The Source

The voices on the other side of the door invited Brigitte's curiosity. It was not unlike the help to listen in on the scandalous lives of their masters. But Brigitte had a vested interest in gossip now, as she busily wiped the table in front of her over and over again, shining what already shone.

She could only hear snippets at first, their voices low and refined. But as the conversation continued, that repose was lost.

"…Should have listened to me … What do you know of the world? …Common, Raoul, common! It is of no surprise … left you without a word of notice."

Raoul's replies were low, terse and emotional. She could barely make out his response, but heard one name: Giry. She moved close to the door, daring so much as to press her ear to the door. She could hear Raoul's voice.

"… Jean says she came to him hurried and flushed, looking a bit as though she had heard something terrible. He could only speculate, though, and Christine had been fine. It had all been fine –" He paused, emotion clogging his voice. "He drove her to her home with instructions to go back as soon as Christine was inside."

"Did she say why?"

"No, she would not answer Jean's inquiry."

A sigh. Then, "Where is this note? I wish to see it."

"It is not necessary."

Silence.

Then there were footsteps and the twisting of a knob and they were upon her.

Brigitte barely had time to return to the table. Acting surprised, Brigitte spun around quickly and dropped her rag.

"Oh, my! I did not know you were there!" She giggled nervously, but neither party noticed her failed attempt at nonchalance. She bowed deeply. Raoul gave her a tight nod and strode away with his father, both parties continuing to bicker in low voices. The Comte did not even spare her a glance.

Brigitte turned back to her work, the wheels turning. She still found it hard to believe that Christine would up and leave without a word to her or Raoul. That, coupled with the vague note and Erik's rendezvous with Christine in Bordeaux had led her to one conclusion: he had come back for her.

And now this new information: Christine had gone to Mme. Giry's, but for what? Had Mme. Giry sent for her, perhaps left a note?

Notes. Christine's farewell note to Raoul. Mme. Giry and the Opera Populaire. Suddenly, she recalled Christine's tale of the Phantom of the Opera. The Phantom had been fond of leaving notes then as well. Mme. Giry had often been his emissary and companion, Christine had said. Perhaps she still had the role, and had written that note. But why?

Brigitte turned the information over in her mind, trying to make sense of what few pieces to the puzzle she had, but nothing fit. She needed to know more. She would have to speak to Mme. Giry.

Hopelessness fell upon her again. But how was she, a servant girl, to weasel information out of a women twice her age and wisdom? From what Christine had told her, Mme. Giry was quite close-lipped and or stern personality. It would be harder getting information from her than it would squeezing blood from a stone, but she had to try.

Later that night, when dinner had been served and the crew began its nightly clean-up of the grounds, Brigitte begged off feigning sickness, and slipped off into the night. Using the dark to her advantage, she melted into the shadows and escaped the de Chagny estate undetected. She was beginning to feel like a phantom herself.

………………………

Morning had come and Erik and Christine had gone to breakfast in the dining hall. Before them lay and opulent spread, a feast greater than either could consume. Christine was dressed primly, Erik's clothes were perfect as usual but his tie was beginning to loosen. His hair was not as slick and his gaze had lost the iron that the servants were used to. Whispers in the hallway, gossip trading back and forth – Erik was aware of it all. He tightened his jaw; he would take care of them later.

They spoke very little, having reached a resolution the night before. Small talk was never Erik's strong suit. He saw futility and piety in it, an awkward thrust of conversation where there was a severe lack of interest or knowledge. Christine saw no need for it. Not after what they had done. Her cheeks coloured in remembrance of the night, vague flashes of writhing bodies, course hair scraping tender flesh, and lips and hands and groans. She could not meet his eye, the shame was so great.

"Ahem." Erik's voice was gruff. "After, I must show you the grounds. There is a wide expanse of land and forest. We shall take the horses."

"Alright," Christine replied. This was not a request, but a demand.

After the meal, Erik left abruptly, mumbling about changing into proper attire and that Christine should do the same. But Christine was drained, suddenly overwhelmed by her station. Here she was in Erik's home and they were to go riding horseback together. Like normal people. Like lovers. Like nothing was wrong in the world and it was where she belonged. It frightened her to think that, perhaps, it was. She, that is. She belonged here. She sighed.

A woman entered the room dressed in a drab grey uniform. She began clearing the plates, stealing conspicuous glances at Christine erstwhile. Christine cleared her throat and searched for what little Spanish she knew.

