A/N: So glad to see there's still interest in this bizarre little tale! :) Thank you so much for the reviews! ... Are you ready…? ;-)

XI

The Phantom stared in stunned horror at the insensible woman held draped over one arm, then looked toward the fallen fiend who'd been chasing her with a dagger. It appeared she wasn't injured, aside from a bruise near her temple, though he could not be certain.

The wretched fiend who had hunted her would never again rise to ensnare another.

"What in bloody hell happened?" he snapped quietly as Tobias ran up to join them, his lip bleeding, but his appearance otherwise intact. "What is the Lady Daaé doing roaming the streets when I ordered you to watch her?"

He thrust the handle of his sword toward the boy to take, then slipped his freed hand beneath Christine's hips, lifting her fully into his arms.

"We were attacked, milord," Tobias stated, bending to claim the dagger the brute no longer had use for. "They sought to rob us. His friend jumped me, but I had the last of it." He nodded with satisfaction toward a distant body lying near the ditch.

"But why is she here? Never mind." This was no place to hold a discussion. "We will speak further upon our return."

The Phantom strode quickly in the direction of the brothel.

"The Vicomte's men are at Madame Perrette's – looking for you," Tobias said breathlessly as he rushed up beside him. "Milady told me." The boy nodded to the damsel. "She spoke of a trap and came to warn you. Took the back stairs down to the kitchen. I did not realize until I saw Isabel come from there and spoke with her. I followed milady."

"Followed," the Phantom repeated derisively. "But you did not try and STOP her?"

"I did, milord, but she was very fierce – said she would not fail you again."

The Phantom abruptly halted and glanced at Christine's still face, astonished that she would put herself at such great risk for him. He knew she could be aggressive in striving to obtain what she desired, but what did she mean by such words? Did she not know the perils of walking these dark streets at night, the danger thrice magnified for a moral woman, even one so demurely robed? And for one so beautiful, the stakes loomed higher.

He had barely escaped with his life in his battle with the last soldier, who had been more skilled than his ill-fated companions, though that man too had found death's blow. Once it was done, the Phantom slipped away, wishing only to reunite with Christine, to see her lovely face, to hold her in his arms if she would allow it.

A scream in this part of the city at night was no rarity – but the second time he had heard it, a prolonged wail of terror and pain, he recognized that voice and cry – had known its bearer, though he failed to understand how such a thing was possible. The only other time he heard her cry out in fear, the lake water had impeded her call for help and it came brief and garbled. This cry he'd heard before. It was the cry of terror from his dreams when the dark spells overtook him, and he had hastened toward the sound, it coming as no true surprise when Christine stumbled from the moonlight and into his arms.

The reason for the trap now made sense, the awareness of who was behind it.

And so, the Vicomte had followed him to Paris.

Damn his merciless hide.

How the fool uncovered the Phantom's plans, he could not fathom, but he could not dwell on such matters. He must concentrate on where to find safety in this thrice-damned city of darkness, with their enemies lying in wait at every turn.

He looked in grim desperation out over the dismal street toward the north and the silhouettes of buildings that towered high and close all around, their windows shuttered, firelight outlining the cracks of several. Nowhere would he be welcomed though. He looked behind, toward the south, and the Seine with its black, forbidding waters.

Where in blazes could he go? He wished for his mount but did not dare risk approaching the bridge where soldiers were sure to be guarding the entrance to the city. Alone, he might risk it, easily able to trick the fools with his voice and slip past them using the cloak of nighttime shadows. He could send Tobias to fetch Hades from the forest but could not very well stand here and wait for his return.

A place existed that no one knew but him, a place where he'd found solitude on occasion when he felt sorely pressed to hide. But even that was not a worthy solution. Of damp, and dark, and cold, it was unfit for a lady. She may not bear the pedigree of an aristocrat, but in deportment and speech she behaved as one nobly born.

