The art of dreaming

Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom!

A/N : Hey everyone! I'm supposed to be writing a history paper so naturally I'm back with the promised sequel! Does this mean the punjabbing attempts get called off?  Do forgive the delay, but I got a virus on the laptop, and fanfiction wouldn't load for weeks and then real life intruded so….

Wow…who would've thought when I started Chapter One of Semblance that I'd ever get to the sequel? But here we are, bright eyed and bushy tailed cough erm…yeah, anyway. Lol. I'd give more hints about what will happen, but that would be redundant, because like its predecessor, its unlikely this story will go where I mean for it to. But like I've already said, think Persia! The Gang! New pairings! Christine might even be saner this time round…or not. Oh! And have I mentioned fop torture?

Thanks to everyone who reviewed Semblance, and to everyone who is reading this new story.

So as not to disturb anyone, I do actually think porcelain dolls are extremely creepy and would never get near one, but Natalie seems to have a mind of her own, so…

Well, enjoy! And be sure to share any advice, suggestions, criticism, etc with me. Given the mercurial nature of the story, I'm open to suggestions.

BTW on account of the first chapter being 'round 20 pages long, I've decided to split it. Pt 2 will be up soon, featuring Erik being a bit touchy!insane and Christine being….Christine

Liriel

Now, to set the scene……

Chapter 1: Hearing is believing : part 1

Hero walked through the bustle of the Palais Garnier, nodding her greeting to the few staff members she recognized, until she entered into an unoccupied orchestra rehearsal room. It smelled of fresh floor polish and new furniture. She made her way past the chairs set out for the wind instruments, her shoes making her footsteps echo across the bare walls, clicking sharply, amplified by the excellent acoustics of the room.

She held the flower lightly in her hand and wore her lips in a smirk at the memory of Meg's expression. Hero had, after more or less recovering from her face-off against the Illuminati, come back to the Garnier, eager to inform the Rats of her safe return and pass on to Meg a note Andrew had begged her deliver. In the middle of an idle conversation with Meg, who was busy tying up the silky white ribbons of her well-used pointe shoes, a rose dropped from somewhere high in the beams of the ceiling. A cream envelope followed it. Meg looked up, face draining of colour, and watched in voiceless horror as Hero picked up the flower, running the black ribbon through her pale hand.

Then, she laughed ironically, briefly glancing up at the ceiling and seeing nothing but shadows.

Meg watched the other girl, barely daring to breath, dark eyes wide as she wondered at what new horror the Opera Ghost had cooked up for them. Sometimes she felt they really were, all of them, rats scurrying this way and that in his maze. She could well remember the tale Roux, the stable hand, had told one night about the laboratories his cousin worked at. The horrible experiments performed upon the squealing, squirming rodents because they were expendable. Nobody had thought anything of it, Roux had explained, it was alright to kill a rat. She shivered again at the memory, like she had done that night, and tried not to think of sharp squeals and bright eyes.

Nothing good would come from that envelope. Turning her attention back towards the ballerina, Hero opened her mouth to speak, but Meg interrupted.

"Hero! Say nothing of It!" She hissed, just as Germaine and Jammes came into the room.

"Hero! Fancy seeing you again! Where ever did you…"

Catching the amusement on Hero's face and the mute terror still evident on Meg's they hurried closer.

"What is it?" Germaine demanded, As Jammes' dark eyes spotted the flower clutched in Hero's hand, the ribbon covered by her fingers.

"Is that a rose?! Why, just look at the elegant, long stem, the perfect petals!" She leaned in for closer inspection, "What lovely colour it has. This flower must have cost a pretty penny!"

The Rats were expert at recognizing quality gifts when they saw them.

"Have you an admirer at last?" Germaine demanded, with the single-mindedness signature to the Corps de Ballet, "And whatever is the matter with little Meg?"

"Oh! Yes. Yes. It is from an admirer." Hero grinned widely, deciding to play along "Meg is simply outraged that I have said naught of it till now." She gave Meg a meaningful look.

"Well!" the smallest ballerina squealed, "So are we! Aren't we, Germaine?"