"Ola. Como estay?"

"I speak English, Madame." Immediately, the maid ducked her head as if to raise her voice to the likes of Christine was a privilege and a fright. "Mi scusi, Madame …?"

"Christine. My name is Christine. And you are …?"

"Concettina." Silence descended on the pair and Christine rose, walked to the window and stared out into the vast garden. Settled on small talk.

"It is beautiful. The gardens, I mean."

"Yes." The woman had spoken to Concettina, perhaps wanted to engage in conversation. Concettina's curiosity got the best of her. The other servants, Milo, the chef, and Maria, the servant, had talked in secret about the strange woman their master had brought home one night. Senhor Villi Tempesta barely spoke to them and company was out of the question. Senor Tempesta was a solitary man.

"Excuse me, Senora – "

"Call me Christine." Damned courtesies, Christine thought. I am sick of them.

"Christine. I, uh – excuse my English, it is not so good."

"No, no. I understand you perfectly."

"Oh, good. Good. Do you live in Spain?"

"No. This is my first visit. I am from France. Paris, originally."

"Paris! Bellisimo! I have always wanted to visit. That is not always afforded to my kind." She ducked her head.

Christine offered a small smile. "Perhaps one day. It is beautiful."

Immediately, Concettina saw the forlorn expression, as though Christine was drifting off to sea before her eyes. Curious, Concettina wondered aloud, "How long do you stay, Senora?"

"I … I am not sure."

"Oh. I wonder – excuse me for my impertinence – but I – we all wondered about you. The master does not have many guests."

Of course not. The information both bothered Christine and relieved her. "Oh, well. We are old friends."

"Si, old friends. He is strange, no?"

"How do you mean?"

The girl motioned with her hand to indicate the right side of her face. "He is unfortunate. Different, Senora – sorry, Christine. He rarely speaks to us. He can be mean." Now that Christine had deigned to speak to her, Concettina could not seem to hold herself back from gushing. "But I suppose his –" she motioned again to his face, "He cannot help it."

Christine quirked an eyebrow. "How do you mean?"

She stopped stacking dishes and drew a little closer to Christine. Conspiratally, she whispered, "His face. It is a mark of el Diablo."

"I'm sorry?"

"It is – how do you say?" She made little horns with his fingers. "The devil. Evil."

Christine stared at the Spanish woman. Concettina averted her eyes first, literally shrinking before her Christine. She turned away, began hurriedly stacking dishes onto the cart again, careful not to look Christine in the eye. She had offended the woman somehow. Perhaps she should not have spoken unless spoken to. It was the way of the rich, she though bitterly.

Up until that moment, she had not really considered the source of Erik's disfigurement. Vaguely, she remembered reading of cosmetic complications that affected the fetus before birth. It was uncommon for women of Concettina's station to receive an education, let alone read, but her ignorance burned Christine up inside.

The girl exited soon after but the pillar of thought stood erected. Why had she gotten so angry with Concettina? She was just a maid, after all. Society had never given her more than a sponge in one hand and a slap on the other all her life. To be honest, the station of a poor, Spanish woman was not much better than a disfigured man like Erik. Or a singer, like herself.

Something about the reality of the situation struck her. Is this what Erik had encountered all his life? For years, she had only wondered of his solitude and sympathized with his utter aloneness. It was something she could relate to. But his face – it had meant so little to her. Erik, for all his shame over the right half of his face, did not seem to grasp the idea that perhaps women and men stared at him not for the half-moon of white shadowing his visage. He was a very handsome man; had grown into a very handsome man. But as a child … In that moment she understood him without pity.

He came back shortly to collect her and lead her to stables. Erik made a mental note of Christine's stride, how she kept in step with him, leisurely and unhurried, as though her legs were as long as his. This struck him as funny: perhaps he adjusted himself to her gait? It was no matter, and he did not say anything, but filed it away to his memory palace. Christine, walking side by side with the Phantom as easily as she might accompany someone else, someone normal. This addition to his imagination was exquisite.

