A/N: Guys- it's only been two days that they've been apart. lol Patience my friends…good things come to those who wait, the harsher the conflict the better the resolution and all that… ;-) Also, remember, Christine is supposed to be above learning the opera. 0-:-) … And now…


LIII

.

The icy chill hit her the moment she rushed outdoors into the dark night, the absence of her cloak strongly felt, but Christine did not dare return for it. Anxious she might miss him, she lifted the hem of her skirts and raced around the building and along the colonnade to the garden entrance, grateful that Raoul and Arabella were seated with their backs to those windows and would not see her running like a madwoman alongside the building.

The closest lamplight stood a lengthy distance away, its flame barely penetrating the carriage pulled by horses in the street to her right and providing a scant glow to see one of two long hedges that loomed over her head and traveled far into the distance. The second hedge was obliterated in shadow and she avoided it, hurrying to the outside one, where she had seen him...

...but he stood nowhere in sight.

In helpless frustration, she hurried further along the hedgerow and away from the lit restaurant until the darkness felt complete.

"Erik?" she called out softly. "Are you there…? I know you're there, I saw you, and I know you must have seen me." Her last words were certain though her voice was not. "Please, please…" She had almost reached the end of the shrubbery. "Show yourself to me. I must see you. Must speak with you …"

Hesitating only a moment to enter the obscure darkness, fighting off the old childhood fear, she rounded the corner and nervously looked between tall hedges into a long void of thick black shadow. Two edges of the restaurant windows could be seen and appeared as slim lines of distant golden light. She had not realized she had walked so far.

The darkness within was absolute, her eyes barely adjusting to see form or shadow, and she sensed that this is where he would hide. Blindly she began to make her way along the path, peering hard and willing herself to see, her footing uncertain. She grabbed at the prickly hedge for balance when she almost stumbled. Last night's snow had been scarce and what little remained had melted into slush in the unusually warm day. A pity, for a ground of gleaming white would have surely acted as a beacon to find him.

"Erik … please answer me." Her voice, barely raised above a whisper carried in the icy stillness. She shivered from the chill of the night. "Don't leave me in the dark like this! I must speak to you …"

At once, her eyes detected what appeared to be the dim outline of a cloaked figure standing motionless in the path some distance away. His back was to her – it had to be a man – the form stood tall, the shoulders wide. Her heart skipped a beat then began to race.

"Erik?" she cried in relief mixed with a plea to know if it was truly him. "Please end this awful silence. There is so much we need to speak of, so much I want to know …"

The shock of seeing him there – if it was him – it must be him – of knowing he had followed her across Paris and had been spying on them addled her mind. She could not sort out her thoughts to know how to proceed with what to say when a thousand words were battling to be freed at once.

"Why did you do it? You must have had a reason. Was it revenge? Do you hate me so much? Is that why you're here tonight, hiding in this wretched darkness? Have you come to enact your threat against my friends? Would you really kill the Vicomte out of spite? Or hurt Arabella, like you did when you threatened to strangle her? She told me of that day she found your caves – I don't blame you, I know you were trying to protect Jacques from being discovered and yourself – but this!" She shook her head in frustration, quietly answering her own stilted muddle of questions. "This is not you, Erik. This is not who you are, the boy I grew up with, the boy I knew from The Heights …"

Silence remained her only answer, further infuriating her. Was he so incensed by her words that he coldly shut her out once more? Did anything she say have any affect on him whatsoever? She moved ahead with steady determination, unable to make out the path her feet took, the tears filming her eyes and blurring her vision making it twice as difficult to see. She worked to make more sense of what she said.

"I swear I didn't mean to disobey you, I had no choice. But what did you expect? I cannot arouse suspicion – for your sake, for the children's – and my disappearance caused plenty of that."

The unending silence resounded, louder than a death knell, and brought to mind all the suffering he had made her endure over the months, the years...

"You have no right to be angry with me! You abandoned me I did not escape! I kept my word to stay in those horrid dark dungeons with you – and I would have stayed! Do you hear?"

Oh, if only he had wanted her to!

Christine worked hard to keep her voice low, her emotions threatening to get a stranglehold and her last words coming out vexed and unsteady. She peered into the veil of awful darkness until her eyes hurt but at last she could make out his cloak ruffling in the wind. Taking a few uncertain steps, she felt encouraged when he did not move away and appealed to his love for music, an aspiration she knew they once and always shared.