He wracked his mind for a more suitable solution. On the sudden breath of a chill wind, it came to him, the least conceivable idea he could imagine. He almost laughed at the incongruity of it. A most peculiar event Eustace related to him years ago, a story that received notorious acclaim at the time and seemed unfeasible, though Eustace swore it to be true. The very idea to trust such an account and risk capture made the Phantom's mouth go dry, his tongue taste bitter - to go there. Surely he would be refused, surely he would be turned away, the soldiers immediately alerted to his location…

But if what Eustace believed was true, if such a tale did once exist, then he had no option but to make the attempt. For Christine's welfare, he would do anything.

"Return to the brothel," he told Tobias. "Take care not to be seen. Tell Eustace to meet me tomorrow, at the last place he would think to find me."

"Milord?" the boy asked in confusion.

"Only do as I say."

The boy scurried off and the Phantom shifted his light burden in his arms to achieve a better hold in preparation for the long walk ahead.

"Rest easy, ma belle fille," he whispered, looking at her still face and closed eyes. "I will keep you safe."

Sometime later, after hurrying along many narrow streets and avoiding the moon bright areas, keeping to the shadows as much as possible, the Phantom approached the massive citadel of Notre-Dame. Breathless and wary, his muscles tight with pain, he glared with hatred up at the gothic twin towers, darkened against the moon from behind, at the whole of what this edifice represented, though his midsection fluttered with an odd sense of dread and anticipation combined.

"I seek sanctuary," he told the robed greeter who answered his pounding of the heavy wooden door. "I was told you would give it."

The cleric took one somber look at the panicked masked man cloaked in black, at the injured young woman lying insentient in his arms, and after a slight hesitation, opened the door wide for him to enter.

xXx

Dreams were transient, a swirling blackness devoid of warmth enticing her surrender. It would be so easy to slip into the placid coolness, to avoid those truths that awaited, thorny truths that made no sense, their tightly closed petals unable or unwilling to unfurl…but for one thing. His spoken voice, still and sensual. Soft and deep, like the brush of warm velvet against skin. His beautiful voice never lost the ability to reach her. For nearly all of one lifetime, it was all she trusted, all she clung to…

Christine's eyes fluttered open, her hand going to the damp cloth across her brow.

"Leave it."

His words came tender, but with an underlying current of anger she did not understand, nor did she wish to make the attempt with the debilitating manner in which her head throbbed.

Hearing footsteps scrape against stone, she turned her head slightly and watched his steady approach. He still wore his Phantom-like garb. Black hose, doublet and matching shirt, his black cloak billowing about his long legs.

"Erik."

He narrowed his eyes at the name but made none of his usual cutting remarks, and she was too weary to care if he took offense or not. Odd how she called him "Angel" their entire association, but upon discovering his true name, that is what tumbled from her lips without thought. Perhaps the cause was due to the last few years, when she found herself wishing in the most secret place of her heart that he was a man.

"Where are we?" she whispered, looking around at the room and the walls of soft ivory further enhanced by dim morning light that streamed from the open shutter of a window. There were no curtains to cover it, and a slight breeze blew inside, ruffling Erik's dark hair. The bed in which she lay was small and stark, the only other furniture a long low table against the wall that held a bronze candelabrum of unlit tapers, a book beside it.

"This is not the brothel."

He gave a grim chuckle of amusement, his eyes far from smiling. "No, you are correct in that assumption, damoiselle. I would deem this place in direct counterpoint to that of a brothel. I found it imperative that we seek sanctuary –"

"Sanctuary?" she interrupted in shock, floundering at his explanation. "We're in a church?"

"- due to your childish behavior of running reckless through the streets in the dark night," he continued as if she'd not spoken. "So I came to this cathedral."

"Childish?" she repeated, now the one offended, the reason for her dreadful venture coming back to haunt her with a vengeance. She snatched the cloth from her head and pushed herself up to sit, wincing as pain sliced through her temple. "Reckless? You ungrateful man, I was trying to save your life!"

