A/N: I hate it when authors don't update for several months...yet I do the same thing. Resolution: I will update every week from now on; I really have no excuse since this story is already finished. Please forgive me, and enjoy.

Chapter Nine

From that day on, warmth entered Erik's life for the first time since Giovanni. It was slight, but even a small amount made a stark contrast to what he was used to. He understood not what Christine was thinking, but since that night, they'd spent more platonic, comfortable time together, reading silently together in the parlor, sitting on the porch watching the sea and talking, walking in town before dawn, when scarcely anyone else was awake. The latter of these activities was rare, given Christine's acquired sleeping pattern. Even when they did walk, Christine would return to bed when they'd finished, a fact upon which Erik couldn't help but smirk.

But Erik's favorite times were when they sang together, sometimes with accompaniment, sometimes without. Whichever the case, and whatever they sang, it was as magical as he'd remembered, sometimes even more so. It was the sweetest gift he ever could have asked her for, simply to hear her beautiful voice again.

He'd once asked her if she ever missed music, and she'd replied yes, that music had so long calmed her soul, and she needed it very much in this time. So, in both of their benefits, once a day he would allow her into his music room for an hour or two. They'd work on scales and arpeggios, he would critique and correct her on technique and style, then they'd move onto what they both looked forward to the most: a few solo pieces, followed by one or two duets. Just as before, their voices had harmonized and soared seamlessly.

As for Christine's part, she'd done her best to ignore the burning questions which were omnipresent in her mind. To her surprise, amid the distraction of spending more time with Erik, it was not so difficult. She acted on her instincts; to so was entirely natural, and subsequently, she was quite comfortable in talking with him.

They sometimes discussed the difficult times of their past, what they'd been thinking, why, and when. Other times they discussed personal quirks and habits, and took a bit of joy in laughing at each other, or, much more rarely for Erik, at themselves. They did not always understand the other, but even when they could not, they did their best to identify, or at the very least, empathize.

Erik had never felt such acceptance. Christine had never felt such freedom of speech, and such reciprocal special attention.

What surprised Christine the most (but what surprised Erik even more) was that what they had was growing into almost a regular, functional friendship, even despite the trauma of their past. This was not to say those issues were ignored; in fact, they were a favorite, albeit involved topic of the evenings, just after the sun had set.

Through much difficulty, awkwardness, fear, shame, and tears eventually they'd discussed nearly every detail of their intricate, ambiguous history. Every detail, that was, except Erik's love for Christine. It was too hard, too shameful, it was simply not spoken of. However, the more and more open they became with each other, and the more time they spent doing so (especially for Erik's benefit), the more the forbidden topic began to hang over their heads, constantly mocking them, daring them to bring it up, especially Christine.

The more she grew to know all else about Erik, the more she began to know his beautiful mind, the more she wanted to know of his heart. Part of it was honest curiosity of his fascinating thoughts and reasonings, but another, perhaps larger part was pure feminine vanity. It began to drive her mad, a new set of questions; whether he still loved her, why he'd loved her in the first place, or, in retrospect, if he ever truly had, if his love for her had just been an impressive illusion of his sickened mind.

Whenever they'd been speaking and a silence was born, the words seemed to be on the tip of her tongue. What words? Any which involved his love. She knew that one day she'd regret this fixation, this morbid curiosity. But that day came sooner than later.

It was after a full, pleasant day of lunch at the beach, numerous walks along the shore, and singing songs to each other they'd known and loved since their childhood. They were partaking in a light supper before retiring. Erik took little, only a few sips of red wine and a few grapes. Christine had compiled a plate of cold ham and cheese for herself, but found she could not partake in one bite of it.

They were coming...they were out before she could stop them.

"Erik, do you still love me?"

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Inspector Miford had become a very stressed man in the past eighteen months. A series of foul tips, all from different Swedish men, had led him on a wild goose chase through Sweden, Norway, and even a bit into Russia. As the case grew more and more frustrating, Miford had seen his wife and slept increasingly less and drank more. He'd devoted most of his free time to teaching himself every bit of Swedish that he could handle.

Each time he returned to Paris to wait for another possible answer to his problems, his colleagues, concerned expressions on their faces, had earnestly implored him to give it up. But they didn't understand that with each faux clue, Miford only became more intrigued, obsessed, with the mystery of the Opera Ghost and Christine Daae. All other cases that normally he would have jumped at the chance to take, he passed to one of the deputies. He couldn't be bothered with such trivialness.

He knew his wife was worrying about him. When they passed in the hall or on the rare occasion that he took a meal in the kitchen, she would make comments about how pale he looked, and ask if he was getting enough sleep. He'd brush her questions off. He had no time to appease her, not when there was such a case to be solved. Sometimes when she spoke of his failing health, he'd simply look at her, challenging her to mention the investigation, but she never did.

Presently, he sat at his study, freshly back from Stockholm for the second time. A glass of bourbon clenched in his hand, he'd just told his wife to leave him in peace when she'd asked him to come to bed. He was far too busy for sleep; too busy poring over a map of Sweden, hunting for someplace he hadn't searched yet. Something in him said that, despite many fruitless journeys, the runaways hid in Sweden.

If he hadn't believed the Opera Ghost truly was just that, he did now, for it was eluding him as only a specter could, the girl in tow. Yes, Miford was quite sure he was at odds with supernatural forces now. He'd been a fool to ever tell himself otherwise.

He drained his glass, and was about to turn away from the map when a small clusters of towns just south of Kalmat caught his eye. There were about three of them, none of which he'd been to yet. How could he have been such a fool?

In perverse happiness, a low chuckle rumbled deep in his throat, slowly making his way up his throat and exploding forth through his lips. His laughter filled the study.

He had them!

"I have them!" he said aloud.

He'd leave in the morning.