"You are supposed to be my teacher. You are a genius, a true maestro – and you said I wasn't ready! So, why have you left me to my own devices...? I feel as if I am floundering, adrift in a world I know nothing about – actually belonging to an opera company – it is all so new to me, both exciting and frightening, and I need your guidance! This is your opera – surely you wish for it to succeed…?" She gripped the bush, barely aware of the leaves' serrated edges and tiny twigs that dug into her flesh. "Answer me, Erik – stop behaving like some ghostly Phantom and answer me!"

The horrifying thought occurred that she had been mistaken, that he was not Erik, that in the distance and the darkness she only imagined what she hoped to see and now addressed a stranger.

And then, in the gentle gust of the breeze, she heard her name tremble in the breath of his sigh.

"Christine…"

Joy surged up to drown her heart in waves of icy relief and fear that he might now vanish, and it quenched her vocal chords so that she could not speak, save for his name that came out in a choked whisper -

"Erik."

She reached out to him with a trembling hand, silently beseeching him to turn around, to acknowledge her presence, to come to her …

"Christine!"

Her other arm was grabbed from behind before she could make sense of what was happening, and she whirled in shock to face Arabella.

"What are you doing out here and without a cloak? You'll catch your death in this freezing night!"

"It's Erik – he's here!" She turned to look back at the path.

The silent figure was gone.

"No! Oh, where did you go?! Come back!"

She lunged forward and almost lost her footing in the slippery grass. Arabella saved her from falling, tightening her grip on her arm.

"Christine, come away. You only thought you saw him, surely. I doubt he followed you halfway across town on foot."

"No…" She shook her head, scouring the area for any sign of his presence. "It was him."

"Think, Christine." Arabella shook her slightly by the arms, gaining her attention. "Would he truly risk being seen in public when Raoul said there is an ongoing search for the Phantom? He is even trying to get the police involved, though so far they've paid him little heed. But everything could change if he does put out that reward for his capture."

Arabella didn't understand, no one did, and she didn't know about the threat to Raoul either. If Erik wanted something badly enough, he would risk life and limb to attain his goal, thinking it a challenge to sharpen his wits, a dangerous game of stalker to his prey. He had learned to blend into shadows, to become invisible like a ghost – why should he not pursue them in the dark night?

"I tell you he was here," Christine said as Arabella put her arm around her shoulders and gently forced her to retrace their steps to the outside hedge and back toward the restaurant. "I heard his voice – did you not hear him speak my name? Surely you must have heard!"

"I heard nothing but the wind rustling through the bushes. It was reckless of you to venture outside alone," Arabella chided quietly and surreptitiously motioned to a tall, stout man in unkempt clothes who boldly stared at both women from a darkened doorway across the street. "This is the crowded city, not the empty countryside to which you are accustomed. Paris is dangerous at night, with those of questionable ilk roaming the streets. It's a good thing I decided to check on you and that the doorman told me you left in such haste. You are twice as fortunate that Raoul has no knowledge of your wild venture into the night."

The words made Christine wince as she began to comprehend the gravity of what Arabella told her. "He doesn't suspect then?"

"Why do you think I'm trying so to get you back into the café before he learns of this? I cannot trust the discretion of the doorman. He asked me if I should inform the maî·tre d', who in turn would tell Raoul. Of course I told him no, but I cannot guarantee that will prevent him from doing what he feels is his obligation."

Upset, Christine wished only to flee from Arabella's protective hold and find her evasive Phantom, but logic persisted, muting the thwarted cries of her heart. Her friend was right. She could not chase him in darkness through a city still foreign to her, not when she didn't even know where he would be! And Raoul could never know Erik was there.

"Promise me you won't say a word. About Erik being here."

"If he was here …"

Christine tensed at the quiet, placating words, and Arabella hastened to explain.

"His absence these past four years has left such a terrible strain on you, and then to find him again so suddenly and lose contact with him just as swiftly – I fear you are now seeing him where he's not – only because you wish for it so badly." Christine shook her head to refuse, but Arabella went on, "Surely we would have heard him if he had been there. The path beneath our feet is not quiet with this melting snow. We would have heard his footsteps, Christine."

