Erik's body was completely numb.

His face was still damp from his tears mixed with hers, his skin still flushed from her touch. The hope that had risen in his breast at the sight of her was now the heavy weight of a stark reality.

She had been so real, so warm, and for a moment - just a moment - he really believed that she could be his. But now, here he was - broken, on his knees, in the cold lair once familiar and comforting that now seemed a torture chamber built exclusively for his agony. Each heartbeat, each breath seemed nothing more than one number less on the countdown until his life would end - a merciful end, he now felt, which couldn't come soon enough.

He raised his head slowly, as if it were a great weight on his shoulders, and stared down the empty passageway. All in a rush, colors began to run together and swim before his eyes, and he realized that no matter how hard he tried, he could not stop the emotion from taking over. Why could he not stop himself from crying? Why did he allow her to have such a hold over him? And why had she left him? Why?

He balled his fists. This was the passageway through which she had gone...left him alone to a life of misery, a life of anguish. The light from the candelabras that lined the halls flickered gaily, smiling at him and mocking his pain.

Suddenly, the stillness was broken as several candelabras were knocked to the floor. Before he knew what he was doing, Erik had risen to his feet and crashed the candelabras to the floor in his anger. He was breathing heavily. His gaze moved wildly from one thing to another around his lair...he needed something - anything - to hurt, to break, to destroy...

All at once, he was on his knees again, completely undone. Without her, his life was over. He had nothing to live for. Even music had lost most of its splendor - music, which had been his one companion, the one thing he could always count on...

His gaze fell on something metallic resting on the edge of a table. Tears moved aside as his eyesight began to clear...he moved closer.

A gun.

Funny, he thought, I don't remember putting that there. How strange. How...

Convenient.

He reached out for the gun. It was cold to the touch, but the cold had never felt so inviting. He turned it over in his hands, admiring the craftsmanship. It was beautiful work. The gun was heavy, but in his life-weary hands, it felt unnaturally light.

No one will miss me, he thought. All I have to do is pull the trigger...

Slowly but determinedly, he readied the gun and placed it right in front of his face. Right in the middle of his mask.

In a few seconds, his life would be over. No more hiding. No more loneliness. No more hatred...and, worse than hatred, false love...

"Erik!"

The voice jerked him from his reverie. A figure clad in white was making her way towards him. He had to blink a few times before he could be sure who it really was. Something exploded in the pit of his stomach.

Christine.

He dropped the gun to the floor.

She ran towards him with open arms, and when she reached him at last, she kissed him for all she was worth. Erik was rendered completely helpless as she parted his lips with her tongue and kissed him fervently, deeper and deeper. He ran his fingers through her beautiful, soft curls, hardly daring to believe it could be real. Tentatively, he slid his tongue into her mouth, and to say he was pleased with the result would be an understatement. Christine moaned softly. The kiss grew deeper - more passionate, more yearning. Erik had never tasted anything as beautiful as this kiss...

But as soon as it began, it was over. Christine tore herself away from him violently and shoved him down to the ground. She picked the gun up from the floor beside him and sat squarely on his hips.

"You dropped this," she said coldly.

"Christine, what are you--"

But she never gave him the chance to finish the sentence. As he was speaking, she aimed the gun, right between his eyes, and pulled the trigger...

Christine awoke screaming. She was drenched in her own cold sweat and hot tears. As she looked down, she half expected to find fresh blood soaking her skirts, a gun in her hand, and Erik's battered body beneath her. Of course, she saw no such thing. But she shivered in spite of herself. The dream had been so real...but why had she kissed Erik passionately one moment, and the next, taken his life in cold blood?

And yet, in her heart, she knew that she had done the same thing that night after Don Juan. She choked back a cry.

Her breathing slowly returned to normal and her sobs subsided, but the image of Erik helpless on the ground with that pleading look in his eyes would haunt her forever. She had seen that look before.

It took her a moment to notice her surroundings. She was in a bed - a nice bed, large and comfortable, with a canopy. All around the room were shelves packed from top to bottom with books of various sizes and genres. There was a fireplace on one end, some furniture...a lovely, cozy room to be sure, but it was very different from her room at the de Chagny's.

Her screaming recommenced when she looked to the left side of her bed to find a little old man perched on a stool, watching her. His face held an amused expression behind little round spectacles. His eyes twinkled.

"Well, Mademoiselle, what you have lacked in energy these past few days you have certainly made up for with lung power just now!" He laughed, a very hearty laugh from so small a man. He turned to the door. "Adrien, come in, our guest is awake!"

