Happy New Year! Welcome back and thank you so much for your patience. It's been another long break thanks to the holidays, but after a run of marathon nights, here is the (rather long) new instalment. I am very excited about finally reaching this point in the story and eager as always to hear what you think!

Chapter 58 — Daybreak

"First thing tomorrow? Surely he means today... Ah, not again!" Guyon threw up his hands and folded his cards with an offhand shrug. "You really are a lucky devil, fourth straight hand! Pass me those papers, will you, uncle will be looking for them in about, oh," — he glanced at the clock on the mantlepiece and winced — "five hours. When did it get this early?"

"About forty francs ago. That was the last partie, I'm done."

Raoul tossed his own cards to the table over Guyon's and pushed his winnings aside to make space for the latest haul of documents from the governor's office. There were telegrams, notes, even a few private letters. Try as he might, he still could not find it in himself to handle them with Guyon's casual indifference, but they at least these afforded a glimpse beyond the stale news and gossip to which the news-starved papers were reduced.

"Here," he said, "You better check it's all there."

While Guyon checked through the letters, Raoul wheeled his chair around from the card table, and prodded the last of the embers smouldering in the fireplace. The draughty sitting room was starting to feel uncomfortably chilly, for all that it was autumn still. It had to be freezing outside. Where had Christine's mad suitor been hiding out all this time? Surely not at the cemetery… Christine was so certain he had not gone far, yet they had stopped many times outside what she swore used to be his lodgings, and never saw a light.

And now he was back.

Guyon raised the cards in a question, but Raoul shook his head.

"Don't be stupid. If your uncle finds you with that dispatch, it'll be both our necks."

Guyon waved him off. "He is with his mistress, I hardly think he's going to leave a warm bed to turn up here like a schoolmaster in the middle of the night. But all right, never fear, I'll have this lot at the war office by seven and he'll be none the wiser. There is nothing of interest here in any case, only more on Gambetta's army still sitting idle in Orléans."

He cast a curious glance up at Raoul. "What do you make of it? The victory at Orléans was all very well, but it has been a week and more since then; they ought to be marching to our aid with all possible haste by now. What are they waiting for? Christmas?"

"They saw a battle," Raoul was only half-listening. The fire licked the coals lazily, then petered out again. "They're green troops, weary, bloody and confused… It isn't like in the books. And the Prussians will be upon them the moment they venture out."

Guyon flipped through the last of the documents then set them aside. After a moment, he asked, "What's the matter? Don't look so grim, I told you, I'll handle the papers."

"Forget the papers!" Raoul poked the embers until one cracked into sparks, then dropped the poker with a clang and turned to face him. "I cannot believe Andersson turned up here. We haven't seen hide nor hair of him in weeks."

"'We', is it?" Guyon gave a chuckle. "That would be you and Christine, the 'most beautiful voice in Paris'? Who, I could not help noticing, is now wearing your furs."

"Oh, leave off. Christine has nobody to look out for her. And she is family, or near enough."

"Family as in sister or as in—"

"I said, leave off!" Raoul caught himself trying to bolt from the chair, and turned aside in embarrassment from Guyon's startled look. "No more of that, please. Bad enough that I'll have Andersson to deal with tomorrow — today. I need to let Christine know."

"Forgive me," Guyon said seriously. "I did not realise there was still feeling between you."

"Christine is my oldest friend. There will always be feeling between us. That much will never change."

"And Andersson?"

Raoul huffed, "Andersson. That will never change either." He scrubbed his hands over his face tiredly. "Look, I haven't the stomach for this now. No doubt Andersson means to accuse me of some fresh sins and I'd like to have an hour's sleep before he tries to blow my brains out. And Christine is performing tomorrow."

Guyon shrugged. "Perhaps he means to thank you for taking such good care of her in his absence."

"You're hilarious, Guyon. I shall be sure to recommend you to Pierre Ballard as a first-rate entertainer."

"Mock all you like, but I confess I too am envious of your understanding with Mademoiselle Daaé. She invites you to hear her sing, she accepts your gifts… Whereas Marguerite will take nothing from me but old catalogues from the Salon, and even those she returns. I tell you, I have never met a more frustrating woman to court. And a ballet girl at that!"

