A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews! **big hugs** Am loving the comments and seeing where you guys are with this, and what you think will happen. It also helps me to see if I'm getting my ideas across the way I want to present this (and where I might need to fix things for future chapters. lol) I LOVE that some of you are starting to like Raoul- that helps for what I have planned. ;-) …Kaylee- thanks again for the honour you paid me of using my manips to make signature banners on deviantART for this story. :) LittleMargarita – thank you for your help with the Spanish! I'll fix that. :) And a "dilo" is Romani for "fool" or "imbecile." She called Christine a dilo in the chapter where C & E make love in their Eden and the little gypsy villain was watching from the trees…ARoseForErik – lol on your suggestion for the gypsy's demise. I'll, um, keep that in mind. ;-) I'm glad you appreciated the irony of Raoul and Meg's situation! (this time, rescuing to and not from). Nightsmusic- roflol!! Ah, my friend, it's not insanity- it's all those voices arguing inside your head… ;-) (and thank you) - and to *everyone*, thank you again so much for what you wrote! :)

And now…on with the story…

***Chapter XXXVII***

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You are the music ...

while the music lasts.

~T.S. Eliot

.
xXx

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Tap ... Tap ... Tap ...

Nerves stretched taut, Meg sat in the chair onto which the Vicomte had deposited her, what seemed hours ago, and restlessly fiddled with a spoon from a place setting, tapping it end over end on the table. Suddenly he leaned her way and covered her hand with his, stopping her.

"Are you trying to drive me mad?"

"Am I succeeding?"

She was acting like an ungrateful shrew; the man had just saved her life for pity's sake! But creating distance set her on guard against traitorous emotions that worked in opposition to her antipathy of this man, emotions that unexpectedly arose, and at the most inopportune moments. She was certain that remaining bedridden and housebound for months made her susceptible to such disturbing feelings. Any man who had swooped in to her rescue would have achieved the same results.

"After the endless horrors I've encountered these past two weeks, I fear it won't take much to push me to that edge." His eyes burned into hers. "Unless you care to test that theory, Mademoiselle, perhaps it would be best for you to find another diversion to pass the time."

She frowned. She didn't want another diversion. She wanted to be gone from this place and from this man. That being impossible, the accusations that boiled beneath her grim silence ever since he'd found her at the tenement now spewed out in full force.

"Tell me of Christine! And her husband," she maliciously stressed the word. "What 'horrors' did you inflict on them? Have you murdered him and broken her heart all in the name of your callous resentment and brooding self pity?"

He released his grip on her hand and averted his taciturn gaze to the table. Meg followed his attention to a dull knife in the place setting and inhaled a slow breath. Their eyes lifted and met; her eyes narrowed in thought. Casually, he picked up the knife and offered it to her, his smile condescendingly somber.

"Don't be silly," she snapped. "I may despise you, but I'm certainly not going to harm you. With that. "

"No," he agreed. "Your weapons of choice aren't ones to hold, are they?"

"What do you mean?" She wasn't sure why, but she felt he must have insulted her.

"Your words cut sharper than any blade, Mademoiselle Giry."

Her face warmed. Only with the Vicomte had Meg ever been so harsh. "You've still not told me of Christine. Is she locked away in a room at the Chagny manor? Did you take her husband to the gendarme to be executed?"

"No."

When he offered nothing further, she blew out a breath. "No to which? The former or the latter?"

"No to both."

"So, where are they?"

"I imagine they're still at the villa, where I left them."

"The villa?" She raised her voice. "The villa where? And what do you mean where you 'left them'? Do you mean …" She gasped in horror. "Their bodies? Surely you didn't kill the King and Chris—"

"Shhh!" His eyes flashed, now alert.

"Don't shush me! This time you'll not so easily worm your way out of answering, Vicomte. You said we would have this conversation at a more opportune moment, and this is as opportune as any—" Words froze in her throat and on her lips as he pressed two fingers there.

"Silence, Meg," he whispered.

Then she heard it. Somewhere outside the door of the dining hall, perhaps in the spacious foyer flanking the theater, a set of distant footsteps echoed.

Her eyes widened. He rose to his feet.

"Where are you going?"

"To investigate. I shall return shortly, and if I don't …" His glance fell to the cutlery, "You may find use for that knife after all."