"By putting yourself in certain peril?" he growled. "I told you to stay put."

"And it's a good thing I have a mind of my own! Who else was there to warn you of the soldiers? Of the trap they had waiting?"

The terror of the previous evening, the relief to see him blessedly alive and free from capture, and the irritation to hear his undeserved censure – all of it twisted together to stir her own heated agitation, and she did not mince words.

When she thought him a divine being, she never dared raise her voice to him, not once, and trembled in shame and terror if he should raise his. All that changed with his revelation of being mortal (no matter that she had long hoped for such a thing). Her hurt at his deceit and startling awareness of his flaws that were entirely human gradually abolished all meekness. Since the night of the Opera House fire, she confronted him absent of the awed reverence for an Angel that formerly had her quake in her shoes. She was still in awe of his genius and talent, but now saw him as a man, and in that sense, equal. He may be wiser and certainly more impressive and daunting, but he was flesh and blood, like Christine.

"You should have given the information to Eustace," he scolded. "You never should have ventured out alone."

"I was unaware Eustace had remained behind," she defended, "but I certainly wasn't going to go in search of him." Her cheeks blazed hot when she thought of the moral decadence she'd seen in the main chamber. "I felt I didn't have precious time to waste, and even if I did think to search him out and tell him, I highly doubt he would have believed me, given what he thinks I am and is so eager to tell others."

The Phantom flinched, also appearing displeased with his aide's conduct. He twice flexed his hand hanging at his side into a fist then released it. The restless action brought Christine's attention to his arm. Her eyes widened at the sight of the white tail of a bandage, the cloth wrapped above his elbow spotted with blood.

"You're hurt!" she exclaimed softly, her vexation with him dissolving at once to see him wounded. She reached out, stopping short of touching him, fearful to make his pain worse. She dropped her hand back to the cot. "But how? That- that man. He never struck you with his blade."

The Phantom moved his injured arm so as to glance at it with indifference before responding. "This was the sum of what I gained from that damnable meeting and my escape from it. I've suffered worse."

She did not want to think about other harm done to him or the extent of what that entailed.

"So it was a trap."

"It was. I discerned the truth from its commencement and acted accordingly."

"I swear I had nothing to do with it."

He lifted his brow. "I never accused you of being involved."

"Yes, you did – you were suspicious that Paris was a trap and I was the bait to lure you here."

He inclined his head in grave acknowledgement. "Then you have my most humble apology."

"You believe me?" she breathed faintly in surprise.

"I doubt that if you were working for the Vicomte you would so foolishly run headlong into danger to warn me."

Only he could bewilder her mind with his swift changes of mood, to extend heartfelt remorse and in the next instant sardonically scold her, like a lost "wandering" child, reminding her of her years in training with him.

She straightened her spine, sitting up taller.

"You killed that man."

"Yes, more than one." He looked at her curiously. "Does that shock you?"

It shouldn't. He murdered Messieurs Buquet and Piangi at the Opera House, but both times she had been immersed in costume changes backstage and did not witness his horrific brand of vengeance. Later in his lair, from agonized words spoken, she realized he enacted such violence as a means of survival but in her distress accused him of a distorted soul. She had never actually seen someone die, until last night, and the brutal recollection made her stomach turn. That, and the Phantom's casual dismissal of murder.

"It was our lives or theirs," he added with a shrug when she gave no response. "I prefer it be theirs."

She could not argue with such an assessment, feeling the same, but wished the fatality of blood never need be spilled.

"And what of Tobias? Is the boy alright?"

"He suffered minor injuries which I'm sure Perrette's girls will soon make him forget."

Christine felt a blush rise at his offhand words. "But I thought – is it safe there?"

"Tobias will not be recognized. Perette will keep Eustace hidden away, of that you can be sure."

She looked up at him in appeal. "Please don't be angry with the boy. It wasn't his fault. He followed and tried to make me go back, but I broke free."

