A/N: -grimaces- I know. More than a month. I could write you an essay of excuses (i.e. I was out of the country), but I'm sure you'd rather just hear that I'm very sorry and move on to the chapter. So, I apologize from the bottom of my heart for the ridiculously long wait, and without further ado, present you with the long-awaited chapter 55.

The Comte de Chagny stormed up the steps to his estate and into the main parlor. His hair and cloak were dripping from his brief exposure to the rain, and in a moment of uncharacteristic rage, he bellowed for his servants. Immediately, seven young men and women came running, and halted hesitantly before him, breathless and wide-eyed.

"Well, don't just stand there!" he snapped at them, kicking his muddy boots off. "I want a towel and a hot bath. I'm in a foul temper, so I'd suggest you don't keep me waiting."

The servants fell all over themselves as they rushed to do his bidding. Only the butler remained, an old family friend who had known Raoul since birth. Stepping forward smartly, he removed the Comte's cloak and called forth a maid to take it to the wash.

"Bumped in to Mademoiselle Emily, I'm guessing?" he murmured quietly, so that only Raoul could hear.

The young man turned to look at the butler in surprise, and then heaved a sigh. "She's living on the streets."

"Yes, I know," the butler said, folding his hands in front of him. "There has been much gossip in the kitchens about the Mademoiselle. The servant girls see her often when they go to the market."

Raoul glared darkly. "And did they perchance notice that she's with child?"

"They did," the butler answered carefully. Then, throwing caution to the wind, he asked outright, "Is it yours?"

The Comte's scowl deepened. "She's a prostitute, Jean-Claude. Half the men in Paris could be the potential sire." He turned away, clutching his forehead, shoulders slumped. After a few moments of heavy silence, he answered softly, "But she insists it's mine… and I can't prove her wrong any more than I can prove her right." He shivered, and not just from the cold. "And there's more." Closing his eyes as if the action could keep him in blissful oblivion to the situation at hand, he said in a hoarse whisper, "She… she told me Christine's child is not mine— cannot be mine… because I was in England at the time of conception."

Jean-Claude seemed to consider his master's plight, for he was quiet for a few minutes, aside from the gentle shuffling of his feet as he picked up the Comte's boots and moved them away from the door.

"I am but a humble servant, my lord," he said at last, head bowed as a testament to his words. "But if I might make a suggestion…"

"You may," said Raoul quickly, desperate for any advice he could get.

"In my experience, secrecy is a dangerous product of mistrust." He paused, wetting his dry, withered lips. "It can only lead to heartache. Might I suggest, then, that you take up these matters with Madame Christine?"

Raoul's eyes snapped open, and he wheeled about to face the butler. "And accuse her flat-out of adultery?"

Jean-Claude raised his hands in a peaceful gesture. "Monsieur, I speak nothing of accusations. I'm just saying that you should be honest with her about your feelings. If you give it time and patience, her conscience will speak for itself. But I have to add, on her behalf, that you were pronounced dead, sir. 'Tweren't exactly adultery, in my book, if a widow sought comfort over her husband's death in the arms of another man."

The Comte opened and closed his mouth several times, wanting to protest, but unable to summon a reasonable argument. He had never thought about the situation that way before— that, in his absence, his poor, grief-stricken Christine had run off to seek solace in any way she could. Inappropriately as she had handled her pain, it was a small comfort to know that she had at least been in mourning over his "death." And she had returned to him, now… so certainly that must mean something.

Sighing deeply, he conceded. Clapping the old butler on the shoulder, he nodded his thanks, unable to meet Jean-Claude's eyes. Without another word, he turned to the main staircase. He had not even ascended the first three steps, however, before the sound of cantering hooves neared the estate. Frowning, he went back down the stairs and waited at the door with Jean-Claude. He hadn't been expecting anyone this afternoon. Surely the nursery furniture hadn't arrived already?

A single pair of boots trotted up the front steps, and the door chime sounded cheerily. Jean-Claude and Raoul exchanged looks before the butler opened the door.

