My birthday is tomorrow! Actually, at 12:01 tonight. Nothing like being born at an odd time.

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Death of Courage

"No, no…I am very sorry, Etienne, I don't mean to be rude…just one more thing…"

The aged chef rolled his eyes in an irritated manner as Raoul de Chagny leaned over the tray of food he had prepared. Etienne had been cooking for the de Chagnys longer than he could recall; sometimes it seemed like an eternity. Then again, his memory was leaving him, and so he no longer had a mind for much other than recipes. He had prepared every meal for the household back when the halls were filled with the laughter of the Chagny children, before the deaths of their noble parents, before Philippe had been charged with watching over the others, before the girls had moved off in their respective ways to begin families of their own. Having been with the boy through his highs and lows, Etienne knew Raoul well – in some ways better than the boy's father had known him. And Etienne had no tolerance for Raoul dabbling his fingers in food, no matter how important the young man thought himself.

Slapping Raoul's hand away with a knobby hand before he could poke an inquisitive, though to his credit newly washed finger in the broth of the soup, the elderly man scowled up at Raoul. The look on Raoul's face was a curious mixture of embarrassment and indignation, the two fighting for dominance over his features and only achieving a comic grimace.

"I was merely checking to be positive that the soup is not too hot. I do not want Christine to burn herself," he managed, with only a hint of a pout at the rough treatment. Granted, he had become accustomed to being dealt with in a curt manner ever since he had invaded Etienne's kitchen, his domain, the night before.

The older man sighed huffily and crossed his thin arms. Everything about him seemed worn and faded, from his crinkled skin to his whitened hair to his gray eyes fixed below drooping eyebrows. It was evident he had put up with much during his years, and was no longer willing to deal with the impulses of youth.

Telling Raoul so, he added, "And if the soup is not hot to begin with, it will be positively frigid by the time you arrange everything just so on the tray and finally cart it up to the poor girl. Nothing is more depressing than cold soup, except perhaps this infernal rain."

To prove it, he rubbed his arthritic hands together and winced. Raoul chuckled, loosening up a bit at Etienne's inability to maintain a façade of anger.

"Come now, I am not that bad. I do not have to arrange everything just so."

The look the graying man fixed Raoul with spoke volumes.

"Well, I suppose I should be off to begin the meal for the people of this house that will actually deign to eat the food I labor over," Etienne said gruffly, adjusting his apron and shuffling off to the other side of the kitchen to bang some pots and pans against each other in his attempt to find the one he desired. Raoul covered his ears against the cacophony, ignoring the biting comment of the old man. It was likely the slightly deaf, overworked cook thought he had spoken under his breath. Either way, there was no use arguing with a stubborn old man over something about which he was technically quite correct. He opted for silence and, while still attempting to smother out the banging with one palm and with the other ear pressed to his shoulder, he balanced the tray of soup on his other hand and sidled past the servant girls that rushed in to help preparations as if the din was a call to duty. One girl who was slightly taller than the others almost received the silver tray's edge straight into her forehead. Raoul believed his ears caught a few very unladylike curses, but he could not be certain due to the fact he had never been pressed to cultivate the art of lip reading.

Uncovering his ears and adjusting his shirt and vest once more, he examined the tray, deemed it must have been jostled in the chaos of the kitchen, and moved everything back into its place.

An embarrassed blush crept onto his cheeks as he realized Etienne had been right.

Taking the tray in both hands, he slowly and painstakingly walked up the stairway, one step at a time, eyes locked on the soup to make sure not a drop would be spilled.

"It's no use, you know."

Turning quickly in surprise, Raoul swung the tray and splattered some soup on the silver. Scowling and muttering under his breath, he stalked into the sitting room he had just walked past and set the food down carefully on a table. With an industrious flourish of his hand, he tugged a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed up the spilled broth with the expensive silk. All the while he never raised his eyes to the figure seated in a high backed leather chair mere inches away.

Fragrant smoke trickled lazily past his lips as Philippe lowered his cigarette and fixed his brother with a piercing stare over a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. A book lay opened beside him, its leather cover straddling the arm of the chair and marking where he left off. A decorative tray on the table by his chair was filled to the brim with the ashes and remains of his expensive cigarettes.

When Raoul didn't speak, Philippe removed his glasses and settled them on the book beside him, then took another long drag from his cigarette before blowing out a column of smoke and continuing.

"It's no use. She is not going to eat, no matter how aesthetically pleasing the arrangement of her silverware."