He moved to the door and she struggled to stand, the memory of other sounds she'd earlier heard—forgotten whispers in dark corners, haunting strains of faint music from who knew where—urging her on, acting as incentive. Perhaps only her imagination goaded her into hearing ghosts from a familiar time, but at the moment her wandering thoughts made poorer companions than the Vicomte's presence.

She stood, accidentally knocking the back of the chair, which she held for leverage, against the table's rim.

With his hand resting on the door's latch, her undesired rescuer uttered a mild oath. "Do you think you could possibly make any more noise, Mademoiselle?" he whispered tersely then looked over his shoulder to see her standing. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I shall tell you what I'm not doing. I'm not staying here."

"You're safer here."

"You cannot possibly be certain, Monsieur. And I have no wish to confront that dark spirit or any of his minions should they be in residence."

"So you plan to – what? Hop on one foot and drag the cast behind you?"

She drew herself up. "I shall crawl if I must, but I'm not staying in this room alone! A spirit from the netherworld cannot have its heart impaled with a butter knife, since it has no heart to impale."

He darkly mumbled something she couldn't decipher. In a few precise moves he reached her and swept her up in his arms, the swiftness of his curt actions robbing her of breath. Her heart pounded as he retraced his steps to the door.

"Monsieur –"

"I allow no woman to 'crawl'," he muttered crisply before she could speak her mind. "Since you're determined to have your way, and from experience I know better than to presume you'll remain put, I see no other recourse. Do you?"

It was dark in this part of the room; the lantern remained on the table. Regardless, she could feel his angry eyes burn into hers.

"I, no it's – it's only that I wish to point out that this idea presents a problem," she explained what she'd intended to say, her voice unsteady. "If we should run into a soldier, your hands aren't free and I have no weapon, save for a dull knife."

He expelled a long breath. With it she felt his remaining ire dissipate. "Can you reach into my cloak, by my hip?"

"Monsieur!" Her cheeks went hot.

"Merely to pull my pistol free from its holster – which you shall need to hold as you did the lantern."

"Of course." Her face stung as if she'd drawn too near a fire. "I knew that."

"And do you also know how to fire a gun, Meg Giry?"

"I've handled one before," she fibbed, a half-truth. In an old opera, her character pulled a gun from the lead before she could shoot herself, after learning her lover betrayed her.

Before she lost courage, Meg reached behind. Her fingers brushed past his cloak and found the solid muscle of his thigh. She jerked her hand away in embarrassed shock then gingerly let her fingertips return to trace upward until she found the holster and awkwardly managed to disarm him. She felt relief that he'd not asked her to remove his sword from its scabbard. With the manner in which her hands shook, she might have sliced them both in half.

"Point the gun in the other direction if you please, Mademoiselle."

"Oh." She realized the long cylindrical part where the steel ball escaped was aimed upward, at his chin. "Excusez-moi." She moved it holding it in damp hands within the skirt of her chemise so that it pointed away from either of them. "But how will we see anything without the lantern?"

"I assume the foyer's large windows will provide enough outside light."

Her brow furrowed in distress at his somber reply and she grew silent.

Earlier he'd twisted the handle of the wide door; now a nudge pushed it aside.

The dark corridor led to the foyer of the theater where the Bal Masque was held, what seemed lifetimes ago. How different had been the gay atmosphere of that gala, with its innumerable lit candles and radiant gas lamps brightening the spacious room! She didn't know how the Vicomte could see to traverse the corridor; no flames lit the way into the cavernous chamber.

They all burned outside the building.

The foyer's numerous circular windows stained bright crimson provided eerie light. Once before, a fire blazed on the upper floors of this theater. Now all stood cold and dark within, while the not-so-distant fires colored the sky outside and mirrored a threatening red glow on the vast marble floor. Meg wondered if they were truly safe inside this condemned edifice. Could the fires not reach them? Or, if a possible conflagration failed to destroy their hiding place, did whoever or whatever skulked through the building intend to do them harm...?

She couldn't prevent the shiver that coursed through her body.

The Vicomte was almost to the main stairwell when Meg noticed a shadow. It darted below the left column of stairs. She blinked, her mouth as dry as ashes. There! A soldier's hat. A silver flash of light...

