Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom…I don't own Erik, or Raoul…I don't own anything! -runs away to wallow in despair-

Misty Breyer: You reviewed first…knew you would! Poor Raoul? –le gasp- You did! Yes, you did say it! Woooa! Yes, yes, haha! Yay for English nannies indeed. Thank you for your support!

M'selle de Paris: I hope this stays fairly plausible and the characters don't stray into the Mary-Sue department…I'm relaying on you to alert me the first moment it turns to the darkside!

Moonstonecat: What a sweet review to receive – thank you, and I hope you countinue reading! 3

Phruity: You know, I still can't believe your username. Well, you had started one in the past. So THERE! Ha. I win…? Sure. Reading it in order, haha! Yes, but you'll still be seeing this random skippy parts of doom! You were Adelaide's first and only fan, and will always receive full recognition because of it, silly! See, I'm really in cahoots with Erik to write a sappy Raoul story, so Erik can have an excuse to kick you to the torture chamber…dude, he's really predatory about the blankets, hog. Yay, thanks, Elisa! Your 'longest comment ever' made me happy!

Catnipp: Thank you so much, I take that is a very nice compliment – I hope I don't dissapoint!

I was seriously surprised to receive reviews…I know nice Raoul fics are "omgweird" but, I coulden't help myself. Anyhoo. Here's Chapter 2, I hope you all like it!

Don't forget to review!

We spent those last Autumn months constantly in each other's company. I watched as my wife faded faster and faster. All I could do was sit on the chair by her bedside, or sit next to her on a sofa in the sitting room. Watching Victoire dancing and singing, performing tableaux's of her own design was Christine's only distraction. If a coughing fit overtook her, Victoire would pause so her Mother was sure not to miss a moment of her entertainment.

"Continue, Victoire," I would say when I thought Christine was finished, "We're both watching." Christine would nod eagerly, and then after a minute lean her head against my shoulder and sigh heavily.

The three of us where constantly over-watched by the Governess. Adelaide had an excellent sense of…everything, quite honestly. She was the stereotypical British nanny in every aspect. When she saw that Christine was over-tired and needed to be left alone, she would clear her throat and walk towards Victoire.

"Come, Miss de Chagny, we must pick up where we left off in your studies."

Victoire would protest for but a moment, but then agree that Adelaide was correct. Victoire would run to us, her chocolate curls bouncing in her wake, and give us both a kiss on the cheek.

"Thank you Victoire," Christine would whisper hoarsely, "Now, go and study hard so you can be a refined French woman."

Once, Victoire threw her head back and said proudly, "I shall be an English girl," she threw a glance at Adelaide, quite proud of herself. Adelaide would give her a stern eye, but a smile would always creep on her face.

Christine laughed, but her laughter was overtaken by a coughing fit that stained the white of her handkerchief. After she had composed herself, she said softly, "You can be whatever you'd like to be." She reached out to stroke one of Victoire's curls, identical to her own, but to my great surprise Victoire drew back, her eyes widening. I was puzzled for a moment, but then looked carefully at Christine's fingers and understood why. On the tips of her fingers, was a slight red residue that had rubbed of from her kerchief.

Realizing this long before I had, Adelaide already had Victoire steered towards the stairs, not allowing a backward glance.

When Victoire was out of sight, Christine completely collapsed in my arms.

"She wouldn't let me touch her," she howled, "My own daughter would not even let me touch her pretty hair. She knows I'm dying and she won't even let me touch her."

I found myself somewhat irritated by her self-centered take on the situation.

"She is afraid, darling, can you not see? She is six years-old…did you understand anything this serious at six years-old? No, of course not! Neither did I. She loves you, Christine, if that is your doubt."

There was no use telling Christine this…she was quite lost in her own misery.

After a moment, Christine moaned, "Raoul, she's not even going to remember me."

"No, not completely" I allowed, "But she will always know that you were her Mother and that you loved her more then anything in the world."

"Thank you," she whispered, allowing me to envelop her in my arms. "I only wish we were back in France."

That statement struck me and I pulled her out of my arms and held her straight.

"Why have you not spoke of this before? You never said a word about being unhappy in England."

