A/N: To my reviewers, thank you! I know not a lot has happened so far, but don't worry; it will. grin Apologies for this being a really rather slow and background-ish chapter, but I needed to get it out of the way. Hope you enjoy and the next one will be up shortly.

trallgorda: Yes, Charles is Erik's son (sorry if that was unclear) and that is at least part of what Raoul needed to forgive Christine for.

friendorphantom: Thanks—I'm glad you like how I'm doing the RC relationship. And Erik should appear in the next chapter, hopefully rubs hands together in glee

Fantomenfan1: Updating ASAP!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, particularly not my dear boy—er, Erik. Any songs I mishandle belong to ALW, and most of my characterizations are due to Susan Kay.

Chapter Two: The Child of His Heart

Raoul

It had been quite a shock, the first time that he looked down into a newborn baby's eyes and saw that steady golden gaze. Raoul knew whose child this was—oh yes, he knew—but hadn't he heard that all infants' eyes were blue? Be that as it may, over the next few months, the startled jolt he felt when he met that gaze changed into affection and, gradually, into a deep fatherly love. What did it matter, in the end, that this was not his child? Its father had irrevocably placed it into his care, and Raoul found himself increasingly regarding Erik's son and Erik's beloved as the brightest centers of his life.

This made it, as the years passed, harder and harder for him to hate the memory of the Phantom. Where, in the shadows of the Opera House, the sight of those golden eyes had inspired only fear, now Raoul could look across the breakfast table at them and feel only love. Even music . . . music had ceased to haunt him, as it had in the early days. He knew, in the back of his mind, that it could not be entirely normal for a four-year-old to be composing, yet the melodies Charles made were lovely, all either light and joyful or easing to the heart. It was increasingly difficult to refuse Charles when he came to Raoul and begged for Papa to ask Mama to sing with him. Raoul understood the reasons behind Christine's refusal—he had been there, the first and only time she had sang with Charles, and the pain in her voice and eyes had nearly blinded him—but understanding did not make bearing his boy's tears any easier. He knew that at least part of Charles' reason for asking Raoul was manipulative; every child in the world knows how to set his parents against each other if they are not careful. Yet there was a real pain in those yellow orbs every time Raoul had to gently let Charles down.

All in all, it was fortunate that duets were a boon Charles rarely requested; most of the time, he was quite content to immerse himself in life, either by playing with his family or attending to his more solitary pursuits. Today, apparently, was going to be a day Charles spent happily, exhaustingly dragging his parents through the snow, and Raoul was grateful for that. It would distract Christine from the melancholy that stubbornly cropped up every year on this, the anniversary of the final time she had visited her Angel in his lair. That last night when she had emerged wearing a ring Raoul knew was not his . . .

Shaking his thoughts from that particular memory, Raoul glanced up from his now-cold breakfast. "What was that, Charles?"

"I said," he repeated indignantly, "are you ready?"

"I believe I am," Raoul replied, eyeing what was left of his food with distaste. Looking at Christine's already-finished plate, he spoke again. "Is your mother—ah, ready, too, I see," Raoul corrected himself as Christine appeared, dressed warmly with her mittens in one hand and Charles' in the other. "I'll just get my gloves, then, and I'll meet you outside."

Charles smiled and reached his arms up to his mother. "You're getting too big to carried," Raoul heard Christine murmur as the pair left the dining room and headed for the front door. Smiling a little, he stood and followed.

Caron

Such a pretty picture, Caron mused as she watched young Charles direct his parents in the building of a snow-house. Raoul and Christine were only the workers; the white structure was entirely of their son's design. The day was crystal clear and deliciously cold, with a winter sun granting bright light to every movement. All in all, the sight of two famous and noble parents taking time to romp with their child had an idyllic feel to it, as though it was a passing vision or even a painting of what might have been.

Because, despite appearances, all was not well in the Chagny home. Caron supposed the first thing she had noticed two years ago, when she and Marie came to nanny for the Chagnys, was that Charles was not . . . quite . . . normal for a toddler. The sisters had had several younger siblings before the fever struck their home and knew full well that two year olds did not hold conversations composed of complete sentences; nor did most children of Charles' age read sheet music. In time, their astonishment—always carefully spoken of outside of their employers' hearing—faded as they simply came to accept that Charles was a unique child. This, however, left them comfortable enough to observe the other things not quite right in the family.

Christine, who was stronger inside than her tiny frame might indicate, avoided any and every French social function she could. For a former diva, especially one who had married a Count—Raoul had inherited his brother's title after Phillipe's death a year past Charles' birth—this was oddly reclusive behavior in and of itself. But the sadness that always lurked just out of sight in her brown eyes, the way she avoided contact with anyone who was at all connected to her former life, even the fact that she stayed out of the public eye in England, where she was not well-known, all contributed to Caron's conviction that she had suffered some deep loss and was running from it any way she could. Caron knew what grief looked like herself; she could not fail to recognize it in another.

And as for Raoul . . .

He was nearly perfect. An adoring father, a gentle master, and a kind husband, the Comte de Chagny seemed ill-matched to his quiet and occasionally even melancholy wife. It was clear that he was devoted to her; it was just as clear, to the eyes of Caron and Marie, that though Christine regarded him as a dear companion, she was not in love with him. This concerned the girls; as a consequence of their role in the family and the unfailing kindness and openness of Raoul and Christine, they had both come to regard the de Chagnys as surrogate family. After a time, of course, they had learned enough to suspect the truth binding this strange little family together, but those suspicions were never spoken of.

Indeed, looking at Raoul and Charles now—following Christine into the finished snow-house, all three laughing with the pure joy of being outdoors—it was impossible to believe that they might not be father and son.

Caron glanced across the front yard of the de Chagny estate in time to see Marie gathering a snowball with decidedly suspicious motives. Laughing, she ducked just as the younger girl threw the packed snow; it sailed over her head and thudded into a tree behind Caron. She grinned and began to plan her retaliation, but a sound coming from the snow-house made her pause.

Music. A familiar clear, high child's voice singing a melody that managed to be both sweet and terribly sad at the same moment. There was silence for a moment, then Christine appeared, tears running down her cheeks. Concerned, Marie and Caron stepped closer, but she waved them off and stumbled, weeping, into the shallower part of the woods. Raoul emerged from the snow-cave next, holding a worried-looking Charles. Giving the boy into his nurses' care, the Comte de Chagny followed his wife and left Caron, Marie, and Charles looking at each other in bewilderment. "What happened?" Caron asked finally, kneeling down to look at Charles eye-to-eye. "We heard your song—it was beautiful."

Charles shrugged, the worried look not leaving his eyes. "Mama cried when she heard it," he pointed out unnecessarily. "She sings it around the house sometimes when she isn't paying attention . . ." The boy stared after his parents, then gave an unconvincing shrug. "I think I want to go back into the snow-house for a while," he told his nurses quietly.

"Do you want us to come with you?" Marie asked.

"No," Charles replied, eyeing the woods. "No, I think I would like to be alone." They nodded and watched as the small boy made his way back into the little snow-house, then turned to each other and sighed.

"I wonder what that was about?" Marie murmured.

Looking towards the place where Christine and Raoul had disappeared, Caron shrugged. "I wish I knew."