A/N: Thank you so much guys! :) …At this time in Paris (in true history), the city had just come out of a heavy siege ( September 19, 1870 – January 28, 1871). Under such circumstances, the opera house would likely not have been functional - the city was suffering, starving - After the French surrender, the Prussians surrounded the city from January - early March of that year. From what little I could find in my research the actual Paris opera house was somewhat empty at that time period and in the months that followed (more on that later).

Since that did NOT happen for ALW's movie, which I'm following, BUT since I would like to keep this somewhat within the bounds of history, and since this is my own opera house, I took some artistic license while trying to keep things believable for what could happen…within this fantasy! haha

Cafés were open during the siege - I saw a menu of an 1871 one in my research… let's just say, you don't want to know…but at my café they're serving normal food. ;-)) -

And now…

Stranger Than You Dreamt It

Chapter XXXVII

.

At the small outdoor café across from the opera house, with lamplight casting a soft glow all around the perimeter, Meg sat at an intimate round table with Raoul as he gave the waiter their order. She still felt she must pinch herself to believe that they were dining alone together. Had Maman known, she likely would have interfered, and Meg was thankful that her mother had closed herself up in her office with work shortly after the last practice ended.

The waiter bowed and moved away, and Raoul focused his blue eyes on her.

"I apologize for not taking you somewhere indoors, I do hope you're not too cold, but there are few establishments inside Paris that have any fare worthy of the palette at this time. This is the best café I have found."

Was he truly apologizing to her? If they shared a loaf of bread on a bench in the empty kitchen of the opera house she would be just as content.

She smiled. "It is fortunate then that it is so close and not on the other side of the city. And please, this is lovely. I'm not one bit cold." The night air held a distinct chill but inside she felt warm, basking in his presence, and she had changed from her flimsy costume into a simple wool dress and cloak.

"It is not only fortunate but incredible that such a place exists, with most of the city starving, thanks to the Prussians…." Raoul's words trailed off as if in deep thought.

Starving? Meg drew her brows together in surprise and glanced at other customers. No one looked gaunt, though some looked thin…

At the opera house they always had enough to eat, even if the fare was often bland and scarce in selection, and often the same course was repeated for days. So enmeshed was she in the life of the theatre, a separate world existing within its walls, that she'd given little thought to the situation inside the city until the soldiers had scattered and rumors of a probable revolution trickled into every backstage conversation. She thought of the hidden corridors and the snippets of rumors she once overheard of underground canals that supposedly existed and led outside the city. Had their chef, Pierre, found a way to smuggle food inside the opera house? With the café so close, right outside its doors, did they also have an arrangement? But, what of the Phantom? Surely he would know of it since he lived beneath ground! Unless he was part of such a scheme too…

"Miss Giry…?"

Meg snapped out of her fantastic musings and looked up into his concerned face.

"Where were you just then? You look troubled. Does something worry you?"

"Worry me? No. I…"

She considered telling him the scope of ideas that had come to her but at the last moment refrained from making an even bigger fool of herself. Her face warmed at her preposterous deductions. An intricate plot of piracy to feed the theatre. Really!

"I was just thinking of what you said. I had no idea that the entire city has endured such suffering."

"The poor have fared the worst. But, sadly, that is always the case."

Meg nodded, feeling almost guilty for the eager lurch of her stomach as the waiter returned and set her plate before her. She waited until Raoul was also served then took a bite of her baguette, somewhat crisp on the outside, much like Pierre's. The meat, smothered in a white sauce also resembled his dishes…of course it was nothing more than coincidence, Meg was sure. This outing was her first to sample food other than Pierre's - indeed, her first true outing beyond the opera house. Again, she wondered what Maman would think to know she was outside its doors, dining with their patron.

"So then, you have known Christine since you were children?" Raoul began after setting down his wine glass.

Meg warily looked up from her plate. "Yes."

Raoul nodded pensively. "Tell me…"

"No."

He looked at her in surprise, but she had had enough.

"If this invitation to dinner was only your method to learn more of Christine and her whereabouts then you can stop right there, monsieur. She is well. She is safe. And you may speak with her upon her return this weekend." She pushed her plate away and rose to her feet. "I should return to the opera house now."

