Erik is dead.

Erik is dead.

Erik is dead.

She had read it three times, just to be sure. After all, it could have been a misprint. It could have been a simple mistake of the typist – yes, that must be it. Perhaps an Erin had died, the name's were very similar after all. Surely Erik couldn't be dead, not so soon, not with such little fuss…surely her eyes were playing tricks on her.

Yes, her eyes must be unfocused from embroidery. She had embroidered all morning; her handkerchiefs had to reflect her new initials. C.C. She was no longer C.D. The name Daae was no longer, she was Christine de Chagny, Comtesse. She would just go to Lorraine, ah, no, Lorraine could not read. She had forgotten that in her haste. None of the servants could read, save Pierre, and he was much too occupied to be bothered with a misprint.

So, who else could read it to her? She had to make sure, after all. She knew it was not Erik who was dead, no, no, surely not. But, that "n" looked suspiciously like a "k" to her. Well, she would just have to send a complaint in to the editors of L'Epoque! It would not do to be utilizing such an unclear font type, that would not do at all! It would look most impressive coming from the Comtesse de Chagny, of course, they would have to listen.

Raoul could read it off to her, just to make absolutely sure. She knew it was poor Erin who died, poor Erin who was perhaps a chimneysweep, someone not very important. Because everyone who was someone had a long obitutuary, friend and family alike had something to say about the deceased, they always did.

Her silken slippers made little noise on the cold marble of the halls. Her muslin frock whispered as it ever-so-lightly brushed the ground. One hand smoothed back a flaxen curl and rose to knock on the door of her husband's study.

Two raps, timid as they were, startled Raoul de Chagny from his work.

"You may enter," he called out, as she opened the door.

Looking up, a bright smile adorned his handsome features. His thin mustache, neatly trimmed just this morning, stretched with along with his lips. His fair eyes danced at the sight of his lovely wife.

"Why, it's my Little Lottie!" he exclaimed, "What brings you here this morning? And looking so beautiful too!" He made his way around the desk and properly embraced her, planting a safe kiss upon her brow.

Flushing at his attention, she held the paper to him, turned the exact page. That it was so macabre a page, he had not yet noticed.

He smiled gently at his little wife, "Dearest Christine, you are very kind to bring me the paper, but I have already received one this morning."

For a second, confusion curled about her features. "Oh, no, no, Raoul. That's not why I brought you the paper. My eyes must be tired, because I can barely make out the letters – I was embroidering all morning – would you mind terribly reading me this obitutuary?"

"How absolutely morbid of you! Reading the page of the deceased, Christine? Whatever for, my darling?" He laughed gaily, though an odd look crossed his eyes. His darling wife had seemed recovered from her ordeal with…him, but perhaps some wounds needed more time.

Noticing her consternation, he relented. He could never resist making her happy. Scanning the page, he found the caption she spoke of.

"It simply says 'Erik is dead', Christine why—"

He had been cut off. Christine had fainted away, landing hard on the ground.

"Christine!" He cried out with alarm. Hastily stooping to cradle her prone form, he emerged from the study, calling out for aid.

"Pierre, summon the doctor! Quickly, the Comtesse has fainted!"

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A/N: I know the writing seems disjointed and fragmented, but I'm writing it the way that I believe each character would think. Honestly, who thinks in perfect grammar and form anyways?

Enjoy and review.

Oh and I own nothing that you recognize.