Christine felt her blood run cold, and she looked to Meg with wide eyes, who hurriedly hid the stolen flower from Philippe's house that she had been toying with. Antoinette looked at Erik with the most indecipherable expression - not surprise, for she certainly wasn't surprised at this, no, it was more a look of indignation.

Erik stood up smoothly without missing beat.

"Burgled? My good Comte, please have a seat - we must get get to the bottom of this most heinous crime that has been perpetrated against you!"

Philippe sat down smugly, finally pleased that he was being taken seriously.

Erik pulled out a notepad and poised his pencil for taking down everything he said.

"Did you get a good look at this fiend?" Erik asked seriously, and Christine nearly choked.

Philippe frowned.

"Well, no, I didn't. I heard the commotion and naturally I rushed out to accost to this- this vagabond, but the devil had already escaped."

Christine squirmed on the couch, shooting Meg an incredulous look. Philippe hadn't run out to see anything, he'd let his servants see what the matter was.

"Already escaped?" Erik was scribbling notes down fast. "That bastard. Tell me, what did this worthless excuse of a person steal?"

"Ah-"

"Cash?"

"Well, no-"

"Your carriages, your horses?"

"No, not them-"

"Jewelry, perhaps? I'm sure you have a great deal of fine jewels just laying about, very temping."

Erik himself had seen a few a pieces of jewelry that had been very tempting indeed, and they were in fact just laying about.

Philippe scratched his head.

"No..."

"Fine art, perhaps? Books? Furniture?"

"I mean, no, he didn't steal of any of that..."

Erik gasped.

"Good heavens, man - he stole all the food from the kitchen? It's been known to happen," he nodded gravely.

Philippe shifted around in his chair.

"My vase, you see, he smashed my vase. It's shattered."

Erik stared at him, unblinking.

"He stole your vase?" he asked flatly.

"No, I said he broke it."

Erik folded the notepad and tapped it a few times with his pen before he threw both down on the desk.

"I'm sorry," he said, and the realization dawned on Philippe that Erik had, in fact, been mocking him this entire time. "I thought you said your house had been burgled. Allow me to make a book recommendation, Monsieur le Comte, it's called the dictionary."

Philippe flinched, scowling.

"Well are you going to find the brute who did this or not?"

"You want me to find someone who, let me get this straight, broke into your house not to steal anything, but to simply smash your vase and flee. With no description of the person, no clues to go on, just- just find this random person that may or may not exist?"

"Oh, he exists! How else did the vase get broken?"

Erik shrugged.

"How many servants do you have? Is it not possible that an accident occurred? Do you have any small pets, perhaps? An inquisitive creature might have toppled it while exploring," a smirk grew across his mouth. "Good Heaves, Comte, a Ghost could have knocked it over."

He leaned against the desk and crossed his arms, making eye contact with a very nervous Christine.

"A little songbird might have flown in and tipped it off its stand," he continued.

Christine turned her head and frowned, unable to stand those yellow, knowing eyes upon her.

"I'd take any of those stories as more believable than what you're proposing," he finished. "Who breaks in for the sole purpose of smashing some vase?"

Philippe glared at Antoinette as though this were all her fault somehow. She gave him a glare right back.

"I'm afraid I can't really help you," Erik shrugged nonchalantly and began walk slowly around the room. "Unless, that is, perhaps there is more to this all, and there's something you're not telling us, something regarding your brother, perhaps..."

Philippe pressed his lips together.

Erik regarded him in silence for a moment from behind him. He knew this man knew more than he was letting on, and it infuriated him.

"It must have been an amazing vase," Erik said innocently. "You came all this way just for it. Why, I recall when the little Vicomte was kidnapped, you couldn't even be bothered to put in an appearance."

"Now you wait just a minute!" Philippe jumped out of his chair, spinning to face Erik. "I came down here to get some answers from you about what's going on! Do you think if I already knew what was going on that I'd be down here?"

"My good Monsieur," Erik said suddenly, his eyes glittering. "You must forgive me. I have forgotten myself. You are quite right - your house has been broken into, and it should be searched for clues."

