A/N - I never grow tired of all of the positive reviews. I'm grateful to have such eager readers. After the desperate plea of a reviewer wanting a posting today, I finally finished this chapter. If it seems a tad dark or depressing in anyway. . .well, I pretty much can relate today. You know, it really does suck to be single on Valentine's Day. I don't care that it's one day of the year, and that it doesn't really matter. Easy to say for the married/taken. Still looking for my own knight in dark armor. . .wink wink. And nothing like the last boring guy I was set up with at a corworker's party. Ugh. I'm sorry, but if you can't even speak to me for most of the evening, and show no genuine interest, and then ask for my number through my coworker later, that's really not impressing me. So, I'll make it thru the day with the help of a few glasses of wine and some chick shows like Gilmore Girls. Ranting has concluded. Enjoy! And I'm giving a shout out to all of the fellow single people out there soaking up their sorrows today. Right there with ya!

Chapter 20

Christine had fallen asleep in the carriage on the journey with Madame Giry and Meg. Her mind swam with the events of the previous night. Of the attack upon her by Count Moreau. Of the strange, clouded journey away from that dreaded house. But most of all, her dreams were saturated with the imprint of her angel. She felt the bitter resignation over and over at hearing his words in the hall. The coldness of his tone marred the beauty of his voice. Such a voice would never leave her mind. Who could ever hear such a glorious voice and forget it over time? It haunted her dreams. Even now, she could hear his songs as they echoed in her mind. She could remember with such clarity the power and seduction hidden in his songs. But now, she longed for the gentleness of his music.

Her eyes opened as the carriage jerked to a halt. The sun shone brightly in her eyes, and she almost wished it dark. She raised a hand to her forehead and suddenly noticed how pale her flesh appeared. What has happened to me? I have wasted away without my angel. I am a mere shadow of his music.

She looked up from the carriage at the house that was to be her new home. Home was not the proper word. Christine would work here, alongside Madame Giry and her friend Meg. The days would probably be much the same as her time at Moreau Manor. The biggest exception being that she would be among friends that would not allow her to wilt away. She found strength in that notion, and a small smile crept across her lips. But as her eyes fell upon the features of the great house, taking in the complexity of the architecture and the familiar drive leading up to the front door, a strange dread filled her heart. She felt her heart sink in her chest. Her breath caught in her throat.

It cannot be, she realized worriedly. This house. . .his house! I remember coming here with Raoul. I spoke with a foreign gentleman. It cannot be.

"Christine," Meg suddenly spoke up, leaning forward in her seat to regard her friend, "you look positively ill. What is the matter?"

Christine's hand gripped the frame of the carriage, white knuckles blatantly showing themselves beneath her flesh. Madame Giry had turned as well, but regarded Christine with a much different look. There was worry in her eyes, but not an innocent worry like that in Meg's blue eyes.

"I-I cannot," she stuttered, glancing wide eyed over at Antoinette, "I cannot go in."

"Christine," Giry soothed, clasping her trembling hand in her own, "It will be alright. I am with you. We are together now."

"You don't understand," she replied, shaking her head fiercely, while determination filled her brown eyes. "It is his house! It is Erik's! I cannot. . .I cannot face him."

"Maman," Meg interceded, resting a thin hand on her mother's arm, "Perhaps you should go ahead. I can watch Christine until you return."

"Very well. I will go ahead and sort out our living arrangements. Take a walk down the drive," she added. "It's a beautiful day and Christine needs some fresh air."

Antoinette removed herself from the carriage, readjusting her modest, yet elegant gown before proceeding confidently towards the door. She knocked demurely on it and waited patiently before a gentlemen servant opened the door and bowed slightly.

"Madame Giry. . .I presume?" he asked.

"Yes, I am she," the older woman responded. The man backed away, allowing her access to the house.

