Disclaimer: No lyrics/songs used in this belongs to me, only Andrew Llyod Webber and Charles Heart / Richard Stilgoe.

A warning, perhaps? : This doesn't skirt around the topic of mentioning physicality and intimacy. Nothing happens, at all, but if talking about Sex upsets you, I will put an X over the paragraph to miss. :)

I mean, this is an M now, so it shouldn't be surprising if mature topics are approached but ah well!

Her Calling – Chapter 13

Erik was elated. A gleam riddled his eyes and Christine felt the small unease bloom into something tangible when he announced she had guessed the answer to hid riddle.

She didn't want to even think about the incident, much less recognise her mind had subconsciously pieced together the mystery of his game. How had the word arrived to the tip of her tongue, was just another riddle for her. One she knew that she could not guess.

There was a hazy memory in the back of her mind, when she had talked about masquerades with Erik. A thread of it appeared in her mind, a fleeting warmth of something. Laughter, was that a murmur?

Closing her eyes, she allowed the memory to wash over her.

Erik's sitting room was…nice? Nice; in actuality, a default word she had put against it for lack of better reasoning. It was hard to describe without explaining the mutual feeling of sterile comfort and luxury that she was not accustomed to. As if her porcelain skin and still face would place her as an antique doll like the other curios she had seen in his 'home' - the subterranean lair that he did truly live in. But then, the ratty jumper she clung to and refused to throw away, of which she had chewed the sleeves of when she was younger and pulled the cords of the thing at least a dozen times in one wearing, certainly categorized her as anything but priceless, antique or worth saving.

Erik had an eye for what lay within her crystal throat, however. To mention that she felt lost within his home was an understatement. She felt downright out of place!

What she liked was the music box. Or the music boxes, to be exact. They were calming. Just a routine of music, mechanical controlled movements. Pretty baubles and existences that depended on nothing and no one.

He had been off somewhere, in that home of his and her curiosity was snagged. A door that teased her had caught her vison. It had been pulled to 'just so' that a sliver of light illuminated the carpet softly. Her eyes peered at it, surveying it for a sign of her Maestro lurking somewhere inside. Though, by the lack of his buzzing presence, she knew he was not around. Fingers skated the sides of the book her hands had held limply before. One could only read so many Greek myths in one sitting. She knew that if she heard his divine voice reading them, that the heroes and ancient Athens would come alive around her. She would feel the heat of the sun, the dust of the paths, the sounds of rage-filled roars of drakens and the trembling fist of lighting from the mighty god Zeus. Screams of anguish and crows of triumph. Monsters and warriors, fighting against each other in simple battles of good and evil. Of right and wrong.

How deliriously simple it all was.

But that light! Curling in the corner of her eye, heightening the strands of insistent curiosity.

Go on! That man left the door open! Take a peek, it won't hurt.

But her teeth worried at her lips. Focus. There's this dude – what's his name? Might be something with and 'ous' at the end – trying to steal this golden fleece?

Her eyes flicked at the doorway and her gut told her that it must have moved wider in a draft. See? It's practically opening for you! The voice trilled.

Stifling a rumble of discontent, she flipped to the page that had the illustration on, forcing herself to admire the textures it created, the vivid hues and different angels of the subjects. There was the draken she had been expecting!

Yet again, like a hair that hovered in the corner of her eye, her gaze was drawn to the damnable door! It nudged her as an uncontrollable itch that simply HAD to be scratched.

One peek, she promised herself. One peek.

And like Pandora, one peek was not enough.

With her face pressed to the crack, she peered inside.

Oh!

Her eyes lit up. This was where he kept his true treasures! Sparkling jewels caught her eye; glass figurines that dripped a myriad of colours; immaculate tomes finished in gold lettering; even a set of those Russian nesting dolls she had always wanted to see up close. Was that one of those samovar things for tea in the corner? But what caught her eye was an unusual monkey figurine adorned with to cymbals held in its paws, which led to the discovery of a whole shelf was dedicated to music boxes – promising tunes and dancing figures. Oh, her mind warbled, if only I could touch them.

Christine snuck a look around, hoping his shadow wouldn't suddenly appear, eyes flashing with rage at her intrusion on his private, highly valuable things. Her fists clenched on the doorframe, feeling a flush of indignance at her hesitation. He was the one keeping her down here! She had every right to root around in his things, it was his fault! She was bored and was in a dire need of a distraction. He was careless and had that irritating habit to disappear like a true phantom.