Unconsciously moving to replace the handkerchief in his breast pocket, then eyeing the soup stains disdainfully, Raoul threw the square of fabric to the table with a violence that betrayed the frustration beneath his cold façade. He still did not turn to face Philippe, but it was obviously a futile effort to quell any rising argument. There had been countless quarrels between the brothers since Raoul had returned from the Opera with Christine. Philippe, who had arrived late to the gathering before the production and thus had spent hours of the night fruitlessly searching for his younger brother before returning to the estate, had adjusted almost entirely to the presence of the girl by the next morning. But he was not reluctant to express his keen dislike for the trouble she seemed to spawn.

"You may be my elder brother, and I respect your opinion, but that certainly does not require me to neglect my love for your sake. We are by no means pressed for food. We can spare some soup, even if she is too distressed to eat it," Raoul said stiffly through clenched teeth.

Chuckling richly around his cigarette, Philippe nodded, conceding the point to Raoul even though he was unable to see the gesture since his back was turned.

"Yes, but we can spare some sunlight and water, too. Perhaps you should push her out onto the balcony so she can soak up some of this rain, then when the sun shines she can bathe in that, also. Really, what are a few missed meals in the long run? There is no use in getting yourself bothered over a picky woman. She may not be hungry. Or perhaps she simply does not eat. That seems to be the fashion for young women these days. As if they are not human like the rest of us. And there is not much meat to the girl as it is. She is considerably ahead of you in the game. I suggest you skip a few meals yourself and show her you can throw a tantrum, too."

Philippe appreciated his own humor; puffs of smoke emanated in bursts of laughter to reach the ceiling and dissipate about the room. Now undoubtedly certain he was being mocked, Raoul gathered the cooling soup from the table and cast a withering look over his shoulder at his brother that required no words of accompaniment. He would not even dignify those perverse comments with an answer.

"Raoul."

The frigid tone of the older man's voice made Raoul pause, even though his blood still burned with shame and fury.

"If she does not eat, she will eventually starve, and if she dies there can be no funeral here. She is already a dead woman in the eyes of Paris. She has already been forgotten."

Judging from Raoul's gaze, it was evident Philippe had gone too far in his jesting. His tensed body was gripped by anger, but the pain of his heart was reflected in his eyes.

Sighing, Philippe perched his spectacles back upon the bridge of his nose and proceeded to take up his place in the book beside him. Careful to keep his eyes from meeting his younger brother's again, he said casually, "What I meant was…just…be sure she eats."

Though he attempted to disguise it with scorn and derision, a note of concern was evident in his voice.

Raoul relaxed slightly, nodded, and carried the tray to Christine's bedroom door.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The rapping of knuckles on the thick wooden door did not surprise Christine. Where once she would have leapt at the prospect of an unexpected visitor, she made no move toward the door, nor did she raise her voice in welcome. She simply sat staring vacantly out the glass window at the darkened sky, her narrow chin propped delicately upon her elbow that rested on the sill. The knock came again, slightly louder as if she was hard of hearing and perhaps did not notice the first time. But she could not be enticed to vacate her post and discover who sought her company. She did not care enough to find out, and she most certainly did not care for company. Besides, she knew who it would be.

The click of the handle being turned alerted Christine to the fact that he was coming in anyway, no matter the cold indifference she showed, and a mild frown of annoyance reflected back at her in the window before she schooled her features. She did not bother turning herself to face him, instead watching his image grow nearer to her in the glass. The mouthwatering fragrance of some manner of savory food reached Christine's nostrils and her stomach reacted in a growl, but not ferociously enough to be heard.

Raoul approached slowly, holding a silver tray. Eyeing Christine's melancholy form for a moment, Raoul finally spoke.

"Christine…I've brought you something to eat."

She showed no indication she had heard him.

Clearing his throat nervously and trying once again, Raoul looked down at the bowl and said sheepishly, "It is just a bit of soup. Nothing very heavy, so if you are not feeling well it should not upset your stomach."

It had only been a day, but Christine had already learned that no amount of heated words would convince Raoul to cease his efforts to feed her. It was not that she enjoyed frustrating the Chagnys and their chef with her blatant refusal to eat. In fact, she had attempted to eat everything Raoul brought her, no matter how extravagant or simple the food. The truth was she could not bring herself to eat it. When she had seated herself before the meal, she had been overcome with a wave of nausea. When the food was removed from her sight, she was tortured by a gnawing hunger. She knew there was nothing physically amiss with her.

But her emotional distress was frankly crippling.

Settling the tray on the small table in the center of the room, Raoul came to stand behind Christine, looking down at her with a pained sorrow in his blue eyes. He reached out as if to touch her chocolate curls, then hesitated and thought better of it.

"My darling, you must eat something…" He said softly, concern lending his voice a heavy note.