Startled, she reacted in haste, swinging her arms and firing the weapon at the same time the Vicomte cautioned her to wait. The harsh crack exploded in her ears and echoed throughout the chamber, a litany of extremely loud bangs as if more than one weapon were fired. The gun itself, a live thing in her hands, knocked her back with its discharge and she almost lost her grip on the handle. Her aim missed its target, instead blowing the arm off a blindfolded statue in a crumbling spray of stone.

"Merde!"

Meg's shaky relief at hearing a familiar voice was eclipsed by the sound of light running footsteps and the emergence of a slight woman in a black dress.

"Mon Dieu, Jean Claude, what have you done … Meg?!"

"Mère," Meg whispered, seeing her mother's open-mouthed surprise, the image of her wavering as tears filled her eyes. Soon she felt Mère's small, comforting hands cradle her face and her lips press against her forehead. The dampness against her cheek attested to her mother's own tears.

"I feared something had happened to you." Meg grasped her mother's wrists and held them tightly.

"It will take more than an attack on Paris to stop me, mon chère … Vicomte," her mother acknowledged as she pulled her hands away, looking between him and Meg, many questions in her eyes. Hastily, she swiped beneath them with her fingertips.

"Madame, I am pleased to see that you are safe and well. But we won't be in good health much longer if we don't find a place to hide. The gun's discharge could have alerted anyone in the vicinity to our whereabouts."

No sooner had he spoken than a sudden banging came from the entrance – intruders trying to break down the barricaded doors with what sounded like rifle butts.

"Hell," the Vicomte muttered, and Meg felt this night had certainly become that.

"Where can we go?" she asked urgently.

He looked at her mother. They shared an unspoken message.

"No," Mère whispered in horror.

"It is the only place we can be sure the Prussians won't find us – where they won't know to look."

"I will not go back there!"

"To the hidden passageway," Meg said in fearful understanding. "Is there nowhere else?"

"The dressing room is closest, the most opportune area of concealment," he stressed. "No one would think to look behind a mirror."

"And if they do?" Meg insisted. "Or if they smash it? When the candles are lit behind, you can see past, into the corridor. And surely we cannot stumble around in the pitch dark. There are rats!"

"Rats or the Versaillian army," he offered brusquely. "Your choice, Mademoiselle."

"We would risk our lives to take refuge in that passage, Monsieur," her mother stated darkly, agreeing with Meg. "Do not forget the traps."

"And do you suppose our lives are not at this moment in jeopardy?" he countered. "Besides, you told me once that you knew the way."

"Surely you don't mean to go all the way down there! It is madness!"

"If we must go, we will."

The cracks of wood splintering made them all swing their heads to the entrance.

"We haven't a moment more to waste in foolish argument. Not when the enemy is literally at the door. And I've no intention of making myself a target twice in as many weeks."

Without another word, Raoul jostled Meg in his arms to get a better hold, while she put her arm around his neck to aid him. He moved in the direction of the corridor leading backstage. Her mother released a low growl of frustration but followed with Jean Claude.

Meg could clearly see the uniform hat of the enemy perched at a lofty angle on the boy's head and noticed Raoul's curious glance toward him as they approached a dimly lit corridor that led to her mother's room. The pounding faded until it could no longer be heard, but now was no time for introductions. Jean-Claude grabbed the lit torch from the wall. Clearly this was where he and her mother had hidden themselves.

"And what of the enemy that lurks in the secret passages, Monsieur?" Mère clipped. "Tell me, what do you propose we do if we should run into him?"

"He … that thing is not here. If it were, surely you would have perceived its presence by now, since you often swore to doing so in the past."

The Vicomte didn't slow his pace but Meg felt his muscles tense with suppressed irritation and stared at his taut features after hearing his shocking pronouncement. Her mother spoke before she could think to utter the words.

"So, at last you acknowledge the dark spirit's existence, Monsieur. But how do you know he does not still dwell within these walls?"

"Because I have seen him – it – the true phantom," he ground out. "In Spain! Are you satisfied now?"

In Spain? Meg blinked trying to follow the alarming conversation. Where Christine was? If she was still there and the Vicomte hadn't brought her back with him to France…

"Non, Monsieur," her mother replied. "Death brings little satisfaction. He can inhabit two places at once. Did you not know? He has many spies who work for him."

"You?" the Vicomte accused.

"Once upon a time," her mother's reply came quiet. "But no more."