"Yes!Yes! Indeed we are! That violates every rule of friendship in our little circle! You must do penance, and tell us everything over lunch tomorrow!"

"How about that wonderful place where Hero bought those éclairs, remember?"

"Oh, yes! There."

"And you must tell us how Sir Andrew is doing!" Meg joined in, reassured for a moment, by Hero's lightheartedness on the matter of the flower and the thought of her dashing friend. She hurriedly stuffed the note he'd sent down her bodice, but the other two noticed, and badgered her about it. Hero made her excuses when they invited her to watch their practice, sending her regards to the other Rats and the Ballet Mistress.

OOOO

On her way at last, marching straight towards one of the hidden trapdoors, Hero didn't hesitate before lowering herself through it. She grinned smugly as she walked into the darkness, not caring that her skirts were gathering dust from the unwept passage and raising it in a cloud behind her.

The tunnels were as dark and treacherous as ever. Hero found it to her liking, being in a roguish mood. As she made her way deeper into the tunnels, ignoring the scurrying rats of the non-dancing variety, a voice resounded through the gloom.

"Wandering child, so lost, so helpless…"It whispered in her ear, though she could feel neither breath nor presence behind her. The voice faded and again she could hear nothing but the steady dripping of water somewhere in the darkness.

Stopping in her tracks Hero blinked into the gloom, though she saw nothing. She could have sworn she heard a faint titter somewhere behind her, but there was no way of being sure.

Snorting loudly, she continued on her way. As far as Hero was concerned, 'helpless' was not a description that was applicable to her. And 'lost' was a state of mind, not direction. She informed Erik of just that upon arrival into the lair, as she swept imperiously past him, before he yanked her back into his arms. Of course, he claimed ignorance of what she could have possibly been talking about, but his eyes glinted with slightly malicious humour. Given his current chaotic mood, it was unfortunate that she was in the right set of mind to bait him. Brazenly, Hero leaned back into his arms…

OOOO

Hero looked suspiciously at the light golden tea in the white porcelain tea cup, wondering if the ballet rats managed to add some choice liquor into her drink and their own while she wasn't looking. She could smell nothing untoward over the strong citrus scent, rising from the hot cup, though a laced drink would certainly account for the volume of giggling surrounding her, and rising by the second.

"So who is he? Not one of those friends of yours certainly!" Vivienne stage whispered for the benefit of the rest of the café. They sat at one of the little wicker tables set out outside the bakery, enjoying the bright day and ignoring the disapproving glances some of the other patrons shot the rowdy lot.

"And he must work at the Opera! Or is he a patron? Do we know him?!" Hushed, they stared at her eagerly.

The Opera staff consisted of over three thousand. Enough to populate a small town. Hero wouldn't have put it past the Rats to know everyone of those three hundred.

"It's possible..." Hero admitted vaguely, and Vivienne gave a delighted gasp, earning them further disapproving looks. Hero gave up. Another round of squeals followed.

"So there really is a gentleman this time." Vivienne concluded for effect's sake.

"Yes, yes."

"Well, who is he?! We want to see him! Is he handsome? Rich? Has he a title?! We really have to see him, Hero!"

"Yes. We do indeed." Meg interrupted for reasons that Hero felt were a lot heavier than Vivienne's, then Meg's voice brightened up, "And that friend of yours too. How is Sir Andrew?"

Hero fidgeted with her teaspoon. Poor Meg, she thought, looking up at the ballet rat at last, "Did he not say in his letter to you? Dear Meg. He leaves for Spain tomorrow noon."

Hero watched the other girl's pale face fall and wondered if Andrew had any idea what he was playing at. Then something occurred to her, "But fear not. He will be back in England before the coming month is out. For my mother's annual soiree." She smiled at her new friends, "I will be happy to have any of you that are able to come! The more the merrier." She gave a little laugh to keep from wincing at the memory of last year's three day festivity.

The rats exchanged meaningful looks, already mentally calculating how many unwed members of the Landed Gentry such a soiree would entail.

OOOOO

"…it's all the leaping-about they do. Surely as not it must scramble what little brain they had to begin with! You must stop your associations with those unbearable creatures!" Erik told Hero when she was back in the lair, lounging insolently on his chaise. The girl seemed to think his grudging acceptance of her brazen presence was incentive to push the boundaries of his brittle hospitality.

