A/N: I know…a really short chapter after the long wait, but it will inspire me to finish the next chapter…and hopefully you dear readers will help as well. :) This chapter was written over several weeks on a bus going around Europe (also explaining where I've been for so long), and I hope it lives up to my previous standards.

In other news, everyone should go see V for Vendetta, my newest favorite movie.

Chapter 27

Courage

"Artists use lies to tell the truth." – V for Vendetta

Christine's unconscious was not happy. She had fainted almost immediately after the carriage wheels had begun moving, and her shattered nerves and grief-stricken mind were doing a marvelously melodramatic dance in her head. She could feel the cloying fumes of Dr. Fell's potions rising in her consciousness. She had lost count of how many times over weeks and weeks that her body had relaxed and her mind shaken blissfully free as she lay upon the couch in his study or pressed her delighted face into the blossoms of his magnificent garden.

The drugs were meant to help her relax, he had said, to allow her to talk freely of the things that mattered the most. Now, she realized that the drugs had never truly left her body. She groaned as the carriage dipped into particularly deep pothole and realized that images were floating through her mind, sharp and crystal-clear and she knew that she did not know which ones were real and which were not. She also knew that if she were ever to ask Dr. Fell, he would not tell her. He was such a sneaky person, such a stealthy, conspiring savior...

The blackness parted in her mind to let her see the candles burning brightly in the corner of her eyes. They made colorful swirls in her vision as she passed them by. Erik's back faced her from where he sat at the organ. He was playing something, his brow furrowed in concentration as his head swayed back and forth. Something seemed very familiar about the situation. She felt her feet lead her on a remembered path.

No, she tried to tell herself, no, this was how everything fell apart. But her hand reached forward and tore the mask away.

Raoul's face looked back at her with an expression of terrible sadness. She took a step back. "No... no, it wasn't you that I hurt, it wasn't you." His mouth opened and closed soundlessly but she could hear his words in her head.

Christine, my angel... my darling...

She shook her head furiously. "No. Don't say that. I don't deserve your forgiveness." For the face that she thought to be fraught with sadness was rather filled with compassion. "Why did you have to be so noble all the way until the end? Why could I not hate you…why could you not have made this decision easier?" Nothing. "It's your fault!" she screeched. "If you had never come back into my life, none of this would have happened!" She continued yelling, screaming, and cutting with anything that might tear that burning compassion from his face.

Failing, she reached up to cover his eyes and the face came away with her hand. The skin of his cheeks dried and fell from her grasp like cobwebs.

She looked up to see her father this time. She only sighed. "I know it's not you, Papa. It was never you."

And she knew even before he did it that he would only reach up obediently and peel his face away. It made her feel empty inside. But at the next face that appeared, her blood ran cold.

Dr. Fell stared back at her, his dark eyes glowing red as Hell. His voice felt like velvet scraping over the dry bones in her head.

Your fiancé seems to care so much for you, little singing starling. Yet he entrusts your care to the Devil.

Christine fought the chill rising in her chest. "You are no demon, sir."

His sigh was like winter rattling through trees. He raised his left hand so that she could see what he held in his fingers. The blade was small, barely longer than his little finger, but its wicked edge shone silver and what did not gleam was stained with deep crimson blood. She felt sucked into the center of his red eyes, and as she passed through, she trembled as the pit of her stomach coiled with a feeling that she thought must be nausea. But instead of bile, she tasted a mixture of rich wine and coppery, greasy despair. The taste seemed familiar to her.

She felt wrenched to one side as the red pressing in around her dissolved in a shower of bright sparks. When the light from the sparks dimmed, she could see Erik, smiling behind his mask as he gestured to something standing before him.

As she approached him, she saw that it was an unfinished marble statue of a woman. Her hands flew to her mouth as she saw the face. It was like looking into a mirror. She half expected the marble lips to move with hers. But Erik was speaking now and her attention, as always, was drawn inexorably to his voice.

This is my work as of yet. Such a beautiful young girl, but look, can you not see the sadness in her eyes? To make her happy, I have carved her some wings to help her fly. You see? I will free her from this earthly stone.

Lifting the hammer and chisel, he struck a mighty blow to a ragged edge of marble. Crying aloud with pain, Christine covered her eyes as more sparks burst in her vision.

When she opened her eyes again, he was standing beside her and they were moving. His body was so stiff next to hers as they walked side by side. She looked at his rigid posture, his tightly clenched fists, all the way up to his expressionless mask. She had never wanted to hold them so much as she did at that moment.

What if what he says is true?

She shook her head. "My heart tells me that you live still."

Has your heart not betrayed you before? She looked down and could not speak. Can you live with yourself, knowing that you destroyed Raoul in your failed attempt to save me?

Tears fell from her eyes, winking like diamonds. "Why must you be so cruel?"

We always hurt the ones that we love. The last word made a gurgling sound in his throat before escaping his lips, and Christine looked down to see the gaping bullet wound in his chest.

Her scream ripped through the scene like a black knife and then she was surrounded once again by cold, cruel darkness.

Christine woke to a sharp pain in her palm. She had been holding Erik's ring so tightly that the gold had carved a bleeding red half-moon into the flesh of her hand.

The carriage had stopped, and she opened the door with trepidation. The carriage driver was standing by the door and held out her hand to help her down. He drew it back as she flinched, trembling and paler even than her dress. She pretended not to notice the long look of curiosity that he clearly tried to hide.