Jean-Claude, forgotten until this moment, darted ahead as the group entered the dressing room. "THE phantom?" Excitedly, he looked from Mère to the Vicomte. "The Phantom of the Opera is HERE? ALIVE? In a secret passage? And we're going to SEE him?" The boy's eyes shone bright in his eagerness. "Is he as fearsome as they say, with burning yellow eyes like flames –"

"Silence, Jean-Claude!" Meg chided firmly, meeting her mother's grim eyes over the boy's head.

Meg understood her mother's fears. Mère had betrayed the dark spirit to help the King and Christine. She had become a mortal enemy to an immortal foe.

"You should never speak of what you do not understand," her mother added. "Pray you never have reason to. Prudent silence is always the wisest course to take." The boy opened his mouth to speak, and her mother hurried to say, "Be still! Ask no more questions."

Meg hoped that since she didn't feel the presence of evil, the spirit was no longer in residence; she had always announced its arrival, always knew when the darkness loomed near. Yet her faith had suffered greatly since her accident and she could no longer trust her instincts. To have escaped the fires, the soldiers, and the commune – only to meet their end at the Phantom's hand would be a cruel twist of fate indeed.

Long shadows from the torchlight twisted in an eerie, surreal dance along the pallid rose walls and matching décor. Across the room, the mirror seemed to glow strangely. Meg reasoned the light from the torch against metal in an otherwise pitch-black room caused such peculiar illumination; even their countenances appeared ghostly. Then too, the thought of entering the dark spirit's former domain would make anyone blanch.

Mère frowned at the grim, unrelenting Vicomte, who curtly inclined his head for her to proceed. Inhaling a deep audible breath, her mother rolled the mirror back on its track to unveil the unknown depths of the gloomy corridor with its dank odor of still, musty air...

Then, one by one, they moved through the mirror and into the shadows once again.

.
xXx

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Yet another day had passed for Christine, with no true knowledge of the minutes or the hours.

The soft creak of a door opening had her stir from her pillow. "Erik …?" Her eager welcome died on her lips. "Yes, what is it, Lupita?" she asked none too happily.

"I brought your tonic." She held out a goblet. "I forgot to bring it earlier, and Baba Magdelena says you must drink it every night."

Christine wrinkled her nose in distaste but took the goblet. "Thank you. You may go."

"Si, Su Majestad." Her maid softly smiled. "I am always near to serve you."

Christine managed a smile in return. Once the girl left, she sighed and grimaced but dutifully drank half down. The tonic left a bitter trace in her mouth, like ashes, and she set the goblet on the table with a muted bang.

Restless, she smoothed the sheet around her, pressing her finger to the satin to draw patterns of angels with halos then rumpling them smooth again. Repeatedly she fluffed the pillow behind her head, unable to find comfort, and let out a disgruntled breath.

With nothing to read and no one to talk to, she suffered from an extreme case of boredom.

The air was stifling. She should have asked Lupita to open a window. She lifted her gaze to stare across the room. Black showed in the crevice between the thick green and gold tapestry curtains, testament that night had fallen. At this time of evening – whatever hour that might be – the outside air should be cool, refreshing...

But where was her husband?

She wondered how late it had gotten and if the evening meal had come and gone for the remainder of the household. Surely he would have brought her meal; he always brought her meal, staying to make certain she ate every bite. He'd been so protective of her since she lost their child. Always, he had looked after her, but of late his care had attained a watchful caution, and at times she felt the weak invalid, which made her even more despondent. She was an invalid she realized with frustration, bound to this bed as surely if she were chained to it. But weak? In body, yes, but in mind the strength of her chaotic feelings these past days annoyed her – and completely flummoxed Erik.

Her frantic concern over the Phantom's presence dissolved with the dawning of the day that followed her nightmare. She then wondered if her fearsome dream had aided her certainty of the spirit's reinvasion into their lives. She no longer felt the Phantom's presence as she had that night, and told Erik so, wondering if she had imagined the entire episode, brought on by her already unbalanced nerves. But Erik wasn't convinced the idea was all in her mind and stressed they must exercise caution, that the Phantom was a master at deception and subterfuge. Yes, she knew that…how could she ever forget?

She frowned as the memories beckoned, but she didn't want to remember, didn't ever want to remember again ...