Throughout the ride, they maintained pleasant conversation. Christine learned of Erik's favourite places to reside. She learned that a giant oak on the northern-most corner of the paddock was the best place to curl up and read a book on hot days; the shade was just right, he explained, so as to provide cool air and good light which to read by. She pointed out the flowers she admired best: lilies, for their simplicity. They reflected on good times at the opera – Christine's, anyway. Both were in tears of laughter recollecting the time Erik had tampered with Carlotta's costume, leaving the behind of her skirts exposed and eliciting much laughter from the theatre set and Carlotta's wrath. Erik could imitate Carlotta's accent perfectly which sent Christine into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

All throughout the ride, Christine kept glancing at Erik curiously (which did not go unnoticed). Erik was careful to keep her and her horse on his unmasked side. He did not understand that her inquisitive looks were for an entirely different reason than his face.

They returned some hours later, the sun bidding adieu and leaving the sky a fetching kaleidoscope of oranges and pinks and reds. They took a moment, each revelling in wonder at the beauty of this landscape, secretly giving thanks for the opportunity.

Inside, dinner was followed by Christine's suggestion that they read for a while in the great sitting room.

She watched him carefully, languishing in a high-backed chair, as they read. After a few moments, he felt her eyes on him like one feels an itch under the skin – invisible, but there. He raised his eyes to her. She did not look away immediately. He cleared his throat and she dropped her eyes.

"What," he wondered, "are you thinking?" He was immediately filled with that old terror of being watched and pitied. He could feel her eyes peeling back his layers and finding disgust.

She sighed a little, looked away. "I am thinking – of nothing in particular. And many things."

The truth was, Christine was watching him – had been watching him all day – go about his everyday, normal activities with a feeling of wonder. Not just because, here was her Angel, flesh and blood, but he was in routine. Whether it was shaving his 12 o'clock shadow or spurring on his horse into a gallop, it was fascinating to her. But also, here was a man who had murdered, made love to her, wrote incredible, heart-breaking music, housed a mind of wit, expression and genius. His capacity for emotion was so varied and deep that she was frightened to know the dangerous parts of it, but nonetheless craved the passion of his turmoil.

My hands, he realized as her eyes zeroed in. She was looking at them because she wondered what it had been like for him to squeeze the life from Buquet and then, years later, touch her breast, run a thumb across her nipple in a way that aroused her as it did bring tears to her eyes for his gentleness. But Erik could not know that, only figured it was any unfortunate addition to his appearance.

It was hard for Christine to resolve the Phantom and the man as the same person. Erik: her guardian and teacher and capturer and lover. Lover, she thought, her cheeks becoming as coloured as her thoughts.

"Would you minding parting with your silence and speaking of your thoughts? I do not mind if you decline; one's thoughts are a private intimacy." Though he spoke eloquently, there was fear there: fear that she wouldn't want to part with herself and invite him in – in any way. He hid his hands at his sides, jamming them into the sides of the couch cushion. There must be some reason she thought them ugly, he reasoned, something he had overlooked. The book slid off his lap; neither noticed.

"I wonder," she began, looking far off, "I wonder – how you settled on Madrid." She abandoned the pressing matters and shot for comfortable territory, immediately feeling foolish as she saw the expectation drop from Erik's face.

Erik shrugged. "I had a contact here, one of the few people in this world I trust. He keeps my funds, manages the business matters of my music. He is my emissary to the outside world."

So he hadn't tried independence. How sad. She betrayed none of her empathy – it was not pity. She just wished he had the strength.

"What is his name?"

"I, uh – I'd rather …" he trailed off, fighting with himself over whether she could be trusted. One look in her hopeful brown eyes rid him of all that. "Dimitri Kvelsak."

Christine nodded, smiled broadly. "I wish to meet him some day."

"Perhaps," he began slowly, "Over dinner?"

"That would be wonderful."

"Good."

Erik realized he had been holding his breath and let it out in a quiet rush of air. The thought of eating in public filled him with a dread so intrinsic he felt he would never be rid of it. But perhaps, with Christine, it would be better. Maybe he would be better …

Plans made, the conversation ended, neither party ready to talk about anything deeper. They had both dipped a toe into a very deep pool that both would enter in shallow steps. So he watched her, in quick, shallow glances that he stored in his mind palace like one collects nuggets of gold from a stream. He filed each memory away with precision and care, knowing that one day he might lose her, might let his selfishness slip away and let her choose what she really wanted. He was not prepared to reconcile that it would not be him.

He noticed little things in his search. Her hair, for one, was slightly auburn where the sun hit it. She bit her nails; he noticed that some nails were bitten to he quick. And when she was thinking, or immersed in a book, she sometimes chewed on the corner of her lip. Her lips were pink, full, but refined. She was incapable of smiling falsely – at least at him.

