A/N – Thank you for the kind words after my last chapter. I was having a difficult week and a little disappointed about how things had turned out in my personal life. But I'm feeling better now.

A little note about the version of Ave Maria I included in this chapter. I used Celine Dion's version of the lyrics because I felt it best suited Christine's situation.

Anyways, I think you'll enjoy this chapter. We get to see a little more of our favorite man.

Chapter 9

It had been nearly a week since Christine came to stay with Sister Catherine at the small chapel. Already, winter had laid a thick blanket of snow across the fields and dusted the trees, pine and birch, with its icy touch. There was not much else to do aside from helping the old nun with her daily cleaning and duties. But most often, when Catherine was away with her work, Christine would find herself alone in the chapel, kneeling before the altar and raising up silent prayers.

On one particular day, as she knelt in that spot, her gaze wandering to the artifacts and symbols of her faith, she found her eyes drawn to the crucifix. A panic rose up inside of her as her hands drifted urgently to her neck, then to her pockets, and finally lowered to the ground in defeat. The crucifix that Madame Giry had given her was gone. She had not thought of it much since that time. The last time she remembered having it was on that night, months ago, when she had waited for her fate in the forest. A fate, she believed to be death, which never came.

Did I drop it? Did I lose my father's crucifix in the woods? She felt guilty. It was the only tie to her father that she had left. The only connection. She had not even thought of it for months. What was I thinking? Why did I not remember? Oh father, please forgive me! How I wish I had it!

"I need it now more then ever," she murmured, her voice muted in thought.

It had been peaceful staying at the chapel. Christine had found a tranquility that she had not felt in a long time and had attributed it mostly to the ministrations of Sister Catherine, but most especially, to her communion with God. But her heart was still restless. She knew that she could not stay in the small chapel forever.

As Sunday approached, and Sister Catherine busied herself with preparing the chapel for Sunday mass under the priest's instructions, the old nun discovered the talent that lay in her ward. Christine was bent over the pews, polishing the wood slowly, with her mind obviously elsewhere. But her voice! Her voice was raised in song, and Sister Catherine could not remember ever hearing such a lovely voice as hers. It was so pure, so beautiful, but also hauntingly sad.

"Christine," she cried out, startling the girl as she clapped her hands together. "Child, what a marvelous voice you have! I did not know you could sing. We must have you sing at Sunday mass."

Christine rose from her work, brushing her dirtied hands across the apron she wore, and looked up with guilty eyes. "Sister, I cannot. . .I. . ."

"Oh posh! Please, I have never heard anything lovelier. I have not asked anything of you while you've stayed here. You have been an immense help to me, and I am grateful for that. But if you could humor an old woman, please, sing for mass on Sunday."

What if someone recognized her voice? What if they found her? The fear began to melt away when she considered how remote the chapel was. What would it matter? If only to perform for farmers and their wives, she would be able to do that.

She smiled softly and nodded.

Sunday mass came and Christine felt a familiar nervousness overcome her. It was the same anxiousness she felt when her angel had instructed her. He is not an angel. She had chosen the list of songs she would sing and had practiced for hours the day before. Her voice, made even more beautiful by the hours spent under his tutelage, could now rise to greater heights. There was passion in her voice now. But the sadness still lingered there.

After waiting for the small number of locals to be seated in the equally small chapel, Christine's voice rose high among the vaulted ceilings. No one that day could deny that the angels themselves had gifted this sad young woman with their voice. Not a single eye was dry.

Ave maria
Maiden mild!
Oh, listen to a maiden's prayer
For thou canst hear amid the wild
'tis thou, 'tis thou canst save amid despair
We slumber safely till the morrow
Though we've by man outcast reviled
Oh, maiden, see a maiden's sorrow
Oh, mother, hear a suppliant child!
Ave maria
Ave maria, gratia plena
Maria, gratia plena
Maria, gratia plena
Ave, ave dominus
Dominus tecum
The murky cavern's air so heavy
Shall breathe of balm if thou hast smiled
Oh, maiden, hear a maiden pleadin'
Oh, mother, hear a suppliant child
Ave maria
Ave maria

What is that sound? He rode closer to the edge of the forest and bent over slightly on his horse to listen. A voice raised in song. So pure and unspoiled in its beauty. He drew in a sharp breath, knowing immediately the source of the aria. The song was not one that he had taught her. The words of faith were not in his heart to impart on another.

At last, he had found her. He had spent nearly a week, hindered by the new snowfall. But now she was found! As her angelic voice lifted to highs that she had not reached before, he felt an inward pain. He could hear the sadness in her voice. It was something that she could not rid from her singing. Something he had tried, and failed, to remove.

He had the sudden urge to dismount from his horse, run into the chapel just beyond the trees, and gather her to him. But he knew, as the sunlight broke through the trees, that he would have to wait until nightfall. Until then he would have to be content with listening to her voice from afar. But as she continued her song, in a likeness that none other could rival or exceed expect him, he found his longing for her grow.

"Christine, that was the loveliest mass we have ever had," Sister Catherine beamed. "The angels themselves must have been watching."

