Madame Giry and Meg jogged behind the stranger at a quick pace, trying to keep up with him. They both were terribly worried about what the man had said about Christine, yet every time they caught up with him an asked him questions, he would ignore, or be too out of breath to answer. Madame Giry was about to stop, when they came to a small town house in one of the narrow streets of Paris. It was about 3 stories high, and did not look very welcoming. Meg hesitated as the man opened tee door for them to enter.

"It's not safe, Madame." He said panicked, his eyes darting about. "We must talk in private. It's not safe to be overheard."

Madame Giry stepped forward. "How do we know we can trust you, Monsieur?" She crossed her arms. The man looked at her before fleetingly checking the coast was clear.

"You know about Christine." He whispered to her. Madame Giry remained stony faced, while Meg looked confused at her.

"What does he mean Mamon?" She pleaded. Madame Giry ignored her daughter, and remained staring at the stranger.

"You know," He continued even quieter, "Why Christine may be in danger. You can understand her father had more friends than you, Madame. We fear for her safety as much as you. Monsieur Giry knew he could trust us in times of danger."

"Then why didn't he tell me about you?" She demanded. The man hesitated, and Madame Giry narrowed her eyes. "You can tell us now, Monsieur were we can find Christine, and what you know, and then we are leaving." As she reached to pull Meg to her side, the stranger made a lunge for Meg, and pulled her violently inside the house. Madame Giry made to grab her, but the stranger pulled out a gun, pointing it subtly to her stomach.

"You will enter immediately." He muttered menacingly. "Before I decided your daughter's fate." He pulled the gun back and pointed it into Megs back, who whimpered under the mans grip around her neck. Madame Giry jumped at the mans words, and moved in silently as he backed into the house. He pushed them both in and locked the door behind him, still keeping the gun pointed in their direction.

"Up!" He demanded nodding to the rickety stairs in front of them. Meg clutched her mothers hand frantically, as Madame Giry moved up the stairs.

The came to a one room floor, with a large fireplace, and dusty arm chair facing the rotten window. There were a few men sat in one corner of the empty room, looking over menacingly, grinning with success. The stranger pushed them further into the attic like room with the gun to their backs. He moved them over to the window, were someone was sitting casually. The silence in the room was frightening, save the rain which had now begun to slash lightly against the window pane. A man turned his head in the chair to look at them. He was an older man, around 50, with a terribly bored expression on his face. He lifted the corners of his mouth slightly at Madame Giry, to expression a grin. She gasped slightly in anger.

"I could have guessed Monsieur Robard, that you were involved in this." She said loudly. Meg continued to hide behind her mothers back timidly, sobbing quietly.

The man got up and stretched to his full height, towering over Madame Giry, who never faltered.

"Then maybe you should have guessed instead of walking into my trap." He smirked. Madame Giry slapped his face hard. The man took the blow and lifted his head back to glare at her. He stood in silence before landing a blow to Madame Giry's face, sending her to the floor. Meg screamed, and was pulled back by the stranger who had led them there. Madame Giry clutched her face, yet remained in a defiant stare at the man. He paced around her.

"It wasn't very nice you know, behind bars." He said in a sing song voice. "It wasn't very nice of you to put me there, Madame."

"You deserve every minute of it, you bastard." She spat at his feet. "I hope you suffered." He picked her up roughly and slammed her into the wall, causing Meg to scream out loud, struggle and kick to try and get out of the mans grip to no avail. Monsieur Robard pressed her into the wall aggressively.

"How could you do that to me, Maria? You don't know what it did to me! My life was RUINNED!"

"You betrayed him, George!" She shouted back. "You betrayed us all, when he lay sick in his bed, you ran! Ran and never looked back until you realized there was more to be had! You're twisted, and you deserve to be in jail!"

Robard let her fall to the floor. He sighed and straightened his suit and pushed back his greying hair.

"He was a fool, Maria. And you were a fool to look after him all that time. He deserved none of our help, he did nothing for us. Why wouldn't I have taken the money?" He looked down at her, and when she didn't reply, he carried on. "When Monsieur Daae died, he left nothing for us, Marisa. After all we did! I think we deserve more than that!"

"His friendship was worth more than you ever where."

He laughed at this and went to help her up. She defiantly stood on her own, glaring at him. He smirked, and then turned his dull grey eyes to Meg. Madame Giry let panic enter her eyes, but being held back by another man, who was signalled by a wave of Robard's arm.

"Well, well, well." Robard paced over to Meg, who struggled under the old mans gaze. She looked terrified at him. "Why so scared, little beauty? You're not going to come to any harm! That is, as long as your mother does as she is told." He chuckled coldly. Madame Giry's blood turned cold, and she tried to speak, yet was muffled by her captor's hand.

"Such a pretty thing, aren't you?" He said, holding Megs fair chin softly. "You have you mother's pretty, fair skin and hair, yet your fathers eyes."

Meg felt a strange sensation when he mentioned her father. She knew her father had been dead since she was born, and her mother had never wanted to talk about him when she had asked. Did this man know about him?

"My father is dead..." She said quietly. The man's eyes widened in surprise, and he threw his head back and laughed.