"May I finish?" Raoul asked quietly, looking up at her. "Please, sit down, Meg. May I call you that?"

Hearing him address her by name effectively stripped her of all annoyance with him and made her a little giddy too. Uncertain, she slowly lowered herself back to her chair and gave a slight nod.

"I was hoping you would tell me," he resumed, nudging the plate back toward her, "about yourself."

"About me?" She blinked.

He grinned at her. "Yes. I would like to know about your life."

"There's not much to tell." She gave an embarrassed little shrug. "Maman met Papa at the theatre, he was a musician. I have only known life inside the opera house walls."

"You were born there?" He seemed surprised. "I have never seen small children on the premises."

"They usually are not allowed. Any performers or crew who live at the theatre and have family make arrangements for their children to live elsewhere and visit them when they can. I was an exception to that rule."

She looked down at her plate and took a bite of meat before continuing proudly, "Maman was in high demand as a new instructor - I have heard it said she is the best they ever had - she was a prima ballerina before meeting Papa. When she learned of my existence, the managers did not wish to lose her or Papa, and they allowed her to keep me at the theatre. I was told I was not a fussy baby, which worked in Maman's favor."

She grinned and his eyes twinkled at her in camaraderie.

"Christine also was a quiet child," Meg added thoughtfully. "When we met I was so excited to find a friend close to my age. Oh, there were the other ballet rats, of course, but they were years older, the youngest of them ten. They tolerated me because my mother was the instructor, but they didn't welcome me into their circles, even though I had just begun to take classes with them. Christine was seven when Maman brought her here to train, only a year older than myself, and we became fast friends before the night ended. She is like a sister to me. There is nothing I wouldn't do for her…"

She looked up from cutting her meat. "Oh, but I didn't mean to go on so."

"Nonsense." He smiled. "I asked, and would like to know more."

She looked at him in curious confusion. She had often heard the female members of the chorus say that men, especially the wealthy ones, preferred to talk about themselves - the wealthier they were, the greater their opinions of their self worth. Raoul seemed to be an exception to that rule. Idly she wondered if Christine's Angel was the same. Certainly he must be if Christine had had no concept that he was a man for nearly a decade of her life! She wondered if the Vicomte also had something to hide …

"I think, instead, I would like to know more about you," she said a little shyly, "if it's not too presumptuous of me to ask?"

"Of course not." He took the bite on his fork and pondered as he chewed. "I was an only child and lived a lonely childhood. My parents were too busy for me and the servants were too busy working for my parents." His plight seemed sad so she was surprised to hear him chuckle. "I had just turned twelve when I met Christine. I ran out into the surf and saved her scarf from being pulled out to sea. I recognized her from seeing her dance and sing to her father's violin the previous day, in the town. Her father had a cottage on the waterfront, and my family was visiting a resort nearby. My parents had their own interests, having little to do with a curious child underfoot, and my young nanny enjoyed the beach, where she soon found a man to claim her full attention. Left to myself, I found Christine and we played together there. She behaved much older than her six years and was easy to talk to. Her father's cottage was close by, and during a sudden cloudburst, we told stories in her Papa's attic. We spent every afternoon together before my father spirited us away one morning without explanation. Christine was my first and only true friend. I felt protective toward her from the moment we met."

Meg nodded, finding it remarkable that Christine had made such a difference in both their lives as lonely children. At last Meg could begin to understand Raoul's great concern for Christine. If the situation were reversed, she would be just as adamant about learning her friend's welfare and whereabouts.

They continued to share information about themselves as they dined when suddenly Raoul focused on an area behind Meg. A serious expression replaced his easy smile and his eyes grew alert. He looked at her.

"Please excuse me, mademoiselle, I have business I must attend to that will not wait. I'll be back shortly."

"Of course." She looked at him in some confusion as he moved around the table, and she glanced over her shoulder. Raoul moved toward a man she'd never before seen. A mousy looking man, he stood on the outskirts of the café near a lantern, and she took note of his slovenly appearance topped by a battered hat. He did not appear the sort of man the Vicomte would have associations with, but then Raoul had surprised her in many areas.

