A/N: Thank you for your sweet reviews! Red roses w/ black ribbons (tied by Erik) flung toward all of you! :) … And now…

XXVI

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Christine woke to a room softly lit by candlelight, this time the knowledge of her location instantly surfacing to mind.

She was in his bed …

In his bed.

The Phantom of the Opera … who had been such a tyrant to her, such a beast and a fiend, had held her in comfort and at her tearful request had sung her to sleep like a little child.

Surely it could have been nothing more than a bizarre dream…

Her body told her otherwise.

She had wept until what little energy she recovered drained from her bones and had fallen asleep to his lyrical voice without realizing it. She failed to understand her contradictory mind and why she had made the request of him. She knew the dangers, the possessive control of his music, its ability to make her one with its maker. But in that wavering moment she had wished only for him to stay and needed his voice to reach into her battered soul, to bring her solace.

Now every part of her felt … calm. No longer empty. A warm lassitude of ease, her body still weak from the illness and lack of solid food. But what was incredible - the hollow ache in the center of her chest that plagued her since Erik's death had vanished, cleansed away by her deepest tears, while the Phantom had held her. He had held her…

And she had finally let go.

Uncertain if she should feel relieved or troubled about all of what occurred, she stared at the strange half woman/half serpent statue. Based on his words at their initial meeting, in all likelihood this monstrosity was a visual expression of how he felt toward womankind. She frowned and looked back at the dark canopy, ill at ease with the prospect, though she could not pinpoint the reason. More flustered that she should want to, she forced concentration back to her recent experience with the Phantom and what led to it.

She would always love Erik. He was a part of her that would never die. The past could not be stolen. Unlike the present and future, it was hers always to cherish. But she had come to realize that she could no longer allow such memories to be the total existence of her life…

And the Phantom had held her as she cried.

That, above everything else, shocked her the most.

A step on the stones alerted her to company. She pulled the sheet higher to her neck and watched as the girl – Jolene – walked into the room, a porcelain basin in her hands.

"Hello." Christine eyed her uncertainly.

One of the last times she remembered seeing her, Jolene had run terrified from her room. On the most recent occurrence, Christine had shouted for her to take the trunk away, wheeled to her chamber on a wooden cart, proclaiming she wanted nothing from him. It had been foolish of course, her illness proof of that, but she had feared receiving any gratuity from the Phantom to improve her position, thus becoming indebted to him. Such a feeble defense was no longer practical; her abductor had given her aid without her being aware.

Strangely the thought did not trouble her as much as it should, though she still felt angry that he'd had the gall to burn her uniform, leaving her no choice but to accept whatever the trunk offered.

The girl set down the basin and turned with clasped hands and an uneasy smile. "I must tend your wound."

Her wound?

"I don't understand."

The girl unclasped her hands and moved them to the edge of the sheet where Christine held it to her neck. "Please, mademoiselle, I must wash your back."

"My back?"

"Oui." Jolene tugged the sheet from Christine's faint hold. Before she could question, the girl slipped the straps from her shoulders and the cool underground air hit her skin. Startled, Christine clutched the sheet to her breasts as her shift fell lower. Moments later she felt a wet sponge dab her skin. She shivered at the chill.

"What wound …?"

"The Maestro said it must be cleansed and dressed every day."

"The Maestro said that?" she asked in mounting dread. "How would the Maestro know?"

"When I bathed you, when you had the fever, I saw the scratches," she explained as she worked. "They were not healed well. I told the Maestro. He said some were infected. It was part of what made you so sick. He used his brandy and you screamed in your sleep. You do not remember? He showed me how to use the paste he made from herbs, and it looks better, so you need not worry."

The Maestro used his brandy on her? The Phantom had seen her in this state?

More shocking to her than to learn the meddlesome irritation she had suffered from the attack had evolved into infection was that he had seen her so exposed. She pressed the sheet more fully against her bared breasts, scarcely noticing when Jolene rubbed a thick paste against her shoulder blade.

Flustered, she sought for words but found none.

"You were very sick," Jolene continued with a curious hitch to her voice. "You were out of your head, speaking strange things. You called out for someone. For Erik."

Christine gave a brief nod of dismissal, not wishing to relive her nightmares or speak of them after having finally come to the turning point of letting go. Troublesome, shadowy issues clouded her mind, and she badly needed illumination.

"The Phantom tended me?" Her face grew hotter with the words she could manage. "Like this?"

"You are upset?" Jolene looked concerned. "He saw only your back, mademoiselle. The sheet I had pulled to your waist. He did not see elsewhere. I bathed you the day after he brought you to this chamber. It was then I saw the scratches and told him. He came to see, but only then. I stayed with you most of the time."

The Phantom had seen her unclothed before she wept on him. He removed her uniform before Jolene bathed her and later burned it …

Christine shook her head, flustered, trying to sort out what she knew, thankful she had worn her shift beneath the issued chemise. At first an odd whim perhaps, since tradition called for only one, but she thanked Providence for her choice. Would he have stripped her nude if she hadn't? Fire burned beneath her skin and she quickly attributed it to embarrassment. With his reputation of dishonor she was sure of it, and she shook her head, resentful. No man had ever seen so much of her skin bared, not even Erik. She felt a little faint with the knowledge that the Phantom had seen more of her body than her dead lover had.

