetness upon her lips.

Even in her drugged state, Christine could tell from the direction of the voices that they were safely ensconced in the parlor, and she made it all the way downstairs without incident.

The voices rose and jabbered faster, becoming more agitated. But where she would have normally frozen in guilty shock, she continued moving. There was nothing left for her here. The tender gestures, the well-meant words…they meant nothing now, they were nothing but lies. A mental institution! Christine felt her legs go even weaker, but she continued on, drawing strength from the fact that she had nothing to depend on but herself.

No…that was not true. In her heart, she knew what had driven her from her bed, she knew where the strength had risen to drag herself through the luxurious halls that she had come to consider home. She would believe nothing until she had seen it for herself.

Christine grasped the doorknob with a shaky hand and turned. Brilliant stars exploded in her vision but the door opened. She could still hear Raoul weeping. And Mengel was speaking…

"She will not suffer, Raoul, I gave my word and everything has been arranged exactly as according to your desires. She will be happy, happier than she could ever dream—"

But Christine never heard the hateful man finish his sentence for the door closed behind her and – with a rushing sound like the fluttering of wings – she was out into the Parisian dusk.

Brightly-lit streetlamps cast lurid glows upon damp pavement, reflecting in Christine's eyes as searing as the sun, and she shut her eyes against them. She woke a dozing coachman and tipped a handful of coins into the startled man's hands. Only later, sitting in the carriage that was bumping its way down cobblestones at a terrifying speed (she must have given him an exorbitant amount), did she think at how foolish she had been.

She had never taken a carriage by herself…she had never even ventured into the city at this hour on her own. For all she knew, the coachman could be no better than the unsavory eyes that she frequently saw lurking in the alleyways during the day.

But it was too late now, and she twisted her hands into her dress and felt the carriage come to a gentle halt. And even as the coachman helped her out and left her at the threshold of the Opera House with an impeccable bow, she could not shake the feeling of dread.

She knew, of course, the story of the Opera Ghost's fate. How he had been found the night of the premiere of his disastrous Don Juan. How he had been sitting at his organ and playing as the mob stormed his house upon the lake. How they had covered their ears against the gut-wrenching, anguished sounds, and how he had kept on playing until they had smashed the pipes to pieces and no more sound could come forth. And how he had laughed as they beat him to death with their clubs and fists.

She knew it all. Paris had been unable to talk of anything else for weeks afterwards and she had slipped into a state of catatonia. From this state she had never quite emerged but for those brief moments that she allowed herself to sing to the Angel she would never see again. And she sang now, a wordless melody that none could hear save herself, as she walked through the deserted hallways of the Opera. Somehow she had known that she would be alone…the same way she had known the front door would be unlocked. She padded through the echoing passageways still streaked with soot from the fire, silent and invisible as a ghost. A touch of her hand opened the mirror in her dressing room. She could tell the room had not been used since her departure, yet there were no hints of dust or neglect.

Christine did not know what would await her at the other end of the lake. She had not thought much of anything, merely believed in her heart that everything she had once believed was no longer true. So when she heard the gentle music that floated to her ears as the boat touched the familiar shore, she smiled.

The room was blazing with light and the flames upon the candles did not flicker but rather remained frozen in globes of brilliance, as if afraid to shatter the spell of the music. Even the sound of water was no longer audible to her ears over the music that sang of something she could not name. But she wept nevertheless as she raised her eyes and beheld the figure seated at the instrument.

He stood and turned towards her. She stood, hardly breathing, hardly seeing, but knowing, knowing the truth of it at last. He hadn't died. How could angels ever die?

And he was no ordinary angel, but Erik. Erik…a name that had been headlined upon the front page of every Parisian newspaper, the secret of the Opera Ghost revealed at last. Erik…a name poetic and powerful as it collected at the back of her throat with a tender ache.

"Erik…" Tears sprang to her eyes at the look on his face when she spoke his name. "My living Erik…"

He took her hand and pressed it to his unmasked cheek, letting her know that he was real, that her tears were not shed in vain. Her hand trembled as it left his face and buried itself in the material of his suit. She hung her head between them, unwilling to let him see the sparkling tears falling from her eyes.

"How can you forgive me? How can you even bear to look at me?"

She felt his finger lifting her chin, wiping a tear that clung to a corner of her mouth. "Christine…" His voice! "How could you have ever left me…when you sang for me every night?"

"You…you heard me?"

She did not need an answer, his golden green eyes told her all she needed to know. She clasped his hand to her cheek and pressed light kisses to the base of his hand, tasting the saltiness of his skin, memorizing the tender creases of his palm.

"You were dead…you were dead! And I believed him, I believed everything he ever told me. I almost even believed that the doctors might not be so bad after all." She felt his fingers dig into her skin as his body stiffened. "Take me away from all this, Erik. Please…I will go anywhere in the world with you if…if you'll have me. If you can stand the idea of spending the rest of your days with a child who runs and hides when she should soar."