He shook his head in studied curiosity.

"Why would you take such a risk?"

"I had to. I-I feared they might kill you."

"You could have been killed."

She shrugged slightly and looked down. A tense silence elapsed.

"Are you otherwise injured?" His voice came gentle in its demand, the voice of her Angel, and she shivered slightly to hear it. "Save for the knot on your head I could not discern if you were wounded, only the blood on your hands which did not appear to be your own. I did not search your person."

His face darkened with the admission and he averted his eyes in unease.

His behavior intrigued even as it reassured Christine that he truly cared and did not speak as a simple courtesy. She had never seen him act with such nervous reserve, especially since she'd come to be his captive, and suddenly she felt she understood.

"He did not despoil my virtue, though not for lack of trying," she said darkly, a moment's remembered terror causing her to tightly clench the blanket that covered her legs. "Other than being winded when he tackled me and striking my head, I'm alright."

She looked at her fingers curled in her lap, washed clean, the only traces left of the attack crescents of blood beneath her nails, two of them chipped and split.

"The blood isn't mine," she said with a grim little smile that slipped slowly away, leaving her frowning. Suddenly she felt an anxious desperation to rid herself of the filth and swiftly ran the damp cloth she'd tossed aside under each fingernail, trying not to tremble.

That man was dead now. That fiend…

And his blood was on her hands, literally and figuratively.

"Christine…"

The Phantom's tender utterance of her name soothed the mounting unrest in her soul, and she looked up, her eyes locking with his. In them she saw an apology that touched her heart and made him again seem like her Angel.

"May I have some water?" She smiled faintly. "My throat is parched."

"I shall see to it."

He left the chamber, and Christine wearily leaned back against the wall and took inventory of her injuries. Besides her head, her hip ached but only felt bruised. She wiggled her toes beneath the blanket then pulled it back, noting that someone had cleaned the filth from her feet and calves as well as her hands and arms. The awful wool disguise and belt of silver links were also missing she realized suddenly.

A fresh wave of warmth rushed beneath her skin to realize her caregiver must have been Erik. She doubted a priest would touch a woman so intimately to administer care that wasn't urgent, and she was startled to realize any true embarrassment came from the thought that she wished she had been aware of Erik's hands upon her skin. Her mind flew back to the shocking encounter in the lake, when he had felt all of her bare flesh, and she so much of his, the pleasure of his touch crowding out the fear of nearly drowning…

She shut her eyes, not wishing to entertain such wicked memories when he would rejoin her at any moment. He had an uncanny way of looking at her as if reaching into her very soul, and would no doubt discern her every thought.

Soon, he would take her to the Opera House. Once his memory returned, as it surely must after he revisited the place and people that were home to him as well, she would somehow convince him to stay with her there. Madame Giry must know somewhere safe to hide – surely there existed more than one hidden passageway. Perhaps they could go underground again, for a time. No one would think to look in the cellars twice, not after more than two weeks had elapsed. His band of renegades could survive without him, they were grown men after all, and from what little Erik told her, a few wished to depose him as their leader. Let those foolish men rely on their own devices. They did not need Erik.

But she did.

She smiled at the memory of those relaxed hours before nightfall when they openly conversed in the confined room of the brothel. Clearly there had been opportunity to take her to the Opera House, with time to spare. But she forgave him his little deception to know he must have wanted to spend those hours with her, and it took the edge off the hurt that his brooding distance of past days had caused.

Yet what if the return to the Opera House did not jolt his memory? What if that attempt also failed? And, dear God, what if Raoul continued his vengeful plot to destroy the man who had come to mean the world to her? Was, in fact, her world…

Her attention went to the rays of morning sun that streamed to the floor, and she felt a sudden desperate need to be enveloped by their warmth. Slipping from the cot, she padded on bare feet across the cold stones into the dancing motes of golden light. Her eyes fell shut as she reveled in the comfort of the sun's heat against her chilled flesh.