He was halfway immersed in Dickens when he felt her eyes on him again. He looked up.

The words were out of her mouth before she had a chance to recover. "It must be so terrible to be so handsome on this side and yet be so –"

"Ugly?" Though Christine's voice was soft, he felt he was being harangued in some way. Then again, that is what he always felt when someone spoke of his face – which was as rare as the result was fatal.

Christine shook her head, mortified at her ineloquence, but she had to know. "Fated," she said softly. "I could never think you ugly."

Erik snorted, turned away.

"No," she replied fiercely, "You think I lie and I do not. Look into my eyes and tell me what untruths you see." She was right: her eyes were clear; they bore no secret. She approached him and he rose as was customary. Gently, she reached up and removed his mask, her fingers questioning. He tried his best not to cringe as she slowly drew the mask from his face and placed it on the nearby table. They both watched it, as if waiting for the answers to spring from its cold porcelain surface.

"Truthfully," he began, "You do not find me unfortunate to look upon?" Thought, then her words came back at him and he furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. "You said I was … handsome?"

She thought a moment as she touched his face, tracing the ridges and burns. She closed her eyes and said, "Let me tell you what I see. I see two eyes like oceans: impossibly clear and green with a hint of blue. I see truth in them. I see a beautiful face interrupted by an unfortunate deformity. But I see what it has done to you, not necessarily the 'it' which you think I do. You are pained by it. You've spent your entire life around it." She opened her eyes, her gaze playing on his face like fire.

"How did it happen?"

There it was. They both held their breath, waiting for Erik's reaction. Finally, he reached up, closed his hand over hers and pulled it away.

"It didn't. This is the way God intended me." His voice was hollow, bitter.

"Oh." For some reason, she thought of Concettina and immediately felt guilt. She had not defended him. The story was spilling from her lips.

He did not say anything as she told him of the brief encounter, only smiled briefly at the mention of "Diablo" – the devil.

"It follows me even here, does it?" he chuckled darkly.

"I must tell you – I didn't know what to think when she said it. And I must say that I never thought of such things, even when the others called you 'monster' or murderer." She stopped, both of them lost in the past.

Erik spoke first. "They are quite right, you know. I am a murderer. Even before Buquet, Piangi. There was this man, when I was a child …"

Christine bit her lip, the beginnings of tears forming in her eyes. Would he really trust her with this intimate part of himself? But Erik turned his head, muttering, "It is a story unfit for a woman as innocent as you."

"I am not afraid."

He saw her standing there, her face resolute and the tears banished. She was trying so hard … it broke his heart.

So he told her. Told her of his faithless mother who had berated him and wailed over his appearance. A mother who forced him to wear a sack about his head, lest her friends should be shocked at his vicious face. He spoke of his entrapment – the first time – in the gypsy carnival. The man, whose name he had never learned, who had beat Erik and done terrible punishments to him for reasons he now knew were because of his face. Christine did not turn away when he told her of how he had wrapped the rope around the gypsy's neck and pulled until the veins popped out in his arms and sweat fell from his brow. He told her how he knew he was dead when the struggle ended and blood seeped out from his ears and urine appeared on the front of his pants. He could not stop himself from revealing the gory details in the face of her afflicted understanding, because he knew she could not.

"Antoinette was watching and she helped me escape," he continued. "We ran, ran so bloody fast I felt my legs were going to fall off. And the atrophy – I had never had much room to walk about – made it twice as difficult. When she led me to the grate before the chapel, I thought, 'Well, she's abandoned you. This is as good as it gets for you.' But she returned and led me to the catacombs."

"Madame – Antoinette took you to the underground?"

"Yes. We were both so scared the police would find us." He shrugged. "We were young."

Christine's mind was racing with all this new information. She had tried her best to hide her revulsion when he described the gypsy's death. She saw the dead man she had killed when she tried to picture him in her mind. She looked down at her hands – she was as guilty at he was. Was I a murderer too?

"And the gypsy … what became of him?"

"Nothing of note." Erik's voice was all business, the vulnerability of his confession long gone. "A gypsy's life means as little to the police as it does to the bourgeoisie." He paused. "But for days, I would not eat I was so frightened of being found. Antoinette would bring me a basket with bread, fruit – I just could not. She might have thought I rejected her kindness, but she kept coming. She kept coming …"

He looked down at the floor.