"That's more like it," Philippe huffed, and suddenly he caught sight of Meg and Christine in the corner.

"Ahh," Philippe said, his anger fading and being replaced by a strange, overeager curiosity. "Little Meg, and dear Christine... I did not see you both there... I trust you girls are well... Is, ah, how is Sorelli?"

He tried his best to look nonchalant.

"Oh," said Meg. "She's quite fine, actually. She met the most handsome man a few weeks ago."

"Did she?" Philippe looked wistful.

"Yes, she said how nice it was to finally finally have someone who know how to treat her right, unlike some people."

The blood drained from Philippe's face at Meg's words, and he slumped in his chair, disappointed.

"Oh," he said, and then turned back to Erik. "Oh, I see... Well- well see here, what about my house? Aren't you going to search it?"

"We shall go at once," Erik nodded. "Please go wait in your carriage, I will be out in just a moment."

Philippe and his servant left the office, and once they were far enough off, Erik turned to Christine.

"The rooms we weren't able to search last night - are there any secret hiding places in them that I should know about?"

She shook her head.

"No, not that I know of."

"Good, excellent."

His eyes held a gleam that nearly frightened her.

"Erik," Antoinette said cooly. "I thought you told me it 'went fine' last night?"

A grin spread across what was visible of his face.

"Oh, it went better than fine, now - it went better than I could have planned!"

And with that he turned and strode out the door as Antoinette sighed wearily. The door closed with a click, and she turned her gaze to Christine, who hurriedly buried her face in a magazine.

Erik could barely hide the terrible grin on his face as he rode to the de Chagny mansion. To think, he was going to get to throughly search the house for clues, and all because he had broken in and scared the Comte in the middle of the night! He would have to remember this strategy for the future.

He searched up and down the mansion, even going over places he had looked the previous night. Philippe followed anxiously behind, wringing his hands, until finally Erik turned towards him.

"Monsieur," he said sharply. "I must focus on my work. You are distracting me."

Philippe started and left the room, and Erik didn't see him again until just before he was ready to return to his office. He hadn't felt distracted by Philippe so much as annoyed, but the principle was the same.

He returned to the office a few hours later looking somewhat defeated.

"Did you find anything?" Antoinette asked he hung his coat on the hook near the door.

He shook his head and shrugged.

"As it stands, the most I could find came from last night - that secret masquerade party coming up. But it's not for a while."

"Masquerade?" Christine asked, and Erik eyed her warily.

"It's of no interest to you, Christine," he told her, and turned back to Antoinette.

Christine frowned. Of course it was of interest to her if it was about Raoul!

"Are you going to stake it out?" Antoinette fidgeted with a pen.

"Yes, most likely. Unless something comes up before then," Erik sat down on the couch as though he hadn't noticed either girl on either side of him.

Christine scooted back to give him room, hoping her face wasn't noticeably pink due his proximity. Meg however, chose to roll up her magazine and swat at him, refusing to vacate her seat.

"I was sitting there, you oaf!" she hissed through her teeth.

He grabbed the magazine from her hand and threw it back on the table.

"I live here," he said matter-of-factly.

"My mother owns the building!"

"Your mother rents the building," he scoffed.

"And you rent it from her! Move!" she shoved at his shoulder.

"Move from my couch? I think not."

"Erik!"

"You are a guest in my home, Marguerite."

"Mother!"

"You only live in the upstairs, Erik," Antoinette chimed in.

Erik retaliated by pushing Meg off the couch, only to tighten his grip on her arm at the last second and pull her back up.

"There is enough room," he insisted over her shrieks. "If you would just sit sensibly and not sprawl in such a manner. Look, Christine is having no such problem."

He glance to his left, where Christine was pressed to the armrest and covering her mouth a hand, trying to suppress her giggles.

"That's because Christine is too much of a lady to punch you," Meg huffed as she resettled herself on the couch.

"Alas," Erik sighed.

Antoinette crumpled up the paper she had been writing notes on and threw it at Erik. It bounced off of his mask and he pretended he didn't notice.

