A/N- Antoinette gives Erik the middle name of "Monet" which, in French, means "solitary."

Chapter Five – Escapees, Martyrs, and Liars

Paris 1874

Christine

"Christine?" Meg asks me as we peruse the shops in the center of Paris. I am busy ogling over a glorious necklace in the Swarovski shop window set in white gold and do not hear Meg's question. "Christine Daaè!"

"What?" I respond angrily at her harsher tone. "I'm a little busy!" I say, somewhat sarcastically, motioning to the necklace.

"Don't you think they'll notice?" The last two weeks have been torture for Meg, knowing that she will pull off one of the greatest scandals in Parisian Society in years. "I mean, I look nothing like you and…" I press a gloved finger to her lips.

"Hush, my dear Meg. Everything will be fine. By the time they realize you're not me I'll be long gone." Meg's eyes widen in confusion, maybe fear.

"But…" she complains in protest, but I interrupt, moving my hands to her arms, holding tight.

"I'm leaving Paris, Meg. There is nothing here for me. The minute you are safe in the chapel I am gone."

"Christine!" She begs, angered with me.

"Meg, my sweet, do not argue. My mind is set. I am leaving." Meg whimpers softly and throws herself into my arms, crying onto my shoulder. "Please, Meg, don't cry. Please don't. Do not make this more difficult than it already is!"

"Where will you go? What will you do? You certainly wouldn't do anything disgraceful, Christine Emmanuelle Daaè!" She looks at me sternly, much like her mother.

"I won't do anything I will regret, but that's not to say the things I do will not be disgraceful." I am telling the truth. There is no telling what lies ahead for me once I abandon Paris.

"Christine, you horrid thing! I'll tell my mother, I will!" Meg puts her hands on her hips, staring fiercely at me.

"Please, Meg, no! You cannot tell a soul that I'm leaving Paris!" I reply viciously. "Really, Meg. I have to do this alone and I cannot have anyone meddling in my affairs. You must set your mind on your task, and that is to marry the Marquis of Luxembourg." Tears form in Meg's entrancing blue eyes, cascading down her face in silent streams.

"But where will I find you? I need to find you one day, Christine! It's been too long to just say farewell now!" Meg cries ever more.

"We do not have to say our goodbyes now, my dear. I don't know where I will go, but once I am safe I will contact you somehow." I kiss her forehead tenderly. "I need you to understand, Meg. Here," I draw a few notes of money out of my cloak. "Take it." I force it into her hands, closing her fingers around it.

"I couldn't…" she protests.

"Please, Meg. Take it. Buy something nice for your first child for me." I smile gently at her and feel myself in her embrace again. Stroking her tousled blonde locks, I whisper, "It's okay, Meg. You'll be all right. We're going to make it through this and we're both going to be fine," but I feel like I'm lying. I still do not know where I will run to, with whom I will seek refuge. The mere thought of wandering alone brings tears to my eyes, but I must do it for my own sake. Paris holds too many painful memories.

We complete our shopping and return to the van Ellsworth Mansion where I've been staying since my time at Chagny has been terminated along with my title. The mansion is completely deserted when Meg and I arrive. Gaston I know to be on a short retreat with a few friends, but Madame… "Where's your mother?"

"She's…out," Meg responds quietly. "She's visiting a friend." Her voice stumbles over the words and I look at her skeptically.

"What friend would call on her on a Sunday evening? Surely nobody we know…" I question her.

"She's visiting a friend, okay?" Meg snaps, sounding a bit like a bitch taken from her pups. "You need not know the name." I cast my gaze to the ground. Never before has Meg spoken this way with me and it chills me to the core. "She should be returning soon."

As if on cue, Madame walks through the door. "Girls! I didn't know you'd be home this early!"

"I didn't know you'd be home this late," Meg replies rudely. "Did Erika keep you?" she asks.

Madame blushes a little and stutters, "Um, yes, she did keep me a little later than usual."

"Than usual?" I ask. "You've never visited someone named Erika before! What's her last name? Where's she from? Who is her…"

"Christine, you will get yourself in trouble for being this inquisitive," Madame reprimands me, cutting short the conversation. However, I'm beginning to think that there is no Erika. Rather, there is a man meant not to be mentioned, a man I've sinned over my fair share of times.

Erik

The daylight burns my eyelids, but I must do this. Antoinette has not visited for days now, and I am beginning to worry for her. I have decided against wearing my normal costume of full black, just in case there is another presence in the van Ellsworth Mansion besides Antoinette and myself ready to decipher my true identity, but I still wear my fedora bent low over my face to cover my mask. I turn down the lane and find myself on the grand doorstep of her home.

I rap on the wood impatiently and proceed to tap my toe as I wait. Within moments, the door creaks open and I am standing mere feet from Christine. She cannot see my mask, I know, but I am aware that she feels intimidated. "Excuse me, Mademoiselle. I am here to see Madame van Ellsworth." I remind myself not to call her Antoinette, as nobody calls her that but me, her husband, and close family, and Christine must not know who I am.

"Oh," Christine stutters, "of course, Monsieur. Right this way." She beckons for me to follow her and I do, shutting the door in my wake. Christine leads me through a few large rooms before reaching the door to a sitting room. "Wait here," she orders, turning to the door. "Madame? There is a Monsieur…"

"Destler," I say, remembering the name of one of the stagehands at the Opera Populaire many years before.