At that moment, a tall, thin man entered the room. His dark hair was very neatly parted and combed, his moustache perfectly trimmed, and he gazed at Christine behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Everything about him was neat and tucked in. He smiled at Christine with kind eyes and a nice smile.

"We are very pleased you have awoken at last, Mademoiselle, and if that scream you gave a moment ago is any indication - you're doing much better now than when you arrived here three days ago. Allow me to introduce myself - my name is Adrien Lefebvre, and this is my grandfather, Edouard. Welcome to our home."

"Adrien and I run the family bookstore, Lefebvre's Books, on the main floor," Edouard added.

Edouard continued chattering on about the bookstore and the house, and although she heard his voice, but her clouded mind was having difficulty absorbing all this. Three days...? Who are these men? Where am I?

Adrien must have noticed Christine's confused expression, for he put a hand on his grandfather's shoulder and gave him a pointed look. Christine had to smile. She didn't know much about what had happened over the past few days, but she did know that she liked these two men already.

"That's enough about the bookstore, Grandfather. Our Mademoiselle must be very tired." He turned to Christine. "I was out for my morning walk a few days ago and found you lying in the street, looking quite ill. You woke up for a moment, and then you passed out shortly after seeing me. I say," he added, with a twinkle in his eye just like his grandfather's, "I hope I wasn't the cause of your fainting spell."

At that, Christine managed a small laugh. "No, I assure you, Monsieur, it was not you that startled me. I have just been...ill," she finished somewhat lamely.

"Of course you have! And that is what we have been trying to fix for the past three days...but I don't suppose you remember it?" Edouard asked.

She shook her head.

"Well, at any rate, it appears we have made our breakthrough today. Rest as long as you need to, Mademoiselle..." He looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to fill in her name.

Everyone in Paris knows my name, she thought. If I tell them my real name, they will no doubt recognize me as the kidnapped singer and fiancee of the Vicomte de Chagny...I will have to think of a false name.

"Christine..." she began, cursing her tongue as her first name tumbled out before she could stop it, "...Rousseau. Christine Rousseau," she repeated, as if doing so would wipe away any doubt of this being the name she was born with.

"Rousseau," Edouard affirmed. "Well, now that you're awake and functioning, Mademoiselle Rousseau, you can tell us where you live, if you like, and we'll take you home as soon as you're ready."

Her stomach dropped.

Home.

She had nowhere to go...

"Uh - yes. H-home..." She bit her lip, trying to stop it from the desperate trembling she knew would give her away. Maybe she didn't want to live on the streets, but she did not want pity or handouts, either. But her attempt was feeble - as she turned away, it did not take a genius to realize that something was wrong.

Adrien rushed to her side. "Mademoiselle Rousseau? Are you all right? What's wrong?"

Christine was trapped. She had to give an answer, but her mind was incapable of coming up with a full, decent, and completely untrue tale - and pride prevented her from telling the whole truth.

"I - I have no home to go to." Each word pained her. "My parents - both of them are long dead."

This much was true.

"And my home, " she continued, "my home has burned down. I lost everything."

Not only had she come up with a story, but it was all true; she was an orphan, and her home - the Opera Populaire - had burned down. And with the Opera Populaire had died a large part of her life - all of those endless hours singing and dancing and rehearsing and giggling with Meg...several of her wordly posessions...and of course...her Angel of Music. She was only lying in leaving out some of the more important details (the Opera, although parts had burned down, had been repaired and had continued with its lavish productions). She felt a lump rise in her throat.

Adrien put a comforting arm around her shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Mademoiselle. A girl your age should never have to see so much sorrow." She could tell that he meant these words, and she was grateful.

"I'm terribly sorry if I've been a burden these past few days." Christine apologized, starting to climb out of the bed. "Just - just let me gather my - my things - and I'll be on my way --"

"I say, Adrien," Edouard interrupted from his stool on the other side of the bed, his eyes alight with that familiar twinkle, "Have you noticed that it has been getting rather difficult to run the bookstore with only you, Monsieur Guerin, and me? I think we may need another helping hand."

Adrien smiled. "Yes, Grandfather - I think it's an excellent idea. Mademoiselle, would you be interested --" He turned to Christine, and found that her face had quite changed. She had given way to the emotion building up inside of her. Tears had spilled out of her eyes and were trailing down her cheeks.

Her mind was spinning. A job? Money? That would mean a place to live...and it wouldn't be a handout, she would be earning her keep and in the meantime keeping herself busy...

Who were these two men, who would take a complete stranger into their home, watch over her while she was ill, and offer them a place in their home?

She did not know - but she was eternally grateful.

"I would love to," she choked out.