A/N: Okay, I posted this chapter a couple days earlier, and after reading through the review so kindly written by allegratree, I decided to take it down and edit it. But here it is again, and hopefully better this time...

allegratree: First of all, let me start out by thanking you for taking the time to write a very helpful and well thought out review. I do appreciate that, and hopefully there won't be too many errors this time around. I am sorry about the grammar. I read through it and found a wealth of mistakes. As for the 'Philippe' in the chapter... I am so embarrassed about that, and thank you for pointing that out to me. I wasn't thinking, and really do know that Philippe is dead, and that had been fixed in this chapter. As for the issue with the Opera, your comments are heard. I will try to make this as correct as possible and I will work some of the things you've said into the following chapters. Thank you for pointing that out to me, as I have little knowledge of that sort of thing. Would it be possible for the Opera house to have begun a 'revamping' project, restoring the building? Christine could have come in on a day where it was not too busy, and who's to say that there were not people there, working, and that she simply did not notice them? I know it's a long-shot, really, but please bear with me. Thank you once again for your kind feedback, and hopefully you'll enjoy the edited version of the chapter.

Raoul de Changy's eyes slowly fluttered open. He fully expected to see his wife, Christine, laying there, awake, staring at him, her eyes acknowledging his presence. That was how she had greeted him in the morning for the past three months. He had wondered if she ever slept, as she was always still awake when he went to sleep, and awake when he woke . . .

But Christine was not there. Instead, there was a note. Raoul was fully awake now. Christine always greeted him in the morning . . . He sat up, looking immediately to the clock across the room. It was nine in the morning. He groaned. The viscomte had fallen into bad habits of sleeping. He knew it was lax for a former sailor, but Raoul had taken up the habit of late nights and late mornings. He snatched the note and began reading frantically. His heart plummeted as he read. He had been hoping she simply had not wanted to wake him and had risen to get ready for the day . . . But as he read, he found that it was not so. It read,

My Dearest Raoul,

You have most likely risen in a state of panic upon discerning that I was not there with you. I am so terribly sorry for any worry this may have caused you. My darling husband, you may have noticed of late that I have trouble sleeping. You have not commented yet, being the perfect gentleman to me. I regret to say it, but of late, I have discovered a huge hole in my soul and in my heart. I am not at peace, dearest. I need some time to discover something. I am sorry that I have to be vague, but I do not want you to come after me. Take heed and listen to me Raoul! As you love me, do not come after me. I must be left to discover some things on my own. If all bodes well for us, I will soon be returning to you. Trust me, Raoul, please. I know this will upset you, but please consider my wishes. You will not discover where I have gone. I love you, and hopefully will be returning to you soon.

-Your wife,

Christine Daee

One could not describe the Viscomte's face upon seeing this. It was first as white as a sheet; twisted and contorted, first with incredulousness, then with sadness, then with rage. He had a myriad of emotions in his eyes, all twisting in a blur.

"Damn it," he muttered at last, "I should have known." Raoul had been aware of his wife's restlessness, far before 'of late.' It had started early on in their marriage, after they had left Erik in his labyrinth, far below the Paris Opera house. For a long time, Christine had sulked, not looking Raoul in the eye. Indeed, she had only seemed to love him when they had said their vows at the altar! He had left well enough alone, however. He had understood that she might need some time after all the events that had transpired at the Opera house. About three weeks after they had been married, she had suddenly left one day, after reading something in the Opera newspaper, the Epoque. Raoul had asked her where she was going, but she had not answered him. She had begged him, much as she did now, to trust him.

He had let her go, but not without some feelings of trepidation. He had read through the newspaper, trying to discover what it was that had made her leave. But he had found nothing. He had waited, for an entire day. He had paced restlessly around his large, empty house, waiting for his wife to come home

It was late the next day when Christine came back. Her clothes had been mussed, and she had looked a mess; but there was a sort of peace and tranquility about her that she had not possessed before. Raoul, feeling as it was his duty, had relentlessly questioned her about that day. But she did not answer any of his questions. He had grown angry, to the point where Christine cried, asking him to trust her, and telling him that now they could be at peace, as husband and wife. Raoul could refuse Christine nothing, and had accepted this, after a long while. She did seem happier; there was even a glow around her that he had not seen before. It seemed as if her love for him had grown, if anything, and they had been happy for a while together.

