Hi, everyone. I finally got this chapter out, and I hope you all enjoy it. Especially the E/C.

A big thanks to everyone who continues to stay with me, including my beta, MadLizzy.

Enjoy!

Over the last few nights since the phone call, Christine had spent several hours in the dark, sitting on the cold tiles of the practice room with her arms folded around her knees, waiting….

It was the only place she could think to find him. "What were you thinking?" she angrily whispered to herself. How could she have fallen for this? Theresa was right; she was nothing but a helpless child.

She stood, ready to return to the Chagny home. Theresa would scowl at her as she walked in the door. And just where have you been at such a late hour? Why weren't you with your husband? Just thinking about her mother-in-law's high-pitched voice made Christine want to find a park bench or bus stop to claim for the night. Of course, there was always the home that she and Raoul had shared. But it seemed so quiet and lonely and...

"Christine…."

She started at the sound of her name, heart pounding in terror and them calming only slightly as she recognized the voice. Climbing up from the cold floor, she desperately searched the room until she saw the tall silhouette staring at her from the farthest corner.

"You came," she managed to whisper.

"You dialed the butterfly." His voice was calm and unsurprised.

"I did."

"Why?"

"I…."She folded her arms across her chest as her fear returned, knowing she was now responsible for this situation. "I wanted to see if you really meant it. I want to make enough to get me and my husband out of that house. I want to get him the best treatment in the world; I don't care if we have to move to Europe. I want him to walk again. I want him to be happy." She looked into the yellow eyes. "Can you help me?"

"Once we are finished, you can have or do whatever you want," he replied as though she'd just asked for a new washer and dryer. "The world will be yours."

"And he'll be healed?"

"Yes, yes. He can go all over the world seeing specialists. And they will work their miracles, and all will be fine. If you cooperate, perhaps I can even…pull strings for you here and there. How is that?"

She folded her hands together as though in prayer; his words were said in the most beautiful voice. "Yes," she agreed. "Yes. Thank you. We'll be free and happy again."

"Exactly."

"If I just had some help, I know I could take care of him without Theresa," she continued, almost talking to herself now.

"And this is all very heartwarming. But we will get nowhere unless we set some rules first."

"Rules?"

"Yes. First, as was already made clear, no telling anyone of this. We want your assets to remain a secret until your voice is fully developed."

"Okay…."

"Secondly, Christine, I care about perfection and triumph and watching the world flock to your feet." The volume of his voice increased with excitement. "And I care about the financial rewards that will come about as the result of our combined talents. Ultimately, we have the same goals. But I do not care about what occurs after you depart from these sessions. And, while I understand that you are mourning the death of your father, I do not care to know about the lives of you and your husband."

Her feelings were suddenly hurt. "But I-"

"Honestly, do you really think we would make progress with you coming in here and having a therapy session? Will that really save your husband?"

"All right. Fine. I won't talk about anything." She sniffed and gathered herself together. "This isn't a joke, right? You mean all of this. You'll really make me that good?"

"Yes, yes. There are few things I have undertaken where I have not been successful. You might call me an overachiever, no? Now let's begin. First, which direction do you envision for yourself? Are you an actress, too? Would you enjoy theatre? Or would you prefer to focus on vocals alone? We could look to recordings and concerts? Or both?"

"I don't know," she replied, digging the toe of her leather sandal into the floor. "I've never envisioned anything like that. I've never even thought about this."

"Fine," he replied with disdain. "I will create your vision for you. I will do everything."

She frowned and stepped backward. "I just…how am I supposed to know what I want to do? This was your idea."

He laughed at her anger, and it echoed—a tenor vibration that was both pleasing and disturbing. "It was, wasn't it? Yes. All my idea. You're quite right. I will handle it. Now sing something for me. Anything you like."

"Don't I have to warm up first?" She was beginning to question his credentials, her heart falling again as she wondered if this was too good to be true. Oh, but she needed to believe in something.

"Aha!" he exclaimed. "So you aren't completely ignorant to vocal training?"

