To answer some of the questions you have asked, and to comment on some of the things you have said:

1. I based the landscape on the actual landscape that you can see in Brittany/Bretagne - pink granite shores, cliffs, grayish sea, etc. The Cape of Knight Graelent and the Phantom's abode are my invention, of course. I didn't use any particular place to base the landscape on, just Bretagne in general. Bretagne is wonderful, very mystical, ancient, Celtic. I try to maintain its spirit when describing the landscape. I hope I've been successful.

2.The Phantom: I'm really happy that you like my portrayal of him, and that you find it convincing. I didn't go for the totally dark Leroux style. I chose to follow ALW's portrayal, adding some of my interpretations. But yes, the darkness is still there. It's the Phantom we're talking about, not Peter Rabbit, naturally.

3.Christine: Yes, not so typical. As I've said, I'm making her more mature, less fragile, and more confident. She won't just jump into the Phantom's embrace. She is under his spell, but she doesn't show it anymore. She has toughened up a bit. However, this doesn't mean that all the "under a spell" fun is gone.


CHAPTER 9: Pearls of Light

Erik did not sleep much during the night, he never did. He was a nocturnal creature who belonged to the night. He felt most comfortable under its dark protecting wings woven from shadows and silence that was only interrupted, no, enriched by his music and an occasional sigh of longing that escaped his lungs. Sometimes, a sigh would be accompanied by a name pronounced under a whisper, ever so silently, and the name was always Christine. Christine…

The night after the evening that he spent with her, the night just before the blissful morning when she would finally come to him as he had always wanted her to come – because such was her wish – he was so nervous that he could not even make music. He was pacing to and fro, from one corner to the other. His unfinished music room, which he decided to have in the beautiful cellar of the château, was dusty and empty. It longed to be furnished, to be finished, to be filled with music. But its calls were overheard cruelly and the room became completely silent, admitting its inanimate defeat. Towards the morning, when the Phantom finally felt the sun rising – for his body was used to feeling, not seeing – he calmed down and, exhausted from the pacing, collapsed onto a settee he had had brought into the cellar. He looked at the burning candles on the candlesticks resting on the stone floor, smiling to himself. He had just had a vision of Christine Daaè standing in his music room, her eyes closed, her palms resting on her heart, her voice soaring above their mortal frames like never-ending magic. A new melody made its way to his mind, it entered tentatively and quickly blossomed into a bursting flower. Frustrated, Erik realised he forgot to bring the vellum sheets to his cellar music room, as well as bottles with ink and goose feathers. He knew the world had entered a new, technologically and scientifically improved era, but he was a traditionalist and always would be.

Therefore, he made his way to the first floor where certain items he needed in his music room were still sleeping in their boxes in his second music room, reserved for Christine and her love of light. He opened one wooden box, looking through the window at the same time and, to his surprise, he saw his beautiful Christine glancing towards the château from the seashore path. She was so beautiful, his angel of music, his joyous butterfly…He winced and stepped away from the window, taking a deep breath. She was already here…He took another deep breath and looked through the window again, scared that the woman he saw was only an apparition, a wicked trick of light. But he knew, deep down, that Christine really came, he just needed to learn how to be a believer. The scene that sprawled before his eyes took his breath away. His blood froze in his veins, the cold hurting his insides. He dropped the wooden box on the parquet floor and sprang into frantic motion. He ran down the long corridor of the first floor, down the wide grand staircase, as fast as he had never run before in his life. With only a black shirt, black breeches and polished black boots to protect him from the winter chill, he flung the back door of the château open and ran towards the pier where his life disappeared from his sight. Without thinking, he jumped into the grey frothing water. He screamed inwardly, for the contact with the icy waves pierced his skin with a thousand fire-hot needles, but the pain did not matter. He had experienced worse pain in his life. The white mask peeled off his face, but he caught it with his left hand, whereas his right hand slithered around a slim waist.

He half pulled Christine and himself on the low pier, putting the mask on it, when Christine slipped from his embrace. Again, he jumped after her. She was so heavy; her petticoats, her gown, all soaked, were pulling her down to certain death. Never! He cast away propriety and, under the surface of that oh so icy water, unbuttoned her gown, undressed his love to her under linen and finally saved her from the wet, lethal embrace of the grey waves. Once on the pier, she began to cough for dear life, but just as soon as she spat the water from her lungs, she faded into unconsciousness. Quickly, he lifted her in his arms and ran with his precious bundle back into the château. His only two servants, Marie and Maurice Dubosc, a married couple from the village, were chatting in the grand foyer, making plans for the day, when their master stormed into their presence with a half-dead and half-naked woman in his arms. Marie Dubosc screamed, recognising Miss Daaè.

