Christine leapt from the boat prematurely, thoroughly soaking the hem of her gown. Her mind did not have time to be alarmed by the icy water. She did not have time.
Shouts were clearly audible now, as were the sounds of the house being steadily demolished. Christine's hands fumbled with the hidden mechanism that revealed the door. Erik's hands never fumbled. They were always calm and graceful as they flew across ivory piano keys; gentle as they barely touched her face. . .
'Touch me, trust me, savor each sensation. . .'
The only time Erik's hands seemed lost had been in their kiss. In that passionate embrace it was she who was in control, her hands that guided his head towards her mouth. And yet how much trouble her delicate little hands had caused as they swiftly tore the mask from his face. . . twice. She'd committed the ultimate betrayal when she revealed his horrible visage to the eyes of Paris. How could she have been so cruel?
'Christine, Christine, why? Why?'
She almost laughed at herself. She had hurt Erik in so many ways and left him alone to die, yet she tried to return to him. How could he want her anymore? But she remembered his eyes at their parting, eyes full of unspoken emotion: love, yearning, and immeasurable sorrow. Perhaps the love remained . .
Finally the door appeared from a great piece of concrete wall. Christine's heart burned as she gazed upon the destruction the mob had wrought. This house, in which he had retreated from the cruel world above. . .his home. . .and now. . .now the world had found it. Anything that could possibly be out of place was. Furniture lay overturned; strips of papers littered the floor; jagged shards glass sparkled dangerously. Christine watched as one man cut into the wallpaper to strip it away. Her stomach churned at the atrocities before her. Animals, all of them. Each had completely lost his mind in search of the Opera Ghost.
Amid the chaos was Meg, leaning against Erik's throne with the mask in hand. Her eyes never left the sculpted porcelain. Christine rushed to her side, hoping to dodge the mob's recognition. Not one head turned. They were so caught up in searching for her that they failed to see her right before their eyes.
"Meg, Meg, tell me, have they found him?" Christine grabbed her friend's arm urgently.
Meg lifted her face to Christine's, eyes wide, "Merciful God, you're alive!"
"Hush!" Christine hissed. "I don't want the others to hear. Now tell me, did they find him?"
"I thought you were dead. The minute you disappeared with him off the stage, I thought you were gone forever. We all did. Oh, Christine, how did you escape? And Raoul! Is he hurt? I don't understand!"
"Raoul is fine, at least in body. I will explain everything, I promise, but now you must answer me. Have they found him?"
Meg shook her head, "No. He's vanished, just like a real ghost."
Christine raised a fist to her mouth, "God in heaven, there is still hope."
"I still don't understand at all. . ."
"I can't now, Meg. Time is against me. I. . .," she stopped suddenly, noticing the mask in Meg's hand. "How did you get that?"
"It was on this chair covered in a cloak," Meg replied, gesturing to chair she'd been leaning against. She watched as Christine lifted the cloak to her cheek tenderly.
"Meg, may I have the mask?" Christine whispered, silent tears cascading down her face. Though taken aback, Meg obeyed. Trembling slightly, Christine clutched both mask and cloak to her chest with ragged breath. Her mind raced: what did this mean? Why would he leave the mask? Never had she known him to be without it. . .
Meg studied her friend. As curious as Christine's actions were, they were not without a great deal of emotion. The desperate way she clung to Erik's belongings led Meg to draw a single conclusion, "You love him, don't you?"
"Am I so easily read tonight?" Christine smiled weakly, and the shadow of a laugh came from her throat. "Both you and Raoul seem to have realized what I feel faster than I ever did."
"So, I'm right then?"
"Yes." Christine whispered. "I love him. . ."
"But, he's done so many terrible things. He's killed!"
"For me!" Christine cried. She lowered her voice hastily, "All that he's done he's done for love of me. I know his crimes, but if only you knew what has been done to him."
"Nothing justifies murder!" Meg hissed.
"Meg, I have to go. . ."
"I can't let you! What if he hurts you? I would never forgive myself."
"He would die sooner than hurt me."
Meg bit her lip, "Oh, Christine, are you sure you know what you're doing?"
"No, but I love him, and nothing can change that. Nothing."
"Then you'd better hurry," Meg said.
Suddenly Christine's face looked unbearably tragic, "I've no idea where to look. I can't very well be search here, but this is the only place I would think to find him. He's a master of illusion, Meg. If he doesn't want to be found, he won't be."
"Certainly he'd want to be found by you."
"Oh, after what I've done to him? I wouldn't blame him for never wanting to see me again," Christine sighed.
Meg touched her arm, "Love is not that fast to die."
Christine absently ran her hand over the smooth white mask. She hated that mask now - it held such painful memories. She was no longer afraid of the twisted face that the mask had once concealed; she only feared losing the man who that face belonged to. She swore to herself that once she found Erik - for she knew in her heart that she had to find him - she would smash the mask before his eyes. Slowly she rose to her feet, "If they ask you about me. . ."
"I will lie horribly," Meg finished.
Christine smiled softly, "Good girl. Goodbye." With a swirling of skirts she fled from the house, ducking her head from curious eyes.
Meg watched her friend's retreating frame and whispered, "May God be with both of you tonight."
Christine stopped once outside the house, glancing around hopelessly. Where could she look? She did not doubt that he was hidden in an ingenious, impossible location. The only thing to do would be to search every corner, every corridor, every box. Every box. . . She had not thought of that before. . .
With fresh hope and determination, Christine pulled her angel's cloak around her shoulders and tucked the mask away. Then up she flew - up the stairs that led to her dressing room, up to the Opera house, up to Box Five. . .