His fault. Her mind growled.

Yet, even with her strong reasons in her defence, it couldn't assuage the small trickle of guilt within as she entered, the door silently swinging open at her hesitant touch. Her fingers caught it before it could knock into the shelf that was likely behind it, stepping into the room like a timid child within a cave of wonders.

Her mouth fell open, finding that even entering the room, the shelves surrounded her with mystical awe.

"Bloody hell," she rasped before she had a mind to stop herself.

Her curiosity rose in droves, wanting to know, know, know, how exactly the man had accumulated such a collection. How rich he much be to afford some of it, where had he travelled? Who had he met? Why was he here now?

She had to swallow the questions for the present, wondering if she would ever be able to ask him.

However, she cast her attention to the ornate music boxes, begging for her perusal. Glancing behind her once more, she padded over to the beckoning ornaments. A lack of dust told her that he cleaned in here regularly, even if his attention didn't remain on them for large amounts of time. Her eyes were drawn again to the monkey, its shining cymbals and the golden crank that pleaded for her to turn it. Her hand rose to do just that before she stopped herself – no! No touching! Who knows what could happen, she chided herself. If Erik found out she'd be doomed.

Stiffening, she turned her attention to the next box, however a small smile managed to climb its way onto her features at the sight of the centrepiece. A petite ballerina, with a tiny pointed nose and lace wings of a faery twirling from behind, stood upon a circular stage. Her tutu was little more than blush-coloured piece of fabric glued seamlessly to the painted porcelain body. What she did see however, was the small chips of paint alongside the bottom of the musical box and one leg that seemed slightly shorter than the others.

Perhaps it had belonged to someone he had once known? Christine ignored the small tightening of her heart at the thought of the poor girl. If she wasn't here now, she had obviously escaped his clutches…One way or another. Swallowing, she then licked her lips to give them some moisture that they suddenly lacked.

The following music 'box' was obviously a garden and another female china figure in white sat within the grass. However, the central piece was the butterfly perched on the female's fingertips. It was the first time she had seen a monarch butterfly within his domain, and there was something about the gaze between the girl and the insect that unnerved her slightly. Something almost…lifelike.

Shuddering she turned away only to scream at the looming figure standing in the doorway. Her hand instinctively when to cling onto the shelves, but she regained her balance realising that should she put any weight the shelves the music boxes may tip over. She didn't think the chances of the ballerina surviving was good.

Finally, her pants came to a still, the adrenaline receding with the fact that the only impending threat was of only a musical genius.

His amber eyes regarded her curiously, "I seemed to have startled you," came that soft tenor tone, oddly like bliss to listen to. God, would she manage to get over that wave of attraction for it? She had to. There was no way she could continue her tuition and become a glazed-eyed doll (like the music box ballerina), the moment he spoke.

No, I just burst into hysterics on a regular basis, came the caustic reply from inside her mind. However, she knew that she would have to tread lightly since she was discovered – she didn't not notice the stiff way he held himself as if she had invaded some personal space of his she was never invited into…Yet, apart from mild curiosity, he had not shown displeasure at seeing her in there with his things. That did not mean his stormy attitude wouldn't flare – but since she hadn't been evicted onsite, it seemed that it might be safe territory for her to peruse.

"I didn't touch anything," she ducked her head.

"I know," he said, gliding towards her. She quickly stepped out of his way, the speed of her action in doing so not un-noted by the sharp frown that then permeated his demeanour. However, it was forgotten as his gloved digits came to rest on the monkey, tracing the curve of its muzzle. His head seemed to tilt in the gracing of a memory, before he blinked it away as if it was nothing more than an irritant fly. Watching him curiously, she felt startled as his gaze bored into her. That gaze held her suspended, flickering as he seemed to try to find something that was acceptable.

"I did not know that I had such a prying Delilah," came his wry comment.

Christine huffed, arms crossing defensively, "If you hadn't left me with nothing to do, I wouldn't have come in,"

Erik tsked, "We both know that is not true," his fingers flexed on the monkey, before retracting.

Refusing to rise to his bait, she bit her tongue hard.

Ow.