Christine turned from her perch on the plush cushions and moved away to put some distance between them, careful to never meet his eyes. She shrugged her narrow shoulders minutely and noncommittally as she brushed past him, showing she was disinclined to listen to his request. She did not pursue the meal, instead seating herself in one of two beautiful, but uncomfortable, maroon chairs on the opposite side of the room.

Christine expected Raoul to react in frustration at her evasiveness, but instead he merely walked over and lowered himself into the chair opposite hers. Christine could feel his blue eyes burning into her, and for what seemed like an eternity she stared at the arm of her chair, idly running her finger along the carved wood.

"Christine."

His tone was not laced with anger, frustration, or anything of the sort. It confused her to such and extent that she looked up and met his eyes. The emotion held within those orbs was unreadable, so much so that Christine was certain he was schooling his features into the equivalent of a blank slate. She, in turn, assumed a neutral expression, though she steeled herself for what would come next.

"Christine…darling…" He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "Did that…that man do anything…inappropriate to you?"

In an instant rage flared within Christine's small body, engulfing her thoughts and burning away any conflicting feelings she had been wrestling with in her heart. Clenching her slender fingers into fists in the fabric of her skirt, she glared at Raoul.

After all this, the only thing that concerns him is whether he can have his perfect doll of a wife!

She did not stop to consider her words, nor did she take a moment of silence to quell her burning hatred for the man before her.

"If he had, would you throw me out on the streets like a piece of refuse?" She spat, the venom dripping from her words. "Would you find the nearest replacement and forget you had ever known me?"

In a way she wanted him to deny it, to say he loved her and no one else, to explain away the blonde girl she had seen him with as some friend or relative, to justify his part in the harsh treatment of Erik as some sort of horrible coincidence. On the other hand, she almost, in some perverse way, wanted him to agree. If she knew he would leave her, if she was certain he would let her go to discover the fate of Erik, she would have gladly allowed Raoul de Chagny to believe she had been violated. When once her reputation of virtue was of the utmost importance, to be defended tooth and nail, she now realized she did not care in the least if it meant being caged once again in the Chagny estate.

The look of pain that was in Raoul's eyes almost threatened to subdue her. Almost.

His mouth hung slightly ajar as if he had been physically struck, and his lip quivered minutely. Unshed tears filled his eyes, and he sighed brokenly before clenching his hand to his aching heart.

"My God…Christine, my darling…every waking moment you were away from me, I have been tortured with guilt over driving you from my arms."

If you knew you would be so tortured, then why did you do it to begin with?! Christine itched to reply in a scathing manner, but held her tongue in order to discover what manner of lies her former fiancé would attempt to poison her mind with.

Running a shaking hand over his face in an attempt to calm himself, Raoul continued.

"Antoinette – I mean, that young woman you saw me with – what I mean to say is that it was not supposed to turn out like it did. You were not meant to see her at all…"

"Of course I was not. Naturally you would wish to hide your secret tryst from me, but clearly you fumbled and overlooked the fact that I might still be alive. How long did it take for you to lose hope of ever seeing me again, to give up? A few hours? Mere minutes?" Christine's voice rose in dark fury as she gained verbal momentum and rose to her feet, her eyes fiery and burning into Raoul as he sat before her.

For a moment Raoul merely gaped dumbly at her, his eyes filled with agonizing surprise. The look he gave her struck Christine like a firm hand.

Control yourself, Christine. Raoul is not accustomed to being addressed with such malice…he does not know how to defend himself against it, having no such strong words himself. He is not Erik…

Erik…

Her chest constricted painfully as tears pricked her eyes. Feeling a strange mixture of sorrow, resentment, and shame that made her cheeks burn, Christine slowly took her seat once more and waited for Raoul's response in heated silence. At first it seemed he must concentrate all his attention on forcing his lungs to work properly. He swallowed dryly, obviously trying to subdue the lump that had taken residence in his throat, then answered her with his eyes on the floor.

"Her sole purpose was to incite that…that man's anger. Nadir Kahn said he would be driven mad by the sight of…me with another woman so soon. I assure you, Christine," he began, regaining his composure and fervently trying to take her hand once more. She moved to sit back in her chair with her hands folded tensely on her lap, quite out of reach of the vicomte's searching fingers. He retracted his hand as if scalded, then continued in his stammering and disorganized manner. Raoul de Chagny was rarely without words. Discovering her rebuttal of his affection bothered him so greatly, rather than feeling satisfaction Christine only felt a growing queasiness in her stomach.

