Hmm, what can I say about this chapter? I love the first scene, it gives such insight into the Phantom and Mme Giry's relationship, along with lovely Phantom angst.

Preparations

The Phantom pulled another piece of paper out of the chest on the floor in front of him. He held it up, studying the drawing with a critical eye. In going through the sketches he had created over the years, he had come to the conclusion he had drawn too many damn ballerinas. Now of course, that was becoming all the rage, with that Degas fellow loitering around the Paris theaters. He tossed the sketch onto a pile of items to be left behind and withdrew another one from the chest.

Ah, now Cecilié might like to have this one. Done in color, it was her in her prime, probably about age seventeen, balanced on pointe with one leg raised high, arms outstretched. Her partner, Maxim Giry, supported her from behind. The Phantom hadn't thought of the late Max Giry in years. Sighing, he threw the drawing onto the refuse pile. Seeing the picture would probably only bring back bad memories for Cecilié.

Come to think of it, the Phantom's memories of that period of his life were not so wonderful either. Those first few years he had still had hope, hope that had been repeatedly dashed until nothing remained of it. Or so he had thought until Christine. He rubbed at his face then sneezed as the dust on his hands tickled his nose.

Cecilié stuck her head out of the bedchamber where she was packing up Christine's clothes. "Tell me you are not coming down with a cold on the day before your wedding, Erik."

"I swear I am not, it's only dust," he told her, feeling a smile tug at his lips. She disappeared into the other room again, and he removed another drawing from the stack inside the chest. He felt his heart stop as he looked at it. It was one of the first drawings he had ever made of Christine, perhaps done before he had even worked up the courage to talk to her from behind the walls.

It was a pastel again, a portrait of seven-year-old Christine kneeling in the chapel by the light of a single candle. The candle only illuminated a small area around her, but the details of her face and hair were rich. Her brown eyes gazed toward heaven, each individual eyelash painstakingly drawn.

In the shadows at the edge of the candlelight, the Phantom had drawn an angel, the shape of his wings barely hinted at, outlined by a soft ethereal glow. He appeared to be watching over Christine as she prayed, behind her, out of sight.

A wealth of emotions bubbled up inside the Phantom, and he closed his eyes against the burn of tears. The face of the angel was not his; he had copied one of the pre-Raphaelite angels from the chapel walls. Even in a picture no one would see but him, he had not felt worthy of her.

Setting the drawing aside, he leaned his head in his hands. These should be the happiest moments of his life. Why, then, did he feel such turmoil when he thought of Christine becoming his wife?

The rustle of skirts signaled Cecilié's approach. "Erik? Are you sure you are not ill?" He heard her drag a chair over to where he sat on the ground. Taking a seat, she rested her hand on his shoulder. "What is the matter? You act like you are anticipating a funeral rather than a wedding. Isn't this what you wanted?"

He ran a hand over his head, feeling scraggly hair and scarred, uneven skin. "I don't think I've ever known what I wanted. I just…wanted." He pulled his knees up, wrapping his arms loosely around them. "Tell me something, Cecilié, why did you ever allow me near Christine? I was not entirely sane at that moment in my life, you knew that."

Letting out a long sigh, she fingered the cross hanging around her neck. "I didn't know what else to do. Meg was so sick the year Christine came to live here, and it was my first season as ballet mistress. I had to take care of Meg and the dancers and worry about choreography. I couldn't give Christine the love and attention she needed, and she was making herself ill, pining for her father."

The Phantom's laugh was a sharp bark that echoed through the lair. "You must have been truly desperate to see me as a solution."

She shrugged. "Perhaps. Even though very few words passed between us then, I could see you dying inside a little more every day, the same with Christine. I thought the two of you might save each other. I was right, wasn't I?"

He considered that for a moment, then silently conceded that she had been. "Did you ever think it would turn out like this?" He gestured at the moving trunks scattered throughout the lair.

Cecilié shook her head. "No. I thought you would have revealed yourself to Christine long before you did."

He looked away from her, his gaze falling on the angel that was not him. "I was afraid," he finally said, his voice low. "I am still afraid."

Her fingers tightened on his shoulder. "Of what?"

"Christine looks into my darkness and sees only light. I am afraid one day she will look at me and see the truth."

"Did you ever consider that it is Christine's vision that is true and yours that is distorted?" Cecilié asked gently.