"He's learned to be silent –"

"It is late and twice as dark where you thought you saw him. The distance was too great for him to travel in such a few short seconds to be invisible to the eye – and he is not a ghost. We were speaking of him earlier, your thoughts were full of him. It was only a trick of your mind, nothing more."

"But I heard him speak my name. It was as if he whispered in my ear, I c-could hear him so clearly."

"It was only the wind. Look at you, you're trembling and your teeth are near chattering. We must get you out of this cold before you grow ill."

Arabella continued toward the restaurant, keeping one arm tightly around Christine, acting both as a comfort and hindrance, clearly concerned she would break away to chase her Phantom of the Night. Christine might believe Arabella's rational persuasions save for one verity she did not mention that her friend could not refute, but she had no wish to convey. The realization only now came to her and bruised her tender heart, causing it to bleed anew.

In the chill air the barest trace of a fragrance had lingered where she had stood, one of heady spice, exotic and unfamiliar to her in all of Paris … except deep below ground in the caverns he made his home.

x

Hours later, again hidden and locked away within her dressing room bedchamber, Christine paced the floor, restless and unable to sleep. Angry contempt and bitter hopelessness played a frenzied tug of war with her heart. With the eternal two days that had passed since she'd last seen Erik, she wondered yet again how she would manage to exist through this hell he had fashioned for her and how she could even begin to reach him.

How was she to continue in this vein – expected to behave normally and above suspicion? If more days followed like the last two, soon the entire theatre might come to doubt her sanity. And they had every right to call her mad, despite Arabella's assurances that she was sane. Because, even after all the havoc he created, after the months of his bullying and torments and threats, and now the cruelty of his cold rejection, Christine felt incomplete without him. She bitterly despised him, she hopelessly loved him – and with every breath she wanted him back.

Coming abreast of the mirror, she turned to look into its cold polished metal. "Why did you not come to me tonight? If you will not reveal yourself, will you at least answer me through the looking glass now?"

She lifted her chin when the usual irksome silence met her soft question.

"I had every right to be cross with you for your cruel deception – do you intend to hold my angry outburst against me forever? Is that what this is about?" She uncrossed her arms – "I'm sorry I slapped you" – Then frowned in remembered pain. "No, I'm not. You deserved it. Those soft lips of yours spouted their own venom of harsh and vicious lies, those hypnotic eyes of gold luring me to trust in your deceit again and again. I lied about you to Berta once, one night, four years ago. You lied repeatedly to me for countless weeksdoes that not make you many times guiltier than I?!"

She sighed in vexation and began to pace again. "Your punishment is unjust – damn it, Erik, I know you were there tonight."

Her words were full of conviction though her mind had begun to doubt, wondering if in her desire to have him with her she had fabricated his distant image and his voice, as Arabella believed, as Christine herself had begun to imagine before he whispered her name. But that did not explain his scent, that unusual appealing aroma of candle smoke and ink and exotic spice. Unless all her senses were deluding her, and she neither saw, smelled, nor heard his presence…

And now he had her questioning her mind and the reality of her experience.

"How long do you intend on making me suffer? Are you angry that I disobeyed you? Is that why you ran from me?"

Had he truly been there in the darkness between hedges? Was he hidden behind the mirror watching her now?

"You coerced me into making a vow never to see the Vicomte, who is only a friend, and though I have tried to follow your instructions, I cannot avoid such outings, like tonight, without betraying your identity – is that what you wish?"

She paced a short distance away. Again Raoul had expressed his intent to take her and Arabella to supper soon and visit another dining establishment. Again Christine had tried to maneuver her way out of the arrangement, without success. Indeed, he would not leave the threshold of her dressing room until he had secured her promise to accompany them this coming weekend.

Despite her and Arabella's reassurances, Raoul was still gravely concerned for her welfare, and Christine now realized such outings to see for himself that she was indeed alive and unharmed would better persuade him that the lies she told were truths. There was no reason to tell Raoul the reality of the situation, not after hearing his fiery discourse of his deadly plans for the Opera Ghost. To tell him would only put Erik in greater danger. Raoul was not one to run from a fight, and if she explained that she could no longer share his company because the Phantom forbade it, admitting that he was her teacher and manager and that Raoul's life could be in jeopardy if she acted against his wishes, Raoul would not only be angered by the Phantom's manipulations – he would sound the cry to battle.