"If I'll have you…Christine, Christine, do you even know what you are asking?" He pulled his hand away from her seeking mouth and ran it through her hair. "These hands that you kiss so innocently have shed more blood then you have shed tears. This heart that you love with all of yours bleeds for the torment that it wreaked upon you." He laughed lightly. "I cannot blame you, Christine, any more than I can remove this mask from my face. My angel…my angel of light, is this what you want? Is it Erik that you want, or merely your freedom?"

She stepped forward and sealed their lips together, lips that had never meant to be parted. She felt his hands clench themselves into fists within her hair as their mouths moved together with torturous and languid slowness. His mouth was like a ripe fruit underneath hers, opening to its sweet interior under her insistent touch. She ended the embrace first, before moving to kiss his cheeks, nose, and eyes. "For you, Erik. Always for you."

His other hand came up to rest against the small of her back, his eyes filled with wonder at the earnest he saw in her eyes. He smiled softly as he caressed her cheek. "Let the dream begin, my angel."

"No, Erik. No more dreams but for you." This time he was the one who brought his lips to hers, and she held him tightly, smiling into the sweetness of his kiss. Running her hand over the masked side of his face, she was mildly surprised to notice that the mask felt warm and supple underneath her fingers, as if it were nothing more than a blemish upon his skin.

Christine opened her eyes to see an elegant oak-paneled ceiling above her head. Moonlight played upon the fine-grained surface, making it look lonely and rather far away. The cold click of a door opening and a sudden rush of cold air. She turned her head from where she lay bound upon the bed to see who it was.

Christine yawned and rolled onto her back. She was lying in a rather comfortable bed and she opened her eyes to see an oak-paneled ceiling above her head. It was identical but for sunlight replacing the moonlight. She had only a moment to ponder this before she heard the warm squeak of hinges announcing someone's arrival. She turned her head to see Erik walk through carrying a tray in his hands.

"I just had the strangest dream, Erik."

She sat, stretching her limbs languidly and brushed a hand over her eyes before looking at him properly. The sunlight coming in through the windows turned his hair into a delicious shade of chocolate brown and softened the hard lines of his face, making him look at least ten years younger.

Sunlight…doors…

Her eyes widened. "Where are we?"

His only response was a smile. "Drink your medicine and then I will show you." He set the tray down and Christine noticed that there was only one object on it. A wooden chalice sat upon the tray, it was half-filled with a nasty-looking black liquid.

Christine picked it up without question and swallowed its contents. Despite its appearance, the concoction was tasteless.

"That should counteract any of the aftereffects of whatever that boy…whatever you were given last night."

She looked up, her expression neutral, her fingers toying with the rim of the cup. "The doctor gave it to me, I should have never trusted him. Raoul, at least, could have never brought himself to drug me directly."

Her lip trembled and she waited for the tears, but they never came. Blinking quite suddenly, she looked up at Erik, newfound strength flooding into her eyes. He saw it and wonder filled his gaze as he came forward to sit upon the edge of the bed, pressing a kiss to her delightfully mussed hair.

Slowly, she wiped the final traces of the medicine from her mouth with the back of her hand. She caught Erik's eyes as she did so and both of them realized the significance of the gesture. They remembered when he had last placed a chalice in her hands with trembling fingers, his hands roaming over her body without ever actually touching it, nerve-wracked before a massive audience despite the black cloak granting him anonymity. They both remembered what she had done in the end.

He pulled her hand away from her mouth and kissed each curled finger. She closed her fingers around his and brought his hand to her cheek and then, with a deliberate movement, she moved it down to her breast. She felt him catch his gasp in his throat and his hand began to tremble. "Christine, I…"

He looked up at her and saw the darkness of her gaze and something between them shattered. They fell upon each other the way that a storm meets the sea, their mouths fierce yet tender upon the other. She gasped his name in ecstasy as she felt his lips caress the fluttering pulse upon her neck.

They asked no questions, for they knew they had already answered them all. She felt his hands upon the fabric of her nightshift, their heat radiating through the fabric, then they were caressing her bare skin. She could feel something coiling, coiling tighter and tighter in the pit of her stomach and it was then that she knew that this must be a dream, because nothing in her life had ever felt this good and nothing ever could feel this good.

But she closed her eyes and opened them again and Erik was still there, his face above hers, a drop of sweat clinging to the edge of his mask. And he was still touching her, and he was still a part of her and ecstasy such that she had never known was still flowing through her veins.

"I love you, Erik," she gasped. "I love you more than anything I have ever loved in my life."

