May not have time tomorrow, so I'll just post this today along with chap 5. (Actually I have the story in Word format up to chap 8, but I haven't edited it yet... :-D) And the italics are still behaving sporadically. Don't mind them. Chapter 6 A Tempest Over Breakfast

And, pride, what have I now with thee?

Another brow may even inherit

The venom thou hast pour'd on me

Be still, my spirit!

Erik cleared away the last sheet of paper, placing it on a thick stack of music compositions written in his elegant hand, and made sure that the edges were exactly aligned. He weighed down the papers with a jade inkstand, then proceeded to adjust the organ bench at an angle parallel to the large black mahogany instrument. Growling irritably, he pounced on a dusty spot marring the shiny surface and wiped it with his sleeve. The organ was perhaps the most painstakingly well-preserved object in the entire castle.

His demeanour towards his surroundings fluctuated from total disregard – during which the place would fall into shambles without his blinking an eye – to an unreasonable obsession with the placement of things. A piddling detail like the upturned corner of a carpet could send him into a minor frenzy. As a result, the rooms in Candlemere Castle were either a veritable nesting ground for dusty heaps of junk and dilapidated furniture, or fastidiously clean and polished, the dining chamber being one example. If you were to take a walk through you would notice that everything, from tables to candle stands, were arranged an a ninety-degree angle from each other and smaller objects like vases and cutlery were placed with an even spacing in between. This obsession with neatness usually overtook him when he was feeling restless. Tonight was one example. He predicted that he would not be sleeping a wink till dawn the next day (although this in itself was not uncommon). And all because of one idiotically determined wild-eyed woman-child who met his demonic ugliness not with terror, but with sheer impertinence! Why had he not killed her yet? Why had he sheltered her, not let her come to her own doom when she tried to escape? The incident reminded him of another hapless trespasser, a few years ago, who had inadvertently trapped himself within the winding passageways of the castle. With a sadistic smile Erik had listened to the man's cries of horror, every now and then making an appearance so as to treat the already terrified fellow to glimpses of his unmasked face. After a long while the screams turned to whimpers, and then to mutterings of a man driven mad. The process took about a day and a half. When he had been reduced to a mumbling shivering lump, Erik came with a noose in hand, looking like merciful Death, and brought a short sweet reprieve to the intruder's suffering.

But not this girl. Not Christine. For some reason the more she drove him up the wall, the less he was inclined to destroy her. The beastly sadist in him liked his victims moaning and begging for their lives. Which only puzzled him as to why he had not finished Arnaud Klimt. In fact if he had stood still for a moment to analyze his muddled emotions, he would have realized that he was drawn to her impertinence and not repulsed by it. That her defiance mirrored his own antagonistic relationship with the world around him. But the Phantom of Candlemere was not one to think standing still.

Sighing with frustration, he removed the inkstand and started rearranging papers for the tenth time.

Christine stood freshly bathed in front of the open wardrobe next morning with a mixture of loathing and resignation. Her old clothes were nowhere to be found, and unless she wanted to wander about wearing the bed sheets, she would have to pick something from this ridiculous variety of apparel.

Her practical sensibilities called it ridiculous because the clothes looked like they belong to a slave of fashion. Gold-embroidered empire waists, flounces and frills and voluminous taffeta skirts, heavy velvets that required stiff pettocoats to hold them up. No doubt they were very pretty and boasted fine workmanship, but they would look ludicrous on her petite frame and without the make-up and pearls. As she withdrew a fairly unembellished burgundy satin from the assortment, the skirts parted to reveal a lovely white muslin patterned with small blue flowers and a dainty waist, the bodice just low-cut enough to accentuate the curves of the shoulder and a hint of cleavage.

Meg would have loved it.

The vivid colours blurred before her eyes as thoughts of her family filled her head. Dear Meg and Mattie, would she ever see them again? Would they remember to pluck roses for Father, to fill the vase on his desk, the one beside the portrait of Mother? Did Raoul know what had happened to her? Would he think of her when he passed that old magnolia tree and the orchard where they had spent their childhood days? Such a good friend, a good man. Perhaps he would marry one of her sisters someday. She did not know. She would never know.

