Her eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness when he suddenly returned with the candle. In his other hand, he held something soft and white.
Setting the candle down on the table beside the bed, he drew back the cape covering her.
"You cannot sleep in your dress," he said, tossing the white garment at her, "this will do for tonight."
She sat up and unfolded it….it was a nightgown of fine white silk trimmed with fine lace.
To her surprise, he reached behind her and began to unfasten the minute jet buttons of her own dress.
She was startled by the action, but she did not resist. If he meant to harm her, he'd already had the chance to do so. And if he meant to harm her…there was nothing she could do.
When he had finished with her dress, he pushed the black satin open just enough to allow him access to her undergarments.
His fingers brushed lightly between her shoulder blades as he deftly unlaced the corset.
"I think," he said in a low voice, "you can manage the rest yourself now."
He paused in the doorway.
"If you need anything else, call for me. I will not be far from you."
He picked up the velvet robe and the violin from the trunk. As he turned to go, she called after him.
"Thank you, monsieur."
The nightgown was as lovely and as finely made as any she had in her own wardrobe. And it fit her well, though it was a little tight across her breasts.
She could not help wondering where it came from…who it belonged to.
She turned and blew out the candle. Settling back down on the pillows, she pulled the cape back over her.
Two things haunted her as she waited for sleep to overtake the pain.
The startled look in his eyes when she addressed him as monsieur…
And the warmth of his fingers trailing against her back.
It was a long time before sleep finally came to her.
The agony in her ankle seemed to scream throughout her body in the stillness of the room.
But it was her thoughts that kept her from resting.
She found herself recalling the day they brought her husband home to her, his face as white as the Phantom's mask.
She had been close to collapsing at the sight of him, but she held his weakening hand as he was carried up to their bed. She had stayed beside him as the elderly physician tried in vain to keep him from bleeding to death.
When it was over…when he was gone, she had to endure the truth of his murder…and the public confirmation of his infidelities.
She rolled onto her side with a tiny gasp of pain and tried to forget the sight of him in that ebony and silver casket, the mourners crowding the formal rooms of their villa.
But even as the tears began to dampen the pillow, she felt a strange sense of comfort and she finally let herself sleep.
He had come to her side in silence…she would never know that he stood near her, watching her.
He saw the tension that stretched across her face, the agitation that did not come from her injury.
How unlike his Christine…
He remembered watching her sleep in the crimson velvet of the swan bed. Her face had been so angelic, so untroubled.
He wanted to hate this woman for who she was…de Chagny's sister.
Her brother…that damned Vicomte had destroyed him…taken away his soul when he took his Christine away.
But he found he could not hate her…
He reached out to her, his fingers skimming along the curve of her shoulder without touching her.