"I wasn't always," she said childishly, "only sometimes."

I frowned at her answer and pressed further. "If you had said something sooner, it would have saved us time, money and energy to go back and forth from the estate in Blois to here."

"It was too difficult to stay in France," she exclaimed suddenly, immediately her shoulders began to shake with a hacking cough. It did not, however, rock her sudden temper. I believe it actually infuriated her further, she was suddenly frustrated by her own weakness and inability to express her thoughts at once. "You have never understood the pain that France brings me, you will never know the depth of my sorrow and regret. You just don't know, Raoul," she snapped.

"Christine, the only reason we are here now is one you understand quite well."

Her eyes flushed with tears and she turned away from me, lying on the sofa in a heap….as if turning away from my face would detract from the truth in my words.

"Perhaps I don't understand," I said stiffly, standing up and leaving her alone in the sitting room. I paused at the doorway and turned, "But I shall leave you with those thoughts and regrets, I will return later to see if you would like to be moved upstairs for the afternoon, Madame." With that, I turned on my heel and left her alone.

I stormed up to my office and furiously sat down on the floor, hitting my fist to the desk, knocking off a Venetian glass-blown figure.

I had tried to ignore it, all of these years. Why did I not guess that her thoughts would never fully abandon her memories of France? Of Paris? Her life on the stage. Her life with…

"Sir," I jumped in my seat, and quickly looked up. Adelaide Bennett was starring back at me, in her hands, three pieces of the glass figure. How long she had been standing there…I had no idea. "Mr. de Chagny, pardon me, but I heard a crash, so I came to investigate." She paused for a moment, whether she was expecting a scolding from a master, or a thank you from a friend I was unsure. All I could do was look blankly at her oval face. "But," she began loudly, to break the awkward silence, "I see now that you are quite alright, so I will leave you undisturbed and return to-"

"Thank you," I said quickly, regaining my ability to speak, "it was very kind of you to come and make sure everything was all right."

She nodded curtly, and walked to the door, pausing only to turn around and sweep a graceful curtsy and walk out; her heels clicking on the marble floor in their own rhythm.

After an hour or two, I had sufficiently calmed myself, and went downstairs to return Christine to our bedroom. I opened the doors without a thought to noise, figuring I would find her reading, singing softly to herself, or gazing out the large arch windows at the busy London streets, as she often did. Instead, I saw that she was the little misplaced doll once more, asleep on the white sofa, with the blue throw blanket pulled tightly around her thin, withering frame.

I touched her shoulders gently, and her blood-shot grey eyes fluttered open.

"Oh, Raoul," she began, a quiver in her voice quite audible, with matching forming tears, "I'm so sorry I became angry, I didn't mean…"

I placed a finger to her lips, and silently scooped up the Christine doll in my arms, and carried her up the stairs. It was a very familiar position to Christine, and she put her arms around my neck and rested her head on my shoulder.

I placed her on the bed and began to walk out.

"Don't leave me, Raoul, please," she begged.

"What would you like me to do, Christine," I asked, softly.

Her eyes flicked back and forth, scanning for her a time-consuming answer.

"Find Victoire, I'll talk to her and tell her that-"

"Leave it Christine," I cautioned, "she'll forget by tomorrow. She loves you, Christine, I can not reiterate this enough."

She nodded and fell back on the pillows, overcome by the exhaustion that was now caused just by breathing too hard.

I had been avoiding this conversation for too long. Resigned, I began to pull a chair up to the bed, but she instead held her arms. Out of habit, I picked her up and brought her over to the large armchair by the closed window, sitting her in my lap, letting her legs dangle over the arm, as I would Victoire.

"May I open the window…just a bit?"

She nodded, shutting her eyes tightly, and slapping a hand to her face.

I pulled back the drape so just a bit of afternoon light shone through.

"Is there something you wanted to discuss?"

I frowned at her face, or, what I could see of it.

"I can't talk to you like this, Christine," I went to pull her hand away.

"It's to bright," she insisted.

Aggravated, I pulled at the drape and after a moment, she let her hand fall to her side again.