The Comte nearly stumbled back in surprise at the sight of the visitor. The kindly hotel owner, Nadir Khan, stood on his doorstep, swathed in a sopping wet cloak. He wore a grim expression, but his eyes twinkled faintly beneath his hood.

"Lovely weather we're having today," Nadir said dryly. "Hello again, Monsieur le Comte."

"Oh, call me Raoul, please!" the Comte laughed, gesturing for Jean-Claude to remove the visitor's cloak. "It's good to see you, my friend."

"Likewise." The Persian smiled. "Forgive me for dropping in uninvited. It's a matter of some urgency."

"No invitation required, dear Monsieur," Raoul said kindly, ushering his guest into the main sitting room. "You opened your home to me in my hour of need. What kind of man would I be to deny you the same courtesy? Come, come, sit down by the fire. My servants will dry your cloak. Would you care for anything to eat or drink?"

Nadir shook his head. "No, thank you, though you are most gracious. You have recovered a great deal, I see. That is very good news."

"Thanks to you. I would probably have died, if not for your generosity."

"I do what I can," the Persian replied humbly. He twined his dark fingers together and studied them for a few seconds before jumping to the point. "If you please, Monsieur, I would like to speak with Madame la Comtesse, if only for a few minutes."

Raoul blinked a few times, surprised. "I did not know the two of you were familiar."

"No," the Daroga agreed, "She would not likely have mentioned me. We are old acquaintances, from the opera." He swallowed, choosing his next words carefully, "Actually, it is her return to the Opera Populaire which I'd like to address."

Confusion knitted the Comte's brows. "I didn't know it was up and running again."

"It isn't— yet," Nadir said vaguely.

"I see." Raoul cleared his throat and shrugged, smiling. "Well, as far as I know she's upstairs at the moment. I can have a servant ask if she's accepting visitors, if you'd like."

"Thank you. That would be wonderful."

She still dreamed of him, of course. Had it really only been a year ago that she'd made that morbid prophecy in the dank chapel of the opera house?

And he'll always be there singing songs in my head...

He had frightened her, then. He still did, but it was no longer a child's fear of her Angel's wrath. Christine was sure that he would appear one night— that the shadows would meld and form his tragically scarred face, and his strong arms and warm chest— that he would come for her, and unfurl his elegant fingers, cloaked in black leather. And he would smell of candles, roses, and musk… an old smell, one she had known forever, it seemed. And he would peer into the bassinette that cradled their child and smile brokenly, and tell her it was beautiful and he loved it and he would take them both home now.

She hated that dream, but it plagued her mercilessly. Every night she would wake with a start and bolt upright in bed, her eyes frantically scanning the shadows for any sign of him. Her forehead and sheets would be soaked in sweat, and an oppressive silence would hang over her bedroom. From his own private wing just down the hall, she could usually hear Raoul's soft snores if she strained. But Erik was nowhere to be seen, so she always curled into a shaking ball and stroked her massive boulder of a stomach, spending the rest of her sleepless night telling herself that even if Erik did come for her, she would deny him. But she had always been a terrible liar.

Dark bags hung under her eyes and her skin had grown pallid, but the doctors attributed it to a difficult pregnancy, and she was ordered to remain in bed until the child was born. Too tired to argue, she agreed by lack of dissent, and had not left the luxurious four-poster since, except to use the chamber pot or bathe. Raoul brought her books to read and kept her company for about an hour each day, but the rest of the time he was either occupied with business or remodeling the southern wing of the manor for the baby. He had pounced at the opportunity to organize and help design the entire project with an enthusiasm that made Christine smile. He was thrilled by the prospect of being a father, and his infectious joy took a bit of the edge off of her agony. Unfortunately, it was not enough to chase away her wistful dreams of the child's real father.

She napped during the day and tried to stay awake at night; she found that she was more prone to dreams of Erik when shadows were allowed to toy with her mind. He had always come to her cloaked in darkness, singing to her of the music of the night, teaching her to create it within herself. There was a gaping hole in her soul now— a black maw that only Erik had ever been able to fill. But she was safe in her husband's house, with medical staff ready to assist her at any given moment, and her childhood friend, rock and provider at her side, who was absolutely ecstatic about tackling parenthood.

