Chapter XXV

xXx

.

The weary trio wended through forest and across a sun-drenched valley, through a second outcropping of trees, then through still another valley. For what seemed hours they traveled through intermittent stretches of land met by wood, through sun and shadow, through wind and calm, and in the direction the boy, with angry reluctance, had told them. They stopped only once to rest at a pond and water the horses. Christine knew Erik must be tiring though he did not decrease his pace.

He walked ahead, leading both horses. That he could walk so long, after he'd been wounded badly enough that she needed to bind his arm to stop the bleeding, amazed her, and often Christine found her gaze wandering to him in concern. He insisted he walk rather than ride, and she sensed he preferred to distance himself from her after what happened between them. Her own whirlwind of conflicting emotions in the span of less than an hour had brought her to the verge of inner exhaustion. Yet the words he had softly spoken to her before he last helped her onto Orion's saddle, "Soon, Christine, you will be my wife," breathed a whisper of life back into her soul.

She desired marriage to Erik more than she wanted anything else, even more than she longed to fulfill their shared aspirations of her operatic achievements at the opera house. If she'd been given a choice, she would wish Erik behind her on the saddle, with Orion galloping at a mad pace toward the boy's village, instead of this endless plodding trek she endured. But the injured boy could not withstand such a ride, nor did Erik want to overtire the horses. So Christine contented herself with delving into her trunk of treasured moments she had shared with Erik on their journey, allowing them to run unchecked through her mind.

She recalled with shy delight his burning touch upon her skin in past weeks and her touch upon his solid heated flesh. Even the thought made her face flush warm with pleasure. He not only had lit the flame of need deep inside her almost half a year ago at the opera house, showing her how it felt to be a woman, but only he ever possessed the power to fan that flame into an uncontrollable blaze. A blaze she would happily let consume her, until it licked away at all that remained of her girlish innocence, leaving behind nothing but ashes, as her soul and body melded with his. She still did not understand the entirety of what would happen in the marriage bed, but her palms dampened at the thought of their upcoming union, her bones melting like wax.

The recent memory of her questing touch led to her recollection of what followed, and her heart ached with sorrow at what he suffered as a boy. She had never known or witnessed such cruelty. That someone would inflict such a horrific act upon a child baffled her. What kind of monster would do such a thing? What more heartache had Erik endured? But the question most prevalent in her mind – what kind of mother would reject her own son and subject him to such a tortured existence?

Ever since he had sung to her his pitiable story that final night in the lair, Christine wondered about the woman who'd given birth to him. Later, Christine responded that she hated him and was indifferent to what he had experienced, only later realizing whose hold he'd been under at the time. Yet her words were empty weapons used, fueled by her horrified shock and mounting anger over his brutal treatment of Raoul - words present in her speech, but absent from her heart. She cared for Erik, more than she cared for anyone, and as she had caressed the stripes of his old scars by the brook, she silently vowed she would make him forget. If it took a lifetime, she would invest every breath she had within her to replace the infinite sorrow he had known with the belated happiness due him.

Deep in the forest through which they now journeyed, near a low rock cliff, they passed two oaks that had split and grown from one trunk – the supposed landmark to show they approached the boy's village. Christine grew alert but saw nothing. No cottages, no people. She looked over at the boy, who again lay unconscious and slumped over the neck of the other horse. Erik had tied him to the chestnut mare the first time the boy passed out from pain and slid off his saddle. Any sympathy she felt for the child began to dwindle. Had the boy deceived them and led them into a trap? Erik also must have wondered, for he stopped suddenly, alert.

Before she could question his unease, a horde of dark-haired children emerged from the trees and bushes that enclosed the area. They shouted and raced toward them, some bearing crude weapons. Erik whirled in surprise but before he could grab his sword to fend off their waving sticks, two strapping boys grabbed his injured arm.

Christine watched in a daze of open-mouthed horror as he winced and struggled, knocking one boy to the ground, while a small girl grabbed his other hand and bit it. He snatched his hand away and shook off the other boy who then swung at him with a stick, connecting with his back. Erik tried to fight off the rest of the children, but against so many, some almost as tall as he, he could not hope to succeed.

Like one in slumber, unable to awaken from a nightmare, Christine stared. All at once, she felt many hands grab her skirts and arms as other children dragged her from Orion. Her upper arms were gripped so hard she couldn't fight back.