Then before she could react, the driver had taken her hand in his. She blinked as he placed her string of pearls back into her palm. When she looked up, intending to protest, he merely shook his head and closed her hand around the necklace. "I wish you luck, mademoiselle. He would be a foolish man indeed if he rejected you." And he tipped his hat and left her standing on the gravel footpath.

Buoyed by this unexpected kindness, Christine drew herself up and knocked upon the door.

She had been prepared for one of the many maids or butlers. Instead, the door opened almost immediately and she found herself looking up at the lady of the house. Cassandra had been in the midst of preparing for bed for it was well approaching midnight. She wore a white nightgown woven simply of cotton and silk, and as Christine in her exquisite finery looked up into the older woman's face, she felt as awkward and gawkish as she had been the first time they had met in her dressing room.

Cassandra was regarding her with an expression that seemed torn between surprise and joy but settled finally for a pleasant smile. It was a welcoming smile, so Christine stepped over the threshold without hesitation when she gestured her to enter. The front door shut with a cold click of hinges.

After a few moments, Christine couldn't stand the silence and began wringing her hands. "Do you know why I'm here?" she said at last.

"I would rather not assume," Cassandra replied quietly.

"I was told something today... something rather distressing, about what happened underneath the Opera on that night." She was twisting Erik's gold ring around her thumb – she had gotten so thin that it would no longer fit on any other finger – and she knew that Cassandra could see it.

"Yes…the two of you nearly died," Cassandra replied quietly.

"I was speaking of Erik."

"So was I."

Christine blinked in surprise and then set her jaw. "What happened when you reached the lake?"

"I saw no one. I believe that I told Raoul and yourself as much in the carriage afterwards."

Something inside of her snapped. "Do not tell me this if it is not true!" she cried. Cassandra's expression did not change and Christine wished fervently that she could know what her mysterious friend was thinking as easily as Cassandra seemed to be able to read her. More than anything, she wanted her to deny the accusation.

Instead, Cassandra set the lamp that she had been holding down upon a nearby table. "What has Raoul told you?" she said at last.

"Only that Erik was…that he was…" she broke down. "Please, Cassandra, please tell me what you saw."

"He did not lie to you: The Opera Ghost is dead."

A year ago, Christine would have tumbled over the brink of despair and burst into tears. Now, however, she saw that the carefully-schooled blank expression had never left Cassandra's face, and her grief was replaced by frustration. "Why must you constantly speak in riddles? Yourself and your husband as well. Why can you not simply tell me what I so desperately need to know?"

Cassandra's face now showed a trace of admiration. "I want to make this very clear, Christine. My husband and I both love you dearly. We see in you the daughter we never had and never will have. We will always do everything within our power to help you. But there is much about us that society does not know and much that we never want them to know. And you are no exception. Let it only be said that I have learned that forgiveness is possible for anybody.

"We speak indirectly because that is what we have become accustomed to for living. And we have come to realize that is what they want to hear…few are ever ready for the truth. I will not give you a straight answer now because that would cheapen the importance of the answer that you desire. Do you understand what I am saying?"

Christine twisted the ring around her finger once more. "What do you want from me?" she asked finally in a small voice.

Cassandra smiled and said, "Courage." At this, she touched the dark spot on her left cheek that Christine had always thought to be a birthmark. "And you have shown more than enough of that tonight. But I find if I ever need courage, I go into my husband's study on the first floor. He doesn't use it much anymore and I find that it is easy to lose myself in one of his many books."

At this, Christine smiled nervously. This was one riddle that needed no translation. When it was clear that Cassandra had said all that she meant to say, Christine nodded once at her and then turned to walk down the hallway, treading the familiar path to Dr. Fell's study.

Back in the entrance hall, Clarice took up the lamp and began ascending to the second floor. Once she was sure that Christine was out of earshot, she took the steps two at a time.

Back in the entrance hall, the last bit of lamplight glowed upon a pair of maroon eyes watching from the darkness. They winked out as the owner turned away, lips turned up in an invisible smile.

Christine had envisioned their reunion more times than she could remember and certainly more times than she cared to admit. There were always tears and caresses, the fear and awe of finally opening herself to this intense, enigmatic man and receiving his surrender in return. Their relationship had been built on so much deception…she found herself realizing even now that she had received Cassandra's hopeful revelation with barely more than a little surprise.

Now she planned on telling him the entire truth, even if she had to tie him down in order to do so. She owed him at least that much. And then…she would let him make the final choice.

She expected to find him perusing music or asleep or perhaps, in her most fanciful moments, standing ready, waiting for her. As it turned out, Christine opened the study door to find him with his back to her, sliding a book back onto a shelf as casually as if he had lived here all the days of his life. The book was Dante's Divine Comedy.

But when she stepped into the room and her long train brushed against the half-open door, he turned around and went so still that she thought she might have imagined his movement. But he was looking at her and looking around her and through her before he closed his eyes, a long slow pause as he veiled himself from the sight before him, and then reopened them.

The first thing she noticed was that she was seeing fear in his eyes for only the second time. The second thing she noticed was that he was wearing a shirt that she had never seen before; one sleeve ended above his elbow, and he quickly moved his arm behind his back.

He moved forward with slow hesitant steps, as if afraid that she was still but a vision, and his nervousness was an emotion new to her. His voice was as she had remembered it, though stripped of something that she could not name.

"Christine," he said. "My angel…my darling…"

An unidentified emotion surged through her as those words broke upon her, and she felt her hand swing out, her left hand, for she did not want to cut him with the ring, and she struck him hard across the face. It was only after she heard and felt her palm connect with bare skin that she noticed that he was not wearing his mask.