Antoinette walked inside and glanced around at the expansive halls, not prepared for the wealth laid out before her. She took a brief look around the visible area, noting the elegant, yet highly comfortable drawing room with a stoked fireplace and intimate seating area. The main foyer, with its high ceilings and marvelous chandelier, reminded her more of a palace then anything else. My God, Erik, she thought, you weren't lying when you mentioned you had come into some wealth.

Before she could whirl around at a distinct footstep behind her, a deep voice resonated through the hall.

"Madame Giry," the baritone voice sounded.

"Erik," she nodded, when she had finally turned to face him. "Or shall I call you Count Bellamont?"

"I think it's best if we leave the former for more private conversations," he replied.

She studied him quietly for a moment. He had not changed too much since she had last seen him, several years ago. She remembered the younger man, having returned from a lifetime's worth of travels, with the strange, enigmatic mask covering one side of his face. He carried himself now with more power then she could remember. Always the impeccable dresser, he stood before her in only the finest of suits, complete with an elegant forest green waistcoat and a white cravat at his throat. He still wore the white mask upon half his face. But she was used to the strangeness of it. The mask was a part of him now.

She could see why Christine had been frightened of him at one time. Erik was a tall, imposing man. His thin build seemed to have amassed a moderate amount of muscle. Dark hair was slicked back behind his ears. The same piercing green eyes shone from his face, one cloaked in the mystique of the white mask, and one laid bare beneath a regal brow. Christine had not known many men in her young life. Her father had been the sole figure for much of her younger years. Undoubtedly, when she had first seen Erik, she had felt much like a terrified child cowering before such a powerful presence. His eyes could burn through a person's body and some of his reputations had been founded in fact.

"Where is she?" he suddenly asked, breaking the unbearable silence that had built a wall between them.

"Outside with my daughter Meg. She looked rather ill on the journey here," Antoinette explained, casting a worried glance back at the door.

She turned to see Erik staring strangely ahead of her, a haunted expression relaxing his cold features.

"I recommended they take a walk to get some fresh air," she added. Upon Erik's silence, she continued. "It is a relief you came for her when you did. I fear to think what may have happened had you not."

His eyes fixed on the older woman for a moment. "I have instructed Charles to show you to your rooms."

"Our rooms?"

"You have helped me countless times. It is the least I can do to offer you suitable living arrangements while you work in my house."

"Of course," Madame Giry said gently.

She turned her head slowly, the breeze from the partially opened door stirring the tendrils of auburn hair at her neck. Meg was slowly approaching the door with Christine in tow. Poor girl, Giry thought to herself, she looks so pale. I fear how living under this roof will affect her.

Meg climbed the few steps, casually, brushing the dust from the skirts of her dress, while she held Christine's hand in her own. The older girl stood reluctantly behind her, squinting in the bright sunlight and twining her fingers nervously through the folds of her dark dress.

"Maman?"

"Come along, Meg," Antoinette beckoned. Charles here will direct us to our rooms as. . ."

Giry had turned to indicate Erik's wishes, but he no longer stood before her. The hall was deathly quiet once again, but Charles, the butler, had returned and was already in the process of lifting their bags from the marble floors. He will not even stay to greet her. I did not know anyone could ever affect him like this. He has never cared much for the people in this world, as they have not cared for him. But he hides from such a slip of a girl.

Antoinette's troubled eyes quickly moved to the business ahead of them. She led the girls, behind Charles, down the hall and into a quieter corridor. Meg still held Christine closely, fawning over her as though over a reluctant child. Christine had always been the stronger one. She had always been more talented, and Meg had come to look upon her as an older sister. Meg remembered the sadness that had permeated her childhood after the passing of Gustave Daae. Now, that sadness seemed replaced by something else altogether. There was fatigue in her lovely eyes, as though her year apart from them had been much longer and harder then that span of time could provide. She had grown up in that year. She was no longer the child that she had left as. Knowledge was in her eyes now. The cares of a quiet girl were no longer in her mind. Indeed she had worked hard in the last few months to scratch a modest income.