"How are you feeling this morning, my love?" Raoul would ask every day, entering her room with a smile and a kiss.

And every morning, she would smile back and answer as convincingly as possible, "I couldn't be happier."

After all, little white lies never hurt anyone, did they? It brightened her husband's mood to hear her say it, and after a while, she hoped that perhaps saying it enough would make it true.

She was napping, or trying to, when a gentle knock sounded at her bedroom door. Suddenly wide awake, she lifted her head and granted entry.

The mild-mannered, blonde servant girl, Elise, peeked around the edge of the door, and, finding her mistress decent, took half a step inside. Head bowed, she spoke in a quiet, strained voice, as if speaking were a great deal of effort for the shy girl. "If you please, Madame, there's a man here to see you."

Christine's heart jumped into her throat, prohibiting her from speaking. She paled and tried to swallow, her mouth working silently.

"He inquires whether you're feeling well enough to accept visitors," the maid continued.

Finally managing to force something past her thick throat, Christine blurted, "What does he look like?"

"Foreign," Elise whispered, wringing her hands. "Arabic, I believe."

The air left Christine's lungs in a rush, surprising her; she hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath. "Persian," she amended, suddenly exhausted. Lying back on the bed, she squeezed her eyes shut. She could always drift off to sleep, or at least pretend to, and then she wouldn't have to face Nadir. But chances were he'd come back; he didn't seem the type to be easily swayed.

She was silent for a very long time, and just as Elise ducked back out of the room, taking the lack of response for a refusal to allow company, Christine spoke wearily, "Let him in, then."

"Madame?" The blonde girl peeked back into the room, frowning slightly.

Sighing, Christine rubbed her temples with one hand, laying the other over her mound of a stomach. "Tell Monsieur Khan that I will see him at once, and fetch a tea tray for our guest."

Elise nodded and left the room. Less than a minute later, a different face peered around the corner of her door— a dark, careworn face, with eyes the color of polished emeralds.

"Good morning, Comtesse," he said with heartbreaking tenderness, bowing his head respectfully.

Tears were in her eyes suddenly, and she blinked furiously to hold them back. She shook her head, sending her frizzy chestnut curls flying.

"Christine," she begged, her voice cracking. "Please, just Christine."

His eyes softened, and he crossed the room and took her pale hand in his coffee-colored one. "Very well…" he answered gently, "Christine." He looked pointedly at her bulging belly and added, "I don't believe I ever had the chance to congratulate you. I'm sure you will make a fine mother."

Christine was losing the battle against her tears, swallowing hard against the lump that suddenly burned in her throat. She clutched his hand as a drowning woman clings to a scrap of driftwood, and a few crystalline drops leaked from her eyes despite her best efforts to keep them at bay.

"Now, now, my dear," he whispered, patting her arm with his free hand, "What's all this for?" When she was unable to answer, he continued sadly, "If my presence upsets you so, I can easily find my way back out."

"No!" The Comtesse cried, clinging to his hand even more tightly. "I just… I can't… you must think… you must hate me…"

He lifted her chin with his forefinger. "Oh, Christine," he sighed sadly. "I don't think I could bring myself to hate you if I spent the rest of my life trying." Christine whimpered and wiped her face on her pillow miserably, unable to answer. Worry lines crinkled the Persian's face as he lowered himself to his knees beside her bed, his hand never leaving hers.

There was a long pause as he tried to harness his emotions and thoughts into a coherent argument. He had to be persuasive without being forceful; had to tell her the truth without shattering the fragile remainder of her soul. He was treading on eggshells, and the happiness— and life, as the case seemed to be— of his best friend was at stake. If he could salvage this relationship it would be a miracle, but he had to try.

Christine was not going to make it easy on him, either, he realized. Just as he finally thought of a gentle way to begin, she broke the silence with uncanny intuition: "You have news of Erik."

