A/N:

I'm going on a trip today (I'm also still sick), so I can't promise that I'll be able to update as often as I'd like. The trip will last about a week; I'll see if I can write during then.

I wrote several different versions of this chapter, each never quite matching what I wanted. I'm not even entirely sure this version pleases me. I hope it's good enough. Please forgive any errors; I don't use a beta (though I probably should).

Also- this chapter is another quickie; I'm sorry about that, I just wanted to get it up before I indefinitely lose internet access.

Thank you for the reviews, follows, and favorites. They keep me going.

Now, on to the next chapter...

A Phantom's Beginning

Chapter Three

She wasn't entirely certain as to why, but she had to know what was in the cellar.

Perhaps it was the alarming thrill of disobedience, or the heightened sensation of forbidden vice, or even the nagging concern that whatever lurked below her feet had wrested her mind.

Whatever it was, she didn't consider it.

It was the witching hour; Christine could glimpse just a tiny sliver of moonlight through the window. A deep ribbon of charcoal sky fanned the horizon, swathing the ambient world in a perpetual mystique. She narrowed her stare. She could discern nothing but the night.

Without another draw of breath, without another inkling of doubt, and without another heartbeat, she took to the floor and out to the staircase.

Mindful to keep her tread light, she gripped the railing with a quavering palm and dashed down the irregular path. A step or so until the terminus it gave way with a fit of moans and creaks.

A thrill galvanized her spine.

She froze.

And waited.

She waited for seconds, minutes, hours for the approach of another being.

The stillness offered no token.

At a snail's pace, Christine descended the remaining three steps and pressed out onto the foyer.

How many days had it been since the arrival of the clandestine guest? Two? Three? Time had blurred, ragged at the seams, forming an amalgam she could scarcely process nor fathom. Her world had been submerged in a boundless night; she could consider nothing but the notion of discovery.

Her heart thrummed on, a great drum in her chest. Each step coupled her pulse. The vision of the cellar door came into focus through the gloom- hazy, ambiguous, flickering to her drowsy gaze. She took a few, stuttering steps.

And opened the door.

Christine was jarred, baffled, stupefied that the door had been unlocked. Perhaps Madame Giry had neglected the task because she had forgotten.

Or perhaps whoever-whatever-was inside was meant to come in.

As if surveying the scene from above, she watched as her feet took the short degression into the depths of the place she had always been forbidden to traipse. Each step protested against her weight; the wood let out sharp dissents with the added pressure of her foot. She took in a breath. The insipid, scorching taste of dust and abandonment seized her throat, ballooned her lungs. She resisted a cough and lowered herself still into the cavernous unknown.

Upon reaching her destination, she began to chide herself. How could she have been so delinquent as to forget a source of light? Her eyes darted about, yet saw only the familiar curtain of black.

What on earth was she doing?

"I dont know who you are or where you've gone to, Christine, but I don't care for this one bit," she reprimanded herself with a private whisper. A sort of perverse consciousness settled atop her chest, clenching her heart in an unwavering fist. She picked up the hem of her skirt, turning to leave when she heard it.

Him.

"Well, you certainly aren't any sort of mouse, my dear. Or am I mistaken?"

A sudden, violent burst of light captured her attention. He lit a match-perhaps more for her sake than his own- and drew the trembling flame to her equally quivering countenance. "Yes. You are clearly a girl. A slight one at that, if I may say so."

A deep, resonating chuckle occupied the void of silence he left behind. He placed a hand to his stomach, his laughter dwindling. With a qualm, she noticed that he failed to irridate the right half of his face. He continued, "A lady of little words, I see."

"Who...who are you?" Christine managed at last.

He sighed; the match's light vanished.

Then, a lapse of silence. She was almost certain she was hallucinating the entire scenario when she heard a rustle of fabric, a squeal of shoes, and the distinct musk of him draw closer.

"I am none of your concern," his growl wreathed about her ears, penetrating her coherency.

The light returned, just as feeble and impotent as the last.

She felt a current of frustration scratch at her mind; it propelled her forth. With a stamp of her foot, she exclaimed, "You are also a residence of my home. I demand you tell me your name."

"I don't believe that you possess the right to make such...frivolous demands of me, madamousille," he rasped. "Nor do I care to divulge any of my personal information to a complete stranger."

Another bout of exasperation lacerated her thoughts. "Mounsier, I-"

"Madameousille, if you please," he grated, taking a swift, clipped stride toward her. His shadow engulfed her face, causing her to slit her eyes in bewilderment. He ghosted a gloved hand at her throat. "I'm a very busy man, and I have little patience for queries and insistencies."

All at once, the room was purged of light. His hands were upon her, urging her, commanding her, governering her. She gave an involuntary gasp as her foot connected with something solid- wood, a wooden step. Christine lurched forward. He captured her by the shoulders, a contrastingly gentle gesture. Before she had the opportunity, or sense, to turn round, the cellar door was flung wide and she was out in the foyer once more.

His hands hovered above her spine. She could feel the impress of his hands like a conflagration through her chemise.

"Thank you for your compliance," he muttered bitterly.

Christine turned as a frigid chill inundated the spot where his hands had been.

She blinked; he was gone.