He brought his forehead to rest against hers and kissed her hot, damp face, catching the tears falling from her eyes with his tongue. And she knew without a doubt, even as they both spiraled away into oblivion, that this was the only reality she would ever desire to know.

He brought her out upon the balcony, her stumbling and unsure of her footing for he had covered her eyes.

She laughed. "Erik, please! Can I look now?"

He smiled, taking advantage of her current blindness to press a kiss to the tip of her nose. "Yes…now!" He undid the blindfold and anticipated her gasp of joy. She recognized the beaches and sandy hills and especially the unique scent of the air immediately.

"Sweden! Oh Erik…" She turned to him, her eyes bright as two stars and he enfolded her in his arms.

"Welcome home, Christine."

Home…

And it was home, for the streets had not changed since her childhood, and she was not lost when walking upon them. The sunlight fell upon her face exactly as she had remembered and the people she passed upon the road all smiled upon seeing her, as if greeting an old friend, but she could not recall any of their faces.

Outside the gate of the home that Erik had bought for them, a paperboy waved and doffed his cap in her direction.

The next day she leafed through the pages of a book whose cover she had not bothered to glance at before choosing it from the shelf. Erik sat to her left, his arm settled comfortably around her shoulders. He was buried in the philosophical texts of Nietzsche ("a tiresome complainer, but I find his writings on music quite worthy of reading"). She turned a few more pages in her book, catching a few words here and there about slithy toves and Jabberwocks.

She looked up to him and gasped, the book falling to the floor with a thud. Erik turned towards her with a look of surprise. "Christine…?"

"Your face…"

A muscle twitched in his jaw. "What about it, my dear?"

Her eyes went wide. "Oh no! That's not what I mean, it's just, I thought that it had…changed, no, no it was a silly moment, forget that I said anything." He kept on looking at her in disbelieving confusion until she finally swallowed and turned back to her book.

"Excuse me, sir? Sir?"

The old man behind the counter of the restaurant turned to her, his face neutral and polite. "Yes madam?"

"Yes, could you tell me where the town's wine store is?"

"We don't have one."

"Whyever not?"

He shrugged. "Children never found any use for it."

His words meant nothing yet Christine couldn't help the inexplicable shudder of understanding that went through her. "I…what about those?" She pointed to the bottles behind his head.

"Ah these, they came from our family's wine cellar. We don't usually sell them, but if it is a special occasion?"

She nodded. It was Erik's birthday and she wanted to make sure they properly celebrated the occasion that until now had always been ignored.

He grinned and disappeared beneath the counter. She heard his voice come between short grunts, as he wrestled with something. "I have…just…the thing!" He emerged holding a bottle. "Voila." She looked. The bottle was filled with light pink bubbly liquid. "We call it Ambrosia, it is my wife's special recipe."

She stepped away from the counter, forcing a smile to her face as her limbs trembled like a disjointed puppet. "Thank you, monsieur, but…I really could not. Please, do keep it for your family." Then she turned and fled, trying not to think about how she might have hurt the man's feelings. But it was alright, because by the time she reached the door, she had already forgotten his face.

As she reached the gate of the house, she saw the paperboy. He waved and doffed his cap in her direction.

And when she walked into the parlor and saw Erik sitting there, hunched intently over the piano, no disappointment touched her mind. It wasn't his birthday after all, how could it be when even he did not know the date?

But she went over to him and wrapped his arms around him from behind and kissed his masked cheek. "Happy birthday, my love." And he smiled.

An ocean away from Paris, time did not pass the same way. It seemed to run in inexplicable dollops, rather like water from a leaking faucet. At some moments, rushing by too fast for her to see and at others, freezing for what seemed an eternity. The times when he made love to her were like this, and the whole world would freeze before her eyes. Her own body would feel immobile upon the bed, her entire core concentrating on his body moving above hers, and she wished that she could lift a hand to caress his face but she could not. She did not mind, though, for lying there underneath him was the closest to heaven that she had ever felt.

Her eyes fluttered open when she felt lips kiss her forehead and a hand smoothing strands of hair away from her sweat-soaked flesh.

She turned her head but saw that Erik was fast asleep.

Christine did not have to look to see that the paperboy stood before their gate as always, and she waved back to him as he doffed his cap.

Erik was once again in the parlor, but he turned away from the piano immediately when he heard her enter. "What's wrong?" he asked, taking in her thin, pale face.

"I saw Raoul today."

"You did. Where?"

"That is, I—I saw his face. I was passing by a store and I saw his face looking out through the glass window. I do not think he saw me because he did not move after I passed by. He looked so sad…I do not understand."

"Doubtless this place holds many memories for him as well."

"It feels like that sometimes, as if I am swimming through an endless sea of memories. This place, the people…"

He drew her towards him and let her settle comfortably in his lap. "You were always one to look back often upon your past like a fond friend."