"Thank you, Raoul," she said pitifully, "I could hardly stand it downstairs."

I studied her face for a moment. It was a pasty white, and gaunt, her eyes standing out even more then they used to, the brown was a severe contrast to the near translucent complexion. I could only see pieces of the girl I had once knew laughing on the sea shore, tugging at her scarf in an attempt to keep it from being lost in the wind.

"I must discuss with you the future of Victoire," I said quite frankly. "It is not wise to keep her away from a matronly figure, so, I have arranged to send her to my sister in Bordeaux at the turn of the year." I paused for a moment, taking in the full horror of her expression, "Christine, you know I can not take care of her without you-"

"But…but you have Mademoiselle Burnett, you have Jane, you have the cooks, you have any woman in our Parish to advise you on any aspect of-"

She sat up, I quickly put a hand just below her throat to get her to lie still again.

I shook my head, solemnly. "You know I can not do it, it would be unfair to our daughter."

A fit overcame her and I did my best to keep her from jolting too violently without hurting her more.

"Calm yourself, Christine!"

She pressed her hand over her mouth and put her face into my chest. After she regained her breath she looked up at me, her eyes honest and loving.

"There is nothing crueler then taking a daughter away from her Father before she is ready."

This statement struck me more then I knew she had intended. I thought of Father Daae in Brittany, and how content Christine was to only sit and listen to his music, or how excited she was to dance about the small home in rhythm with her Father's old Dutch folksongs. I then thought of the similar Victoire dancing before us in the sitting room, content only to be in front of her Mother and Father, to have all eyes on her. I thought bitterly of the repercussions of Christine's insecurities after the death of her Father. How vulnerable she was, and how easily influenced and taken advantage of.

I looked down at my wife's eyes again and saw the same little girl. Unchanged.

"What would you have me do, Christine?"

Christine smiled, relieved, and proud of her small victory. "I want you to never let her alone, never loose her, and hold her, like this," she nodded downwards to my hand I had wrapped protectively around her back, "hold her, at every opportunity and never let her forget," her voice cracked, but she continued, "how much you love her."

She closed her eyes, and in her own darkness I knew she was seeing her Father holding her by the firelight. In her ear he whispered stories about a little girl, named Lotte, and how an angel always guided her. An angel of music. Through his stories, Gustav Daae created a world in which Christine had no fears, trusted everything, and knew she was adored. Though why she wished the exact same for her daughter I could not understand.

Words would not suffice. There was nothing I could do but hold Christine so she would always know that there was nothing to fear and that she was loved in every aspect.

The last days of November quickly slipped into December.

Dr. Meachem shook his head, looking down at the still Christine.

"It's been frighteningly cold as of late," he said absently. I could hardly stand the British and their tendency to avoid the matter at hand.

"Yes, that is what happens in December," I said sharply, the sarcasm clear in my voice.

"She will hardly be able to stand the cold, I'm warning you. I advise you not to remove her from this room. Her lungs are glass, Viscount, they will break any day now."

I nodded curtly and opened the bedroom door for him. "Thank you, sir."

"I will see you soon, I'm sure." He paused to look again at his patient. "I will be seeing you soon, I fear…do not hesitate to call upon me at any hour."

"Thank you," I repeated, sincerely.

I turned to sit once more by Christine, studying her features. Memorizing her face.

"If there is anything you need, sir, please know that I am here."

I should not have even bothered to look away from my doll. Mademoiselle Burnett was standing, angled, behind me.

"I appreciate your services, Mlle. Burnett, but I fear you don't understand what you are volunteering yourself for." I smiled weakly in no specific direction.

"No," she insisted, "I do mean it, sir. My sister died of the consumption last year…I know what it is to watch it alone."

I furrowed my brow and looked up at her.

"Last year? I'm sorry, refresh my memory…how long have you been in our service?"

"Nearly two years, sir."

I felt a pang of guilt. I had never heard a word of her loss. "You never…mentioned it to Christine or I…?"

"You were on holiday in France at the time, my apologies, Sir, but-"

"No, don't apologies, Mlle. It is I who should, if I had known, I would have given you more time to…"

"When a person is gone, sir, there is nothing left to do but move on. Now," she began, changing the subject, "I suggest you rest, it is nearly nine o'clock. I will sit here if you'd like…Miss de Chagny is already in bed."

