A/N: Apparently nobody wanted to review the first chapter of this, but I'm posting the second chapter in the hope people are reading it nonetheless… despite debating for some time whether or not to take it down entirely. Anyway, for those interested, this chapter sees more reminiscence from Christine as the reasons for her decision come to light...

One thing to note – even though I swore I would never, ever use anything from the 2004 movie as inspiration, I simply had to steal M. Reyer. ;)

Chapter II

For the first month following the events under the Opera, things were perfect – perhaps too perfect – and Christine was happier than she had ever believed she could be. Raoul had insisted that she move into the east wing of his chateau, to make preparing for their wedding easier, and Christine had been more than willing to leave her small lodgings behind. She suddenly found herself in possession of the finest clothes she had ever seen, the best jewellery, the most exquisite shoes. Raoul spoiled her terribly, and she felt more than a little undeserving. She found it almost impossible to imagine that this lifestyle would continue, but as each day passed, she began to accept it.

Then, the dreams began. She had effectively blocked her experiences under the Opera from her mind, to the extent that she had practically forgotten what all the fuss was about. Then, suddenly and without warning, she was plagued with nonsensical and frightening dreams. She could make no sense of them at first; there were broken strands of music, the blur of a girl running in a stiff tutu, the distant glow of candles, and a dark sense of foreboding… It was only after several nights of increasingly similar scenes that something clicked inside Christine's sleeping brain, and she realised she was merely remembering. Yet, throughout, she never saw Erik in full view: he would always be a somewhat distant figure – hiding in shadows or half-hidden in the folds of his cloak – whom she was quite unable to reach. Always, he was silent.

The management allowed Christine a month to recuperate from her ordeal, but within a fortnight she was itching to return to the Opera. It was with some reluctance that Raoul allowed her to return, and he ensured that she was always accompanied by a chaperone. Christine found this incredibly tiresome, but conceded to the precaution if it meant she could get back to rehearsing.

One week after her return, Christine's world changed again. When she arrived that fateful morning, she did not anticipate how a few relatively simple events would subsequently start to spiral beyond her control; perhaps if she had known, she would never have left the house at all.

She had experienced a fretful night's sleep and awoken exhausted; all subsequent morning activities seemed destined to go wrong. She had broken her hand-mirror, a gift she had received as a child, and despite not being superstitious about such disasters, Christine couldn't help but wonder afterwards if that had been the cause of it all.

She was late for breakfast, and consequently it was cold and intolerable. Raoul's carriage had been in a minor accident that morning because of the overnight rain, which had made the roads dangerous. It didn't take long to repair it suitably for travel, but the journey was slow and careful as a result, and when Christine finally reached the Opera she was very relieved to be out of the vehicle, which had juddered ominously on several occasions.

She arrived flustered due to her unintended lateness. She had dropped her gloves in a puddle outside the building, and a storm was threatening in the clouds overhead, which did nothing to lighten the dark mood she had been in since waking.

She took a deep breath once inside the foyer, and tried to calm herself. M. Reyer would be quite displeased at her tardiness, but there was nothing to be done about it now. If she could regain control over her frayed nerves, she could at least perform adequately in rehearsal.

As Christine made her way to the auditorium, a gaggle of ballet rats scampered down the main staircase on their way to their rehearsal room, almost knocking her off balance in their haste. She huffed, rearranging her skirts, and then noticed that one of the girls had dropped a newspaper. They were already long gone, so Christine made no effort to chase after them. Besides, the paper had more than likely changed hands several times that morning.

She climbed a few steps to reach for the paper, intending to read it later, but stopped in her tracks as a headline on one of the open pages caught her eye. It was so brief and succinct that its meaning could not be misinterpreted:-

ERIK EST MORT!

Her hand froze mere inches above the newspaper – which she had now identified as L'Epoque, and yesterday's edition by all accounts – as the words coalesced in her brain. Her knees became weak, and she found herself swooning as she tried to take another step forward and felt her legs buckle. Somehow, she managed to break her own fall, landing uncomfortably on the steps.

With those three simple words, it was as though Christine's world had shattered into a thousand pieces. She reached for the paper and snatched it up, staring at the headline as if to confirm its existence. The story was squashed into the corner of the page, like an afterthought to the final publication. It was not even an obituary, merely an ordinary-looking article. Over and over, she read the black print of the headline, unable to believe it was true. She skimmed the short article for some semblance of an explanation, just barely comprehending what it was saying, but there was nothing to indicate how Erik had come by his fate. Indeed, it seemed a common consensus that he had merely vanished; for all intents and purposes, however, he might as well have been dead. There was jubilation, it said, at the now-silent Opéra Garnier.

Christine was only aware that she was crying when a small, dark stain appeared on the paper before her, followed by another, then another. As her tears soaked through the thin page, Christine dropped L'Epoque into her silk-dressed lap and allowed the grief to overcome her.

She did not know how long had passed before Meg found her, sprawled ungainly on the staircase. Meg's gentle, concerned touch to her shoulder roused her from her grief-ridden stupor; she became distinctly aware of the cold marble beneath her cheek, cooling her hot, tear-streaked skin. As Meg coaxed her to stand, the newspaper dropped unceremoniously from Christine's lap and landed at Meg's feet, its terrible headline uppermost.

"Oh..." said Meg, her gaze alighting on the fallen paper.

Christine managed a weak nod. "Am I the last to know?" she asked.

Meg fidgeted uneasily. "Mama and I… we were going to tell you, Christine. I'm sorry you had to find out like this."

"How…" Christine trailed off, swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat. "How did it happen?"