"What you mean is that you have finally found one impervious to your tried and tested charms. I wish you would turn them on someone else, Guyon. Madame Giry is not like the ballet mothers you hear about, and she has trouble enough with Christine without a rake like you chasing after her daughter. You're wasting your time."

"I own her mother is formidable. But Meg is… She is more than worth the effort." Guyon smiled suddenly, and looked almost bashful. He nodded towards the wall opposite. "I sent her a painting."

Raoul turned and saw a lighter square among the shadows that announced a missing piece. He could not conceal his incredulity. "You sent her your Rembrandt! Why?"

"She began to copy it when she was here. I imagine she might like to finish it. And, as it is a loan and not a gift, she can hardly reject it." He picked up the packet of documents and stood to go. "Good night, Chagny. Wake me if you need a second."

"A second?"

"Naturally. For that duel with Andersson. It would be much better fun than freezing my tail off on the ramparts."

Raoul watched the door shut behind him. A duel might be a joke to Guyon, and perhaps rightly so, but for his part, Raoul did not in the least feel like laughing. He wished he still had the innocence to play at battle. He looked down at his bad leg, thin and useless under the fabric of his trousers, and recalled Andersson's unmasked face glaring down at him in the frozen mud of the cemetery — and before that, last winter, the red-spattered snow on the tombstones melting in places from the warm blood. Andersson may have taunted him with a rematch, but the words had been nothing but hollow bluster, meant to goad him into answering anger with anger. To Raoul's shame, he had succeeded well enough, and just for a moment it had felt good, horribly good, to hit back with all the strength he had, even if that was nothing but words. To see him flee. Yet he now found himself wondering, not for the first time, what it was the man had really wanted. Proof? Of what?

Finding no answers, Raoul took the lamp from the card table and shoved his heavy wheelchair one-handed towards the door, its wheels squeaking reluctantly. By the time he had manoeuvred it into his bedroom, his arms were sore and he was too tired to bother undressing. He put out the lamp, heaved himself over onto the bedcovers and within moments was sound asleep.

An urgent whispering just inside the door woke him what seemed like only a few minutes later.

"Monsieur le Vicomte? Monsieur le Vicomte!"

"Huh…" Raoul rolled over painfully onto his back and blinked into the murky blue-shadowed depths of the room, where a hunched elderly figure was just visible by the door. "Maurice? What time is it?"

Maurice coughed pointedly, in a way that made Raoul aware that it was later in the morning than he had first thought; the window was shuttered but daylight seeped in around the frame. He sat up and tried to knead some life back into his bad thigh; the leg felt like a plank of wood crawling with termites.

"It has gone eight, sir. Your visitor is downstairs."

"All right." Raoul sighed and rolled out of bed, resigning himself to the inevitable. "Show him up then. Only give me a minute to wash."

"Of course. Shall I open these shutters?"

"Never mind that. Tell Monsieur Andersson that I'll be with him presently. And Maurice, if he is in any way uncivil to you, you have my full permission to slam the door in what passes for his face."

"Thank you, monsieur. If I may be so bold as to inquire..." Maurice hesitated, doubtless wondering how to phrase the indiscreet question. "Your friend's bandages?"

Raoul grimaced. "It is only an old injury," he said in perfect candour. "He makes too much of it."

"Then it is not, that is to say — not contagious?"

Raoul glanced at the anxious servant in surprise. "I should say not." The unexpected question made him grin despite himself. "He would be most put out to hear it suggested that others might be made to look like him. Monsieur Andersson does like to feel he is a special and unusual sort of man."

"Ah. Only I had thought, as there is such a riot of smallpox at present… One cannot be too careful."

"You may have my word that you are in no danger," Raoul assured him.

It was not until after the relieved Maurice bowed out of the room that he replayed the words in his mind and wondered at his own confidence. No danger of contagion perhaps, but did he honestly believe Christine's suitor to be no danger, knowing who and what he was?

"Merde," he said with feeling, because there was nothing else for it. He was saddled with this shadow of the past, as surely as he was saddled with the lump of flesh and bone that used to be his leg.

His hip protested at the complicated manoeuvre from the bed into the chair. After another minute's struggle, Raoul gave it up in exasperation and reached for his crutches. He could manage a stumbling walk to the next room at least, even if he had grown to rely on the wheelchair for the most part.

