Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, or Tim Burton's Corpse Bride, just in case any one accuses me of plagiarism. Where does the corpse stuff come in? Ah, you'll have to wait and see! Moo ha ha ha.

Moonjava: Once again, glad you like my writing.

SimplyElymas: NO! Rest assured, Nadir did not kill Erik! I guess that's a weight off your little Nadir obsessed mind, eh? Nadir is going to be in this story, but he was not among the men who killed Erik – when I said 'the first man' I meant the man who was the one to find Erik…you know, the first one to see him dead. I'm glad that I'm able to write good drama as well as good comedy. Thanks!

Lydiby; Listen, and thou shalt hear…all right, I made that up. What do you mean, smile? I smile a lot! Sometimes I even laugh, when I have to! What are you implying?

THELadyRedDeath: I can make an estimate of your guess – but I prefer not to. Erik will be baaaaaaack!...just not in this chapter. Or the next few. But he will be back. Otherwise there's not much point in this, is there?

Now, before I go any further, I'd better make a few things clear. Firstly, there are going to be two Philippe's in this; Philippe the grandfather of the brothers, and Philippe Raoul's elder brother, who was named after him. To stop confusion, in the chapters after this the grandfather will be known as Philippe the Elder, and the other Philippe as Philippe the Younger.

Carlotta will definitely be in this as well – says she who's already written her in - but unfortunately for those who hate the diva she's not going to be nearly as much of a cow as she is in any other version. Although she's going to throw a few temper tantrums – which will be understandable considering the situation – she will be, on the whole, a good guy.

Nadir will be in this as well, for all those who love that little Persian, but not where you expect him at first. So don't go making any assumptions.

Also, in case anyone doesn't get the arrangement between Raoul and Christine, I'll explain it now; there's been an understanding between their families ever since they were little that they would be married when Christine was eighteen, and therefore unite the de Chagny family with Christine's father's estate, which is a pretty valuable one. So that means that, yep, Christine's an heiress, since her father's dead and all. So sue me. When her father died unexpectedly, in his will it said that she would go and live with Madame Giry, who was a widow by then, and a retired ballet dancer, who married a wealthy business man; so Christine was brought up to be a lady. Now that she is eighteen, she's being taken to the de Chagny mansion, to be married to Raoul in the late winter.

Got that? Good. I'm not telling you again, 'cos I'm just mean. Sadly, there's no Erik in this chapter. But those who love Erik should read it anyway, 'cos otherwise you won't understand who everyone else is later on, because I for one am not going to keep on saying 'so and so's sister' and 'somebody's brother in law' over and over again, because that is enough to drive anyone insane, plus it doesn't make good story writing.

Are you comfortable? Then I'll begin. Once upon a time…

Arrival

"I remember this!" Christine said excitedly, as she turned to Meg, who was watching the passing countryside with interest. "Meg! I remember this! Raoul and I used to go skating on the river when it was frozen; and Philippe and Celandine and Genevieve would come along as well on skating parties – it was wonderful!"

"It's certainly beautiful," Meg replied, turning away from the window – though she was smiling, Christine knew that she didn't really care for looking at the scenery; Meg was a city girl, born and bred, and one countryside was much like another to her. Besides, everything looked the same, covered in whiteness. But to her, it was reliving her childhood all over again, watching out for familiar sights that somehow seemed to call out to her, even though they were covered in snow. She gazed out of the window at the frozen river, cutting an icy swathe through the white landscape.

"Oh, Meg, I wish I was little again – then I could go out onto the ice again, and dance."

Meg snorted good-naturedly. "You? Dance?"

"Marguerite Giry, ladies do not snort," Meg's mother said from her corner of the carriage, without opening her eyes. "Or mock their friends – however playfully."

"Yes, mother," Meg chanted dutifully, but shooting a grin at Christine as she did so. Christine had to stifle a giggle.

"And another thing," the elder Giry went on, still without opening her eyes, "while we are on the subject; if you cannot think of anything polite to say to our hosts when we arrive, you will kindly restrict your remarks to the weather."

"Yes, mother." The two girls shared another look, and silently grinned at one another.

"And no grinning," Giry added, but now with the faintest hint of an exasperated smile on her lips. "If you do, I shall know."

How does she do that? Christine had no idea, and neither did Meg. It was just one of Those Things that the Madame was extremely proficient at.

