The original draft of this was so horrendously sappy, that I almost put this Phic on hiatus. But I'm determined to finish it, so I put in nuances leading to the chapter's ending. Perhaps it's easier to do that when you're fully awake. I was exhausted because last night my aunt and I had a three hour commute back to Long Island after seeing Giselle (mentioned in this chapter) at the Lincoln Center Festival. Please enjoy, but if you don't, flames are certainly welcome.

Disclaimer: I do not own: Phantom of the Opera, an organ, Giselle, Sylvia (which is alluded to in the chapter), Scandinavia, Baron von Haussman, red wine, or a sexabolical eagle bed. And while we're at it, we can throw in Harry Potter and a summer cabin in Maine.

The bombastic harmony of pipes reverberated on the water as Erik lifted his fingers from the organ's keys and jotted down some notation. It had been a fortnight since Christine's arrival, and in that time he had recuperated to his normally functioning state. Funny how a month and a half ago his life had felt final and nothing had been more desirable than to sleep eternally at the Angel's Well.

A whisper of gentle feet and sweeping dress hems filled the chamber. Ah! Those ivory feet he had once kissed so timidly! But everything was different now; Christine was with him, loved him. He could brush his lips upon her toes – or any other bit of her, for that matter – without fear of rejection. And Monsieur le Vicomte had yet to make his cavalier entrance. This hurt Erik for the sake of Christine's pride and simultaneously launched him into a fury that he had wasted away for a month while his Angel was with a scoundrel who would not even come to rescue her.

She now stood before him, shifting a parcel from arm to arm. Christine knew he was prone to these bouts of pensive recollection and therefore patiently set down the brown paper package and waited for Erik to surface.

When he did, he noticed her face was pale and drawn. Her hands fluttered helplessly and her lips were in constant, silent motion. He would ask later because now, in the midst of some internal conflict, she would not give a full explanation.

"How was Paris?" Funny how he asked so nonchalantly, when he had not seen the city above in a good two or three months.

"Lovely." Christine smiled, masking all tension in a conversation tone. Like the itch that must wait to be scratched at a more opportune time, this irked Erik so terrible that he had to look down at his hands and breathe deeply. This distrust must not get to him, or fidelity would never be an option. He was working so hard not to lose her again! She continued, "The month of April is magnificent in the parks and streets and shops."

If Paris was blossoming, Christine had already bloomed. She had cast off her whalebone stays as suggested by Erik, not just because it was hazardous to the developing child but also because of the fascination he found in her metamorphosis. Christine was not much rounder than when she had returned; yet a subtle pronouncement sharpened everyday.

"How goes the Haussman rebuilding project?"

"Nearing its end actually. Now that you mention it, that reminds me…" She came to sit beside him on the bench; he kissed her temple with no reluctance whatsoever.

"Reminds you of what?"

"The Opera ballet is putting on Giselle, and are announcing the production of a new ballet at the opening night."

The new recital struck his interest first. "New? Who is its composer?"

"Monsieur Delibes. Some nondescript Arcadian theme in three acts."

"Ah… where do they practice?"

Her lips parted in a grin as she pointed heavenward… or rather to the stage above their heads.

"Here! But—"

"Interesting to know life goes on in spite of you, eh?"

This comment stung a bit, but he laughed appreciatively and kneaded her upper arm. "Well, I expect you'll wish to see the performance. Have the queues formed yet?" At a nod from Christine he proceeded. "No matter. I can use my remaining power as leverage. Besides, those fools Andre and Firmin must learn they are still expected to pay my monthly salary."

Christine twined her fingers into her hair, twisting mechanically. This, he had learned, was a sign of deep thought, just as were curling up and biting nails while reading. He shifted fretfully. What was she thinking?

He pulled her to him with both arms firmly about her waist. "Mon cher, I worry for you. You look as though you've seen a ghost, or a de Chagny." She shuddered at his jest – a bad sign. "Perhaps you shouldn't go about alone anymore. One is sure to recall a beautiful woman." Hers was the kind of savage beauty commonplace in Scandinavia, but exotic to the French. Aside from the aesthetic pleasure in her face, she would be easily remembered for being with child, unsupervised in public. Though healthier, wearing no corset while pregnant was still quite avant-garde.

"Perhaps…" Christine began but then shook her head against Erik's chest. Such a simple touch aroused him, but his anxiety and fury mixed for the moment so that he intensely listened as she moved on to another topic. "I purchased your plaster, by the way. Why is it that you need it?"

Hm… this put him in a better mood. Definitely more pleasurable to keep his plans secret. He merely moved his hands up her torso.

She arched her back slightly, but otherwise did not give in. "You don't wish for me to know?"

He growled in frustration. He had to do some things if they were to get done at all. He guided her against the bench and kissed every visible inch of satin flesh. "Mm… interesting to know life goes on beneath your mind's workings, is it not?"

Erik was fully alive. He glanced gratefully at Christine beside him; in the past hours, she had resurrected him to the man he had been in the past. She still smelled of his scent and yet also of a perfume that could only pertain to Christine.

Her back against his chest rose and fell in deep sleep as he contentedly embraced her. After this ballet, he would find the boy and persuade him to release Christine. She no longer wore his ring; she lived and consensually loved Erik. The only foreseen conflict was proving the paternity of the child. Even if the imbecile had to wait and see the composer's dark hair and piercingly intelligent eyes in his heir, it mattered not. Then Erik would pay a priest and ask Christine to –

Oh, but then! Then, his dear Angel stirred and sobbed in dream aword that shattered all of his illusions.

"Raoul…" She mewed, almost begged, "Raoul!"

As if caught afire, Erik reeled half-naked away from the bed and staggered blindly into his library.

So she dreamt of the boy. Of course, she still loved him; how could Erik have been so ignorant? They must have been meeting and planning rendezvous when Christine went into the city. He merely wasted away in the Opera cellars, dead to the known world. Why had he thought he could tear apart the de Chagny marriage? And if the Angel of Music did not haunt Christine's slumber, how could he have a chance at all?

The Phantom of the Opera shakily poured a glass of his driest red wine and pulled the Poe anthology from its shelf.

Funny how life went on in spite of you…