"…a Monsieur Destler here to see you." Antoinette appears at the doorway beside Christine and her eyes widen at the sight of me.

"Of course, Monsieur Destler! I'll speak with you in the East Lounge, if you will. Christine, best get to your tea before it cools, dear." My angel nods and, after curtsying politely to me, hurries off into the sitting room where I see Meg already positioned on a little lounge chair.

I am jolted back to earth as Antoinette grabs my hand sharply and drags me off into another lounge. Closing the door forcefully behind her, she turns to me. "Erik! How dare you call on me at home? Do you realize that you could've been recognized? By my Christine, nonetheless! Who do you think yourself to be, a common man who can waltz around to estates like our own without a thought in his head?" Her eyes are alight with fury.

"Antoinette, I did not mean to cause you or Christine any harm. On the contrary, I was worried for you. You haven't visited me in days and it's not like you." I reprimand the woman sternly, sounding much like businessman whose employee did not show up for work.

"Erik, I am a grown woman and I am quite capable of taking care of myself. I would've sent word with Meg if anything had happened. And if you must know, I could not visit you for the sake of your anonymity. Christine nearly found out that I've been visiting you when I arrived home late from my last visit. In fact, I think she does know. But it's best to keep this secret." Pausing for a moment, she adds, "You must leave."

I am hit by a bolt of brilliance and I say to her, "Antoinette, allow me to stay for tea with Meg and Christine. They need not know who I am. I can disguise my voice just as well, and the hat hides all."

"Erik, you must think my girls fools. They will certainly question your hat and your choice to position it across your face. They are not dull girls, Erik." I see in her for the moment the stern dance instructor she once was and it produces a smile on my face, a very rare one at that.

"Please, Antoinette. You have no idea what good it'd do me." She rolls her eyes, her hands on her hips.

"Erik, I am soon going to regret the day I saved you from that gypsy circus." I stand up and put a hand on her arm.

"Don't regret it, Antoinette. My life would've been a hell either way, so it doesn't matter in the slightest." She smacks me like I am a child. "What was that for?" I roar at her.

"Don't you go making me pity you, Erik. 'A hell either way!' You make yourself sound like a martyr." Antoinette replies rudely.

"Maybe I am one." Antoinette snorts and leads me off to the sitting room where Meg and Christine reside.

"Girls, I'd like you to meet Monsieur Erik Monet Destler. He's a close friend of Gaston's from years past." I nod to Antoinette for her kind, but false, introduction as Christine and Meg stand to greet me. "Erik, the blonde is my daughter Marguerite and the brunette is nearly my daughter. Her name is Christine." Both girls curtsy to me, and I take each of their hands in turn and press a kiss to their knuckles. When I take Christine's hand, I feel a slight shiver running through her, but she does well to hide it. I sense her brown-eyed gaze on me as I sit in one of the recliners and remove my cape.

"Monsieur Destler," Meg asks, "would you not like to remove your hat as well?" Curses to the girl! She damn well knows my identity and yet she asks such a naïve question.

"I prefer not to, Mademoiselle Marguerite," I reply kindly, taking all measures to restrain myself from striking her across the face for her blatant stupidity.

"What is your profession, Monsieur?" Christine asks, her voice, though rough from years of disuse, is still intoxicating to me.

I pause to collect my thoughts and reply, "I am an architect by profession, but I compose music in my spare time though there is precious little of it." Christine nods in approval, still eyeing me closely. Meg and Antoinette exchange nervous glances while Christine is watching me and the whole room is silent for a few long moments.

"What types of music do you compose?" Meg questions me, making an effort to start some conversation.

"I've composed many a requiem and aria in my day, but I've written a few scores for operas when I've had long stretches of inspiration." Antoinette seems intrigued with my nearly-effortless lies. True, I compose music, but I must hide most of the truth from Christine.

"You know, Erik," Antoinette starts, "Christine used to sing in the opera. Did you not, my dear?" Christine shoots Antoinette a rude and angered glance, then turns to me.

"I sang once or twice," she admits.

"Christine, really," Meg chuckles, "you didn't just sing once or twice! You were the Prima Donna, the star!"

"Were you really?" I question my beauty, sounding utterly interested as though I have not heard this before. I can see in Christine's eyes that she does not like the direction our conversation is heading in, but she nods anyway, meekly, of course, but she nods. "In what operas?"

Christine starts to look a little uneasy. "I sang in Hannibal as well as another, though it is not well-known and has not been performed since."

It is Antoinette's turn to lie furiously, though Christine is not aware that I know of her untruthfulness. "It was a simple opera written by a member of the company. It was a failure, to say the least." If this were any other situation, I'd feel great remorse for Antoinette's insults of my masterpiece, but she has good reason. It seems as though lies are becoming more and more acceptable in this home. Christine lies. Meg does not hold a promise to maintain my anonymity fully. Antoinette tells complete untruths to Christine, my darling Christine. And I have been a liar for as long as I can possibly remember. It is unusual, as Antoinette is usually a very pure person.

By the time I depart, Christine seems to be doing all she can not to fall in a dead faint on the floor. I am nearly certain that she does not know of my identity, but my similar looks to the Phantom she knows must bring a chill to her spine. I kiss each lady's hand before I leave the mansion, then I walk down the lane alone in the oncoming darkness, snow drifting down upon me. A few hundred paces away, I glance back and see a face at one of the top windows, a pale face amidst a mass of unruly hair; my angel now watches over me.