'"I'll never love any but you," the morning song of the lark;
"I'll never love any but you," the nightingale's hymn in the dark.'

- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

"All right, brace yourself."

"No! Don't do it!" Christine held a hand to her face protectively, covering the bandage over her head wound.

"It really will hurt less if I take it quickly, Christine."

"You say that, but I think it hurts more."

"Take your hand away," Erik insisted. "Let me change the dressing."

Christine sighed, removing her hand.

Erik ripped.

"Ow!" Christine's hand flew back to its former position. "Brute! You wouldn't like it any better if I ripped something off of your…"

Erik blinked, not saying a word.

Christine bit her lip, suddenly realizing what she had said, looking up at him warily. His tongue was thrust into his cheek; he was struggling for composure – but against laughter, not temper. She relaxed. Well, at least he wasn't angry. She was never quite sure how he was going to react.

"Quite the little comedian you've become," he remarked dryly.

"I didn't mean – "

"I know. Never mind. Now let me see." He dabbed at her forehead with a damp cloth, appearing pleased. Once the sting of having the stuck gauze pulled away from the wound faded, she realized that the pain from the injury itself was significantly less than it had been. And the warm water felt soothing.

"It itches."

"That means it's healing." Erik finished cleaning the dried blood from her forehead, then gently brushed his long fingers against the place he'd just been washing. Christine shivered.

"Does that hurt?"

"No." But she didn't want to tell him how good it felt, either. She leaned into his touch slightly, but he took his hand away. "I think you can do without the bandage now. There's some bruising, but the wound itself has quite healed. And the bone doesn't appear to have been damaged. You're not having headaches or pain?"

"I'm not. I just wish I could remember how it happened."

He stood. "I know. But stop trying to force it. It will come."

His avoidance of any questions concerning her space of missing time frustrated Christine, but she tried to accept it. He'd flatly refused to discuss Raoul, and there were other topics that were touchy as well. Her teacher was, as always, a mystery.

Oddly, she trusted him. From what she could recall, she had ample reason not to, but her instinct warred with her intellect on this matter, and she chose to follow her instinct. At any rate, she currently didn't have much choice, and she was grateful for his care.

"Would you still like that bath?" Erik asked.

"Oh, yes, please!" Christine brightened. She had been up and around for a few days now and was tired of giving herself sponge baths. She thought of the zinc hip bath with longing, glad that she felt able to climb in and out by herself now.

"I'll put the water on to heat," Erik said. He left, closing the door behind him.

Christine sank back with a sigh. Bathing and dressing in something other than sickroom attire seemed like such luxuries. She couldn't wait to feel like something other than a complete invalid again. She ran a hand through her thick hair, encountering a tangle. I must look like a complete fright, she thought. The brush and comb that had lain on the bedside table were missing; Christine rose and began looking around. They weren't on the dresser or writing desk, either. She began pulling drawers out, thinking they might have been put away somewhere.

She found neither brush nor comb, but in the back of one of the dresser drawers was a crumpled postal card. The address was smudged and illegible. She flipped it over, idly, and read it.

Raoul thinks I am mad.

Please come.

C.

The handwriting was hers. She couldn't remember writing any such thing. The card fell from her hand to the floor just as Erik entered the room again.

Raoul knocked at the door to the shabby dwelling, not really expecting an answer. He was surprised to see a crack open between door and frame, but considerably less than surprised when the eye that appeared in the crack widened in alarm and vanished.

Raoul prised his shoulder against the door, forcing his way in; then grabbed the eye's owner and forced him up against the wall.

"Not again," Randolph Buquet groaned. "I should get paid every time someone takes it into his head to slam my head against the bricks!"

"Consider the candlesticks and silver spoons as your reward, then," Raoul said.

"Yes, well, anyway. Could I sit down?"

"Not until you tell me what I want to know. Did the Phantom – or the man who calls himself so - pay you to poison Christine?"

Randolph Buquet laughed incredulously. "You really have no idea how things stand, do you?"

"Illuminate me."

"Are you looking for him, then? I've got a score to settle with him, myself."

"That's not what I asked," Raoul said, tightening his grip.

"Ow, easy. If you're looking for him, I'll tell you this: there's some that say he still haunts the old Opera House." Since his own encounter, Randolph had made enquiries through avenues of his own, but had turned up only superstition and rumor.

"I'm not looking for childish riddles or foolish ghost stories. I'm looking for a man."

"All's I know is what I heard. I've no reason to love him, either."

"The Opera House is a ruin."

"The tunnels underneath never burned. That place is a warren."

Raoul let him go. Randolph fell back a few steps.

"You'd best not be lying."

Randolph held up his hands as the Vicomte stormed out. Let the nobs sort each other out; he hated them both. But now that he'd put his former employer on the trail of the man who'd nearly slit his throat, he felt a personal interest in the outcome. He'd trail the young aristocrat and see how things played out.

Christine faced Erik, her eyes wide with fear.

"Am I mad? Have I been in an asylum? Is that what I don't remember?" she asked in a whisper.

Erik looked puzzled, then noticed the card at her feet. He stooped to pick it up.

"I was looking for the brush and comb," Christine said, shakily.

"I put them next to the bath. And no. You're not mad." His voice was gentle.

"But Raoul thought I was."

"Yes. You sent for me."

She put a hand to her head.

"Have your bath," Erik suggested. "The water's ready. You'll feel better afterwards."

Christine nodded mutely, allowing herself to be led to the steaming zinc hip bath. Towels and clothing were laid out and waiting for her.

"You'll be all right?"

She nodded again and he left her.

Erik leaned against the wall, heart pounding. It was so hard not to tell her everything, not to beg for her love, for her to come back to him. More than anything, he wanted her to remember on her own. He felt shaky and uncertain; he needed release. For that he turned to his oldest love, but no longer his dearest. Music.

Christine slipped her nightdress off and sank gratefully into the warm water with a sigh. She'd think about nothing for a bit, just relax and clear her mind. She reached for the sponge, lathering it and running it over the smooth contours of her body. It felt good to be clean.

Erik ran a hand over the smooth contours of his instruments, thinking about his selection. The violin. He'd always been fond of the violin. He'd played it for Christine in the past…

Christine ran a comb through the strands of her wet hair, carefully working through the tangles. It wasn't until she was almost finished that she heard it. Music: low, soft and sweet, so faint that at first she thought she was imagining it. The tune built and grew until it was impossible to ignore. She rose, dried herself, and began to dress.

Erik felt transported as he played, as he always did: music took him out of himself, away from cares and worries and into a place where there was only beauty. He poured his soul into the melody, and another soul responded to the call.

Christine moved slowly to the doorway of the cottage, as if in a dream, but she felt her mind clearing instead of clouding. Her maestro stood there, illuminated in the single shaft of sunlight pouring through the opening in the rock walls, playing the most haunting melody she'd ever heard. It resembled the music her father had played for her when she was a child, yet was subtly different: though in the style of Swedish folk tunes, this was an original composition.

It was terribly sad, and yet so lovely it made her want to weep, not with melancholy, but for the sheer beauty of the tune. The song would break the hearts of angels. Her maestro had played it for her once before. It was his music.

Christine swayed suddenly, as wave over wave of memory began to crash over her. She braced herself against the door, gasping, barely able to stand as images crowded her mind. Images of herself, of the deserted ruins of the Opera House, of Raoul and an argument in his carriage, of staying with the Girys, of breaking off her engagement, and, most vivid of all; memories of herself and someone else. Someone she loved. Her eyes filled with tears.

The playing had stopped. He was looking at her.

"…Erik?" she said.