She turned back around in her chair. Without his blue eyes to gaze into, she took note of her surroundings. Their table sat at the end of a line of them and she suddenly realized she stared into the face of a small boy who stood on the outskirts of the bistro and stared back.

He looked down at her table and licked his bottom lip. His clothing was dirty and patched and hung too big on his thin frame. His dark hair grew long and ragged and looked no better. She lowered her gaze to her plate and what was left of the meat and baguette. Prompted by her conversation with Raoul, she beckoned to the boy.

He held back a moment - nervously glancing to where the waiter had last disappeared - then slowly moved toward her.

"Bonjour," she said softly, not wanting to alarm him. He looked as if he might run at the sudden drop of a fork. "Are you hungry?" She offered the remaining half of her baguette to him.

The boy, who looked no older than eight, warily took the bread. He hurriedly brought the loaf to his mouth as if he'd never eaten a day in his life. Her heart turned over at the pitiful sight. Looking down at her meat, she picked it up between finger and thumb and set it in her napkin. "Here."

She did not need to persuade him to take it. The boy grabbed the napkin then his attention snapped to the area behind her. His shadowed eyes widened. "Be careful, mademoiselle," he said quietly, backing away. "The man with your friend is a bad man. Do not trust him."

She stared at him in shock, but before she could question the child scurried away.

xXx

In their lake chamber, Christine lay stretched out beside Erik on a chaise longue, the length and width more than adequate to fit them both comfortably. Her head rested in the crook of his shoulder as he read to her the strange tale that was like none he'd told her before. Not of gods or goddesses or operas or fables, this magical story with scientific origins made her think of more than the tale itself. His fluid voice enchanted her, the quiet rumble of it echoing deep within his chest. She loved to listen to him read, the different inflections of his voice he used to display distinct emotions captivating to her mind. She preferred such moments as this to reading the book herself. He made the stories come alive.

"I find it curious," she said, when he paused and turned the page for the next chapter, "that anyone would wish to take such a journey. What would compel them to do such a thing as to go so far beneath the earth?"

He was quiet a long moment. "We must resume your practice tonight."

She puzzled at his change of topic, wondering why he did not give his usual opinion, then realized he must have misconstrued her innocent words. She sat up and looked at him. "Oh, I didn't mean us. Or this." She motioned to their lair. "I would think the center of the earth is much farther down than the five levels we inhabit."

His lips quirked at that. "Yes, I'm certain it is."

"And I truly do love being here, with you, in our home."

"Christine, I'm not upset. I understood your reference."

"Good." She smiled and tilted her head. "But since we speak of it, what compelled you?"

"Surely you need not ask." He dismissively motioned to his uncovered face.

"But you do wear a mask above. I should think that would be enough so that you would not feel the need to separate yourself from others as you do. I accept you. Madame Giry and now Meg accepts you. In my opinion anyone who doesn't recognize you for the engaging man you are isn't worthy to know. And truthfully there aren't many in this theatre that are worthy of knowing."

"How aptly you have just supported my raison d'être, my dear - to dwell below."

Realizing that she had indeed given him further grounds to do the opposite of what she eventually hoped for his future she grimaced and stuck her tongue out at him.

"Careful," he teased in a leisurely dangerous fashion, like a lethargic lion biding his time for the kill, "or I might be inclined to bite that pretty pink tongue right off." His eyes were mysterious glittering pools of jade.

"Hmph." She wasn't one bit intimidated. "Alright, so, tell me, this, my husband: what journeys have you taken outside the opera house?"

A wary look entered his eyes and she felt him tense beside her. "Journeys?"

She nodded. "Madame told me that you disappeared from the theatre for three years."

"Madame Giry told you that?" Terseness bit the edge of each word, all signs of lazy ease lost and forgotten.

Not wishing to make him more upset, and seeing that her innocent answer had done just that, Christine phrased her response carefully. "After my accident, when I went back above, she summoned me to her office and spoke with me. I - I was curious to know more about you. She told me she knew nothing of your life before you came here or during the time you disappeared. I asked her what she meant, but she told me that I must ask you if I wished to know more."