"How am I supposed to get any work done with you three around?" she chided, but the corners of her lips were curved into a grin. "At least I'll be able to hear myself think tomorrow."

Christine's smile slowly faded. Tomorrow Erik would be watching her. She was a little uncertain still. Yes, it was fun and laughter now, but that was largely because Meg was there - how would it be with just her and Erik? Would he finally be cross with her about bungling the burglary? Surely they wouldn't be able to joke together like he did with Meg - they'd known each other for a decade. She wondered if he'd ignore her like he had so many other times.

She felt a little nervous the next day as Antoinette dropped her off at the office before she left for field work. Erik merely glanced at her and nodded. He was busy writing something down on a notepad.

She watched him for a long moment in silence.

"Erik," she finally said. "I think I would like to go to the masquerade too. To look for Raoul."

He glanced up again, annoyed.

"No," he said firmly.

"But-"

"I said no, Christine. It's entirely out of the question," he snapped, and she flinched and looked away.

He sighed.

"I'm- I'm not mad at you, Christine, so you can stop looking like that... It's only that I'm in charge of making certain that you're safe," he softened his voice. "And it's not safe for you at that party. I think that whoever took Raoul and whoever threatened you will be there and it's not safe for you to go. Do you understand?"

She nodded slowly. She understood. That didn't mean she had agree, though.

"Well... We have a show coming up soon... Do you mind if I practice a little? I can go in the basement to do so, if you'd rather."

Erik looked up from his work, startled.

"No, no - not the basement. Please, sing up here if you must."

He would surely die of embarrassment if she ever saw those songs he had written both for and about her.

Christine opened her mouth to say that Madame had let her sing in the basement, but then she wisely chose to withhold that information.

"Okay," she paced the room a little, beginning to run through her warmups.

When she felt sufficiently warmed up, she began to practice the song from the upcoming show. It was just a single song, a small benefit gala the company would be putting on for one night only, and Christine had been honored to be offered the chance to perform at it. It felt like a huge opportunity - and unfortunately it also felt like a huge burden. She wanted to sing at it - but she didn't feel ready. Her voice kept cracking at a certain spot where it never used to crack before, and the more she fretted over it the more it seemed to crack.

She placed a hand over her throat after botching it a third time. She was going to do the exact same thing on stage, she just knew it, and then she wouldn't be offered anything past what her current contract required, maybe she would never land another contract again, maybe this was it, the height of her career, her best days behind her, her only dream finally dashed and shattered-

"You're holding too much tension in your neck and jaw," Erik said.

She whirled around to face him.

"What?"

"I said you're too tense - your neck, your jaw, well, everywhere really. If you relax you won't crack like that."

"I know that," she felt petulant. She couldn't decide if he was truly trying to help her or if he was being condescending and patronizing - she hadn't asked for his help.

"Sometimes we need reminders of things we already know," he shrugged a little.

She rolled her shoulders and took a deep breath in and out, then started the song again.

She went past the part she had been having difficulty with flawlessly - and then hit a sour note a few seconds later.

The only sound was the scritch of the pen on the notepad for a long moment, but Erik's mind was working overtime.

She had a gorgeous voice, talented and well trained, but she was just a little rough around the edges. He had no doubt that she knew it, that she also knew in theory what she needed to do to correct it - but putting something into practice instead of merely knowing it was an entirely different scenario.

Christine chewed at her thumbnail, brow furrowed. She let her hand drop and cleared her throat.

"Erik," she asked meekly.

He looked up from the notepad.

She hesitated before pushing on.

"Do you have any advice?"

He dropped the pen and stood up from the desk, and came around to where she was standing.

"You're quite capable of this piece, Christine," he said kindly. "I've heard enough of your singing before to know that for certain - your work in Faust certainly proved that."

Her heart did a flip. He had come to see her in Faust.

"But," he continued. "It is also clear that you are facing difficulty with this song that should easily be within your reach. Not from lack of skill - it is merely your nerves getting to you. A completely understandable situation, considering all you're going through at the moment. Would you like to talk about it? Perhaps once you get your worries out in the open they will no longer haunt your voice in such a manner."

