Alone in Erik's home, Christine sat still and waited for the lightheaded sensations to pass. When the feelings were gone, she rose and went over to the organ.

She picked up a sheet of music, smiling a little at the familiar heavy strokes of his pen. She glanced over the page, letting herself hear the music play out in her mind.

The darkness of the music stunned her. It was like an angry storm within her. What must it be like when he actually played it with all the power and subtly of his skill?

She laid it down hastily and flipped through the other pages. So much of it was like that, brutal and full of unrestrained rage, full of anger released as music.

In the midst of those pages, though, she found part of another compostion, one so different from the others.

She want to hear him play it.

Descending the stone steps to the worn work-table in the alcove, she picked up the watercolor painting of herself.

So innocent and trusting, asleep amid the red velvet.

Why did he keep this one? Why only this one?

Erik stood in the shadows of the entryway. He knew she had neither seen not heard his return as she set the picture down again, taking care to leave it just as she found it.

Yes, my curious Christine, that is how I wanted to remember you. But you couldn't let me. You had to come back...


Two women stood on the platform, waiting with quiet patience for their train.

One was a slender, handsome woman in her mid-forties. The other woman was her daughter, an angel-faced girl with honey-blonde hair and bright eyes. Both ladies shared certain marked poise as they stood close together, one in black, the other in gray.

"I shall be very glad to see Paris again," the younger woman remarked.

"So will I, ma petite, so will I."

"Please, tell me what you know," Raoul asked the physician.


Dr. Vincent Monforte shook his head with genuine sympathy at the Vicomte de Chagny. He could clearly see the effects of Christine's disappearance on the young man's face. The lad's eyes were shadowed, his smooth face settling into a haggard weariness.

"I am so sorry, but Christine did not consult with me in recent weeks. Your housekeeper's information, if true, comes as a surprise to me, I am very sorry for you, sir. Be assured that you and your wife are in my prayers. I do hope she will be restored to you soon."


"Would you care for supper, Madame?"

Christine turned to see Erik in the doorway. The casual civility of his voice surprised her.

"Yes, Erik, I am very hungry," she admitted.

"Very well, then. Go and dress for dinner. I've brought you some fresh clothing."

Christine stared down at the sad state of her dress. She was suddenly ashamed that he had to see her that way, so rumpled and shabby.

"Thank you, but I hope you didn't go to much trouble to..."

Erik cricled the desk to stand before her. He caught her arm lightly.

"I assure you, my dear lady, it was no trouble," he said, his voice taking on a cold edge as his hand slid from her elbow to her wrist, his long fingers tightening as they moved slowly.

"You told me that you wore this...mourning...for me," he continued, grasping the ruffle at the edge of her sleeve, "As long as you stay with me, you will not. I want no pity, Madame, from you or from anyone. Pity was not what I wanted from you. Now, go and change."

With that, his fingers curled around the ruffle and, with a single motion, he tore it loose. He held the strip of fabric up between them, letting it dangled before her.

"You are not a widow."

Christine looked away from him. She should be used to these lightning swift changes of mood. One moment, he was cold, another moment she could hear brutal hatred in his voice. Yet, she knew that there was tenderness there, she had felt it...ever so briefly.

A dress lay on her bed. It was a delicate frock of rose-colored silk trimmed with lace. She could not imagine a more perfect gown and tried not to considere where or how he obtained it for her. A soft white shawl lay beside it, and there was a pair of rose-colored shoes, too.

When she rejoined him, he too had changed. He wore his usual dark suit with a soft white shirt and a waistcoat of dark green that lent a mysterious light to his eyes. In his gloved hands, he held the ascot he had used to bind her eyes.

He glanced up at her with a thin smile of mockery.

"Ah, quite the aristocratic beauty, Madame de Chagny."

"Erik, why must you be so formal...why must you call me that. I am still Christine..."

He cut her off with a short, hard laugh.

"And you are still the legal wife of the Vicomte de Chagny. Now, turn around please."

He laid the ascot over her eyes and tied it quickly, blindfolding her again.

"Erik, are you taking me somewhere?"

"Yes," he said, finishing the knot and trailing his fingers along her bare collarbone, "I am taking you to dinner."