A/N – Well, I usually try to keep the fluff at an acceptable level. I know the story has been high on angst lately, so I thought I would throw in a little fluff to smooth things out a bit. I was debating whether or not I should use the situation I did later in this particular chapter to move the story forward. I thought it might provide for some slight humor or something for many female readers to relate to, at least something I can relate to.

Chapter 10

That night as she slept in a warm bed, nestled beneath heavy blankets and soft pillows, Christine could not remove her tutor's face from her mind. She saw him in her dreams. Felt his arms wrapped around her. But most of all, she heard his voice as it sang soft, gentle songs to her. She did not want to remove herself from the inevitable loosening grip of sleep. She had never felt safer, especially in her dreams. Where once horror and terror filled her unconscious mind, comfort and safety now replaced them. She nearly cried out when her mind began to pull away from dream. Away from the arms that held her.

She awoke sharply, sitting up in bed, with a faint trace of a tear on her cheek. The dream began to fade quickly and she was left with only a vague memory of music and the feeling of emptiness. The dark drapes of her windows had been pulled back, revealing the lighter, more translucent drapes beneath. Sunlight bathed the room in a hazy golden glow and drew across the bed to warm her limbs.

Christine rose from the bed and moved towards the tall windows of her room. She drew back the light drapes and brushed away at the frosted window before gazing out at the winter wonderland outside. Snow thickly blanketed the trees and ground. The sun was shining through a break in the clouds, revealing a pale blue sky beyond.

She wandered away from the window and rummaged through the wardrobe, finding a delicate blue dress to wear. She slipped her nightgown over her head and stopped for a moment to examine the necklace that hung from her neck, finding new strength for the day, and smiled fondly at the memory of her father. Christine tried her best to lace up the corset, not able to tighten it as best as she would have preferred, but suitable enough. The dress, when she had slipped it over her undergarments, was more beautiful then she had realized.

Christine paused in front of the large mirror and gazed at the reflection with appreciative eyes. The dress, with its delicate short sleeves and low neckline trimmed in lace, fit her frame perfectly. The gown, with its hem almost reaching the floor, was not overly formal but more then she was used to.

She stood before the mirror, running a hairbrush through her long, chocolate curls. How she never grew tired of the feel of a brush in her hair! She remembered when Madame Giry would sit up with her before bed and brush out the tangles from her long mane of hair. The woman could be quite severe at times, but also very gentle when she needed to be. She wondered how Giry and her daughter were doing. For a moment, she thought she saw something else in the mirror. Her brush slipped from her hands and clattered on the floor. But whatever it was, the quick movement of light on darkness, was gone. There was only her, standing before the great decorative mirror with a look of fright upon her fair face.

She took breakfast that morning alone. A small place setting had been set at a small table in the parlor, with its large windows opened to admit the sunlight. She had grown to hate eating alone in the dining room, finding it dark and oppressive. Here, she felt the gentle warmth of the sun on her face and it pleased her.

A small note had been placed beside her dish of fruit and baguettes. She lifted it with uncertain fingers.

Please excuse my absence during your breakfast. I will be dining with you this evening.

Erik

The words were so cold and formal. She wondered if leaving the warmth and hospitality at the chapel was such a good idea. She sighed, glancing out the window with a faraway gaze.

The day had passed slowly. Christine found herself in the small library, perusing the books and settling for a novel on myths and legends. She spent some time pacing the halls, restless, and not knowing why.

At seven o'clock, she was seated at the great table in the dining room, the candlelight low and intimate, gazing at the setting opposite to her. She had not changed her dress, but she had lifted her hair from her shoulders, pinning it carefully atop her head. Finally a rustle sounded at the door and she looked up to see Erik in the doorway. He paused for a moment before settling into his seat across from her. His formal dress was impeccable, as it had been the night before. She thought she could smell a faint trace of cologne.

He looked up with those burning eyes and regarded her closely for a moment. She felt uneasy, fidgeting with her napkin with unsteady fingers.

"Did you have a pleasant day?" he asked, his voice suddenly filling the void in the room with its richness.

She glanced up, almost eagerly, and nodded softly. "Yes, I did."

They sat in silence for several minutes, neither touching the food set before them, before Christine broke the silence.

"Will you teach me again?" she asked faintly.

He studied her for a moment and nodded. "If you wish, we may start tomorrow."

"I would," she responded. "Thank you," she said suddenly, after a few moments had passed.

"For what?" he asked.

"Thank you. . .for returning this token of my father. It means a great deal to me. I thought I wouldn't see it again," she said, touching the necklace with her finger, head drawn down as the emotion passed. "Where did you find it?"

