Clouds shrouded the moon that night and the only light came from the street lamps, which cast soft-focus shadows on the pavement. He walked with cat-paw tread, hardly stirring the newly fallen leaves. Her apartment building was a refurbished Victorian home, but - and he had made sure to check this earlier - nobody had bothered to update the locks. Not that he would waltz in the front door and press a chloroformed rag to her mouth, no. That was terribly inelegant. His plan had taken a great deal more time to set into motion, let alone the time it took to wait and bring it to fruition. And, besides, he had to be sure she wouldn't be hurt. He had to be careful. The moment had to be right.

Scaling the fire escape and slipping in through the window were the easy parts. More difficult was crouching, hidden, outside, watching as she said good night to Kahn and kissed him, watched his hands stroke her hair, her cheek. Watched her smile after him. And then, horribly, invasively, watched her twist that hair on the top of her head and leave for the bathroom. Heard the shower. Saw her pad to her bedroom with rosy cheeks and damp curls around her hairline. He turned away when her hands moved to her bathrobe, embarrassed at his intrusion (necessary though it was) and by the way his heart began to pound and heat crept up his face. He did not look again until he heard her breath settle into the deep, even patterns of sleep.

Then he eased to his feet and slipped into her bedroom. She lay on her side with her knees tucked to her stomach and one arm pillowing her head. He could have stared at her for hours, but he had a job to do. He slid the syringe from his coat pocket and uncapped it. "I'm sorry, my dear," he said to the sleeping Christine, "but it had to be done." Gently, he pressed the needle into the soft fold of her elbow. She flinched and frowned and curled in on herself, but her face cleared in only moments and her breathing never shifted from its rhythm. He held his breath as he lifted her into his arms. She smelled like soap and clean laundry and something vaguely warm and vanilla-y that made him want to bury his nose in the curve of her neck but rather than heed that urge, back out the window and down the fire escape he went.

Christine woke slowly, rising from a heavy fog that seemed to have sunk into her eyelids and weighted them down. The pillows under her head were plusher and softer than she remembered. And her comforter was whiter.

And they didn't smell right.

She sat up.

This wasn't her room.

Her chest tightened and her head began to buzz from lack of air. She took in several deliberate breaths, forcing back panic and hyperventilation. Looked for something to count.

There were no windows.

And in a sickening rush, she realized what must have happened.

She buried her face in her hands.

This is what happens when you don't think, Christine. You knew this was a bad idea and you did it anyway and now you have to get yourself out.

At least she was still wearing her pajamas. She hadn't thought he would go there...but it was comforting nonetheless.

She got up carefully and crossed to the door. She jiggled the knob. Frowned. Pulled harder.

Of course it was locked.

She spent half an hour scouring the room for something she could use to pick the lock. The room was utterly devoid of pens, hairpins, safety pins, paper clips, or anything sharp, poky, and vaguely useful. She wanted to sit on the floor and cry but instead she shoved it down and investigated the rest of the room.

There was a huge closet, filled with all the sorts of clothes she liked (jeans and plaid shirts and tees and what looked suspiciously like her favorite pair of converse that had been missing for several weeks) and the pretty, floaty pastel dresses she had always wanted to wear but felt like wouldn't suit her. And several pairs of shiny, very expensive looking high heels.

Two floor-to-ceiling bookcases stood on the farthest wall from the bed. She recognized almost all of the books - many she had mentioned to him in their post-lesson conversations - and some looked so interesting she almost picked up and read immediately. She had to admit he knew her taste well. Which irritated her as much as it flattered her.

A vanity was by the door, with little baskets of makeup and hair products and skin care. A smaller door on the wall by the bed revealed a bathroom, with a tub and a shower, and cloudlike towels and bathmats.

Well, clearly his ambiguous-but-most-definitely-illegal activities were lucrative.

A knock on the door startled her out of her thoughts. She edged toward it. "Yes?"

"Miss Daae?"

She knew full well who was behind that door, but still the sound of his voice hit her like a ton of bricks.

"Yes, Erik?"

"I was hoping you might do me the honor of joining me for dinner this evening?"

She was so flabbergasted that she almost refused unthinkingly. But she had heard the hesitation in his voice and she wondered if he wasn't feeling just a bit guilty.

"I...I will consider it."

"Of course, you need time to adjust. I - um - if you decide to do so, I like to eat around eight o'clock. I hope I shall see you then."

She waited until she heart him walking away before she sat down on her bed, her head spinning. She needed to think.

Okay, so maybe twenty-four hours was a bit ambitious on my part.

I AM SO SORRY. There are only so many times I can say life and work and shows got in the way, but it really has been a crazy...year. Oh, boy. If any of you are still here, I love you and you are priceless, and wonderful, and precious, and at last, since I have a couple of weeks of free time before the next thing begins, I intend to crank out as many chapters as I can and update at a reasonably regular rate.

You are all the best readers any author could ask for.