Erik glanced at her, amusement glinting within the erectness of his posture, "You would have found your way in here, one way or another," he gave a nonchalant shrug, "It was only a matter of when,"

Christine pursed her lips indignantly, wishing for a moment that she would be able to win against his logic.

"That doesn't mean you get to psychoanalyse me," she muttered under her breath.

He released a serous chuckle, rocking slightly on his heels, "On contraire, ma Cherie. It means I get exactly the rights to do so – after all this is technically a private collection of mine,"

An eyebrow rose as she turned to him, "Technically?" she narrowed her eyes at his seemingly innocent demeanour, "Please don't tell me this means what I'm thinking,"

His eyes widened perceptually, "Whatever are you talking about, my dear?"

Christine gritted her teeth, "Don't play games with me now. You're the one who was analysing me a minute ago,"

At this he shrugged once more, fixing his attention on a pocket watch with a chain that was broken and tracing the rose engravement on it lightly. "I do not think it would be wise that I regale you with the tales of where and how I obtained some of my…" he glanced at a particularly large ruby skull on the gemstone encrusted shelf, "-Assets, as of yet. It seems that your adhering to the laws of society are entirely intact," at this a small knowing smile graced his oddly contorting lips, that put a vague stirring of unease within her.

"If you think that I would ever think that stealing or god knows what else is permissible well you've got another thing-"

She was cut off by his sharp bark of laughter, as condescending as he sat at the top of a very high tower and she was someone truly unable to comprehend the height of how he rule over her. At the glower on her features, the hard line of mirth softened on Erik, fingers twitching for a moment before they were schooled into normalcy.

"Oh, my dear. My sweet naïve little darling, how vastly different our lives have been," Christine swallowed another glower, when he continued, eyes continuing to soften like molten gold as they regarded her, "I did not mean to offend you, truly. It is only how I compare such things – well there is little point of explaining," at this he halted and she tried not to bite her lip petulantly. What was he going to say? It must have been important for him to suddenly stop and to stop so much before his story had truly begun.

Christine flinched at the realisation of her traitorous wishes and refocused her attention on the soft fuzz of the monkey. Its grim face struck a sharp melancholy within her heart. How lonely it looked.

"These often stay silent," he interrupted her thoughts, gesturing to the row of music boxes, "Far more than they should be,"

Her lips twitched as she withheld a wistful glance, "Do you think that I could play one?"

Erik seemed to stop and regard her with surprise, faint humour reminiscent in the soft curl of his lips, "Allow me," he intoned mysteriously.

Raising his hand, he uttered an incoherent word followed by the snap of his fingers. For a moment, silence reigned and she began to think it was a mere joke before her eyebrows shot up. The golden crank started to turn automatically, well-oiled despite the slight age to the figurine to her surprise, while a merry tune sprang from the box.

An almost inaudible gasp escaped her lips, "How –"

"Just watch," he interrupted quietly, elegant hand unfolding towards the musical box. Christine stepped closer, watching in apt fascination as the arms of the monkey began to move and the cymbals that started to clink together in time of every off beat. Lilting words followed, sung so softly that it could have been a mere breeze.

"Masquerade,

Paper faces on parade,

Masquerade,

Hide your face so the world will never find you,"

The pen came to a halt on the paper, the sketch endearingly accurate. A pleased smile graced her lips, the soft crackle of the fire creating a burst of light from the corner of her eye and they caught the soft fabric of Erik's trousers. His shoes were the same clean, polished black as always. They were bobbing to a rhythm that she wished she could hear, no doubt his melodious compositions being his resident thoughts. The soft blanket over her kept the chill away, along with the fire that added a soft cosy glow to the burgundy walls.

"It is going well, I presume? Your drawing," Erik commented and she looked up with a flush, unaware of his eyes on her.

She quickly drew her attention to the fire, she nodded meekly, "Yes, thank you," she glanced to the portfolio in his hands and the fountain pen that had also stilled, "And your compositions?" she inquired politely.

He gave an elegant shrug, "Adequately I suppose," she wondered if she imagined the quick pleased gleam of his eyes.

There was a sudden desire to show him her work, to see if he could point out the flaws and inaccuracies…Whether he would be pleased to see her imitation of the object that had captured her interest. She shoved away the thought, aware of the comfortable sereneness that inhabited her in his company. It wouldn't do to feel so calm around him.