But there was also something else in her eyes. Perhaps sadness, but not the same as that felt for her father's passing. There was emptiness in her gaze now, as though she had lost a part of herself somewhere along her journey. Her heart had not been spared during that year.

Meg tightened her grip on Christine's arm in a reassuring manner. Her friend was tired, probably from a combination of last night's events and the journey today. But she also appeared slightly malnourished. I hope she is not falling ill. It will not do her good to get sick in this new house right away.

Charles first showed them to Madame Giry's room. The room was modest, yet sizeable with well-maintained furniture, a four poster bed and a vanity. The old butler set down her luggage near the door and gestured for them to follow him down the hall. Meg's room, to her delight and surprise, as she expected to room with her mother, was right beside Antoinette's. It was a smaller room, but the furniture was more then she expected and the room neat and tidy. They continued on down the hall and nearly came to a set of stairs before Christine spoke up.

"Am I not to stay with Madame Giry and Meg?" she asked quietly.

"Yes, of course," the polite older man replied. He stopped before the stairs, at the end of the hall, and opened a door that was indeed further down the hall from Madame Giry and Meg. "I was at first instructed to give you a room on the second floor, but the Count thought it best to keep you close to the other ladies."

Christine nearly breathed a sigh of relief. She felt out of sorts in this grand house. In his grand house. He felt like a complete mystery to her again. Had she ever really known him? She could not imagine being split apart from the only people she called family in such a strange place. Christine's gaze drifted towards the staircase. Is he up there right now?

Charles swung the door open and Meg gasped before Christine turned her head. The room was bright and cheery, with large windows lining the furthest wall. A large four poster bed, vanity, and wardrobe furnished the modest-sized room. It was not overly-done, but there were reminders that her room had been more planned then the others. Reluctantly, Christine loosened her bonnet and allowed Meg to remove her riding cloak from her shoulders. Charles placed her small bag beside her bed. I had left it near my bed last night. How. . .

"Christine," Antoinette said in her motherly tone, "you should get some rest before tomorrow."

Without protesting, Christine nodded softly and said her goodbyes to Meg and Antoinette as they left her room and retreated back down the hall. The soft murmur of their voices was a welcoming sound. Too tired to change from her dress, Christine slipped into the soft covers of her bed and drew them up around her. Sleep came quickly and she was glad that her mind was too weary to manifest her fears and hesitations into nightmares.

They began their work the following day. Madame Giry, as head housekeeper, was in charge of the small group of servants that were to tend to the rooms and cook the meals. Meg Giry had quietly and obediently accepted her role as maid. She seemed pleased to finish a day's work and admire all that she had accomplished. Christine had struggled to work alongside her all day. She seemed unusually tired, but she was trying her best to keep up. Her chocolate curls were pulled back at the nape of her neck but her eyes, the shadows that fell beneath them, drew a tired expression over her face. The dark grey dress she wore did nothing to counter the fatigue. Meg could see how thin she had become, almost frail. It was the accumulation of all of these changes that drew Meg's fair brow into a worried expression.

"Christine," Meg suddenly called out while the two were busy straightening up the drawing room.

Her friend looked up, offering the faintest of smiles.

"Let us have tea," the blond girl announced. "We have been working for quite some time, and you really should have a rest."

"A rest?" Christine asked, brushing her arm across her forehead. Her eyes seemed listless, but she continued polishing the wooden furniture with a determined arm.

Meg drew nearer and stopped Christine's arm as it worked furiously on the wood. A pained expression crossed the older girl's face for a moment, but Christine soon stifled it with a look of resignation.

"Come to the kitchen," Meg said, "We're allowed to take tea in there anytime we wish. Maman said we can have our meals there too. Count Bellamont was quite generous with our living arrangements."

A small frown appeared on Christine's face. Her eyes lowered for a moment in quiet reflection before Meg distracted her and tugged playfully at her arm. She could not help but smile at her friend's antics and followed.

