A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews! xxx It really makes my day to get a comment :)

Updates may be a bit sporadic over next few weeks as I am going away but I have a lot of chapters planned and hopefully some excitement for the characters coming up too - please stay tuned I will update as soon as I am able!

Christine let out an exasperated sigh and unpicked another line of stitches from her needlework before relenting and shoving it back into her sewing basket. Her mind was far too preoccupied to concentrate and she was becoming irritable.

She was so tired of all the events that seemed to pull and push at her, forcing her life along paths not of her choosing. Christine was not particularly attached to the house that Raoul had chosen for them but it was her home and the thought of being forced to leave it and live as part of Phillipe's household, under his direct guardianship, was deeply objectionable to her. Phillipe, his wife Antoinette and their children were all pleasant enough, but if she were to live with them she must assume a position of deference, she must relinquish her status as lady of the house. More importantly she would have limited access to her music. Phillipe would certainly not approve of her returning to her singing even after her period of mourning was over. Christine was tired of other people controlling her happiness and desires.

Phillipe was quite resigned to simply selling the town house and paying the debt. The only thing Christine could think of was to try to appeal to the better nature of this Marcel Gravier who Raoul had accrued his debts with. However disagreeable Phillipe seemed to think him, surely it would be worth at least attempting to persuade him to forgo the money? There was little to lose in trying, she reasoned.

Christine looked at the clock. It was nearly ten but despite her tiredness she felt the sudden need to do something, to act. Of course, if she were to appeal to this Monsieur Gravier, she would need an address to contact him at. Perhaps there might be some information in Raoul's study...

By eleven o'clock Christine was sitting at Raoul's desk with box files and papers strewn around her. She pushed a lose curl from her face and frowned, depositing yet another letter into the pile of correspondence she had checked through. It was then that she noticed a thin pocketbook half hidden beneath some files at the top of the desk. Pulling the little book towards her Christine flipped through the pages hopefully... and was delighted when the name she was searching for jumped out from a page almost halfway through, followed by an address, neatly recorded in Raoul's sloping handwriting. Christine smiled broadly in triumph, marching back to her sitting room with the pocketbook in her hand. She placed it safely with her own things. Tomorrow she would write to Monsieur Gravier.

In the morning Christine eagerly sat down to her writing desk. She decided against setting down all her concerns in a letter, instead she thought it might be best to try to speak to him in person, as it might be more effective to appeal his sympathies face to face. Unsure of the best approach, she decided to see what the man himself suggested. As a recent widow in full mourning she was not supposed to be engaging in social calls or events at all - certainly not meeting alone with unknown men. She would need to be discreet.

Once completed, Christine placed the letter upon the hall table so that she could post it during her next walk with Charles. She found the idea of what she was to do distasteful – asking a disreputable stranger for compassion - but was equally determined to fight for what little freedom she could keep for herself. Still, she was unsettled by the thoughts of what her conversation with Gravier might entail, and by the realisation that Phillipe would be extremely angry should he find out what she was doing.

In the music room Christine could escape her thoughts and concerns. She worked her way through a selection of vocal warm-ups and practices before losing herself into a song for which she had no sheet music: a beautiful aria written for her by her Maestro many years ago. It suited her talents perfectly although her years of near silence meant she had to work harder to reach some of the notes now. While she knew she did not do the song full justice she still found great comfort in singing it.

Charles soon came to join her - he was never able to resist coming to listen when she sang and would beg his Nanny to let him join his Mama with her music, even if she was simply working on technique. Often they would sing together for a while before Charles was inevitably drawn away towards the piano, which he loved with a passion.

He played tenaciously, repeating his exercises again and again till the sound was smooth and flowing. Christine knew enough of the instrument to instruct her son in the basics: showing him the notes; how to position his hands; how to play scales and arpeggios till his fingers became accustomed to the keys. He was getting better and better each day, demonstrating an uncanny ability.

Charles had a moderate understanding of music notation from the lessons Christine had already undertaken with him, but he had a drive and determination unusual for a child of his age. She had been right in her assertion that Charles was gifted. He adored the piano and was already progressing rapidly, playing with an instinctive feel for the music that Christine recognised and understood. She hoped… she hoped that a suitable mentor for her son would arrive soon.

It was a sweet feeling to fill the house with music once more. Christine had taken to wearing the music room key around her neck constantly, a tangible reminder that Erik was alive. A way to ensure no one would take her music away again. She raised her voice in song to call to him, to bring him back to her. She felt as though somehow the strength of her own love and longing had called him back to life from the grave. Sometimes she wondered if she truly had descended into madness… but she held on to one thought - his promise to return… and she believed it.