But, was it harming her? Did she really have to push this peace – this warmness – away? When there had been no arguments that evening, just pleasantry. It almost seemed as good as the latter days spent in his domain before.

She hadn't shrunk away from him – he had been like any other man that night. Her heart resented the change, while her mind begged it to stay that way. She wasn't ready for another verbal battle with him, with spiteful words and lashing actions.

Not when the last time she had lost him to an episode.

God the man was traumatised. He could do with some sympathy. Some understanding for just one night. She could little remove herself from his company now as she could starve herself under his watch. Her head lolled back, stifling a sigh.

I wonder if Mama Valerious would be watching Riverdale now, or one of those soaps she adores. I wonder if Edgar is curled up on her lap, his purring creaking like an unoiled machine and greying fur being stroked by a gentle withered hand.

I wonder how often she thinks of me.

I wonder when Erik will allow me to see her again.

I'd have to beg, wouldn't I?

A pang of homesickness struck and for a moment she wished for taste of that cinnamon apple crumble Mama V. made. Yet, there was a substitute lurking somewhere in the cupboard – steaming Belgian hot chocolate just waiting to be sampled. She couldn't remember how many times she had made hot chocolate at Mama Valerious's home while they discussed idle gossip.

Christine rose, stretching with her top rising slightly and the blanket fell to the sofa. However, it was the tense way Erik was studiously ignoring her sent a wave of heat to her cheeks and she crossed her arms over her chest sheepishly, "Would you like anything to eat, or drink while I'm up?"

His golden eyes flittered to her cautiously, before meeting her eyes, "What can I get for you my dear? You needn't fetch it yourself," his silken voice replied, hands already placing the portfolio to the side –

"It's ok," she interrupted quickly and Erik paused, mask shifting as his brows most likely furrowed, "I'll get it myself," her eyes asked him with a small plea.

His lips pursed, confusion warring with his desire for her whims, before he gave up with a sigh and settled himself back into the brown leather armchair, "Very well," his hand gave a flourish in the direction of the kitchen.

She bit her lip to stop the pleased smile and hurried to where the hot chocolate called.

The servants (how old fashioned that sounded!), around had retired for the evening; after the matronly woman had finished the dishes she would turn off the light and return to her apartments. Christine had gleaned from Erik that they lived in several collective houses just down the road of his estate and that they returned there after chores, or at ten o'clock. Clarice was the odd exception, for on Sundays (she believed), she was there to run Christine a bath before she went to bed, often delivering small presents from her host meanwhile. A rose here, a bejewelled hairclip there, a necklace inlaid with blue crystals and once a stuffed bear that was oddly like the one she had once slept with at home. It had a red scarf around it too, but she didn't know if that was a cruelty or a kindness on his part.

Was it terrible to admit that out of all such gifts, that one provided the most comfort? That her fingers often touched the little scarf, willing it to become her own one from home, for it to catch a draft and take her with it back to America, tight little fingers hanging on each end.

Little lotte wondered –

If she would ever return home.

She grinned as her fingers found the correct item, it of course, luxury brand and of fine taste – no of a 'simply marvellous' taste it chirped – as she peered at the label. Grabbing a mug hanging from the tree, she poured the milk in and placed it in the microwave, before turning on the kettle on. It was a relief that she wasn't used to the kitchen yet, she noted as she fumbled with the dials on the microwave, almost switched the kettle off before finding the right knob.

It meant that she was just a visitor. That she was passing through and soon she would be back home. That her English major wasn't entirely derailed, that her position in the theatre would be on hold while she completed her education, that Raoul was waiting her with a ring, kisses and freedom – to maybe experience the feeling of loving another freely.

X

That for god's sake, she could have sex before – before she never had the chance of doing it at all!

The very idea of doing such a thing with anyone else but Raoul made her stomach curl in utter disgust. To have another's hands on her, reaping her of true intimacy…gone was her chance of anything that was beautiful. To think, that the very thing she dreaded may occur – for after all, Erik had expressed his love for her – and the white veil would be thrust upon her to only be cruelly ripped away. No where to hide, no way to fight him and that Voice he may inflict on her.

It terrified her, the power it willed over her, until she was just a slave to his whims, shiver in pleasure in hearing that voice. What if she didn't wake up from that spell? What if she provoked that temper, that curling desire he tried to hide and one morning woke up to find her core aching and a bony arm wrapped possessively around her waist?