Christine turned her gaze back to the view outside. So long ago…at that time, I thought nothing could ever go wrong… "I really do wish I was little again, though. Then I could just dance and dance forever on the ice."

Meg sighed, and leaning forward tapped Christine sympathetically on the wrist. "You have to come off the ice sometimes, though – or you'll freeze." It was her basic, straightforward way of telling her, 'Enough dwelling on the past, it's time you got on with making your future', and Christine knew it.

She smiled, as she tore herself away from the window again. "Yes, I suppose so."

For a few moments, the two girls sat in silence. Madame Giry still appeared to be dozing, and they gazed quietly at each other, without saying anything. Christine enjoyed moments like this – when she could simply bask in the company of her best friend, and not have to say anything at all.

However, there appeared to be something wrong. After the few moments, Meg's pretty forehead wrinkled; her mouth opened as if about to say something…

But then she caught sight of something, on the very edge of the window.

"Meg! Meg! There it is!"

"Where?" Meg asked frantically, all thoughts of what she had been about to say forgotten, as she whirled around in her seat, trying to catch sight of it from her point of view. She laughed as the other girl squirmed as if she had had grass stuffed down the back of her neck – she knew all too well what that was like, as well as the convulsions on the part of the victim the action consequently caused.

"You'll never see it from there! Come here, you'll see better!" She pulled Meg off the opposite seat to squeeze up beside her; and the two girls gazed out of the window, shivering in awestruck delight as well as the slight chill in the air, as the carriage finished rounding the bend in the track, and the De Chagny mansion came into full view, across the frozen river.

"Oh, my…" Meg breathed in delight, then turned and shook her mother, disregarding respect for elders in her enthusiasm of the moment. "Mamma! Mamma! Wake up; you have to see this!"

Christine's gaze remained on the mansion they were now rapidly approaching. She fully understood Meg's wonder and awe, even after seeing the sight before them so many times before. At first glance, one might think the magnificent structure to hardly be real, a figment of the imagination. It almost resembled something out of a book of fairy tales; a mythical castle, only with none of the ridiculous adding's on that invariably came with it. A vast building, with a layout that anywhere else, in any part of France, would look sprawling, but here somehow managed to be perfectly in line with the natural landscape; it almost seemed to be a work of art, rather than a building. Whether summer or winter, the mansion – almost the palace – managed to look beautiful beyond any other structure, and imply the great wealth and power of the De Chagny family. Now, in the middle of winter, the mansion stood out against – and was occasionally trimmed with – the snow, like a rare jewel in a landscape of cold whiteness.

Madame Giry had by now been shaken 'awake' by Meg, and was regarding the nearing mansion with interest. "It is certainly pretty," she acknowledged.

"Pretty? Mamma, how can you say that? It's the most beautiful building I've ever seen! If I had a house like that, I'd never leave it, even in the winter!" Meg gushed, her eyes shining with appreciation.

"I'm sure Philippe will be glad you like it – and Raoul. They're very proud of it." And so was she, she realised, with a deep, warm feeling within herself. Even though it had been years since she had last come to the mansion, she still regarded it, in some tiny way, as hers. She had learnt to skate on its lake; she had played hide and seek with Raoul in its many beautiful rooms; she had watched secretly, with her playmate, at guests arriving for summer balls, the women dressed in glorious clothes – and she had longed, with all her heart, to be one of those beautiful women; to dress in spectacular clothes, and wear diamonds in her hair, and waltz throughout the night with a partner…

And soon, she would be qualified to do that.

"Oh, Christine!" Meg grasped at her wrist. "It's like…" she paused, for once lost for words – certainly an unusual condition for her! "It's like a…a beautiful…big…wedding cake!" she blurted out abruptly. The carriage rocked with Christine and Madame Giry's laughter.

"Laugh if you want; but it does look like a big white wedding cake, with icing!" she defended herself, laughing as well. "Oh, Christine; you're going to be a winter princess!"

"What makes you say that?" Christine asked, still smiling.

"It's a winter palace – and you're going to be a princess!"

"Not really," she replied, feeling the smile dropping away. "It's not a palace – and in any case, even if it was, it's not mine. It all belongs to Comte Philippe."

"Well, you never know. Things could happen…it could become yours!"