"Leave her be, damn you!" Erik made an attempt to move toward her, only to come to a sudden stop as one of the boys wielded the point of Erik's dagger beneath his chin.

A small boy asked a question in a foreign tongue. The oldest boy with the dagger, appearing a few years younger than Christine, glared back at Erik then answered the child.

Someone wrenched Christine's arms behind her. Erik swore, again ordering them to leave her be. Coarse rope bit into her flesh as her wrists were tied together. A captive at knifepoint, Erik could do nothing to prevent them from tying his hands behind him as well.

Someone shoved Christine from behind forcing her in Erik's direction, and on shaky legs, she hurried to him. He turned his head to look at her, sharp remorse replacing the bitter rage in his eyes.

She wanted to tell him she did not blame him, but fear tore at her thoughts before they could form words. While she watched, her stomach dropped in horror as a small dirty hand grabbed his mask and jerked it away. At the unexpected action, Erik snarled at the child, his teeth clenched.

The children recoiled from Erik, gasping. Smaller girls buried their faces in their hands.

"Jakhalò!"

"Diniele!"

"Vassavo! Wafodu!"

"Wel Wafodu guero!"

Christine understood none of their fearful words, and frantic, she looked at Erik. Her heart cried in anguish at the grim resignation etched on his face. His eyes sharpened on the faces of the children, as if he struggled with a memory he could not quite bring to the surface.

They used their sticks to prod Christine and Erik to walk. Christine bore his pain and humiliation as if they were her own. She tried to reach out to him with her eyes, but he would not look at her. When at last she could form thought, she queried his name into his mind, but he did not answer.

They trudged before their captors through an expanse of trees, taking two turns before arriving at a miniature clearing, hidden in all directions by tall, thick forest. Painted wagons, enclosed on all four sides, stood scattered among tents. A pile of smooth rocks that contained an extinguished campfire sat in the middle. As they approached, Christine heard Erik hiss, and looked to see him glare at a wagon, his jaw rigid.

From within, an old woman emerged. Her long hair under a blue scarf hung in tight frizzed coils, still almost all black though her lined face testified to advanced years. She wore long, colorful skirts as all the girls did. Golden hoops dangled from her ears, bracelets and rings adorned her arms and fingers.

Christine heard Erik growl one word under his breath, hatred piercing his voice. And with that one word, all her hopes crashed.

"Gypsies."

xXx

Madame Giry stood rigid at the window with her arms crossed at her waist, her hands grasping her elbows. Troubled indecision pulled at her mind until she felt she might come unraveled. Rain spattered the glass, a suitable companion to her bleak reflection.

"Mère?"

She let out a wavering breath. "Oui, Margarette, I am coming."

Entering the bedroom, she kept her carriage straight, her expression absent of strain. Her daughter sat up against the pillows, writing on a piece of stationery held against a book and propped against her good leg.

"Would you bring another candle? This one has sputtered almost to nothing."

Madame Giry removed the candleholder with its stub bearing a dim flame.

"Is everything all right?" Meg asked.

Madame turned a sharp glance her way. "Of course." Her tone questioned.

"You called me Margarette. You only do that when you're upset."

Madame Giry masked her expression by turning her back to her daughter. "This revolution; it is nothing. I will return with a new candle." Still, Madame felt Meg's piercing eyes follow her and blew out a sigh of relief once she returned to the narrow corridor. Meg noticed things too well, more so since her injury had confined her to her room. Madame would have to be more careful.

She took a four-branched candelabrum to her daughter and set it on her table. "You need more light by which to see." Curiosity impelled her to add, "To whom are you writing?"

Meg looked back to the paper. "It started as a letter to Christine, but has ended up something of a journal. I record my thoughts on all that is happening in Paris and in my life."

"A worthy endeavor." Madame nodded, pleased that Meg was making good use of her time.

"I just wrote about how Monsieur Durand told me of the healing spas and how I might take the waters once my cast is removed."

Meg's blithe words caused Madame to feel as if she'd been stabbed in the heart.

"He brought me clippings from old newspapers about a spa here in France, there are a great many, did you know? Each of the springs has special powers. Here, let me show you." Excitedly, she reached into a box sitting next to her and sorted through clippings, pulling one out. "This one – Sérénité les bains – has the ability to heal bones. The testimonies of those who have been helped are truly astounding."

"Meg ..."

"Monsieur Durand seems quite sure that I might not only walk, but also dance again." Her eyes sparkled. "Just think of it, Mère. That special waters can do that for a person."

