A/N - OK, people, it seems I have an apology to make. I ended the last chapter with a gift to Christine, with a sheet of paper inside with an angel drawn on it. I assumed that you'd all realise that I meant her own personal angel, Erik. But apparently some people got confused, and I'm sorry :s. Come on, you didn't think Erik would leave her out there all on her own did you?! So just to get the record straight; the money was from Erik, and he's still watching her, keeping an eye on her just to check she's OK, which - thanks to Adele - she is.

Hope you all had a good Christmas ... guess what my best present was! Tickets to see Phantom! : D

Happy New Year to everyone and cross your fingers for me and my stupid mocks!

Erik

I was hurrying through the turbulent market day crowd, returning to the Opera to check on Ayesha, when I caught sight of Nadir seated at one of the wrought-iron tables outside a gay little café with a red-and-white striped awning over the shop doorway. He was leaning over the table, talking earnestly; altering my position, I was able to see his companion.

A moment passed in a startled bolt of recognition; it was the red-haired woman who had taken Christine under her wing the previous day. Suddenly I remembered, a long time ago, a conversation with Nadir about his new-found acquaintances in Paris, and a lady of dubious reputation ... this must be her.

I stepped into the shadows and began to listen to their conversation. I could hear Nadir's voice, low and earnest, explaining ...

"It's not that I don't trust him to do the right thing, and if I'm honest I don't think he'll leave her out here alone for long, but ..." He reached across the table and brushed the woman's hand, a lightly affectionate gesture. "Well, I'd feel better knowing that someone was taking care of her. Just for the present. She's hardly streetwise ..."

The woman smiled slightly. "I can tell," she said coolly.

Nadir's smile was little more than perfunctory.

"How much do I owe you?" he asked suddenly, changing the mood.

She laughed, a harsh sound with just a trace of bitterness.

"How much do you owe me for trailing a naive little puppy around the streets of Paris? Nothing, Nadir ... take it on me."

He looked deep into her eyes for a moment.

"Are you sure?" he asked, very gently.

"I've not sunk quite so far that I have to start charging friends for favours," she said sharply. "Keep your money, Nadir ... it won't do me any good."

He nodded and brushed her cheek with his hand.

"Take care, Della ..." he said.

She laughed, very softly, and turned her face away.

"As ever ..."

He turned as if to leave, and then ...

"Are you in love with her?" she demanded suddenly.

Nadir turned back to her, his face suddenly sombre.

"You're a little too clever for your own good, Adele," he said quietly.

There was a silence for a moment, then he moved a little closer towards the woman.

"Thank you, Della," he said gently. "You know this means a lot to me." He reached out and brushed her cheek with his hand.

"No problem, Nadir," she said quietly. "Any time ..."

He gave her one last fleeting smile, then turned and walked quickly away, leaving Adele standing by the table, looking suddenly very vulnerable and very alone. She cast one final, faintly sad look after him.

She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, her shoulders rising and falling rapidly, then, regaining her composure, turned and disappeared into the seething crowd.

I entered the house, ignoring Ayesha's mewl of welcome, and sat down mechanically in the black chair, staring unseeing at the wall. I had intended to return to the streets as soon as possible - even with Adele's dubious protection, I still felt uneasy about leaving Christine alone out there, but temporarily - and for the first time in many months - all thoughts of Christine were displaced, my mind working feverishly to make sense of what I had just overheard.

Eavesdroppers never hear any good about themselves ...

I wasn't sure who had told me that, but it had never seemed more appropriate than now ... Nadir and Christine? Impossible! And yet ...

I struck my fist against the table with frustration, dislodging a sheaf of papers, which fell in a slow, gracefully insolent shower, sliding to rest on the carpet in an elaborate jigsaw of notes and scales.

My hand touched the leather cover of a book; glancing up to see what it was, I smiled wryly as I recognised the dark blue of Christine's diary ... yet another problem to be addressed at some point ...

I picked up the book and flicked through the pages again, reflecting drily that, had she continued to write in it, it might have yielded further clues as to her internal worries. As it was, she had ceased to write just over a month ago, the last entry being the day before her vicomte had returned, with no explanation, no hint that she was through with it; one day there was an entry, and the next there wasn't. Typical female perversity ...

I stood up abruptly, slamming the book closed and dropping it back onto the table.

I'd had enough. Christine didn't believe I cared? I would make her believe.

Christine

I plucked absently at a rip in my dress, my eyes searching the street for any sign of Adele. I didn't need her anymore; I didn't need anyone! But she had been kind to me, and I felt inexplicably bound to her; to say thank you, and goodbye ... it was predominantly her words that had finally made up my mind to return to the Opera. Her voice still rang in my head, slightly bitter, strangely sad ...

"Don't let your pride stand in the way, cherie ... if you don't go back now, if you don't tell him you love him, you'll regret it for the rest of your life ..."

Suddenly I stood up, tired of waiting; I would find Adele later. For now, the only important thing in my mind was to get home ...

I didn't allow myself to consider the possibility of what I would do if he truly didn't want me any more.