Moving to the window, she looked out…and went dead still.

Her breath froze to a halt, her heart not far behind. Suddenly it raced forward, pounding against her ribs as if it to break free. She stared hard. Closed her eyes, took a tremulous breath then opened them to stare again. Feeling lightheaded, she clutched the window ledge until the gritty stone scraped the pads of her fingers. The sting failed to rouse her from her horrified reverie…

She sensed Erik come up behind and turned to look at him, ignoring the chalice he held out to her. In the early sunlight his eyes shone more silver than blue and did not waver in their regard, but instead grew curious then impatient the longer she stared. His free hand lifted to his face, as if to ensure the mask was still there.

"Is something the matter?" he asked curtly.

"Matter…?" Christine repeated weakly, again glanced out the window to be sure, then back to Erik. "Tell me, please, what do you see out there?"

He looked at her oddly but directed his attention beyond her.

"Throngs of people cluttering the roads and going about their daily pathetic lives."

She shook her head in impatience. "Be more specific."

"Mostly men, I assume are clerics and students from the university judging by their state of dress. Several women and children. Horses, a pig or two –"

"No." Again she furiously shook her head. "What do you see in the square?"

He looked in that direction. "The usual crowd jeering," his tone was laced with grim disinterest. "Two boys throwing rotten food at the latest victim of the pillory –"

"The pillory. And – and you find nothing incredibly disturbing about that?"

Desperately she clung to what logic and sanity remained while she prayed for a response that would make sense. A look of understanding crossed his eyes.

"Damoiselle, the hand of justice is executed, whether merited or unmerited. It is a harsh and merciless world in which we live. After having spent a week in your company, I am aware that you decry any form of corporal punishment and find it distasteful. I do share your opinion when it comes to that particular monstrosity." He looked with disgust toward the platform that held the wooden restraint and the victim who stood bent at the waist, his head and wrists trapped within its confines. "I, too, have had the misfortune to suffer such punishment, at a pillory in Brittany when I was a lad…"

Horrified by his explanation that he delivered as calmly as if he spoke of something as inconsequential as a change in the weather, she stared, realizing he meant every startling word said. Realizing her eyes and mind did not deceive her. This morning. Last night. Upon their arrival to Paris. Realizing what could scarcely be realized and certainly not understood.

"I must ask you a question you will think quite strange…"

At the hoarseness of her voice he frowned and again held out the goblet. A third time she shook her head in exasperation, the urgency to know overriding all else.

"What year is this?" A thread of nervous laughter escaped her tight throat, sounding slightly deranged. "Or perhaps I should ask instead – what century?"

xXx

The Phantom carefully watched Christine. Her face was bleached of all color, her eyes huge dark pools, haunting in their beauty, pleading for something he failed to understand, her appearance much as she looked in the wagon upon their arrival to the brothel. She clung to the ledge with one hand, her knuckles white.

"What manner of question is that?" he scoffed mildly, hiding his concern. "Why would you ask something so absurd?"

"Please. Just tell me."

He narrowed his eyes in wary confusion, her soft beseeching words creating a peculiar ache in his chest to see her looking so lost, so helpless, but he decided to give her the answer for which she asked.

"It is the same as it was yesterday…"

"The same as it was…"

"1502."

"Fifteen…" she breathed in stunned disbelief. "The sixteenth bloody century?" she barely whispered, and for a moment he thought she might collapse.

He saw the flash of wildness in her eyes, the same he glimpsed the previous night.

"How is that even possible? How is it that you stand there and think this is all perfectly natural - and don't see how impossible it has to be?!"

She swayed and he lifted his arm, fearing he might need to catch her, but she caught herself and turned aside, moving slowly to stand by the bed while never taking her eyes off the floor. Her eyes flickered madly to and fro, as if she struggled within a whirlpool of emerging thoughts.