She pointedly ignored Erik's poor opinion of her friends.

"Meg figured out my relations with you yesterday, have I told you? Well, she did. Part of them at least." She looked up at him then, amusement coloring her voice, "It was the rose, if you want to know, that was the deciding clue." The girl paused to smirk for a moment, then went on, "I must commend you on your subtlety. The ribbon in particular had even myself at sea. Incidentally what was purpose of the empty envelope with my name on it?"

Hero had known that Erik's aim had been, at least in part, to scare Meg.

She watched fury flash across his mask-less face, deep-set yellow eyes flaring, skin taught with the sudden rage "She will not hold that knowledge for long…" He began, voice dangerous. Hero raised an eyebrow and went on watching him steadily.

"Won't she? And why is that Erik?"

He shot the girl a warning glare, "You know what I am, Hero, and the value of discretion! I will not have another mob in here…"

As she watched him look around for something, she wondered if he kept a spare lasso around the lair. Squirreled away somewhere. It would be so very like Erik, she mused, certain that her did.

"And you mean to teach Meg the better part of valor?" She sighed impatiently, still not bothering to rise.

"My friends are terrible gossips." Hero informed the Phantom, trying to suppress the sudden laughter bubbling inside her, while shrugging unconcernedly, "But they don't mean any harm. And who will believe them, if they were to speak of it? This tale ought to be as colorful as the one spread about Sorelli's midnight waltzes with the ghost of Phillippe. The clandestine romance of the former runner girl and Opera Ghost? No…not clandestine romance. Far too eloquent, don't you think? How would one of those books Germaine indulges in tell it..." She paused thoughtfully for a moment, while the Phantom seethed, trying to remember why he shouldn't wring her insolent little neck and how he had managed not to as yet.

"Ah! I know! Saucy ardor, perhaps, or illicit passion?" Now she was chuckling, imagine the silly rumors spread. "Why, monsieur, my reputation will be in tatters!"

Erik snarled at her, finding her habit of making light of his threats far beyond irritating.

Cutting off whatever ridiculous thing she meant to say next, he rounded on her, "And, mademoiselle, you would do well to curb your sarcasm or you will find much more than your reputation in tatters."

Before he could begin another manic rant, Hero interrupted by proposing an idea that had been brewing on her mind since she realized how near the Winterwood soiree was drawing.

"You wish me to accompany you?" Erik demanded, trying to stare the girl down. He had decided to dismiss the matter of her acid tongue and appalling conduct for the moment.

Hero didn't balk, aware of his antisocial habits, she had known her request was not an easy one for him, but she was hoping to break Erik out of his self-imposed exile from the rest of humanity. Noting her lack of favorable reaction, he kept on pacing.

"Well, yes. Really, Erik it isn't so outrageous a request!"

"Isn't it? You know how I loathe such gatherings! Any gatherings! To what end would you have me there, my dear? To be presented as your paramour before a gaggle of society fops?! Or perhaps as your curio acquisition lately from the circus show-grounds?"

She glared at him from the chaise, before a thought occurred to her.

"The circus?" She asked, puzzled.

His tone had darkened further on that note. Yellow eyes narrowed murderously, "That… is none of your concern! Forget it! The past is mine to be buried with."

"Must we speak in death analogies again?" frowning Hero finalyl rose off the couch to walk up to the Phantom who was in the process of turning his back on her, fists clenched. The girl noticed the tense line of his thin back.

Her humor evaporated.

"Erik, what is it that you hold s guarded within you? I do want to know. I can see it eating at you. Whatever it is, I would hear it. Nightmares have a way of fading when spoke aloud." She whispered watching him carefully, knowing full well he'd hear her. He didn't speak.

Knowing that she would wait him out, Hero shook her head, "Very well, keep your secrets as long as you may. But you have to accompany me home all the same. The soiree will be unpleasant enough without Mother throwing 'eligible gentlemen' at me. If you are not there then I might have to yield to her wishes and pretend to be taken with a couple of them."