Christine's hands were trembling around the gown she held. All the grief came tumbling out, and she crumbled to her knees and crouched in front of the closet, crying and crying till she couldn't breathe.

As the last of the tears dried on her cheeks, a strain of music tickled her ears. Heavenly music, played by fingers so sensitive she imagined them stroking the keys like a lover's body. Stroking her body. She shook her head to clear that last thought. But the sweet sad melody stayed with her and echoed in her soul. Christine closed her eyes, let the music calm her. Make me strong, she prayed. Let me face another day with dignity. Let me face it like my father's daughter.

As she entered the dining room, he watched her from the balcony above. How different this lady was from the wretched trembling girl he had first seen! Here was a rosy sweet-lipped creature whose complexion was heightened dramatically by the deep burgundy of her dress. A white 'V' ran down the centre of the bodice, daintily scalloped with soft lace, to further the illusion of an hourglass figure. Her face was framed by tumbling waves the colour of dark chocolate. And the way she carried herself! It stopped at the threshold of haughtiness, that deliberate queenly grace that almost masked her uncertainty.

This time she did not draw back when he made himself seen. After calmly finishing her breakfast the first words she spoke were:

"I have a few requests, monsieur Erik."

He raised a sardonic eyebrow, although she could not see this behind the mask. "Name them."

"First, I would be most grateful if my closet was stocked with something more practical than those flounced and feathered things currently inhabiting it. You cannot expect me to prance about your abode dressed like a courtier, can you?"

He shrugged languidly. "You will have to excuse me, my dear; I have not had time to scurry down to the nearest shop to purchase dresses for a stranger. Furthermore I have no inkling as to what women like: I have never spent much time around any, and those 'flounced and feathered things' were the only feminine garments available." His lips pulled back in a grin that was more like a grimace. She thought he was going to say something further, but he stopped.

"Secondly, if it's not too much trouble I would like to be equipped with pen and paper, or books of you have them, something to occupy myself with."

His glinting golden eyes pierced hers. "You know, Christine, I find you most amusing. You are my prisoner, and yet you act like my honoured guest! In what other ways am I required to serve you, mademoiselle?"

"I am not requesting much, sir, but you must realize that even a prisoner has human feelings and human needs. Or am I your pretty plaything, to be kept at your discretion for your petty amusement?" Her voice was heated.

"And what if you are!" He knocked a candelabra aside: it fell to the floor with a thunderous clang. "My dear sweet girl, I think you fail to realize what a precarious position you are in! Gentle though I may seem at times, I have killed people younger and braver than you!"

This was not completely true. Face-to-face with his monstrous presence, this wilful girl of all persons was the first to look at the mask of death without flinching.

"And yet you have not killed me. What is it that stops you?" She actually moved in on him, ignoring the fact that he could push her down as easily as the candle stand. "Oh, I know how you are. You would rather have your vctims beg you for mercy! You are like a cat that plays with its food before devouring it. Well begging your pardon, monsieur, but you will have no such entertainment from me!"

He drew up to his full height, lips drawn back over his teeth, and now he looked truly menacing. "You underestimate me, Christine," he hissed.

"Oh, I'm sure I do." Her hands balled into fists. "What am I to you, Erik? A slave? A trophy? Please, tell me so I will know what to expect of my master!"

This parody of subservience only incensed him further. "Women!" he raged, whirling around so his tall back faced her. "Coy, deceitful, pretentious little creatures they are. No good ever came of trying to please them!"

"Is that so?" she challenged quietly. "How many women have you known in your life, Erik?"

Deadly quiet ruled the chamber for a long moment. Then in a completely different tone she asked: "Was it you who was playing the organ?"

He did not answer.

"When I first came to the castle," she whispered almost dreamily, I heard the most heavenly music. So unearthly, I knew the person behind it could be no ordinary musician."

He smiled humourlessly. "And your romantic sensibilities must have led you to expect an angel. Instead you found a demon."

"No," she said, "I found a Phantom."

Just before she exited the room, he muttered, "There is a library on the far right of the second floor. So you needn't pester me with your complaints of boredom."

A/N Don't you love fiesty Christines? I do! Review and thou shalt be rewarded.