"I have no feeling for that woman. Had I known he would pull you into this…had I known you would be there, I never would have…but he simply had to involve you when this was between the two of us…"

Christine's cold laughter made Raoul stop short and glance up at her warily. The sound echoed in her own ears; it did not sound like her own voice, and she felt strangely detached from it. In a way, she was. There was a part of her that would forever stand in shock and horror at the manner in which she was treating Raoul, her childhood friend and confidant, the man who was once her cherished fiancé. There was a part of her that screamed in protest against the words that issued from lips ignorant of the way they cut like knives. There was a part of her that warned that once these things were said, once these emotions were acknowledged, there would be no turning back. No way to take back the hurt they caused. No way to return the harmony to their delicate relationship.

But there was also a part of her that knew it must be done, and was only too happy to oblige. She had spent her entire life meekly accepting that which others deemed to be best for her. She had allowed the people around her to make every important decision that had arisen in her young existence. It was easier to believe all choices were not hers; dancing like a compliant puppet to the tune of whichever master happened to be near allowed her to never claim full responsibility for the consequences. And now Christine knew that she could not continue living as a mere chess piece. It had taken an embarrassing amount of time and too many unfortunate and avoidable disasters to number, but it was a realization that came better late than never. She could no longer blame her circumstances on the death of her father, her youth, fate, the will of God, or whatever else her mind could frantically grasp.

And so, Christine smothered the meek, compliant child she had locked herself within and spoke with the confidence of a woman who knew the power of her own choice.

"Oh, Raoul, I do not believe you could have been more mistaken. Who are you to presume to make my decisions for me? Did you believe that taking me by force from Erik would make me see how worthy you are as a husband? In your desperate and selfish attempt to secure what you want, you have only succeeded in pushing me further from your grasp."

Leaning closer to Raoul, closing the space between them in a sinister but confiding manner, she locked her hardened eyes on his wide blue orbs.

"You see, in your seemingly heroic battle to bring me back to you, you have only shown me the darkest, most horrid side of your nature. You used a woman for your own gains. Did you bother telling her your plan, or did you just trust she would not respond to your attentions? Did you even say goodbye to her?"

Raoul did not defend his actions. He lowered his eyes to stare at his hands, which were clenched in fists on his knees.

"You never considered my feelings in the matter before assuming I would be happiest in your arms. Neither did Erik when he deceived me into returning to the Opera," she whispered evenly, her breaths coming surprisingly regularly considering the hammering of her heart.

Fresh tears quivered in Raoul's eyes as he realized the implications of Christine's words. It seemed he had gone dumb in the face of her uncommon candidness and could only brace himself against the arms of his chair for the final blow.

"You have shown me you are no better than he."

Silence followed her words; even the rain appeared to subside in astonishment. Christine felt a swelling within her, an empowerment she had never experienced. It seemed the weight of ten elephants had been lifted from her chest, for in saying the words aloud, she acknowledged what she had only dared to keep locked in her heart. Raoul was not the image of perfection; he was not an angel, he was not her fairy tale prince. He was only a man – a man capable of lapses in judgment, selfishness, and frightening possessiveness to the point of ignoring her feelings and opinions. There was a sad nostalgia for the manner in which she once viewed him; through idolizing her deceased father and connecting Raoul to her memories of the past, she had come to view Raoul as someone sublime and above the vices and failures of other men. But with that aching sorrow came the knowledge that Erik had seemed all the more monstrous in behavior when compared with perfection. Christine had finally acknowledged the humanity of both men, and in a way it was a relief.

Christine's newfound victory over her submissive nature was short-lived. Courage was a difficult thing to cultivate, and she did not have nearly enough practice in the matter. It died quickly, without a struggle.

The sight of tears flowing uncontrollably down Raoul's smoothly shaven cheeks succeeded in squelching her sense of pride in her assertive speech. A crushing sense of shame fell upon her, and her shoulders slumped as she watched him place his face in his big hands in humiliation. He sobbed quietly, trying to hide his tears, though it was a futile effort. The rough shaking of his shoulders gave him away.

My Lord, Christine! Why did you have to be so harsh? He has never heard you speak in this manner…you never told him…how could he have known the way you felt if you never said a single word?

Though she was not sorry for speaking her mind, Christine was immensely remorseful for eliciting such a response in the man before her. For all the sorrow he had caused her recently, she could not deny the fact he genuinely would never wish her harm. No matter how fervently she had denied it in despair, Raoul cherished her in his own manner, and she in hers. They had been through too much over the years for it to be any other way.