Her lovely face grew pale and troubled for a moment. She secretly wished he had heard her song. There was none other in the world who she could sing for. No one else she had worked harder to please.

"Before you go off to bed, I have something for you," the older woman said, pulling something from the pocket of her habit. "A man left this for you this evening. He appreciated your hymn today. I thought it a little strange, but seeing what the gift was, I was willing it pass it along to you."

Christine's expression changed to one of curiosity. She held out her hand as the woman dropped the gift into her open palm. In the candlelight, Christine drew back her hand and moved it around in the dim light, studying it with a strange intensity. A crucifix! The small gold token hung on a chain of gold and glittered faintly. Her thumb drew over the object slowly, as though not believe it was real. The necklace, the crucifix, was her father's!

"My dear! What has happened?" the nun asked, noticing the change in her ward.

Christine slowly raised her eyes to meet the older woman's. "You said a man left this for me. When?"

"Just a quarter of an hour ago. He came to the door and did not say much. I did not see his face, for it was dark and he wore a hood over his head. But his voice! I have never heard a man sound such as that. It was a voice so powerful and commanding, greater then any priest I have ever heard, and yet so beautiful. Enough so that I thought of the angel calling to Mary from the empty tomb," her voice trailed off and she slumped into a chair, as though overcome by the experience.

Christine stood trembling with emotion. Her large, brown eyes were drawn to the small fireplace of the parlor.

"Child, what has come over you?" the nun finally asked, glancing up at her with a worried look in her old, grey eyes.

"Sister," Christine began, "I must leave you now. I have found a peace here that I needed. And I believe I know what I must do now."

"But it is dark outside. Where do you expect to go?"

"Do not worry. My path has been placed before me," Christine said, laying a hand on the nun's shoulder. She bent over to place an affectionate kiss upon the woman's cheek before rising.

She took what little she had - the modest dress she was wearing, a thick lady's cloak given to her by the nun, and the delicate crucifix, which she now wore around her neck. After bidding a final farewell to the nun, Christine left the small, warm chapel and stepped out into the night. She watched as her breath rose up in the air and drifted up towards the starlit sky. The moon grazed the blanket of snow with its light and illuminated the field before her.

She heard a gentle neigh behind her, as she stood in the meadow beside the chapel, and turned sharply. A dark figure sat atop a magnificent black horse. Silence issued between them for what seemed an eternity.

"Christine," she heard the voice of the man whom she once thought an angel.

She looked up at him, straining to see him in the darkness. This was the way she had always seen him – cloaked in darkness amidst the night or a dream. His elusiveness troubled her. But his voice, so rich and full, was the one thing that she truthfully needed. She had yearned to hear it from the day she had left. The voice only haunted her dreams. But now it was tangible. He was here.

He looked tall, even sitting upon his Arabian horse. His shoulders were broad and his body lean, not painfully so, but suggesting an inadequate diet. She still could not see his face fully. A white mask hid half of it, but his eyes, seemingly golden in the light of the moon, shone brightly. She felt his eyes now, as they roamed over her face and settled on her own. Feeling suddenly afraid, she could not meet his eyes.

"The night is growing cold. Come, you will freeze standing in the snow," she heard him say.

She glanced up, watching as he extended a gloved hand to her. Christine slowly approached him, strangely drawn by his voice, and found her own small, slender hand slipping into his. She felt his fingers close around her hand and there was a brief silence. Never had she seen him aside from dream and delirium. Now his presence was very real. Not a disembodied voice that rose from the walls, but a living, breathing man. She neared him hesitantly and he leaned over in the saddle, pulling her up to sit in front of him. As she settled into the saddle before him, she could still feel the grip of his hand at her waist.

The night air picked up into a slight breeze and dove through her cloak, raising goosebumps along her flesh. She shivered slightly, trying to find a comfortable position to rest, but too afraid to draw any nearer to the man.

"You're trembling," she heard him say, his voice low and husky. She felt her eyes close, savoring the sound that she had not heard for over a week. But fear overcame her, and she lifted her arms across her chest, huddling over the horse's neck for warmth.

She felt him shift in the saddle as he raised his heavy cloak up and wrapped it around her smaller frame, drawing her body back and closer to him. A part of her wanted to resist, and she tried, but another part gave in, and she fell back against his solid frame. Her body still trembled, but she no longer felt the icy touch of the cold wind.

"Thank you for bringing me my father's crucifix," she said, her voice slurred with fatigue.

She felt him lift the hood of her cloak over her head, drawing in more of the warmth to her body. His hand lingered on her head, drawing back a curl that had blown out of the hood. His breath was uneven. The vapor that rose beside her was testimony to that.

"Rest, it will be a long ride home," he said. He began to sing a soft song, and she fell under the spell of his voice, drifting off to sleep, with her head resting against his shoulder.

It was late in the night when they reached his house deep in the forest. She still lay asleep, pressed against him for warmth, with her face relaxed into a pleasant expression. He dared not wake her as he slipped down from the saddle, lifting her down with him, and cradling her in his arms. She shifted in her slumber, pressing her cheek against his chest and murmuring something incoherent in her sleep. He carried her inside and gently set her down on a divan, removing her boots and lifting a blanket over her, before leaving to tend to his horse.