"And how would you go about doing that?" The deceptive whisper of his voice brushed her ear, his anger forgotten. Yet again, shadows of the past chased away by a spurt of jealousy. Hero ought to have felt guilty about playing on the jealousy and insanity that ate away at him, but being Hero, she felt no such thing.

"Well…a dance here, an intimate whisper there… a brush of hand…a stroll in the moonlight, perhaps. They might try to steal a kiss, they usually do…" She let her voice trail off, seemingly picturing the intimate strolls.

Erik hissed an expletive, seeing through the manipulation yet unable to help his own nature.

"You will do no such thing!" He growled. Hero's eyes glinted mockingly.

"And what is there to stop me?"

OOOOO

It was so very hard to be an angel, Christine reflected, as she brushed her long golden hair with a mother-of-pearl inlaid brush, when you were but human. Raoul wanted a babe. A little boy to carry on the family line, and a girl with bouncing golden ringlets, whose giggles could echo the corridors of the old chateau. But Christine could not dedicate her life to a child, now, when she had only just gotten it back for herself, and still felt her grip on sanity frail at best.

She sighed and prepared to ring a bell to summon her maid. It was time to fix her hair and go out into society. Natalie De Chagny was visiting and Raoul had promised them a lovely dinner in the city. Somewhere far away from the seeping shadows of the Opera. The Comte believed his wife to be frightened of it, still. And Christine's eyes and mind often strayed in the direction of the mysterious building.

She came down the grand staircase, into their finest gilded sitting room. Rumor had it that the golden edging and elegant settees came all the way from the time of Louis XV. Natalie was pacing across the rich Persian carpets and immaculately polished parquet floors. The impatient swish of her skirts and the nervous tap of her little boots made Christine stop in the doorway.

"Cousin? Are you well?" She asked, thinking how strange it was to refer to Raoul's family as her own.

Startled, Natalie spun around, her brow creased into a frown. Christine crossed the thick carpet to take the other woman's hand. Raoul had acquired many Persian rugs and artifacts of late. These were popular if less fashionable than the latest craze regarding Indian curios.

"Has Raul returned yet?"

Christine's husband had been at a meeting with the nobleman Dantes and some merchant earlier that day. Something about the latest shipment from Persia, though she didn't know the details of the arrangement. Christine did not involve herself in the business affairs of men.

"Not yet. Though I cannot imagine what keeps him." Her voice held a note of worry. He was meant to be back hours ago now that she stopped to think about it. Time had a way f slipping by her these days…

Natalie frowned. Christine moved to one of the opulent, embroidered couches, sitting down.

"I am certain he will be along shortly, Natalie. Come sit with me and wait." She gestured with a silk-gloved hand to the cushion next to hers. Natalie looked at her new cousin for the first time that night. Christine's golden mane was pinned up, decorated with pearls and silk flowers. The golden haze was emphasized by the candlelight on her face, giving her the appearance of an angel.

She had heard Raoul call his new bride his 'angel' once, and had noticed the flash of a pained wince almost too quick to be seen on Christine's face. Almost as though she had been touched with a hot poker, branding her. Raoul, in his light manner did not notice the effect of the endearment. She remembered also the somewhat tortured air around the woman, that day she had visited Raoul a few weeks prior.

Christine had the air of one permanently living in a hairshirt. Or perhaps expecting the sky to collapse on her at any moment.

A very strange state of mind for one so young, lovely and newly made Countess. It had occurred to Natalie that the young Comtesse was living in her own private purgatory. But she remembered Christine from much earlier than her previous visit. They had met before, though the Comtesse had never mentioned it, giving Natalie to believe that she did not remember.

It was in Perros, when she had holidayed with her aunt, uncle and cousins. Phillipe was much too old for the child Natalie to spend time with, having more than a decade on her, but Raoul had been merely two years older, and so the girl had taken to spending her time with her younger cousin and his nanny. Raoul already had a friend at Perros, she remembered, a slight pale girl, the daughter of a musician. They were not French by blood, Natalie vaguely remembered though she could not just then recall Christine's maiden name, to be able to place her nationalite d'origin. And they were not of noble blood, as the late Comtesse de Changy had pointed out with some distress, though the count dismissed her concern. What did it matter with children the bloodline of their playmate?