She could not protect his life any more than she could protect Erik's. She was playing with fire with a heroic escort who would willingly charge into the flames on her behalf, especially if that meant he could abolish the terrible Opera Ghost, who just as readily waited for the opportunity to crush his opponent.

What acceptable choices did she have?

She could either put her beloved Phantom in danger or put her dear friend in danger.

Neither choice was a choice at all but a torment – and certainly not acceptable. She already suffered for taking the life of a man she didn't even like. She did not wish for such a harsh responsibility that would cause harm to either of those she cared about – but no matter which way she chose, to tell or not to tell, to go or not to go, she could not win.

Someone would get hurt. It was inevitable and it was imminent.

She gripped both sides of her head, feeling so wretchedly helpless. She wanted no part of their war, feeling split down the middle, the ammunition from both rivals ripping through her soul, and she failed to understand why she must fully submit to either man. Why must each of them have his own way, with no room for compromise? Why could Raoul not see that the opera was far better with the Phantom's involvement, and how could Erik not know that he alone always possessed her heart and soul? Even in the explosive act of their lovemaking she had softly cried his name, without meaning to, not the Vicomte's.

Had he forgotten? Had he not heard?

At the time she had hoped he failed to comprehend, thinking him only the Phantom. Now knowing he was Erik, she dearly wished that he had heard her breathe his name and could now begin to understand her love for him was true and always had been deeply rooted in her heart. Twice before, he stopped her from proclaiming her deep affection for him in those last days together at The Heights, unwilling or unable to believe she could truly feel that way. Would he listen now? Would he even believe her since he was always so ready to think the worst about her and every one of her blasted intentions?

Oh, why did she not tell him when he asked her at Christmas dinner to speak of Erik and what he was to her? Why had she refused? If she had said that he was the boy she loved and always would love – would it have made a difference?

She had seen and known and heard. Had seen the desire burn flame-hot in his eyes, igniting her with an inner fire that made her desperate for his touch; had known and shared his obsession to become one in physical unity; had heard his hoarse commands to tell him that she was and always would be his in the moment before he wholly claimed her…

What had happened to change all that? Was it only because his evil little masquerade had ended? But that made no sense.

Christine turned to the mirror.

"Why did you leave me?" she whispered sadly. "After all we shared? You said it was for the best. The first time you killed me when you left. Was that for the best…? You brought me back to life when you took me and forced me to remain with you in your dark and brutal Hades. And now, now I would claw through brimstone and the fires of hell to find my way back to you, through every one of those beastly dark corridors and vile traps – if it meant living forever with you in your cold tomb. That is what is for the best, you hateful, unfeeling rogue, though you are clearly too damned blind to see it and stubborn to know it."

She laughed then, a tremulous, hard laugh to mock her pain lest she drown beneath the weight of her sorrow. "But then, you always have been as stubborn and ornery as a goat. And you must be emotionally blind as well, after living in the darkness, away from humanity for three years … my God, Erik, what happened to you…?"

A soft knock sounded at the door. "Christine? It's Meg."

At the uncertainty in the girl's voice, Christine wiped the bitter tears from her cheeks with her fingertips and moved toward the door. Upon opening it, Meg looked at her curiously, noting her bed gown and wrapper.

"I heard you stirring. I didn't think I woke you."

At the question in Meg's voice, Christine shook her head. "No, you didn't. I couldn't sleep. Please, come in."

"I'm sorry I wasn't able to come earlier. Maman had errands for me. I know it's rather late."

"It's alright, Meg." Christine closed the door and turned the key. "This is actually better, since no one will be near to disturb us."

Meg looked around the dressing room, empty of all but them, and shook her head.

"Disturb us? I thought I heard you talking to someone, but no one is here."

Yes, soon they would all think her mad.

"I want you to show me other parts of the opera house I haven't yet seen."

"What – now?"

Meg continued to regard Christine warily, as if she might suddenly shed all her clothing and run screeching through the opera house like a banshee. She sighed in impatience, her emotions high, her resolve strengthened tenfold after her little talk with her absent Ghost in the mirror, and finally she decided to confide in the ballet dancer.