Her words took his breath away, and he spent a moment simply trying to breathe before the tears started to fall. When they did, he couldn't stop them. He buried his face in his arms to hide them from Cecilié, but the sobs shuddering through him made the attempt futile.

The fabric of her dress made a crinkling noise as she knelt beside him, her arm going around his shoulders. He resisted at first, but she wouldn't let go. Finally, he gave in and leaned his head against her chest. "I'm sorry, Cecilié, I'm so sorry for everything I put you through. You always cared about me, no matter how many hateful things I did or said. You were a good sister to me, and I, I have been the most horrible of brothers."

"Shh," she murmured, "shh." She stroked his hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "Do not take all the blame on yourself, Erik. We were both children; we both made mistakes. I wasn't strong enough. I couldn't give you the kind of love you needed."

Despite the years that had passed, despite the love he shared with Christine, he still felt the pain of that long ago moment when he had truly believed he would be spending the rest of his life alone. The sobs overwhelmed him again, and he cried his last tears for poor, lonely, unloved Erik, the boy in the cage.

Christine entered the lair to find her Angel seated at the organ. She watched as he played a few measures from several different pieces of music then either tossed the manuscript into a trunk at the side of the organ or stacked it on top of the instrument. Coming up behind him, she slid her arms over his shoulders, hugging him. All the tension seemed to flow out of him and he leaned back against her, making a pleased little noise. Catching hold of her hands, he brought them to his lips and kissed her fingertips. "How goes the rehearsing?" he asked. "Will tomorrow night be another of La Carlotta's disasters?"

She sat down on the bench next to him. "I should hope not–as I will be singing the role of Adelia. La Carlotta had an unfortunate accident this afternoon–"

"I'd nothing to do with it," he said quickly. "I've been here all day. Cecilié will vouch for me."

Christine laughed. "I know you didn't." She turned slightly toward him and took her first good look at his face. "Angel? What's the matter? You've been crying…." His green eyes were red-rimmed, his lashes still damp. She reached up to touch his face, brushing the back of her fingers over his cheek. He closed his eyes, letting out a long sigh.

"Memories, that's all. Sorting through all this–" he waved his hand to encompass the disarray of his home "–brought back some unpleasant memories. Nothing for you to worry about."

"But I do. I love you so much, Angel, and I know there are things you've never told me, things I know will hurt me to hear, and will hurt you to say." She rested her hand on the back of his neck, her thumb stroking over his skin. "But I want you to know there is nothing you can ever say that will change the way I feel about you, save perhaps that you do not love me."

He looked into her eyes for a long moment, his lips twitching but no sound coming out. Finally, he said, "You will never hear those words come from me, Christine. For me to stop loving you would mean that I had ceased breathing. I need you like the air. You are my strength, you're the reason I'm able to do this at all, to even consider living up there." His gaze strayed to the ceiling then returned to her. "And perhaps someday, when I am stronger, and more secure in myself, and know that your love is not a dream, I will tell you those things that you want to know. But I can't now. I'm sorry."

She kissed him then, kissed his forehead, his eyelids, tasted the remnants of his tears. She kissed both cheeks and his nose, finally brushing her lips against his. His arms tightened around her, and he let out a low moan before releasing her. She smiled at him, her hand sliding down his chest. "I am not a dream, Angel."

Inhaling deeply as he caught hold of her hand before it wandered into dangerous territory, the Phantom said, "You were saying something about Carlotta and an unfortunate accident?"

Christine giggled. "I shouldn't laugh, I know, but you had promised you would do nothing to her, and then something happened anyway. Apparently she was teasing her doggies, making them jump for treats. One of them bit her on the nose. It swelled up like an orange, and she can hardly breathe, let alone sing. I feel horrible, taking her place."

He kissed her temple. "It's only for one performance. After Friday night, Carlotta will never have to worry about you stealing her limelight again."

"True. Though I am afraid my taking over for her means I will be rehearsing tomorrow almost until the hour of our wedding." She frowned, feeling tears spring to her eyes. "I wanted to be the most beautiful bride for you and now I will be lucky if I have time to change into my wedding dress."

The Phantom slid his arm around her, drawing her close enough for her to rest her cheek against his shoulder. "You will always be beautiful to me, Christine, even if you were to marry me in rags."