He ushered her to the couch and she felt a flood of relief pour through her. How different from that voice tutor in England, she mused, the one who, despite being excellent in teaching skills, would always mock and deride any hint of nerves or anxiousness, which only made her all the more nervous about it. She hadn't stayed with that tutor very long for that reason, but the effects of his mockery still lingered. Even now she could hear his voice in the back of her head - if you can't get a handle on your nerves now in this old room, how will you ever handle them on stage with hundreds of people staring at you? You wouldn't be nervous if you'd done your homework so clearly you must not be practicing enough. Maybe singing isn't for you, after all?

He sat down with her, keeping a reasonable but still personable distance between them.

She still couldn't read his face, not exactly, but his posture and eyes spoke of sympathy and concern. She sighed.

"This sounds so silly," she looked away.

He smirked.

"Well, I promise I won't laugh."

She worried at her lip with her teeth a moment.

"I'm afraid," she started. "I'm afraid that I'll get abducted up on stage. Right in the middle of my song. One minute I'll be singing, and the next some awful man is grabbing me and dragging me off stage, and the audience starts screaming and- oh," she groaned and placed her hands over her face. "It's ridiculous, isn't it?"

Erik chose his words quite carefully.

"The thought that I would let someone do that to you is a little ridiculous, perhaps - but clearly the effect the thought is having on you is not."

She blinked and removed her hands. She hadn't been expecting him to say anything like that.

"I would never allow harm to come to you, Christine. Surely... surely you trust me in that regard, at least?"

She looked up at him. He looked vaguely uncomfortable, his arms crossed and unable to meet her gaze. Something softened in her chest as she realized that he was afraid she didn't trust him at all.

"I do," she hesitated before continuing softly. "I trust you in very many regards, I think."

He nodded, his face feeling warm under the mask.

"So," he said. "What can we do to help put these worries from your mind?"

She thought a moment.

"It's alright. I'm sure you're busy with work."

"No, of course not. I am at your service, Christine - if there's anything I can do to help you prepare for your show, please tell me."

"Why? Why would you do that for me?"

"Your voice is a gift," he fidgeted with his hands, feeling like a schoolboy confessing his love to his first crush. "I've never heard anything quite like it. It's exquisite."

She turned away, hoping he wouldn't see how red her face had become. She felt like jumping up and down and squealing. Oh, Meg was going to hear about this.

"Were you a singer?" she asked eagerly, suddenly.

He was taken aback.

"In a sense," he finally settled on saying.

He had sung in the traveling circus as a child, but that was not something he wanted to tell her about - that was not something he wanted to tell anyone about, how he would throw his voice and make the flowers around his little coffin appear to sing before he sprang up and frightened the audience with his face, confusing them with his heavenly song coming from the throat of a monster.

"Your voice is quite good, too," she picked at her sleeves a little, suddenly shy. "When I heard it before, I mean. When we first- well, before we first met."

Erik grimaced. He still remembered that awful, botched first meeting.

"I'd love to hear it again sometime," she pressed, growing bolder.

"Is that so?" he chuckled. "I would much rather hear you, Christine. Come now, try your song again."

He coaxed her into standing up, and she brushed out her skirt and cleared her throat, a little flustered. It felt so good to be able to discuss singing with a singer. Were they nearly friends now? She hoped so.

"Lower your shoulders," he murmured as he circled around her.

She lowered them.

"Lift your chin a little - like this this," a single gloved finger gently tilted her chin up. "Now sing."

She launched into her song, and truly seemed to be doing better - until about two thirds the way through, where she hit another bad note. They both frowned.

"What do you think the matter is?" he asked - he had opinions of his own, but he wanted hers.

"I'm too stuck inside my own head," she sighed. "I hear my own voice and focus on that, and then suddenly I'm so focused on making sure it's right that I get it wrong."

He debated himself for a long moment, but eventually the desire to continue hearing her voice won out.

"Christine," he said presently. "What you need is music. Come."