Noticing the girl's distress, Christine forced a smile. "You did what you must, I suppose."

She understood there had been no option, but it helped her feel no less awkward. Already she questioned how she would again face him after her pitiful lamentation … after he had held her and she had clung to him … after he had seen her … like this.

Christine worked to pull herself together, chastising all foolishness bound up in what maidenly innocence she could yet claim. She could not change events, and it did no good to dwell on the past. Any part of her past. It would be much better to forget what he did, what he had or had not seen, since she remembered so little of the incident. Only the horrific pain, when he poured what must have been brandy on the infected scratches. And Jolene had been there, so that made the situation less … wicked …

Didn't it?

She swallowed, trying to dislodge the awkward lump from her throat as the girl pulled her shift back to her shoulders.

"Why did you run from me the day you first came to my chamber?" Christine asked curiously, adjusting her shift to sit higher.

The girl picked up the bowl and fidgeted with it as if uncertain she should speak. She held it to her stomach, her fingertips white from pressing it so hard.

"It's alright." Christine faintly smiled in reassurance. "It's just that … I would like to understand. Was it something I said?"

She gave a tense nod. "You said you would take me from here."

Christine regarded her in stunned surprise. "You don't wish to leave these caves?"

"The Maestro has been good to me and my brother. This is our home. Up above, they are cruel. The Maestro takes care of us and let's no harm come to us."

Christine gaped at her startling response.

"I will bring you some broth. The Maestro said you must eat. We gave you water and medicine, but you would not eat."

"Where exactly is the…" She could not bring herself to use the absurd title again. "…the Phantom?"

"He is composing. You wish to speak with him?"

"No! I - I was only curious." She lowered her voice, fearful he might overhear, though chances were slim. "How long have you known him?"

"We have been here two years, Jacques and myself."

For two years? "You both seem so young."

The girl shrugged. "I am sixteen. My brother is soon six," she said, answering Christine's unasked question.

That meant she was only fourteen when the Phantom took her as his slave? And the boy, what of him? He had been three?

"What of your parents?"

"Our mother died when I was twelve. My father died when I was a baby. I do not know who Jacques' father is."

Christine froze with the memory.

"…is he your son?"

Her nerves were almost frayed by the time he finally answered.

"In a sense."

In a sense? What the hell was that supposed to mean? She frowned at him.

"I take care of him."

Christine recalled the unusual kindness with which the Phantom treated the boy.

Was Jacques his son?

The thought strangely unsettled her. From the little she'd seen of the lad, he had been happy and not the least bit terrified to dwell below the earth with the man who was a fearsome legend to all in the theatre. That same man had held the hand of the child, treating him with gentle regard, as if he were his own, instructing him to go play with his toy soldiers...

…and he had held her in strong arms of comfort and sung to her with his beautiful voice. With him only had she been able to release the deepest remnants of her grief.

It made no sense, went completely against all that did. Went against the image of the ogre she had devised since their initial meeting. Oh, he was still cruel by his own admission and act of abducting her, keeping her his prisoner, but he was not entirely heartless. Perhaps he was not even the monster she thought him, the beast he endlessly assured her he was…

Just who was this man?

"Have you seen beneath his mask?" The words slipped out of their own accord; she didn't even realize she considered them.

Jolene's eyes widened with unease. "No, mademoiselle, no one is allowed to look. You must never try. It makes him very angry."

Her grave words led Christine to believe the girl did attempt to see, and she quickly asked another question.

"How did you meet him?"

Jolene hesitated. "I must get your broth." She hurriedly moved to the entrance.

"But - can you not at least tell me…?"

Jolene disappeared before she could say more.

Christine frowned, supposing she should be grateful that she'd been able to glean some information before the girl darted off again. From the manner in which Jolene behaved, she seemed to fear Christine! The ludicrous thought almost made her laugh.

If the girl should fear anyone, she should fear the …

Music disturbed the quiet, the organ's mellow chords coming with abrupt precision and destroying all train of thought. She clenched her fists in the sheet, unable to endure another distressing episode of the heart or passion inciting encounter of the soul, helpless to flee his evocative music. The chords went on for a short time then just as suddenly stopped. Christine held her breath as quiet seconds hung suspended in time waiting to be shattered. The deep chords resounded, making her jump despite that she'd been expecting them. They bore a slight alteration, and she let out her breath in a heavy rasp.

The music stopped. Then started. Again and again. Starting, stopping, a continuous cycle - only these notes did not control her mind or imprison her soul. They were experimental, soothing but sad. Had her previous hysteria propelled the outcome of frenzied emotion, and not his passionate music?

She relaxed little by little as the notes played on without threat, a somber calm gradually stealing away her subdued panic.

x

Christine ate the broth without question, feeling a modicum of strength return. Her body starved for food, she asked for a second bowl. She no longer feared her meals being drugged. In her helplessness he could have forced himself on her and hadn't, according to Jolene, according to the Phantom, instead ministering his aid - twice - when she'd been ill. Dear God, he had even saved her life! Saved her from the fever, saved her from his vipers…She knew his motives were selfish and the true reason he did not wish to lose her, that he held hope she would sing for him. But the dual experience taught her no longer to fear him.