She laughed softly. "You are more the romantic fool than I am, I think sometimes." Christine lifted her head to look into his eyes. "That is one of the many reasons I love you." She kissed his cheek. "Now, will you join me for supper before I have to go back to rehearsal?"

"Of course," he answered.

Cecilié separated Christine's hair into several sections, then gathering one section, she began to twist it round her head, pinning it in place as she went. Christine's fingers drummed on the top of the vanity. "Oh, what time is it?" she asked again.

"Not even ten o'clock," the older woman answered. "You have plenty of time."

Christine scrunched up her face as Cecilié poked her scalp with a hairpin. "I'm not dressed yet! If I'm late I'm afraid my Angel will think I've deserted him."

"Oh, Christine," Meg spoke up from where she was setting out Christine's wedding dress, "he loves you so much. He'll wait if you're a few moments late. He knows we had rehearsal."

"I know, I know, but—" A sharp knock on the dressing room door interrupted her. "Who could that be? Everyone should be going home."

"Meg, come finish this," Cecilié said to her daughter. "I'll send whoever it is away."

Once Meg had taken over with Christine's hair, the ballet mistress moved to the dressing room door, turning the key in the lock and opening it just enough so she could peer out. The Vicomte de Chagny stood in the hallway, his expression nervous.

"I must speak with Christine," he said loudly.

Cecilié heard Christine gasp, and she stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind her. "Haven't you done enough, Monsieur? After the way you behaved, Christine does not wish to set eyes on you again!" she hissed.

"Please, Madame Giry," he pleaded. "I must see her. I must apologize for my behavior the other night. I was not myself." He looked at the floor and shuffled his feet like a small boy.

"Grow up, Vicomte. She spurned your offer and you acted like the lowest animal in return. Christine wants nothing from you other than to leave her alone. So leave." She turned to go back into the dressing room but he laid his hand on her arm.

"Please, I am afraid for Christine. She has been acting very strangely ever since…" he left the sentence incomplete.

"Since you killed her Angel?" Cecilié finished for him. "What did you expect, Vicomte?"

Again he could not meet her eyes, his gaze off down the hall toward the stage. "I did not expect her to start throwing herself at strangers. There are men out there who would take advantage of her. She needs protecting. I swore I would be her guardian, I would keep her safe even if she does not love me."

Cecilié shook her head. "Leave it alone, sir. You have—" She never got a chance to finish her sentence.

The door to the dressing room flew back with a loud bang. Christine appeared in the opening in her dressing gown, her hair still only partially pinned up. She strode up to Raoul, raised her left hand and slapped his face. "Leave me alone!" she screamed, preparing to strike the stunned Vicomte a second time.

Cecilié grabbed her hand and wrapped her other arm around the furious girl, holding her back. "Christine! Control yourself!"

"Why? He didn't the other night!" She struggled in Cecilié's grip, straining toward Raoul. "After tomorrow, I will be gone from here and will no longer have to look upon your face!" Meg appeared from behind Cecilié and took hold of Christine's other arm. Together they began to wrestle her back into the dressing room. She spat in his direction.

"Please, Vicomte! Leave! Now!" Eyes wide with shock at Christine's behavior, Raoul turned and walked swiftly away.

Closing and locking the dressing room door, Cecilié turned to Meg and Christine, both of whom were collapsed on the floor, howling with laughter. She rolled her eyes heavenward. "Mon Dieu!" Clapping her hands together, she said, "Pull yourselves together, girls, or Christine will truly be late for her wedding!"

There was no time now for anything elaborate. Cecilié simply pulled Christine's hair back from her face in a twist, pinning it in place with several jeweled clips. She and Meg helped Christine into her wedding dress.

They were just getting into their cloaks when there was another knock on the door. Cecilié opened it to find Dr. Jarred standing there, a bouquet of red roses in his hand. "Tristan?"

He gave a low bow. "Your carriage awaits, miladies. I have been sent to see you make it to the church on time. Erik was a bit worried." He looked around the room at the chaos. "I can't possibly imagine why."

Entering, he crossed to Christine and presented the roses to her. A black satin ribbon was tied around the dozen stems. "Your groom sends his love."

"Oh, Angel," she whispered, burying her nose in the blooms, her eyes sparkling with tears. She wiped at her eyes then said, "Let us hurry. I don't want to keep my Angel waiting."

Up next, the Phantom and Christine's wedding.