"Well, I've watched the kids practice a lot," she replied.

"Yes. Well, let us hope that you have not picked up any of their other habits as well." Before she could come up with any sort of retort, he continued. "Yes. We will warm up." He sat at the piano in the corner and hit middle C, letting the note reverberate in the silence. She straightened her back and relaxed, planting her feet at the width of her shoulders. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and attempted to relax her jaw and facial muscles. She opened her eyes; he was staring at her. "You have had lessons before. At some point."

"I haven't," she weakly protested, her posture quickly slumping.

"You have. Rule number three. Do not lie to me concerning your musical ability. Every time you lie to me, the less I do to help you. "

Her lip trembled. "Fine. I had two years' worth of lessons when I was fourteen. Through my school."

"Why did you quit?"

"It doesn't matter." It was completely humiliating….

"But it does," he insisted. "We do not want you to quit again. Not on your poor husband who needs you. What if you give up on him?"

"I would never do that!" she exclaimed. "I won't quit on him!"

"Fine, fine. Do not go into hysterics. We will discuss this later when you are not five seconds from hyperventilating. In fact, let us concentrate on your breathing now."

He was utterly unsympathetic and rude. And if he wasn't helping her…if he wasn't saving her from Theresa Chagny and offering her the only key to freedom…she might have run out the door right then. But there was this aura of power to him—this almost invincibility that told her he could get anything done.

They went through lip rolls, vowel pronunciation exercises, and various practice scales that tested her range and ability to accurately hit notes. She remembered similar exercises from her two years of lessons, and he seemed to know exactly what was needed. At times, he seemed to understand her voice better than she did. Some of the tension finally faded at this time—when music (and not herself) was the point of focus.

Finally, he said, "Now I simply wish you to sing something. Any song. You will be comfortable singing in my presence."

"Uh…." After a brief hesitation, she awkwardly began the same song she'd practiced with Marissa for Cinderella. Given her nervous state, it was the only one she could remember. By the middle of the song, though, even she knew that she was off key and completely terrible. Her heart, mind, and voice weren't into the music, and she wondered if this project was doomed before it even started.

He stared at her as she finished, head tilted to the side. She prepared herself for a storm of insults, but he merely asked, "What else do you know?"

"Nothing, really. I mean, not by memory."

Before she could blink, there were suddenly several papers lying at her feet. Startled at how fast he'd slid them to her, she shakily bent down and picked them up. They were songs, two from Broadway and one sixties ballad. "Memorize the words at least," he said.

"I'm a piano player," she explained and then felt stupid.

"Yes. A very mediocre one."

"You…." He was horrible. She wanted to run away from him and lock herself in her room and…simply be miserable forever.

She stayed.

"Let us try one more thing before you leave," he said. "I will play a melody. Hum along with it. Or perhaps "oh" along with it. Either way is fine. But do not simply stand there." He began, and she obeyed.

It was slow at first and then began to speed up, a circular rotation between seven notes. He began to move up the piano, changing the pattern only slightly and into a minor key. She concentrated to keep from making a mistake; nothing she'd ever done in a previous lesson was quite similar to it.

Suddenly, she and her voice were locked into the repetitive pattern, nearly hypnotized by it. The melody made colors and shapes form in her mind…and then memories. She wasn't even sure if she was still singing. Suddenly, Christine saw her father as clearly in her head as though she were staring right at him. He smiled behind his beard and waved at her. With a gasping sob, she fell to her knees and placed a hand up to her mouth. The visions faded.

The shadow stopped playing the piano, stood, and stared down at her. "There. You may go now," he said in a soft voice. "I have what I want. The potential is there; I was correct."

A tear streamed down her cheek; her hands were trembling. "But I come back, right?"

"Yes. We are very far from finished. Even I cannot work a miracle in one night. You will come back at the same time on Tuesday. Two times per week is sufficient for now. And we will have another interesting evening."

"Okay," she whispered. Christine stood. After grabbing her purse, she took a step toward the door, exhausted and eager to get away.

"And Christine?"

"Yes?" She warily turned toward him.