Christine shuddered – she loved Meg dearly, but sometimes her bold friend went too far. "I wouldn't want it if other people had to die in order for me to get it. No beautiful house is worth that much." She sat back in her seat, and tore her eyes away from the house – somehow, she didn't want to watch it any more.

"That is quite enough, Meg," Madame Giry cut in. "Go and sit back down; and don't talk about such things." Meg, silent, her gaiety for the moment wiped off her face, obediently sat back down in her original seat. After watching Christine for a moment she opened her mouth to say something, but a warning look from her mother shut her mouth very quickly indeed, where almost nothing else could.

"Raoul, if you keep on pacing on that carpet for much longer, you're going to wear it out."

Raoul checked at his brother's friendly jest, but the next moment had continued his action with renewed fervour. Philippe cast a glance at Genevieve, who was seated beside the fire, and engaged in some obscure form of embroidery. They shared a knowing glance, as they watching their young brother reach the other end of the room, then turn and walk back towards them, hardly aware of what he was doing.

He did this once or twice more before Genevieve, looking up from her embroidery again, said in her quiet, gentle voice, "Raoul, do please stop. You'll wear yourself out."

"Good," he shot back. "Then maybe I won't feel so sick." He threw himself into a chair, and sat glowering at the fire.

Genevieve cast her eyes up to the ceiling, then returned to her embroidery – she was well aware of the boyish tendencies of her still not quite twenty younger brother, even though she had spent the last three years in Paris with her husband. She preferred to leave such matters to Philippe.

Philippe subconsciously seemed to recognise this role, and stepped forward from where he had been standing by the fireplace. "Raoul, I'm sure they'll be here soon – they're only an hour or so late."

"It's not that…well, not really." Raoul's gaze softened, as he stared into the fire.

The two elder siblings shared another glance. Raoul had been on edge for days and days, ever since the news had first come that Christine and her guardian and guardian's daughter had set out from their home in the far away city, to come here for the pair's wedding. Philippe could perhaps understand Raoul's nerves – the two almost children hadn't met since Raoul was thirteen and Christine was twelve, when Gustave Daaé had died; meaning Christine had been packed off to live with the guardian her father had chosen for her – one Madame Giry, a former ballet dancer who had been his deceased wife's best friend.

Now, the childhood friends would be meeting again for the first time in six years – only now, they would be expected to be married in only a few weeks from now.

Genevieve sighed, and set down her embroidery. She stretched out her hands to her younger brother. "Come here, Raoul."

Raoul, after a moment, obeyed, getting up from his set and walking over to her. She gestured to the arm of the chair – a seat that Raoul had long outgrown, but this occasion she judged to be an exception; and took his hand in both of hers, looking up into the eyes of the baby brother who had now grown taller than her. She said nothing- she didn't need to. It was simply calming for him, to sit with his elder sister, in comfort and in safety, as they used to do before they had all grown up, and she had married and gone away to live in Paris.

Philippe watched the scene with a contented air, as the frantic look gradually died from Raoul's face, to be replaced with one of peace. It was so rare now, to see such a look on his little brother's face. These days, he was either worried or anxious, or a combination of both, or sternly bland in the face of his elders.

A curse on being an aristocrat, he thought. He shouldn't have to be going through such things at his age.

The next moment, however, his train of thought was interrupted by the sound of the door of the room creaking open. Raoul at once leapt off the arm of his sister's chair, straightening his coat, and forcing a neutral expression on his face, just in case it was Philippe the Elder, come to see where they were. Genevieve too sat up straighter, a reflex born of years of hiding her natural warmth and compassion behind a mask of obedience and disinterest.

But it was only a footman in his customary livery in the doorway, panting slightly and bright-eyed.

"Sirs, Madame; Mademoiselle Daaé has just arrived!"

At once Genevieve was out of her chair, smoothing down her skirt automatically. Philippe cast a glance at Raoul's face; the boy looked as if he was about to choke. His sister, meanwhile, was speaking. "Very good. Tell her we will be down directly."

The footman nodded, and vanished.

Genevieve turned to Philippe, with a now rare smile on her face. "I had better go and find Grandpere, and Celandine – I think they're both with Bernard and Louis in the main drawing room. I'll see you down there." Without another word she was gone, a rustle of purple taffeta disappearing through the door.

Philippe turned to Raoul, to see that the youth had just sunk into the chair, and now had his head in his hands. Concerned he walked over to him, just in time to hear him say, "God help me; I can't do this!"