"It's just not possible, not possible," she repeated again and again, "and yet…" She sank to the bed, dropping like a stone. "…it must be true." Hugging herself, she shook her head, her eyes blank and staring at nothing.

Baffled by her behavior, the Phantom surrendered to his mounting concern and approached, dropping to one knee before her.

"Drink this." When she mutely shook her head, he pushed the goblet closer. "I insist. It's not the water you requested, only the wine I was able to find. It seems our host was called away to morning prayers."

She took the chalice, looking into the dark crimson liquid before taking a few large gulps. When she lowered the cup, more than half the wine was gone. Seeing how her hands trembled, he took the goblet and set it on the floor beside him.

She looked at him in awed bewilderment. "How is it that you don't see it too? How is it I am the only one to see that this just. Isn't. Possible...?"

"Perhaps if you care to explain your reasoning I would better be able to form a reply," he said quietly, wishing to keep her calm under the circumstances – which thoroughly escaped him.

She said nothing, only continued to stare into his eyes as though adrift. Wishing to provide what comfort he could, he stroked his fingertips lightly against her forearm. Her reaction was immediate. She unfolded her arms from around her waist, but before he could retract his touch, cynically thinking she was repelled by it, she grabbed his hand in both of hers, holding to him desperately, as if afraid he would slip away.

Her unexpected act and clear need of him touched a dark part of his soul, and wishing to reassure her, he spoke. "Circumstances being what they are, I was unable to fulfill my vow to you last night. However, I will deliver you safely to your friends at the Opera House today. Once Eustace arrives, I will ask him to bring my horse…."

His words trailed away as she continued to stare at him blankly, as if she did not comprehend the meaning of such simple words, and then to his complete bafflement and utter consternation, her face fell.

"My friends," she said softly, tears glazing her eyes. "Madame Giry and Meg…they, they won't be there. The Opera House…" She gave another anxious laugh that ended on a sob and stared down at her hands gripping his. "…won't be there."

He pulled his brows together. "You said the wing in which they live wasn't destroyed. Why should you think…?"

"Not destroyed. Built. None of it has been built yet. It won't be. Not for many, many years. There's a bronze placard, in the foyer, with the date – oh, my God…"

She made no sense, and his patience, never strong or enduring, was fast thinning out.

He gave her a little shake with his free hand to her shoulder. "Christine, what are you saying?"

"What am I saying? What am I saying…?" She licked her lips nervously. "Only that, I don't understand how it happened, but…"

She looked up at him, her eyes beseeching him to believe.

"I seem to have fallen through time."

The words were ludicrous and childlike, her expression gravely sincere. He narrowed his eyes and pulled his hand away from hers, ignoring her soft whimper.

"What trickery is this?" he insisted.

She clutched at her skirts. "I realize I must sound like a madwoman – I cannot even conceive how any of this is possible, and if I were in your position, I would think I must be mad. But…" She licked her bottom lip again, dragging her teeth against it. "Somehow I have come to this century I don't belong to. And you…You…"

Her words trailed away in frightened confusion and she shook her head.

"Pray tell, exactly what century do you think you belong to?" he asked warily.

If this was a trick, she was very convincing, though he could discern no purpose for its design. When first he took her captive, it might have made sense for her to play such foolish games, in the hope of gaining her release. But there was no longer any excuse for such deceit. Nor did he think it a game.

She looked at her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

"The nineteenth."

Her whisper seemed to shake the air. A tense silence passed between them.

"I was born in the year 1854 to Gustave and Gerda Daaé," she said quietly, "outside of Uppsala, in Sweden. My father and I came to France and later to Paris and the Opera House to find work there. After he died, Madame Giry took me in and gave me a home in the ballet dormitories. I became a dancer, later a singer. A singer of opera." She nodded sharply and looked up at him. "It all makes sense now, you see, why you've never even heard of one. The first opera doesn't take place until a century from now…"

"Enough." Swiftly he straightened to his feet. His heart lurched to see her eyes again glaze over with tears. "Enough," he said more softly.