Madame swallowed over the painful lump in her throat. It had been a long time since she'd seen Meg so animated, so full of life. Why demolish her frail fantasy with a few words of harsh reality? Let the poor child dream a little longer, she would know soon enough. Silently she again cursed the doctor's fool assistant for filling Meg's mind with unattainable hopes.

Incapable now to bear what for weeks she had yearned to see, Madame excused herself, telling Meg she would soon bring dinner.

Leaden with the weight of her thoughts, Madame moved more slowly than usual, though her posture remained erect, a habit formed by years of dance. She approached her writing desk and her own correspondence.

Madame could never afford the spa's tremendous expense. With wary reluctance, she toyed with the idea to revisit the lair, take any items of value, as her Maestro had granted his permission to do, and sell them. Yet who could pay her the needed money with the Revolution right outside her doorstep? Even if by some remote miracle she were to locate a wealthy collector, the mere idea of journeying back into the morbid depths of the Phantom spirit's home raised gooseflesh on her arms. She had become his mortal enemy. To pull away the planks of the boarded up doors and reenter the condemned opera house would be to put herself at great risk. He could find her; his eyes were everywhere.

She shivered and lifted her hands to rub her crossed arms. As she did, her hand knocked against a thick, beribboned packet of old letters at the edge of the desk, bringing her attention to them. The script on the envelopes had faded to dull brown, the name scrawled atop a whisper of the past that still haunted her memories. With her fingers, she traced the loops of letters written in a perfect, precise hand. Dominique. Unexpected tears glazed her eyes and she brushed them away. She moved to the cupboard to pour herself a glass of wine.

For seventeen years, she had tolerated no weakness to think of herself in any manner except as Madame Giry, the name she'd chosen out of a sense of fearful perseverance. When asked her Christian name at the opera house, she had raised her chin and chillingly told her peers they may call her Madame, as her students did. With obvious unease and awkward guffaws, they abandoned the topic.

Only her Maestro knew the truth. Only he had aided her when she'd gone to him, by allowing her and Meg to stay at the ballet dormitories where Madame once lived as a child – this time saving her as she once saved him when she brought him to what would become his kingdom. He, in turn, awarded her a home and a noble position in his realm. During her years of absence from the opera house, he'd taken his place as ruler of his musical kingdom, as she'd always suspected he would do, ever since the night she met him at the gypsy fair and realized he was the embodiment of Music.

Even as a very young man, not fully grown into his role, he had shown his genius. With devout respect and endless gratitude, Madame had knelt before him on the cold stone of his elaborate lair, kissed his hand and pledged her fealty, promising Meg's as well, though Meg had then been an infant. She could still remember the odd mix of both awe and mockery in his intelligent green eyes. She had wondered if this was the first he truly understood his destiny, or perhaps he found it a paradox that she paid him homage when he remained bound in the Phantom's chains, in a place he considered a dungeon, a truth she had not fully understood then. Since that time, Madame served him, honored him, feared him, and loved him as a loyal subject to his throne, bringing up Meg to do the same.

From across the room, she looked at the innocuous stack of envelopes that had the power, even now, to hurt her. Traces of faint, girlish laughter, ghostly in their appearance, beckoned to her mind of those lost days.

She had bound the letters with ribbon and kept them as a reminder of the foolish, naive girl who once entered Paris with stars in her eyes, failing to see the soot and the decadence, the cruelty and the perversion. But more than that, the letters had been the essential discipline she had self-inflicted to keep her will strong.

For years, the letters had drawn her, cursed her, and at times, when her soul grew silent, comforted her. With remembrance both fond and cruel, she'd held fast to them. Now, a slender thread of dubious hope caused her to regard them anew.

Dare she attempt to unlock a door barred to her almost two decades ago? For Meg's sake, to give her the dance again, could she push back the veils that cloaked her girlhood years and seek aid?

She closed her eyes, willing her heart to slow its frantic pace. For her only daughter, all she possessed in the world, she must fight her misgivings and once again step foot into the forgotten life of Dominique.

xXx

Erik's eyes narrowed with hatred as he watched the old woman descend the few steps of the wagon. Five of the children ran up to her, each talking over the other, and pointed to Erik and Christine. She questioned the gypsy rats. At their answers, she sent a grave stare in Erik's direction, then turned on the children and yelled at them, lifting her arm as though she might strike. They recoiled from her anger.