The Persian reeled for a moment, trying to recollect his bearings. He was trying to be placid, but it seemed she was not in the mood for pleasantries. Want and need were two different arenas, though; he walked a fine line. Just because she spoke as if she could handle any news he might have to give her didn't make it true. After a beat, he wisely decided against candor for the moment.

"I do," he agreed mildly, "but first I'd like to hear about you."

She stiffened a little, but her eyes betrayed her relief. "I've been well. The doctor prescribed bedrest until the baby comes, so I've grown a bit bored with the scenery." She gestured around at the room, sighing. "I read most of the time, and sleep, and eat the meals that are brought for me. Raoul visits when he's home, but he's been off badgering the poor workers about the nursery for the past few weeks, so I haven't seen much of him lately." She shrugged, trying to give the impression that it didn't pain her. Both of them knew better. There was a short silence before Christine looked up at the Daroga and asked politely, "And you? What have you been up to these past few months?"

Nadir attempted a smile. "Oh, a little of this and that. Work, mostly, and dull work at that. Tourist season has ended, so I've just been arranging repairs to some of the ceilings before the holiday season." Christine nodded, feigning interest, though it was clear she was on edge, waiting for the real reason he'd come. The Persian lowered his eyes to the fancy bedspread, rolling his tongue around in his mouth— a nervous habit. When the silence finally became unbearable, he spoke again, very softly, "I have not seen Erik since that day, either."

Christine drew in a sharp breath through her nose and looked away. Nadir continued to speak calmly and quietly, though he noted her reaction.

"But an unexpected guest turned up at my doorstep this morning with news of him. An old friend of yours, I believe— a Madame Antoinette Giry?"

The Comtesse looked up at him, her eyes wide. "Madame Giry is here? In Paris?"

Nadir nodded slowly, wet his lips, and chose his next words very carefully. "She has been for several months now. She told me to send you her best wishes and congratulations, and to apologize for not coming to see you herself. Unfortunately, her attentions were… needed elsewhere."

Thank Allah, Christine caught on to his implication, and he had no need to elaborate. Her doe eyes widened, and she breathed more emotion— loathing, love, regret, and awe— into a single word than Nadir had thought possible. "Erik…"

"Erik," he agreed softly. Christine's eyes bore into his, brimming with pain— at once longing to hear more and ashamed at her own longing. "He… well… did something brash…"

"Is he alright?" Christine choked, her body arched as if her emotional pain had begun to take a physical effect.

"He is now—" the Comtesse's pale pink lips trembled as she exhaled in relief, "—thanks to Madame Giry."

There was a brief pause in which Christine drew in deep, shuddering breaths. Then she turned her eyes to his, and her soul was stripped bare before him. "What has he done?"

He couldn't have lied even if he'd wanted to. Without so much as blinking, he answered levelly, "He took a knife to himself." Before the sentence was fully out of his mouth, Christine had doubled over with a broken, breathless scream of "No!" Determined not to be swayed until he had said everything he needed to say, Nadir pushed on, "Madame Giry found him in the Louis Philippe room. Thank Allah she did not make any detours— she discovered him soon after he fell unconscious and bound his wrists. A physician tended to the wounds, but Erik lost a great deal of blood. For a while it was unclear whether or not he would survive, but under Madame Giry's unrelenting supervision, he made a full recovery… physically, at least." He paused, swallowed, and added tenderly, "It was a shock to me too. I only learned of it this morning, and came directly here with the news."

For what seemed an eternity, Christine could not catch her breath. She sobbed violently into her sheets, rocking back and forth. Nadir didn't know what to do; he was afraid to touch her, but if she didn't draw in a breath soon, he feared she would pass out, and perhaps do harm to her unborn child…

He reached out a tentative hand to stroke her back, and she drew in several successive, shrieking gasps for air. Once her lungs were satiated, however, she collapsed again, weeping hysterically.