She toyed idly with his hair, cherishing the feel of it between her fingers, the soft tangible texture of it. "I am. But perhaps from now on, not as much." She trailed off significantly.

Erik made an impatient sound in his throat and she simply laughed. "I love you more with every passing minute, did you know that?"

"You might have mentioned that once or twice…"

"Good, because soon I'll have to have enough to share it with someone else. You're going to be a father, Erik."

The look upon his face was something that she would cherish the rest of her days. She kissed him joyfully, taking advantage of his temporary shock to part his slack lips with her tongue and explore him gently. "Shall I take that look to mean that you are happy, my dear? Heaven forbid that you are already dreading the idea of dirty diapers. Say something, Erik, put me out of my terrible suspense."

If possible, he held her even closer to himself. "I love you, Christine. I find that is all I am capable of saying. Will it be enough?"

It was enough. He had always been enough for her. His presence at her side when she awoke at night from dreams that left her shaking inside. The smile that would alight his face when she walked through the door every evening. And the odd, unguarded moment of complete contentment when he would step into the outside world upon their balcony and let the wind tease his hair. It was enough.

He was beautiful, everything about him was perfect, so perfect. She could never have asked for anything more. But he had granted her more, and she felt the happiness grow in her heart as a beautiful ache as Erik bent over her abdomen, kissing it reverently through the fabric of her dress.

She closed her eyes, unwilling to move lest she shatter this delicate bliss. She had lived enough shattered dreams to know that fairy tales could not happen in real life, and when they did she feared it as much as she wept with joy.

But the reassuring touch of Erik's hair underneath her hands reassured her and his warm breath upon her stomach as she fell asleep that night reminded her that truly, there was such a thing as heaven.

She opened her eyes to see Raoul, and his face was once again staring at her from behind a window. It was no storefront this time, but a square of glass set within a heavy wooden door. With a creak the door opened, the metal tongue clicking from the latch. Her body shivered from the gust of cold air that blew in from the unseen hallway.

He walked across a carpeted floor of an elegant room furnished for a king. The only oddity was the enormous bed in the center completely covered with white sheets and she was lying upon this bed. She smiled as he walked towards her. She held no animosity towards him anymore. After all, his actions had returned her to her angel. She saw him freeze as he saw her looking at him, and smiled broader, trying to reassure him that she held no ill will.

But he looked to someone on the other side of the bed and said, "She can see me."

"You have nothing to fear. She believes that she is dreaming." That voice…that hatefully familiar voice. She felt bile rise up in her throat as Dr. Mengel stepped into view.

She tried to lift her hands to cover her eyes but they were immobile, bound to the headboard with silken scarves.

Raoul spoke. "Then all is well?"

The doctor smiled a toothy smile. "You have had complete faith in us for over five months."

"Not always. There was that time she nearly awoke from the draft blowing in through the door when I walked in. I hardly call it a stable condition."

"Which we fixed. Monsieur, this is the first time an experiment of this scale has been attempted. We have never created an entire life, merely limited dreams, a fulfillment of a brief fantasy. That is our business, it was never our intention to play God."

"Then who shall? Tell me that. What else can I do when God abandons his angel but build her a path back to heaven of my own?" His lips kissed her forehead gently and his fingers brushed away strands of her hair. Christine felt a sudden urge to weep.

Raoul swallowed, the skin upon his handsome face drawn tightly over his sunken cheeks. "Christine, I know that it is useless to ask. I shall eventually have to beg for your forgiveness, whether in this life or the next, and I just wished for you to know…I hold no grudges. I offered you the only dream I knew would make you happy. I hope you enjoy Sweden…heaven knows your own memories are probably better than mine, but I did my best. And we were both only children then." His voice lowered to a tearful whisper. "It was never enough, but I have done my best." He pressed a final kiss to her forehead and then straightened. "Dr. Mengel."

The other man shook himself, as if embarrassed to have been discovered listening too closely to such a wrenching confession. "Yes, sir?"

"You promise that there is no limit to how long she will sleep?"

"Of course not. As long as you can continue to pay the bill."

"Yes, of course."

The doctor's smile then was the most genuine one that Christine had ever seen. "Good, good. I foresee no problems then."

Raoul touched her hair. "Go back to your Angel, Christine." His voice was a tearful whisper. "Be with him in heaven as you can no longer be with him on earth."

As he caressed her cheek, he could see her eyes drawing farther and farther away as a beautiful smile alighted her features. Her body moved upon the bed, and the white sheets bunched underneath her back, folding and twisting like crumpled angel's wings.

She strained forward against the scarves binding her hands and her mouth curved into an "o" as she kissed the air before her face.

In Sweden, Christine kissed the nose of her newborn son, happiness welling within her soul like the perfume of sweet ambrosia.

FIN