"You stupid children! Do you not remember the tales passed down and spoken to you by your fathers? Did you not listen?" She walked a few steps and clamped her bony fingers on one of the older boy's shoulders, shaking him then shoving him brutally to the ground. "Fools!" Her gaze revolved around the circle of shocked faces. "A curse be upon you if you have now cursed our band with your reckless deed!"

Though his wrists were bound, Erik clenched his hands into fists as she approached. Her unflinching black eyes remained on his exposed face. She impassively studied his twisted flesh, then cast an encompassing glance at Christine then the horses beyond, as if to take in everything. The old woman's eyes flinched in surprise to see the boy tied to the chestnut horse. She looked back at Erik. He glared at her. Her thin lips lifted into an assessing smile, before she addressed the children.

"Since you lack the good sense to remember what you should have never forgotten, I will remind you. At the time of the black moon, many years ago, my great-grandmother, the old Drabarni, spoke to our fathers and told us a great evil would befall our tribe, that our only hope of deliverance would lie with the man with half a face who would come to us at the cycle of the half moon. That day is here."

"But he has Jakhalò, the evil eye, Baba Magdelena," the boy who had tied Erik cried. "He is cursed!"

"Silence, Fordel! Do you presume to know more than I?"

The boy cowered in the face of her wrath.

She looked down to his hand. "What is that you hold?"

"The mask he wore to hide his face!"

"Fool," she muttered under her breath. "Untie him, and give him back his mask."

Keeping his expression a careful blank so as not to let her see his shock, Erik felt his dagger slice through the ropes. Once freed, he brought his hands forward, flexing his fingers to relieve them of the stinging pain. "Untie my fiancée as well." He spoke for the first time, his words clipped as he snapped the mask from the boy's hand and retied it around his head.

The old woman straightened her carriage to look at him, standing almost as tall as he did. "So, you speak our language? A Frenchman with the tongue of both Romany and Spain." Her words were meditative, and she gave the order for Christine to be untied.

Erik ignored her comment. He found it alarming how quickly he picked up the despised dialect, their manner of speaking gypsy words mixed with Spanish, how easily he remembered. "How did you suspect we were from France?"

Christine tried to come to him, but one of the older girls held her arms, preventing her. The Drabarni's lips firmed as she impaled the gypsy with a frown of slim tolerance, and jerked her head toward Erik. The girl released Christine. Swiftly she bridged the distance between them and wrapped her arms around his waist, while he covered her with his cape, protecting her with his arm around her shoulders.

The Drabarni lifted her brows at this obvious sign of their affection. Evidently she thought someone with so monstrous a face would have needed to kidnap Christine and hold her against her will. He remembered with bitter shame how he once tried to do that very thing.

"The cut of your clothes is French, as is your accent. I know many things."

"Of course. You are the Drabarni." He did not bother to keep the harsh mockery out of his voice. "It is a fortuneteller's duty to know all and to see beyond the present, is it not? At least that is what you tell the gadjo, those outsiders not of your tribe."

"You know gypsy ways as well," she said, her words laced with somber surprise.

Erik countered with a terse question. "What do you want with us?"

"In good time. First, we must see to your needs. Lupita!" She addressed the girl who'd held Christine. "If you think you can do a simple task and make tea without bringing down a curse upon our heads, do so and bring it to my tent. Ava Mansa." She addressed Erik with a motion of her hand.

He held back, unwilling to go anywhere with her. "Return my dagger to me."

She sighed and looked at the boy next to him, holding out her hand, palm up, in command.

"But, Baba Magdalena—"

"Do you wish a worse evil to befall you, Fordel?"

At her menacing words, he grimaced and slapped the handle of the dagger into the Drabarni's hand. Her shaggy brows rose when she noted the rubies, but she in turn gave it to Erik.

He took it but did not sheathe it. She noticed, a small smile playing about her mouth, which increased his ire.

"Is there anything else you wish?" she asked.

"Release us, and give me my horse."

Her expression did not waver. "We must talk. Fordel, make yourself useful and free Armando from the horse. Melosa, see to his leg." She turned and retraced her steps, this time entering a tent next to her painted wagon.

Christine shared a look with Erik, and he offered a curt nod of reassurance. He did not trust any gypsies, whose lifestyle encouraged every form of deceit, but at present, saw no recourse but to do as the old Drabarni said. Scarred though he was by his hatred, he would not harm children – even gypsy children – unless they hurt Christine. He could trick them, jump on Orion and flee, but he dared not risk placing Christine in peril, in case she wasn't swift enough to follow his lead. She had endured much these past days and he knew she was exhausted. For a time flight seemed elusive, but Erik had been a master of illusion, taking part in many an escape. He would conceive some plan.