"I am surprised she did not send a Bulletin Du Jour to the editor of Le Temps," he quipped sardonically, looking into the distance and remembering how his aide had spoken so freely of his desires to the managers on the Night of the Spirits. "Regrettably, she has not yet learned that the morbid details of my life are not juicy morsels to be doled out and shared."

She regarded him with a sympathetic smile, running her fingertips lightly along his robe. "You're still angry with her, aren't you?" He didn't respond and she tugged the edge, gaining his attention. "Is that how she betrayed you, Mon Ange?" she asked softly. "By saying what she should not?"

Erik considered his answer. To admit the truth could reintroduce the subject he had tried for weeks to avoid. To speak of that night would no doubt pique her curiosity even further and lead to more questions, the answers of which would entail his journey to the land he wished for Christine to know nothing about. The land that held his darkest secrets…

"It was over a decade ago. It is no longer important."

"But it must still be important to you, for you to have brought it up yesterday."

"I believe you are trying to evade the current issue."

"What current issue?" Her brows drew together in confusion. "We were speaking of journeys."

"No, you were speaking of them. I brought up what is most important at this time - your lessons. We will resume them tonight."

She looked at him in surprise. "Lessons?" She crinkled her nose slightly, thinking of the long tedious hours involved and his strict, distant attitude as her Maestro. "Practice, of course I understand. That is important and always will be. But surely I no longer need lessons."

"On the contrary, you will always need lessons, Christine. There is continual room to expand and more to be learned. You must never refuse the opportunity. That was only one of Carlotta's many mistakes. Due to her unmerited vanity she felt herself far too superior to continue her education. One must wonder if her hearing was impaired not to recognize the arias she relentlessly slaughtered."

She grinned at that and nodded. "I certainly do not wish to share in such a fate."

"You never will. You have more talent than she could ever hope to possess. Even in her prime, long years ago, what little skill she had could not compare to the magnificence of your voice."

He lightly tugged the edge of her own robe, bringing her closer. He kissed her with slow tenderness, brushing his lips against hers twice before letting her go. She gave a little sigh of contentment, nestling her head against his shoulder.

"All right then, dear Maestro. I willingly submit to further lessons if you promise not to be so overbearing and strict with me."

She felt his chest shake in a mix between a chuckle and a snort. "If I had not been, you would never have achieved the excellence that is now a part of you."

She could not argue the point, knowing he was correct, and grudgingly gave up the cause for easier lessons as a lost one. "You still haven't told me about Madame Giry or the journeys you took…"

"I have a better idea." He tossed the book to the ground and moved over her before she could take in a startled breath, his every action lithe and swift and entirely unexpected. His lips went to her throat even as his warm hand moved inside her robe and brushed across her skin.

Christine's eyes closed in bliss and she forgot all about old betrayals or former travels as he took them on their own journey to eclipse all else, falling fast to their own fiery center, instantly to change course and soar toward the heavens…

x

Christine languidly stroked her fingers over Erik's damp chest and kissed the patch of his glistening skin closest to her. Again they lay close, this time covered by his cloak, which he had grabbed from a nearby chair and thrown over them to stem the chill once their heated bodies cooled.

At the Bal Masque he told her he had a great capacity for learning things quickly, and in these few short days her sensual man of mystery had lived up to his claim and reputation, often surprising her or keeping her guessing, quickly becoming expert in how to please her and what she enjoyed most. She only hoped she could also excel, as well as she pleased him with her voice, in learning to gratify all his desires through the expressions of her love. He appeared fulfilled each time they came together, but she knew there must be more involved. Despite wishing to forget the occasion that led to her abrupt awakening of such intimate acts, Christine often thought about the content matter of Chantel's revealing sketch…

Would he instruct her in that too? Would he even bring it up? How was she to broach a subject that still caused the fire of embarrassment to blaze through her face? She was a married woman for pity's sake! If one judged by what took place in the marriage bed alone, she was his wife many times over. So when would this annoying girlish shyness disappear?

