Madame Giry sat thoughtfully before Christine, listening intently.

Christine chose her words carefully. "Things are not as I expected..."

"You are not happy?"

"No, I am... it's just that I thought things would be different."

"How so?"

"I don't know. It's Raoul, it's me, it's this place... I just, I don't know what I'm doing Madame Giry! I barely see my husband, he is constantly away on business, and it's changed him..."

"The stress of his brother's death-" Madame Giry began.

"I know," Christine interrupted. "I thought so too at first, I thought it was the stress of handling such a vast amount of fortune, the weight of the family name upon his shoulders, but he has been so distant with me, I fear I do not know who he is anymore."

"He is the same man who you fell in love with, my dear."

"Is he? How can you be so sure, Madame?"

For once Madame Giry could not provide an answer, how could she blatantly reassure a girl who trusted her so much? How could she lie, without certainty, and tell her everything would be alright? Christine sighed wearily. "I-I just feel so, so isolated. I don't fit in here." A silent tear slid down her cheek, she could taste its saltiness upon her tongue.

"Oh, shh Christine, my dear."

Christine wept silently into Madame Giry's shoulder, as she patter her back soothingly.

"I'm sorry to have to leave you like this Christine, you have been like another daughter to me, and such a loyal friend to Meg," Madame Giry embraced Christine warmly. "We will both miss you very much."

"Not as much as I'll miss you Madame." Christine wiped a tear from her eye. "I'm sure you and Meg will be very happy in London."

"It's the fresh start that I think we both need." There was no need for more words, for what they both felt, and understood went far beyond them. They had shared a mother/daughter relationship, yes, but they had also shared an understanding of a man, as dark as the night he shrouded himself him, and both had seen beyond the mask.

"H-have you…?"

"Seen him?" Madame Giry knew what plagued her thoughts. "No Christine, I have not." She sighed heavily. "I know vaguely of what occurred down there, in his lair that fateful night, but beyond that… to his whereabouts, his well being?… I know as much as you, my dear." She surveyed her adoptive daughter, noting the brown orbs filling with tears once more, the brows knitted in anguish, and the pale skin draining even paler. It was several moments before Christine ventured to speak, and when it came it was in no more than a whisper.

"I wish… I wish I could see him… one last time."

"Do you?" Christine looked up in bewilderment. Madame Giry sighed once more, placing a comforting hand upon her shoulder.

"Do not be so hasty as to stir the ghosts of the past, Christine. You think you are ready to see him, yet have you stopped to consider that although you may wish to see him, that he may wish not to see you? Or of the consequences?" Christine looked up. Madame Giry, ever the wise woman that she had known, voicing what Christine herself feared.

"You have a good man for a husband Christine, I know it, just have a little faith in him" It seemed as though she wished to say more, but there was no more to be said. Christine fully understood the implications of Madame Giry's words. She nodded.

"Yes, I do."

XxXxXxX

A week had passed since the Girys had visited, and Christine's disposition had still yet to change. It was late, and although Raoul had returned home around noon, she had only had a brief greeting with him, before he whisked himself away to meet with even more gentlemen. So when Christine returned to her bedchambers, she sat and thought about her husband, and the life she now found herself to lead. Christine missed Raoul's safe and pleasurable company so much, the delightful conversations they once had. Pulling a book from her bedside drawer, she flipped the pages lazily open, not to any particular place, it was only a way to pass the time, for she would wait for her husband to retire. To Christine's dismay Raoul never came to bed that night, and when she finally allowed the book to fall limply from her hand as drowsiness took over, she finally allowed herself to succumb to the infinite pleasures of sleep. Infinite pleasures were the last thing to enter Christine's mind that night.

"..Come! Come inside! Come and see, the Devil's Child!"

A young Christine dressed in ballet clothes looked up fearfully at the man who towered over her. She did not like the look of this man, the way the stench clung to him like the filthy clothes he wore, his teeth were rotted in his overly slack mouth, as leered at her and her fellow ballet rats, beckoning them to see this "attraction", held within the tent. Meg looked over her shoulder.

"Come on Chrissy, we don't want to be left behind..." her young friend urged.

