A/N:

Amber: I've had considerable difficulty getting Chapter 2 of your story to show on my computer but alas, fan fiction has come through for me and I have just finished reading it. I will be going back shortly to leave my review! Thank you for your review. I always believed that Meg and Christine had a connection which wasn't exploited fully enough in the book/ play/ film.

Angelofmusic: We all hope Erik isn't too emotionally broken but you would be wouldn't you? I know I would! Perhaps she will be able to talk him around… More Erik to come… soon… I apologise for the first chapters being Erik-less… it is important that we don't see him to early.

Elizabeth: Phantom is truly a work of art! And I not only write fiction but am an avid reader… will you be submitting any work? As for long chapters, I struggle with long chapters sometimes… it depends on my mood but I tend to update two or more chapters at a time and I update quickly, I hope it doesn't put you off too much! If you like long chapters then AmberPalettes 'Of Stone' might intrigue you. 'Demons' is fabulous too, by Wandering Child.

'Song did not matter when there were no ears to appreciate it, no hearts to stop in its rapture . . . . there was no Christine Daee for that now . . . . and age did not matter when death was a most welcome event.' – From Chapter two 'Of Stone' By AmberPalette

Chapter 6- Surprises

It was a smell so stale that she pulled her cape up to her nose to stop it from causing further offence. It was almost in vain, however, as all this did was slightly soften the blow. Christine had given one of the guards a bag of coins in return for him pointing her in the right direction and then simply looking the other way. It was a handsome payment and the guard, introducing himself as Gerald, could barely contain his excitement at the unexpected occurrence. He had taken to talking to her for a while, his accent untamed and his voice full of gravel, he stood there telling her stories of the Phantom.

This man was telling her stories of the Phantom.

She remembered when it had all hit the news, as it were. The papers made no show, gave no sign, of mercy as they verbally pummelled the opera ghost, her opera ghost, in their articles. Mad man they called him, crazy said another. Murderer was the common consensus and they made him a monster in the whole world's eyes. He was not a monster, she thought, as she listened to Gerald jabber on about the lasso of death, he was a man. And then she smiled, he was a man but he was no mere mortal, no ordinary being. He wasn't like Raoul or Andre, or ever Meg's fabulous Henry. He was a dark, mysterious character, full of so much soul and depth that no one could possibly understand him. She certainly had never claimed to.

She had finally asked Gerald to direct her where she wanted to go and to keep watch. She had been very careful to keep her face covered and disguise her voice, a trick Erik has taught her many, many months ago. If it had worked then the guard, if he were still there, would not recognise her the next morning and she could simply go on with her business. Gerald had left her at the corner of cell number one, she had mentally recited the directions to herself so that she knew her way safely in and, more importantly, her way back out.

There was building up on building up on building in the mud filled yard, all of them cast shadows across the floor hiding her presence from any other guards that might be patrolling. He had told her to look for the middle cell, a particularly large cell with a corridor for the guards along its side. He had also informed her that there would be a guard in there, sitting next to the cell and to be sure that she went around the back and to the third and not the second window, so as not to be seen. He had attempted to inquire about her curiosity of the 'ghost' but she had simply glared and he had wisely decided to leave it at that.

She edged cautiously along the edge of the first building, and waited patiently for sounds of men to subside before she moved on to the next cage. And then to the next and finally she found the one she was looking for, as the guard had said, larger than the others and exactly in the middle. Christine was careful as she stepped around the side of this one, knowing that there was a guard on the other side made her heart pound and her palms sweat. She found a crate and pushed it slowly underneath the third window before stepping onto it and looking through the bars.

The room was sparse but in the corner there was a heap of what looked like clothing. On further inspection she realised that it was the prisoner and as her eyes adjusted to the lighting she could see him much better. He was indeed dirty and the smell was terrible, and for a moment she wondered what on earth she was doing. She had no intention of attempting a rescue herself, or being so utterly foolish as to distract the guard so that he could knock him unconscious. In fact, she had come here to see him for herself so that the sight of him in the morning would not kill her. She had come to try to convince him to save himself, by any means. She had simply come to speak to him but on seeing him, in the corner, covered in dirt, she was rapidly changing her mind.

Her eyes focused once again on him, his hands were over his head and he appeared to be sleeping. She turned around to step off the box and suddenly she felt a hand on hers, a hand on the one that was holding the bar. She glanced over her shoulder to see him holding her fingertips to the steel and she stared, unable to speak. His face was gruesome, pitted and marred. Ugly. It was true it was disgusting, true that it was disfigured and truer still that this man was not Erik.