"You did hear me speak to someone, Meg. You see, Erik – that is, the Phantom and I had a quarrel before he brought me back here, and now he won't see me or communicate with me. I've been trying to reach him, by talking to him, hoping he might be close and will hear."

"Erik? That's his name? I thought so when you said you dreamt of him this morning."

Of course the shrewd girl would latch onto her blunder. "You mustn't tell a soul. He values his secrecy. Promise me, Meg."

"I won't tell. Though it is odd to think of the Phantom having a normal name, like everyone else."

"Don't let that fool you," Christine said grimly. "He is far from ordinary. 'The Phantom' better suits him." Especially with the way he was behaving now.

"But why should you think he would hear you in a closed room?" Meg asked curiously.

Christine hesitated, not yet ready to tell Meg about the mirror door since evidently she had no knowledge of its existence. "Just a hunch, really."

Hurriedly she dressed, and the two left the room to begin their clandestine tour.

x

"Is there somewhere specific you wish to go?" Meg asked, her words sounding almost ghostly in the darkened halls, lit with few lamps.

"I heard there's a box where the Phantom usually delivers his notes to the managers and your mother collects them?"

"Yes, of course. I'll take you there."

It was long past midnight, the eerie emptiness of the theatre attesting to the lateness of the hour. With few signs of life – a stagehand who walked far ahead of them down the corridor they now took, the man disappearing behind a tapestry hanging down to form one of many curtains – and two bleary-eyed women quietly stitching cloth – the place felt like a tomb. Neither of the seamstresses spoke but stared at the girls with suspicious curiosity.

Once they entered the quiet theatre from the stage wing, empty of any observers, Christine took her first relaxed breath.

She moved toward the center stage, remembering yesterday, when she first let her voice ring for those who had never heard it. She had been terrified, afraid the years of silence had done too much damage, and had been ready to run off the stage. Her eyes had searched the rafters, hoping for a sign of life from her dark Angel. At that point she remembered – every song had always been for him. He was her teacher, responsible for bringing her to this point. And he was her lover, the boy who once told her he did not believe in angels but if an Angel of Music existed, he hoped one day she might find him … and she had found him. She had found Erik and she had found her Angel and would do so again. With those memories to sustain her, her song had rung forth, Christine hoping that if she sang Aminta's lament from her heart, he would somehow know it was for him that her soul cried. And he would then come to her.

But he had not appeared.

There had been a movement at the curtain that shrouded the closest private box while she had sung. She had then wondered if it was real or if she imagined it, her senses compelled from the memory of another time when she stood in this spot and had seen that same curtain stir, proof someone was watching. Later, he admitted he had spied on her.

She stared hard at the curtain now. "Is it here, then?" she asked Meg, never lowering her attention from the dark red fabric.

"You're looking at it."

"What?" Christine glanced at her in surprise then back to the curtained alcove. "There?"

"Yes, that's Box Five. The Phantom's box."

"His box…?" She felt a little faint with the knowledge.

"It has been his box for three years. He explicitly forbids anyone the use of it, commanding it always be kept empty, for him."

His box. The same box in which she sat when Raoul escorted her to the opera two and a half years ago. Did the Vicomte know it was the Phantom's box then? He must have known! He had made it his mission to learn all about the Opera Ghost, and his father would have informed him before he put him in charge. Did the Phantom later learn that she had been there? In his box? With Raoul? Had he suspected she would return someday and put his vengeful plan into motion to abduct her then?

Damn all these questions, all with the cruel possibility of never being resolved!

"Will you show me the way up there?"

Meg was clearly hesitant. "Maman is the only one allowed … but this late, and being as you are his wife, he might not mind."

"You think he might be near to know of my presence?"

"He has a habit of roaming about the opera house at night."

Meg seemed uneasy to say more, and recalling the scandalous stories of his nocturnal trysts, Christine left it at that, not wishing to recall those incidents and pushing them from her mind. If he was nearby to see and hear her exploits, all the better.

Holding a candelabra, Meg led Christine backstage, through a narrow corridor that led to the foyer and the three sets of public stairs that led to the balcony. The dancer took the right staircase and Christine followed as they made their ascent into the shadowed area. The flames of the candles seemed weaker as they moved higher, barely separating the darkness only for it to gather again once they passed. Christine suppressed a shiver, her resolve to find him stronger than her fear to be without light.