X

Because if she thought that she was staying for the rest of her life, she'd scream.

And she couldn't worry Erik. Not when she felt in her bones that something was going to happen. Something rewarding, as long as she continued to be the 'good girl' he wished her to be. That her curiosity hadn't led her to the locked doors, that her damnable habit of uncovering things that she innately desired to.

Christine released the sigh she'd been holding, wishing, for once, that Erik would have a TV. She craved the stupid stories of a romantic comedy that she had shared with Raoul, the action of Marvel while quipping lines back to each other and asking very serious questions like, 'What superpower would you have?'. The musicals Raoul would only watch to hear her sing, the football she endured to see his smiles and his attention drawn by her small kisses on his skin.

Her heart throbbed, blue eyes and blonde hair being that cause of that ache. And Meg, oh god, Meg.

Christine's world spun slightly, breathing – she had to breathe – but - but god – it HURT. She screwed her eyes shut, leaning against the cool metal of the fridge, arms pressed around her chest, squeezing, squeezing…Need pressure, more pressure…

What if he found her now? What if he saw her decline? No! No, she would NOT be watched by those eyes like she was some china doll.

This forced her to stop the panic, forcing herself to breathe in deeply, smoothly – her ragged breath bursting out and – no breathe again – and why was it that murderer's voice she heard? No – no – he wasn't here. But damn it, she was haunted by it in her mind every day.

Gradually, she heard the beeping ring in her ear. Christine raised her head to see the blinking of the microwave opposite. Wearily, she stumbled over and made her hot chocolate.

But she had run out of tears to cry.

When she returned, trying her best to not spill the chocolate on his carpet, she almost dropped the mug when she saw him gazing at her sketch, spindly fingers curved around the sketchbook.

The sound of her mug on the table was enough to startle him.

"I don't believe I've ever had the pleasure of witnessing your art," came his tone and she blanched in surprise. Whether it was the word, 'pleasure' – that he was actually complimenting her art – or that he had never managed to see a piece of hers before, she didn't know.

That desire to show him earlier vanished and she wanted to rip it from it his hands and hide, hide, hide.

Her toes curled into the carpet. The lace of her socks itched.

Shifting, her arms crossed her chest, "You never asked,"

No, he never asked for anything, her mind added bitterly.

"You remember this?" his voice ignored her tone, his fingers circling lightly above it as not to smudge the ink.

She shrugged, "I liked it," it was queer, but oddly beautiful.

"Why? It's only a carnival freak, which collects dust on a shelf –" his voice spat angrily, " Which spendsits whole life in darkness," his voice dropped to a whisper, vehement with distain. His tight grip started to crinkle the paper and deftly, she removed it from his hands, retreating and holding it towards her heart.

It could be saved from cruelty. Carefully, her fingers smoothed out the edges, gazing at the monkey musical box she had drawn from memory.

"There's no need to be mean about it," she said softly, looking at the monkey's soulful eyes, it's sweet little hanging cymbals, "There's more to it than what meets the eye," she smiled gingerly, "There's a reason why you bought him, right?" she titled her head at the sight of his tightening fits.

What was wrong? What was she missing?

"Please don't be mad Erik, if it was going to upset you, I wouldn't have drawn it," she stepped towards him, resting the sketchbook on the sofa arm and raised a hand to touch his shoulder –

She froze.

Those amber orbs suddenly turned at her silent gesture of comfort. Did she imagine the slight widening of his eyes? Her heart careened into her and her feet unstuck from the carpet, stumbling back and looking down at her hand in horror.

God, what was she doing! Just moments ago, she had shuddered at the thought of him touching her. Why the hell did her heart – did she allow herself to dig her grave deeper! Soon it would match the tomb he had dug over in America.

Her feet stumbled back again, going in the wrong direction, but any other direction was better than his.

"Christine –" came a dark growl, words morphing into chains that aimed for her mind.

She spun away, those hypnotising eyes that were the gravelling hooks.

She clapped her hands to her ears, his voice a spear to the organ that listened in vain to that Voice. That plaintive begging voice, that was hardly magical or angelic at all.