"Christine," Nadir soothed, trying to coax her out of her panicked delirium, "Christine, it's all over now. He will be just fine, I assure you. Madame Giry is an excellent nurse; she has taken very good care of him." The young woman continued to convulse with sobs. Nadir's tone sharpened with worry, and he barked in his best Daroga voice, "Comtesse, you must calm down!"

At last, Christine made an effort to push herself upright and look at him through blurred vision. She was still trembling uncontrollably, but began to draw in ragged gasps. Comforted slightly by the fact that she was breathing, at least, the Persian continued with a very paternal tone, "Now, listen to me. Your tears will do no one any good, and allowing yourself to be seized by a panic attack could harm your child. Take deep breaths, and when you are calm we can discuss this matter further."

His heart physically ached as he watched the broken young woman try to collect herself. How in the world did such a precious child find herself burdened with these heaps of tragedies in such a short time on this earth? The death of both parents, a life of isolation and grueling physical work as a ballerina, the ongoing lie of an Angel of Music, the disenchantment once it was broken, falling in love with two men at once, being forced to choose between them, the successive loss of a husband and child, and when she finally glimpsed a spark of recovery for both her and Erik, it was smothered almost immediately by deceit and ingrained fear on the part of the latter. Now the love of her life had attempted suicide on her account, yet she still found the strength to compose herself and move forward. And to think, Christine had not yet reached her eighteenth birthday.

Somehow, she managed to catch her breath, and though tears still streamed freely down her cheeks, the hysteria seemed to have drained from her system. Suddenly, despite her tremendous belly, she looked very much like a small, frightened child, and it took a great deal of self-restraint for Nadir not to embrace her.

"First of all," he said, keeping his voice as calm and steady as he could, "No one blames you for leaving him. You acted wisely on behalf of your child, yourself, and Erik. He was behaving like a damned fool, with no repercussions, and sooner or later it was bound to catch up with him. You did the right thing. But you and I both know that he has trouble coping with intense emotion, especially loss. He lashes out in violence, even against himself, and you mustn't blame yourself for his extreme reaction."

Christine nodded once, but looked entirely unconvinced. A fresh stream of tears dribbled down her cheek and through her parted lips, but she made no move to wipe it away.

The Persian swallowed twice, debating whether or not to tell her the next part of the story. Deciding that she would find out sooner or later, he finished tentatively, "Madame Giry fears that he might make another attempt to end his life when she is no longer supervising him. I agree that it is a very real threat. For the moment, Erik… well, we've taken the same stance as your physician and confined him to his bed. But we cannot keep him there forever, and we cannot guarantee that once he is allowed up, he will—"

"I understand," Christine interrupted softly. Her glassy eyes had moved to the window, and she stared out at something Nadir couldn't see. She drew in a deep breath and released it in a long, heavy sigh. "What would you have me do?"

"Talk to him," Nadir answered unflinchingly. "I don't expect you to return to him permanently… not after what he has done. But for both of your sakes, sit down together, have a conversation, rid yourselves of this plague of deceit, and try to find some sort of absolution."

Christine continued to stare at that invisible something far off in the distance. For a few moments, Nadir thought perhaps she hadn't even heard him, so lost was she in her own reverie, but at last she spoke, so softly that the wind nearly drowned out her fragile voice.

"I'll consider it."

A/N: -peeks out from hiding space- So do I get to live, even though I took forever to get this up?

For those of you who care, I just had the freaking best experience of my life; I got to see Idina Menzel perform in her last run of "Wicked." (You might know her from "Rent"— she was Maureen. And "Wicked" itself made her famous, and with good reason) I can die a happy person now. She was fantastic, and I was thrilled. Plus, the 11 hour plane ride gave me time to finish up this chapter. :D

I felt really bad for taking so long to get this chapter up that I didn't want to make you guys wait for it to be edited— nothing personal at all, Jenna. ;) Sorry for any mistakes; they're entirely on my head this time.

For the record, I still adore writing this story, and I fully plan on finishing it in the near future. You guys have hung in there for so long… thank you SO much for your dedication and patience. Hopefully it's worth it!