"If you continue to act in such a manner, they will attempt to put you on antidepressants. Refuse them. I would rather you be miserable than have your mind warped by pills."

"All right. I don't want them anyway."

She stared at him another second before leaving. He was sitting on the bench and indifferently staring back at her with his hands on the piano. Was he aware of what he'd just done to her mind? She kind of hated him. And yet he also seemed like some giant, black…genie.

Upon arriving at the Chagny home, Christine ignored Theresa's glare and ran up the stairs to Raoul's room. Raoul blinked in surprise as she fell down onto his bed and gently buried her face into his shoulder. He was warm, real, and tangible-a relief after the shadow man. And Raoul liked her piano playing. In fact, her husband never criticized her…never told her to "do better." A part of her didn't want to return to that practice room, didn't want to be frightened and judged. "Well, you look different tonight," he softly said. "What's up? Were you at a performance?"

"I…. Not exactly. I just have a lot to think about."

"Did you find another job that makes you happy?"

"Yeah. Sort of."

"That's great!" he exclaimed.

"Yeah."

"I've hated seeing you so upset these last weeks. Like I said, if you ever want a vacation, I'll get my dad to send you anywhere."

"I'm staying here with you," she firmly replied. She wasn't about to give Theresa even more ammunition. Closing her eyes, Christine pretended they were on some beautiful sunny resort where Raoul could heal and receive the best available treatment—where his mother wasn't there to criticize.

"I like you here," he murmured.

Several days later, Raoul received one of his regular visits from the team of physical therapists. Usually, two of them came at least once per week to check his progress. She would watch as they worked with him, learning the different ways they stretched out and massaged his muscles. She also jotted down the exercises they wanted him to begin on his own. Raoul always looked slightly miserable during the sessions, but he did put some effort into them.

On that particular afternoon, he was asked to lift his arms above his head and do various stretches involving his upper torso, twisting and using his upper body to roll himself to each side. Apart from Theresa's grunts of displeasure, that part went well. One of the therapists then asked if Raoul was able to pull himself up to a near sitting position, even for short periods of time or using the metal grab bar that was now hanging from the ceiling. Raoul muttered something inaudible in reply.

"We're taking it slowly," Theresa explained with a sniff.

The therapist frowned. "Well, that should be one of our first major goals. Go ahead and give it a try right now. Lift yourself to a sitting position against the pillows. Use whatever you need for support and take your time." Raoul nodded.

"Now that's too much strain," stated Theresa, watching him struggle, his knuckles turning white around the silver bar.

"You can do it," said Christine, her hands clasped.

"There will have to be some more strenuous work if we want improvement," said the therapist. "It's impossible for him to get better without occasional discomfort."

"I just hope you know what you're doing," snapped Theresa.

Beads of sweat formed on Raoul's pale forehead as he attempted to pull himself upwards. Although the paralysis mainly affected his legs, parts of his upper body were still weakened from both the accident and months of bed rest. Christine winced at the distorted expression on his face. "I know you can do it," she murmured.

"That's enough of this!" exclaimed Theresa as Raoul released a gasp. "He's going to injure himself all over again! What the hell is wrong with you people?"

"We are just trying to make prog-" began the therapist.

"This is not progress! It's torture!"

"Shut up!" Raoul hoarsely yelled at his mother, finally releasing the bar and falling back onto his pillow. "Jesus! Just shut the hell up for once!" A choked sob escaped the back of his throat, and he placed both hands over his face, shoulders heaving. Christine squeezed his arm, her heart aching.

"Now look how you've upset him," said Theresa, oblivious to the fact that he'd screamed at her. The therapist shook his head and stepped backward.

"I think that's enough for today," Raoul stated, now staring at Christine's stomach as though it were the most interesting thing he'd ever seen. "I'm beat."

"Possibly so," replied the therapist. "Maybe this was too much for one day. We'll be back in a week. Continue the stretches and exercises. Don't strain yourself, but remember that the stronger we can make the muscles above your waist, the more independence you'll have in the coming years."

