Author's Note: Have just added in a new chapter before this one. Now that I have the DVD, I'm revising the whole story.


Christine had heard nothing from Erik ever since he had brought her back up from below. It had been weeks, and she was beginning to think that she really had offended him too badly for him to want to see her again. To ease her depression over his absence, she poured herself into her studies, learning all the librettos and music for the rest of the opera season. She cynically decided to learn both the lead and the mezzo parts, in case Carlotta decided to stage a comeback. Carlotta had been acting decidedly odd ever since Christine's debut, though,and Christine had been cast in the lead. There had been several successful performances of Faust since the night of the chandelier disaster, and thankfully, she had not frozen up once afterthat first night.

All the rehearsing and performanceskept her busy, and it kept her mind off Erik. Philippe, eager to stage a repeat of their long evening together, sent her daily notes which she did not answer. He waited for her in the corridors of the opera, but she had enlisted Jean-Claude's help in avoiding him. His notes were angry, arrogant, and pleading by turns, and she had no idea what sort of mood he would be in when next she saw him. So it was easier just to avoid seeing him. It also helped to assuage her guilt over her betrayal of Erik.

Gerard she saw almost every day, long enough for a kind greeting and a knowing smile each time they passed each other in the corridors. She thought it was rather funny, for a "former" manager of the opera to remain so ubiquitous--and once she overheard him talking with the stage manager and realized that he was still managing the opera even if he didn't have the title of manager anymore. She hoped the Cholettis would come to appreciate him! M. Choletti grew increasingly harder to find; he spent most of his time closeted with either his singing, dancing wife or with Ledoux, the police inspector. As the weeks went by, he began to look more drawn and gaunt.

She still stayed late in her dressing room every night practicing, working on her parts and hoping that at some point she would hear Erik's rich voice whispering to her through the walls. She never did, and had to make her way quietly back to her flat, alone.

On the night she got caught up in learning the final aria fromLa Boheme, she stayed long after midnight. She sighed, hearing the church bell chime one—she hadn't meant to stay quite that late! She put away her music, threw on her wrap, and ducked out the side entrance on the Rue Scribe.

The street was dark—the opposite side of the opera house was well-lit, where the fashionable people had their carriages waiting for them just outside the rotunda. But the Rue Scribe was dark and seemed abandoned as she heard her own footsteps echo in the empty street.

She had absolutely no warning before she was grabbed from behind.

The man stank, she noticed clinically as she filled her lungs with air for a good scream. Her attacker clapped his hand over her mouth and nose. "Shhh!" he hissed. "No noise, Mademoiselle Daée, or you'll be a sorry little songbird!"

Unable to breathe, Christine struggled wildly, kicking back with her heel and catching him on the shin. He cursed at her, but moved his hand from her nose so she could breathe. Her mouth stung where he had struck it.

She heard the rapid footsteps of another man approaching. "Got her?" the voice came out of the darkness. She felt the man who was holding her, nod. The newcomer sauntered over, whistling under his breath. He leaned in close and peered at her face. "Ooo, pretty!" He glanced up at Christine's captor and said in a conversational tone, "You know, I don't know as I've ever had an opera singer before."

Christine's eyes widened in fear and she struggled some more. The man holding her tightened his grip and wrenched her head brutally to the side. Christine knew that he was seconds away from simply breaking her neck, and stilled.

"That's better, little songbird," he growled. "Now you're going to come with my friend and me, and we're all going to have a jolly time before we kill you."

Kill her?

That did it. As she heard a carriage come rumbling up the street, she knew that this might be her one chance to escape. She took a deep breath, shoved her captor's hand off her mouth, and screamed.

Extensive vocal training does wonders for one's volume and projection, and Christine had a uniquely recognizable voice. Her scream rang out, piercing, echoing off the buildings and drowning out the rumble of the carriage, and informing anyone who had ever heard her sing, that Christine Daée was in trouble.

Her captor swore, and spun her out of his arms, backhanding her across the mouth as he did so. "Shut up!"

With a curse, the other man grabbed Christine and clapped his work-roughed hand over her mouth. It was too late; the rumble of the carriage had stopped.

The first man, who had captured her in the first place, scanned the street; the carriage stood there empty, its door hanging open. Where was the occupant?

Christine glanced up at a flicker of motion atop the carriage. The man wore a black cloak, which billowed out like the wings of a giant black bird of prey when he leaped from the top of the carriage with a roar of rage, to fall upon her captors.

The first one he tackled to the ground and brutally kicked his face in. The second man who was holding onto Christine spun her away from him and faced the newcomer. The black-cloaked man feinted left and then dove right when the man moved left to block him. The cloaked man came up suddenly behind Christine's captor and grabbed him around the throat. Half-choking him, he smashed his fist into the man's face, and the man crumpled into the street. The black-cloaked man gave him a dismissive kick and then turned back to the other one, who had grabbed Christine first.

Christine picked herself up from where she had fallen and backed up into the shadows of the opera house. As she watched, the black-cloaked man proceeded to thrash her two attackers into oblivion. She started to recognize the way he moved. Those flowing but furious motions, graceful but menacing, reminded her of when she'd seen Erik tearing apart his home in his rage. She covered her mouth with her hand, half in fright and half in shock.

When both her attackers lay still on the pavement and showed no sign of moving, the man in black turned his attention to Christine. His gaze found her cowering in the shadows, even though the street was dark, and he strode over to her, his cloak flapping behind him.

Christine grabbed her skirt, preparing to hike it up and run if her rescuer turned out not to be Erik. She kept her hand over her mouth, trying to muffle her breathless pants.

He drew close, and she could see a faint white blur that was his shirtfront, and another that was his face. He spoke. "Christine?"

There was no mistaking his dark, velvet voice, and Christine sagged against the wall of the opera house in relief. "Erik," she whispered.

He was at her side in an instant, and for the first time he touched her voluntarily as he took her arms and held her up. "Are you all right?" he asked, his voice low. His hands were warm on her upper arms.

She nodded, resting her head on his shoulder. "They didn't hurt me badly, but—oh, Erik, I was so scared!"

She trembled, and thinking she was cold, he let go of her long enough to wrap his cloak around her. "The cab is still there," he told her. "Shall I take you back to your new flat? Do you have anyone to stay with?"

She shook her head. "There's no one there." She shivered at the thought of being alone, and unconsciously huddled closer to him. Slowly, very slowly, his hands left her upper arms and slid across her shoulders until she was completely enfolded in his arms. She sighed and put her arms around him in turn.

"Christine," he said, his voice sounding a little strangled. "Christine. I don't wish to presume, but you really shouldn't be alone. Would you like to accompany me back to my house?"

"Yes, please, Erik—if you don't mind, that is," she said shyly, looking up to gauge his reaction.

His response reassured her. "Mind? For weeks it's what I've been dreaming of, to have you in my house again. Come." He drew her after him, his shoes soundless on the pavingstones, as he approached a small, hidden door. He unlocked it and went in first, extending a hand to her from the darkness within.

Christine took a deep breath, took his hand, and followed after him.