All at once she noticed someone creeping alongside them and drew in a startled gasp – which she released in a quiet breath once she realized it was her reflection from the mirrors they had reached that decorated the wall of the landing.

"It's just through there," Meg motioned to a closed crimson curtain. "I don't know exactly where the box for the notes is, since I was never with Maman when she collected them, but it shouldn't be difficult to find."

"You're not coming?"

"Someone should stand watch."

"I'll need light to see."

"Take it." Meg lit a candle of an elaborate gold sconce on the wall then passed the candelabra to Christine.

The flames still seemed weak but at least it provided more light than a candle. She held her breath and parted the curtain, holding the candles before her as she entered. Looking around, she wondered where to search first and moved toward the curtain that concealed the box from the theatre.

Her heart leapt at the spicy scent that lingered there, his scent, and moisture rimmed her eyes. He must have been there recently. How recently? Had she just missed him? Had he again been watching her?

Caressing the fold of the curtain, she drew it aside. The box afforded a clear view of the stage, one she remembered from her solitary visit as a guest to this opera house, and in the solitude she allowed a tear to gather at her lashes and slide down her cheek. She had been so close to him then and not even known it! Though she remembered how strongly she had felt his presence - and inhaled a sudden breath.

Had he been there that night? Watching her as she watched the opera?

Oh, it was all too awful to speculate – that he would have purposely kept himself hidden from her – and she forced her mind to the task at hand. What exactly she looked for she didn't know. The box for notes, yes, but perhaps a secret entrance as well? He had to have a way to reach his box without anyone seeing him.

Christine studied the ivory and gold wallpaper for crevices that would imply a hidden door but found nothing. She glanced at the two rows of four plush chairs, doubting anything of merit could be found there, then noticed the white Grecian column at the end of them – half a column really, seeming to be one with the wall, the other half perhaps disappearing into the next box. Eyeing it closely, she moved around the large protrusion of pillar, touching the upraised scrolls and indentations of the decor, pressing against each, while recalling some of Erik's inventions from The Heights – tiny hidden knobs to press that would suddenly unhinge and produce a hidden compartment. The candlelight barely illuminated this area, and she considered bringing the flames closer when her questing fingers encountered another indentation she pressed.

This time, she heard a click.

Her heart pounded in excitement as she carefully eyed the pillar, noting a slight deformation at the bottom. She knelt to see a small hidden door had come partway open.

Setting the candelabra on the floor, she opened the compartment, her mouth going dry to see a second door inside, the shadow of a large keyhole just visible.

Could it be…?

Eagerly she pulled the black velvet ribbon from inside her bodice that held the key from the cave door. Worried the troublesome chain would break under the key's weight, she had threaded it through the ribbon and hung it around her neck when she dressed, having hoped that an opportunity would present itself like the one now laid before her.

"Please work," she whispered, then took in a nervous breath and held it, carefully fitting the key into the lock. She was relieved it slid into the slot without a problem. Turning the key, she heard a second click, her heart now a metronome that surely eclipsed the fastest setting as swiftly as it beat within her breast. The inner door opened with a nudge of her hand.

The white outline of an envelope lay inside. From Madame to the Phantom, or …?

Withdrawing the parchment, she immediately noticed a skull of red wax that sealed the flap, and the thin black rim painted around its edges.

Pressing the note to her heart with a little cry, she did not stop once to consider returning the Opera Ghost's missive to its cubbyhole and closed the hidden door, again locking it and slipping the ribbon with the key back over her head before grabbing the candelabra and hurrying to stand.

Perhaps here she would find answers at last!

She parted the curtain, hoping Meg wouldn't notice the envelope she hid at her side, clutched in her skirts, as she handed her back the candelabra.

Thankfully Meg's attention was elsewhere, on the stairwell.

Christine looked that way. "Did you hear something?"

"I'm not certain." Meg blew out the sole candle mounted on the wall. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Yes, I think so."

Meg again sent another sharp stare in the direction of the stairs. "We must go. Was there anywhere else you wished to visit?"

There was, but Meg's tone was anxious, as if she feared getting caught, and Christine now wished only to return to her room and break the seal of the envelope, to learn what instructions he had written.

xXx