Raoul had discovered a reason for Christine's happy glow after a couple of months. She had been feeling some strange symptoms for a long time, and so Raoul had called for a doctor, concerned about his wife's state. The doctor had reassured them, with a smile, that everything was normal, and that Christine was simply pregnant. Raoul had felt elation and joy in that moment, and he had enfolded Christine in his embrace, whispering in her ear, 'We shall have a child, Christine! Born of our love!' But Christine's face had been a terrible shade of pale. She had appeared shocked, and Raoul had wondered, even as he still did, what had been the matter with his wife.

Christine's eyes had slowly come back to life, and she had whispered, not seeing Raoul, 'Yes, a child.' She had looked him in the eyes then, and there was genuine happiness in them. 'Yes, a child,' she had repeated to reassure her husband and perhaps herself, smiling. Raoul had put aside all doubts of her, and had reached towards the future unabashedly.

But then, a terrible tragedy had happened. They had lost the baby. Raoul had been off, socializing with the elite, as was his duty to his family and his poor, dead older brother. Christine would have joined him, but the pregnancy had been proving especially difficult, causing her nausea and pounding headaches. He had waved off all the concerned questions about his wife with a nonchalant gesture of his hand, reassuring and them about his wife's then seven-month pregnant status.

Raoul would never forget the look on his servant's face when the man had approached him nervously, carefully sidestepping the rich, who looked down on him with disdain. The man had been trembling with sorrow? Regret? Fear? Raoul did not know, but as soon as he had caught sight of the man's face, he had known that there was something wrong. Something terribly wrong. The Viscomte's thoughts had immediately turned to Christine. He had excused himself to go talk to the manservant, dreading the news of tragedy that was clearly written on the man's face.

Raoul closed his eyes as he held the note that Christine had written him, enfolding it close to his chest. He remembered the man's halting words about his wife, and the child... Not hesitating, Raoul had furiously raced outside to his carriage, where he ordered the driver home. He had been taken on a wild ride throughout Paris, the driver seeing his master's concern and racing with utter and reckless abandon.

Raoul could still feel the barest strains of the pain, the pain that had wrenched his soul and torn him apart. He had come home, running straight upstairs to Christine's bedroom. He had shoved aside Christine's attendants, going over to the bed directly, although he hesitated once he reached his wife. He still remembered Christine's awful weeping. It had been the weeping that had undone him. His wife had cradled a monster in her arms, rocking over it sorrowfully. She had cuddled it, even kissing it, gently murmuring weeping words that Raoul could not make out. It was wrapped, mercifully, in a towel, so that Raoul had only seen its head. Raoul had leaned over and abruptly recoiled. The thing had looked terribly disfigured. Its monstrous state had almost reminded him of. . . but that was impossible. Erik was long gone, no longer a threat to him or Christine. Raoul had looked down on the poor baby with sorrow. No, the child had been his, simply a horrifying victim of miscarriage.

Raoul sighed as he began to fasten the clasps on his expensive shirt. Christine hadn't been the same since then. She had withdrawn into herself, hardly speaking to anyone. Often, he had caught her gazing off into the distance through a window. He had tried to be her rock; her protector, but he could not protect her from this new pain; she had taken it all on herself. It was bad; even worse than when they had returned from the Opera House. Raoul had been hurt by his child's death as well, but obviously not as bad as Christine had been injured. She had, many times, rocked herself gently, staring at things that were not there, obviously lost in a mental labyrinth.

Raoul paused and read over the note once more. He sighed as he contemplated whether to go after his straying wife. She had warned him not to go after he in the note . . . but how could he not? The Lord himself only knew what she was going through, and Christine was in a mental state that made Raoul nervous. He was not sure that even Christine knew what she was doing... after all, had she not believed that Erik was the Angel of Music for the longest time?

The Viscomte paused as he stood at the staircase's top. He sighed, running his hand unconsciously over the balustrade. Yes, he would have to go after his wife. Christine was known for being spontaneous and foolish. . . sometimes even more then Raoul. It was his duty as a husband to protect her from harm, and that was exactly what he planned to do.