No matter his reputation for violence, the Phantom would never hurt her. Of that she was now certain. And in that calming conviction she found a source of new strength.

Jolene appeared and with the broth also brought half a loaf of bread. Christine wolfed it down with no care for bothersome manners, her need ravenous. Jolene brought the remainder of the loaf and Christine rapidly did it justice too.

Jolene showed her to the chamber used for a privy and upon her return, Christine was shocked to find the little boy sitting on her bed, a wooden soldier clutched in his hand.

"Hello," she said, slipping back beneath the sheet and bringing it up around her. "You must be Jacques."

He smiled in reply, his bright blue eyes shining beneath long, unruly locks of dark hair, almost black in color. This close, she could see that his sweet face belonged to a cherubic angel. His mouth she had seen before - the lower lip slightly fuller, with a hint of an upward tilt at the corners…

It was the Phantom's mouth. And the boy's chin was likewise as pronounced and stubborn.

Christine had her answer.

It confused her why it should make her heart ache.

She watched the boy play with his soldier and wondered what one said to a child so young. Henley had been a babe barely walking when she left, not yet able to converse.

"Do you like to play with your soldiers?" An inane question, but she could think of little else to say. Not that it mattered, since the boy remained silent. Yet he didn't seem shy to come seek her out.

"May I see?" Cautiously she held her hand toward him, not wishing to scare him off.

He looked at her hand then up into her eyes and gave her his wooden figurine. She stared with surprise at the statuette of an angel, the finely sanded wood damp and warm from being held in his small grip. The lines of wings, robe, and curls were fluid, carved with grace and beauty.

She traced a feathery wingtip with her finger then smiled at him. "It's very pretty."

He burst into an enthusiastic smile and scooted off the bed, scampering toward the lake chamber.

"Wait - where are you …" Christine looked at the empty entrance in shock. "…going," she added to herself.

She shook her head in mild frustration and again studied the angel, turning it over to examine it. Half the size of her hand, the carving was exquisite, but where a face should be remained blank, untouched by the whittler's knife. She brushed her fingertip across the smooth area.

The boy returned, his small arms full of toy figurines. Wood clattered together as he dumped them at Christine's feet and crawled back on the bed, looking up at her expectantly.

One by one, she picked up each carving to study. Angels, all the same, graceful, faceless, with long flowing curls… and demons, all different. Each figurine created with the skill of an expert craftsman and in great detail. The demons bore faces, their countenances gruesome. She gave a little shiver as she looked into the leering visage of one and quickly set it back down. These must be the boy's "soldiers". And with their dark, bizarre characteristics, the hand that carved them could belong to only one man.

"Did the Phantom make these for you?"

The boy continued to play with two of his grotesque dolls. It was a wonder they didn't give him nightmares. He looked up again, his eyes eager, and handed her another angel. Clearly he wanted her to play with him.

"Oh, um. Alright…" With her legs crossed, she lightly held one in each hand on her knees, the sheet tucked beneath her armpits. "Do you like being here with the Phantom?"

He clenched his teeth in a frightful grimace and moved his demon figure forward, knocking it against the angel figure and out of her hand.

"Hmm," she mused with a wry grin. "My Papa always led me to believe the angels were the ones destined to win." Though with the wretched story of her life, the devils had experienced far greater triumph.

"Jacques cannot hear you," Jolene said as she walked back into the chamber. "He cannot speak either. He never has."

Christine regarded the girl in surprise. The child was a deaf mute? She looked back at the lively boy playing his game of pretend. He appeared content.

"How does he understand anything you tell him?"

"If you speak few words and slowly so he can watch your lips, he can tell. We also use our hands to speak."

Jolene sat on the bed, close to the boy. He warily glanced at her as if he did not wish to, then quickly looked back to his demons he had propped up in clutched hands walking them along the bed. She put her hand to his chin, forcing him to look at her then pointed to his chest. "Go eat your supper." As she said the last word, she brought her hand to her mouth as if using an invisible fork.

The boy pouted but slipped off the bed, gathering up his toy soldiers.

"I don't mind his company if he wants to visit later." Christine handed the other angel to Jacques, smiling in encouragement. She had no idea how she would entertain a child who could not hear and share in conversation, save for knocking demons out of his hand with her angels, but she realized with a start of surprise she would like to try.

Jolene shook her head. "The Maestro gave orders not to disturb you."

"Oh, but I'm feeling much better. And it does get lonely."

"He does not wish us to speak with you. Even before you were sick. He said you were a danger."

"He said what?" Angry that he should make such a demand based on an absurd lie, she crossed her arms over her chest. "I think I should like to speak with the Maestro after all."

"I should not have said what I did. Please don't tell him I told you."

Christine briefly nodded and sat rigidly back against the pillow.

She had plenty to say to the Phantom without bringing the girl into it.

xXx

A/N: Yes, I know a chapter without Erik. Next one will have plenty of him, I promise. ;-)