"I am glad." Her voice was so low and pained that Erik snapped his head up to make sure this was the same woman. "I am glad she was there for you."

"Until the end."

Long moments passed, both of them thinking of the Opera and Erik's reign as the Phantom. Christine saw him, his hands thrust in his pockets, his unmasked face etched in reflection. He was no longer the Phantom. Even his secrets – some of them – could not be contained any longer.

"I wanted to tell you that – " Christine stopped, her cheeks coloring. "I hope you know, I see a man."

"Yes?" he asked, his face open, entirely more open than he wanted. If he was not a monster to her, perhaps she could love him as a man. He wanted to cry, to shout, to make love to her, tie her down and scream at her, if only he could get what he wanted: her love. But if he had learned anything – and God, he hoped that he did – he knew that he could not force her to love him.

It was right here – it was this moment. It was now or never. They both knew it.

"I see a man," she said slowly, suddenly finding her tongue thick and her throat closed, "I see a man whom I admire."

Right away she felt stupid and ashamed, like she had committed some great betrayal. In her heart of hearts, she knew she had. So embarrassed, she pulled away and, when he touched her arm, a gesture so gentle and questioning, she burst into tears. He pulled her to his chest, mindful to brush her hair away from her tear-streaked face, which only caused Christine to cry harder. Erik was confused, but he knew that she was crying and he was to comfort her. It was all he knew.

"I wish I could be who you wanted," he whispered into her hair, "All the time."

She was kissing him then, hungrily and with possession. It startled him to be taken so ardently but he kissed her back, searchingly at first, and then harder, crushing her lips with his own, tongues fighting for dominance. Then they were rushing to the bedroom, hands fumbling on door knobs, tripping over imaginary objects in their hurry. Inside, they fell to the floor, each making short work of the others' clothes. Erik moved to flip them over, but Christine stilled his hand with one of hers and took hold of his penis with the other. The action immediately caused Erik to catch his breath in a painful-sounding hiss.

"Does it hurt?"

Her face was open, truly questioning, and he almost laughed at her naiveté.

"Only so much that I wish you never to stop."

Encouraged, she slid her hand downward somewhat awkwardly, not used to touching such an organ. Before, hers and Erik's passion had been so furious, there had been no time for her to explore him. With Raoul – well, she simply had not seen it fit to stroke the penis of a Viscomte. It was unseemly … but, oh, it felt right.

She noted the thin, stretchy softness of his cock and how the shiny flesh seemed to lift and fall under her probing hands. She thumbed the head of his penis, catching a pearl of liquid that enticed her. Enthralled, she pumped his cock again, unconsciously spreading his pre-cum over his shaft, thumbing the head again as Erik squirmed beneath her. Before Erik could register what she was doing, she dipped her head and gently took him into her mouth. She tasted the underside with her tongue, making a few shallow bobs as she worked over the texture of his cock. It was rubbery and soft despite the obvious hardness of his erection. It was not unpleasant, she was surprised to note. Rather like the skin on his neck. She decided she wanted more of it. She moved her mouth down the shaft again and Erik's squirming ceased and she felt his thighs beneath her breasts stiffen. He let out a low moan as he came, spilling into her mouth.

She was shocked when he came, warm and sticky, into her mouth. More shocked was she that, this too, was not entirely unpleasant. He tasted like nothing she had ever tasted before: thick, viscous and lemony with a hint of something else she could not describe.

"I am ... embarrassed." He kept shaking his head as if he could not believe his actions. "I didn't – I shouldn't have …" He forced himself to meet her gaze, certain that she would be horrified. But there was that gentle smile. Unwavering. Genuine.

"Did I please you then?"

This time, he could not keep himself from laughing. "My dear, it is an uphill battle every day of my life to control myself around you. I – simply could not control my own body."

"Neither could I," she replied truthfully, moving forward to lie on her side in his arms. "I had never done that before."

"I had never felt it. Was it – pleasurable to you as well?"

She thought a moment. "I certainly enjoyed the sensation. I felt like I could contribute to your enjoyment selflessly, but at the same time, I was selfish. I wanted to know what you would feel like inside my mouth."

At her words, he could feel himself begin to harden again. Bated, he breathed out, "How did it feel?"

"Soft. But hard and flexible. You tasted like nothing I've ever known." His hand wandered down the length of her body while the other reached around her back where she lay propped in his arms to cup her breast. Her breath caught.