Natalie had felt a brief pang of jealousy at the look of sheer delight on her cousin's face, whom she decided to name her dearest friend in all the world, when he found that Christine was there for the summer also. Natalie's jealousy faded soon, when she found that she fit in well enough with the pair, the girl being even closer to her age. They were a tight little group full of mischief and fun.

Even then, in her childish eyes Christine had been beautiful, like one of the wonderful dolls in Natalie's mother's front parlour, walled off by a cabinet of glass. Porcelain and perfect in their pretty pink dresses with their cornflower eyes and blonde locks. Natalie had never been allowed to play with one, though she could remember wanting to so very much.

That was little Christine to the last. Despite liking the idea of having another playmate, the bond of ribbons and ponies that unites little girls did not bind them in the least. Their unity was born of Korrigan hunts around the cliffs and beaches. Christine had been an unusual friend with her far-away eyes and the insatiable thirst she and Raoul felt towards those folk-stories told by the elder members of the Perros community. In truth Natalie hadn't liked most of them, finding them sinister and unsettling, she could remember shivering and hugging her knees, while avoiding looking at the shadows in the room, while the other two children sat with eager poised interest. She remembered sneaking out into the garden at night, heart beating with fear, imagining the wind at her neck to be the cold hands of the ghosts and fairies, trying to lull her to her death. Raul and Christine had seemed eager though, to catch even a glimpse of one, and Natalie would never had admitted her fear lest they exclude her. So she went along to all the fairy-hunts and then at bed time she leaped into bed from across the room afraid that clammy grasping hands would grab her from beneath the bed.

That was the only summer Natalie spent with the girl, but it seemed that over the years Christine had grown into a somewhat strange woman. Still remote and beautiful, with a singing voice to match. It had been a shock to the family when Raoul announced his desire to marry the soprano. Apart from the obvious problems of her disreputable career, for men looked to the stage for mistresses certainly, but not wives, there was that strange scandal to which Christine's name was linked, the affair of the Opera Ghost.

In spite of all, Christine remained for the most part sweet and obliging, child-like. Natalie never saw the appeal the girl might hold for her cousin, aside from her obvious beauty. There were others more free-willed and beautiful and of more appropriate birth, yet Raoul was insistent upon this marriage. Perhaps there was more to the girl that met the eye…

Natalie regarded Christine carefully, sitting in the chair next to her little couch. There was a glint of repressed knowledge in her blue eyes, as though she suspected something she would not acknowledge.

"Christine, your father was a musician, was he not?" Natalie asked, more to break the silence than anything, her voice seemed to be lost in the consuming silence of the room. "What instrument was it that he used play? The viola? Violin?"

They waited through most of the night, concern rising to the point of barely-concealed restrain. Christine for her part tried not to let her mind wonder in that direction. He wouldn't have taken Raoul! Not after all this time! Not after their confrontation! She was free! They were free! She felt the familiar despair in the pit of her stomach. And the familiar madness. Would she have to crusade again, against the fallen angel, who held no power over her soul? Could she hope to win this time? What price would she have to pay for her such a victory ? Chills crawled up her spine. No! She shook her head desperately, trying to clear it. No, that part of her life was over. Raoul had merely been detained by negotiations over contracts. He would be along shortly. Then they would go to dinner. She would have roast beef, with sautéed mushrooms and cool wine. All would be well.

Hours crawled by but Raoul did not return.

They'd barely registered as the night filtered into morning eve as they were aware of every minute that passed by. The house began to wake. Soon the servants beganmoving about. The sounds were foreign, removed.

There was a sharp knock on the door cutting into the strange reverie of the two women who still had not moved. Christine and Natalie had been drinking shaky cups of tea, having called for them but a half hour ago. They still wore the formal gowns and jewels from the night before. Their faces were drawn, dark circles under their eyes. Both women rose to unsteady feet and hurried into the entrance hall just as one of the maidservants, answered the door. In the clinging cold of dusk,stood none other than Jeanne Dantes, frowning, face pale and worried, she wore a grey shawl over a rumpled dress and for some reason Christine sensed a touch of guilt, though she could not say why she thought so.