Christine awoke suddenly, as if shaken from a nightmare, and sat up. She was in a dark room, save for a single candle placed before her on an end table. A blanket covered her body, but she still wore her dress and cloak. Even in the dark, she could tell that she was back in the grand house deep in the woods. She shivered, feeling the cold that had settled upon the house in her absence, and pulled the blanket tightly about her.

Footsteps sounded at the door and Christine huddled against the divan in fear. It was still night. Only a pale gleam of moonlight shone through the window beside the door. But she could see a silhouette there, just outside, that paused briefly before opening the door and bringing in a gust of cold air.

He stood near the door, removing his heavy cloak and riding boots as Christine watched keenly from the divan. Finished, he raised himself back up and Christine gasped. He was tall, more then she had realized before. There was so much power in his step as he walked towards her. Yet grace seemed to command every step. He moved with a masculine strength, but there was a fluidity in his step that reminded her of a panther – an agility or stealth akin to a predator stalking its prey.

Something about his demeanor scared her. Yet there was something intriguing about it at the same time. She dared not look into his eyes, for she knew that the illusion they created in the dark would remind her more of the predator than her tutor. But she could feel them locked upon her, never wavering, and discerning every facial movement, every shift of the hand, every breath taken.

He stood before her, looming over her like a demon hidden in shadow. She tried not to react, but found that her body was no longer under her control.

"You are cold," he observed, his voice now cool and emotionless.

"There is no fire," she said, cursing inwardly for stating the obvious.

"Come, I will prepare a fire in your room," he bent over, reaching out to pick up the candle.

In the small field of light, she could now clearly see his face. She took the opportunity to study it, drinking in every detail like a person thirsty for water. He wore a mask on the left side of his face, white and porcelain, which spread from his forehead down to his lips. It gleamed in the candlelight like a ghostly vestige of her nightmares. His eyes, downcast as he retrieved the candle, no longer shone like a wolf's. In normal light, they appeared a brilliant green. His eyes were narrowed in their task, framed by dark, elegantly arched eyebrows. Where the mask ended, Christine studied the strong, chiseled jaw and chin. His dark, nearly black hair was slicked back from his face.

There was something haunting about his appearance. It was much more then just the mask. There was a terrifying intensity about him. A strange, dark gleam in his eyes that was both entrancing and frightening. An intelligence, much greater then she had seen in anyone before, lurked in the depths of his eyes. He certainly did not carry himself like a trite, ordinary gentleman. This was someone who would never heed the laws of man. He had devised his own laws and edicts to live by. There was a firmness to his lips, as though his mind was always burdened with weightier issues. His jaw was tense, as though he buried an anger deep within his heart. He was handsome, but frighteningly so.

The mask broke all illusions that he was just any gentleman. There was something about the starkness of it compared to the Grecian quality of his exposed cheek that sent a shudder through one's soul. And when he neared her, without intention, to lift the candle from the table, she found herself drawing back against the couch and lifting her hands to her chest in some unconscious defense. He saw her movements, his green eyes shifting to regard her with a cool resignation.

He stood up and walked down the hall, gliding like a wraith through the darkened halls. She followed him at a distance, watching him closely as he stopped at her door and turned the handle. Glancing back, he watched as she stood several steps away, huddled like a frightened child with her hands wound around her body, shivering. Something different gleamed in his eyes for a moment. She could not tell what unnamed emotion it was, but as he stepped aside, allowing her to pass into the room, she nearly scurried in.

Christine moved towards the windows at the far side of the room. She removed the winter cloak and hung it neatly over a chair before resuming her stance near the windows, looking out with fearful eyes. She felt his eyes upon her as he entered the room and bent over the small fireplace.

As he busied himself with lighting a fire, Christine turned slightly and regarded him with curious eyes. Having removed his cloak earlier at the door, she could see that he was dressed in attire befitting a gentleman of impeccable taste. His suit was dark and the jacket, long and properly tailored. He wore a dark burgundy vest beneath the jacket and a black cravat at his throat.

He turned his head sharply, having noticed her regarding him with more then a passing glance. A frown seemed to tug at his mouth, and he rose up quickly. A warm fire had begun to crackle in the small fireplace, casting an orange glow across the luxurious room. Christine stood still, not knowing what to do or what to say. She felt that she had somehow incited his anger.

He was about to leave, when she held out her hand to stop him.

"Wait," she called out.

He stopped, nearly at the door, and turned his head to regard her, the visible portion of his face revealed in the firelight.

She hesitated for a moment feeling like an awkward child. "What is your name? I do not know what to call you."

Something changed in his countenance for a moment. A softening of the features.

"Erik," he responded, his voice strangely quiet. "My name is Erik."

He turned and left. Christine did not move from her position. But as the warmth of the fire lured her, she gave up her quiet reflection and sank down before the crackling flames. Her hands lifted of their own accord and met the welcome heat of the fire. The fire he had made.