Several days passed and Christine did not see one trace of Erik in the vast household. Perhaps it was better that way. He was undoubtedly aware of her presence among his servants. But her thoughts were troubled with the night on which she had left Moreau Manor. His conversation with that vile man had haunted her mind since then. Had he really regarded her so lowly? After the strange events involving her departure, Christine had come to believe that it was he who had spirited her away. Who else could possess such a fearful shadow at night, or sing with such a heavenly voice – one moment soaring and eclipsing all others, the next low and masculine like nothing she had ever heard before.

"Christine," Madame Giry's voice sounded gently. "The Count wishes to take tea in the parlor. Could you carry a tray to him?"

It was a Wednesday afternoon, and Christine had been busy rearranging the bedding in several unused guest bedrooms. She looked up from her chore with widened eyes.

"Madame, how is it that you know him?" her voice seemed to resonate with emotion. "Why did you not tell me that we were to work here?"

Giry relaxed for a moment. She knew. Well, all of the facts pointed to this one truth. Christine had told her about the strange house she had come to live in amidst the forest. She had recounted much of the man that had owned the house, including his name. No doubt, Christine had wondered how they had suddenly come to live in the household of that very same man.

"I have known Erik for many years. I once helped him out of obscurity when the world had turned its back on him. We were friends, of a sort."

Christine walked across the room, pulling back the blinds from a window and gazing out vacantly.

When the girl continued to remain pensively silent, Antoinette continued. "And to answer your second question, I was only doing what was in your best interests, Christine."

"I do not understand," she answered strangely.

"You love him," Antoinette observed candidly, if not guardedly, "I can see it in your eyes. They are so weary, my dear. You waste away without his presence. Look at how thin you've become. I remember how you were when your father passed away. He was such a talented man. . .I admired him a great deal. After he died, you refused to come out of your room for days. You took no food. I had to push you to take a meal lest you fade away completely."

"I did not want to live if he wasn't there," Christine said.

"But he wanted you to live," Antoinette said, pausing for a moment as the memories almost seemed to flash in her eyes. "He wanted you to sing. . .to use your talent."

"What good will it do? Father said that an angel of music would look after me. I believed those words," she mused, glancing away sadly. "But they proved only to be a fairy tale. To think that I believed such stories!"

"Do you not see all that has transpired?" Giry said, stepping before Christine and resting a slender hand on her shoulder. "You have been taught by the greatest of teachers. If ever there was an angel of music, it would be him."

"Perhaps," Christine replied, her voice fading.

"But?"

"I cannot face him again. I just. . .cannot," Christine said, raising a hand to her brow as though soothing a bitter headache. "It is not that I abhor him. . .far from that. But I fear what will happen if I let myself go. I still do not truly know what he feels for me. Am I his prized student? Am I girl to be pitied in the wake of her father's death? Am I. . .only suited to fulfill a man's earthly pleasures?"

Antoinette raised an eyebrow as she regarded Christine. She looks so much older now. No, it's not that. The way she talks. Where is the carefree girl I once knew? There is so much pain in her voice, but she wears her emotions behind a heavy veil, her face frozen from expression.

"He told me little of that night when he took you away from Moreau Manor," Giry explained. Christine looked at her abruptly, but the older woman could tell by her expression that she already knew the truth. "You heard words that weren't truly his. He was only trying to remove you from that house."

Christine turned a nodded softly. "Somehow, I knew that." She paused in the doorway, "I should prepare the tea."

"Christine," Giry suddenly said. "He loves you, more then you may ever know. But. . .be careful. There is much that clouds his past. There are secrets that you may find. I just want you to be careful."

She carried the tray with unsteady hands. No, they are trembling. Why can't I stop them from shaking? The doorway to the parlor loomed ahead. A soft glow suffused the room from the late afternoon sun, as it shone through barely parted curtains. There was an unbearable silence about the room. My legs now. Will my own limbs betray me at this hour? Oh Lord, grant me courage!