Ignoring the startled maid and not waiting for an invitation, Madame Dantes hurried in, flinty eyes fixed on the Comtesse and the unknown woman by her side.

"Madame Dantes…" Christine began an exclamation of surprise, but Madame Dantes spoke before she could finish.

"Excuse my unbecoming intrusion, Comtesse, but I must know, your husband, is he home?" Christine felt all the worse for the worry in the woman's voice. The last they had seen of each other had been that strange night, when Christine had confronted the Angel who had stolen her soul. Christine had yet to think through the events of that night, some meanings remaining yet unclear to her. She had know a freedom than that she had forgotten could exist, though somehow she also had an inkling that her bond with her tormentor had yet to be severed. That it never would be, she felt, and felt more disturbed by it. Jeanne had left her standing outside the opera house with a dying phantom and the savage girl who believed it her god-given duty to defend a murderer.

Christine was unsure about Jeanne Dantes, though the woman had helped her in the past, the Comtesse did not know what her agenda was this time.

"No, Madame, he is not. He did not come home last night." She replied carefully…

OOOOO

Hero And Erik were on their way to visit Nadir Khan. It was a pleasant, quiet night, though the air was still crisp and cold. They had elected to walk, Erik still preferring the cover of darkness to make their ventures out into the world beyond the walls of the Opera. Hero had taken his arm, as befitting a lady escorted by a gentleman, her eyes glinting with mirth in the light of the nearby lantern. Erik snorted, still tensing at her touch, though he did not pull his arm away or scold her as he would have been wont to do before the events which Hero had 'cleverly' described as somewhat illuminating, earning a derisive laugh from the Phantom and a dry comment in regards to the sharpness of her wit.

It was, Erik thought, a rather strange variation on the walks in the part of his imaginings. Though of course in his imaginings his companion had been a wife. With golden hair and eyes like the sky. Hero had never occurred to him then in those dark days of the Requiem Mass.

They had just turned the corner of Rue Scribe, when a figure materialized out of the rat-infested alley before them. It wore dark colours, its face hidden by a wide brimmed hat. Erik's hand went to his sabre, and Hero tensed, waiting for the silent figure to speak.

"Mademoiselle la Rogue?" The voice was low, rasping.

One corner of Hero's lips curled,

"Not in the least. What an unusual name, though, alas, it is not mine."

"Ah, but I beg to differ. My name is Dreyer and I have been looking for you for some while, mademoiselle." At Hero's disdainful snort he went on, "As it were we happened to have gotten wind of your particular brand of talent in a certain questionable department. My employer is willing to pay any sum you'd care to name to ensure the elimination of a very particular threat. You were trained by the best, Mistresss Winterwood, and we trust you would pass for the best yourself with the right motivation."

Erik watched the apparition impassively, while Hero's eyebrows shot up.

"Assuming, friend that I am who seem so sure I am, I have no business with assassinations that much is fact. And overlooking even this, you would have me make a pact with parties of which I know nothing, to run off at your word and kill another party I know nothing off? Who do you take me for, monsieur?" Her voice was faintly mocking

"Then you refuse?"

"That should have been evident in itself. And don't bother yourself attempting blackmail. It will not work. Now if you will excuse me."

She made to walk away, but the man extended a hand, staying her, "I think, mademoiselle, in light of recent circumstance that have to yet come to your attention, you will yet reconsider. Make no mistake, we will meet again." Without another word he disappeared back into the alley.

Erik made to follow the stranger but Hero's hand on his sleeve stopped him. They stood in silence for a moment longer, before resuming their stride.

"What was that about your questionable skills, my dear? And your tendency to attract every sort of trouble available?" Erik asked, his beautiful voice silky. Hero shrugged, mind racing.

"I couldn't tell you. As to the skills, he must be referring to my failed career as an assassin. A rather unfortunate incident of youthful rebellion. It is a tiresome story for another time. Still, I have a bad feeling about our mysterious friend's identity and parting words. Whatever could he mean by 'recent circumstances'?"

"I imagine we will find out shortly, and probably wish we had not…" The Phantom said darkly.