She came to sit before Raoul's quivering form, her skirts pooling around her as she reached up to brush a few stray strands of blonde hair back out of his face. He did not respond to her touch at first, as if he was unsure she had meant to come in any manner of contact with him, but as she continued to stroke his smooth hair gently and comfortingly he slowly lowered his hands. His eyes were bloodshot and streaming, his cheeks blotched and shining with fallen tears. Christine could not help but remember times during their early childhood – when he had fallen from a tree and broken his arm while trying to retrieve Christine's new kitten, when she had informed him she and her father would be leaving the house by the sea…

Overcome by memories, Christine's slender fingers brushed the wetness from his cheeks in a soothing motion. He seemed to relish the feeling of her cool fingers on his heated cheeks, but he did not lean into her palms as he did…

Christine was glad when Raoul spoke, interrupting her wandering thoughts and drawing her back to her current situation. His voice was punctuated by repressed hiccupping gasps, but he was incredibly even in his tone.

"I know now that you were not happy. I cannot imagine how lonely it must have been, sitting day after day behind closed doors, when you were so accustomed to moving about without a care. But I swear to you, my darling, I did not know. You never told me that you were suffocating behind these walls. I hadn't the slightest clue that you were so entirely unhappy..."

"Perhaps if you had…" Christine began in a stern tone, but Raoul cut her off with a raised hand that trembled, begging her not to interrupt because it was clear he would not be able to muster the courage to continue again.

"I realize any man with the smallest bit of observatory skills could have seen the change that came over you. I know I was blind, Christine. And I am so very sorry. I was only trying to protect you…" Raoul's deep voice broke in a sob.

He stopped himself and took a deep breath, scrubbed at his cheek with the back of his hand, and then looked down at Christine, who waited patiently for him to continue.

"I am young, Christine… We both are. We are still learning about life, and about loving, and about being loved. I made a horrible mistake…I know now that I cannot protect you by keeping you away from the world, because it only hurts you more."

Raoul stopped once more, perhaps to judge the weight his confession had upon the young woman before him. She felt, if possible, more confused than she ever had been upon finding herself once more within the walls of the Chagny home. She had not expected him to meet her angry words with such sadness and repentance. Her eyes remained locked upon him, but a myriad of emotions swirled beneath their chocolate exterior.

Taking a ragged and deep breath, Raoul mustered the will to reach out to take her small hand within his. Making sure he had her undivided attention, he brought her hand to his heart, raising her to her knees and bringing their eyes closer.

"Christine, I am begging you…please forgive me," he squeezed her hand fervently, his voice soft and sincere, his eyes gazing lovingly into hers. But there was an underlying hint of hesitation, as if he expected his apology to be rejected, as if his actions were inexcusable even in his eyes.

She could not maintain the anger she had kept seething beneath her surface for the inconsiderate treatment she had suffered at his hands. The words he had spoken echoed within her mind, and before she could make a conscious decision, her head was nodding in acceptance of his apology. She had forgiven him in her heart, and though she may resist how she felt, she meant it.

"We may have made mistakes, but we can – we will – learn how to work together to make both of us happy."

He pressed her hand once more, but still did not notice the gold band around her finger.

XXXXXXXXXX

Since it is common decency to mind one's manners and be respectful and quiet while in another's home – especially if his home is also his place of work – Antoinette and Gabriel had been certain to constrain their arguments to heated whispers while alone and charged glances when in the doctor's presence. Antoinette knew that upon any evidence of the visitors breeding unrest in his home Dr. Laurent would be more than pleased to send them swiftly on their way. He had made it clear that by roaming the halls of the lower floor of the house, where he based his medical services, the two young people only succeeded in getting underfoot and frustrating the busy man. Also, while the doctor made an acceptable amount of money, the strain of feeding three additional mouths was doing nothing for his financial budget. He had a wife who lived in their upper floor and generally had nothing to do with the clinical ground floor, who, he had on occasion pointed out bluntly, ate like a horse in order to sustain her girth. And he had raised four boys, all whose stomachs seemed endless, forming the idea in his mind that the young people intended to eat everything in his pantry. Though he never directly stated that he would not be able to support the three additional people for long, and though Antoinette fully intended to pay him handsomely, she knew the bald man was uncomfortable with the prospect of their prolonged stay. Her father was an intimidating man, and each hour that his daughter did not return home likely only fed his anger. Therefore, Antoinette was sure to stay out of sight and not make a nuisance of herself by arguing with her coachman while the doctor was home.

However, when the doctor had thrown a large cloak over his bulky form and braved the rain to make routine house calls to some of his more elderly patients, it had not taken more than a few minutes for an offhand comment on Gabriel's part had erupted into something much more fiery in nature.

Ceasing her idle stroll about the halls for a moment, Antoinette spun to face the man trailing after her. Delicate eyebrows knitted in a scowl and small hands on her hips, she glared up at him.