The feelings she suffered since their babe's death underwent a confusing menagerie of emotions, more erratic than the turmoil she experienced weeks before the battle. At one moment she laughed at the slightest dry comment Erik made until she doubled over and moisture leaked from her eyes. The next she fell apart or snapped at him, again in tears, and he could do little to console her though he valiantly tried. Often she felt as if some unknown entity invaded her body during those times, since she never seemed able to gain full control over her behavior. And yet, in Erik's arms even the darkest of circumstances seemed less formidable, his warm touch soothing to her conflicted senses … though still never quite able to quench the fountain of tears that adversely came with the constant tenderness he exhibited toward her.

But now her husband wasn't here. And she wanted him with her so much.

Where was he?

With a sigh, she sat up, pulling her legs to her chest and clasping them tightly.

She simply must stop this foolish indulgence in self-pity, a trait wholly unsuitable for a queen, and strive to get better. Over past days, her strength had increased, the physical ache diminished – and she couldn't tolerate this forced state of bedridden exile one moment longer.

The hour seemed late, though she had no method by which to tell time. Perhaps Erik brought her dinner while she slept. He wouldn't have woken her; he was forever telling her she must rest, as well as eat. Then, too, he never knew what state of mind she would possess when greeting him, so surely would have another reason to let her sleep.

Poor Erik.

Pulling back the sheet, Christine pushed herself up and swung her legs over the edge of the mattress, determined to find the woman her husband had married. The same woman who in past months had continually assured Erik that their dream to be together could achieve reality – and despite all blockades had persisted until he, too, became convinced. That woman of spirit and strength would not concede to failure or allow misery to overtake her.

Madame Giry often said she shouldn't dwell on matters she couldn't change. Their little angel Fifika was gone. She could never change that, could never bring her child back. Yet God spared her husband's life many times over, she too was alive, her life threatened just as often – and the Drabarni had told her she could bear more children.

Children Erik now wanted.

Christine smiled.

There was yet hope.

Often she sat up in bed but had yet to take a step from it. Gingerly, she set her feet on the pleasantly cool stones, wondering where her slippers were ... which led her to wonder about her lost clothing. Which, in turn, led her to think about Meg's missing cross …

With a disgusted sigh at her mind's attempted return to melancholia, she used the mattress then the wall for support and struggled to her feet. She needed air and would not be kept confined to that bed one second longer!

She gasped when a strong wave of dizziness rushed over her and pressed her hand to the wall until it passed. Using it as a guide, she took several awkward steps to the vanity and held onto that. She was sorely tempted to sit on the padded bench, but continued toward the window, starved for the sensation of the cool night air to waft over her flushed face.

Conceivably, if she left her bed every day, walking even such a short distance would help her regain strength in her limbs. She didn't possibly see how lying dormant on her back day in and day out could help her recover. She didn't see how many of the Drabarni's mandates could do that…especially the one keeping her from Erik.

She parted the curtain and placed her hand on one side of the narrow casement that reached from below her waist to high above her head. Here no bars impeded her view. The sky was dark though bright stars twinkled, and the barest sliver of a new moon hung high in the heavens above an ocean that sparkled like jet. It must be very late, as high as the moon had risen.

Eagerly she pushed at the lever and window, swinging it wide. She gulped the cool, refreshing air into her lungs, as thirsty for it as if it were water.

Her unfocused gaze scanned the expanse of ocean. It took a moment for her dulled mind to register that she stared at a form breaking above the surf. Too large to be a fish, nor did it swim like one. Tall jagged rocks were spread out on each side of the bay, the swimmer free from danger unless the current changed. Who would take such a risk?

She strained to see the shape as it glided toward the empty shore and realized it was indeed mortal. The water must be freezing! She remembered as a child visiting her father's cottage by the sea and how the salt spray splashed up, the droplets chilling her face like bits of ice.

Curious, she watched the swimmer emerge from the frothing water – from the strong build of his shoulders, a man surely. But as the tide receded from his body while he strode forth he reminded her of a god of the sea declaring a new domain. Her lips softly parted in shock to see his wet, glistening skin unclothed, dark but pale around his hips where no sun had ever touched, his tall form lean and muscular, his stride one of graceful power. Even from this distance she recognized her husband and gasped, clutching both walls that framed the casement.