"You won't change me!" she gasped, slamming the door open to the hallway and sprinting down it, rug slippery beneath her socks. Bolting, she rushed past the kitchen, ducked through the next corridor, finding herself towards the less lived in part of the house, down another corridor (had there been so many unlocked doors before?) turning left, left, through a pair of drapes and finally a set of stairs curling upwards in the corner. Distantly, Erik's irate voice hollered in the echoing hallways, drawing nearer and nearer – Wooden steps groaned underfoot, but she planted her feet higher and higher, the staircase circular as if it led to a tower. No matter, she had to be away. Away from that man that tore the veil of good and evil from her eyes. That forced passion and pain into her soul. Who would capture her in her mistaken acts of kindness. Christine could barely breathe but travelled even higher as panic and fear shoved her forward – the very idea of facing his punishment suddenly a lot worse than facing his wrath before it had time to diminish.

It was for the best really, her mind justified.

Finally, she came to the top, facing a sharp metal door that made her think of a cell. However, when her fingers gripped the biting handle, it gave way easily. Sleek black sky met her and before she stopped to admire it, she swung closed the door behind her. It clunked shut and she heaved a sigh of relief when it wouldn't open again.

Safe.

She was safe.

When the ringing of the pumping blood died from her ears and the stich in her side had faded, she only realised her mistake.

Christine was trapped on the roof of the mansion, with no way back inside, while standing only in the light summer attire she had donned that morning.

And it was cold.

Christine yanked on the top; it was the fifth one she had tried on with the jeans while trying to say that she was only dressing for herself. But that didn't stop the wondering of how Raoul would wear blue and that red top would most certainly clash, or whether she should just abandon the jeans and wear a day dress instead. Christine huffed…Decisions, decisions.

Choosing her current off-the-shoulder indigo top, her pair of black jeans, she sauntered into the kitchen, rummaging around to find a snack before the trip. Christine had already bought breakfast; a chicken mayonnaise with crisp lettuce sandwich for the Adonis driving her to the festival and a BLT for herself. A daytrip backpack waited snugly by the door with sturdy shoes for walking on the field, but her stomach twisted as she glanced at the worktop where she had stuck the schedule sent anonymously through the post. Her lessons with Erik took up every other day when she was free from work and on the Saturday of her weekend. Of course, the argument of the sheer amount lessons had died in her throat when she dared meet his eyes and unfortunately, this Saturday had been already pre-arranged with a certain Raoul.

She was going, not anticipating that He would demand so much of her time and guilt stopping herself from hearing that disappointed tone in Raoul's voice. Most likely, he would suggest something about having a night in together, if she couldn't make the entire day. Of course, her nights now belonged to a phantom and – no she couldn't see him that evening.

Christine had already managed to send in a voicemail to the number she had previously called 'Rosebud Reclaiming Services' telling the receptionist to pass on the notification of her absence. Obviously, Erik would be unaware of the real reason she wasn't there, because dear little Christine was stuck in bed with a 'terrible migraine' and 'couldn't possibly make it, let alone get out of bed' and she was indeed, 'so sorry'.

Her gut twisted; no. Somehow, she was feeling the effects of guilt, as if she were a child would be faking an illness to a parent to have a day off school and the immanent deduction of her deceit.

"No, it's not like he'll ever find out," she said firmly, shrugging on the backpack when she heard the beeping of Raoul's car outside.

Raoul greeted her fondly, that contagious smile present on his features which only re-affirmed her choice of 'skiving'. A daytrip with someone who didn't freak the bejesus of her trumped any singing with Erik and that insane Voice.

Christine tried not to notice that her assumption of him wearing blue was correct – it seemed to be a favoured colour of his – and that her indigo went rather nicely with his navy. Instead, she focused on the fresh scent of his air freshener and the musk of his aftershave. There was the squeak of his leather car seats as they sat, Raoul's tan hands gripping the wheel easily, the click of the ignition and the absent minded chatter he seemed to be full of surrounded her in a safe little bubble.

Her mind was thus filled of the acts of the festival, which ones they could see, whether a karaoke hub was open and if there would be any good places to eat – something about a 'KFC rip off' a 'Indian Curry Place' and an 'Old Roast'. Christine chattered and answered him easily, grateful of her clear mind that, for once, seemed under her control.

Their journey, on the most part, was uneventful. They pulled over to gobble breakfast that Raoul heartily thanked her for. It was then that she received the first call. From an unknown number, it flashed on her phone and she ignored it. Irritation flashed when it persisted shrilly. Assuming it was a hoax of one of those 'have you been in a recent accident?' companies, Christine swiped decline.

