A/N – It's been a rough couple of days for me. Let's just say I've been feeling a lot like Christine lately, well, at least the Christine in this chapter. Anyways, I don't want to go into detail. But I hope you enjoy this chapter. It felt good to write it. . .helped me get a lot of emotions out of my system.

Chapter 8

She had run for what seemed like hours. The woods had begun to grow strangely dark and thick. Not a glimmer of civilization could be seen. Stopping only briefly to rest, she would not allow herself to think as she leaned heavily against the trees. The chill in the air was palpable. Her breath rose up in a ghostly vapor. Winter was approaching and would soon blanket the world in its cold white shroud.

But she had to keep going. She could not stop. Not knowing where she was going or what she was looking for, Christine had merely run on instinct. She had not followed the old road that led from the house towards the north. He would look there first. Instead, she had plunged deep into the woods and to the best of her knowledge, had traveled to the northwest. With only the waning sun as her guide, Christine had managed to travel miles into the impenetrable woodlands.

She could not always control her thoughts. When she stopped for another rest, as the day had worn on, she found her mind drifting back to the lonely house in the woods. She longed for the heat of a fire in the grand fireplace. She longed to be sleeping warmly in her large bed, surrounded by heavy quilts and large down pillows. But most of all, and she tried desperately to drive the thought away in vain, she wished to hear the voice again. Not of her angel. She knew that now. How foolish she was to have believed that he was an angel. A real angel of heaven.

Her face turned upwards towards the sky. Through the bare branches of the trees, she could see the pale blue sky with wisps of clouds trailing across its expanse. She closed her eyes and found herself in prayer once again.

"Father, you once spoke of an angel. An angel of music. Why has he not come? I have been a fool. I believed in a false angel. Now, I do not know what to do. My course in life is hidden from me. I don't know where to go or what shall become of me. Please, father, intercede for me. Please beg the Holy Spirit to guide me!"

She wiped the tears from her face with the dirtied sleeve of her gown and rose slowly. Taking a small meal from her satchel, she munched silently on the bread and watched the quiet woods in a strange contentment. Birds chirped softly in the distance. But among the sounds most discernable, she could hear the unmistakable sound of water. Her throat had grown parched. Christine put away the remains of her meal and slowly traveled towards the alluring sound of a small brook.

She had walked for several minutes before she found the gentle stream. Its shores were rocky and steep, but she managed to weave her way among the large boulders and knelt by the water's edge. Slipping a hand into the frigid water, she took a long drink before shaking her chilled hands off and slipping them into the folds of her dress for warmth.

Christine climbed up the bank again and found a small path running alongside the stream. It stretched to the north, following the curve of the stream, and disappeared into the trees beyond. Knowing of no other path to take, she followed the small, ancient trail for hours. The sun was drifting to the horizon and the land was beginning to darken. The path ahead was growing dimmer and dimmer.

Where did she go? The rooms were all empty. There was no trace of her whatsoever in the house. The candle he had left for her at the door was extinguished, lying in a small pool of wax on the floor. He had watched as she had sent the boy away. But as her heavy gaze returned to the house, he shrank back into the dark corners of his domain and gave her space when she returned. He had heard the candle clatter to the floor. Shrinking back further into the shadows, he retreated to the safety of his room. He would not confront her now in this state. It would be best to allow her time alone.

But that had been his gravest mistake. She had taken flight while he sat thinking in the far reaches of his house. Only when the silence grew too long did he suspect something. Slipping from his chambers, he grabbed his cloak and threw it about his shoulders. His Punjab lasso hung at his side. The silence was unbearable. How had he endured it for so long? Spotting his rapier lying in the small anteroom beyond his chambers, he belted it at his side beneath the heavy cloak, and strode down the hall.

He passed her room. Silence. No one in the drawing room. Silence permeated every corner of the house. She had run out and possibly into the woods. His stride turned into an urgent run. Not being accustomed to the brightness of broad daylight, he raised a hand to his eyes as he left the great house. Approaching the stable, he chose a horse quickly from among the three that dwelt there. The most beautiful and striking of all, a sleek, black Arabian stallion, neighed playfully as he approached. The horse had been a gift from a friend. A friend he had not seen for several years. But the past is the past, he reminded himself, as he swung his leg over the saddle. He lifted his hood to cover his head.

Nudging the horse gently with his riding boot, horse and rider took off down the road. But as the road left the property, he did not follow its course. Instead, he plunged into the woods and kept riding.

He had made a promise to himself years ago. The young girl, sitting before the cold grave of her father, alone in the world, would need his protection and guidance. The memory fueled his pursuit.