He splashed his face at the nightstand, dragged a comb through his hair, and hobbled out to meet his so-called friend. He could not begin to fathom how Andersson had spent the preceding weeks, but Raoul thought he had better have a damned good reason for coming back. If he so much as breathed another word about Christine's supposed obligation to wed him, or dared to imply, as he had at the cemetery, that there was anything improper in Raoul's attention to her…

The sitting room was so bright with diffuse sunlight that for a moment Raoul saw nothing but a dazzling white glare. Disoriented, he stopped at the doorway. Every one of the ceiling-high windows was uncurtained.

"Careful, Vicomte," a familiar voice advised from within, "I would not want you to break your other leg on my account."

"Andersson. You are pleasant as ever."

Raoul caught his shoulder against the doorframe to regain his balance as his eyes adjusted to the light, and shifted the crutches under his arms. Andersson stood by one of the exposed windows, holding the drape which he had evidently just opened. He looked every bit the gentleman for a change, as well-groomed as Raoul had seen him since his visits to the ambulance. His face was decently covered, suit pressed, boots polished, and his hat, coat and ivory-topped cane rested carelessly across the nearby chair. Nobody would credit that here stood the screaming madman who had accosted Christine in the street with his proposal. Raoul wished belatedly that he had stopped to shave; he disliked to feel at a disadvantage to a man he had last encountered sleeping among the stray cats in a graveyard.

Andersson raised one hand to show that he held a folded newspaper which he had been perusing. "This morning's collection of half-truths, if you care to read it."

"This isn't the ambulance," Raoul said in irritation, "I know the news as well as you do." Better, he added mentally, thinking of last night's game and the papers that he hoped were by now safely delivered.

Andersson dropped the paper to the chair with a minute shrug of indifference, and stepped away from the window. "Very well. Then let us go for a walk. Three legs between us should be quite sufficient."

"Funny," Raoul said through his teeth. His hip twitched painfully. "You abandoned Christine. I had thought, Monsieur, that you are here to explain your conduct. If you have nothing to do here but taunt me, I would as soon you returned to wherever you have crawled from."

Andersson strode towards him, snatching his hat and cane from the chair along the way. When he came nearer, Raoul noticed in astonishment that his hat had crease marks all over, as though it had been crushed and repaired. What was visible of his face, up close, also appeared somehow creased, tense — he was not nearly as certain of himself as he had been making it seem. A theatre trick, Raoul decided, the man was simply acting.

"You did not come here to trade insults," he said warily. "Does Christine know you have returned?"

Andersson looked away, towards the windows, then down at the hat he held. He squared his shoulders. "I never left." His voice was very quiet. "Of course Christine knows. She has always known."

Raoul considered this. Reluctantly, he decided it was likely true: how many times had he seen Christine break off mid-phrase in rehearsals to look around, or stop and gaze intently at some point in the shadows where there could be nothing at all to be seen? He had assumed it a habit born of long-lived fear, of knowledge that something in the darkness was stalking her every move. He should have known better.

"The theatre," he said. "Like before."

"Yes… No. You understand I have not spoken with her. And yet she knows." The former Phantom stared unblinking out the window, his eyes watering from the daylight.

"I tried, Vicomte. You do not need to believe me, but I really did try."

"Try what?" Raoul asked, baffled.

Andersson whipped around, an unsettlingly predatory movement that Raoul realised a moment later was only surprise:

"Why, what you suggested! To accept the hand I've been dealt. To demand no more. Did you not say as much, when last we talked? The world owes you nothing; those were your words."

Raoul could find no response. He had not imagined that his outburst, wrought from his own frustration, could have so unexpectedly found its mark. The world owes you nothing. Yes, he remembered it.

"Well," Andersson resumed, "I tried it. Christine rejected my suit; you heard it yourself, so I tried. I thought to allow you live your lives, the lives you should have had. Is that not what you wanted? It is what you deserve. You and your cursed fine horses." His bandaged face contorted into an expression of disgust. "I tried it in good faith, and I tell you, it cannot be done. Not by the living. When you give up fighting, when you demand no more and meekly wait for the current to pick you up and carry you along — then you may as well be a corpse floating in the river. Or a ghost drifting through walls, changing nothing. Unseen. Unheard."