Christine's faith was rewarded only a night or two later. It was late and she was tired; having washed and undressed ready for bed she had sat at her vanity table to brush her hair before smoothing some cold cream onto her pale skin. Noticing something on her bed from across the room, a delicious thrill travelled down her spine when she approached the bed and saw what it was - on her pillow lay a perfect red rose and an accompanying note.

My Christine,

If you should like to see me, as I so dearly wish to see you, please attend your Father's grave tomorrow afternoon. I will find you.

-E

Christine's heart fluttered in her chest and she found herself unable to hold her hands steady. After so many years believing that her beloved was dead, it was both wonderful and terrifying to know that she was truly to see him again, that their dreamlike kisses in the darkened music room had indeed been real. She could not begin to think about what this all meant. All she could do was surrender to her longing to be near him... and wait.

Christine walked slowly along the well-kept pathway of the cemetery gardens towards her father's mausoleum. The place was very quiet that afternoon; the light, mizzling rain clearly keeping most people at home. Only a few other mourners were visible in the distance, solemnly laying wreaths and attending gravestones. Christine wore some of her newly purchased widow's weeds - a thick, black mourning dress with a veiled bonnet and a warm, woollen cape which she drew tightly around her shoulders against the cold.

As she walked, Christine glanced around her anxiously but saw no one nearby. She approached her Father's tomb and closed her eyes, taking a moment to silently offer her prayers and love to him, her darling Papa. She wondered briefly if he might suddenly appear again – she had certainly begged and wished and longed enough for him for so many years. Death seemed to follow alongside her like a shadow, she thought, sadly.

it was not long before she sensed a presence looming behind her. Her blood throbbed wildly in her veins and her breath caught in her throat. She could hardly bear to turn around, fearful that it would be a trick, a lie, a mistake…

She rotated slowly to face the tall, lean man who stood behind her, a large, black umbrella in his gloved hand. A loud sob escaped her lips as her eyes travelled upwards and met his familiar gaze. She pressed her hand to her mouth and found herself shaking, overcome with emotion. He immediately reached out an arm to steady her, pulling her close to him in a tight, fierce embrace.

"Christine, my Christine.." Erik whispered hoarsely, holding her to him tightly before gently guiding her towards a secluded bench sheltered behind some trees. They sat side by side and she leaned into him, her head on his shoulder, his arm curved protectively around her, sheltering her beneath the umbrella. Christine closed her eyes and breathed in the deliciously familiar scent of him, a musky smell of cedarwood and darkness so sweet to her senses.

Suddenly she fumbled at her gloves with clumsy hands, impatiently tugging them from her fingers before taking Erik's hand and pulling at his leather glove till she could hold his bare hand in hers, shuddering in relief at the feel of his cool skin against hers, entwining their fingers. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed each knuckle, gently grazing his lips across her skin before reaching across and lifting Christine's veil so that he could touch her face, gazing into her eyes and leaning in to kiss her lips gently.

There was so much to say that neither of them spoke a word for some time, simply revelling in the comfort of each other's presence. Erik kept a wary eye out for any passers by. Eventually Christine spoke.

"So… I did not dream it. When I saw the music room locked and untouched… When Charles found the key… I wondered if I was suffering from the same strange madness my husband fell prey to before he died." She looked at Erik pointedly with an eyebrow raised, her tone leaving no doubt of what she now suspected. "Why, Erik? What were you thinking? Please tell me – I don't understand."

Erik looked down at his lap. How to explain all of this to her? "When we parted, I wanted you to have a life that I knew I could not give you. I wanted … I thought… that you could be happy, that you would have your music. When I discovered that he had taken that from you, when I saw how miserable you were, I could not bear it - to see you so broken… I intended to ensure that idiot boy would allow you your music. I would not have intervened if I had realised he was already headed towards an early grave by himself."

Christine was quiet for a moment before asking, "And what of you? Have you been happy all these years, away from me?"

Erik looked pained. "I... have merely survived. I could never be happy without you, my Angel."

Fresh tears formed in Christine's eyes and she gazed at him in frustration. "Even with your music?"

Erik nodded silently, holding her gaze.

"Then how could you have ever expected anything else for me?" She spoke quietly; her eyes contained a desperate sadness, the knowledge that he had wrongly deemed her love for him less than his for her.

Erik's heart lurched horribly as comprehension dawned, but before he could say any more Christine had leaned across to kiss him hard and full, her hands pulling him close as her warm lips demanded a response which he willingly gave. When the kiss finally ended she placed her head on his chest. "You terrible, foolish man. I love you and I will not live without you again. I don't care what happens or how it is to be managed, but we must be together now. Do you understand?"