Keeping his fingers clenched around his dagger, he lowered his other hand to Christine's waist, holding her close to his side, as they followed the old woman.

Once he stepped into the dim interior of the tent, the overwhelming odor of incense assaulted him. At a round table, a globe of dark crystal sat on a wooden pedestal. Herbs hung from the roof to dry, amulets were suspended along the walls, and books and pottery lay piled on the ground scattered with mats of straw. He clenched his teeth, breathing hard, as the cruel taunts of the past echoed through his mind.

The woman narrowed pensive eyes, watching him. "You have been in a gypsy camp before this. As a child."

"What is it you want?" Erik whipped the words out.

She drew a sharp breath. "Your aid."

"Impossible."

"You have not yet heard my request."

"I refuse to help any gypsy! Least of all a Drabarni!"

She turned to look at Christine. "Tell him if he does not help us, the children will all be killed by a madman," she said in perfect French.

Erik's eyes widened.

The Drabarni cackled a laugh. "Oui, we both have our secrets. I know your language, as well." She looked at Christine again. "Tell him the littler ones will be used as playthings by the great Don Carlos, and when he is finished ravishing their bodies, he will toss them from his bed for his men to have their turn with them."

Christine gasped, her cheeks going ashen.

"Leave her out of this!"

"The children thought you were from Don Carlos," the woman continued swiftly, still speaking to Christine. "They are foolish. They do not always act wisely. When they saw Armando tied to your horse, they thought you killed him. That is why they attacked."

"ENOUGH, DAMN YOU!"

Enraged, Erik advanced and grabbed the woman's arm, raising the edge of his dagger to her throat.

He heard Christine's horrified gasp, but old anguish and new rage blinded Erik to all but the red veil of hatred that now covered his eyes.

The old woman shrunk back from him, though her black eyes remained steady. "You wish to marry your beautiful lady, and make her your Juvali? I am the only one who can help you."

"I need no help from a Drabarni," he spat the words at her.

"No priest in Spain will marry you. The mask you wear marks you as a bandit, and here the people will shoot before they question, or they will throw you in prison. If the priests were to see your face, it is doubtful they would agree to the union. But I can help you."

"We want no heathen ceremony, old woman."

"I know of a priest, in Seville," the Drabarni insisted. "He will do as I ask."

"Why should I believe you speak the truth?" he growled. "Deceit is a tool you gypsies have learned well."

"The fate of my people is at risk. If after the children and I take you there, you feel I have deceived you, you may then slit my throat if you wish."

Her words fell like stones, shattering through his anger, and he released her with a hard push. She fell back against the table.

The Drabarni recovered, straightening. She rubbed her arm where he had gripped her. "But before we take you to Seville, you must help us."

"Never."

"Erik." He felt Christine's hand slide through his arm and pull him back to her. Torn, he glanced at her, while keeping alert to the old witch's movements. Christine's eyes glistened with concern. "Our union must be recognized by the church," she said under her breath so only he could hear. "Anything less would give anyone trying to tear us apart the power to do so. If she speaks the truth, this priest she knows might be our only hope. And Seville is our destination. Let us at least hear what she has to say."

Working to steady his breath, he turned her words over in his head. She had said "anyone," but he knew she meant the blasted Vicomte. She was right, of course, their union must be recognized as a true marriage by all authorities. He wanted no less. He had hoped when those of the holy order recognized that Christine desired a union with him, the presence of his mask would not present a problem, that he could blame a fire or other tragedy as the cause for concealing his face. The Drabarni's mention of bandits now disturbed him. That he lacked a surname also concerned him, though when he shared such misgivings with Christine before their journey, she assured Erik she wished to marry him whether he possessed a family name or not. He had thought to supply a false one, if necessary, but documents could also be arranged ...

He shot a stern glance at the Drabarni. "Speak."

"The law here is corrupt. All work for Don Carlos. He is a powerful man. Our people have always been outcasts, treated worse than dogs. Have you wondered why there are none in our camp but children and a few old women and one old man? One by one, he has taken their fathers and mothers, using them as slaves to work his vineyard, using the women as whores. Those who have tried to escape have been shot."