Yesterday, when he pleasured her with his mouth after they argued, she had never dreamed such an act existed - it had not been illustrated in that book, those pages she had seen, and he had taken her entirely by surprise, as was becoming his trait…She thought about that. No. It had always been there. Recalling the past two months before they wed, even the night of their vows, she realized his propensity to astonish her had always been present, and was now appearing in this new area of their lives together…Upon recalling the extensive amount of pleasure he'd given her, she now was certain she could do more to please him, and she wondered what other acts had been shown in that book that might please them both.

Her face heated with the wicked thought and she cursed her infantile foolishness.

"Erik?"

"Hmm?"

He sounded as if he was almost asleep.

"Do I please you?"

A number of wretched heartbeats passed before he answered.

"What kind of question is that?" His voice held that delicious thick, sensual quality, a low velvet rumble that always occurred after they made love. "You need not even ask, Mon Ange."

She pulled in her lower lip and ran her teeth along the swollen skin as she released it. "But, is there anything that … that you wish me to do for you?"

With his arm he gathered her closer to him. "To have you live with me, here in my home as my wife, fulfills my every desire for all I have dreamed. I once never thought that could be possible, and when it became apparent that it could happen, I never thought the day would arrive." He chuckled.

She gave a faint laugh in return. He had taken her question as a generality when she meant it in a much more intimate way. Perhaps it was best to drop the matter for now. There would be other opportunities…

Coward.

She grimaced at her heart's taunting. Or was it her mind that urged her to take this path?

She cleared her throat. "But surely there must be something I can do…"

He shifted to look at her, and put his finger to her lips to silence her.

"There is one thing…"

She waited in nervous anticipation to hear what he would say.

"Be a good girl and give me none of your impertinence…" he dropped a light kiss to the tip of her nose. "… as it is now time for your lesson."

She groaned inwardly at his quiet order - and that he had again misunderstood - and scowled a little at his childish reference - when she was trying so desperately to behave as anything but a child!- but the tender kiss that he then pressed to her mouth eased away a bit of her offense.

He moved from her and stood up, slipping into his robe. "I will return shortly." He looked at her, lifting his brow a little sternly. "Be ready to practice."

She watched his retreat then sighed and slipped into her own robe and the matching velvet slippers included with the abundant trousseau he had given her. As she tied the belt around her waist, she giggled a little at her recollection of their first days of lessons in this lair and his adamant order that she wear more than a nightdress. Thus clothed, she certainly wore less now. Or did he intend for her to dress first, in one of her beautiful new gowns? She wondered if any of them fastened up the front then realized it no longer mattered. He had stated that he enjoyed dressing her too. Tomorrow she would put his proclamation to the test, eager to try on many of her dresses in order to choose the perfect one for her return. She found it difficult to believe that they had only one more full day together, but she comforted herself with the knowledge that she would come home with him each evening. They would share every one of the nights, and all of their mornings…

Picking up his cloak from the chaise longue, she draped it over her arm, smoothing her hand gently down its soft folds then looked for a place to hang it. Not seeing one, she again laid it in its original position, over a nearby chair. She really must clean this clutter, and he must let her, though she had no idea where to put half of it.

While she waited, she walked to the closest table. A long one, it stood against the wall and held a statuette of what looked like a slave boy in Grecian dress with one arm raised in a fist- she saw the hole there and realized at once it was a unique candleholder … a black vase bearing a beautiful red and gold exotic design … piles of books and papers … and so much odd miscellany she had no idea what most of it was used for. She fingered porcelain and gold, silver and bronze, as she walked along, then turned her attention above to the cave wall. Arranged in layers of sketches reaching far past the table was the collage of her likeness.

So many poses, at every age … the small girl in the chapel, eagerly looking up with the hope of at last seeing a glimpse of her Angel … an older version of that child attempting to learn the dance…yet another sketch of the same child sitting on the window seat of the chapel, dejected and frowning, and she remembered the instances she had run, teary-eyed to her Angel and told him of slights made against her by the other ballet rats.

There were many more images of Christine as a young woman, clothed, half clothed, but nothing indecent. Her eyes opened wide at a sketch of her sleeping in her old bed, the wisps of curtains that shielded her cot and the dormitory walls clearly discernible…

He had visited her while she slept - actually seen her and been there? It made sense of course, since he often had sung to her in dreams, but somehow she never fully realized he had been there watching her.