Thankfully, it didn't call again and Christine breathed an unwitting sigh of relief. As they entered the festival grounds with the light of dawn greeting them, Christine flashed Raoul a relieved smile.

Raoul chuckled as he followed the waving arm of one of the high-vised men, "Do you really think the chances of our survival on the roads were so Little, Lotte?"

Grinning despite his word play, she shook her head sadly, "The smarts have obviously bypassed you and graced Phil with your supposed intelligence,"

Raoul took in a breath, hurt eyes flashing playfully, "How you wound me, Christine. Ouch," a hand went to his heart and dropped as he pulled into their assigned space.

"You big baby," she stuck her tongue out at him.

"And who is the one sticking their tongue out?" he retorted slyly and she smacked at his chest, causing them both to fall into peals of laughter.

Exiting the car with backpacks on, they headed to the back of the entrance line. Already dozens had arrived, wanting to spend most of the day in the revelry and miss rush hour.

"So what first: the activity tents, morning coffee or finding the first musical act?" Raoul asked once they were blipped through and had their bags checked.

Christine gave out a thoughtful hum, "I think coffee is in order, don't you think?" she craved the caffeine, especially at the start of a long day.

Raoul bowed, "Off to the coffee stand it is, m'lady!" and swept an arm in the direction of where she could already hear the shrill coffee machine being put to work.

She hardly realised that her phone was vibrating fiercely in her backpack.

Christine realised that she had never found the feeling of freedom so delightful until then.

Raoul's comforting arms were wrapped around her waist. Together they swayed to the melodies of the ballad, eyes never straying from each other's. The stars slowly lit above them as darkness descended and the throng of the crowd joined them in their dance. Both partners were enraptured, entwining like two swirling movements of a candle's flame. Floating. That was what it was – this feeling that brought a feeling of serenity and lightness. He was bright and warm, such a smile that made her dizzy, eyes illuminated by the tenderness that swam in their depths. She resisted the compulsion to nuzzle his chest, rest her head against him.

If Erik was her keeper, Raoul was her freedom. He took her outside and she basked in that warmth. Had she been trapped, to feel such elation at this sweet taste of liberty?

If she thought about it, her heart would start to pound.

I'm free, she told herself.

I'm free.

No voice haunted her, she was safe from delusion. Her heart fluttered as it never did before in his embrace.

Three. The whisper slid so silently into her consciousness, that she almost believed that it was her own thought. Christine ignored the random intrusion, focusing on the pleasure and delicious pressure of Raoul's arms around her, until the next number slyly brought itself to her consciousness. Two. That voice seemed so familiar – but her eyes flickered to a piece of golden hair drooping over Raoul's eyes and wondered at the feeling of it between her fingers. Christine almost missed the third number when her eyes drew themselves to Raoul's lips that seemed to just be waiting for her to signal that she wanted – One.

Christine.

She jolted from her daze at the clear voice calling her name, looking at Raoul with querying eyes, "Did you say something?"

Raoul blinked too now, as if coming down from the same high she was. Shaking his head, he replied, "No, I didn't. Is there something wrong?" his brow furrowed in such a way that it struck her as endearing.

Endearing? Where did that come from? Her mind snapped, unnerved by the intrusion of the voice calling of her name, that seemed so real.

Her heart trembled as the feeling of bliss seeped away and she stepped away from his arms, eyes glancing to the corners of the stadium.

Christine.

No, that voice –

"Christine," Raoul said over the droning of the ballad, the sound of the lyrical voice becoming incessant. Her wide gaze switched back to him, feeling her back nearing the enclosing state of the crowd.

Christine.

It can't be –

"Christine," Raoul's voice pierced her, sharp blue eyes boring into hers, desperately trying to reach her –

Christine.

Don't mock me! –

And her back knocked into someone else, who snarled something incoherent, that only made her retreat further. Christine was aware of warmth as his hands captured her sweaty palms, pulling her towards him. Terror was bubbling inside and she needed, she needed – And Raoul was saying something ringing in her ears. She couldn't understand. Couldn't speak.

Christine.

No! You are all in my head -

Christine.

Get out! Get OUT! –

Somewhere, she was shaking her head, pulling away –

Christine.