"For the last time, you will not convince me to return home until Erik is in a more stable condition!"

The use of the man's name in such a personal way made Gabriel visibly cringe in disgust, but she chose to ignore his grimace and continued.

"He has been sleeping for hours, and I will not disturb the rest he needs in order to submit him to the hour or more of jostling in a carriage when his body may not be able to cope with it!"

Clenching his teeth and attempting to keep his voice even through the unexplainable irritation of hearing the blonde woman speak of her dark patient, Gabriel pointedly attempted to shift the focus of his argument.

"But mademoiselle, I did not return you to your father last night. He expected you home after the Opera, and I am certain he will be sick with worry for your safety."

Waving her hand dismissively and continuing her stroll about the halls in boredom, Antoinette retorted over her shoulder, "Father will be fine. He worries far too much."

Stalking after her with his long legs, Gabriel spoke boldly, "Perhaps you do not worry enough, mademoiselle."

The young woman stopped and spun on her heel; Gabriel had to step back in mid stride to avoid colliding into her, his gray eyes wide in surprise. Her visage was icy as she once more adopted the aloof demeanor of her aristocratic breeding. They had been close friends through childhood, playing secretly because they knew her father would not approve, and though this had led to an almost informal camaraderie, there were moments when Gabriel was distinctly aware of his station. Like now.

"Do not presume to lecture me. I am considerably concerned. I know by the gravity of my decision you may lose your position; I know my father will likely trap me in my room for the remainder of my life. But I also know that without my help a good man may die."

Lowering his eyes deferentially and making a short bow of his head, Gabriel answered softly and a little stiffly, "Yes, mademoiselle."

Realizing she had stopped not far from the closed door behind which Erik slept, she lowered her voice to a whisper.

"I am going to get a pitcher of water. If you are so loath to have anything to do with him, then you can wait for me out here." She pointed to a chair by the door before heading off to fill a plain porcelain pitcher and find a cup.

Shaking his head determinedly and recovering his resolve, Gabriel's gray eyes flashed stormily. He followed her into the kitchen, where she was rustling through some cabinets noisily in search of a pitcher.

"I will not leave you alone with that man. I do not trust him."

"Gabriel, he has been stabbed! The poor man is not a criminal, but a victim," she said huffily, though she continued her chore, reaching on the tips of her slipper-clad toes for a glass cup that rested on a high shelf.

Reaching up and handing her the cup unconsciously, for he would not have helped if he had stopped and considered it was for the mysterious man, Gabriel said pointedly, "Good men are not commonly stabbed in the Opera Populaire. In fact, no man is commonly attacked in the Opera. Have you ever wondered if he perhaps deserved it?"

"Gabriel!" Her pretty mouth was open in shock at his distinctly unchristian behavior, and she spilled some of the water in her now full pitcher when she spun in horror.

"Stop this nonsense. If it will make you feel better, you may accompany me inside, but kindly keep your wicked tongue to yourself. You will simply distress poor Erik even more with your accusations and dark musings."

Holding the filled pitcher and the glass and carefully making her way back to her patient's room, Antoinette missed the withering glare Gabriel gave her at the mention of the man's name. However angry he was, Gabriel followed quietly and obediently like a spaniel, though he was certain to remain on guard when they entered the room.

There was something about the man that unnerved him, and until he discovered what it was, Gabriel would not even dream of leaving Antoinette alone with him.

XXXXXXXXXX

Truthfully, Meg Giry was a girl given to exaggeration. She had long ago come to terms with her dramatic nature. During the zenith of the Opera Ghost, when the ballerinas had worn so many protective amulets and trinkets Madame Giry had been forced to confiscate them all before each practice or someone would have been injured, Meg had been the first to shrilly attribute any small occurrence to the curse of the Phantom of the Opera. She had a true knack for miraculously creating strife in her daily routine, which was in no way more difficult than the other ballerinas in the corps. It had earned her a reputation for stretching the truth, and thus many of the girls had grown to question her assertions.

But anyone who witnessed the performance Meg gave in Faust the night before would not have objected against Meg's declaration that Christine's drama would be the end of her dancing career. Granted, no one entirely understood what that entailed; they believed grief over the recent death of her childhood companion had consumed a mind that should be otherwise occupied with her role in the opera. What they failed to realize was it was the fact Christine Daae was alive, not dead, that caused Meg to stumble and lurch oafishly when she should be moving gracefully across the stage.