"Sure," he muttered.

The therapists departed, leaving behind various pamphlets and paperwork. Christine stored all of them in a dark purple folder she'd began keeping; she'd absentmindedly doodled little flowers on the front of it during a previous therapy session. Theresa finally left the room, and she and Raoul were alone. Outside, a light rain began to fall, gentling pattering against the window. Clouds cast shadows over the walls and ceiling.

"Are you okay?" she softly asked.

"Yeah. Sorry about that. I…snapped for a moment."

"Don't be sorry. You had a right to-"

"Let's forget about it. Forget I did it." Christine took a seat beside him and ran a hand through his soft hair, the bitter taste of helplessness beginning to seep into her mouth again. Raoul finally looked into her eyes. "It's really sinking in. Nothing is ever going to be the same, is it?"

"It might be…."

"If we have kids, I won't be able to pick them up and carry them on my shoulders. What if they have to have me like this? I used to jog about three miles a day, for God's sake." He shook his head, and a wry chuckled escaped his chapped lips. "I guess if we do have kids, we'll have my mom to babysit, huh? Maybe she'd like that; maybe it'd get her to leave us alone."

The thought of Theresa looming over her while she raised children…. Christine shuddered.

"We are going to find a way," she whispered. "I promise. We're going to have our own lives."

"Thank God you're such an optimist. I try to be. But…." He sighed. "I think you're one of the reasons I get through each day."

"Oh, Raoul." His faith was in her. She leaned down and kissed his cheek, knowing she couldn't let him down. Not like she'd let her father down…. "We'll be fine."

Whatever reservations she had about returning to that practice room were gone. She would take the harsh criticism.

And she would ignore the occasional shiver that still ran down her spine.

He feared she wouldn't return for the second lesson. The girl was damned emotional. Every time he spoke, she appeared five seconds from bursting into tears. Frankly, he didn't wish to be reminded that she was a human being with feelings and all that other nonsense that plagued women. He wanted his project and her voice and the perfect vision in his mind. Instead, he had a quivering child who had to be nearly hypnotized into singing.

To his delight and relief, though, Christine entered with her head held higher and dry eyes. Her clothes weren't wrinkled, and her hair was combed into a pony tail. He admired her for a moment as she strode into the room, staring downward from her blue eyes to her slender form to her polished pink toe nails. This appeared slightly more promising.

"Good evening," he stated from his familiar spot. He stayed in the shadows, knowing that her getting a full view of him would make the girl even more of a wreck.

"Hi," she softly replied, setting down her purse.

"You returned."

"Yep. I'm ready." She tilted her chin upward in what appeared to be forced confidence. Her hands were still shaking. "I memorized the words in the songs you gave me and played them on the piano."

"What a good student who does her homework," he replied, his thin lips curving upward in amusement. "Let us begin." He wanted to avoid conversation and dive right into the lesson.

They went through the same warm-ups and exercises, and she sang with more energy. Despite her newfound ambition, though, there was still something lacking. Technical problems still existed, of course. She would often drift off key. But he was much more concerned with something that was difficult to define. She was working so hard to reach her personal goals that she didn't focus on the music. She wasn't singing for herself. "I want you to forget all else in your life," he told her. "Forget your problems. Forget your mother-in-law. Forget your husband and your-"

"But I'm using Raoul as my motivator," she interrupted. "I read on the Internet that if you're trying to do something difficult, you should focus on your motivator."

"Yes, well I read on the Internet that the apocalypse was due to arrive last Tuesday at four p.m. Eastern time. And I was sorely disappointed." She tilted her head in confusion; he was obviously going to have to alter his humor if he ever wanted to earn a laugh. "You are not even focusing."

"Yes, I am!" she exclaimed, hands clenching at her sides. "I'm trying the best that I can! I'm doing everything you want! I told you I wasn't good!"

He'd once climbed up to a sixth floor window with a time bomb in the course of thirty seconds. Looking back, that had been relatively easy.