STOP –

yanking herself from that grip. Air, space, escape…

Christine.

Where are you! –

Pushing past dozens of bodies, heedless of someone's calls, grunts of annoyance, the weight of her bag on her back. Grass crushed from under the mats that covered the entrance from the mud that would be quickly whipped into a squelching mass. She recognised dully the pounding sensation of blood in her ears, but all she could needed was open space before her.

Christine.

STOP! – she screamed –

Christine.

It was getting faster, things were blurring, what was happening?

Christine.

Bodies, people. Vending machine? But she was going, and something was coming and was that a voice calling her name?

Christine.

There was a pull, a beckon and she needed to follow it. Her footsteps broke into a run.

Christine.

Her feet hit the ground like the slamming of rain on the pavement, hurtling from out of the stadium, of the vendors and the people. Somewhere her lungs where screaming at her to stop, but she was being led against her will. And she wanted, she needed –

Christine.

It was louder now, overpowering, her mind engrained to respond that call – that siren call…

Slow down.

And all at once, her body was obeying this unseen command, footsteps almost stumbling as their will was slowly drifting back. As if her lungs were now aware that she had to breath and her body needed rest. Recuperation.

At last air hit her lungs and she took in breaths as if she had just burst from water. Gradually her footsteps came to a halt and she sank to the ground on her knees, uncaring that coolness pressing against her was anything other than welcoming. Christine allowed herself a minute just to regain her lack of oxygen and rubbing at the fiery pain in her side.

She really needed to get into cross country running, she decided.

Her focus seemed to swim in and out, confusion of her unexpected escape blurring the lines of dream and reality.

Raoul! Her eyes widened in shock.

How could she forget Raoul – god what was wrong with her?

Aiming to get up, wipe the grass from her jeans, Christine rose. In shock, she took a step back to see the stadium so far away. She doggedly shook her head.

Why can't I remember running that far? I only ran a few meters…

"Thank you for joining me at last, Christine," came the deadly calm voice from behind. In a split second, a freezing hand covered her mouth and Christine had to stifle an blood-curdling scream.

DUN DUN DUNNN!

Yes I'm a big meanie. Two cliff hangers in ONE chapter. You know, I think I've saved the right for that! Anyway, my apologies of this coming so late! I know I'm allowing myself a month now, but I still had aimed to get this out before end of October. I want to thank you all for your amazing support and patience with me!

And also to my new and old reviewers: Chevesic, TheTenthMuseSappho, Laurenvbellado, Christiana648 and LoreLorei for such awesome reviews!

To Laurenvbellado

Many apologies you haven't received a message in so long! I wanted to thank you for you continuous lovely comments that make me smile! I am glad that my writing evokes such emotions aww! I try my best! :DD Thank you again, stay safe!

To be honest, I have not had an easy couple of weeks, not to mention I was stuck in bed with a terrible bout of flu so again, that is most likely why I was later in this. Plus over my break I was stuffed with coursework - Who knew that studying films would require so much work! Film studies is tough on that side of things!

Anyway, who's liking our monkey friend? Anyone fond of the idea being against TV's? I am not. Since I'm studying films, that would certainly not be productive for me! But hey, was watching a show called Travelers which had a pandemic in it. That was mildly disturbing.

AND MUSIC CONCERT YESSSSSSSSSSSS

Did anyone enjoy that? I love Raoul and Christine's banter they are such pure little muffins! Who was the mysterious caller? (ahem – why so silent? I am not being totally obvious am I?)

Also, don't murder me but this ain't a lovey dovey take on Erik and Christine's relationship. It's Dark. Honestly, as much as I am hardcore EC, I am not entirely sure it will end in Erik's favour.

But – doesn't mean to say there won't be a set of scenes where things can be fine for a while (aka calm before the storm)

Inspiration hit however, and I am 90% sure on the ending now! Yay (10% leaves room for any other dream inspired ideas and shower thoughts).

It seems it might take a bit longer to get to the masquerade, there are a few plot bunnies that jumped up (ha) and will take us on a little ride before our next giant catalyst. Hehe I am loving writing this – even though I know what's (mostly) going to come to pass.

Ok, it's wayyy past the witching hour and seriously low charge on my computer..I hope you all stay safe and a welcome to my new favoruiters and followers. A small hello is always welcome :)

Merci,

Enigma