"That is not what I meant," Raoul said at last.

"Indeed?" Andersson glared at him like a man who knows he has done wrong and is already preparing to contest the judgment. "Then pray tell, what did you mean?"

"Certainly not that you were to abandon the woman who, for reasons I confess I cannot grasp, seems to want you by her side. Nor that you were to make a martyr of yourself for my sake. Don't flatter yourself, Andersson, you are not the reason Christine severed our engagement."

"No indeed," Andersson said with infuriating sarcasm. "And I suppose you are about to tell me the true reason?"

"Damn you!" Raoul exploded, "She does not want me! Do you understand it, can you get it through your thick skull — she will not be my wife. Not because of you. Because of her."

"Then why didn't you fight? Why did you not even try to win her again? I gave you weeks."

"It isn't a game." Raoul struggled to regain his composure. "There are few women, or men for that matter, brave enough to do as Christine did. She looked into her heart and found music there. I cannot change that, even if I wanted to. I thought I could free her and failed, but I understand it, finally. She is free. It is her birthright. She will not be my wife—"

"Nor mine," Andersson snapped.

"Nor yours, nor anyone else's. You must know she means to perform tonight."

Andersson gave a reluctant nod. "I know."

"Then you know I will be there. I will always be there. I swore to look after her."

"That is most noble of you. Christine's own shining knight, in his shining wheelchair."

Raoul clenched his fists on the crutches and tried to breathe. His traitorous leg trembled uselessly.

Andersson reached across and Raoul stumbled backwards, thinking he meant to strike, but he only held the crutch steady, until Raoul had regained his balance.

"It is a fine morning." Andersson gestured at the bright window behind him. "Let us walk."

"Does this entertain you?" Raoul asked bitterly. "To mock my predicament?"

"I am perfectly serious, Vicomte. Let us walk. Only to the river and back if it pains you, but walk you must, or that leg will atrophy to naught but bone. Ask your physician if you do not believe me."

"I have no physician."

"Then you had best simply believe me. Come, Chagny, you must live by your own philosophy." Andersson held out his hand. "Take the hand you're dealt."

"You're offering to help me."

Andersson blinked, as though the idea had not exactly crystallised in his mind before. Then he shrugged. "I am offering to help you fight. Life demands it, Vicomte; the moment you cease to struggle, you begin to die. Look at your leg — even the muscle and sinew know it. One cannot live by surrender."

"Some might call it turning the other cheek," Raoul pointed out, though he indicated for Andersson to precede him.

"Some might tell you to break your other leg. You are not obliged to listen."

They went through the foyer, donned their coats and headed out, towards the stairs. Standing at the top of the elegant precipice, Raoul felt a prickle of cold sweat beneath his shirt collar. He had not negotiated the stairs without assistance for weeks.

"Here," he said hoarsely. "My crutches."

Andersson accepted them without another word. Raoul gripped the railing and slowly, painfully, began the terrifying descent.

o o o

The crisp cloudless day felt more more like winter than late autumn, and the sky over the Place Saint-Pierre was a blue, blue expanse of light. Far above, the blue was pierced by two black dots of the retreating balloons.

"That's that," Meg said finally, when the balloons were no longer visible even to their mind's eye. "All my drawings. I do hope they make it to London. I keep imagining them dropped as ballast or drowned in some river along the way."

Christine blinked away tears that blurred her vision from the light, and squeezed Meg's inky fingers. "They'll make it, I'm certain of it. It is a beautiful day, and the breeze is perfect."

"Perfect it may be for balloons," said Madame Giry, touching a hand to each of their shoulders, "but it is far too cold for the likes of you to be standing about skygazing. Christine Daaé, if you mean to sing tonight, you had best come inside and keep warm. You too, mademoiselle. Indoors, if you please."

Christine followed Meg meekly in obeying Madame Giry and retracing their steps along the cobbled streets back to the theatre, past rows of rundown façades and boarded-up shops. In this shimmering light, even their dire condition appeared more hopeful than usual.

The women doing their washing in the fountain on the corner stopped when they saw their little procession. One put her reddened fists on her hips, unbent her back with difficulty, and Christine recognised Madame Maréchal. Marie's mother had her daughter's impish smile.

"Our Marie's not giving you any trouble, is she?"

