AN I decided to pretend that the Phantom didn't have a piano but an organ because it seems more plausible that he could sneak down the parts to build a piano than an organ. Don't hate me! any feedback would be hugely appreciated. Thanks!

Eric knew there would be repercussions for his squashing out the life of that disgusting Bouquet man. But after his beloved had left, her bare white throat reddened from his hateful rage, he believed that nothing could hurt more. But he was wrong.

Setting traps only got him so far in this situation - there were only so many men who could fall for the same trap. Eventually about ten managed to filter through, by which time Eric was in another chamber, below his usual living quarters, with some of his smaller instruments, rare herbs and spices and other collections that he could not bare to part with - his compositions, though they meant nothing without his angel to sing them - some half finished sketches of Christine, diagrams of new traps and so on. He had told himself he would not watch from behind the small iron grate, which was at his eye level In the secret chamber, looking out to the floor level of the rooms above. But it was near impossible to hear each crash and thud wondering which of his prized possessions had been decimated this time.

The piano was the worst. It was like a piece of his soul – he had spent years of his life at that piano, surely by now. And Christine had sung with him there, and he had composed for her there. She had ripped of his mask there and cowered while he raged at her.

The piano was set alight along with some of the compositions Eric had left behind – Don Juan among them. It deserved to burn. The audience was clearly not ready for the passion he had needed to realise, the artful manipulation the characters perform in order to be rewarded with flesh, the chaotic score was ahead of its time. It could burn.

"His masks!" A deep voice shouted.

"Smash them, burn them all" was the reply. Eric cringed. He now had only the one upon his face left. The white half face mask was fine for day to day business but he could not sleep in it – a black piece of silk was what he preferred to wear about his home and to sleep in. He would previously go about unmasked but if the mood struck, he would smash mirrors and hurt himself. And, as he had planned for Christine to reside here, she would want to see her face. Who wouldn't want to see her beautiful pale face, gently sloping nose and pink lips, with heavily lidded bright eyes, and brows that creased in the middle when she was being stubborn.

Another smashing sound roused Eric from his daydreams of caressing her slender white neck. Ah his glass side table. The things the mob – what was left of it after they made their way through his traps – had set alight were starting to really catch now, and were beginning to pose a danger. They went into a frenzy, determined to destroy as much as possible before they had to leave, or else face being engulfed in flames. They ransacked his room – what little there was in there, and then they went into the chamber designed for Christine.

A single tear ran down Eric's cheek as one of the men pulled out the wedding gown he had crafted for her. It was simply cut, with silks and lace throughout, perfectly tailored to her measurements which he had stolen from the costume department. There was a day gown for her too – just a simple dark blue with cream embroidery.

"Wonder who's this is then?" One lad pondered. Then he plunged his knife into the bodice ,and Eric swore he could feel it in his heart. He could watch no more. He would wait for them to leave, extinguish the flames and plan how to make out that he had fled – for he would not leave his home. Not for anything.

Not doubting for a second that Raoul and that interfering Persian would soon be on her heels, Christine launched herself in the general direction of the Opera house and tried to ignore the stares her bruised throat inspired.

On arrival, she threw open the opera house doors. There was no sign of fire, just a smell of smoke and a general air of worry amongst the few staff that were inside. There were tendrils of smoke rising like tentacles from some of the grates that she knew connected down to her Phantom's lair – they were how he could hear her sing, and probably helped him throw his voice when he wanted to scare the managers.

On the way to her dressing room, Christine saw no one she knew. A few stage hands that she did not recognise nodded at her, barely noticing her throat's bruising.

ON entering her dressing room, Christine found a scarf and put it on, tucking the ends into the bodice of her dress so they would not get caught on something if she needed to do anything physical like lifting wreckage. The thought of her phantom lying burned, or beaten, or dead made her feel sick to her stomach; she hadn't eaten since before yesterday's show, and the acidity made her uneasy.

Ready as she would ever be, Christine turned to open the mirror door and was horrified to see it had been smashed. It's just a mirror, she told herself, No need to be upset. You have a job to do. But it had been the door between their two worlds, her Phantom and her. Down there was music and his volatile temper and friendship of sorts, a guiding hand, an angel. And on the other side of the door, the harsh realities of the opera house, stage hands with wandering gazes and hours of ballet practice and incompetent managers. And Raoul…

The thought of her fiancé roused her, as he could not be far behind her. How could she stop his pursuit? Spying her stationary equipment on her dressing table she scrawled a note. That should stop him for a while.

Holding the frame for support while she stepped over the glass, Christine knew that her life was in danger. There were traps all along this route, and she had only travelled it with her Phantom, who of course knew where to step. But clearly someone – or many someones had been down here already. The smoke smell was stronger as she descended the stoney slope cautiously. Her fears were confirmed when she glimpsed a pale hand poking out from around the corner.

He's just sleeping she told herself. Rounding the corner, she saw the face with distant staring eyes, an arrow lodged in his heart and blood everywhere – she took care not to step in it. Avoiding a particularly large puddle of the man's life blood she felt a stone move slightly under her foot and instinctively she collapsed to the floor to avoid whatever it triggered. She landed on top of the body. A woosh of air passed above their heads – hers and her silent companion's. Perhaps so many people had triggered the trap that it was out of arrows? Climbing to her feet Christine noted her hands, face and dress were wet, stained with blood.