He was still looking at her, his gaze having never left her while she had spoken. There was something about his gaze that frightened her, and she could not explain why. The intensity was so great that one felt like a mere insect under his scrutiny. She knew what he was not. He was not an angel sent by her father. But there were moments when under his gaze, she was reminded of such a being with terrible beauty and power, that made men both fearful and full of joy at the same time.

"When I found you in the woods, it was lying on the ground before you," he responded.

"But," she hesitated, trouble filling her lovely eyes, "that was months ago. Why did you not return it sooner?"

Some unnamed emotion crossed his face. It was almost undetectable, partly hidden by the strange white mask he wore, but she could see it by the tightening of his jaw, and the immediate removal of gaze from her.

"Eat," he commanded, "you must be hungry."

She looked down at her food with hurt in her eyes. Perhaps she had been misguided thinking that the company of her strange tutor would fill the loneliness in her heart. He was hesitant to share anything with her beyond music. At times, he became cold and aloof. How could she bear company such as his? She did not know what she wanted anymore. Where she wanted to be. It felt as though there was no place in this world for her. She merely existed wherever she went, but she did not actually live.

"Why are you crying?" she heard his voice as she was absent-mindedly picking at her food. It bore something more then the coldness she was growing accustomed to.

She lifted her eyes from her dish and found his gaze on her again. But something else was there now. She saw warmness, if not pity, flash briefly in his haunted eyes. And he too could now see the emotion that dwelt not far in the depths of hers. They wavered with such sadness that he felt the wall in his mind begin to crumble.

"Forgive me," she whispered, rising quickly from the table. "I wish to be alone."

He rose just as quickly as she, if not faster, and nearly reached out to grab her arm as she passed by him towards the door, but his hand hesitated. She stopped beside him, seeing his reaction, and waited for his anger. But it never came. Instead, he lifted a gloved hand to her face. A slender finger nearly drew along her cheek, but he did not allow it to touch her soft skin. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment and her breathing calmed. What does he want? Why does he not touch me? My Lord, I would die if he touched me! When she opened them again, he was regarding her with a strange tenderness. His arm had dropped to his side and she now moved to the door with more urgency, leaving him behind to listen to the echo of her feet upon the floor. Her heart would not slow.

She dreamt again that night. A fear had risen up inside of her and she could not place the source of it. The place on her cheek that he had nearly touched burned like a brand. She writhed in agony. Not in pain or sorrow, but in overwhelming need of something she could not name. She felt as though she would die without it.

When she awoke, drenched in sweat, she cried out into silence. Her voice echoed across the room. Pulling her legs up to her chest, she rested her cheek on her knees and felt tears coursing down her face. Why am I crying? There was no answer. No inner solution to the problem. As the dream began to drift away, her breathing slowed and she began to come to her senses.

The music lesson was to be held at the same time that it used to be. Christine waited in the music room nervously, more anxious then she could remember when her 'angel' had taught her. She heard the door open, followed by his light, confident steps upon the Persian carpet. She sat facing away from him, her hands once again fidgeting with the folds of her cream colored gown. A light sigh passed his lips. It seemed to brush the air and stir a response – she could feel the air hum at her ears. But above all, the most acute sensation was that of his burning eyes upon her.

"Christine," she heard him say, in that velvet voice that could bring a person to their knees in adoration.

"Yes," she responded, rising from her seat and turning to face him.

He looked at her with his strange emerald, haunted eyes and frowned slightly. The mask seemed to accentuate the frown, turning the small expression into one of coldness.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked. The question was strangely personal.

"I. . ." she struggled to find the words, and then resorted to a blatant lie, "yes."

Her head bowed in shame and she was unable to procure a better response. His hand drifted into her sight, rising beneath her chin but never quite touching it, and caused her head to rise up to meet his gaze. She felt trapped, like a pitiful animal caught by a predator. Christine could not tear her eyes from his. She remembered how they seemed to shine in the darkness – yellow, as a wolf's. They seemed to burn right through her now. Saw every lie that lay in her heart. Eyes that threatened. But also. . .something else.

She stepped back from him suddenly, as though he had stumbled upon some terrible secret. Even though he had not touched her, she could feel the nearness of his hand. Why did it burn? Christine drew a hand up to her face and closed her eyes tightly. She could feel him move away from her and break the strange communion. She had been so afraid, but she did not know why.

They continued her lesson, just as her lessons had been before. Only now, Christine was painfully aware of his presence. Aware of him as he circled her while she sang. Aware of him as he sat in the corner, immersed in shadow, but knowing that his concentration was focused solely on her. She tried to stop her knees from quaking. She held her hands clasped together to hide the trembling. But nothing could prevent her voice from being restricted from this unnamed fear. Or her eyes from betraying that hesitation.