"Madame Dubosc, Monsieur Maurice," the Phantom spoke, his voice trembling from the cold, but as still, as always, laced with a velvety darkness and a sense of command, "Mademoiselle Daaè has had an accident. Bring hot water, blankets, all fresh clothes that you can find, tea, everything! To the blue guest room!"

After this urgent command, time ceased to exist for him. He watched as Marie and Maurice brought hot tea to the blue guest room, he turned away when Madame Dubosc changed Christine into her own nightgown; again he watched as Maurice lifted the girl into his embrace, so that his wife could prepare the bed. Then, Maurice laid Christine into the bed, with Marie covering her with many blankets. Marie bowed before her master.

"Monsieur, Maurice shall prepare the fire in the hearth. I really think we should inform the Pioches about the accident. They will have been worried, monsieur."

He nodded curtly. "Yes, I agree, Madame. But Miss Daaè is not to be moved from the château until she gets better."

And she must get better, she must! He did not trust anyone but himself and Madame Dubosc to nurse his free joyous butterfly, his beautiful nightingale, back to health, to life…for her sake and for his, for he could not live without her. She was so fragile, she had always been fragile, but now she must fight, he would help her fight!

Madame Dubosc bowed, then she spoke tentatively, "Bless you, monsieur, for having saved Miss Daaè's life. You saved an angel, the whole village loves her."

Then, remembering her place, she put on a mask of seriousness of a servant and left the room, accompanied by her husband Maurice. The Phantom, touched by his servant's words and attitude towards him, smiled to himself. The Duboscs had noticed the mask, but they never asked question, nor had they showed fear. He gave them work, that mattered to them. And now that their master saved a girl they all loved, he more than anyone, that mattered even more. He felt accepted…

Quickly dismissing his thoughts, he moved to Christine's bed and, not minding propriety once more, sat down beside her still frame. He did not know whether she was sleeping or was still being held by the will of unconsciousness, but she looked peaceful. He touched her almost white cheeks with his hands, wincing when he sensed her cold skin. She looked peaceful, but dead, like Snow White in one of the paintings he had seen. The thought shook him severely. He truly realised how close he had been to losing his angel, how close he still was to losing her. She was still so cold, so white, so lifeless…Out of fear, he dared rest his ear on her chest. The slow rhythm of her heart danced to his ear. Tum, tum, tum…What beautiful music, full of hope! Reassured that she was alive, but ashamed of his audacity, he jumped away. He was not worthy to touch her, he did not deserve such an angel…A tear glistened in the corner of his eye. She was his only love, forever. She had achieved the impossible – she tamed his demons. They were still there, and they always would be, but in her presence, they bowed and disappeared in shame. She saw his loneliness, she sensed it. She forgave him for his deceit and by doing so, she freed a part of him and shunned the demons into oblivion. Were he Valentine and she Silvia, he could scream out loud,

What light is light, if Silvia be not seen?
What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by?
Unless it be to think that she is by
And feed upon the shadow of perfection,
Except I be by Silvia in the night,
There is no music in the nightingale;
Unless I look on Silvia in the day,
There is no day for me to look upon;
She is my essence…

But she was so far away from him now, resting in her own world, her face ivory, her voice silent. He loved to hear her speak, merely speak, for her voice alone was song. When she sang, she performed magic. Her silence seemed like deafening screams, screams of his despair. Would she return to life?

He looked towards her bed. Something had changed…He frowned and then noticed the change. Her cheeks were not so white anymore and her chest was heaving and dropping much more visibly. She winced, her eyes fluttered open, her lips parted. God, her lips parted…Her eyes found his and she smiled feebly.

"Angel…" she whispered. "You are here…I am not dead…Or am I?"

He approached her bed slowly, his heart pounding in his chest like fervent hands hitting the drums on the Beltane night. She was alive! Alive! Alive! And she seemed well enough. What relief…

"You are not dead, Christine," he spoke formally. Formally? Formally? What he really wished to say, with a warm, passionate voice, was: If I tell you how much I love you, how much you mean to me, how my entire being depends on you alone, will you listen? Will you stay? Will you be here forever? Never go away?...

But no, he said nothing. He knew the time was not right. Perhaps, one day, the time would be right and she would be ready to hear those words again. Once, he told her of his love for her, but he only frightened her. He was too hard on her; she was too fragile and not ready. Some day…

The moment was enough. Where there were darkness and despair before, he now saw light, beautiful pearls of light, and of hope. She was here and it was what mattered…for the moment.