The contents of her stomach were emptied next to the poor dead man, who she could look at no longer. Crossing herself and praying for the man's soul – although he clearly wanted to hurt her Phantom, else he would not be here – Christine's suspicions were confirmed when she saw that two more bodies were down the hall. These ones were alive, unconscious but weak. They were shorter than the dead man, so the arrows had not met their mark and missed the heart.

They were too heavy for Christine, young and fit as she was. But how could she leave them? They were people, with families and friends and..And they wanted to hurt your angel a stern voice in her head reminded her. They just do not understand him, and they fear what they cannot understand. These men do not deserve to die in a cold wet corridor irrespective of their crimes.

Unsure of her task, Christine decided she needed to see if her Phantom was alright. Then they could come and help these poor men together. Although, if they had been attempting to gain access to his lair, he was probably unlikely to help. But surely if she told him that she wished it, he would comply?...

The slope continued, getting harsher and the air becoming colder. A breeze probably carried the chill from the lake. The smoke smell got stronger too and debris was littered here – she was getting closer. The attackers must have smashed things up and fled in a hurry, dropping loot along the way. A small bronze statue here, spices there, a book on- oh. Lovely Ladies? That could not be his, he is so kind and gentlemanly. No someone must have brought it with them

Christine was struck by how little she knew her teacher. He was a dark and twisted man, she knew. But when his temper abated he was kind and gracious, giving her anything she wanted. She tried to be the same back but he would not let her lift a finger for him. He said that a hideous creature like himself was undeserving of her attention. How wrong he was.

More bodies. These ones had been burned, their hands were blackened and singed where they had tried to protect themselves but they were dead nonetheless. Her stomach threatened to empty for a second time, but held fast. Averting her eyes, Christine crossed herself again for these poor people who were so wrong about her friend. If she ever reached him, she would ask him to tell her a safer way to his lair.

Could a trap run out of fire? Christine felt foolish and ignorant; she would ask her Phantom to teach her more about the world. At twenty, she still had so much to learn. Some kind of noise brought her to attention and she dropped to the floor. Not in time however, as she smelled the unmistakable scent of burning hair, acrid and cloying.

It's just hair. I would lose it all for my Phantom to be safe She told herself firmly. She could wear a wig on stage if she had to. If she even had a career anymore – the damage to the opera house seemed minimal but the structure could be weakened by the fires in the basement, though Christine was beginning to suspect that the Daroga had exaggerated. Or perhaps he was poorly informed.

She was almost there. She was hurting in places she hadn't noticed before, from throwing herself onto stone floors and from breathing in smoke. Considering she had almost suffocated yesterday, the smoke was not helping her discomfort. It clung to the raw insides of her throat like tiny fish hooks digging into her deeper with each breath.

Almost there, she thought. She had to keep going, forcing her feet to move, keep moving, one in front of the other. There were no more bodies, so perhaps that meant no more traps? Christine shivered. There was a draft coming from somewhere. A trap door?

Something under one of her feet gave way and she leaped forward, screeching like a banshee in fear, slamming into the rocky floor for a third time. Running water below her indicated she had just escaped a watery grave.

How many bodies were being swept along beneath her, floating like glass bottles In a stream? They probably meant as much to her teacher. He clearly had little regard for human life.

So why are you doing this? The cynical voice was back in her mind. Before all this, before she had met her Phantom in the flesh, she had never been so bitter. What had changed?

Promising that if she lived through this she would fight for a better mindset, Christine hauled herself to her feet, wincing a little and readjusting her scarf once more.

She rounded another corner and stopped dead in her tracks – she had expected a much longer journey but here she was. Or was she?

The place before her was barely recognisable. There was the lake, with some floating bits of charred wood that must have been the boat. And that thing over there must have been the piano…And the bookshelf was overturned and had been set alight too, and it was still on fire. Her phantom was no where to be seen. Was he dead?

Cringing at the thought of her teacher being no more, Christine braced herself to see another body. Stomach sloshing like a ship tossed at sea, she wandered around the main room looking for a pair of legs poking from under something or some kind of clue-

His masks. The case of masks was open and all of them had been crushed into pieces, and a bottle of ink had been tipped over them. Christine wished her Phantom had not favoured red ink as the effect was rather macabre.

He is not here. That means he must be alive. Do not panic yet. Put out the fires and wait for him to return.

And so she began to right the wrongs that the Opera house had done her Phantom, book by ruined book, extinguishing small fires and sweeping up broken glass.

Damn her! How could she do this to him?! Raoul's gloved hand quivered as he read the note one more time to ensure he had not read incorrectly.

Raoul, it read. The Phantom is dead. I have gone with Meg Giry to Lille, to spend some time in the country to help my voice with better air. I will be gone some time. Do not seek me out. I wish to be alone,

Your Christine

But she wasn't his Christine. She never would be. She had always been his. The angel of music sings songs in her head, thought Raoul bitterly. He will never leave her alone, in life or in death.

Scrunching up the note and throwing it into the tunnel behind the mirror Raoul considered his next move. All he could do was help restore the opera house, commission a new soprano and wait for her to come back. If she came back.

Cursing under his breath, he whipped round on his heel, cloak whirling, and stalked towards the manager's office to take his rage out on someone else.

He hoped they still had La Carlotta's address.