"Can't do what?" he asked, as calmly and quietly as he could.

"Go through with this!" Raoul hissed between clenched teeth. "I just can't do it!"

"Why not?" Philippe questioned. Raoul lifted his head from his hands, to glare at his brother.

"I can't just marry someone I hardly know!"

"You do know her. In case you've forgotten, you two were practically inseparable."

"That was six years ago! People change, Philippe! I've changed, for one; and I seriously doubt Christine's going to be the same twelve-year-old she was when we last parted." Raoul sat back in his chair, his face a mask of dread.

"So she'll have changed a little," Philippe said, trying to calm his younger brother. "That doesn't mean she hasn't changed for the better."

"What if it does?" Raoul asked listlessly. "What if she doesn't like me? What if I don't like her? She could have changed into some sort of snobby phony, like Celandine. Lord help me if she is anything like Celandine!" He buried his face in his hands again.

Philippe wasn't sure what to do on occasions like this. Raoul had never been in such a state of depression before. His education and years as the Comte de Chagny had momentarily deserted him; he was now just Philippe, comforting his younger brother on the day of his proposal.

The only thing he could think of doing was placing a sympathetic hand on Raoul's shoulder, and pulling him up gently. "We'd better go. They'll be wondering where we are."

Raoul let him lead him out of the room and down various flights of staircases, marble and wood alike, towards the drawing room where both the brothers knew his future bride waited.

"Feeling better?" Philippe asked anxiously, as they drew nearer and nearer to their destination.

The despair had drained out of Raoul's face, to be replaced with a blank, solid indifference. "Does it matter?" he asked quietly. "It won't matter what I feel about it; the wedding has to go ahead whether I feel on top of the world or as if I'm about to go down with a fever."

Philippe was, by now, more than a little concerned. "Does it really worry you that much?"

Raoul shrugged, as they walked on. "I don't know. It's odd; I've been preparing for this moment since we were both less than ten, and yet it's only now that I'm starting to have doubts." He turned to look at his elder brother. "I don't know about it being the marriage so much, as the fact that I'm expected to get married anyway, even if Christine and I had never met."

"Oh, Raoul." Philippe couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Don't tell Grandpere I talk like this. The Vicomte de Chagny is supposed to be stern, and noble, and indifferent to his wedding day, not doubtful and a bit afraid…"

Raoul gave Philippe the oddest smile, and turned away.

At length they reached the doors to the drawing room, with a footman standing beside them. Beyond the panelled wood, they could hear muffled voices. Philippe could recognise the voice of Grandpere Philippe, aged but still as smooth as ever, obviously inquiring. The footman was already opening the doors.

"Ready?" he breathed to Raoul.

Raoul's face was unreadable. "As ready as I'll ever be, I suppose."

The footman opened the doors, saying as he did so, "The Comte Philippe de Chagny, and the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny!"

In a split second, Philippe took in the occupants of the room. His sisters were seated by the fire; his grandfather was standing by the hearth, leaning on the mantelpiece in is customary stance which he himself had inherited; his brothers-in-law stood by the grand piano, a pretty blonde haired girl and an older woman were seated opposite his sisters, with Carlotta standing behind them – and, standing in the middle of the room, even now turning around to see who was entering, was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen…

And, judging by Raoul's face, as he shot a quick sideways glance at his brother, she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, as well.

"And did you travel far today, my dear?"

"Not very far, sir," Christine answered truthfully, lowering her eyes respectfully, as she walked only slightly more slowly than her usual gait, so as not to be rude and outdistance the elder Comte.

Comte Philippe de Chagny the Elder, the grandfather of the current Comte de Chagny and Raoul, was approaching his eightieth year; but the years, though cruel to him in many respects, had at least not laid their mark upon him. At seventy-nine his hair, though now grey, was still elegantly streaked with darker strands of the colour, implying the shade his locks had formerly employed; and the few lines on his face owed nothing to artifice. He still looked as if he was no older than sixty at the very least; and the only trace of feebleness he gave was the slight limp in his left leg – but then again, he had had that for as long as Christine was able to remember. He had not changed at all in the six years since she had last seen him, but then again, that was hardly surprising –six years was a long time for her, but a relatively short time for him, considering how long he had lived.