"Gypsies never stay in one place for a great length of time," Erik said tersely. "Why have you not simply left?"

"The children will go nowhere without their parents. Would you expect them to?"

"And what do you expect from me?"

"I want you to help us free those imprisoned by Don Carlos. I want you to help protect the children."

Erik gave a mocking laugh of disbelief at her ludicrous words. "If you are a true Drabarni, you would know the identity of the one with whom you speak and why that is not possible. I will never take orders from a gypsy! I will never be a gypsy's slave!"

He grabbed Christine's arm, whirling to go.

"Slave? We want to make you our leader!"

The old woman's words cut short his hasty retreat as if she'd thrown a knife in his back. He turned, stunned. The gypsies were exclusive in their traditions, allowing no foreigners into their circle. What trickery did she now have up her sleeve?

"You are not only foolish, Madame, you are insane. I am gadjo, not Romani."

"Si. But you are the one foretold. 'The man with half a face, he shall come to us from the land of the emperor, bearing great wisdom and great strength –'"

"I care not for your fortunes of old!"

"Very well! Go then! And when the first priest you meet contacts the authorities to have you thrown into prison as a bandit, remember the words of the Drabarni! I shudder to think what those evil men will do to one so beautiful as your woman!"

His gaze sliced through her as he advanced a step.

"You would dare spread word to them and put my lady in danger?"

"I told you, none will listen to my words because I am Romani and a Drabarni. They are chungale mannochendar – of evil men – who will act first and ask no questions. It is their way."

Erik worked to rein in his temper, for the first time recognizing a morsel of wisdom in the old hag's words, and recalling his own personal encounter with Don Carlos's men.

"If you speak truth, what makes this priest in Seville different from the others? Why would he perform the ceremony when others will not?"

"He will do as I say," she assured. "He is indebted to me, and he will also provide the documents needed," she added, as if she'd earlier read his thoughts.

Erik's jaw clenched. "I must speak with my lady." Without waiting for the Drabarni's reply, he swept out of the tent pulling Christine with him.

At Erik's abrupt appearance, a few of the gypsy rats on the fringes looked up from whatever task they were at as though worried.

They had good reason to fear.

Scowling, Erik pulled Christine with him into the trees, away from prying eyes and ears that also might understand their language. Once they were alone, he released her and began to pace. Conflicted thoughts whirled inside his head. To be in a camp of gypsies stirred his hatred, bringing to mind the vague memories of the early years he endured under more than one Romani's torture. Forged on the breath of their fiery intimidation and lies, Erik had counted himself unworthy of all but darkness and chains.

Christine stood silent, patient in the wake of Erik's restless tension. He whirled suddenly to face her.

"You want me to help them, don't you?"

She flinched at his verbal attack, though her eyes remained calm. "I will not lie to you. The thought of what she said this Don Carlos will do to the children grieves me. I do not wish to see them killed or to suffer, no matter their mischief against us."

"Mischief," Erik mocked and continued to pace, flicking his cloak back with barely suppressed irritation. "The lashes on my back – you must know at this point by whose hand they were delivered. A gypsy, Christine." He spat the word as if it were poison to his tongue and came to a swift halt. "I was kept in a cage, in a gypsies' traveling carnival for years. Fed little, beaten much. A beast – the Devil's Child, they called me. I killed my jailer and escaped when I was a boy. Afraid and alone, I sank to the lowest dungeon I could find, in the depths of the opera house. Those years with the gypsies ate like acid into my soul. How can you ask me to help them now?"

She moved toward him, taking his large hands in her small ones. "Were these gypsies the ones who did that to you?" Shock filled her voice.

"I don't think so, no. I don't know. There are many bands of gypsies throughout Spain and France. Nonetheless, they are gypsies, Christine!"

Her face revealed her heartache for his suffering while her eyes looked into his without condemnation. "The children were not yet born when those vile acts were inflicted upon you, my Angel. In that regard, they are innocent and should not be held accountable for one beast's transgressions. He was the beast, not you. Yet the decision must be yours alone. Whatever choice you make, I will support you. But I admit, I am also troubled by what the woman said about us locating a priest who will disregard your mask and perform the ceremony."

"Curse her, the evil witch!"

At his harsh exclamation, she jumped, and Erik forced himself to calm. "Forgive me, Christine. I find myself at a crossroads, unable to discern if she deceives us or tells the truth. If it is the latter, dare I take the risk? If it is the former, I would gladly slit her throat as she suggested, if not for the vow I made never to murder another."