"Can you describe it?" He dipped one hand into her soft folds, biting his lip at how wet she was.

"I – I can't. You were – you were –"

He was stroking inside her now, testing her breathing pattern and twitches and moans for what she liked best. His cock dug into her back but he ignored it, intent on bringing her to orgasm with his hands. He touched a hard, fleshy bit and immediately Christine stiffened. He worked at the small area and Christine moaned, a low, long languorous sound not unlike the purr of a cat.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, repeating the foolish question she had put forth earlier.

But she could not speak, the pressure inside her was coiling tighter and tighter. This, too, was unlike anything she had ever felt. She felt as if she could not take it and grabbed for his hand to stop him. But then the pressure alleviated and she felt a great wave of pleasure flow through her.

"Oh," she groaned. It was new and frightening and she choked out a few words, wanting him to stop but sure she would die if he did.

"You are," she whispered, his words coming back to her. "You are, you are, you are – " Over and over until it became like a mantra and he understood that she was answering him. I wish I could be what you wanted all the time.

He pumped his fingers into her faster and the sensation became more intense. The waves built and built. She didn't know where she was going and it truly frightened her.

"I'm scared, I'm – oh!" Suddenly, the waves crescendoed and she was falling over the precipice. Her hips bucked and she twisted in his embrace, letting out a loud, embarrassing sound she had never made in her life as she came hard against his hand.

"Oh." It was all she could say, over and over, as her chest heaved and her walls fluttered around Erik's hand. When she had come, it had been like a vise, so tight was she around his fingers that Erik was certain he would never come loose. As she relaxed, the pressure loosened and he withdrew, amazed at the wet sheen coating his hand. He brought it to his lips, tasting one finger. Christine watched him through hooded eyes, mouth agape and lashes fluttering lazily. He met her eyes and hummed.

"You are sweet." Christine knew he was not complimenting her demeanour. She blushed.

She looked up at him beneath her lashes, like a veil. "I had never –" she paused, uncertain how to proceed. "I had never … so intensely. It was like … it was building inside of me and I couldn't stop it. I was helpless, but then it was so …" She trailed off, the implications of what she meant made words unnecessary.

They gazed at one another for a long moment.

"Did you mean it?"

Pause.

She grasped his hand and entwined their fingers, studying the way their hands fit intently. "Yes," she answered finally. She looked up at him, saw the open adoration and kissed him before she could speak. His erection was pressing into her hip. With one deft movement, she swung her leg over his hips. With one hand, she grasped his cock and slowly lowered herself onto him. Both let out the breath they had been holding when they joined. Christine began to move.

She rode him tentatively at first, allowing her body time enough to adjust to his length inside her. The familiar pressure of before was back, but it was different this time, somehow, as though she could reach her peak faster than before. She leaned back slightly, feeling the shift in her lower body and let out a small "Oh" of surprise. She grasped the back of his thighs and leaned back even further, the pleasant sensation suddenly becoming deeper and enveloping her from all sides. He was everything to her now; she was unable to escape him.

"More inside me … than anyone …" she breathed out unconsciously in between thrusts. Erik answered her by gripping her hips and encouraging her to go faster. Christine threw her head back, caught up in the moment. She was suddenly freed and in control: of her body, her pleasure and Erik. Every twist, every moan, every scrape of fingernails was her own doing. It was indescribable. She had never made love this way before.

Before she knew it, she was riding out those waves of pleasure until they became tidal, sweeping her up and under. She was breathless as they went spiralling in a frenzy of slapping flesh, meeting sweat and uncertain promises. I am, I am, I am, Erik thought endlessly, spinning forward as he came and biting his lip to keep from screaming his love for her. Christine jerked forward once more, the force of her climax rendered her speechless and still. Her mouth was open but she couldn't make a sound. And then she wasn't drowning anymore and her breathing came in sputtering gusts as her hips bucked desperately to chase after the fleeting release. Christine slumped over, thoroughly exhausted, murmuring silly things in Erik's ear. He was still inside her when she drifted off to sleep.

……………………………….

Brigitte stood outside the Giry household, Christine's note in one hand, the other clenched in an unsteady fist. She took a deep breath. Was this really the right thing to do? Perhaps Madame Giry had not an inkling about Christine and Erik's return. But … what if she did? She had to find out.

Brigitte knocked on the door.