It was nearly dark when Christine felt despair creeping into her heart. She knew that she could not travel in the dark and she would be forced to stop and endure the night. The ghost stories that she had heard for so many hears began to pervade her mind. She remembered the stories of the violent, bloodthirsty wolves that dwelt in the woods. The memory was accentuated by the distant lonely cry of such a creature. Christine shivered, pulling her light cloak about her slender frame, and huddled beneath a tree for warmth.

But just as she was about to give up her journey for the night, and all hope that she would ever escape the forest, she caught a glimmer of light in the trees. It appeared to be very far off, but the light was unmistakable. Christine rose to her feet and cautiously walked along the path with arms outstretched beside her. The trail appeared to lead towards the source of the light. If she could just follow it, using the light as her point of reference, perhaps she could find shelter for the night.

Her soft brown eyes slowly filled with hope. Christine walked for nearly half an hour, her journey slowed by hidden roots and darkened trees. The path wound carelessly away from the brook and through the trees. The sound of water began to fade, but she continued to look ahead, following the light like a moth drawn to the flame.

Before long, the woods miraculously parted and she found herself in a meadow. In fact, the meadow seemed to spread quite far and in the bright light of the moon, Christine could make out farmlands beyond the meadow. She had reached the edge of the woods. A smile appeared on her face as she beheld a welcome sight before her. A small stone chapel stood near the edge of the meadow. A light shone merrily in one of the rear windows, casting its rays upon her face. The building loomed before her, blotting out the stars in the sky. Behind it, a longer, lower building was attached. Perhaps the living quarters of a priest or the chapel's nuns.

Christine found the door on the other side of the building, facing the meadow and farmlands beyond. She hesitated at the thick wooden doors. Would she be found here? Would anyone know who she was? Finally, she lifted a trembling fist to the door and knocked. A few moments later, a light glowed through the small windows near the door. The door was opened partially and the kindly face of an old nun appeared.

"Yes, my child?" she asked, startled for a moment that a young woman would be found at the door, at this time of night.

"Sister, may I stay here for the night?" she asked.

The older woman studied her for a moment, looking at the disarray of her clothes and the strange sadness in the younger woman's eyes. She finally opened the door wider and stepped back, allowing Christine to enter.

"My child!" she exclaimed. "What has brought you here at this time?"

Christine was ushered into a small room before the chapel and the woman offered her a chair. "I was lost in the woods," she replied, reluctant to answer.

Seeing that the girl was not going to offer an explanation, the older woman smiled gently and fetched a hot mug of tea. The girl sat huddled near the crackling fire of a small fireplace, her gaze lost in the flames. Sitting down before her, the nun clasped her hands together and smiled faintly.

"What is your name? Surely you can tell me that."

Those sorrowful eyes pulled away from the fire and settled on the kindly old woman. So heartbreaking was their intensity that the nun drew back slightly.

"Christine," the girl responded.

"Well, Christine, my name is Sister Catherine. You look very tired. I will prepare a room for you tonight."

Christine watched as the older woman rose and took a candle down the hall. Her gaze fell back to the fire again. She found she could look no where else. The heat of the fire was lost on her though. Her thoughts were miles away. She should be happy now, finally among people whom she could talk to. But the sadness that had driven her away was still there. She felt more lost then she had ever been.

So lost in thought was she, that Christine did not pay much attention when the woman returned and led her to the small, humble room that had been prepared. Her gaze still drifted off when the woman helped her out of the tattered, dirtied gown and placed a modest nightgown over her head. When she slipped into the warm cot, the blankets pulled up to her chin, sleep finally claimed her.

Where has she gone? He had searched for hours throughout the forest, following whatever trail he could find. His search became more urgent as the day drew on. As the light began to wane, he wondered where she might be. Perhaps huddled in the depths of the forest, her small body shivering in the chill of approaching evening, lost and alone. It pained him so greatly to think of her. He found that his anger from the previous day was gone. Nothing mattered right now.

He longed to hold her in his arms. To feel the warmth of her body pressed up against his chest. Why did she go? The answer was painfully clear to him. He had denied her so much in the last few months. He could not expect her to live the way he had for so many years – lonely and isolated. She was used to the love of other people. She had once had her father to care for her. She needed someone to care for her now. But he had been too stubborn, too unwilling to reveal himself from the shadows, and had nearly driven her to madness.

He remembered the cries from her room at night, when her body shook with sobs, and how they pained him like no other sound. Oh how he longed to break the silence and stumble into her room, gathering her into his arms and brushing the hair back from her moistened face. But he had denied himself that pleasure so many times. The girl was terribly afraid. Those cursed ghost stories had instilled a fear deep within her mind. Even when he had cut her from the tree, he knew that she feared him.