"Not in the least," Christine said warmly. "I do hope you can come and hear her tonight."

"Her! I should come and hear you, that I should. Well, we'll see how the day shapes up."

She returned to her washing amid good-natured ribbing from the other women about her daughter's rise to stardom and the extra pennies it would naturally bring in. Christine returned their greetings, then hurried to catch up.

Madame Giry and Meg waited for her at the corner of rue Fontenelle. Christine found her gaze drawn inexorably to where the Gandons' storefront was visible a little way ahead. The shutters were down for the midday break, but Louise at least would certainly be in...

Meg tugged at her arm impatiently. "Come on, before I freeze solid out here!"

"Coming," Christine said, shaking herself. Today of all days she did not want to see that blank upstairs window.

They passed the store, and Madame Giry led them into the theatre through the clean, newly repainted side door. There Madame Giry was at once co-opted by Pierre Ballard into a discussion of how the evening's admission was to be organised, leaving Christine and Meg to continue alone.

Within, everything was ready, or as ready as it could be in the circumstances. From chairs to curtains, from foyer to stage, the house was spotless. The sharp smells of fresh beeswax and paint warred cheerfully for Christine's attention. She breathed it all in, filling her soul with the memory. There was nothing more to be done now but have their small midday meal, run through the last few songs again, and wait.

Christine glanced towards the stage, where Marie sat cross-legged in her favourite spot just behind the piano, munching on her lunch of bread dipped in soup. Christine smiled; the girl had evidently decided the occasion merited a certain formality of dress, and had exchanged the cap she usually favoured for a triangle of red velvet, tied as a kerchief at the back under her hair.

"I hope that scarf is not a piece of our curtain," Meg said doubtfully to Christine. "Or that at least it was not cut from anywhere too obvious."

"Only an offcut," Christine laughed quietly. "It suits her."

"Christine Daaé," Meg marvelled, "I can't remember when I last saw you like this. You are glowing like a child with her first pair of pointe shoes! Should you not be at least a little bit nervous? I tell you, it isn't natural. You're supposed to be performing music of a serious and morally uplifting nature — I should know, I wrote it on all your posters."

"They are beautiful posters. And I do believe you are nervous enough for both of us, so there is really no point in my being worried as well."

"Perhaps it is all this paint. The smell is making you giddy."

"Oh? Then why is it not having the same effect on you?"

"Months of practice," Meg parried. "I grew accustomed to it in Monsieur de Gas' studio."

Christine grinned, conceding the point, and turned toward the door leading backstage. "Let's go find something to eat. Is Monsieur de Gas coming tonight?"

"No, he's on duty, but Victorine promised to come."

"And Henri? Is he coming?"

They went through the corridor and Meg pushed the door to Christine's dressing-room, studiously avoiding Christine's gaze. "Monsieur Guyon may be here, to help Raoul with the wheelchair."

At the mention of Raoul's wheelchair Christine felt a familiar twinge of sorrow, but she pushed it away. She would not dwell on it, not today. Today was for her.

Of all the dressing-rooms along this corridor this was the last and the only one to have a window. That was why Christine had chosen it: on a day like today, it was good to see the sky. She shoved aside the wooden placard that served as a shutter, leaning it against an open cupboard, and the sunlight poured in, lighting the room more brilliantly than any stage.

"Look," Meg exclaimed, "Maman is spoiling us!"

On the dressing table, between a jar of greasepaint and some hairpins, was a tray that must have been put there by Madame Giry, with two plates and cups, a basket of fresh bread, a dish with a bit of dripping in place of butter, and an open tin of what smelled like sardines. A veritable feast, and very much welcome. There was even a pot of coffee.

Meg pulled up a second chair. "We'd best keep some back for maman."

Christine said nothing. In the light, she saw the crack at the edge of the cupboard, where she had rested the placard. It was barely noticeable, only a razor-thin bit of emptiness along its side, but it was there.

She crossed the room, pushed aside the placard, and swung open the false back of the cupboard. Behind it was an empty biscuit tin. Nothing more.

"Christine? What is it?"

"Nothing," Christine said. "Must have been a mouse."

Letting the cupboard door shut, she returned to the dressing-table and began to pour the steaming coffee.

She hoped Meg could not see that her hands were shaking.