He sat at the piano and began playing the second movement of Beethoven's Sonata Pathétique. The slow melody calmed her—or at least she stopped whining. When he was finished, he glanced at her. Christine was now sitting cross-legged on the floor with her chin in her hands, her eyes slightly glazed over. "You play so beautifully," she murmured. "I'll never be that good at anything. Why do you even need me?"

He began playing the third movement of the sonata while replying to her. "Because I am not otherwise crafted for fame. I am not someone who should ever be on the cover of a magazine." Except perhaps a tabloid—Living Corpse Spotted in Central Park Alongside Bigfoot. "But my music with your voice and face," he continued. "That is why we will succeed. I have begun writing several original pieces for you. I think you will enjoy them. It will be perfection—irresistible to any audience. Do you understand?"

"I…think so."

"But you must snap out of this. I am investing valuable time into you. I do not care why you are doing this. But if you are only pretending to care, you must become a better actress." He finished the third movement.

"I care," he thought he heard her say.

When she sang afterwards, there was improvement. She wasn't a depressed doll nor did she look like someone was forcing her to lift a boulder. Her eyes held deep concentration. Even if it was far from perfect, she was singing for herself.

"Better," he said at the end.

"I'm shaky sometimes."

"Yes, well the fact that you realize that is relief enough. But we are done for tonight."

"Okay." She reached down and picked up her purse. A twenty dollar bill was sticking out of the corner, stuck between the edge and the zipper.

"Girl, do you wish to be robbed?" he asked, gesturing to the money with his shoulder. When he was a sixteen year old pickpocket, the sight would have completely enthralled him.

"Oh!" She quickly stuffed it back inside and zipped the purse up.

"And take care walking around at night with your ring on display."

"It's my wedding ring."

"Yes. And I am sure your husband would prefer a dead bride with a missing finger to a living one with her hands still intact?"

She shuddered. "Oh, that's just…terrible…."

Her shock amused him; she possessed an innocence that was rare in modern women. Her sheltered world had likely been peppered with picket fences, afternoon strolls through suburbia, and the occasional white collar crime. He would have to keep an eye on her or the music industry would eat her alive.

Still, it was going to be fun to watch her flourish. And he would know.

There had come a day in his life when he'd stopped walking around with his shoulders hunched, scurrying into various holes and corners like a diseased rat. He had realized his talents-realized that others should fear him and not the other way around. He still couldn't walk down the street in broad daylight without a million horrified stares. But he could always get what he needed…and wanted.

"You're going to have such fun," he stated.

"Fun?"

"Yes. Limousines. Adoring crowds…."

"Oh, I don't care about any of that. I only care about Raoul getting better."

He waved her away. "Fine. I will enjoy our triumph for you. You may continue to sulk."

"Hmph," she grunted. She started to turn and leave. "Oh! One quick question. Do you want me to call you John or Mr. Johnson?"

He was unable to hold back his laughter this time, thereby startling her. If he'd told her his name was Ignacio Hernandez the Third, she would have believed him. "Neither. I could never keep a straight face if you do that. It is not my name."

"Then what is your name?"

He played with her. "You could always call me Maestro."

"That's a little strange."

"Isn't it?"

"What's your name?" she repeated.

"Erik," he replied.

"Erik," she repeated. "Is that really it?"

"Yes, that is it. And if you do not like it, pick something else. Hell, call me Mr. Johnson if it makes you happy." He glanced up and was somewhat alarmed to see that she'd taken several steps toward him. Quickly standing, he shooed her away with both hands. "Another rule," he began. "Keep your distance, both physically and conversationally. As I said, I do not care what you do when you leave. And you should not care about me. There is only music here."

"All right, Erik," she softly replied, taking three steps backward. "I think I understand. We're kind of like…business partners."

He'd had a 'business partner' before; the backstabbing traitor was dead. But maybe this needed to be simplified for her sake. "Yes. In a way."

"All right, then. Well, I'll see you on…?"

"Thursday."

"Right." She paused. "Well, goodbye." She left.

He sat in the silence for a few more minutes. And then he left to find a piano bar and a glass of Scotch whisky.