It was about ten minutes later that I realised I was lost. The alleys all looked the same, I must have turned up the wrong one ... I turned around, a faint chill of panic clutching at my insides. Catching sight of a party of men out on the main street, I ran forwards and caught hold of one's sleeve.

"Excuse me ..." I begged, trying unsuccessfully to calm my breathing. "But could you please tell me how to get to the Opera ..." I stopped short as he turned around and the whisky fumes from his breath hit me. I glanced wildly at his companions and realised that they were all in much the same condition; quite inebriated, and probably unaware of their actions.

The man began to laugh, the sound drunken and increasing my anxiety.

"Sure ..." he slurred, slipping an arm around my waist and pulling me close, his beard scratchy against my cheek. "Come with us ... we'll find it ..."

I backed off, my mind searching with a sudden intense desperation mingled with terror for any means of exit. Not for the first time I cursed myself for not taking proper care; would I ever get used to living without the protection of a man?

The firelight glinted off the eyes of one of the men as he approached, a leer pasted on his face, smelling strongly of cheap beer. My stomach lurched and I made a desperate lunge to my left in a vain bid for escape, my dress catching and tearing on a nail protruding from the wall. I stumbled, letting out my breath in a sharp gasp of pain as my ankle gave way beneath me. I threw out my hands to catch myself as I fell, grazing the palms and only managing to twist my ankle even further underneath me.

As if from a distance, I could hear drunken laughter and jeering; I could feel a man's hot breath on my face; the smell of cheap beer as he pressed his lips against mine, the sour taste of alcohol and sweat. I struggled frantically, twisting my head away and clawing blindly at his face with my nails, raking his skin, but he was too strong ... I could feel the weight of his body descend onto me, his hands pinning mine to the ground, fleshy, sweaty, his face red and drunken above mine ...

And suddenly he was gone, the air cool and clean against my face, my arms ... I struggled backwards, pressing myself against the reassuring coldness of the alley wall for support as my eyes focused on the impossible tableau unfolding before me.

Tall, dark, imposing, and radiating a cold threatening menace mingled with an overpowering fury quite divesting him of all self-control; even before he turned and the light illuminated the unforgiving white mask, I knew beyond all doubt that the figure silhouetted in the dancing flames, his eyes burning with a fury even I had never seen in him before, could be none other ...

With the agility of a wild cat, he whirled as one careless, overly bold youth made to fling himself on him from behind, dispatching him with a blow which sent him crashing into the wall, the sickening thud as his head connected with the brickwork, the trickle of blood down his temple as he slid down the wall and came to rest on the ground, his body limp, his face white.

I closed my eyes against the picture, the blood, the fire casting threatening shadows on the alley wall and illuminating the fight, the overwhelming odds against Erik, and yet, and yet ...

It felt like hours I was huddled up against the cold grimy brick of the wall with my arms wrapped around my head before the drunken shouts receded and a heavy silence descended, leaving me too afraid to open my eyes ... afraid of what I might see.

Finally I looked up to see Erik standing above me, his breathing coming slightly faster than normal and his eyes still blazing, but he was alone and had no obvious wounds.

I let out my breath in a half-sob of relief. I opened my mouth to speak; and to this day I don't know what I would have said; what can you say after somebody saves your life when you have treated them so badly? But he shook his head, raising one finger lightly to his lips to stop me.

"Shh," he murmured. He bent to pick up my cloak, which I had unconsciously let fall, draping it gently around my shoulders and smoothing it over my dress.

I was aware of the pressure of tears building behind my eyes at his odd, faintly sad gentleness, and after everything I had done to him ...

"You'll catch your death of cold out here," he said quietly, his eyes unreadable. "You should go inside."

I looked up at him, nonplussed. Inside where?!

He read my mind, as he had done so often before. "There are many options open to you. You have money, you may go to a reputable hotel or perhaps leave Paris altogether; you have friends you could stay with ..." He hesitated slightly, then continued, "of course, you are more than welcome to return to the Opera ... for as long as you so desire."

I nodded slowly, the warmth of relief almost shutting out the cold of the street. I tried to speak, to assent, but all I could manage was a shaky, "Please ..."

But he understood. He had always understood.

Gesturing towards the street, he moved behind me to guide me home, every so often his hand a light pressure on my back directing me through the tortuous maze of back alleys and passages that I had failed to master.

We reached the Opera in a little under ten minutes under cover of darkness and entered by the Rue Scribe door.

The cat hissed as I entered, prowling over to Erik and shooting me a look of contempt mixed with loathing which screamed "What is she doing back here?"

Normally Erik would laugh, stroke the cat and dismiss her hatred for me.

"She's jealous," he had told me once. She was jealous?!

But today ... today he ignored her completely, sitting down heavily in his black chair and closing his eyes. A chill of fear passed through me; if it was his heart again ...

"Erik," I murmured, making my way over to him, ignoring the spitting cat. "What's wrong?"

He rose slowly, his every movement stilted and forced in a manner quite alien to his usual feline grace, turning away from me and beginning to make his way to his chamber.

"Erik!"

Half-turning, his eyes seeking out mine with a kind of desperation, he fell, his cloak spreading like the wings of a bat and showing me, for the first time, the sticky red wound which was blossoming like a horrendous crimson flower over the white of his

shirt.