Unable to tear her eyes away from feasting upon his nude form, having so long been denied the pleasure, a hot wash of desire rushed through her that the cool air did little to help.

She wondered what would possess him to submerge himself in such icy waters that would rob a man of every vestige of warmth, chilling him to the marrow of his bones. Memory beckoned of another occasion, after her nightmare, and his chilled flesh and damp hair against her body. And yet another occurrence at night, when she woke to hear Erik silently tread into their room, unable to keep his teeth from chattering. She had pulled back the blanket and sleepily bidden him to warm himself, pressing her own body to his back once he lay down, shocked by how cold he felt but too sleepy at the time to question as she wrapped her arms snugly around his waist.

How many nights had he taken such swims? Surely no pleasure could be found in the undertaking, and to do so before slumber would defeat the purpose of sleep. She pondered her discovery as she watched him struggle into his breeches and pull his shirt over his head, letting it hang loose past his thighs.

A firm hand clamped the back of her shoulder, startling her.

She almost lost her precarious balance as she jumped and spun around, grabbing the wall when she grew lightheaded again. She'd unconsciously been leaning forward as she spied on her husband, and her heart pounded at how close she'd come to tumbling out the window to the rocks below.

"Narilla," she gasped, attempting to catch her breath. The young woman stood very close, too close, and Christine sidestepped from the open window. "Why have you entered my bedchamber unannounced and at such a late hour?"

At her terse words, a look of contrition twisted the girl's features. "Forgive me, Su Majestad. The door was partly open. I spoke but you did not hear me. I did not mean to startle you."

Christine pressed a hand to her racing heart. "Never … never sneak up behind me like that again, Narilla!" A hint of steel girded her quiet words and the girl bowed her head low.

Taking in a deep breath for calm, Christine placed her fingers beneath Narilla's chin, lifting it. "Tell me, what brings you here so late?"

"It's Luminitsa, my lady. She had another nightmare – a very bad one. She woke up screaming and scaring the other children awake. Nothing I say or do will calm her. She is sure you have died and that we keep it from her. She has asked to see you for days, but we have told her you need rest and that is why you can no longer visit or sing to her."

Christine felt pity for the small child who'd lost so much and so badly needed reassurance. "Bring her to me."

Narilla's eyes shone with gratitude. "Si, I will go and get her!"

By the time Christine made it back into bed and composed herself, Narilla led a trembling Luminitsa by the hand into her bedchamber. Out of wide dark eyes, looking so lost, forlorn and uncertain, the small girl stared. Christine held her arms out to her.

Luminitsa gave a little sob and rushed to the bedside. Christine helped lift her onto the mattress, beside her. She embraced the Little One, who clung to her fearfully.

"I thought you were dead, like Mama and Papa," she whispered against Christine's chemise, tears catching her throat.

"No, I'm very much alive," Christine reassured her.

"The dream was very bad!" She sobbed.

"Hush now. It was only a dream."

"No—I dreamed Papa and Mama were killed, and they were. I dreamed Jacov died, and he did. Please don't let this dream come true, too. Please? Please don't die and leave me!"

Luminitsa's tearful entreaty made Christine go motionless with foreboding. She looked up to see Erik cross the threshold and enter the room. He took in the children at a glance before his eyes lifted to hers. By his somber expression she knew he'd heard the girl.

"What did you dream, Little One?" Christine inquired softly.

The girl trembled. "I dreamed you were killed – and no one could save you!"

Erik's steady eyes held Christine's.

I will never let that happen. It was only a child's dream, my love.

She distantly nodded. Of course. A dream, brought on by the Little One's numerous fears. Yet Christine had endured too much in a short time to discount the dream so lightly, and by the girl's own admission she foresaw the future in her dreams…

Drawing Luminitsa closer, she kissed the top of her head and sang to her in comfort, willing her voice not to tremble. Narilla slipped from the room.

Erik moved forward, sitting beside Christine. She lifted her hand to his wet hair, smoothing it, and he grasped her wrist and kissed her palm.

He lowered her hand, still held in his, and she read the message of love and safety in his glowing eyes. His touch and the firm declaration he spoke into her mind became the promise to which she clung. He would take care of her. Whatever happened, they would face it together.

A dream...

Perhaps it was just that.

Only a dream...

.

xXx

Please review (*she asks with a hopeful smile) ? ...