He now led her, limping slightly as always, into the large, expansive drawing room, which she remembered well. She saw, with secret delight, that the enormous grand piano still stood in the corner; perfect for practising scales or the pieces of music she had learnt in her years with Madam Giry.

However there was no time to examine it further, since already she, Meg and Madame Giry (whom the Comte had greeted politely in his customary gentlemanly manner when they had first stepped into the great entrance hall of the mansion) were being introduced to all those who were seated in the room. Genevieve and Celandine, the sisters of Raoul and Philippe, were the first to be mentioned; Celandine, who had somehow seemed to grow quieter and more subdued in the years since they had last met, simply inclined her head to her; but Genevieve had actually come forward and clasped both her hands in hers, and for a moment the expression of severity elapsed from her face, to emit a warm smile. Only for a moment, but it was there; and Christine was grateful – already she was feeling out of depth in this strange, familiar, new, old world, and it would be good to have at least one person she could speak to, even if Celandine had lost her former friendliness.

Next she was brought to pay her respects to Genevieve and Celandine's respective husbands. Genevieve's spouse – the tall, handsome Count de Charbourg – made her a graceful bow, and kissed her hand respectively. The husband of Celandine, a swarthy, slightly shorter man, whom she understood held the title of the Comte du Barry, kissed her hand as well; but she had the feeling, as his lips touched her skin, that, had he been allowed, he would have let his lips linger and perhaps move further up her arm. She had seen his sort before in Paris, the ones with various beautiful women on their arms, depending on the season; and she had more than an idea that he might have one or more mistresses hidden away in various country and town houses. She now understood the potential reason for Celandine's surliness and silence – to live a life of being supplanted by mistresses could in some cases be a living hell. She hoped fervently that such a fate would not be hers.

But where was Raoul, anyway?

Even as she thought that, she was being introduced to a girl of about her age; Carlotta Gudicelli, a Spanish cousin of the Comte du Barry by marriage, who had come to France to find a spouse by the wish of her mother; and had been brought to the de Chagny mansion by her cousin in hopes of finding a potential, rich mate at the forthcoming wedding. Christine privately doubted, despite her efforts to keep a generous mind, that that would happen any time soon; Carlotta did not look like the sort of girl that would easily attract any nobleman. Not that she was unattractive – on the contrary, she was very striking, with her distinctive black Spanish eyes and her glossy dark hair, although her slightly jutting lower lip left something to be desired; and she smiled good-naturedly at Christine when the Comte brought her forward. But she looked much too independent to be chained to a nobleman of any sort, who, by her limited experience, seemed to prefer women who were meek and compliant and did as they were told. Carlotta gave the impression that, if any man ordered her about, she would not only refuse to obey but throw a fit into the bargain.

Secretly, Christine wished that she had such confidence.

At length, everyone was seated after the introductions, except she and the Comte, who took up position by the fireplace, and regarded her with a benevolent air. It was almost as if she were part of the family already.

Or so she thought, until he began to ask her and Madame Giry questions. Where had they lived for the past six years? In what part of Paris? Near the opera house? And what has Mademoiselle Daaé been learning in all that time? I see. History and maths? And what other subjects? Very good, very good. And the arts? Ah, yes, dancing? Not too much of that, I hope?

And what sort of company have you kept? Close acquaintances? Balls? No balls? Ah, well, so much the better. Any male interest?….

And so on and so on and so on. On the surface she was smiling, but inside she was cringing; it was as if the Comte was suspecting Madame Giry to be prostituting her on a regular basis, or some such revolting thing. So she had danced a little? Ballet was not a crime, and she had danced when she was younger, and no one had thought the worse of her for it; but apparently when you hit puberty, in the Comte's view, ballet immediately made you some sort of whore. And when he had asked Madame Giry straight out, without even glancing at her, if there had been any followers on the part of Mademoiselle Daaé, for a moment she thought she might burst out, and tell him exactly what she thought of him. Certainly out of the corner of her eye she saw Meg tense in her seat, as if preparing to spring at the Comte; and only a swift restraining hand on her shoulder from Carlotta saved her, though the Spanish girl too looked furious with the Comte, or at least as far as she could see. Fortunately neither the elder man nor Madame Giry noticed; and the latter replied politely, without a trace of annoyance, in the definite negative, though inside Christine could obviously tell she was boiling pitch at this evident insolence on the part of the Comte.