She offered her hand, and helped me out of the chair, and followed me to the door, and closed it softly as I walked down the hall to the guest bedroom, collapsing on the large four poster bed in sheer exhaustion.

I awoke one morning, two weeks later, and took a moment to gaze out over the top of London. I watched the fog roll back and forth between the dark structures of the city, forebodingly. The wind whistles through the cracks of the window, whispering all that I knew was true.

I watched Christine that entire day, refusing to eat or to leave for a moment, despite the steady suggestions from Miss Burnett. I reflected on my marriage while watching the rise and fall of my wife's chest. We had been married on a quick ceremony at my family's home in Blois. It was the most beautiful wedding imaginable, the only looming shadow being the absence of my brother, Philippe. I had feared my sisters and cousins would find a way to blame Christine for his death. Christine the opera singer, Christine the nobody Daae, as she was at first called behind closed doors. It did not take long for both of my sisters, Marie and Madeleine, to be won over by the charming Christine. I will never forget though, the morning following our honeymoon, a simple newspaper article.

Although that should have rested my worries, it only heightened my suspicions. Christine and I went to England and only returned to France for visits in the summer, and occasional holidays. I returned independently much more often of course, determined to maintain my position in the French military. Christine always seemed content to sit at home and wait patiently for my return. Our first year in England, was not, however, a bright one. I will always believe she was haunted by the three words printed in the Paris E'poque. I was terrified to leave Christine who would sit by herself often and hum softly.

He would always be there singing songs in her head.

After the birth of our daughter, it seemed those painful memories were tucked away in the back of her mind. Motherhood became her. She insisted on being informed and involved in every aspect of Victoire's life. It was the first time she ever questioned how something was prepared in the kitchen, how hot the water was when sterilizing something and what objects were left carelessly around the house and liable to fall into small hands. Her smile was never brighter then when Victoire laughed or kissed her. Christine loved to play the game of Mother and daughter, for no challenges ever really presented themselves but once.

There were bad days for Christine, of course. I discovered the triggers quickly, and learned to avoid them. A red rose, a looming shadow, any talk of abandonment or endless longings.

He would always be there singing songs in her head.

My wife was never wholly mine.

Christine now breathed only in short, sharp, breaths – each she had to gasp for. If she broke her rhythm for even a moment, I found myself exclaiming her name, and tightening my grip on her hand which re-awoke her fading body and sent her back into a pattern once more. Then, in one particular instance, no matter how loudly I shouted, or how tightly I pressed…Christine would not breathe again.

"But I shan't cry," Victoire murmured, trying to hide her face from Adelaide as they walked down the hall to Victoire's bedroom.

Adelaide stopped for a moment and turned her head to face Victoire. She threw a glance to her left and right, making sure she was unseen, though she did not look behind her. Adelaide never looked backwards. Believing to be unseen, she broke out of the constrains of formality, and knelt down on the hall's marble, taking Victoire's pudgy hands in her own.

"Sometimes, darling," I almost believed I heard her voice waver, "sometimes it is alright to weep." She pulled her fingers through Victoire's curls, a sign of affection that was once denied to Christine. "But do not weep for too long, Victoire, life will not stand still because of fallen tears."

Victoire nodded and began to cry.

"You know your Mother is in a better place now, don't you, dear?" Victoire's chin quivered but she nodded despite. "You know that now you have her to watch over her, how fortunate you are in fact to have both a Mother in heaven and an angel to yourself, no? Don't weep so. Come now, we'll saw a prayer for her soul, then."

Adelaide stood up and instead of the usual commanding hand on Victoire's shoulder, she instead dropped one of my daughter's hands, but held tightly to the other, and led her to the nursery, softly closing the door.

I lingered at the doorway, leaning my head against the cool wooden frame. If only Adelaide could erase my fears and troubles as easily as she swept Victoire's out of sight. How lucky for Victoire and how lucky Christine had been. To be naïve was to be protected, no matter how loud the tempest roared about you.