The Persian – Monsieur Kahn – had kept his word and informed her of the success of the operation the moment the curtain had fallen and she had run back to her room. Of course, their communication was through a note within an unadorned envelope due to the inconvenience of appearing in person when so much was still left undone. The method had been efficient, but reminded Meg uncomfortably of certain notes scrawled messily in red ink.

It had also meant she had been kept at more than arm's reach from any real danger. On one hand, she appreciated the concern Monsieur Kahn had for her safety. Then again, she had done nothing to deserve his protection or consideration, and she could not smother the nagging inkling that her own wellbeing was not the only motive for keeping her away. Raoul de Chagny, as was expected of him, had learned the art of dueling and fencing at a young age. Nadir Kahn was…well, he was the Persian, the man with the Evil Eye, and there was no knowing of what he was capable.

And what did I have to bring to the battle? Nothing. Unless the sight of my horrendous dancing would have caused the Phantom to attempt suicide to end the assault on his senses.

Slamming the door of her room in disgust and shaking herself from her melancholy musings, Meg mechanically stripped off her practice skirt, folded it carefully, laid it upon a chair, and donned a comfortable but relatively plain dress. Gazing at herself in the tarnished mirror, Meg nervously returned to her wardrobe, searching once more for something more elegant to wear. She knew her quest would not produce any results, and so when she reached the back of her small supply of clothing she was not overly disappointed. Shrugging minutely to herself in resignation, she plopped down upon her bed and slid her feet into a pair of worn boots, lacing their delicate strings hastily. Sweeping her blue eyes to the window, Meg marked that the rain had not yet stopped. She hated this time of year; it was still too warm to snow, but when the sun occasionally shined it could no longer cut the frigidness of the air. It was as if the whole of Paris was caught within some meteorological limbo, not yet subject to winter and mourning the warmer days that had passed.

Certain to stop by the coat room and retrieve her thick, hooded cloak, Meg went to call a carriage to take her to the Chagny estate. With the hood pulled tightly around her head to keep the wind-driven rain from seeping in, she directed the coachman to her destination and slipped him more clinking coins than she should have due to her reluctance to wait in the soaking wetness to count change. Climbing in and slamming the door shut behind her, she shrugged out of her damp cloak and placed it on the seat beside her. Though there was nothing to see on the darkened streets but the pooling light of streetlamps, Meg anxiously watched out the window, keeping stock of which houses she knew, which streets were familiar, to judge how much longer she would have to wait before seeing Christine.

She had had every intention of shirking her responsibility of showing up for ballet practice that day and instead taking the first available carriage to the home of the vicomte. Needless to say, her mother had not been particularly receptive of the idea. In fact, according to Madame Giry, Meg's performance – if it could be called that – had been so atrocious that it had shown she could not afford to miss one practice, and thus had been obliged to rehash her entire part in the opera, step by step, until her mother had been satisfied. It had taken hours, and by the time she had been released from her toils, she had been required to quickly pull on her costume and rush to make her cue in that night's performance.

Massaging tired legs with a sigh, she resolved to tell Christine all about the tyranny of her mother. She would understand. She had once been in the very same situation and suffered the same torment – possibly worse, really, because she had not been the best dancer in the corps by any means.

But at least she can sing. Dear God, that girl they have chosen to replace Christine…the critics will tear us apart because of her! Perhaps if I can convey to Christine the severity of our impending doom, she might find a manner in which to hide me until the whole shameful thing has passed.

Meg could not help but smile in anticipation. The prospect of having Christine back in the world of the living, of being able to visit her after performances and share the trials and tribulations of life at the Opera, of having someone to listen to her and laugh with her almost brought Meg to the point of tears. She knew their relationship would never be the same as it once had been; Christine was no longer a part of the Opera Populaire, if she chose to take back Raoul de Chagny she would soon be married, and she was therefore in a completely different world than Meg. But she did know Christine would never abandon their friendship of her own free will, and so she did not give up hope for a bright future.

She was also quite curious to know what had happened to her beloved friend. Having once been the leading source of gossip relating to the Opera Ghost, Meg was well aware of the atrocities of which the man was capable. Though Monsieur Kahn had been certain to assure Meg of the safety and health of Christine Daae, Meg was not willing to believe his words until she had seen it for herself. Besides, what did men know of the wellbeing of women? Christine may not appear to be injured, but it was obvious the emotional distress would be overwhelming. Clearly she would need a shoulder to lean upon, and who better to supply it than her best friend?

Of course, Christine did have the vicomte. Meg had almost found it within herself to forgive him for his cold treatment of Christine before she came back to the Opera. Almost. It was not to be misunderstood; Meg had experienced attraction and even love. Just because she had not been engaged did not mean she did not understand courtship. But it seemed Raoul de Chagny had tried Christine's love enough to wear it quite thin. Perhaps his bravery in rescuing her had proven his enduring infatuation and his willingness to change.