"You made such a vow?"

Her soft, wondering smile helped to quiet his soul and his voice. She had always had such an effect on him, often able to leash his anger with no more than a look, a touch, a kiss.

"After you left me that night in the lair, I shattered the Phantom's hold over me and sought refuge in a secret passage. Meg found me and brought my mask, telling me she would return to advise me of when the mob had dispersed and it was again safe. As I waited I dwelt on all that happened, despising myself for the destruction I'd wrought, knowing I could not continue as I had. After you presented me with your ring and your silent pledge, after you sang of your sweet love to me, asking me to leave the darkness and join you, I swore then I would do all within my power to make myself worthy of you, Christine, to deserve such precious love. You sacrificed everything to free me, to be with me, and I will do no less."

Her smile bloomed, more beautiful than any rose. Upon seeing her shining eyes and their unspoken message, after hearing his own words of conviction, the knowledge of what he must do came clear. Perhaps the most difficult feat he had yet undertaken, even taking into account his days as the Opera Ghost.

Erik took in a slow, deep breath and expelled it. With it, he forced himself to release the remnants of fresh anger. He lifted her hands, still holding his, and slowly kissed each of them in turn. "I would do anything in my power to be with you for all eternity, Christine, to make you my wife, to fulfill all our dreams." His voice came hushed. "Anything."

The Drabarni stood outside her tent as if she had been awaiting their return. His expression grim, Erik approached, holding Christine close to his side.

"First, you and your band will take us to Seville and find this priest of whom you speak, so that my lady and I may be wed." He took a deep breath, forcing the difficult words to surface. "After that, I will lend the children my aid."

He felt Christine's arm tighten around him and knew she was pleased with his answer.

The Drabarni stared, as if her black eyes could reach down to his very soul. He looked back at her, unflinching.

"How do I know you will not withdraw once I help you?"

"Have you such little faith in your own prophetic legends?" he mocked. "I give you my word, and I do not take my oaths lightly." He knew this would help to convince her. An oath or a curse to a gypsy was their way of life.

She gave a curt nod. "If we leave on the morrow, we will arrive in time for La Feria de Sevilla. This is good. The children need to laugh again and to hear the music so long absent from their lives."

"The Festival of Lights," Christine breathed, turning to him. "Erik! We will have made it in time."

He looked at her, his own happiness returning as he noted the sparkle of excitement in her eyes. He returned her tender smile with one of his own, then again looked at the old woman.

"We will stay in Seville throughout the entire week of the celebration. Once it has ended, we will return to this place and form a plan."

The Drabarni nodded. "I will tell the children to begin packing the wagons."

Once she left and they were alone, Christine looked up at him, her face glowing.

"You are pleased with my decision."

"I never doubted you."

Confusion made him gather his brows together. "How can you say that? After what I told you."

"While you were chained to the Phantom, you may have killed, but the heart of a murderer doesn't reside in you, Erik. You would never allow harm to come to a child, any child. True beauty dwells inside your soul. I recognized it the first time you sang to me, even at the tender age of seven." Her hand moved to cup the scarred side of his face, hidden beneath the mask. "You protected me, you reached out to me. When no one else would listen to my fears, when all at the opera house failed to see past my invisible mask that hid my heartache and loneliness, you were there. You alone understood me. Even throughout those months when the Phantom tried to take over your kingdom, I recognized the beauty of who you are." Her eyes grew sad. "For a time I turned away from you, because of my confusion and his darkness. But I came to realize that once you were freed of him and his lies, the wondrous truth of who you are would surface. And I'm seeing more of that every day."

He stared at her, amazed. How had she seen what he himself could not? She had looked beyond the horror of his twisted face, seeing past the scars to the chains that had bound his reasoning, to the jailer who deceived his mind. She had recognized what no one else tried to understand. And in her longing to free him, to be one with him, somehow she had discovered what consisted of the lost man behind the menace and opened his blind eyes to the colors, faded and quiet, but still existent within him. Not locked away in a music box.

He had molded her into a part of who he was, in both his desire to make her his own and her longing to become music, and she reflected to him the image of all that he could be.

She slid her other arm around his waist, laying her head against his shoulder. He buried a kiss in her hair and closed his eyes. Even his black hatred of gypsies paled in the light of his deep love for his future bride.

For her, he would somehow bring forth the colors again.

xXx