A warmth flushed her body. She wasn't upset but wasn't sure what she felt.

She heard the whisper of velvet as he joined her and she turned to look at him.

"You were actually there, in the room with me while I slept?"

He glanced at the sketch then back at her. "I stood behind the wall."

His expression was wary, which led her to realize the possibility…

"Did you ever see me unclothed?"

A hue of dull red flushed his face. He was blushing!

Her mouth dropped open. "You did!" A short, nervous giggle escaped before she realized she was laughing.

He quickly offered her a crystal goblet filled with what she knew contained lemon water.

"Drink this, my little minx. It was only briefly - last year. You took me unaware and slipped out of your wrapper before I knew what you were about or had the chance to look away. I did not realize … I only saw you from the back."

The flustered state of his words interested her as much as his unexpected confession. If she had been in nothing but her wrapper, she had been about to sponge bathe.

"And did you immediately look away, my Angel?" she asked sweetly.

He narrowed his eyes at her, eyes that gleamed. A flicker of a smile teased the corners of his lips. "Drink the water, Christine. The sooner we commence with this lesson, the sooner you may have your meal."

Evidently he had not.

The revelation did not upset her - he now knew every inch of her skin. And God only knew how much she wanted him then, no matter that she had not yet seen him. But it delighted her to observe the great Phantom of the Opera act as nervous as a schoolboy caught in a bit of mischief.

"My dark, dark Angel …" she teased, loving this moment, "Did you ever look away?"

"Of course."

"Tell me then, how 'briefly' did you look? Five seconds? Fifteen seconds? Thirty …?" Her eyes widened considerably. "One full minute?"

"Would you like me to carry you to that organ and set you down beside it or do you plan to get there of your own accord?"

She giggled and drank a sip of her water, turning back to look at the sketches. "I'm not angry."

"No," he said dryly though she heard amusement lace his tone. "I can see that you're not."

She drank more of her water, smiling as she studied the sketch. "More than a minute?"

Suddenly he moved toward her and took the goblet from her hand, setting it on the table. Before she understood what he was doing, he picked her up so that she was draped over his shoulder, her head hanging down and giving her a view of his velvet-clothed back. Holding her across the legs, he firmly swatted her backside.

"Ow!" She laughed, couldn't help it. "Put me down. I'll behave! I promise!"

He turned with her and began walking to the organ. "Perhaps it was a mistake to allow you to rest your voice these past five days…"

She could not keep the words from innocently tumbling out.

"Is that what we were doing, Maestro? Resting my voice?"

Her saucy reply earned her another firm swat. "Naughty child. You have become most undisciplined and even more insolent than usual."

"But I thought you decided you liked my new bold nature. That's what you said last night, in our bed…"

He turned his head and lightly bit her hip.

"Erik," she pleaded, lifting her head, her laughter bubbling over in waves as she braced her hands against his back to get better leverage. Something caught her eye as he moved with her away from the edge of where the sketches began. She gaped in fascination. "Wait! No- really, Erik. Stop a moment, please."

Whether it was the serious change in her tone or the manner in which she began to squirm to get down, he did as she asked.

"What is it now, Christine?"

She moved past him and looked at the sketch she had partially seen once before. Curious, she lifted the parcel paper from where he had attached it to the wall with his many pages of parchment. "This was in Madame Giry's office the day I spoke with her," she said in amazement. She studied the child's drawing of a masked man in a cape, with wings at the back, the words "Mon Ange" scrawled above it. She blinked at him.

"It's you. But how … and who …?" Stunned, she could not think of what to say.

He seemed uneasy but gave a short nod. "The seamstress's daughter."

"From your Night with the Spirits?" She struggled to remember. "Tina. The little crippled girl."

"Yes."

"You have met her?" she breathed. The idea filled her with awe.

"No. I have seen her only in the present shadows."

She looked back at the paper in her hand. "And she drew you … like this?"

Amazed that the child had such aptitude to discern what she could not even begin to know, without ever having even met him, Christine made a decision and looked up.

"I want to meet her, Erik. I want you to take me to see this child."

xXx