Christine made her way slowly through the doorway. She could see him sitting in a large armchair, his back to her, with only the top of his head and his arms upon the armrests betraying his presence. A novel was held upright in his hand and from the tenseness of his demeanor, he was deep in thought. A small, round table lay beside his chair, and Christine cautiously made her way towards it with reluctant steps. Her heart raced unceasingly as she bent to set the silver tray down. Long, slender hands shook as they gripped the tray tighter, and the rattle of the teacup upon its saucer finally gave her away.

Before she could look up in fear, before she could gauge his reaction, she felt his warm hand upon hers, as it still rested on the edge of the tray. Christine drew away sharply, clutching her hand to her breast as though burned by the touch of his hand. He turned ever so slightly in his chair, the visible side of his face regarding her with a quiet intensity. A single green eye narrowed for a moment as it scrutinized her appearance, and she felt suddenly embarrassed and uncomfortable at her state of disarray.

"Christine." The word fell from his lips like a reverent prayer.

She stood still beside him, quaking uncontrollably as he turned fully to look upon the young woman who for so long, had been parted from his side. There was still a stern countenance upon his face. But she found herself drinking in the very sight of him. I had forgotten how beautiful he is. How could I have forgotten? A mere glance makes me feel unworthy of his attention. I do not care what lies beneath the mask.

"Yes, Monsieur?" she whispered brokenly.

He seemed to cringe at the formality of the word. Will she never again call me by my given name? Have I alienated her so completely that the bond has finally snapped?

"Why are you shaking?" he asked, his voice so agonizingly gentle.

"I-I do not know. Forgive me," she responded, casting aside her face in shame.

"There is no need," he said. She stood awkwardly by as he removed the cup from its saucer and sipped the warm drink in silence for a moment. A frown appeared on his mouth, his brow creased ever so slightly, and Christine nearly stepped back in fear of reprisal.

"Is it not to your liking?" she asked. "I-I can prepare a new pot if you. . ."

"The tea is fine," he interrupted.

His brilliant eyes flashed upon her for a moment, and she realized that his gaze had drifted to her neck. She drew a hand up to the exposed skin and suddenly knew why his attention was so fixed upon her neck. The bruises – they littered her porcelain skin with the horrible reminder of Count Moreau's aggression.

"Come here," he commanded her, his voice so soft she nearly missed his words.

It was a voice she could not refuse. A voice he had used on occasion to persuade her in her studies, or reprimand her for a mistake. That was why she trembled as her body moved unconsciously closer until she stood right beside the dark red armchair. As if by silent command, she knelt beside the chair on her knees.

Erik's hand brushed over the armrest and moved aside the curls that obscured the injury. Her eyes fluttered closed at the contact and she realized how much she had missed his gentle touch – how much she had yearned for it. The long, slender, masculine fingers gently probed the flesh, slowly circling her neck as they trailed along the angry bruises. He watched with such focus, that he even noticed the gentle flinch of the muscles beneath her skin as the pressure of his touch momentarily strengthened. The downward tug of her soft lips and gentle creasing of her fair brow prompted him to pull back his hand.

The absence of his touch was heartbreakingly cold. Christine moved away quickly as though she had crossed a forbidden line. She rose swiftly to her feet and nearly stumbled back. Her heart raged incessantly. "I should return. There is work to be done," she said faintly, her voice a hollow echo of its glorious potential.

"Go then, Christine," Erik responded, having risen from his chair, to stand before her with his commanding height.

For the first time in months, he regarded her fully, bathed in the late afternoon light that streamed through the barely parted curtains. She had grown thinner since she had lived at his house in the woods. Her face was pale and weary looking, though its beauty had never faded. The soft brown eyes that conveyed such emotion were now expressionless. He suddenly berated himself inwardly for sending her away. His rose, such beauty he could not imagine, had faded from neglect.

She was gone in an instant, lithely stepping out of the room and slipping into the obscurity of shadow. I have turned her into what I am – a mere shadow. Can I ever forgive myself for tainting such beauty?