"Very wise, Maria." Looking at Madame Giry's terror filled eyes. "Very, very wise! I don't blame you for not telling her!"

"Tell me what?" Meg whimpered.

"My dear," He said softly, with a hint of poison carefully concealed. "Don't you recognise your own father?"

- ---

Christine stopped dead in her painful pace. She began to breath heavy and stared into space. Could it be? Could it be that he had sent someone to watch over her? Her once Angel, who now, by turn of evil fate, she would be reunited with? She began to shake.

"No, no, no!" She screamed. "No I refuse! I can't! Is there no other way! I can see him again, I can't!" She made to turn, not knowing were she would go, yet just away from the path that would lead her back to darkness. Nasih pulled her back roughly, causing pain to shoot through her body aggressively, in punishment. She sobbed as she fell, yet Nasih caught her, into a kind of embrace. He held her quietly to his chest for a moment, as she cried into his waistcoat. He stood awkwardly, waiting for her to subside the tears. He pushed her away gently.

"Christine, we must. I cannot vouch for your safety if I leave you in some hiding place here. You will be traced, Mademoiselle. I know little of your history, and do not wish to pry, but Madame, he is your safest bet. Do you know of whom I speak of?"

Christine looked up at him through her tears. Without answering, she held up a hand, covering one side of her face. She gave him a questioning look, and he nodded in response. Then so it was her former Angel. Her path would now lead her back to him in one more cruel turn of chance. Although, she felt a very large wave of relief sweep over her. He had not been caught, or worse, killed that night. He had fled in sorrow and grief to hide out somewhere else. And still he feared for her safety, after everything she had done to him. It hurt to be loved so much by him.

They had begun to make their way to the end of the wood; the trees had started to sparse out. It was midday now, and rain had begun to lightly pad on the ground, turning heavier with every minute passing. The sky turned an angry grey, threatening their pace and progress. Finally they came to a road on the edge of the wood. Looking up and down it, they saw nothing in the drizzle of rain. Christine had pulled her travel coat she had worn for her outing over her head. The hem of her riding dress was coated in mud, and her makeshift bandage had begun to turn red with her still seeping blood. She had also begun to feel a bit faint from her bleeding. After about half an hour walking, following the road south, a carriage could be seen coming from behind them. It was flat land, so it took the carriage about 20 minutes to catch up with them. When it arrived, Nasih stood in front of it, causing the horses to stop. The man driving the carriage or now they saw a merchant cart, carrying goods of some sort in the back, looked at them with a heavy frown. Nasih managed to convince him to let them ride in the back for a while. It took the driver a long time, but when Christine pleaded, he couldn't refuse her. He even offered her some of his food he had with him. She declined politely, as she didn't like the look of the rotten picnic. The cart was luckily carrying wool from England, which they snuggled into, grateful for the covering over the cart, keeping the rain off them. It clobbered down the road for a good few hours, and Nasih had now run out of cigarettes, which had made Christine angry, as it stung her already swollen eyes. He stressfully picked at the wool, trying to occupy his mind.

"Where is your name from?" Christine asked, breaking the silence. "Its not a French name, it's very unusual." He looked up at her and smiled.

"Persian." He replied. She was surprised, as he didn't really have the distinctive Middle East look. He took note of her raised eyebrows. "My mother was Anglo-French and my Father was Persian. She had left for Persia when her English father left to help with the war."

Christine was intrigued with his story. He told her of the romantic tale of his mother and father, their love affair, and the hatred of each others families. It reminded her of a story her father used to read her, Romeo and Juliette. It made her smile, yet made her sad that she never knew her mother. Her father on the other hand, she preferred not to talk about. It seemed Nasih knew more than she did, and it made her bitter. She kept quiet about it.

"So, how…how did you meet…him?" She asked quietly, as if someone might hear her.

"Who? Hat el-ef? He said in his perfect Persian accent. She nodded solemnly, grateful that he never referred to him as anything else, as she felt she would feel sick.

"I met him in Persia, where he hired me for a very generous amount of money. Very shady character isn't…" He stopped, remembering her sore reaction to him when he had mentioned him before. He pondered why she had been so genuinely terrified of him, and why she was so reluctant to see him. Had he hurt her in someway? No, that could be, he had hired someone to look after her. He also felt guilt at the memory of his master's words.

"Don't, what you do, tell her what you are doing, or where I am. Never, do you hear?" Said the masked man. Nasih had agreed readily. The sum of payment was easy enough. Yet now, he had got himself involved in the whole mess, and didn't know what to do. He had to take her to him. Nasih looked at the pretty young girl. Her head was hung; her hair mattered to her head, and her leg slightly trembling with pain. He saw also, a curious look on her face, a look of confusion. She looked up at him with her questioning brown eyes.

"Persia? So that must have been a long time ago. But how did he hire you then, he didn't even know me?"

Nasih frowned. "No Ma'am, he hired me about a month ago. That's when I met him."

Her eyes widened in surprise.

"But that means that he must have gone to…"

"Persia, yes." Nasih nodded. "I said we were going to Marseille Mademoiselle, but only for a short while. From there we are getting the train."

He took her silence as confusion.

"A mail train. It goes through Europe, The Alps, through Russia, then onto Persia, our stop."