Christine's brows knit in anguish, her fingers twirling about her flaxen curls as was the habit when she was nervous. "Oh, I don't know about this Meg, I don't think we should go inside."

The remaining ballet rats turned on her. "Oh what's the matter, Precious princess? Are you too scared to go into a tent? Are you afraid of the dark? Look, everyone! Christine's chickening out!"

The ballet rats all sneered and mocked her for her lack of bravery, as Christine nervously fidgeted with her hands. Suddenly Meg's voice, braver than it usually was, piped up.

"Hey, leave her alone! She's not scared, are you Chrissy?"


She nudged her young friend, urging her to prove them wrong. Christine drew in a large, shuddering breath, and stepped inside the tent.
It took a while for her eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness, but she could vaguely make out a crowd surrounding a cage. The smell was unbearable, like rotting food and faecal matter.
The ballet rats pushed and jostled her from behind, finally shoving her through a gap in the crowd, where she found herself pushed right up against the bars. The sight that befell her almost made her dry retch. The cage, rusted and old contained copious amounts of straw, and strangely enough, bones. There were filthy rags lying about, and two bowls, one filled with dirty water, the other empty. As Christine's eyes adjusted more to the darkness, a sudden movement caught her attention. Huddled in the further most corner of the cage, as far away for the jeering and leers of the crowd as it could get, was an animal. It cowered from the constant abuse, of objects being thrown at it, and as it lifted its pitiful head, Christine gagged in horror. This was no animal, it was a young boy! Through the slits of the filthy Hessian bag pulled firmly over his head, Christine could make out the fathomless sadness in cased within those swimming orbs. Their eyes locked, and it were as though every other thing in the universe ceased to exist apart from Christine and this boy.

"Oh, my God... Erik!" Christine whispered.

The boy crawled towards her, his hands and skin as filthy as the rags he wore, and his hair a matted mess. He grabbed the bars in front of her, hoisting his pitiful form up, so that his and Christine's eyes were level. It seemed an eternity that they stared at one another, fierce gold never leaving chocolate brown. Christine brought her hands to the bars, her pale fingers barely touching the tips Erik's, as a single tear fell from Erik's eye and disappeared behind the bag, leaving a clean streak on his grubby face. Suddenly a large shadowed figure emerged from behind Erik and tugged the young boy back from the bars.


"No!" Christine cried, as the man ripped the bag from Erik's head, revealing his deformity to the mass of people crowded around his prison.

Women and children screamed at the sight of him; "Demon! Abhorration! Devil's Child!" Curses rang through the air, as Erik feverishly tried to hide his face from the crowd, but the man kicked him mercilessly in the ribs, sending him sprawling to the floor. The sound of a whip cracked through the air, sending a stabbing sensation through Christine's heart. She fell to the floor, gasping at the immense anguish she felt, her head spun from the pain. She gripped the bars, raising her head to look upon the pitiful form of her young angel. Christine's eyes opened even wider in horror. Erik the boy no longer sat surrounded by the immense filth, instead a fully grown and de-masked Erik sat cowering pitifully, his eyes never leaving Christine's in his silent pleas as slash upon merciless slash ripped across his already severely scared back. A crumpled newspaper fluttered across Christine's vision, as she caught the main headline; "Phantom of the Opera apprehended?" Christine's mouth fell open in horror.

"No!"


Erik looked up grimly through the iron bars, "Why Christine? Why?"


Christine screamed. "Erik!"

"Erik!" Christine's heart thudding madly within her chest, cold sweat dripping from her face, her sheets tangled wildly around her trembling form. She gasped, fighting for breath, "Erik!" She choked out. Then throwing the blankets off her, fell from the bed and scrambled across the polished wooden floor, fleeing to the bathroom, where she was violently sick, her knuckles white as she clenched the basin sides, her body heaving with each wretched convulsion.

Christine felt terrible, her whole body trembled from the vividness of the dream, and as she splashed cold water on her face, the image of the fluttering newspaper filled her mind. What had it said?
"Oh, God!" she breathed, before hastily pulling on a dressing gown and fleeing the room.