He walked over the basement door and opened it, hoping he wasn't making a mistake. He paused there before turning to her and stretching out his hand. She reached out to take it, and he led her down the stairs into the barely lit darkness of the basement. There was only a single, very small light bulb to light the entire room, and it made everything look a dull shade of grey, cloaked in shadows. He gave the barest of glances at the bookshelf, making certain his hidden compositions were in fact still hidden, and then he sat down at the organ bench.

He began to play a few bars - he wasn't certain how her song was going to start musically, but he had heard her sing it through enough times to have memorized the basic structure enough to play her accompaniment through the rest of it. He stopped playing.

"You will focus only on the music," he told her. "You will feel the music, and there will be no room for any thoughts or anxiety - all there will be is music."

She nodded obediently, excited about what was about to happen.

He began playing the intro.

"Two more counts of eight," he told her. "Then you come in."

He glance over at her.

"Close your eyes, Christine."

She closed them.

"Sing!"

She sang. She sang perfectly, without hitting any wrong notes or cracking. She reached the end, her voice and the notes of the organ echoing off into silence, and she opened her eyes in disbelief. She had always felt some level of nerves while practicing before, but this - this had had the same floating sensation she always felt when she performed on stage. She truly hadn't been thinking of anything, simply had gotten lost in the music as it wrapped around her and joined her voice. She could scarcely believe it.

"Erik!" she clapped her hands over her mouth in disbelief.

He chuckled.

"You see? You were capable all along."

She sat heavily in the chair that was near the organ, still reeling from her performance.

Erik felt like every cell in his body was buzzing. He was exhilarated and terrified at the same time - he hadn't played for anyone since Persia. He hadn't expected to ever play for anyone again. And yet-

Christine leaned forward in her chair.

"Okay," she said, grinning. "Now I get to hear you sing."

His face fell.

"What? No."

"Come on, Erik," she cajoled. "It's only fair - you've heard me singing for over half an hour now. I want to hear you... Please?"

How could he say no to those pretty blue eyes?

He turned back to the organ, his fingers lightly falling on top of keys without making a single sound. He still had his reservations. Could he really do that again? Put himself out there like that? Singing was so personal to him. There had been a time he had wanted nothing more than to share his music with the world, but those days had long since passed.

"A duet," she offered. "We could sing a duet, if you're feeling a little shy."

He looked up at her hopefully.

"A duet?"

She nodded, smiling.

"Yes, which one?"

"Any," the word was barely a whisper.

"How about Romeo and Juliet? Do you know that one?"

He nodded slowly, his brain trying to catch up. She sprang up from her chair and stood beside him. How he could play with those gloves on, she would never know, but she thought he played beautifully even still.

He began the intro for their duet (she thought it sounded a little odd on an organ, but he managed to make it sound elegant all the same), and she started off.

Soon enough Erik joined her in song. He felt tongue-tied and awkward (imagine - him! Singing with Christine Daaé!), but she thought his voice was perfection. It was rich and warm, almost decadent. It felt like silk against her very soul, and she shivered.

Their voices twined together and he thought that there could be no higher pinnacle of his life - if he died in that very moment, he would consider his life complete. He had sung so very many times before, occasionally he had sung with other people as well, but none of them, absolutely none of those other times had held this level of intimacy, this amount of soul-baring vulnerability. He didn't dare look her in the eye lest he find that for her, this was just another song with just another singer. It was so much more to him - his very muse, right there beside him, their voices wrapping in what might as well be an embrace.

She very nearly stopped short, mesmerized by his vocals, but to cease to hear how her own voice sounded next to his was the very last thing she ever wanted. She pushed on, and reached the end, and as he finished his last verse and played the notes out, she brought her hands to her face once more.

Erik let the last few notes linger on for more than they should have, but stopped suddenly when he realized there were tears running down Christine's face. His shoulders stiffened - had he done something wrong?

She had sat down again on the chair, too overwhelmed by the childhood memories that had come rushing back, by the story that she hadn't thought of in ages.

"Oh," she softly through her tears as she gazed at him. "Oh, you're the Angel of Music."