"We will stop for today," she heard him suddenly say, rising from his seat in the corner and approaching her with exquisite slowness. "You are distracted. Your voice is not as it should be today."

"I'm sorry," she responded, not wanting to look into those hypnotic eyes, for fear that she would lose herself in them.

"Why do you tremble?" he asked, his voice taking on a softer tone.

"I. . .I don't know," she responded, silently berating herself for making her fear obvious. But how could she honestly fool him into thinking all was well, when he could sense every change in demeanor, every change in emotion, and every stray note?

She heard him sigh. Is he impatient with me? Have I disappointed my tutor? She stood still, waiting to hear angry words, or waiting for the lecture of his dissatisfaction. But it never came. She felt as though she had stood in that spot for an unbearable amount of time. Beneath the lovely cream gown, her legs still trembled. He circled her again, pausing beside her. She turned her head, the long mane of dark curls brushing against the fabric of the bodice, and waited for a response. Any response! Please, do not make me wait here in this horrible suspense! I cannot endure it much longer.

She felt his eyes upon her, unaware that he had been studying her again.

"You may leave," he said, his voice sounding tired.

A couple of weeks had passed. The routine of each day began to blend into the next. Christine would take her breakfasts alone and dine with her tutor in the evening. But hardly a word was exchanged between the two. There was a hesitation, a perceptible tension in the air that neither could break through. Christine's voice had steadily improved with each lesson, but try as he might, Erik could not remove the sadness or lack of inspiration in her voice. She had grown steadily silent for most days, taking to the sanctuary of the library or sitting alone in the parlor, staring out the windows, as though waiting for something or someone to come.

He grew exasperated, not knowing what to do. He had never had someone this close in his life. Erik had lived the life of solitude, relying on no one but himself. No one had ever truly cared for him, not even his own mother. He had learned long ago that he must take his fate in his own hands. Many have died at my hands.

One afternoon, at the scheduled lesson time, Christine did not appear in the music room. Never had she been late before. Never had she skipped a lesson. She had always appeared as the obedient pupil, wary of her tutor's strict instructions. Erik grew frustrated, pacing about the room and muttering to himself. Perhaps this was her way of showing just how unhappy she had been. Finally, unable to endure the silence any longer, Erik surged out of the room and marched down the hall.

Her breakfast lay untouched in the parlor. The door to the library was still closed. He turned around and headed back towards her room. Finding the door closed, he knelt against it, resting his ear to the wood. He thought he heard a soft sound.

Lifting a hand, he knocked loudly on the door. He heard a gasp on the other side, and soft cry, before her voice sounded.

"Yes?" the voice seemed strained.

"Christine!" his voice boomed across the barrier. "You are late for your lesson today. Why?"

"I cannot say," she cried back.

Dissatisfied with the answer, he felt anger rising up inside of him. "That is not an adequate reason. You are not taking your lessons seriously. You are wasting not only your time, but mine as well."

"Please, just go away," she cried back, her voice barely audible.

Christine heard the door open and nearly shrieked at the intrusion. But her mind and body could not will the response. She sat on the floor beside her bed, her body unwilling to move. Hunched over, with her hands on the floor, she tried to suppress the pain that had tormented her all morning.

Glancing up, her hair most definitely an unsightly mess of curls hanging down alongside her face, she saw Erik enter the room. His expression was that of anger. But she was in too much pain to care. Her hand felt along the surface of the bed and she tried to raise herself up further into a sitting position. She still wore her nightgown, and suddenly remembered the immodesty of it, wishing her robe was within reach.

Erik glanced down at her, noticing her heavily-lidded eyes and disarray.

"What is wrong?" he asked, immediately noticing that something was not right.

"Nothing," she cried out, biting her lip, "I just need to be alone! Please, just let me be!"

"You look sick. Your face is pale," he said, stepping closer.

"Please," she said, lifting a hand to stop his advancement.

How could she tell him? I would only speak of this to Madame Giry or Meg. But to him? I cannot! It isn't proper! But it hurts. . .so much. It burns! He saw the tear that slipped from her eye and immediately saw the pain that she was trying so hard to hide behind her brown eyes. Her knuckles were white as she clutched the bed sheets. Her other hand had drifted to her abdomen.

"Christine," her voice on his lips seemed to soothe away the pain, but only for a moment. She watched as he knelt in front of her, smoothing back the hair that was plastered to her pale face. He had touched her, even if his hands were still gloved, but she was too delirious to notice. Her eyes fluttered open again and met his, unable to hide her discomfort anymore. She looked at him with such a pained expression.