Perhaps. She would have to consult Christine to discover the truth.

The carriage lurched to a stop, and Meg donned her dripping cloak once more. Peering out from beneath the hood, she confirmed her destination. The windows of the sprawling mansion were lit with a cheerful glow, fighting back the gloom of the rainy night. The stone edifice looked as inviting as it ever could, she supposed, and grinning happily at the expectation of being with her friend once more, Meg Giry stepped into the rain and rushed to the towering doors. Glancing back to the coachman, she waved him on, letting him know she no longer required his services. If the visit lasted long enough, she was certain Christine would arrange her a room in which to stay the night, and if that was not possible there were always the Chagny carriages to take her back to the Opera. Nodding his farewell from beneath his wide-brimmed hat, the coachman flicked the reins and disappeared into the night.

Reaching up and rapping her knuckles on the wooden door loudly, she huddled in the shelter the balcony above provided and waited for one of the servants to answer the door. It took a moment, but soon the latch was turned and the door opened inward to reveal a middle-aged manservant.

"Good evening, I am Meg Giry. I'm here to pay Christine Daae a visit, if you would be so kind as to let her know," She said with a winning smile.

The man looked at her soaked clothing with more than a hint of disdain, as if it was completely uncommon and discourteous to arrive wet at someone's home on a rainy night. It was evident he was reluctant to invite her to wait inside the house, as she was dripping with rain. He must have also made note of her lack of escort and her simple dress, because he did not open the door further to let her pass.

Making a short bow, he said emotionlessly, "I am afraid Mademoiselle Daae is feeling rather out of sorts and needs her rest."

Mildly perturbed that she was not deemed important enough for one of the Chagny brothers to tell her of Christine's position in person, Meg set her jaw and replied in an even, but strained tone.

"I am Meg Giry, her childhood friend, and I am quite certain she will make an exception."

Sighing wearily, the manservant met her eyes boldly and said once more, "Mademoiselle Daae is feeling unwell."

"I have heard she is feeling well enough, and I am sure she will not mind," Meg retorted, making a move as if to squeeze past the man.

He shifted to block her passage.

"I'm afraid Comte Philippe has strictly stated no visitors are welcome. None. At all. The hour is late, and you do not have an invitation from the comte, so I will have to ask you to leave, mademoiselle."

His voice had taken on an edge of annoyance, so Meg matched it. "And I'm afraid Comte Philippe does not speak for Christine Daae. If she is truly ill, I can offer my help. And I will not be dissuaded."

They exchanged glares, and when the man realized Meg would not be moved, he glanced behind him as if looking for aid. Deciding he had no other choice, the man told her to wait while he fetched the master of the house. The door slammed in her face, making her jump at the impertinence of the servant. But she waited.

And waited. And shivered within her wet cloak, and shifted from one foot to the other, and listened for any sign of someone coming to open the door once more. None came. Finally she lost her patience and pressed the electric bell to announce her presence. No one answered. So she pressed it again, holding it longer than the first time. Still no answer. Slamming her hand on the door in frustration, she pressed the button and held it, listening to the buzzing echoing inside.

This time when the door opened it was not the manservant, but Philippe de Chagny…with a pistol in hand.

Though he did not take aim, Meg's heart leapt into her throat. The comte's icy blue eyes made her shiver more than the chilly night. He smoothed his moustache and straightened himself to his formidable height, looking down at the girl before him. It was impossible for Meg to tell what he was thinking, but she could assume from his posture and the vein that was protruding from his temple he was considerably angered.

"Mademoiselle, I regret to inform you that we will not be receiving visitors, no matter how tenaciously you hold the bell down," his steely voice sounded strained and weary, as if he had not slept well the previous night, and he smelled strongly of cigarette smoke.

Looking at the shining pistol still hanging from his fingers, Meg pointedly ignored his comment and asked indignantly, "Do you always answer your door with a gun, monsieur? I assure you, I do not intend to try to break into your home by force."

He did not dignify her question with an answer.

"Please do not bother us further."

The door once again closed noisily in her face.

After standing for a moment before the doors, paralyzed with shock at being so utterly dismissed, Meg made up her mind. Something had gone terribly wrong with the plan, and there was no other course of action than to consult the master and creator of the design.

It would be a long and uncomfortable walk in the rain, but pulling the cloak tightly about her slim form, Meg Giry made her way toward the Rue de Rivoli.

Slightly longer chapter than usual. Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter and for those who are telling their friends about my story. Nothing better than getting new readers...Let me know what you think, as always!