A terrible guilt washed over him. He had ripped the girl from a seemingly normal life to satisfy his loneliness. When he heard of the town council's decision to set up a lottery, he found the timing perfect. He had managed to replace nearly every name in the box with hers.

He was responsible for her being cast out. She had suffered so much sorrow because of him. But he truly believed that she belonged at his side. He would be the one to nurture her talent, to watch over her, to comfort her. To love her.

He shook his head bitterly.

She dreamed no dreams that night. Her body and mind were so weak that she slept undisturbed until well into the next afternoon. Sister Catherine was finally the one to greet her. She brushed aside the light curtains in the windows, revealing a splendid sunlight. Christine rubbed her eyes, willing the sleep away. She rose slowly and allowed the old woman to help her bath and dress. Later, she took a little food in the small kitchen.

It was finally mid afternoon, when Christine was alone in the small chapel within the building, that Sister Catherine approached her. The girl sat before the altar on her knees. A single candle had been lit on the table beside. Her hands were clasped together in ardent prayer. Her long, brown curls hung down her back. The simple white dress that she had been given to wear seemed to bring out the young woman's beauty. Sister Catherine had never seen an angel before, but of all of the testimonials she had heard, Christine seemed to fit the description. There was a startling beauty about her. An innocence that seemed to linger in her being. Her eyes, so wide and capable of so much warmth, seemed older then her years. She had seen too much tragedy in her young life.

"Christine," a gentle voice sounded behind her.

She lifted her head from prayer and glanced around as the nun knelt down beside her.

"Forgive me for interrupting your prayer," she apologized, "but I wish speak with you."

"Certainly," Christine responded.

"You know that you have nothing to fear here. Nothing you say will pass these walls. Can you tell me why you came here?"

Christine glanced down for a moment, the hurt coming back to her eyes. "I had to get away from him."

The nun looked at her with startled eyes. "Christine, did someone hurt you?"

"No," she whispered faintly, "no."

"Tell me of this man."

"I cannot. I do not even know him. But I. . .I feel as though I do. As though I've always known him."

"Why did you run from him?" the nun inquired.

Christine glanced up at her. "He deceived me. I was so alone and he deceived me." Tears began to well up in her eyes, but Christine brushed them away angrily.

"How did this man deceive you?"

"He. . .he pretended to be an angel," the nun looked at her with a glimmer of curiosity. "My father died when I was young. He told me that an angel would watch over me when he was gone. I was so alone. . .how naïve I was! I wanted to believe it was true."

"Why can't it be true?" the old woman responded, placing a hand on the young woman's shoulder. "Perhaps you do have an angel watching over you."

"Perhaps," Christine said faintly, "but not the one I believed in."

"This man, why did you believe he was an angel?"

"He saved me when I was in trouble," Christine explained, knowing that she had to keep her details to a minimum. "I was so afraid. I did not know who or what he was. But in my delirium, I believed he had been heaven sent. His eyes were so bright, so vivid, I did not think any man could have eyes such as those. And when he sang to me, I thought my heart would burst. There was so much sorrow in his song. I felt that sorrow many times. And so much beauty. He never showed himself to me. He took care of me, I believe, but I never saw him." Christine placed a hand on her brow for a moment. "Why did I believe a lie?"

"Christine, when we are at our lowest, we reach out for anything to soothe the pain. We believe in things that will help us out of our sorrow. This man certainly was not an angel, but it sounds as though he cared for you a great deal."

"I was so lonely. I could never talk to him like a real person. I told him many times that I needed someone, but he would refuse. It seemed to anger him. And when I finally had the chance to talk with someone, someone charming and interesting, he grew angry."

The nun bowed her head for a moment in quiet reflection. Finally, she straightened up and looked Christine directly in the eyes. "There is a lot of pain on his part. I do not know the source of it, but perhaps that is the reason for his anger."

"Why would my path have taken me to him? Why did I believe the lie and follow him?"

"Perhaps you were meant to be there. There is much we do not know about life. But God directs our lives unseen. Perhaps you were there for a reason. If not to cure yourself of this pain you carry, then to bring this man out into the grace of God."

She looked up at the nun, her eyes red with tears. "I feel as though a part of me has died. What if I can't get it back?"

"Christine, do you love this man?" she asked.

The young woman looked up, startled at the question, her eyes wide with fear. "I do not even know him. I. . .I can't. . .I. . ."

"It's alright," the woman responded, enveloping the girl in her embrace as she finished weeping. "You may stay here as long as you like. I will not turn you away."