"It hurts. . .so bad," she hissed, clenching her teeth. Her hand at her abdomen tightened.

His eyes drifted to where her hand lay. What could possibly be wrong? He mentally ran through a list of possible diagnoses, but without more explanation, he could not treat what ailed her.

"Christine," his said, his voice was gentler now. "You must tell me."

She glanced up at him, her eyes wavering and lips trembling, before sharply glancing down in embarrassment. "It happens like this sometimes. But Madame Giry always had some laudanum to ease the pain. I don't have any now."

"What happens?"

"It's my. . .my. . .monthly," she cried out in defeat, not wanted to meet his eyes. How improper. Especially for her tutor to hear a detail so intimate. . .so private!

He did not say anything for a moment, and she could only hear her unsteady breathing.

"Please tell me you know what I am speaking of," she cried out softly, praying that she would not have to explain further.

Another tear slipped from her eyes. She felt him gently touch her chin, raising her eyes to meet his. An indescribable expression lingered on his face. He did not appear angry, but yet, she did not know what he was thinking.

"I know enough of human anatomy to know what a woman's cycle is," he said, his voice displaying a sympathy she had not expected. "These are cramps?"

She nodded feverishly, biting back the pain that plagued her. "They are not always like this, but once in a while, they hurt a great deal."

"Can you get into bed?" he asked, still holding a finger below her chin.

She shivered, clutching the sheets in her fist, and shook her head, "I don't want to move. It only feels worse. My head is. . .spinning."

He hesitated for a moment before slipping an arm beneath her knees and another beneath her shoulders, sweeping her up into his arms. Too weary from the pain to care about how improper this was, her teacher carrying her while she was barely dressed, she bent her head against his chest. He lifted her easily into bed, laying her down so gently, as though any sudden jolt might break her fragile body. Erik lifted the sheets and quilt over her trembling body, watching as she rolled on her side and lifted her knees into a fetal position. He smoothed her hair back from her face again.

"I will be back shortly," he said gently, "I have something that will take the pain away quickly. Rest."

She remained still, her eyes shut tightly as she bit back another wave of pain. She suddenly wished he was back. His voice had been the only comfort to her. No, perhaps his touch. How she longed to feel the gentle stroke of his hand across her brow!

He returned after what seemed like ages, carrying a small vial of liquid and gazing down upon her with a determined expression upon his face. She glanced up at him, her body still quaking beneath the covers, and tried to sit up as he knelt at her side.

"Drink this," he commanded her, lifting the vial to her lips. "It will ease the pain."

She parted her lips, feeling the cold surface of the vial touch them, and swallowed the bitter tasting substance as he lifted it. She coughed, sputtering the last drops from her mouth.

"It tastes horrid!" she moaned.

"Yes, but it will work," he reassured her.

She lay there for a moment, her arms relaxing as she slumped back against her pillow. Erik took the opportunity to study her. She had never looked so at ease in his presence. Her body was relaxed now. Long, slender arms lay outstretched at her side atop the covers. Her hair was pooled over the pillow, spreading out in dark curls and framing her face like a goddess. The color was beginning to return to her face, flushing her cheeks a delicate rose. Lips so soft lay parted, drawing steady breaths.

Minutes had passed before her head shifted towards him and her eyes tiredly drew open.

"Thank you," she murmured.

He lifted a hand to her forehead. Hovering over her skin, a mere hairsbreadth away, he longed to touch her again. But he knew that he had taken more then a few liberties today. But as he gazed at her, her eyes glazed yet locked on his as fatigue began to draw her into sleep, he thought he saw a silent plea in her expression.

Christine watched as his gloved hand descended upon her brow. She felt the coolness of his hand spread into her skin. Perhaps it was the work of the bitter liquid, but she felt suddenly at ease. I could die of his touch. She missed the gentle touch of another human being. Her tutor was very private, and had made it a point to never draw too close, to never bestow even the slightest touch of the hand. But now was entirely different. Something had changed within him. He had broken his own silent rule. She felt her eyes close gently as his hand lingered on her brow. A smile nearly spread across her soft lips.

Silent Phantasy – Thank you for your positive feedback. I've been trying to write a story that is different. . .there is a lot of repetition out there. I didn't want to alter too much from the original story (eg. time period, country) but still make it unique enough that it allows for more creative freedom on my part.

Jtbwriter – So, Sister Catherine might turn up again? Interesting idea. Wink wink.

Thanks to all who reviewed. Sorry I can't respond to each review, but I appreciate all of your comments!