"You don't believe me."

Her words came so despondent he was again sorely tempted to fall to his knees, this time to take her into his arms.

He strode to the window and stared out over the courtyard and the streets beyond, though if asked he would not be able to relate any of what he saw.

"I can hardly blame you," she added, "after all, why should you believe me? It's impossible. And yet…here I am."

"What you say defies logic," he said at last.

"I know."

He winced at her quiet capitulation. She did not beg him to believe her, did not persuade him, and that alone made him listen though he had no wish to hear such devastating words. Words that invited danger and death.

"You swore to me, since the night we first met," he put voice to his thoughts. "That you have no hand in sorcery or witchcraft – and yet you sit there now and profess such a heretical aberration?!"

He turned to regard her, noting the bewilderment that swept across her features.

"Of course," she said as if coming to a second startling discovery. "The stones. That must have been when it happened! The night Eustace found me and I came to you. There was a horrid storm, you see, and I lost all awareness. And then there was the chateau. I remember thinking upon my return how it looked different, and that all of you dressed – different – but I thought it was my imagination, the chateau, and the last, well, I thought you'd stolen costumes, just as you took things from the opera. Hells Bells, what else was I to think? My first thought wasn't – oh, I must have fallen through a rip in time – I mean, how could it be when I never even knew such a possibility existed, never knew something so horribly fantastic could occur!"

She spoke rapidly, as if to herself and no longer to him, her hectic gaze fastened to the wall. He studied her in growing alarm, noting how she rubbed her temple as though it pained her.

The blow to her head must have addled her mind – yes, that was it. Surely that would account for her untenable claims. To suppose anything else taunted his own fragile sanity. Nor did he need ask to whom she referred when she spoke of stolen costumes, that much was clear. In time she would return to reason, she must! He could not tolerate the thought that madness ate away at Christine's mind. Nor did he wish to question why he so strongly cared.

Quietly he cleared his throat. "You must rest. If anyone should enter, tell no one of this. No one, Christine. I must go."

Her head snapped up, her eyes panicked. "You're leaving?"

He gave a curt nod. "I will return anon. But for now…I must go."

Quickly he escaped her presence before he could once more be drawn close by the plea in her enormous brown eyes, the depths of which he felt he could easily fall into and never wish to resurface.

He needed time to distance himself from her alarming account that could in no way under the expansive blue heavens be true, sounding more like a story crafted from the fiery forges of hell. Much like the tale of her life with the Angel of Music, a demon who masqueraded as a man...

Angel of Music, you deceived me…I gave you my mind blindly!

The Phantom halted in horror at the familiar words, spinning about to find the source, before he realized they had sung with forlorn sweetness into his mind.

Her sweetness.

Clapping his hands to his ears, he continued his trek.

God, he was going as mad as she!

Those who inhabited the building were thankfully at vespers, the servants busy with their tasks, and he moved about the hollow corridors unnoticed. His love of architecture and the desire to create, a secret aspiration no man knew about him, had the Phantom cast a favorable glance at the Corinthian columns of pale stone, at the many graceful statues of adulation, at the sheer beauty of the colossal rose window, an intricacy of stained glass that invited wonder - and never had he seen anything like the flying buttresses he glimpsed upon his arrival, a feat of both delicacy and strength. White ribs of graceful support that defied their seemingly fragile composition and held up one entire wall of the monolithic cathedral.

All of this on any other day would seize his rapt attention. Now, he could only deliver a passing glance as he blindly stormed through the many ornate halls and chambers, a silent black wraith with his cloak floating and billowing about him, barely cognizant of his surroundings as he played over and over in his mind the unnerving conversation with Christine.

Mad? No, he did not think her mad. She displayed no signs of lunacy in the seven days he'd known her. Seven days that seemed a lifetime, in that he couldn't remember having not known her. What started out as a burning desire to tup her had developed into much more than that. He could have seduced her at any time, as she lay next to him in his bed, alone at the lake or deep in the forest, but had instead surrendered to her wishes, giving heed to her spoken request.