Meg shook her head. "I don't know. Nobody knows. Mama thinks the mob may have…" she didn't finish her sentence, as Christine flinched, closing her eyes and turning her head away. "She is so angry. She thinks it such a terrible injustice. She has even hidden the key to Box Five, and M. Andre is furious with her…"

Christine was barely listening to Meg, her mind already imagining the horrible fate that Erik might have suffered at the hands of the mob. Her eyes filled with tears once more and a sob escaped her throat, as she pressed her palms to her face and began to shake, trying to stifle her cries. Meg approached tentatively and put her arms around her friend.

"There, Christine… don't cry. There's no need to be upset – it's all over now…"

Her lack of comprehension only upset Christine all the more. She shook in Meg's arms, who uttered soothing noises and attempted to calm her down. The distant chatter of the corps became apparent, followed by Antoinette Giry's thunderous shouts.

"Mon dieu, I have never seen such a display! Three hours of practice tonight, mes cheries, and not a second less! I expect a much better performance tomorrow morning!" Her cane slammed down with an almighty 'crack', which resonated around the building, and the crowd of dancers came scurrying past once more, paying no heed to Christine's plight. They were followed by the ominous form of Mme. Giry, who did not seem at all surprised to find Christine in such a state.

"Meg," she instructed. "Leave her be." Meg released Christine a little reluctantly and stepped back. "Please, go and ensure those girls are rehearsing."

Meg nodded politely and followed the dancers at a brisk pace, leaving Christine alone with her old mentor. Mme. Giry stooped to take up the newspaper, which she folded neatly and held behind her back, concealing the offensive headline from Christine's view.

"So," said Antoinette, "I see you have read the news." Christine, now spent of tears, nodded her assent. Mme. Giry shook her head sadly. "I only wish you could have heard it from me. He would have preferred it that way."

Christine managed to find her voice, which was now harsh and trembling. "Were you… very close?" she asked. Mme. Giry's past had always been something of a mystery, and Christine was hopeful that she was her last connection to the equally mysterious Phantom.

Antoinette smiled slightly. "As close as it is possible to be to a man so elusive," she said, "but I have known him many years. He was… almost like family to me. I wish Meg had known him."

"Do you believe he is dead?" Christine asked, hopefully.

Her old mentor did not want to give her false hope. "I do not know. As enigmatic as he was, even Erik was only mortal…"

That didn't particularly answer the question, but Christine understood nonetheless. There was much she wanted to ask of Mme. Giry, but she could not find the words, her brain so thoroughly saturated that nothing intelligible would form.

Distantly, the sound of the orchestra rehearsing could be heard, followed by the slamming of a door. Christine came momentarily back to her senses, remembering why she was even in the building at all, and M. Reyer emerged, muttering under his breath. He rounded the corner and stopped in his determined tracks upon sight of the ballet mistress and the Opera's latest troublesome prima donna.

"Ah! Christine Daaé, where have you been? I will not tolerate this sort of laziness… Now, kindly proceed to the auditorium and join the chorus for rehearsal. We are midway through Act 3."

Mme. Giry intervened, standing in front of Christine as she made her way forwards. "I'm afraid, M. Reyer, that Mlle. Daaé has received some rather unsettling news…" She handed the newspaper to the maestro, turned it to the correct page and tapped her finger on the small article. He blanched a little at the name, but realisation dawned on his features.

"Oh. I see."

"So perhaps it might be permissible for her to be absent from today's rehearsal?"

"I… yes, of course." M. Reyer tucked the paper beneath his arm. "But I will expect her back within a week."

Christine did not take kindly to being talked about as though she were not present, and stepped out from behind Mme. Giry, her grief momentarily forgotten. "I am perfectly capable of rehearsing, M. Reyer!" she said, at once realising the ridiculousness of the statement. Her voice was in no fit state to sing. Sighing, she conceded defeat. "All right. You will see me in a week's time – if not earlier."

With that, she walked from the building, her head held high.

The rain which had threatened that morning had arrived with a vengeance whilst she had been indoors. Christine paused at the threshold of the Palais Garnier and stared through the torrent, wondering how she would get home. The carriage was due to return at the end of rehearsal, along with her chaperone, and Raoul would never permit her to travel by public carriage. Besides, there were none to be seen; the streets and pavement cafés were deserted.

Christine resigned to walk, not bothering to cover her head; the feel of water drumming on her scalp gave some relief, creating a rhythm to her mind's chaos. She hoped that the journey home would give her some time to collect her thoughts, and if not, then the storm would easily hide her tears.

-w-

She could remember that morning as clearly as if it had happened only yesterday. To think about it again brought fresh tears to her eyes, but she blinked them back. Now was not the time for grief; she was still too close to home. The time for grieving fully would come soon enough.

As if to mock her plight, the grey clouds which had slowly gathered above her head began to rain upon her, a light shower spotting the deck. Christine pulled the hood of her cloak up to cover her head and adjusted the scarf around her neck, then concealed her hands in her furred muff. She had dressed appropriately for the journey, despite the clement weather at the outset, for which she was glad.

She cast her eyes briefly towards the heavens.

"Even the sky is crying for you, my friend," she said. "In a few hours, I will be able to join in its grief."

She swallowed the lump in her throat uncomfortably, letting a wave of sadness wash over her. She hoped that Erik, wherever he might be, would understand her reluctance to let go. Christine needed to be alone; she knew that Erik, of all people, would comprehend that.

A/N: This chapter was borne out of my aforementioned 2007 visit to the Palais Garnier when I was sitting down on the grand staircase to rest my aching bones, and noticed how cold the marble was. The image of Christine discovering the news of Erik's fate within his home struck me as being incredibly poignant, and that's where the scene came from…