She herself didn't think she could take much more of this. She was tired already, and it was almost unbearably hot from the log fire in the hearth – how could he stand to be so close to it? - she felt that if she didn't sit down soon she might faint.

But suddenly the doors behind her opened, and all eyes turned to them, including the Comte's. She did not dare turn, even though their eyes were no longer on her; but the next moment the voice of the footman came, and cast a thrill through her heart.

"The Comte Philippe de Chagny, and the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny!"

As if in a dream, she turned to look at the newest arrivals. Philippe stood in the doorway, grown much older than when she had last seen him, though still recognisable as the almost elder brother of years before; handsome though slightly cold faced, and gazing upon her with a look of surprise, though not displeasure.

And standing next to him was Raoul…

"Horrid old man!" Meg raged, storming around the bedroom, still furious about the interview of earlier. "How dare he speak to you and Mamma like that? As if he thought you'd been rolling in the hay with every stable boy from here to Paris! And as if he thought Mamma brought you up to be perfect material for some sort of mistress!" She flopped down on the bed beside Christine in a very unladylike manner, exhausted from her fuming. "I swear, if that Carlotta girl hadn't held me back, I'd have made him sorry!"

"It's probably just as well she did hold you back, then," she replied, from where she was seated on the bed. "It won't do to offend the Comte at this stage – or do him bodily harm."

"Oh well," Meg huffed, as she sat up. "I suppose it must be if you put it like that. Still, I don't know why he thinks that sort of thing is acceptable."

"He's a Comte. They're obsessed with keeping the blood line clean. And he clearly only wants the best for Raoul," Christine said, doing her best to keep Meg calm. When the younger Giry became really angry, she kept on for hours; and she really didn't need an infuriated Meg at the moment.

Meg, despite her annoyance, could not help giving a giggle, as she turned to smile at Christine, her eyes shining with companionship now, rather than anger. "Oh, Christine! He's so handsome! Why didn't you tell me he was so good-looking?"

"I honestly hadn't thought about it. It's Raoul; he was more like a brother to me than anything else."

Meg grinned saucily, in a way that would certainly have earned her a reprimanding look from her mother had the latter been present. "Well, perhaps now he'll be more than a brother to you, hmm?"

She pushed her away, in mock disgust. "Meg Giry, at times you really are the most…"

"Christine, you're going to marry him in a few weeks anyway," Meg protested. "And from what I saw of your face when he first came in, I think you won't be so averse to performing the act."

Christine turned her head away. "I can't imagine what you mean."

"Don't you hide your eyes from me, Christine Daaé. I saw your expression." Meg now smiled a smug smile, that to her seemed like the cat that had, by certain cunning devices and artifices, obtained the cream. "And I saw his face as well. If ever I saw love at first sight, it was then."

"I don't think I believe in love at first sight," she replied quietly, still not looking at Meg.

"Well, you're in a place that, despite what you say, I believe is a palace," Meg said brightly, as she pulled herself up off the bed. "You're as beautiful as a princess, and the Comte a wicked warlock; and Raoul the handsome Prince Charming. What better place for it?"

Christine sighed. "What better place indeed?"

Meg squeezed her shoulder affectionately. "That's the spirit. Come, we'd better get ready for dinner – this will be the chance for you to wear one of the new gowns they sent you."

"Yes," she agreed absentmindedly, running her fingers over the elaborate embroidery on the counterpane, allowing Meg to pull her up, and over to one of the trunks, and her chatter to pass over her head. Her mind was on much more important things than talking.

Only an hour ago, she had seen Raoul again, after so many years. And how he had changed! Gone forever was the scrawny, slightly gangling boy of nearly fourteen; and in his face was a young man, with an open, honest face, and the eyes that she remembered so well. And the look on his face as he had laid those eyes on her at the same time…the thought of it still made her tremble; with what she did not know.

She hadn't even noticed how handsome he had become during the intervening years until she and Meg had risen to be escorted to their rooms, and he had risen as well, and kissed her hand. Only then, as they had looked at each other, in the moment between his looking up from the kiss and her being whisked away, had she been aware of just how attractive he was. And his eyes…so full of wonder, and awe, and almost joy…

Christine sighed, as she allowed Meg to begin to pull off her outer garments. Things were already becoming complicated…

READ! REVEIW! PLEASE!