He thought back to her reference to "costumes" and recalled his own bemusement with the outrageous gown she arrived in the night they met. A gown with a skirt shaped like a wide bell such as he'd never seen, her waist cinched in so small he could easily fit both hands around its tiny circumference and touch his fingertips, the neckline low and revealing, the fashion of the dress, in a word, bizarre, as had been that wire monstrosity the lake waters carried away with the dress, the construction of the strange undergarment resembling a bird cage. At the time, he thought her clothes the latest fashion of the capricious nobility of Paris, and later, when she admitted she wasn't nobly born, of the theatre in which she performed. She often spoke words unfamiliar and phrases that made little sense and possessed a bold independence to her nature he'd never witnessed in a woman so young. She did not even seem to realize certain rules of the land existed and were meant to be followed to survive.

What was he thinking?! Those events of which she spoke were, as she adamantly stated, impossible. He knew witches existed, had been slave to one. But to fall through time, centuries into the past…?

It was unheard of. Preposterous. Bizarre. And anyone to hear her talk would accuse her of insanity – or worse.

Grimly he acknowledged the danger she was in. The damned Vicomte's presence in Paris so soon after their own in all likelihood meant he was searching for his intended bride. He had surely discovered that she was Le Masque's captive and pursued his sworn enemy to reclaim her.

And what of the damsel? She expressed no desire to become de Chagny's wife, had been opposed to the idea – but what was that to him? Why should he care so strongly whom she did or did not marry?

If he were wise, he would leave her to her own devices and wash his hands clean of her, be rid of the additional danger she created and leave Paris with his men at first opportunity. He would see to it that she would not be consigned to the streets, of course, where he doubted she would last a week, nay, even a night! He would speak to the cleric who granted them sanctuary. Surely the man could find safe haven for the beautiful damsel. Perhaps the archdeacon, upon his return from his pilgrimage to visit the king, might give her a position in his household. She would be safe here as long as she never left these hallowed walls.

Or would she?

A strange pain filled his heart when he thought of Christine in peril with him gone and no one there to help her. Eustace assumed witchcraft was in effect, that she had placed the Phantom under an enchantment to be so obsessed with her, and he had begun to think his aide was not far from the truth…

If those who resided within this place of worship also thought her a witch, her doom was sealed.

It failed to matter. Enchantment or not, the damage was done and his course was set. He may be a fool, but he could never abandon her, could not bear the thought. This whole pathetic discourse he played out in his mind was moot. He wanted her to be his…

Despite her alarming lapse from lucidity.

The Phantom frowned as he turned a corner, narrowly running into the path of a servant with a basket of linens. Quickly he ducked into an alcove with stairs and, his energy not sated, took them with a vengeance – what must be hundreds – exiting into a bell tower. Looking out over the city in miniature from such a height captured what breath remained, the wind up here sharp and cold, blowing his cloak out behind him like a dark banner of threat, in proclamation of its bearer.

He could not leave Christine, here or anywhere else. By her admission, she had no one and nowhere to go.

If she said what she mustn't, and the wrong person was to overhear, she could be burned as a witch.

If left unprotected and the brutal Vicomte was to find and seize her, that would be a fate akin to slow death.

Each direction he looked, her life was in certain peril.

The knowledge of what must be done to ensure her wellbeing came to him suddenly, and with sober detachment, the Phantom calmed and accepted this latest twist to their fate.

Christine, on the other hand, might prove difficult to convince.

xXx

A/N: Hmmm… I wonder what the Phantom has planned? ;-) I researched a long time before deciding on this century, and this precise time – I wanted it to be as close to the late middle ages as possible, and before the Renaissance period really kicked in. There are other reasons I chose this specific time, which will become apparent as story progresses. …